‘Yep,’ said Wilkes, turning around and giving the lance corporal a frown that said, ‘Put a sock in it’. Ellis was baiting the pollie, only Loku’s English was awful and it was unlikely he knew what ‘shishkebab’ meant anyway. Ellis was talking about an incident that had happened two days ago. A police vehicle had been cut off on this very spot. The two policemen had been found a few hours later by more police sent to investigate the radio silence, their horribly mutilated bodies speared many times. They had also been decapitated: headhunted. The whole area was regressing. Violence had gripped the country during these elections and many feared that total anarchy was just around the corner.
‘Tell me again why we’re here, boss,’ said Ellis.
‘It’s called “being a good neighbour”,’ said Wilkes. They’d been given the speech already – all the public relations reasons why – by the prime minister and the leader of the opposition, back in Townsville before deployment. The government of Papua New Guinea, anxious to have full and free elections with as little intimidation from disaffected people as possible, had called on Australia for assistance. On one level, the newspapers said Canberra felt obliged to help, because Papua New Guinea had been an Australian protectorate up until 1975, whereupon it had become a nation in its own right. But the truth was, PNG was dangerously unstable and what if the place became a failed state right on our doorstep? Well, the politicians were predicting dire consequences for Australia if that happened. Apparently, it would be the end of civilisation as we knew it.
So, Australia had responded to the call with a program that included a full troop of SAS soldiers for protection purposes – thirty-two men plus an S70 A9 Blackhawk helicopter. Not much of an assistance program, really, but this new request for military aid was nevertheless not an easy one for Australia to fulfil. Nearly all its limited numbers of elite Special Forces troops and transport squadron aircraft were committed in actions elsewhere – Afghanistan, East Timor, Thailand, the Philippines, the Gulf, the Solomons, South Korea – and it had become necessary for the Australian Defence Force command to recall soldiers resting up after tough deployments in order to put this meagre force together. Tom Wilkes had been one of those given the short straw, barely recovered from his last gruelling mission. Sergeant Wilkes involuntarily traced the rude scar that ran from his ear, snaked around his cheek and ended under his neck, the permanent calling card left by an Indonesian bullet that had ricocheted off a rock, splintering into fragments and flaying his skin. The heat and humidity were making the scar itch. The stitches had only been removed three weeks ago and the nightmare in the jungles of Sulawesi was still fresh in Wilkes’s mind.
The SAS troop had been split up and farmed out to various politicians touring the country, providing them with personal security, and augmenting the local troops when required. On this particular job, Wilkes, Ellis, Littlemore and Trooper Stu Beck were to be the Loku party’s personal guard for the duration, and rode in the second of the four-vehicle convoy. In the Land Rover up front, sweating it out with a couple of very large PNG soldiers, were Troopers Chris Ferris, Terry ‘Smell’ Morgan, Mac Robson and Al Coombs. Bringing up the rear were two larger four-wheel-drive trucks hauling ballot boxes, tables and chairs, various supplies, a few more PNG soldiers, the main opposition candidate, plus a skeleton television crew and their gear.
Wilkes felt as edgy as anyone in the convoy. All it would take was a mine under the lead vehicle to disable it, and then everyone behind it would be at the mercy of enemy forces. A few well-placed light machine guns in the trees and there’d be no escape. Wrong millennium, Wilkes reminded himself. Think bows, arrows and spears. It would have been far more practical to have had the Blackhawk on call for this op, dropping them off where required, but it had to service the entire operation across the rugged spine of Papua New Guinea, an area generally known as the highlands. It was hot, but that didn’t account for the profusion of sweat pouring from them. The vehicle behind, a Ford of indeterminate vintage, backfired. Everyone in the convoy with a firearm involuntarily fingered the safety.
‘Yu laikim Nu Guinea?’ Loku asked Wilkes, but he appeared less interested in what the Australian thought of Papua New Guinea than he was in examining the surrounding jungle.
