‘What’s it taste like?’ asked Joe.
‘Heaven!’
Joe picked one up that looked about right and smelled it. He reminded himself that he was hungry enough to eat bark. He peeled it and bit deeply into the flesh, the sweetness enveloping his senses.
After he finished, Joe began filling his rucksack with them.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Suryei.
‘Lunch.’ The rucksack bulged and sagged heavily on its straps.
‘Forget it. They’ll only get mashed up. Besides, these things have probably been all around us – we just haven’t been looking in the right places.’
Joe unzipped the rucksack and let the heavy fruit fall to the ground with successive thuds. ‘Can you find a yoghurt tree too, please?’
Suryei allowed herself to smile openly. He was good company, or would be if the circumstances were different. Joe returned her smile. The whiteness of her teeth contrasted with her dirty brown skin, making them seem almost fluorescent.
‘You need another bath,’ she said.
Joe was caked in grime, and his hair was matted against his head. Jackfruit juice and pulp coloured yellow the dark stubble on his chin. ‘Have you looked in a mirror lately?’
‘Let’s go,’ said Suryei turning away, smiling, her fingertips tingling.
Sergeant Marturak had made a mistake. They should have overtaken the two survivors by now. Certainly by morning. He was now sure he’d lost them. The blood trail that had been so generous had quickly disappeared. Their wounds must have been superficial. The men had found no footsteps, no faeces, no broken vegetation and certainly no more empty water bottles to indicate their passage. It was too easy to miss people in the dark, even with the NVGs. The jungle had given way to forest and there had been enough light to use them but there were still far too many places to hide. The last thing he wanted was for the fugitives to slip around to their rear.
He stopped his men beside a small stream and took out a map of the area. The plane wreckage was marked on it, as was the loggers’ camp and their course through the bush. The two survivors had headed away from the hills, towards the low country.
Could they have doubled back and made for the escarpment instead? Even climbed it? He cursed their lack of personal radio comms. If he’d had them, this job would’ve been over. He’d have sent a few men forward to track the man and woman and then easily coordinated an ambush. Instead, he’d had to keep his force together and virtually within line of sight of each other. And the camp had had to be effectively dismantled – they couldn’t have left it intact behind them. That had given the people he was tracking a head start. And they didn’t seem to be playing by the rules, stumbling and bumbling along the established trails, leaving signposts of their passage. This whole business was getting frustrating. He swore and spat on the ground. His men tried to ignore his anger. But they too were getting edgy, feeling the tension.
The sergeant took a deep breath to steady his temper and surveyed the map again, attempting to see it with fresh eyes. The stream wasn’t indicated on the map but that didn’t mean anything. There were hundreds of millions of litres of water still draining off the mountains and hills after the monsoon. Water was everywhere.
He took out his GPS and marked their position on the map. A fresh plan was forming in his head. He interrogated it and decided it was sound. They would set up an ambush . . . here.
At their backs was the plane wreck. Away in front and to the left was the high, rugged country. It was an obstacle that only well-equipped, experienced climbers could tackle. Desperation and determination could overcome many equipment deficiencies, but he seriously doubted that his two adversaries, wounded from the crash or their exertions in the jungle, would attempt sheer volcanic faces. There was an extremely good chance that they would stroll into his trap if he set it right.
Then, once contact was made, his men could pull back and converge to form a funnel that would catch his quarry in a killing zone. Marturak deployed lookouts, ordered his men to have their rations and take several hours rest. It would be a long day and an even longer night.
He checked the time. Allah! He was due to make a situation report. It was not something he could avoid any longer. His superiors back in Jakarta needed to know what was going on. The message he would send was in his head. Marturak knew it wouldn’t be welcomed: site unsecured, two survivors, in pursuit. No, the general would not be pleased.
East Timor, 0155 Zulu, Friday, 1 May
Sergeant Tom Wilkes’s section was patrolling the West Timor border when the call came over the VHF. They immediately broke off the patrol, found a spot under a tree and made a brew. It was time for smoko anyway. The light was grey and cool in the hill shadow.
