He came out with a piece of white paper. Golden Dragon Line letterhead. Three lines of numbers. Coordinates in nautical format.
Trousered it.
Then he sat down. Vomited.
CHAPTER 52
Mac staggered and fell, staggered and fell. Something wasn’t right in his head. With his arms out he blundered through scrub and jungle, following the trail in the moonlight only to be plunged into blackness through stands of forest.
At one point he was so disoriented that he went over like a caber, smashed his face on a tree. He did the whole thing without the slightest sensation of falling.
Occasionally, the thromp of a helo would get louder and he’d get a fl ash of a big searchlight going round the top of a hill. Then it was gone.
At nine pm he gave himself a break, sitting on a log in a clearing and looking what he assumed was north over the Sulu Sea. Scores of tiny islands were dotted as far as he could see. Two ships steamed between them. US Navy or Chinese Navy? Maybe Philippine Navy.
Bats squabbled in the trees behind him, a macaque talking to itself.
He moved on, his head pulsing like his heart had decided to relocate. By the time the trail led him straight into the secret back entrance of the tunnel system, the agony in his head was subsiding, but the nausea was still there. It had taken an hour to cover the four miles.
There was a rusted hatchway door, larger than the ones they’d seen in the auxiliary tunnel. Mac grabbed the locking wheel, but he needn’t have bothered. The thing swung open. There was a wooden ramp on the inside, obviously there for the bikes.
He could hear activity echoing and vehicles revving, the SIG held in front of him he walked down a long downward-sloping tunnel, bulbs on the ceiling spaced every thirty metres. Sabaya may have been out of the tunnels, but his MO included booby traps and surprise visits. Mac had no idea who was still running around down there.
The tunnel opened into a room. Mac smelled gasoline and two-stroke mixture. He followed a smaller corridor back from the room.
It was low and tight, his shoulders rubbing both sides as he walked.
Abruptly the tunnel came to a right-angle turn. Mac paused. Head-out, head-in, did it twice then looked around and saw a dead end three metres away.
He walked towards the sound of American voices. There was a steel frame and a steel panel inside it, a six-inch lever too. He pulled it up and the steel panel swung away from him.
He was in the command centre of the tunnel, in front of him a fi gure in a Level-A bio-hazard suit. They looked at each other and Mac lowered the SIG. Three other people in bio-hazards were doing something at the far wall.
‘McQueen. Anyone got some water?’ said Mac.
Mac briefed Don in person and Hatfi eld over the radio system. The US Army didn’t like its generals wandering around in tango cave systems.
Wasn’t what they paid them for.
Mac pinpointed the VX bomb as best he could, told them they’d fi nd Garrison there too. And no, he didn’t do it.
Then he gave enough of a debrief so Don could do his paperwork.
He’d grown to like the bloke, had come to realise the kind of stress these CBNRE blokes lived under. Stealing a CBNRE device might take some doing. But once you had it, the scale of destruction was huge compared with the resources required to use it.
Don wanted to run a tape, but Mac declined the offer so Don took notes. Mac sensed he was only double-checking Sawtell’s account anyway.
After they’d fi nished Don led him through to the main tunnel.
Sawtell’s boys were slumped on and around the white LandCruiser.
Mac heard someone say, Shit, it’s Chalks!
The cab door opened and Sawtell stepped out, eyes red from the concrete dust. ‘McQueen! Good to see you, my man,’ he croaked.
They did a thumb-shake.
Sawtell shook his head. ‘Man, we’ve been turning this place over like a crack-head looking for rock.’
‘Sabaya and Garrison had me,’ said Mac.
Sawtell’s eyes widened. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘I got knocked out on that bear trap in the offi ce.’
Sawtell sniggered. ‘Spikey slipped on that too.’
‘Well shit – I didn’t know,’ came a voice from behind.
Mac turned, saw Spikey. They shook. Spikey pulled him in, touched chests. ‘I mean, who puts a spring-loaded ramp in their fl oor?’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ said Mac.
Sawtell wanted the story. ‘So, they let you go?’
Mac nodded. ‘Sabaya shot Garrison.’
‘No shit!’ said Sawtell.
