The Exit Club: Book 3: The Professionals

by Shaun Clarke

  As agreed, they moved out the next morning, heading south, wading waist deep in the water for what seemed like an eternity, though it actually took them only five kilometres, to the confluence of the Poeteh and Sentimo rivers. As Bulldog had predicted, the water here was deeper, the foliage more obstructive, but when they tried to follow the river, wading through even worse swamps, they soon lost it in impenetrable jungle. Doggedly wading on, they found themselves emerging to relatively clear, swampy land that Bulldog calculated was due north of Koemba.

  Continuing onward, they came to a series of slowflowing tributaries that wound their way between a maze of dry banks and curtains of bamboo. They were trying to cross this maze, waist deep in river water, when a large boat swished by on the other side of the high bamboo curtain. Its wash lifted the flotsam of leaves so high that O’Connor and Taylor were practically submerged and surfaced thrashing wildly and choking, completely drenched.

  No one laughed at them. No one dared speak. Unable to see through the curtain of bamboo, beyond which was the channel that the boat had passed along, Bulldog decided to change direction and head back into the swamp to avoid accidentally breaking out into the river just as another Indo boat was passing.

  This turned out to be their first lucky break, because after wading for another four hours, hidden in the swamp but following the line of the river, they came up onto firm ground that Bulldog was convinced, from its appearance, was the fingertip of the spur he had been seeking.

  ‘No doubt about it,’ he said, checking his map against a compass reading. ‘This is what we’ve been looking for.’

  Pleased, he put the map and compass away, then took in the scene as they knelt on the edge of the narrow strip of dry jungle, hidden by tall grass, looking at the broad sweep of the Koemba River where it curved around the well-spaced trees of a rubber plantation, glittering in the early afternoon sunlight. On his left, the strip of jungle continued right up to the mud-brown, irregular riverbank.

  Bulldog pointed to it. ‘That could make a good OP,’ he said.

  He was right. In the centre of the strip of dry jungle a large tree spread its branches above dense scrub and a shallow ditch, but with open ground surrounding both – as open as it was to his right, where the plantation’s rows of rubber trees were spread along the riverbank. The trees were being ‘rested’ with no sign of recent tappings, though Bulldog saw that there were some well-used paths through the plantation.

  ‘That means the plantation’s still being worked,’ he told them. ‘So we’d better be careful.’

  As a site for their OP, Bulldog plumped for the lone tree and its scrub-covered, shallow ditch. Feeling exposed where he was kneeling, and having ensured that there were no Indo troops in the immediate vicinity, he ordered the patrol into the scrub surrounding the ditch.

  ‘Make the OP simple,’ he said. ‘Four scrapes under the scrub. And be quick about it.’

  They made a rectangular OP with four shallow scrapes for their bashas, two overlooking the river for the purpose of observation, the others facing the jungle behind: one for the watch, the second for sleeping in. The scrapes were filled with a bed of leaves, then sleeping bags were rolled out on the leaves. Another shallow scrape, placed in the centre of the four large ones, was used as a well for weapons and kit. To help keep out the rain, ponchos were raised on forked sticks above the scrapes and then pegged to the ground. The scrub was pulled closely over the ponchos and in turn covered with local foliage. Narrow ‘windows’ were made to the front and rear of the foliage to give broad views of the river and jungle.

  When the OP was completed, they settled down to a long day of observation and recording of what was seen, updating log books and redrawing maps in the light of their recent explorations. Marty photographed the river and any traffic passing along it, taking note of what he was shooting, while Pat O’Connor, acting as sentry but also the team’s signaller, checked through the various wavebands in the hope of picking up enemy transmissions and encoded news of other SAS patrols. While they were thus engaged, Bulldog checked the traffic on the river, noting its frequency and exact details in his logbook, and informing Marty of its coming to enable him to take more photographs. Meanwhile, Taff and Tommy kept their eyes on the river, weapons at the ready.