Long after its independence from Indonesia, East Timor was still quietly hosting soldiers from Australia’s Special Air Services Regiment, men like Wilkes and his section. Neither East Timor nor Australia entirely trusted the Indonesian military to live up to its government’s word of nonintervention in the new nation.
‘In country’ was the ideal advanced training facility, great for the sharpening of battle senses. The bullets were real and border tensions regularly ebbed and flowed. Those tensions had lately increased somewhat since the proclamation of independence. The East Timor militia, now no longer supported by the TNI, had splintered into bandit groups that conducted vicious raids across the border from the old refugee camps in Indonesian West Timor. They had lost their war but continued the battle, a spiteful murderous rabble.
The United Nations soldiers of ETFOR on the ground knew what needed to be done to end the menace once and for all, but didn’t have the mandate. Where the UN soldiers had rules of engagement under which they could fire only when fired upon, the local fighters had a Swiss cheese of opportunity. That was how the United Nations men and women saw it anyway – Swiss cheese because it was full of holes and it stank. Still, Wilkes’s Warriors were having fun. This was what you joined up for. Exercising with the Yanks or one of ‘our Asian neighbours’ or the Kiwis in the north of Australia was clean and tidy compared to some of the things that had to be done when there was ordnance pointing in your direction that could put holes in you. Wilkes’s Warriors had learned plenty up in these hills.
It was different up here, away from the cameras that sent mostly sanitised images back home, if they sent anything at all. The world had largely forgotten about East Timor, only someone had forgotten to tell the desperados along the border that the cause was lost. Wilkes and his men had seen plenty of action that was never reported. The battles were often a one-sided affair. The bandits sprayed their bullets, often just holding their weapons out from a wall or a tree while firing off a full clip without looking where or what they were shooting at. The tactic had worked perfectly effectively against unarmed civilians. Wilkes’s Warriors liked to be more frugal. Pick a target and launch a round humming on its way. One target, one bullet. Ammo lasted longer that way.
Just recently, though, several lone UN soldiers had been ambushed and killed by gunmen who got lucky. Something subtle had changed in the attitude of the other side. It was like going back to the bad old days at the beginning of the conflict. It was becoming an increasingly dangerous world, and it didn’t pay to be cocky.
The cooler morning air lifted the thump of the rotors, carrying it echoing up the valley – a harbinger of decent food and a shower. It belted up through the trees and throbbed in their heads like a pulse. The helo’s dark green paint scheme appeared black in the frail light of the morning as the Black Hawk swung out from behind a ravine.
This Black Hawk was a gunship. It had a nasty sting with rocket launchers (empty) and mini guns on either side. The mini gun’s rate of fire was so rapid and intense that at night it appeared as a solid spike of yellow-white metal. As the helo orbited the target, it seemed tethered to the ground by the glowing spike. The Black Hawk was a frightening piece of hardware to be on the wrong side of, which, in this instance, wasn’t the ca
se.
The helo passed through the green smoke of the flare that marked the RV, and settled on the gently sloping grass of the hill’s crest. The men swung aboard with practised ease. The loadmaster handed Sergeant Wilkes a pair of ’phones which he slipped over his head. ‘Wilkes’s Wankers, eh? Welcome aboard, ladies!’ The LM flashed the sergeant a phoney smile and batted his eyelids.
Wilkes gave him the finger in return and shouted, ‘This is for you, now.’ Then he made a fist and added, ‘And you can use this later in the privacy of your home.’
The banter was good-natured between the small numbers of Yanks and the Aussies in the UN force. Occasionally it became aggro but there wasn’t enough nightlife in Dili – women or alcohol – for anything serious to develop. The Americans regarded the Aussies highly for their craft in the field. They also appreciated the fact that, for once, another country’s armed forces were first on the beaches, getting their hands dirty, something the Americans were usually stuck with as the world’s policemen.