‘Yep. Did it in front of me. Out the back here, out near the sea, on the other side. Some kind of dispute about those kids in the container.’
They stared at him in disbelief.
‘Sabaya didn’t know about it. He does now.’
‘But he didn’t shoot you?’ asked Sawtell.
Mac looked away into the middle distance, thinking about it.
Realised he was talking with veterans of that night in Sibuco Bay. ‘You remember when we did the Sabaya thing in ‘02?’
They nodded.
‘Remember how I wanted that tango’s body pulled out of the water? Wanted him on deck?’
Sawtell snorted. ‘Sure do.’
‘Well word got back to that bloke’s mum. She mentioned me at the funeral.’
They stared at him.
‘Funny old world, huh?’ said Mac.
Mac pulled himself onto the fl at deck of the LandCruiser as Spikey fi red it up. He shook with Fitzy and then looked down. Paul’s body was lying there on his back, grey ovies, Hi-Tec Magnums. One of Sawtell’s boys had draped their BDU jacket over his face, and the chest wound. The blue G-Shock on Paul’s wrist was ticking over.
‘Let’s get you out of here, eh champ?’ said Mac as the LandCruiser pulled out.
They motored in second, past the guys from the Twentieth in their bio-hazards, the DIA guys with their breather masks around their necks. Everything was being photographed and logged. Mac looked into eyes as they went past, his legs dangled over the side, Fitzy lounging beside him.
When they got to the fi rst gold room they’d searched, the LandCruiser stopped. Sawtell got out and walked up to one of the DIA guys. ‘Testing back at Andersen – Hatfi eld needs a sample,’ he said.
Before the DIA bloke could do anything with his clipboard, Sawtell picked up a gold brick and walked back to the LandCruiser.
He came around Mac’s side. Put the brick on the fl at deck, between Paul’s left arm and his body.
Looked at Mac, said, ‘Pension. For his family.’
CHAPTER 53
The SEALs relieved the Green Berets. They couldn’t wait to get a look inside that tunnel complex. As Mac and the Green Berets made for their Black Hawk they passed Hatfi eld’s command Chinook. A middle-aged Anglo in a merchant marine white shirt was sipping from a soup cup at the base of the fold-down stairs. One of Don’s sidekicks took notes while the man recounted his ordeal in a Canadian accent.
On the other side of the Chinook, and further down the road, Mac saw two Chinese military helicopters – an Mi-6 and an Mi-26.
In front of the aircraft Wang remonstrated with a Filipino soldier; a bunch of Chinese Special Forces milled around, disarmed, while eight Filipino soldiers watched them like hawks. Wang yelled out to Mac as they got to their Black Hawk. Mac ignored him.
The clear-out fl ight from the island to Zam took thirteen minutes and Mac was given a room at Camp Enduring Freedom. Spikey lent him some clothes. It may have been the tail end of a terrorist incident, but it was Saturday night in Zam, and the Yanks wanted to party.
Mac got out of the Jeepnie behind Manz while Sawtell paid the driver. Spikey got out the other side. Behind them, another orange Jeepnie pulled up and more special forces guys piled out, everyone in jeans and T-shirts. They stood in front of Il Puesto, a bar that was rocking with live music. It was 11.1
0 pm.
Sawtell stood on the pavement and made sure everyone was there.
In a white polo shirt, Levis and sneakers, he looked like a guy Rocky might fi ght.
The beers went down fast and cold. The band played ZZ Top and Rolling Stones, the female singer raunching it out like Linda Ronstadt.
Sawtell ordered a bunch of pizzas. Other soldiers came over and there were thumb-shakes, chest-touches and loads of ribbing. The kind of thing Paul and Limo would have loved.
Mac noted the designated shooters. One was a large, heavily muscled Latino who looked a bit like Limo. The other was smaller but looked like a boxer. A Leb guy. The Leb stayed by the entrance, drank water. The Latino sat at Sawtell’s table. They both wore black holster bags of the type Carl had worn during Mac’s last supper with Diane.
Mac mentioned it to Spikey. ‘Yeah man.’ He pointed at the Leb.
‘That’s Arkie. A Muslim dude, so he’s cool to carry when we go out.’
