Rogue Element

Central Sulawesi, 0930 Zulu, Friday, 1 May

The steep bow of the prahu sliced through the murky brown coastal waters just beyond the reach of the mangrove trees. Wyan, one of three Wyans on the pirate vessel, was counting the number of sharks churning the water in the boat’s lazy wake. He lowered the bucket into the water to give it a rinse. It had contained various scraps from the kitchen and it was coated with a layer of evil-smelling slime. No sooner did the bucket touch the water than he had to yank on the dirty orange nylon cord it was suspended on, lifting it out of reach of snapping grey heads.

Wyan almost lost his footing as the captain turned the wheel sharply to port to keep the prahu hugging the edge of the mangroves. Something was wrong with the boat’s radar. It had mysteriously stopped working. One minute it was fine, the next it presented a barrage of static. One of the other Wyans, the one from Bali and the boat’s electrical expert, pronounced that something was terminally wrong with the unit’s sealed components, so they had turned it off. A pirate vessel without radar was naked, so they were lying low, hugging the coast. It would be bad to run into an Indonesian patrol boat. His brother in the air force wouldn’t be able to help him then.

Wyan thought about that. It was funny; two brothers, both so different. One a pirate, the other a pilot, an officer in the air force. And so serious his older brother was too. It was almost like his little brother Wyan was an embarrassment. But who, at the end of the day, brought home more money? Wyan thought that that was the reason his older brother was always so angry with him. It wasn’t because he was a pirate. It came down to money. Everything always did. A large tiger shark bit one of the smaller grey-blue ones and blood swirled through the brown murk. The water boiled with swishing tails and fins and teeth.

The prahu rounded the point just clear of the mangroves and the air was full of mechanical thunder. Wyan ducked as an aircraft roared low overhead, barely clearing the boat’s stubby radio mast. The plane was gone before anyone in the wheelhouse or below decks could run out and see what all the noise was about. Wyan had seen it, though. He’d seen enough to know that it was a military plane. He recognised it. His brother had spent most of their childhood collecting photos and books of warplanes, and the strange-looking aircraft made an occasional appearance in these as an experimental concept. What in Allah’s name was it called?

The small dish on the wheelhouse caught his attention. Wyan decided to call up his brother and ask about an aircraft that appeared to be part helicopter, part fixed wing plane, that had just flown into Indonesia from the sea. Wyan pulled the satellite phone out of his back pocket, checked for signal strength, and dialled the number. The greatest pleasure about being successful, thought Wyan, was being able to afford the latest gear.

The MAG made its way cautiously to the edge of the clearing around the giant fallen tree. This was their revised RV with the V22, but they wouldn’t move into its centre until the transport home arrived. They would be asking for trouble out there in the centre of the clearing. The group took a few minutes to thoroughly reconnoitre the area from the cover of the tree line.

They had made good time. Fifteen minutes plus or minus two minutes until pick-up, Wilkes calculated. Enough time for a little defensive work, especially in their rear. He gave the appropriate instructions quietly into the boom mike and directed the core of his group — Joe, Suryei, Curry, Coombs and the Indonesian soldier — to the protective cover of a dense copse of trees. Ellis and Beck crouched, removed their rucksacks and extracted a stack of slim, curved grey claymores. Robson trotted in, took four of the mines, then the three soldiers left in different directions to position them for the greatest defensive effect.

‘Have I got time for a brew-up, boss?’ asked Robson over the comms. Wilkes glanced up at Mac and gave him a quizzical look. And then he realised what Robson was about and gave him the thumb’s up, shaking his head with a half-smile.

Mac quickly checked his pack to ensure he had everything he needed, then dashed to the trail they’d hacked into the bush.

Wilks surveyed the clearing from behind an ancient, half-rotted hardwood. It was not quite as spacious as he had remembered, but big enough, he hoped, to get the V22 in. The wait was making him edgy. They weren’t here for a picnic, after all. He observed that there was fuck-all cover out in the middle of the RV. Withdrawing to the aircraft would be a tricky exercise if the Indons had their shit together. Wilkes’s men could easily be surrounded here and cut down. A couple of well-placed snipers would do the trick. They’d be firing from the dark into the light and they’d be virtually invisible. If the positions were reversed, he wouldn’t think twice about it. He looked up at the sky. Dusk. The night would come down fast.

Was there anything good about this place? Wilkes turned around slowly through 360 degrees, considering their position. Well, at least they didn’t have to make their way back to the crash site of the Qantas plane, as originally planned. The Indon soldiers would have to find them, and that wouldn’t be easy; the jungle was some of the thickest he’d ever seen. It would be helpful if the Indons took the easy way and wandered up the track they’d slashed in the jungle. The claymores Robson was positioning would provide a warm welcome, and alert the Australians to any advance in their rear.

Also, there would be enough room in here to launch grenades from the M203s, without worrying about the ordnance being deflected back at them. Again, thinking negatively, if the Indonesians had grenade launchers, the open space would work for them too, and for exactly the same reason. Wilkes frowned. The more he thought about it, the more this place was bad news.