‘Yes, sir, laikim tumas,’ said Wilkes after a moment of translating the question. It was only his second day back in PNG and it took a while for his brain to attune itself to pidgin English, the language spoken thereabouts. He’d been to PNG before, to lay a wreath at the cenotaph at Kokoda. His grandfather had been a member of 11 Platoon 39th Battalion, one of thirty lunatic Australians who’d stood against the might of the advancing Imperial Japanese forces in World War II. He’d been armed with a revolver. His grandfather’s sacrifice was one of the many selfless acts that had helped stop the enemy dead in its tracks there. PNG had changed little since those days. It was a beautiful, wild and primitive place, with only small parts of it even dimly aware that they were living in the twenty-first century.
Loku nodded then lapsed back into silence, the attempt at conversation failing. The jungle bounced past, slapping wetly at the Land Rover. The edge was coming off the heat as the convoy climbed. Fingers of white mist curled over the ridgelines and slid down the steep valleys. And then the road suddenly widened into a clearing and the jungle receded. The Land Rover ground past two naked young boys, who stood and gawked at the vehicles. The boys were accompanied by a man wearing nothing but a piece of twine around his hips that held a large, hollow root over his penis – a koteka – and a piece of curved, cream-coloured bone through his nose. Highlanders. They were the colour of roasted coffee beans, the man’s body as hard and shiny as burnished wood.
‘They don’t look very pleased to see us, boss,’ Ellis observed. ‘They obviously don’t know that their politician’s in town, and he’s chock-full of promises.’
‘Gary…’ said Wilkes threateningly. None of the highlanders were smiling. That was strange. In Wilkes’s experience, the highlanders were usually friendly and inquisitive. It was rude to look directly at the women but no such strictures were placed on the men. Perhaps the welcome would warm up when they arrived in the village’s centre, he thought.
The convoy wound through the settlement. The buildings, if they could be called that, were little more than woven grass huts. Small fires smoked here and there, giving the place a cold, bluish tinge. Pigs squealed as they rooted about for food. Still no smiles. Wilkes wondered what Loku and his government had done to earn the displeasure being shown. All the men were armed with spears and clubs.
‘I don’t think much of their welcoming committee,’ said Trooper Littlemore, feeling edgy. Wilkes agreed with a nod. If he was concerned, Loku worked hard not to show it. Wilkes admired him for that – he knew the man was shitting himself behind the smile. Loku happily waved out the window as, no doubt, the fellow politician in the vehicle behind was doing. The younger children hid behind their mothers, who then herded them away.
‘Where are all the women and kids going?’ said Ellis. Wilkes had noticed that too. The village was now clearing of all but the men. The atmosphere was tense. Wilkes didn’t need to check the M4/203 in the crook of his arm. He knew its magazine was full, and there were rounds for the underslung grenade launcher in his webbing. For this mission he’d chosen this weapon over the Minimi machine gun, his usual choice, because of its compact size and versatility. The convoy ground to a halt in the centre of the village but no one came forward to greet them. The drivers turned off the ignition and the air was eerily silent.
The plan was that Loku and Andrew Pelagka, the opposition politician hoping to wrest this seat away from the incumbent, would meet with the village elders and, through Timbu, the interpreter, present their various policies. A ballot would then be set up and, after the village elders had told everyone who to vote for, polling would start. Wilkes and his men would ensure no harm came to Loku and Pelagka, while the PNG soldiers guaranteed that thuggery aimed at intimidating voters to c
ast against their wishes didn’t occur.
This was the way democracy worked in countries that didn’t quite get the concept, thought Wilkes. But up here in this remote part of the world, the whole notion of democracy seemed alien and ill-fitting, like trying to get these people to swap their penis gourds for business suits. How many times did the villagers here even see someone from Moresby, let alone a white man? The best thing the government down on the coast could do for these people living high in the mountains, and fifty thousand years in the past, was to keep civilisation away – loggers, McDonald’s, the whole mess – for as long as possible. But Wilkes’s point of view was his own. He was entitled to have it, but not to enforce it. He was an instrument of someone else’s will – Canberra’s – and through it, the people of Australia.
