Double Back (23 page)

After crawling through thick undergrowth in total silence for ninety seconds, Mac and Robbo slipped under another screen made of branches and came out in a foliage-covered hide made of bamboo.

Inside the hide, two men were visible in the moonlight-dappled darkness. One was lying on his stomach, looking through a small telescope on a stand; the other sat cross-legged, a set of binos around his neck, eating an orange.

They swivelled, guns at the ready.

‘Boys, this is McQueen,’ said Robbo.

Both gave gruff hellos. It turned out the tall blond bloke eating the orange was called Toolie. The other, a thick-set, dark-haired man with a grumpy face, was Mitch.

‘Anything?’ asked Robbo.

‘Another mule line, Sarge,’ said Toolie, wiping his mouth.

‘How many?’ asked Robbo.

‘Counted two. Boys, local, well fed, no uniforms. Same old.’

‘No militia markings?’ asked Robbo.

‘No, Sarge – just those big packs on their backs.’

‘Gee, I’d love to snatch one of these blokes, just to see what they’re carrying,’ snarled Mitch.

‘Plenty of time for that, mate,’ said Robbo. ‘For now the orders are clear – no direct action, just eyes.’

‘Well, with those two boys,’ said Toolie, ‘there’s going to be a whole line tomorrow.’

‘Really?’ asked Mac.

‘Yeah, mate – I mean, sir,’ said Toolie. ‘They send out a couple of boys and then the next day a whole mule line comes through, with these packs on their backs.’

‘Okay,’ said Robbo. ‘Good work, boys. Get back to the bivvy and write it up. We’ll take over here.’

After Mitch and Toolie had cleared out, Mac and Robbo took their places, which allowed a perfect vista of the entire bush market area and the far side of the river crossing. Mac was impressed – it must have taken several days to build and finetune the OP, and he knew from operating with Aussie special forces that these structures were virtually invisible during the day.

‘So let’s get this sorted now, okay, Macca?’ said Robbo, squinting through the short, boxy telescope. ‘Don’t want the boys getting nervous.’

Although there were night-vision goggles hanging on the wall, Mac could see the OP was choosing not to use them.

‘Okay,’ said Mac, weighing his words as he took the map-reader from Robbo. He wanted to be very careful how he introduced the concept of a vaccine factory – he might even leave that part for later.

‘I need eyes at a site about half a mile outside of Maliana – operation name Saturn,’ said Mac, pulling the U2 pics from the satchel and aiming the dull red light of the map-reader on the first photo. ‘It’s this one here, and that’s the entrance. Reckon I need half an hour in there.’

‘Any intel on the security?’ asked Robbo, intent on the map.

‘Seems to be four or five MPs but they’re flatfoots – they’re not Kopassus, Marines, anything like that.’

‘You have a preference?’ asked Robbo, turning the photo to get a better angle.

‘Trucks are going in and out of this gate, into this loading area here,’ said Mac, pointing. ‘There’s a lot of activity. Thought we might infiltrate that way, or just do a break-in. The vents look like the weak point.’

‘Can do,’ muttered Robbo. ‘We’ll recce it today, maybe tonight, see what’s doing.’

‘The second recon job is an airfield halfway between Maliana and Memo,’ said Mac, shuffling the next photo to the top of the pile, where it glinted in the red light. ‘It’s a basic look-see with a camera.’

‘What are we looking for?’ asked Robbo.

‘General recce. Look, listen and report.’

‘We going into these hangars?’ asked Robbo, pointing.

‘Make a plan once we’re there, huh?’ said Mac, both of them knowing that Mac was going into those hangars.

‘Which leaves -’

‘Yeah, it leaves the girl,’ said Mac.

Shuffling the next photo to the top of the deck, he held back on tabling it.

‘Expecting trouble?’ asked Robbo. ‘What exactly are we talking about here?’

Exhaling, Mac decided it wasn’t smart to keep the details from Robbo for much longer. ‘Mate, you know the Ginasio in Maliana?’ he said, taking his hand away from the U2 pic.

‘Sure do,’ said Robbo, concentrating on the eight-by-five.

‘The Kodim 1636 base is adjacent – operation name Mars – this collection of buildings here, right?’ said Mac, gesturing to the photo.

‘Yep,’ said Robbo.

Kodim 1636 was the regiment covering the Bobonaro district and the command centre for most of the militia atrocities.

‘We have two credible sightings of our target – Blackbird – at this base,’ said Mac, avoiding Robbo’s looks.

‘Local girl?’ asked Robbo.

‘Yep,’ said Mac, showing the eight-by-five of Maria Gersao.

‘Where do you think she is?’ asked Robbo.

‘She could be in the Kodim’s detention centre, here beside their main barracks,’ said Mac, pointing it out.

‘I know the building,’ said Robbo. ‘Didn’t know it was the prison.’

‘It’s actually more likely she’s in the intelligence compound,’ said Mac, moving his finger across to a fenced precinct within the base.

Silence dragged out between the two men, Robbo’s eyes large and white in the gloom. ‘Intelligence compound?’ he asked, aggressive.

‘Yeah, mate,’ answered Mac, stammering slightly. ‘It’s this area up the back of the main Kodim -’

‘I know it, Macca,’ said Robbo, his jaw tensing, eyeballing Mac.

‘Okay, so -’

‘So there’s only six of us, mate.’

‘Seven if you -’

‘No offence, Macca.’

Staring at each other, Mac gulped first. It was never easy to sell these missions to the soldiers who bore the brunt of them. But in this case, they had less than two weeks before the ballot result was announced and Mac was under intense pressure to deliver Blackbird.

‘Okay, Macca, we’ll recce it and have a chat, okay? But it’s far from ideal.’

‘Sorry, mate, but -’ started Mac, but Robbo was already leaving.