  The river was busy, with a little local traffic in the morning followed by a greater number of military supply boats flying the Indonesian flag and manned by armed troops. Obviously they were cruising to and from the trading settlement at Seluas, which Bulldog estimated was about eight kilometres downriver. He was even more convinced of this when Indo helicopters flew overhead, patently on reconnaissance.

  ‘Sooner or later they’re going to see us,’ Bulldog said, ‘so I recommend we cause a stir as soon as possible and then shake out of this place.’

  ‘I agree,’ Marty said.

  Their chance came soon enough. First thing next morning, shortly after they had partaken of a cold breakfast, a longboat containing three uniformed Indo soldiers came along the river, heading upstream. Taken by surprise, Bulldog plunged into the shelter of the trees by the riverbank and was followed immediately by Marty and the others. Kneeling there in the firing position, Marty watched the longboat approaching. Meanwhile, Pat O’Connor was unclipping a white phosphorous incendiary grenade from his webbed belt.

  ‘Let’s not take any chances,’ he said grimly.

  After unpinning the grenade, he stepped forward for a better view, though still protected by the trees. He waited until the longboat was abreast of his position, then he hurled the grenade.

  Marty saw the Indonesians in the longboat glance up, startled, as O’Connor stepped back into the trees. Raising their eyes even higher, the Indos saw the grenade and shouted frantically as it fell towards them. Bouncing off the stern of the boat, it exploded with a thunderous clap, creating a huge fountain of rushing, roaring water and smoke streaked with silvery phosphorous. The stern of the boat was thrown high into the air, forcing the prow down into the water and throwing the soldiers forward, one into the other, with the third one– the one nearest the explosion – bursting into flames and catapulting over his entangled friends to splash into the river.

  Even as the remaining two Indos were struggling to right themselves, one reaching for his rifle, Marty and the others opened fire with their personal weapons, peppering the boat from front to rear, making the soldiers spasm epileptically as hundreds of chips of wood were torn from the hull, exploding upward and then raining back down. In a matter of seconds, the two remaining Indo soldiers were dead and the hull of the boat was disintegrating, sinking even as Marty and the others continued firing to ensure that it would actually go under.

  Less than a minute later, when the SAS men had finally stopped firing, the boat was practically in pieces, taking in more water, and sinking as the water turned crimson with the blood of the dead men.

  The boat broke apart, the dead mend drifted away with the debris in swirling, blood-red currents, then all evidence of the attack – the wooden flotsam, the dead men, the bloody water – was carried away downstream and eventually disappeared.

  ‘Clear the area and let’s shake out,’ Bulldog snapped. ‘I want no trace of us left here. Move it!’

  With considerable urgency, they demolished the OP, filled in the shallow scrapes, and strewed local foliage over the area to make it look exactly as it had been. Then, packing up their kit, they turned away from the river and embarked on their difficult hike back over the maze of watery channels, dry banks and curtains of bamboo until they reached the southern tip of the swamp, bordered by a dense tangle of belukar. Forced to stoop under the lower branches and palm leaves, they had an arduous trek for the next hour, their backs breaking and every single muscle aching. It was therefore a relief when they could straighten up again and advance like human beings, though every step was taking them deeper into the scum-covered water.

  Nevertheless, they waded farther into the swamp, forced as usual to endure the swa
rms of flies, mosquitoes and midges, constantly alert for sea snakes, concentrating at all times on not breaking an ankle on one of the many large stones on the bed of the lake, or losing balance by treading on an underwater log, or sinking or slipping in the thickening mud. Also forced as usual to hold their personal weapons above their heads to keep them out of the water, they soon had badly aching muscles and sharp, stabbing pains between their shoulder-blades.

  ‘Fuck!’ Bulldog suddenly exclaimed. ‘The bastards are on our tail!’

  Even as Bulldog was speaking, Marty saw an Indonesian Army helicopter flying low overhead, obviously searching the swamp. Instantly, he and the others froze where they stood, hoping that their camouflaged clothing would make them merge into the swamp and that their lack of movement would leave no rippling wake on the water, to be seen from above. When the helicopter eventually disappeared, they moved on again.

