Double back am-3

by Mark Abernethy

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Mac. ‘What ’ave we ’ere?’

  Johnno dug Toolie in the ribs as Mac tore the bag open with his teeth. Next thing, they were all staring at Mac, and when he threw the whole bag to Johnno, the rest of the troop converged like hyenas. One of the first things you missed when you went bush in the army was sugar, and soldiers on operations always feasted on it when the opportunity arose.

  Taking a bite from his bar, Robbo walked past Mac and gestured with his head. ‘Let’s talk.’

  They found a place around the corner that looked down the savannah river valley they’d be tabbing along for the rest of the morning. Like many river valleys in Timor, you could plot the water course by the snaking stands of corypha palms contrasting with the brown grasslands. Putting his green rubber-covered field-glasses to his eyes, Robbo touched the buttons on the top of the glasses and fixed on a spot.

  ‘The boys don’t like it,’ said Robbo, not taking his eyes from the glasses. ‘A Kopassus depot, secured inside an infantry base? Going in hot, with only six troopers? Lads aren’t happy.’

  He passed the binos to Mac. ‘That stand of palms and bush at the end of the valley, just to the left,’ he said, pointing.

  Mac picked up the airfield with the field-glasses. It was smallish and didn’t look busy.

  ‘I’m not happy with the mission either, Robbo,’ said Mac, passing the field-glasses back and drinking his water. ‘I’m the one going in there, remember that.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Robbo, pocketing the chocolate wrapper. ‘But I should warn you, I’ve told the boys that if there’s no exit strategy, I’m not going to make them do it.’

  ‘Go in?’

  ‘At Maliana,’ nodded Robbo, munching on the chocolate.

  ‘They can still cover me?’ asked Mac, aware he was treading on dangerous ground.

  A pause opened between them. ‘Watch it, mate,’ said Robbo, very slow.

  ‘This girl – she’s important, okay?’ said Mac, not liking the way Robbo was looking at him. In threatening to enter the Kopassus compound alone, Mac was getting close to calling the commandos chicken.

  Pouring a small handful of water, Mac removed his cap and ran the cool liquid over his face and through his hair. It felt good and calmed him before dropping the bombshell.

  ‘Let’s do our recon and see how Maliana looks when we get there, okay?’ said Mac, his tone reasonable. ‘If we’re fast on the recon, we give ourselves more time for the snatch.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Robbo, chewing.

  ‘And by then we might have worked out a good alternative exfil strategy -’

  ‘ Alternative? ’ said Robbo, no longer chewing. ‘Thought the exfil was helo? Right, McQueen?’

  ‘No helo. Sorry, mate,’ said Mac.

  ‘If there’s no helo then there’s no QRF element,’ said Robbo, referring to the Australian Quick Reaction Force – the cavalry poised to support an exfiltration should things get hairy.

  Nodding ruefully, Mac kicked at a stone.

  ‘So it’s just us?!’ continued Robbo. ‘Six diggers and a spook? And we have to break into a Kopassus compound, snatch a girl and then escape across country to -’

  ‘Navy pick-up – it’s all they offered me.’

  His expression furious, Robbo finished his chocolate bar, shaking his head. ‘Can’t wait for the next surprise,’ he snapped, before stomping back to his troop.

  Mac had wanted to talk about another surprise, but the moment was gone.

  The security fence around the airfield was a single layer without sensors on it. Standing in the lee of the southernmost hangar, out of the sight line of the guard posted at the gate, Mac watched Toolie strain at the wire-cutters while Beast pulled the cyclone fencing backwards to create a door.

  ‘Bastards in Townie switched my fucking cutters,’ snarled Toolie as another strand gave way. ‘Left me with the blunt ones – pricks!’

  The radio crackled and Robbo sit-repped from his position on the ridge opposite the airfield gates, reporting two Indonesian soldiers leaving the two-storey admin and barracks block and walking across the main courtyard. Mac could tell he was worried but trying to remain calm.

  ‘They’re doing a perimeter check, boys,’ said Robbo. ‘Fix your handiwork and stand off – you’ve got thirty seconds.’

