by Unknown
Political dissent was banned anyway, as were alcohol and a free press. But with passports and money, Bruneians could travel abroad and return home to a sanctuary untouched by the frenzy of the modern world.
While Brunei had its own small army, navy and air force, the Sultan also maintained a garrison of Nepali Gurkhas for his own protection. When he was out of the country for a long spell, Gurkhas would head into the jungle for training. The British also kept two battalions of their own Gurkhas there, together with special forces troops. At the time of the coup, led by Islamic colonels, Britain had 1576 men from two Gurkha battalions, fifty men from the Special Air Service and twenty from the Special Boat Service, together with eleven Australian and five New Zealand special forces soldiers who were training alongside them in Brunei.
Their camp was two hours' walk from the Limbang River which ran between the Malaysian state of Sabah and the Bruneian capital Bandar Seri Begawan.
A Gurkha soldier cut the outboard motor to neutral and let the long, narrow boat drift to the mangrove swamps on the river bank. He had picked up Lazaro Campbell from a beach on Labuan Island, taken him by speedboat across Brunei Bay, then by river to where he was now. Campbell travelled with his head covered by a scarf. In the moonlight his Hispanic features helped his disguise as a Malay river boatman.
The Gurkha stayed in the boat, steadying it against the soft river bank with a boathook. He waited for Campbell to climb out, then handed him his bag. His kit was minimal, mostly taken up with two freshly pressed shirts, and a light linen suit and tie. Peter Brock had talked to him from the White House: if the mission was a success, the President wanted Campbell in the victory parade, but in civilian dress. If it failed, he was to get the hell out and let no one know he had ever been in there.
Campbell scrambled on to the bank and felt a hand grasp his wrist and pull him through the firmer ground.
'Glad you could make it,' said SAS Colonel John Burrows, shaking Campbell's hand. 'Any trouble up river?'
'Pretty quiet,' said Campbell. 'Three checkpoints, but we were waved through. No one's clear who's in charge.'
Burrows nodded. 'It's a bit of a hike, but there's coffee at the end of it.' He began walking, but continued speaking with Campell following. 'Lazaro?' he asked. 'Are you half Mexican or something?'
'Half Cuban,' said Campbell.
Burrows missed half a step, as if he was thinking of stopping, but changed his mind. 'That place is still run by Marxists.'
'Sure is, but my mother left long before I was born. She was a child and I was delivered safe on American soil.'
'Is she still alive?' continued Burrows brusquely, his back to Campbell, climbing a slight slope on a path slippery with rain and decaying leaves.
'Both my parents are. They live in New York. Downtown, Manhattan, to be precise.'
They came into a clearing, throwing them into a basket of sudden light and heat, reminding Campbell how shielded they had been from the sun. He saw a glint of the sun's reflection on glass, and briefly stopped to look around. He had thought it strange that Burrows would meet him alone. Now he realized that Burrows's men were in the jungle with binoculars, watching him at every stage of their journey.
'Where in Manhattan?' asked Burrows, keeping going.
'Kenmore and Mott Streets. Downtown,' said Campbell straight away, knowing that a few questions - whatever their topic - would often reveal the measure of a person.
'Are you married?'
'Not yet.'
'Forty-two is not a "not yet" age. Got a girl?'
'From time to time.'
'Lucky sod. I've been married seventeen years. I think we've both run out of steam with it. Difficult to know what one should do.'
'Keep working,' said Campbell. 'Always the best.'
'And you work for?' Burrows moved his weapon from his right to his left hand and opened a water flask.
'I'll reveal that when we're alone,' said Campbell.
Burrows missed a step and looked round, quizzically. He drank from the flask, not offering any to Campbell, then walked on. The jungle became denser, with hanging foliage which had not been cleared. The ground, too, became more tricky, often so thick with roots and clambering undergrowth that there was only a very rudimentary path. The air was completely still and thick with humidity. 'You've moved camp?' said Campbell, asking the obvious.
'The night of the coup,' said Burrows. 'This section is a little tricky.' Burrows stopped and looked round at Campbell. His brow was a film of sweat. Mosquitoes hovered close but kept away because of the repellant covering his face. 'Politically, I understand that you should be here. Operationally, it could be a disaster to have an outsider with us. We've been living and training together for three months, and--'
'Colonel. I understand,' said Campbell, catching up with him. He held up his hand and grinned. 'If I get in the way, shoot me. No one's going to ask questions.'
Burrows laughed. 'You know what my orders are?' he asked rhetorically. 'Just two words: liberate Brunei.' He wiped a cloth across his face. 'What are your orders, Campbell?'
'Almost as simple as yours. I have to bundle one of the colonels who started it all on to an aircraft. Anything you can do to help would be much appreciated.'
Four hours later, they were holding back in their boats just before the river opened into an expanse of water that led to the water villages, a string of huts built on stilts. Expensive speedboats were moored underneath. The latest models of luxury cars were parked in a paved area nearby on the river bank. The kitchens and living rooms were equipped with state-of-the-art electronic gadgetry. But with all that, the people still lived in traditional Brunei style.