  ‘They won’t give up that easily,’ Marty said.

  He was right. Twenty minutes later, a second helicopter appeared, this time roaring out of the southern sky and hovering right above where they were wading through a stretch of swamp covered in tangled vegetation. Holding their rifles up with one hand and hacking at the dense foliage with the parang held in the other, they were taken by surprise and had no time to freeze before the helicopter pilot saw them and brought the chopper down to hover directly above them.

  An Indo soldier was kneeling behind a machine gun fixed to the floor at the open side of the helicopter. When he saw the SAS men struggling through the swamp, he opened fire on them.

  With the helicopter hovering dangerously close to the trees and swaying slightly from side to side, the gunner had difficulty in keeping his aim steady. His first burst went wide, making the water boil violently close to the men. This gave them time to wade behind the nearest tree trunks, from where they were able to fire back with Armalites and SLRs switched to automatic. But instead of ascending, the helicopter dropped even lower to give the gunner a better view of his targets.

  Having the more powerful SLR, rather than the lighter Armalite, Marty was able to put some bullets into the helicopter, stitching a line just above the door and hitting something inside that burst into flames. Sucked out on the helicopter’s slipstream, the flames roared through the open door to engulf the unfortunate gunner whose screams were like nothing remotely human. As the helicopter ascended, still on fire and pouring smoke, a crewman inside, attempting to put out the flames, kicked the blazing, screaming gunner out. The man fell like a burning projectile, kicking frantically and still screaming, leaving a vertical stream of smoke to mark his downward course, and was silenced only when he plunged into the swamp a good distance away. The helicopter turned around and headed back the way it had come, still pouring smoke.

  ‘Good one, Marty,’ the imperturbable Taff said.

  They continued wading through the swamp, passing the dead Indo gunner whose charred, smouldering body was sinking slowly, heading deeper into an area covered with overhanging belukar. When another helicopter flew overhead, the belukar hid them from view, but half an hour later they saw a fourth chopper behind them, this one a larger transport, hovering low enough to enable a good dozen Indo soldiers to climb down a rope ladder into the swamp where the first pilot had seen them.

  ‘Shit!’ Bulldog exclaimed. ‘They know this swamp like the back of their hands. They’ll catch up in no time.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ Tommy Taylor asked, looking nervous, but still in control of himself.

  ‘We keep going,’ Marty said.

  This they did, wading laboriously against the muddy water, often having to clamber over drifting logs and chop their way through overhanging branches and spiky leaves. Then, to their dismay, another Indo helicopter arrived to drop another group of Indo soldiers hardly more than a kilometre ahead of them.

  ‘Shit!’ Bulldog exclaimed again. ‘The bastards are going to put a cordon around the swamp and then close in on us.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Tommy Taylor repeated, still nervous, but looking determined for all that.

  ‘We still keep going,’ Marty said. ‘Either we ambush those bastards before they see us or we fight our way through them.’

  In fact, they had been wading only another twenty minutes when a rustling of reeds and swishing of water straight ahead indicated that someone was coming. Melting into the undergrowth at both sides of an imaginary track, they waited until the advance scout of the inserted Indo patrol emerged, waist deep in water, holding a Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifle across his chest. Like the others, Marty was just about to raise his SLR and fire at the Indo when he saw Taff slipping around behind the trees and coming up out of the water behind him. Before the scout knew what was happening, Taff had thrown one arm around his face, smothering his nose and mouth, then jerked his head back to draw the blade of his fighting knife across his windpipe. The scout shuddered with his throat spurting blood, held upright by Taff, and kept shuddering for what seemed like a long time before he was still. Only when his frantic, dying movements had stopped did Taff lower him quietly into the swamp. The dead man’s blood flowed out in an expanding circle that turned the muddy-brown water red.

  ‘We can ambush that patrol coming towards us,’ Taff suggested, pushing the floating Indo body aside as if it were no more than an obstructing log, ‘then mine our wake to disrupt the ones coming up behind us. Could you do that, Pat?’