  Straining his large forearms, Toolie swore softly as he puffed his cheeks and twisted the loose fence wires together with the reverse side of the wire-cutters. He was amazingly quick, and as Robbo fired another warning over the radio, Mac, Toolie and Beast made it into the bush line and blended with the shade.

  Crouching behind a tree, catching his breath, Mac watched the soldiers do their rounds, relieved when they passed the patched-up fence without a second look.

  ‘I’m going to give it another half-hour, Robbo,’ said Mac into his mouthpiece, as they sweated in the bushes. ‘Then we’ll take some pics and move on.’

  ‘Check that, Macca,’ came Robbo’s voice on the radio. ‘We’ve got activity up here – helos coming in from the east.’

  ‘Fuck,’ muttered Mac, deciding they would not be going into the hangars today. ‘Okay – we’ll see you in five. We’re pulling the pin.’

  Taking the long way around the western end of the dusty old runway, the three of them stealthed through the jungle. As they rounded the end of the runway, they heard the thromp of incoming helicopters and watched the first of them land on the apron in front of the admin block. Setting on their way again, they jogged through the jungle in the thirty-seven-degree heat as Robbo gave them updates on the aircraft.

  Arriving back at the observation post, Mac collapsed to his knees beside Robbo, who was lying on his stomach, field-glasses to his eyes.

  ‘Take a look at this, Macca,’ he said after a while, rolling to his side and offering the binos.

  Lying down beside the soldiers, Mac rested the glasses on his elbows and looked at the site from the reverse of where he’d been trying to enter. Along the bright lime runway were scattered years’ worth of broken planes, hoists, trucks and an old Euclid road grader with its cables snapped, long abandoned to the weeds. It felt like a Cold War-era facility, built with American money back when the CIA wanted Soekarno out, and Soeharto running the show.

  Parked on the main apron in front of the airfield admin block, Mac counted seven Black Hawk helicopters, flight crews wandering towards the admin block in grey overalls. Mac focused the lenses of the field-glasses, looking closer.

  ‘Robbo, what’s the Indonesian Army helicopter of choice?’ he asked, scanning each aircraft and verifying they were all Black Hawks.

  ‘Hueys, made under licence,’ said Robbo.

  ‘So what do you make of this little squadron?’

  ‘Contractors?’ said Robbo, more of a question than an answer. ‘UN?’

  ‘Not UN,’ said Mac.

  Pulling the Nikon digital camera from his bag, Mac fired it up and checked the settings. The hangars he’d wanted to investigate were directly across from where he lay, and bringing the viewfinder to his eye, Mac increased the zoom of the camera into the gloom of the buildings. There were twenty large spray booms of the type he’d seen used in agricultural projects, lined up in rows. Refilling tanks sat behind them. It explained to Mac the presence of the non-Indonesian helicopters – spraying contractors, probably for a mosquito-eradication program. He’d seen this occur many times in Asia – a foreign organisation would put up the money for a public works project and the local military commanders would win the contract to carry out the work through their own regimental corporations. At least Haryono was using contracted helicopters, thought Mac; in the Philippines the commanders would use military helicopters but pocket the fee themselves.

  Taking a few shots of the helicopters, Mac was frustrated with the angle they’d been parked at, since the sun’s reflection meant he couldn’t get a proper shot of their registrations. There was something familiar about them, even given their anonymity.
r />   A new sound grew from the south and a small dark helicopter appeared on the horizon, its Indonesian Army markings evident. A cloud of lime dust flew into the still air as the helo touched down and then military people from the admin building were surrounding it.

  ‘Wonder who the VIP is?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Robbo, ‘but he must be important.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Mac as a large Javanese man in a white trop shirt and black slacks stepped out of the helo with two young men following, and shook hands with a wearer of fruit salad.

  ‘Last week the boys followed one of those mule lines that cross the river,’ whispered Robbo. ‘It led here.’

  ‘That so?’ asked Mac, as the VIP in the trop shirt looked around, his hand resting on the lower back of one of the young men.

  ‘You’d like to see what’s in those packs?’ said Robbo.

  ‘It’s about time,’ agreed Mac, as the VIP turned and Mac released the shutter on the camera. He was looking at Ishy Haryono.

  CHAPTER 42

  The photographs were transmitted inside of three minutes. Mac had heard about the joys of digital imaging but he had no idea it would be so easy. All he’d done was plug the camera into the sat phone, dial the number Jim had preprogrammed into the phone, and the contents were downloading into DIA’s computers.