The Brunei flag flew on the river customs building: yellow, white and black with the red national emblem in the centre. Next to it was a flag Campbell had never seen before, a green and gold crescent rippling in the night-time breeze. On other government buildings, visible from the river, the similar duet of national and religious symbols were displayed.
Campbell was made the fifth man in a four-man SBS unit, staying out of sight under a river-bank mangrove tree. They had the advantage of monsoonal cloud cover and bursts of distant thunder that, with luck, might disguise the growls of their approaching engines.
Burrows was in the boat alongside Campbell's. He read a map by the natural light of the night, comparing it with the satellite imagery brought in by Campbell.
'We have one attack helicopter on stand-by,' he said, his voice low, but carrying enough for Campbell and the others to pick it up. 'It's got to be quick. There are expatriate families there, hunkered down in their homes. Any delay and they're as good as hostages. Be as careful as you can with casualties. I've trained with the Bruneians. They're good soldiers, and I don't want them killed because of a handful of rag-head colonels. If you find one of the colonels, take him to Campbell, and get them to the airport. If you find two, one should be executed to set an example.
'Australian transport aircraft are flying in from Perth and Darwin with reinforcements. US planes are bringing in supplies from the Philippines. The Sultan is on his way back from London. At midday, he's to inspect a guard of honour with a military flypast and Royal Bruneian naval boats patrolling the coastline. Our priority, then, is to secure the airport, and from there we will secure the rest of the city. We hope that our presence under arms will break the coup. Frankly, I believe it would break itself within a few days, but our political masters want it down now to send a message right across South East Asia.
'If we can, I want to paddle across the open water. It'll take about fifteen minutes. Only start engines once we are spotted. Snipers will open fire first, while we make it ashore.'
With the moon blocked out by clouds, faces blacked, engines off, praying no one would spot them, Burrows folded the map and lifted his night-vision binoculars.
The main sentries were at the customs house. Troops patrolled the waterfront on foot. Jeeps were moving around the centre of town. Apart from that
, Bandar Seri Begawan was quiet.
Then he spotted activity. A searchlight was being erected on the roof of the customs house. Two French-made VAB armoured personnel carriers, also with searchlights, were drawing up on the waterfront. If caught in the searchlights' sweeps, the boats would be sitting ducks, wiped out with the fire from the APCs' 12.7mm machine guns or 20mm cannon.
Burrows whispered into the radio. Four snipers scrambled off their boats into the shallow water of the mangrove swamp. It would be the worst possible position from which to try an accurate shot over such a distance. But they had trained for it, and their cover might be the only chance the raiding party would have. Burrows ordered in the helicopter.
The next minutes were spent in silence. The only sound was water rippling against the boat and distant orders being shouted between Bruneian troops from the shore. Then as they heard the first throb of the SA-341 Gazelle attack helicopter, Burrows raised his hand. The huge engine on his boat at first purred and then roared into life. The bow rose up with the surge of water and Burrows broke cover, with Campbell's boat immediately behind. Seven powerboats carrying special forces units spread out across the river estuary. Behind them came ten larger boats, but gathering just as much speed, each crammed with Gurkhas.
By the time they reached the open water, the boats were travelling at fifty knots, not a light among them, dark, bouncing shapes advancing fast towards land. The single helicopter, also unlit, came in low from the jungle, swooping over the trees and the tops of the boats, then firing an anti-tank missile at the armoured vehicle to the left of the customs house. The flash from the nose set off the alarm which broke the night's silence in the sleepy city. The cannon missed its target and hit a fuel tanker. Flames curled round, while the helicopter turned tightly, its 7.62mm machine-gun raking the customs house roof, smashing the windows below, taking its first casualties with the guards on the roof and destroying the searchlight.
A devastating explosion from the tanker lit up the waterfront. The fire burst into the night sky, then subsided, then leapt up again, running along a line of leaking fuel towards stilted houses where the wooden walls and roofs were dried out from the daytime's rainless heat.
'Boat three,' said Burrows into the radio. 'The first thing you do is put out that bloody fire and treat civilian casualties.'
Two criss-crossing searchlight beams from the shore lit up the water, sweeping across until they each picked out a boat. The helmsmen veered from side to side, twisting their craft back and forth, keeping them heading on, while heavy-calibre bullets cut into the water around them.
One searchlight went dead, shattered by the Gazelle's 20mm cannon. Burrows was less than a minute from the waterfront. Hostile fire came from the surviving armoured vehicle. For a few seconds it went silent, searching for a new target. Unless it was taken out within seconds, one of the boats would take casualties.
The helicopter crew fired another anti-tank missile, but missed again. The aircraft's machine-gunner, fully exposed with the side door open, kept up sustained fire while the pilot took the Gazelle higher to get a clearer shot. He was turning back when the helicopter juddered as if caught in a mid-air tornado and exploded in a ball of fire. Its tail broke off. The main body dipped on the weight of the engine and plunged into the water.
