Rogue Element

Central Sulawesi, 0155 Zulu, Friday, 1 May

Joe and Suryei’s presence disturbed a large family of monkeys in the trees overhead. They reacted by screeching, whooping and leaping about the canopy, thrashing leaves, baring their teeth and carrying their young into the highest branches. And then objects like footballs covered in small spikes rained down.

‘Jackfruit!’ said Suryei. She laughed and picked one up. It was rotten, covered in thousands of tiny brown ants. She hunted about until one came to hand that had the right firmness. She checked by flicking it with a fingernail. ‘They make a special sound when they’re ripe,’ she said in response to the puzzled look on Joe’s face. Suryei dug her thumb in under the skin and peeled off the spikes. She bit into the pale orange fruit and juice dribbled down her chin and she gave a grunt of satisfaction.

‘What’s it taste like?’ asked Joe.

‘Heaven!’

Joe picked one up that looked about right and smelled it. He reminded himself that he was hungry enough to eat bark. He peeled it and bit deeply into the flesh, the sweetness enveloping his senses.

After he finished, Joe began filling his rucksack with them.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Suryei.

‘Lunch.’ The rucksack bulged and sagged heavily on its straps.

‘Forget it. They’ll only get mashed up. Besides, these things have probably been all around us — we just haven’t been looking in the right places.’

Joe unzipped the rucksack and let the heavy fruit fall to the ground with successive thuds. ‘Can you find a yoghurt tree too, please?’

Suryei allowed herself to smile openly. He was good company, or would be if the circumstances were different. Joe returned her smile. The whiteness of her teeth contrasted with her dirty brown skin, making them seem almost fluorescent.

‘You need another bath,’ she said.

Joe was caked in grime, and his hair was matted against his head. Jackfruit juice and pulp coloured yellow the dark stubble on his chin. ‘Have you looked in a mirror lately?’

‘Let’s go,’ said Suryei turning away, smiling, her fingertips tingling.

Sergeant Marturak had made a mistake. They should have overtaken the two survivors by now. Certainly by morning. He was now sure he’d lost them. The blood trail that had been so generous had quickly disappeared. Their wounds must have been superficial. The men had found no footsteps, no faeces, no broken vegetation and certainly no more empty water bottles to indicate their passage. It was too easy to miss people in the dark, even with the NVGs. The jungle had given way to forest and there had been enough light to use them but there were still far too many places to hide. The last thing he wanted was for the fugitives to slip around to their rear.

He stopped his men beside a small stream and took out a map of the area. The plane wreckage was marked on it, as was the loggers’ camp and their course through the bush. The two survivors had headed away from the hills, towards the low country.

Could they have doubled back and made for the escarpment instead? Even climbed it? He cursed their lack of personal radio comms. If he’d had them, this job would’ve been over. He’d have sent a few men forward to track the man and woman and then easily coordinated an ambush. Instead, he’d had to keep his force together and virtually within line of sight of each other. And the camp had had to be effectively dismantled — they couldn’t have left it intact behind them. That had given the people he was tracking a head start. And they didn’t seem to be playing by the rules, stumbling and bumbling along the established trails, leaving signposts of their passage. This whole business was getting frustrating. He swore and spat on the ground. His men tried to ignore his anger. But they too were getting edgy, feeling the tension.

The sergeant took a deep breath to steady his temper and surveyed the map again, attempting to see it with fresh eyes. The stream wasn’t indicated on the map but that didn’t mean anything. There were hundreds of millions of litres of water still draining off the mountains and hills after the monsoon. Water was everywhere.

He took out his GPS and marked their position on the map. A fresh plan was forming in his head. He interrogated it and decided it was sound. They would set up an ambush… here.

At their backs was the plane wreck. Away in front and to the left was the high, rugged country. It was an obstacle that only well-equipped, experienced climbers could tackle. Desperation and determination could overcome many equipment deficiencies, but he seriously doubted that his two adversaries, wounded from the crash or their exertions in the jungle, would attempt sheer volcanic faces. There was an extremely good chance that they would stroll into his trap if he set it right.

Then, once contact was made, his men could pull back and converge to form a funnel that would catch his quarry in a killing zone. Marturak deployed lookouts, ordered his men to have their rations and take several hours rest. It would be a long day and an even longer night.

He checked the time. Allah! He was due to make a situation report. It was not something he could avoid any longer. His superiors back in Jakarta needed to know what was going on. The message he would send was in his head. Marturak knew it wouldn’t be welcomed: site unsecured, two survivors, in pursuit. No, the general would not be pleased.