Mark Abernethy - Double back

‘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.’

‘They let you out alive?’ said Beast, referring to the intense passion rugby league aroused in Winton.

‘Yeah, mate,’ said Mac. ‘But the ref didn’t make it.’

As promised, the road was quiet, and at 4.16 am, they put the kijang in its hide and set off eastwards, aiming for the border of West and East Timor, about eight k south of Memo.

Keeping to a light jog now that there was moonlight, they covered the jungle floor quickly. Heaving for breath and fatigued, Mac came to a halt with the rest of the troop shortly after five o’clock. They were looking over the river that formed the border. Beyond were thick stands of forest that shone in the moonlight. Below them was a hairpin in the slow-moving river, an apron of river rocks on the inside of the bend and then a river flat of about five acres before the bush started.

‘That’s the bush market,’ whispered Robbo, pointing down at the grassed river flat at the big bend. ‘That’s our observation. There’s a hundred people down there most days,’ he said, referring to the OP – or observation post – that was a hide set up to observe a piece of territory.

Murmuring into his headset to let the team across the river know they’d arrived, Robbo waited for a response then gave the nod. Didge slid down the long river bank to the water’s edge, sweeping the area with his rifle.

Giving the thumbs-up, Robbo followed, taking Mac with him. The water was cold as Mac followed Robbo into the river and they waded across chest-high, covered by Didge. On reaching the other bank, Mac tucked in behind Robbo, who was now covering for Beast, and then they fanned out and covered for Didge as he waded across the river.

They followed the river downstream for five minutes and then went into the jungle and doubled around the long way before arriving in a totally concealed hide in the hills behind the bush market. Lifting a flap of branches, Robbo gestured Mac inside while Beast and Didge recce’d the approach area for unfriendlies.

Behind the flap was an area set up with sleeping bags – called ‘farters’ in the Australian Army – stacks of cold rations and radio equipment. Looking around, Mac was impressed with the place but caught his breath when he realised a large set of eyes were only a few centimetres from the left side of his face.

‘Shit, mate!’ he exclaimed. ‘Give me a fright, why don’t you?’

‘Johnno,’ came the voice. ‘You must be the spook?’

Mac shook hands, his heart pounding. As his eyes adjusted he realised Johnno was a Maori bloke. ‘Something like that.’

‘Johnno’s our comms guy,’ whispered Robbo as Beast and Didge squeezed into the hide. ‘Other two – Toolie and Mitch – are down at the OP. You can doss there,’ he said, pointing to a space in the gloom.

Throwing his rucksack into the corner, Mac paused.

‘It’ll be okay, mate,’ whispered Didge, seeing Mac’s hesitation. ‘Army rules – don’t mess with another bloke’s stuff. Okay?’

Didge said it like it was one of the Ten Commandments.

‘Okay,’ said Mac, his fatigues dripping river water as he pulled the briefing papers from his bag and followed Robbo through the exit on the other side of the hide.

After crawling through thick undergrowth in total silence for ninety seconds, Mac and Robbo slipped under another screen made of branches and came out in a foliage-covered hide made of bamboo.

Inside the hide, two men were visible in the moonlight-dappled darkness. One was lying on his stomach, looking through a small telescope on a stand; the other sat cross-legged, a set of binos around his neck, eating an orange.

They swivelled, guns at the ready.

‘Boys, this is McQueen,’ said Robbo.

Both gave gruff hellos. It turned out the tall blond bloke eating the orange was called Toolie. The other, a thick-set, dark-haired man with a grumpy face, was Mitch.

‘Anything?’ asked Robbo.

‘Another mule line, Sarge,’ said Toolie, wiping his mouth.

‘How many?’ asked Robbo.

‘Counted two. Boys, local, well fed, no uniforms. Same old.’

‘No militia markings?’ asked Robbo.

‘No, Sarge – just those big packs on their backs.’

‘Gee, I’d love to snatch one of these blokes, just to see what they’re carrying,’ snarled Mitch.

‘Plenty of time for that, mate,’ said Robbo. ‘For now the orders are clear – no direct action, just eyes.’

‘Well, with those two boys,’ said Toolie, ‘there’s going to be a whole line tomorrow.’

‘Really?’ asked Mac.