‘C’mon, you blokes,’ said Wilkes. ‘We can’t sit in here picking our noses for the duration.’ The men grunted, cracked the doors open and climbed out of the vehicles. A few of them stretched. At least it felt good to stand and move around. Then the soldiers unloaded the trucks. The PNG troops milled about together, some taking the opportunity to urinate on the wheels of the trucks. Loku, Pelagka and Timbu walked towards a group of the warriors. Sergeant Wilkes gave the hand signal to form up and the Australians moved quickly to back up the politicians, but not too close and not in a threatening way. No one wanted to spook the tribesmen. The men kept the muzzles of their weapons pointed at the ground.
Timbu strode confidently towards the man who must have been the chief. The old guy had wiry white hair pulled back on his head, revealing a high intelligent forehead. Bright bird-of-paradise feathers buried securely in his hair flitted when he moved his head. Strings of teeth, bone and more feathers hung around his neck, along with what looked like the face of an altimeter from an old aircraft. His body was lean, the skin loose in places as if he’d shrunk slightly. There were many scars on his body, the legacies of countless battles and accidents. It was a hard life, yet somehow, through jungle smarts and toughness, the old man had survived it all. The chief was surrounded by younger men, all with the physiques of Olympic middle-distance runners – muscled, but not muscle-bound. They, too, were scarred by various life and death contests. The men smelled sour and acrid, a combination of animal and smoke, and something else familiar that Wilkes couldn’t quite place.
Timbu appeared to know their dialect. The exchange between him and the chief was loud and animated. Sergeant Wilkes glanced at the men who must have been either the chief’s sons or his bodyguards, or maybe both. The warriors, he realised, were sizing up him and his men. They appeared confident and cocky, almost haughty, but there was fear, too – fear of the unknown. How many third millennium soldiers had these people seen? Hidden way up here in the clouds, probably none.
Wilkes took in the village at a glance. The women and the children had completely vanished now. Only the men were left; a line of soldiers and a couple of civilians squared off against a much larger force of near-naked warriors looking increasingly belligerent and excited, muscles twitching with adrenalin overload.
‘Got any ideas, boss?’ asked Lance Corporal Ellis in Wilkes’s ear, keeping his eyes on the villagers.
‘Smile. Look happy,’ Wilkes replied.
Ellis did as he was told, but it was a tight smile and there was no amusement in it. He’d seen several warriors on the edge of the gathering raise their spears and point them in the direction of Timbu, Bill Loku and Andrew Pelagka, and it had taken Ellis a supreme effort of willpower not to respond by shooting the warriors dead before they got their spears off. Of course, Ellis knew had he done that, it would have been the match that blew the powder keg.
Suddenly several shots rang out, explosions from somewhere behind the treeline. ‘Jesus!’ said Littlemore. ‘Does that sound like military assault carbines to you blokes?’ No one answered. They were too busy scoping the treeline, looking for the source of the gunfire. Then followed a howling scream, a terrifying noise that sent the warriors in the village scattering for cover. Several natives threw their spears blindly at the trees as they ran helter-skelter. The PNG soldiers also ran, some even bumping into each other in their efforts to vacate the open ground of the village centre. Sergeant Wilkes and his men dropped to their knees in the confusion, sighting down their M4s and machine guns ready for whatever was about to burst into the open. The eerie howling grew louder still and then a swarm of painted and feathered warriors erupted from the cover of the dense jungle, screaming, waggling their tongues, running at full tilt towards the village centre.
Wilkes assessed the situation fast. ‘Ellis, Beck, Robson! Get the civilians under cover. Go!’
The two SAS troopers gathered up the politicians and the guide and herded them, running at a crouch, behind some heavy logs.
A spear thudded into the soft ground at Trooper Littlemore’s feet, frightening the crap out of him. Never in a million years did he expect to die on the point of a firehardened, barbed tip. The man who hurled it kept coming towards him, some kind of feathered club held high in his hand, ready for the death swing. Littlemore had no choice. He let off a short burst with his Minimi. Slugs smashed into the man, hurling him backwards into two of his mates.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Wilkes above the din. ‘Aim fucking high!’ He saw a couple of PNG soldiers fall down as they ran, one whose leg buckled under as it broke clean below the knee.