He sighted down his Minimi machine gun, resting the short barrel against the tree. He had an unobstructed field of fire across the clearing and into the trees on the opposite side. He had two other Minimis in the group. He’d keep one back for roving fire. The other he’d position twenty-five metres along the tree line, providing a wider field of fire than if just one of the Minimis had been employed. Morgan could rove with his H&K sub-machine gun, pitching in where needed.

Wilkes wondered whether he was being paranoid but decided that he was just being careful. He was still alive and kicking after all these years of soldiering and he intended to stay that way. Furthermore, something told him that this mission was perhaps the most important of his career. He was going to get these two civilians back in one piece, even if it killed him. He smirked at himself for his own poor choice of words.

Beck caught Wilkes’s eye away to the left and gave a nod. The sergeant held up seven fingers. Seven minutes till pick-up.

Robson returned.

‘Mac, take your Minimi down there,’ he said, pointing to another large tree.

‘Easy, boss.’ Robson checked his weapon and sprang through the jungle, avoiding clear space. He lay down on his stomach behind a rock and scanned the tree line.

Automatic fire cracked unexpectedly from the edge of the clearing opposite, and the tree beside Wilkes’s face exploded in a cloud of pulverised wood. He turned to look quickly over his shoulder and saw Coombs go down, shot, then Curry. The woman, Suryei, was next. She spun on her heels and fell over Joe, who was lying on the ground. The copse of trees provided absolutely no cover from gunfire directly opposite. It happened so fast. Wilkes dropped to one knee. He watched for the muzzle flash amongst the black and raked the area with a quick burst to see if it would be returned.

Geysers of dirt rose from the ground in front of Wilkes. One of the slugs splintered as it hit a small outcrop of rock, a fragment burrowing into the skin at the point of Wilkes’s chin. It flayed the skin from his jaw and opened up his cheek before exiting below his temple. Blood gushed down his arm and made the stock of his Minimi slick. Wilkes was in shock. ‘Shit, I’m hit!’ he said. He shifted his weapon to his left hand and brought his right hand up to hold the side of his face together. The pressure stopped the bleeding. Wilkes retreated, finding cover behind a rock. Beck joined him.

‘Cool, boss,’ he said, checking the wicked gash.

‘Yeah, yeah. Don’t tell me, chicks dig scars,’ said Wilkes.

‘Team it with an eye patch,’ Beck advised, closing the wound with a couple of drops of superglue.

Wilkes felt no pain. There was too much adrenaline in his system.

Flashes. Slugs slapped through the foliage by Beck’s shoulder. There. Wilkes could see them off to one side of the clearing. The Indonesian position was vulnerable to a grenade. It took a second for the sergeant to react. He ran the five metres to Coombs, who was lying on the ground groaning, and exchanged his weapon for the wounded man’s M4 propped against a tree. Ellis’s Minimi fired into the foliage concealing the enemy. Robson did the same from behind his rock.

Wilkes’s men were quick to recover their equilibrium. They formed pairs and began firing and moving through the tree line around the edge of the clearing, one covering the advance of the other. The hostile bursts of fire slowed quickly, the attention of the enemy diverted, and no doubt surprised, by the speed and focus of the counterattack.

Bang. A claymore went off in their rear. Screams. Some Indons had run into their perimeter security. Robson smiled.

Wilkes freed M203 grenades from Coombs’s chest webbing. He cracked the launcher, fed in a round, and waited for muzzle flashes to provide him with a target. There, a tracer round originating from behind a particularly dark bush opposite.

Wilkes launched the grenade, the butt kicking against his shoulder. The round arced towards the trees, spinning, the revolutions arming the fuse. Boom. A vicious smudge of grey smoke appeared behind the trees he’d fired into. Wilkes chambered another round and squeezed the trigger. Kick. Boom. A scream. Muzzle flashes, twenty metres further left this time. The M4 kicked again. Boom. Morgan was running at a tangent to the hot area, hoping to outflank the Indons. His weapon was not shouldered. It was next to useless to run and fire, it slowed the shooter down and made aiming impossible. Morgan would find cover, locate the enemy, and then hopefully pick them off from an angle they’d least expect.

Littlemore was kneeling at the tree line, putting down covering fire while Morgan ran. Quick bursts. He counted off the rounds in his head. He always packed magazines with tracer second to last. When he saw it fired, he changed magazines. That way, he wouldn’t get caught without any change in the till. Tracer. Magazine empty. Release. New mag. Quick bursts. Tracer.

Now Littlemore was up and running around the edge of the clearing, towards the trees opposite. Wilkes could see Chris Ferris also taking cover behind a hardwood blanketed in luxurious, thick moss. Enemy fire was all around him. He watched Ferris pop his head around the trunk. Once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. He then turned and broke cover, unexpectedly coming round the other side of the tree. A spray of bullets answered his move but the rounds found only air. Ferris was too quick, too wily.

Wilkes made his way back to Coombs and the others. Coombs had been hit in the leg. Fortunately, the blade of his machete had deflected the bullet, but the force of the round had been the equivalent of having his leg thumped with a sledgehammer. Coombs thought his femur was broken. Wilkes gave it a cursory check. It wasn’t, but Coombs wasn’t going to be ballroom dancing anytime soon. Curry, however, looked bad. Shoulder wound. The woman was okay. He thought she’d been shot, but it was just her reaction to the incoming fusillade. She had wasted no time dropping to the ground — that had probably saved her life.