Picking up his photos and replacing them in the satchel, Mac wondered how he could have sold it any better. The problem centred on the real occupants of the so-called intelligence compound at the Kodim Maliana. Robbo’s six commandos were being asked to snatch a girl from the second-largest Kopassus base in Timor.

Mac woke to the beeping of his G-Shock, his brain still craving sleep. It was 6.55 am and in five minutes he had to make his first call to Jim in Denpasar.

Sitting up in his sleeping bag, he saw Johnno scraping soap suds off his cheeks at the other side of the hide. Turning, the soldier offered him a smile, his face half-shaved.

‘Some rats for you, McQueen,’ he said, nodding at the water bottles and foil tins stacked beside Mac’s bed. ‘That top one’s the meat sauce and pasta – tastes okay cold.’

Thanking him, Mac stood and stretched in his undies, then took a look through the gaps in the bamboo and foliage walls of the hide. The morning was lighting up the jungle and the birds and monkeys were at full roar.

‘Where are the others?’ asked Mac, grabbing a bottle of water and slugging at it.

‘Scouting, observing,’ shrugged Johnno. ‘I was supposed to be here when you woke up, tell you not to go wandering out alone.’

‘Gotcha,’ said Mac.

Johnno left as Mac readied to talk with Jim. The call was as simple as a cell-phone conversation in a major city. The sat phone supplied by DIA operated via the Pentagon’s own satellite network. No communication that travelled through the atmosphere was one hundred per cent secure, but the Pentagon’s satellites were what they called ‘five nines’ – that was, 99.999 per cent secure. Virtually impossible to hack.

‘In place?’ asked Jim, a small sucking sound telling Mac that the American was smoking with his morning coffee.

‘Yeah, sweet as,’ yawned Mac. ‘Could have done without the swim, though.’

‘You can catch my Learjet home.’

‘Tell ’em I like my beer cold and chicks hot.’

‘Can do,’ laughed Jim. ‘Got Tony here – he’d like a word later. But first, we’re both getting heat about soldiers and spooks in-country for the start of the referendum on Monday. Tony and I have tossed it around, and your DIO guys have been up here too – sorry to put the bite on you, McQueen, but we want the lot of you out of there before sunrise on Sunday, copy?’

‘Fuck’s sake, Jim!’ spat Mac, latent fear rising in him. ‘It’s fucking Friday morning! Jesus!’

He knew if he didn’t calm down he’d get a visit from Johnno, so Mac deepened his breaths and attempted to quell the overreaction.

‘Sorry about that, McQueen,’ said Jim into the silence. ‘It’d be nice to do these things under perfect conditions, but there’s too much riding on this ballot. Washington and Canberra want to be cleanskins, you know, in case it turns to shit.’

Mac didn’t like doing anything to a politician’s timetable, but rushing something as dangerous as the Blackbird snatch was crazy. The way Jim was talking, they’d have to grab Blackbird by Saturday evening at the latest – regardless of the risk factors.

‘Here’s Tony,’ said the American, and Davidson came on the line.

‘You okay, Macca?’

‘Fine, mate,’ Mac lied.

‘Got back from Dili last night,’ said Davidson. ‘Made some progress.’

‘Speak with Moerpati?’ asked Mac.

‘Sure did – the guy’s like a rabbit in the headlights. Totally paranoid.’

‘What’s the story?’ asked Mac.

‘He and Rahmid were trying to get information on Operasi Boa, and getting nowhere. The President’s office is being undermined and the Habibie loyalists are worried that the generals are pushing Wiranto for a coup.’

‘Shit,’ said Mac.

‘The military wants a big display of power, and it looks like East Timor will be the unlucky recipient. There’s a lot of fear in Jakarta right now – just knowing about Boa can get you shot, which is why Rahmid was trying to connect with us. I guess it puts the disappearance of Blackbird and the Canadian into perspective.’

‘So, Tony, Jim was saying that Canberra and Washington want to be cleanskins on this, hence the new timetable.’

‘Sure, Macca.’

‘So what about my exfil?’ asked Mac. It had occurred to him that governments might not want their helicopters and reinforcements landing in foreign territory so close to a politically sensitive event like East Timor’s ballot.

‘Yeah, well – Jim hasn’t told you?’

‘No,’ snapped Mac, tired, hungry and sick of being dicked.

‘Well, Macca, there’s army infantry, Kopassus and Brimob flooding into Bobonaro right now and the military is massing undeclared forces just over the border.’

‘And?’ barked Mac, knowing what was coming.

‘So, the helo exfil is in the too-hard basket for now,’ said Davidson.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, so it’s a navy pick-up, okay?’

‘Navy?’

‘Yep – you got radio comms, you got the call signs?’

‘Yeah, Tony – got all that,’ said Mac, rubbing his temples with his fingers. ‘We’ll do what we can, but with any luck we’ll be travelling with a nineteen-year-old girl. Understand?’

‘I know, Macca,’ said Davidson. ‘And getting her out has never been more crucial.’

‘Shit, Tony – anything else? Perhaps a double-axel with pike?’

Davidson’s laugh boomed down the line. ‘Like my old cricket coach used to say when I was about to bowl my first over…’

‘What?’ asked Mac.

‘Don’t fuck it up.’

Sweat ran down Mac’s back like a river by the time they’d trekked two hours north of the OP through the overwhelming humidity of the tropical montane forest. When Robbo called for a smoko under a rocky overhang, they all drank deeply from their water bottles. Sitting in the shade, Mac noticed the rest of the troop avoiding eye contact and sitting away from him. Though he appreciated that soldiers entered their own zone on an op, he sensed trouble and knew that none of them wanted to be fed to a compound full of Kopassus.

Digging in his rucksack, he pulled out the Hershey bars Jim had packed.

‘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.

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.