Mac nodded his head at the big Latino sitting opposite and Spikey laughed. ‘That’s Cheekie. He don’t drink ‘cos his momma won’t let him!’
The table laughed. Cheekie raised his chin, put his hand out.
‘Name’s Chico.’
They shook, Mac feeling a bit silly. The biggest argument he’d ever had with Jenny had revolved around the problem of guns and grog.
There’d been a strange and revealing surveillance gig concerning a Malaysian politician and a senior Indonesian bureaucrat. It turned out the blokes weren’t swapping secrets, they were lovers. Mac and Garvs had started drinking early after they wrapped, had got on it something bad down at the Jakarta Golf Club.
By the time the evening had swung around, Mac reckoned he was ready to drop in on Jenny. Trouble was, he’d forgotten he was still carrying. He’d turned up at Jenny’s apartment with some Carlsbergs, thought it was all going well. Then she’d felt the Heckler, hit the roof, yelling. She gave him a good clip over the ear then took the piece, shoved it in a drawer and told him to get the fuck out.
When it came to alcohol and fi rearms, Jenny was a lot like his father.
Mac realised Sawtell was that way too. No one carried unless they were off the booze. Mac had this feeling that maybe it was time to grow up.
Mac danced with an American girl from the navy, talked with a local bird, laughed with Spikey, who was hilarious. He asked after Hard-on and got ten different responses, all of which had something to do with either masturbation, nurses or penises. The attitude was that Hard-on was bludging while Alpha team ran around after tangos and nerve agent.
No one talked shop till it was one-thirty and the band was between sets. Sawtell turned to Mac, brought out an envelope, handed it over.
‘Can you get this to Paul’s momma?’ he said.
All eyes looked at Mac. He had a peek inside. There must have been three thousand US in that envelope. Mac knew how much these people got paid, knew they weren’t cashed up and he felt totally humbled. A bit overwhelmed. He’d spent years under the kind of stress that would buckle most people. He had methods for burying that. But an act of simple kindness was enough to bring him undone.
Mac looked away, looked at the ceiling, tried to keep the concrete where it was but he couldn’t. He felt the bottom lip go, tasted tears.
It was the fi rst time he’d cried since he was nine years old and Frank had whacked him for mucking round with the Holden’s handbrake in the driveway. After Frank had told him not to.
He nodded. He cried. Sawtell roughed his hair. Spikey put an arm round him, play-punched him in the jaw.
Sawtell raised his beer glass, said, ‘To Paul.’
Everyone drank to Paul.
Mac pulled it together, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, raised his glass, said, ‘To Limo.’
They all drank to Limo as Spikey stood, put his hand on his hip and did a cruel mimic of Limo’s deep, ghetto accent. ‘Ain’t made for running, motherfucker!’
The soldiers whooped and laughed. Someone said, ‘Was made for eating, tho’. Got that right!’
Spikey stood again. Another mimic. ‘I can’t have thirds? What kind of army is this anyways?’
They squealed with laughter and Spikey got high-fi ves. The navy girl pouted at Spikey, said, ‘Poor Limo!’
Spikey laughed at her, said, ‘That boy could eat like a rabbit fucks!’
The evening ground on. They got boozed.
The owner kicked them out about a quarter to three, when Sawtell wanted to sing. The designated shooters left fi rst. Stood on the pavement. Eyes up and down the streets of Zam. Hands hovering over holster bags as they got into the Jeepnies.
The navy girl kissed Mac on the cheek when it was her stop, said,
‘You’re sweet.’
Mac realised he didn’t want to sleep with her.
That made him smile.
Mac passed through the security section of the British Embassy in Jakarta. They’d scanned the Cordura carry-all he’d grabbed at Camp Enduring Freedom but they couldn’t fi nd any crime with the contents. They showed him through to a large, open-plan waiting area in the public partition where Mac sat on a chocolate brown leather sofa.
He leaned back, easing his hangover into the day. It was early afternoon, maybe the last afternoon he’d ever spend in Jakkers, and then he was on the evening Qantas fl ight into Sydney. There’d be one stop after this, at the Aussie Embassy. Then a whole new life.
Three minutes later a middle-aged bloke came out. Pale blue cotton Oxford shirt, dark, expensive slacks and black lace-up shoes.