But the prisoner was gone.

Mac had also moved back to check on Coombs, Curry and the crash survivors. He gave Wilkes a reassuring nod. He fired off a burst from his Minimi at the muzzle flashes, showering Suryei and Joe with hot, spent cases.

Experience had kicked in. Panic was gone. Boom — an explosion from the opposite side of the clearing. A scream. Another claymore. Another scream.

Wilkes liberated his shotgun, checked that the magazine was full, and joined Ellis, Ferris and Littlemore as they moved into the trees to mop up the remnants of the Indon force. It took a precious minute for their eyes to adapt to the lower light back in the jungle proper. Ferris had first contact. There were six, possibly seven Indonesian soldiers left. An M34 white phosphorous grenade exploded in the middle of a group of three. Littlemore had thrown it, unseen behind him. Boom. The flash caught Ferris by surprise and momentarily blinded him. The damage to the Indons was infinitely worse. A mushroom cloud of smoke rose quickly to the canopy above on a pillow of intensely hot air. An M26 grenade followed the incendiary ordnance. Insurance. Boom.

Ferris’s sight recovered from the flash of the M34 grenade in time to see a pair of Indons on the move, over to the left. He relayed the observation over the comms. Wilkes set up the attack. Advance. Cover fire. Split the angles. Move. Fire. Split. Advance. The Indonesians sprayed the jungle blind, firing at trees. The SAS moved. Split. Covered. An M34 grenade lit up the trees. Screams. Ellis and Wilkes cut off two more Kopassus. A blast from a large-bore shotgun echoed through the trees, followed by a couple of two-shot bursts from silenced M4s. Phut-phut, phut-phut.

Marturak had run blindly when the shooting started, trying to find effective cover. He then made his way around to the opposite end of the clearing. One of his own men had bailed him up after a tense moment in the growing gloom and nearly shot him as one of the enemy. A few terse words had ended the confusion. His restraint had been cut and he’d picked up a weapon lying beside a dead comrade and continued to move around the perimeter of the clearing. That was barely ten minutes ago. The SAS had been brutally effective and now, he knew he was the last.

The pattern of gunfire told a deadly tale. Two-shot bursts. To the head, no doubt. The coup de grace. And now there was silence. Except for the crash of his own heart against his ribcage, the jungle was eerily quiet. Marturak dropped his weapon and waited. He caught movement in the corner of his eye. It occurred to him that these people never seemed to come from the direction anticipated.

He turned and saw four soldiers with their sights on his head. This time he was going to die, no arguing, and no begging. And then he remembered the disk, the one he’d taken from the computer in the plane. He had no idea what was on it, perhaps nothing, but these men didn’t know that. Would they spare his life for it?

He moved his left hand slowly inside his webbing to pull out the disk. Slowly. Steady. He held it in his right hand and wiggled it to attract attention.

‘Bondi Beach,’ he asserted. ‘I love Sydney.’ There was more in that vein. Marturak felt stupid saying it. He’d never been to Australia and didn’t know anyone who had. But it was survival. He wasn’t even sure there was a place in Australia called Bondi Beach, the name just popped into his head. The soldier with the smoking shotgun came forward and took the disk from him. Marturak smiled and put his hands together in a prayer of thanks.

‘Very important. Sydney!’ he said, smiling, all teeth. He watched the soldier frown at the disk and turn it over, examining it. It was obvious the Australian had no idea of its significance. The stocky soldier, the one Marturak took to be the leader, gave a small shrug then placed the disk in his breast pocket.

‘I’m from Melbourne,’ Ellis said to the Indonesian as Wilkes turned away. There were two quick shots and the Indonesian crumpled to the ground. Wilkes turned back, frowning. ‘What…?!’ Ellis said, shrugging playfully. ‘Had to make sure, boss.’

Robson wheeled, disappearing into the trees to investigate his earlier handiwork. It took him five minutes to slip through the undergrowth to the small clearing he’d found off their trail. The closer he got, the stronger the smell of freshly brewed coffee became. He wondered how many Indons had fallen for the bait. Upon reaching the clearing, he waited on the edge amongst the trees and listened. Silence, except for the coffee still bubbling away. Two dead soldiers lay opposite. Undoubtedly they had been drawn by the aroma of Robson’s favourite mocha blend, expecting to surprise the unknown enemy happily taking a break. Robson wondered whether they’d had time to realise their mistake before they met their maker.

He checked the mines he had personally set and found the Indons had only tripped one. Three were left. He disarmed them and repacked them in his rucksack, not wanting to leave behind explosive devices that an innocent person might stumble on fatally in the future.

Robson walked soundlessly to the brew, turned off the stove and packed it into his rucksack. Pouring a little cold water into the pot to cool the contents, he quickly tossed back the coffee, grounds and all. It was bitter. Burned. Oh well, better than instant. He heard aircraft approaching. It was time to leave.