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.