He introduced himself as Martin Cottleswaine.
To Mac he’d always be Beefy.
‘Told you I look better in my goldilocks, didn’t I?’ said Mac as they shook.
‘I never had a doubt,’ said the Brit, also smiling.
Mac thanked him for meeting him, gave him a vague rendition of what Paul and he had been up to with the Americans. Beefy raised his eyebrows and followed British protocol for discussing any countryman in a military or intelligence capacity. ‘Didn’t know one of ours was in that.’
Mac had tracked down Beefy from his recollection of the guy’s name-tag. Mac had given ‘cottage’ and then ‘cotton’ to the switch woman, and the trail had led them to Beefy.
Mac leaned over, unzipped the carry-all, pulled the envelope out and showed Beefy the contents. Pushing the sides of the carry-all down, he also showed Beefy the gold brick. Away from other bricks of the same size, it now looked enormous.
Beefy’s mouth dropped slightly. Years as a Customs guy, but some things still surprised. He looked at Mac. ‘How can I help?’
‘The Americans pitch in and send a fallen comrade home with what they call a pension.’
Beefy smiled. ‘Tax-free, you mean?’
Mac shrugged. ‘The tradition is that the body bag or the casket doesn’t get opened until Mum or the wife opens it. Last perk left in American life.’
Mac watched Beefy take a deep breath. He was a Customs guy, an embassy guy, a guy totally with the program.
‘Mate, this isn’t for me,’ said Mac. ‘He’s one of yours and he went down fi ghting.’
Mac looked away, the whole thing affecting him deeper than it should have. ‘Good bloke too.’
‘It’s technically income,’ said Beefy, looking at Mac, ‘but only if he declares it. Right?’
They looked at each other.
‘Ex-Army?’ asked Mac.
‘Fuck off.’
‘The way you walked…’
‘Royal Marines, squire,’ said Beefy.
Mac smiled. ‘Same here.’
‘Where’d you train?’ said Beefy, suspicious.
‘Lympstone, mainly. Did Brunei with the SBS.’
‘Ever see a feller mark a map?’ said Beefy, squinting.
Mac laughed. ‘Sure did.’
‘What’d the instructors call him?’
Mac thought for a second, suddenly remembered. ‘Cunt-hooks.’
; ‘That’s the one,’ said Beefy, laughing.
They talked and laughed some more, then Beefy let out a hiss of air. Shook his head, leaned on his knees, looked away. Mac thought he heard him mumble Fuck’s sake to himself.
Beefy turned back. ‘Okay. I’ll sort it.’
Mac still had valid credentials at the Aussie Embassy security section.
The place had been battened down after the bombing in ‘04. Mac didn’t have his security pass but Ollie – an APS bloke in the foyer – knew him and they had a temporary pass issued very quickly.
Mac didn’t have much to clean out. He used shared offi ce space in one of those hotel systems. He’d never been much of an offi ce guy. All his reports were backed up on a hard drive somewhere and he didn’t keep a diary, didn’t have an appointment book.
His cover documents were mostly sitting in a make-believe offi ce downtown, at Southern Scholastic. The corporate bunting of his forestry consulting cover was in an offi ce park in north Jakarta.
He assumed it had already been cleaned out, handed over to a new pretend-businessperson. Someone else would get to do their bit, take their shot.
He walked the stairs. Got to the fi fth fl oor, turned left and made for the intelligence section.
The door was open. He paused, looked in, said, ‘Can a bloke get a cup of tea round here?’
Anton Garvey looked up from his laptop, took off his half-glasses.
He’d aged ten years since Mac saw him last, seemed to have lost his tan.
A new kind of stress. The kind that takes your fi re.
They made small talk in the kitchenette. Mac used his mug, the one with Proserpine Brahmans JRLFC and a picture of a bull. Every time Mac went back to Airlie to see his folks, Frank hit him with more Brahmans fundraising paraphernalia for the team he coached.
They got back to Garvs’ offi ce, which looked over the back of the embassy. Garvs shut the door, eased his charcoal suit into leather.
‘So, Mr Macca. How’d you know?’
Mac shrugged.
‘That Pommie bloke, Paul?’
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