Burrows's boat twisted sharply to avoid the burning debris. A helmsman, two boats away, ran straight into the field of fire maintained throughout by the Bruneian gunner. The helmsman was hit. He lost control as the bow of the craft came down on to the wake of the next boat. At such high speed the craft flipped, throwing the soldiers into the water. They were picked out by the searchlight and shot.
To the left of the customs house, the tanker fire was spreading. People ran from their homes, screaming at the horrendous sight in the water and fled away from the gunfire.
Burrows managed to get under the trajectory of the armoured vehicle, too close and low for the machine-gunner to hit him. His helmsman slowed, staying on the water. Burrows steadied himself with an anti-tank weapon. He waited a few extra seconds for the rocking of the boat to quieten. But as he fired, a rogue swell encompassed the boat. The round went high.
Campbell's boat reached the concrete steps of the promenade. The first man out was hit. Campbell leapt out behind him and picked up the fallen anti-tank weapon. The Gurkhas, only seconds behind in their boats, sent withering fire ashore, giving Campbell enough time to sight the target. He fired into the belly of the armoured vehicle, scoring a direct hit, engulfing the turret in flames.
With the armoured vehicle out and the machine-gun silent, there was a momentary pause in the advance of the Bruneian troops. The Gurkhas were ashore, advancing in a thin khaki line, covered by fire from the boats still on the water.
Somehow Burrows's booming voice managed to cut through the noise of battle, confusing the rebels even more. 'All units hold fire,' he ordered.
The Bruneian officer, Colonel Rokiah Daud, leading the rebel counter-attack, later admitted that that one command had been the turning point. Daud was a graduate of British military training. Hearing the order from a British commander, he automatically repeated it to his men who obeyed.
A sudden, deathly quiet descended on the waterfront, while Daud realized his mistake.
Burrows walked up to him. 'What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?' he said. As Daud raised his gun to shoot Burrows, a roar filled the sky. Two Australian fighter jets flew over only a few hundred feet high, the chaff and deflectors throwing out decoys against the Rapier missiles still coming from the airport.
'Stupid little shit,' sneered Burrows, and shot Daud cleanly in the knee.
****
13*
****
Delhi, India*
Until now, Vasant Mehta had refrained from making the call. But earlier in the day, as he was driven past the ruin of the parliament building, his mind filling with fresh memories of the attack, he realized that if he didn't, peace would be impossible to achieve. The man in his sights was President Song Ligong of China, better known outside his country as Jamie Song. Song had called on the day of the attack, but Mehta had refused to speak to him.
They had only met twice. Vasant Mehta had spent a day and a half in Beijing during a visit to East Asia, and more recently he had attended the closing ceremony of the Asian Pacific Economic Conference meeting in Singapore. They had formed a working relationship. Trade was increasing, but politically they were far from close. India and China saw themselves as natural rivals. One was a democracy, the other an autocracy. Their border was disputed. Each was expanding its blue-water navy to deploy into the other's waters. Each was creating an arsenal of missiles for the day they might have to face each other down.
All that, however, Mehta put down to the natural progression of nationhood. What he found unpalatable was China's unflinching support for Pakistan. Without China, Pakistan would not have nuclear weapons. Nor would it have the missiles with which to deliver them. Without Chinese weapons, Pakistan could not have supported the insurgency that had raged in Kashmir for twenty years, killing thousands and casting the spectre of war throughout the whole of Asia.
There was no personal chemistry between the two leaders either. Song came from a world of academia and business. Mehta was a military man who had won office by the accident of his wife's infidelity. He had spent too much time digesting intelligence reports on Chinese weapons sales to Pakistan, its violation of the NPT and the MTCR - the treaties to stop the proliferation of nuclear technology and missiles - and its blatant lying to the international community. Over the years, Mehta's resentment had built up, questioning what sort of successes India and Pakistan would have had in their attempts at peace had China not interfered.
The line clicked. 'The Chinese wish to know if this is an official or unofficial call, Prime Minister,' said Uddin.
'What's the difference?' asked Mehta impatiently.
'If it is unofficial, you can speak in English without interpreters.'
Mehta's fierce eyes looked straight ahead, angry at the world, but in his empty office finding no place to look that would satisfy them.
'In English,' he said softly, and he overheard Uddin paraphrase his request to Beijing. 'The Prime Minister wishes to have only a friendly chat with the President.'
Seconds later, Song was on the line. 'I am so, so sorry, Vasant,' he began. 'I tried to get you, but you must have been overwhelmed. If there is anything, absolutely anything--'
'There is,' Mehta interrupted. He was both abrupt and accusatory, perhaps more than he meant to be.
Song took it in good grace. 'Name it.'
Mehta drew breath. 'I want you to cut all arms supplies to Pakistan. I want your missile and nuclear scientists out of there. I want you to impose a complete arms, aid and trade embargo on that nation, and I want access to your intelligence files--'
'Prime Minister, Prime Minister,' Song broke in. 'Do you have evidence that this was the work of the Pakistani government?'