There was a fair bit of mutual admiration between the two countries’ soldiers – the American equipment and resupply particularly impressed the Australians. Those guys didn’t want for anything. The only thing that gave Sergeant Wilkes the shits was the way the Yanks said ‘mate’. They just couldn’t get it right. It always sounded forced and try-hard. ‘Mai-yt’ was the way the Yanks said it, somehow managing to put extra syllables into it that he couldn’t identify. When they added a ‘Ger’daiy’ to it, well, that was the fucking end. For Wilkes, it was like someone dragging their nails across a blackboard, which he didn’t mind half as much.
Wilkes and his men sat in silence and watched the countryside slip by beneath them. Remnants of villages trashed by the militia back in ’99 could still be seen. The weeds had reclaimed some of them, particularly those built with wood, fibro and dried grasses that had been burned to the ground. Other villages were still just a mess of broken buildings, abandoned to scavengers. From altitude, they had the appearance of smashed teeth set in rotting green gums. The poor countryside eventually gave way to the relative order of Dili, which had been transformed over the initial occupation by INTERFET and subsequent UN forces.
The leaders of Dili’s independence movement had returned soon after the Australians had secured the country from the militia attacks. The capital of East Timor quickly regained the daily routine of a country at peace, despite the thousands of East Timorese reportedly slaughtered by the TNI-backed militia. Now there were friendly soldiers in town, and soldiers meant money and money meant commerce. Trade was a wonderful balm for the country’s wounds.
But lately the bombings had started anew, along with what appeared to be organised raids. UN forces would secure an area and then leave. Soon after, the bandits would march back in and make horrific examples of the locals who ‘cooperated’ with the foreigners. Rather than pulling back, it soon became apparent that, if anything, the UN command would have to step up its operations. Of course, the Indonesian military denied publicly that they were assisting the militia from West Timor, but the Australian DIO thought differently. Factions within the Indonesian military appeared to want to cause trouble. East Timor could not be allowed to go quietly into nationhood. It had set an example for other disgruntled peoples within the sprawling archipelago to follow.
The Black Hawk landed at the airport and a couple of Land Rovers took Wilkes and his section back into Dili. The men all had showers and some food at the mess tent. Ratpacks were okay but nowhere near as good as tucker cooked on a proper stove. They then headed off to the briefing. The men laid bets on what their next mission would be. No one would pocket the money.
They entered the demountable and felt the tension in the air. There were a number of grim-faced officers present who they’d seen about Dili but never met, and a few types in civilian clobber who had to be spooks – CIA or possibly ASIS. No one had to tell the SAS section that what they were about to hear was highly classified, because just about everything the SAS did was black. Even the fact that they were in East Timor was supposed to be a secret, albeit one of the ADF’s worst kept. The lights flicked off and a satellite photograph of an aircraft crash site illuminated a wall.
Wilkes’s mouth dropped open. The briefing left all the men stunned, and that was not easily done. They had no mission, but they were told the situation might change. They had to familiarise themselves with the crash site of the Qantas plane and the terrain surrounding the area so that if they were called in, they would know it intimately. When the spooks and officers had cleared out, they were given the briefing tent in which to spread out WACs of the area and hard copies of the satellite pass. They discussed their equipment needs for a two-day infiltration, made lists of ammunition, communications, first aid, food and other bits and pieces and discussed the situation. A Qantas 747 shot down by Indonesia with more than 400 people aboard . . . all dead? Wilkes whistled silently.
Central Sulawesi, 0230 Zulu, Friday, 1 May
Suryei and Joe knew they would find a stream or a creek, flowing water at least, in the bottom of the steep valley. They edged their way down to it, weak from lack of food. Their desire for a drink was powerful, a catalyst for mistakes. Joe stretched out for a crack in the rock face before he had secured his foothold. He reached for thin air and fell the last twenty metres upside down, clawing the air like a beetle on its back.