  ‘So, you want to have a look into this VIP?’ asked Robbo, nodding at the helos in front of the airfield’s admin building.

  ‘Ideally, yes,’ said Mac, annoyed with himself for having already spent so much time at this airfield. ‘But we’ve got the Lombok recon and then we have to be out of Dodge, with the girl, by Sunday – I think we’ll push on.’

  Mac didn’t want to become sidetracked by the sighting of Haryono. If Operasi Boa was a part of a deportation program, then it wasn’t being hatched from this airfield. He had no doubt that Haryono was a potential drug lord and that he used this airfield for taking money and distributing his product – but that was a matter for the police.

  ‘You said those boys with their packs come here?’ said Mac. ‘And based on the pattern, we’re expecting the full mule line to be here tomorrow?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Sure are,’ said Robbo.

  ‘Let’s keep that in mind,’ said Mac. ‘If we cross paths it’d be good to have a nosey-poke.’

  As he shifted to leave, Robbo put a hand out. ‘Actually, Macca, we have a situation.’

  ‘Yeah?’ asked Mac.

  ‘We’ve detained a local,’ Robbo said, embarrassed. ‘Well, two actually.’

  ‘Shit, Robbo!’ barked Mac, too many pressures to juggle already.

  ‘Yeah – Didge was taking a pee and someone walked into him.’

  ‘Jesus wept!’ said Mac, adrenaline rising. ‘Where? Where’s Didge?’

  ‘Back there.’ Robbo gestured with his thumb.

  Thirty metres into the jungle, Mac and Robbo came into a copse where the 63 Recon Troop stood around two boys in their early teens. Mac and Robbo edged into the circle and listened to Johnno talking Bahasa Indonesia with them.

  ‘Johnno?’ said Robbo, and indicated for him to let Mac closer to the kids.

  ‘Found this,’ said Toolie, handing Robbo one of the boy’s packs.

  Robbo looked inside, pulled out a plastic bag, and threw it to Mac, who knew what it was before he even caught it. The clear plastic was filled with US greenbacks and the Cambodian stamp would translate as ‘Vacation Palace’.

  Mac didn’t ask too many questions before the boy wearing the San Francisco 49ers T-shirt started crying.

  ‘Rodrigo says he never wanted to do it. He says his brother talked him into carrying these packs for the Koreans,’ said Johnno. ‘Apparently the Koreans give the packs to the mules, then they are paid at the airfield base, one dollar US per run.’

  Ruffling Rodrigo’s hair, Mac switched his attention to Yohannnes, who looked cockier than his friend.

  ‘How’s your English, Yohannes?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Okay, mister,’ said the boy, scared but showing more front than his companion.

  ‘Where you come from today?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Atambua, last night,’ said the boy.

  ‘Who gave you the bag?’ asked Mac, bending down for his rucksack.

  ‘Korea,’ said Yohannes. ‘Always Korea.’

  ‘What does Korea say?’ said Mac, opening his rucksack and putting his hand inside.

  ‘He say, Take this to there, ’ said Yohannes, eyes lighting up as Mac pulled the pack of Hershey bars out of his rucksack.

  ‘And what else?’ asked Mac, pointing at the radio handset that sat the bottom of Yohannes’s pack.

  ‘Call him, if problem in jungle,’ said the boy, eyes like saucers as Mac handed him a chocolate bar before giving one to Rodrigo, who cheered up with the gift.

  ‘What problem?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Soldier, thief, militia,’ said Yohannes, getting the Hershey wrapper off in record time. ‘If anyone try to take pack, if soldier around, we must call Korea.’

  ‘And then?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Then, walk back and then a lot of carrier come along then,’ nodded Yohannes. ‘’Cos safe now.’

  ‘Who do you take the packs to?’ asked Mac.

  Pointing, Yohannes indicated the airfield.

  ‘You take it down there?’

  ‘Yes, mister,’ said Yohannes.

  ‘You know his name?’

  ‘No, mister.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, mister – a secret.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ muttered Mac, and handed another chocolate bar to each kid.