  ‘You mean the landmines?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I could tie them to the trees,’ O’Connor said, getting the picture. ‘Damned right, I could, mate.’

  ‘Okay, Bulldog?’ Taff asked.

  Bulldog nodded. ‘Okay.’

  Taken aback once more by the cold-blooded killer instincts of the blue-eyed, mild-mannered Taff, Marty hid with the others behind the shivering foliage at the side of the imaginary passage through the water while O’Connor clambered up to the lower branches of the nearest tree, checking carefully that there were no snakes sleeping there. Sitting on the thickest branch, which was just above the surface of the plant-covered, scummy water, he tied one of the landmines to its underside with the cord from his Bergen, then attached a lengthy piece of trip-wire to it. Climbing down again, he let the trip-wire run out through his fingers as he waded across the route taken by the Indo patrol, which he treated as an imaginary ‘path’ about three kilometres wide. He stopped at a tree growing well to the other side of the ‘path’. After tying the trip-wire to the tangled roots of the tree, he tugged until it was tight enough to trip the mine if moved by the passage of a human body or leg. As the trip-wire was just under the surface of the water, it would not be seen by its potential victims.

  ‘Do you have any more?’ Bulldog asked him.

  ‘Three or four.’

  ‘Good. Let’s keep advancing until we hear the approach of that Indo patrol up front, then we just let them pass. They’ll be the first to trip that wire. Then lay the others about four-hundred metres apart to take out the patrol that’s following us. That might just about give us time to get clear of the swamp.’

  ‘Understood,’ O’Connor said.

  ‘Right, lads, let’s move on.’

  They advanced carefully through the swamp until, about thirty minutes later, they heard the swishing of water and rustling foliage not too far ahead. Spreading out and melting into the trees on either side of what they assessed to be the path of the oncoming Indo troops, they were rewarded when the five-man Indo patrol emerged from the foliage ahead, wading with extreme care, and passed by without noticing their presence.

  Up close, Marty noticed, the Indos looked like adolescents – slim, short, with handsome, decent features – not at all like a bunch of seasoned jungle troopers, which is what they were. It was always harder, Marty knew, to kill men whose faces you had seen. He was therefore relieved when the five Indos had passed on, disappearing into the foliage behind him as if they had never been

  Bulldog waited for a good five minutes, unti
l he was sure that they were out of earshot of the retreating Indo patrol, before silently waving the others on. Again, they made their laborious way through the swamp, pushing the foliage and drifting branches aside, ignoring the many fat leeches now sticking to them, stopping only when O’Connor had to climb a tree and attach another landmine to it, which he did three more times.

  Eventually, when they were nearing the end of the swamp, they heard the first of the mines exploding well behind them. Even from this distance the noise was shocking, a mighty clap of thunder, and when they glanced back they saw a cloud of black smoke boiling up from the swamp. They even heard men screaming from this distance, but those sounds were much fainter.

  O’Connor grinned at Taff, who stuck his thumb up in the air. Then the patrol moved on again.

  Another mine exploded about fifteen minutes later, then two more at fifteen-minute intervals, with the screams of men heard in the distance and more black smoke billowing up where the Indos were being cut to shreds by the hundreds of sharp-edged, red-hot, flying metal slugs of the mines.

  It would be pure hell back there, Marty knew, as he continued to wade forward, finally emerging, with an immense feeling of relief, from the putrid swamp.

  He did, however, get a rest. Convinced that the Indonesians would not give up the chase until their quarry reached the border, Bulldog made his men keep marching. The hike took them into the relative ease of primary jungle that led to a series of high ridges and forested hills, criss-crossed with rushing streams and deep, dangerous gorges, only some of which had aerial walkways spanning them.

  Just after noon, when the ulu was like a steam bath, they saw an Indo soldier in the branches high up a tree, looking directly at them, then signalling frantically with both hands, clearly telling his friends he had seen them. Taff picked the soldier off with a single shot from his Armalite, making him spin backwards off the tree and plunge screaming to the ground, smashing through many branches as he fell.