Suryei saw Joe fall and the emotions cascaded in on her; anger at his lack of care, desperation that she might lose him, fear for his life, and then anxiety about being left on her own. The feelings rushed around her system like a series of electric shocks, each fighting for ascendancy. She was afraid to look around the black basalt crag that obscured her view of the final moments of his fall. She did not want to see Joe’s broken body lying at the base of the cliff, not after what they’d both been through and survived. She found herself crying as she made her way across and down to the spot where she thought Joe would be lying.
The impact with mother earth felt like hitting concrete and the force of it crushed the air from his lungs. And then the concrete dissolved and became water. Deep water. He’d had a moment to think he was dead before he became aware that he wasn’t. Joe had landed in a pool. Far below the surface, the water was cool, even cold. Joe was aware of the light overhead as he floated towards it. The coolness became warmth, and then heat, a wafer biscuit of cold on cool, cool on warm and warm on hot. Joe burst to the surface with a searing pain in his lungs. He needed to breathe.
As Suryei came around the edge of the rock, a wide, black pool of water that had been hidden from her view opened out before her. The surface steamed like a large cauldron. Joe lay in the middle of it, floating face down. Suryei carefully negotiated the sharp rocks at the edge of the pool, then jumped into the black water.
She didn’t call out, didn’t say anything. She just swam towards Joe, and when she reached him and found him unhurt, she punched him, softly at first and then harder and harder. Finally, exhausted, she rested, sobbing against his chest, arms around his shoulders. Dimly, she felt him growing against her belly in the warm water. She wasn’t aware of it at first and then the feel of his penis against her skin shocked her. The sudden realisation that she had that effect on Joe aroused her. Before she knew what she was doing, Suryei reached down and freed him from his pants. His body was lean and terribly scratched, etched by their passage through the unwilling environment. She squeezed him to her, treading water.
Joe was stunned by Suryei’s display of emotion. She’d been so in control. He felt her embrace, her warmth, and his hormones took control, flowing through his body. Her closeness to him had a powerful effect, no matter how much he tried to suppress it. He was aware of her hands searching hungrily. He slid his hand inside the remains of her shirt and felt the soft skin of her breasts, her nipples hardening under his fingertips. Suryei reached down and unzipped her fly. She bucked in the water until her pants slid from her legs, removed by the water’s gentle caress. His own p
ants seemed somehow to have dissolved away.
They were suddenly naked together. Suryei needed this. Perhaps it was a reaction to the constant danger. She had never wanted a man inside her so badly. His heat entered her. For the first time in her life the intensity and the imminence of sex drugged her, overcoming her inhibitions. She wrapped her legs around his torso and pulled him deep inside her. They kissed, sucking each other’s lips, biting, hungry.
They moved together in the pool, probing, accepting, lifting each other to orgasm. There was desperation in their rhythm, an intensity to the urgency between them. And when they were spent, they stayed together, embracing, sinking slowly beneath the warm water, into the cool layers below.
‘Listen, Joe, don’t flatter yourself, okay?’ Suryei said as she slipped on her wet cargo pants. Was that a smirk she’d caught on his lips? Suryei had already done a good job of justifying their fucking – that’s what it was, fucking – in her mind. Nine months after life-threatening earthquakes and floods, she reminded herself, a spurt in the local birth rate is not unusual. She’d read about incidents where total strangers had coupled during such events. Even some plants flowered as they withered and died, in the hope of attracting bees and other insects, in one last death-defying attempt to pass on their genetic material. It was species survival, the force of nature. Feelings had nothing to do with it.
‘What we did was just some primal thing. You could have been any “Joe”, Joe.’ Joe’s face clouded and the realisation that she’d hurt him tightened her stomach.
‘Look, Joe,’ she said, wringing the excess water from her hair. ‘We’ve done a good job of staying alive here, but we could be dead in a few minutes for all we know. The only reason we’ve made it this far is because we’ve kept ourselves single-mindedly focused on surviving. If we turn this into a sequel to Blue Lagoon or something, we won’t get out.’
Rogue Element Page 19