After a moment of confusion, the SAS men recovered their equilibrium. The politicians and other civilians secured behind the logs, Ellis and Robson rejoined Wilkes and Littlemore. They then split into twos and fired close to the marauders, but not at them, pulverising the trees around them and turning the ground at their feet into boiling cauldrons of earth and hot steel jackets. The PNG soldiers had also begun to organise themselves and were returning fire.
Wilkes popped a grenade from his webbing and loaded it into the underslung M203 launcher. He aimed quickly and then fired, lofting it behind the charging tribesmen. The HE round hit the open ground where Wilkes intended, exploding with a deafening pulse that spooked a dozen warriors, who turned and fled back into the trees. The concussion stopped several more warriors, who stood and shook their heads, deafened and disoriented.
‘What the hell are these people doing with AK-47s?’ yelled Littlemore. Wilkes didn’t answer because he had no idea. But the fact was they had them, and a round fired by a primitive warrior could do as much damage as a round from a professional sniper if it hit the right spot. Fortunately, though, they had no training and hitting a target from a distance of two hundred metres with a rifle as powerful as a Kalashnikov wasn’t easy even if the finger on the trigger was experienced. Adding the confusion of battle made the task of aiming accurately even more difficult, and if the shooter was running, well-nigh impossible. It was not surprising, then, that despite the considerable amount of lead flying about, none of the SAS was killed or wounded. But Wilkes knew that this situation would change rapidly if the attackers were permitted to close with his men. No skill or experience hitting the bullseye was necessary when the bull itself was at point-blank range. ‘C’mon, you blokes. Start earning your pay,’ he said. He made a few quick hand signals and his men took the offensive. They moved about, never staying in the one place more than a few seconds. This willingness to move confused the painted warriors, making their targeting even more erratic. As soon as they stopped and took aim, Wilkes’s Warriors would fire on them from an angle they didn’t expect. With the benefit of surprise lost, the initiative passed to the defenders. Wilkes and his men kept splitting off at different angles, firing, moving. The attackers soon had no idea where to concentrate their attack. Withdrawal was their only option.
Trooper Beck had a lucky escape. He rolled out from behind a grass hut, coming to the kneeling position, and found himself looking up into the black eyes of a warrior less than three metres away, the smoking muzzle of the man’s AK-47 pointing a little over his head. The highlander had just fired a burst from the carbine. All
he had to do was drop the weapon slightly, squeeze the trigger and Beck was dead. Beck brought his own weapon to bear on the warrior – it took an age to come around, turning, turning – and Beck expected at any instant to have his lights burned out as he registered the muzzle flash. But it never came. The two men glared at each other, the warrior’s nostrils flaring like something wild and dangerous as he breathed. Beck was mesmerised by the sight of the man, fierce and proud, and spectacularly adorned with technicolour feathered plumes and red, yellow and white paint. It would have been like shooting a lion or a tiger, only this man was something rarer, a migrant from an age lost to modern civilisation. In that instant, Beck felt a distant connection with the proud and dangerous warrior. The SAS trooper registered the highlander’s finger squeezing the trigger repeatedly and he realised that he should be dead. The weapon’s magazine was spent. The tribesman knew he’d lost this encounter when the rifle in his hands refused to fire. He flung it down, turned and ran, disappearing into the jungle, gone in an instant like a dream that dissolves into an uncertain waking memory.
‘Shit,’ said Beck. He blinked several times and sucked in a lungful of the wet mountain air as his heart pounded. He felt like a man who’d played dead while a bear sniffed him over, expecting the ruse to be discovered at any moment. ‘Shit,’ he said again under his breath. He stood and looked around, regaining his composure in time to see a band of naked men from the village charge into the bush, giving chase to the retreating marauders. They’d picked up some of the dropped weapons and were firing them on the run, chasing the attackers. Two warriors from the village fell from the pack as they ran, victims of friendly fire, just as the melee reached the treeline. The party giving chase disappeared from view at that instant, but their path through the dense bush was marked by the clatter of semiautomatic fire that frightened birds from the trees.
Sword of Allah Page 2
