Sword of Allah (2 page)

What an excellent slave of Allah: Khalid bin Al-Waleed, one of the swords of Allah, unleashed against the unbelievers!

Prophet Mohammed, may His name be praised

Fight and slay the pagans (infidels) wherever you find them, and seize them, beleaguer them, and lie in wait for them in every stratagem of war.

Qur’an, Sura 9:5

Make God laugh. Tell Him your plans.

Anon

‘This looks bad,’ said Sergeant Tom Wilkes of the SAS, the Australian Special Air Service Regiment, thinking out loud. He was referring to the road ahead. It snaked up across the mountainside, a ribbon of orange mud that sucked at the tyres of the Land Rover and slowed the convoy’s progress to a walking pace. Wilkes repeatedly ran the flat of his hand across his short-cropped brown hair, vaguely reassured by the rough prickling on his palm. It was a habit he wasn’t aware of, something he did when he was stressed or concerned.

‘How did I know you were going to say that?’ said Ellis, used to his sergeant’s mannerisms. The jungle of the New Guinea highlands lay around them, heavy with the daily monsoonal downpour that had only just let up. The green mass pressed in on the road, overhanging it, trying to suffocate it, reclaim it. The Land Rovers bounced over tree roots that gave the tyres momentary purchase before the wheels sunk to their axles once more in the cloying mud. It was the perfect place for an ambush. Wilkes turned around briefly to check on the passengers cramped together in the back seat.

Bill Loku, the member of parliament for these parts, had been happily pointing out various landmarks in the low country, but as the altitude had increased, so had his unease. He said, ‘Mi gat wari. Mi laikim stap.’

‘He’s worried, wants to stop,’ said Timbu, the translator.

‘Not here, mate,’ said Wilkes looking out the window. ‘We can’t turn around.’

Loku sat in the back of the Land Rover with Timbu, Lance Corporal Gary Ellis and Trooper James Littlemore. It was hot, cramped and uncomfortable, but there were more pressing concerns than mere comfort. The politician looked decidedly tense, eyes darting left and right, shoulders bunched and rigid. Everyone felt it – the certainty of being spied on, watchful eyes hiding in the jungle, waiting for the right moment. Not everyone was happy with the government’s performance, and in these parts unhappiness was apt to be expressed in a most violent way. It was Loku’s first return visit to the highlands since taking up full-time residence in Port Moresby, the capital city of Papua New Guinea.

Wilkes could only just penetrate Loku’s accent, and the fact that he slipped in and out of the local pidgin English didn’t help his understanding any. But Wilkes didn’t need to be a linguist to know when a man was shitting himself. ‘Isn’t this where those coppers were shishkebabbed?’ asked Ellis innocently.

‘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 cast 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.