  Looking down on the airfield from the OP, Mac slugged at water and tried to get his mind clear. He hated complications, disliked civilians involving themselves in the action.

  ‘What do you want to do with them?’ came Robbo’s voice from behind him.

  ‘Can’t let them go down to the base,’ said Mac, eyes on the admin block. ‘We’d be made and we still have two locations to cover.’

  ‘So?’ asked Robbo.

  ‘So I don’t want them with us either,’ admitted Mac. ‘We don’t have enough food, and we don’t have the numbers to run a security detail while doing the op.’

  ‘It’s better than the alternative,’ said Robbo after a pause.

  ‘The choice is between bad and worse,’ said Mac. ‘Bad might be one thing; worse might be six troopers and a spook getting torn to pieces by a door-gunner doing some target practice. We’re sitting ducks out here once we’re made.’

  ‘Well, the obvious is out of the question, Macca,’ said Robbo, uneasy, his foot kicking into the dust.

  Jaw muscles clenching, Mac tried to stay calm. ‘The fact that we both know the obvious sort of resolves the question, doesn’t it?’

  ‘My boys wouldn’t let us do it, McQueen. And I’d side with them, so no – it doesn’t resolve the question.’

  Mac nodded and looked down at the ground, tried to think of a way forward. ‘Okay, Robbo. The lesser evil is taking them along but we need a stop-loss.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Robbo. Mac knew he’d been a handy bullrider as a teenager and Robbo sometimes took his leave in Canada and the United States, taking eight-second rides for cash. There was a coiled quality to the man that wasn’t always relaxing to be around.

  ‘If they directly endanger our lives, then we vote on it,’ said Robbo. ‘There’s seven of us, so stop-loss is four votes in favour.’

  ‘And the proposer gets the gig,’ said Mac.

  ‘Of course,’ said Robbo.

  It was 12.34 when they arrived at the escarpment overlooking the river gorge. The local boys walked in the middle of the troop, rope nooses around their throats which were connected by a rope leash to Toolie’s hand. The idea was that if they tried to run, a decent tug on the leash would tighten the rope around their necks.

  ‘This your footpad?’ Mac asked Yohannes.

  ‘Yes, mister,’ said the boy.

  ‘Got an idea,’
said Mac.

  They stopped and Johnno and Didge jogged up a rise to assess the ground ahead.

  Pulling the money bags from the boys’ packs, Mac smashed the radio on a tree and threw it in pieces on the ground.

  ‘Never liked that radio much anyhow,’ mumbled Beast.

  After asking Beast for his knife, Mac cut a slice into the inside of his forearm and held the wound over the first empty pack, letting the blood run over it.

  ‘Robbo, can we get some more blood?’ asked Mac.

  Nodding at Beast, the big redhead took his knife back and gave Mac a questioning look.

  ‘The other one,’ said Mac, ‘and some on the radio if you want.’

  When there was enough blood to make it look good, Mac asked for Rodrigo’s shirt, took it and wrapped it around a small log, making sure the 49ers emblem was visible. Then he tied it up by the sleeves on the reverse side, hoping it would look like a boy floating in the river at the foot of the gorge.

  After swinging the log back and forth until he had some momentum, Robbo let go of it and they watched as it arced through the air and plunged into the river twenty metres below. Within seconds, the T-shirt-covered log had submerged and disappeared, ruining the desired effect of a body floating in the river.

  They watched and waited, but the log didn’t resurface.

  ‘Fucked that up good and proper,’ mumbled Robbo.

  ‘Have to think of something else,’ said Mac. ‘Just don’t want the Indonesian Army chasing us for their money.’

  As they took turns on the water bottles, Robbo and Mac looked at the map and decided on the safest way into the Lombok facility.

  Panting, Didge and Johnno came down from the peak.

  ‘More helos heading for that airfield,’ said Didge. ‘Four of them.’

  ‘No interest in us?’ asked Robbo. ‘Shooters hanging out the doors?’

  ‘Couldn’t see,’ said Didge. ‘Too far away and they were gone before we got the binos on them.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Robbo, nodding. ‘Let’s move.’

  Mac pulled the rucksack over his shoulders onto his wet back, letting out the straps slightly. He was now carrying what he estimated was two hundred thousand US dollars through the Timor bush.