CHAPTER 39
While Mac got out of the diving suit and into his clothes, Robbo mumbled into the field radio strapped to his head. Soon after, two other commandos sauntered from either end of the rocky point.
‘This is Beast,’ said Robbo, gesturing at a heavyset Anglo with thinning red hair.
‘Mate,’ said Mac, shaking.
‘And Didge. Our night tracker.’
They shook and Didge – a large, dark Aborigine – flashed his teeth. ‘Made you swim, eh bra?’
‘Yeah, the cheeky buggers,’ said Mac, smiling. ‘Probably ask for their gear back and all.’
Tying the laces on his Altamas, Mac couldn’t douse his curiosity any longer. ‘So, Robbo – what’s with the new dress code?’
‘Orders,’ shrugged Robbo, nodding at the other soldiers, who were dressed like they were on a hunting trip. ‘Got a message couple of days ago, after that army supply depot was bombed – go to civvies.’
Mac chuckled, realising Bongo’s enthusiastic approach to his work might have pushed Canberra into changing the orders for political damage controclass="underline" it was now a covert action and if caught they’d be shot as spies, not imprisoned as soldiers. That wasn’t new for Mac, but he hoped it wasn’t going to distract the soldiers.
‘So what do you know about the gig?’ asked Mac, checking the contents of his waterproof bag and repacking what he needed in a small rucksack.
‘Take this good-looking Aussie bloke up to Bobonaro without wrecking his new perm.’
‘That’s about it,’ smiled Mac, disassembling and then reassembling the Heckler before jamming it into the hidden holster he had at the small of his back. ‘No details, but basically there’s three sites – two recon, one snatch.’
‘Will the snatch be voluntary or involuntary?’ asked Robbo, pensive.
Mac hadn’t given that much thought. ‘She’s on our side, mate. We do the gig, and then you and I will decide the best exfil from there, okay? I’m not particular so long as I don’t get any holes in me.’
‘Okay, Macca,’ nodded Robbo, pulling two apples from his backpack and offering one to Mac. ‘Who is she?’
‘It’s not important. What’s important is where we snatch her from – it’ll be hot, mate, so I was hoping for a little more cavalry.’
‘Got three more up the hill,’ said Robbo, jacking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘We’ve been in an OP for two weeks – we’re working men, Macca.’
‘Okay for comms?’ asked Mac, standing and looking around him.
‘Yep.’
‘Any contact?’
‘No, mate – we’re clean and we’re green,’ said Robbo.
‘Good, ’cos the recon elements are hush-hush, okay?’ said Mac.
‘Suits me,’ said Robbo, signalling for Didge and Beast to prep for moving.
There was usually some tension between the special forces and intel guys on an escorted mission. Mac had the technical leadership in terms of determining if the mission objective had been met, but in reality he allowed all the operational decisions to be made by the Robbos of the Australian military. When Mac had worked with Rod Scott in Iraq during the aftermath of Desert Storm, he’d learned the rules fast. After one incident, in which a couple of CIA geeks had wasted an entire morning by micromanaging the US Marines Recon escort team, Scotty had taken Mac for a drink and given him the drum. ‘Your job is to score the goal, not referee the match,’ he’d said. ‘If God had wanted you to be a soldier he’d have given you a dodgy haircut!’
‘So?’ asked Robbo as they assembled.
‘So, get us to Maliana in one piece, and let’s nail this thing without ruining my perm,’ said Mac.
‘Bagged and tagged,’ said Robbo, as they slung their rifles.
‘And the spook buys the beers,’ said Beast, before Mac ducked under a branch and was plunged into the dark of the jungle.
They made fast time, moving in a close-formed duck line behind Didge. As promised, the big Cape Yorker was the night tracker, moving with constant speed and amazing silence through the pitch-black. It was clear the rest of the troop trusted him totally.
After ninety minutes they hit a river valley and Didge moved to a light jog up the centuries-old footpad that followed the waterway, past villages of three huts and cattle standing in wallows on the river bank. Hitting the head of the valley, Didge slowed to a march and they climbed over a saddle to a natural vantage point tucked under a ridge line, looking south to the Timor Sea in the distance.
Calling a rest, Robbo pulled a pair of binos from his backpack and scoured the area while Mac sat with the others, slugging down water from a bottle and eating the small local bananas.
‘Here she comes,’ mumbled Robbo.
Turning around, Mac realised there was a slight halo on the ridge behind them, and silvery light on the ocean. The moon was coming out. As always in the tropics, it was an amazing thing to watch.
‘So why do they call you Didge?’ asked Mac, trying to peel a second banana without breaking it, his hands still clumsy with exertion.
‘’Cos they’re cheeky bastards, that’s why,’ said Didge, slugging at the water, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
‘Stick around,’ winked Beast. ‘You’ll see for yourself.’
‘And what does the Beast refer to?’ asked Mac, though he had his suspicions. Growing up in Rockie meant knowing blokes who earned that title the hard way.
‘Always up for a blue when he’s pissed,’ said Robbo, chuckling.
‘That wasn’t my fault, Sarge, and you know it,’ said Beast as Didge joined in the laughter.
‘Yeah, mate, but it’s always not your fault when you’re three sheets,’ said Robbo, joining them on the ground and grabbing a banana.
Looking at his G-Shock, Mac saw they’d only been going two hours and his new boots were already giving him grief.
‘How much further, Dad?’ asked Mac.
‘Two more legs like this and we’re at the OP, mate. Then we’ll get some sleep and plan the recon and snatch for tomorrow night, copy?’
‘Roger that,’ said Mac, wincing at his relative lack of fitness, something that didn’t show up until you had to run through the jungle with special forces guys. ‘How we looking, with the Indonesian Army?’
‘We’re in a quiet corridor – it’s why we use it to get up and down to the coast,’ said Robbo.
‘Quiet corridor?’ asked Mac. ‘Thought it was pretty dangerous on the south coast, around Suai?’
‘It is,’ smiled Robbo. ‘That’s why we’re in West Timor.’
Fifteen minutes later, Mac stood with Beast on a deserted mountain track, bathed in moonlight. An engine revved suddenly, followed by the sound of wheels spinning before a battered white kijang bounced onto the track twenty metres away, Didge at the wheel.
‘Your coach, sir,’ said Robbo from the passenger seat as the kijang pulled up, monkeys and birds kicking up a protest.
Having seen the checkpoints across the island, Mac was paranoid about doing this. ‘No way, mate, I’m not driving into a Kopassus ambush.’
‘This road’s got no army, no militia, Macca. Trust me – this is how we move around, it’s quiet up here.’
‘It’s not quiet anywhere on Timor,’ mumbled Mac, climbing into the tray on the back of the kijang, Beast joining him.
The road was a disaster and the kijang kicked like a mule, each time landing Mac on the most tender part of his bum. Four times they had to get out and push the vehicle across washouts and landslides, the jungle so close that trees constantly washed across the tray, threatening to take Mac’s face with them.
‘Where you from?’ he asked Beast.
‘Winton, mate. Heard of it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Mac. ‘I’m from Rockie – played some footy up there couple of times.’
‘Yeah? For who?’
‘Junior Capras, group reps – usual shit.’