Mark Abernethy - Double back

‘Let ’em go,’ said Didge, pushing at Mac.

‘Go where?’ asked Mac, gripping Didge’s elbows. ‘Out into the open? If we raise the alarm with the soldiers, the poor bastards will be shot anyway.’

Now Didge’s head and body were shaking and Mac suspected he was hyperventilating.

‘Or let ’em go so they can run around screaming and get us made?’ Mac continued. ‘We’ve still got a job to do in Maliana, mate.’

‘We gotta get them outa here,’ whispered Didge. ‘Can’t walk away, McQueen.’

‘Not walking away, mate,’ said Mac. ‘Trying to keep us alive and get the gig done. Maybe we save more lives with these photos and samples than by whacking a few soldiers, okay?’

Giving Didge another shake of the elbows, Mac tried to lock eyes with him, even as he lost his own cool about this place.

‘Okay, Didge?’

‘Whatever you say,’ said Didge, face stony.

Mac watched as the workers in biohazard suits threw body after body onto the back of the Hino. They seemed to be taking corpses from the right-hand inhalation chambers while the Timorese on the left were banging on the glass sides of their inhalation chambers.

Shouts rang out before the Hino beeped as it reversed. The next thing, the workers in the biohazard suits were walking back towards Mac and Didge.

Retreating back into their hide in the inhalation chamber, Mac and Didge waited in the dark as the truck drove past. After a few minutes the noise of the truck faded and then voices echoed from the loading bay as bodies were loaded onto the conveyor belt.

After a while the noises faded to silence and the entire area was plunged into darkness again as the lights were killed. Venturing out, Mac and Didge stealthed back to the large hall of inhalation chambers, pushed through the doors and entered the area where they’d just witnessed the horrifying scenes.

‘We’ll do this fast, okay, Didge?’ asked Mac as they walked quietly down the dim corridor between the chambers. A rustling noise started up, followed by voices and then thumping on the glass. It was overwhelming but Mac was determined to gather the intelligence that would see the operators of this place prosecuted.

Mac raised the Nikon and took a shot of the long chamber with the people in it. The bursting flash revealed the creepy sight of at least eighty people, staring out of the glass like living ghosts – naked, skinny and distressed. Realising that Mac and Didge were not the normal workers, the prisoners – or whatever they were – swarmed to the glass.

‘Fuck,’ muttered Didge, his voice shocked and disbelieving.

Turning, Mac gently took Didge’s arm and reminded him that they needed to keep going in order to save these folks’ lives. He took several shots of the empty chamber on the other side before walking to its sealed door. As he opened it, Mac heard the sigh of air pressure as he broke the seal. Didge joined him and they stepped into the chamber, which reeked of urine and faeces. Noticing a patch of wetness near the rear of the chamber, Mac knelt and took several wipes which he put in the sample jars.

Standing again, Mac saw Didge double over and then heave, his mask filling with vomit.

‘Shit,’ said Mac, grabbing at Didge as his own stomach turned.

‘Can’t take it off, mate,’ yelled Mac as Didge grabbed at the mask. ‘Don’t want to catch what these guys have got.’

Didge heaved again, then stood with his head down as he tried to pull himself together.

‘Mate, we’re out of here, okay?’ said Mac, helping Didge through the chamber door and into the clear space between the lines of inhalation chambers.

Stopping, Didge put both hands on the sides of his biohazard helmet and moved his head around inside, trying to find a better way to breathe with the vomit.

Sweat dripped into Mac’s shoes and, making a huge effort to block out the anguish around him, he aimed the Nikon at the chamber filled with people. Some of them still had the energy to slap their hands on the glass. Flashing off a final picture, he froze. Caught in his mind was an image that was too familiar, too recent. An image he couldn’t ignore by creating professional distance.

Taking a closer look at the inhalation chamber, Mac stared at a face that served him cold beer a week earlier.

‘Mickey, that you?’ shouted Mac.

The man slapped at the glass, his thin old body somehow dignified in the glow of the engineer’s light.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ snarled Mac, feeling the gig going pear-shaped. ‘Mickey Costa!’

‘Mr Richard?’ mouthed Mickey through the thick glass, his face transforming from curiosity to amazement as he realised who was behind the biohazard mask.

Holding Mickey’s desperate stare, utter rage swept over Mac, even knowing that two minutes earlier he’d been telling Didge to hold the emotions, to just do the gig.

Feeling a hand on his bicep, Mac turned to see Didge up close.

‘Know this guy?’ said Didge.

Nodding, Mac walked to the chamber door and reached forward to open it, but realised the latch was secured by a long-shank padlock.

The radio crackled and both Mac and Didge instinctively reached for the side of their biohazard helmets, relieved to be on the net again.

‘Albion, this is Blue Leader,’ came Robbo’s voice, slightly breathless. ‘Repeat, Albion, this is Blue Leader – confirm.’

‘Blue Leader, this is Albion,’ said Mac, as he touched the huge shank.

‘Albion – the cameras are operational, Bad Guys massing topside, copy?’

‘Roger that Blue Leader,’ shouted Mac, heart racing, wondering how fast they could get back to the vent shaft. ‘We okay for exfil via the vent shaft?’

‘Negative,’ said Robbo, the signal still not strong. ‘Complications topside, Albion. Third-party involvement – stand by.’

‘Roger that Blue Leader,’ said Mac again, as the sound of automatic gunfire squawked into their headsets, followed by another break in the radio connection. Listening intently for the radio signal to come back, Mac heard the noise of gunfire echoing from somewhere distant. Swapping looks, Mac and Didge waited for more signals from the dead radio. Before anything came there was the distinct sound of boots slapping on concrete nearby. Holding still and focusing on the footfalls, they sourced the intrusion coming from behind the air-lock doors. They had company.

Checking his SIG Sauer, Didge moved back towards the air-lock doors, towards the source of the footfalls. Shoving his Nikon into the rucksack, Mac followed, fumbling with his Heckler to check load and safety.

Easing through the air-lock, Mac and Didge paused, listening to the shooting from topside and the slap of boots coming closer. In the confined space, with its low visibility, the cracks and staccato rumbles of assault rifles sounded as if they were on top of them. They could even hear men panting and whispered commands passing between them.

Swapping a glance, the two men realised they had to get back to the open vent shaft – it was their only escape route.

Veering back into the lab area, a shot cracked and Didge suddenly sagged in front of Mac, his gun arm swinging to a point in the darkness.

‘Shit!’ gasped the soldier, shifting to his good leg while keeping his gun hand level.

Mac dropped to a knee and fired two shots above where the flash had originated, then moved in behind Didge, who limped towards the open vent as he fired off five shots from the SIG.

Grabbing Didge under the shoulders, Mac rammed into the air-lock doors, crashing through them as soldiers’ voices yelled in Bahasa Indonesia behind them. Concrete exploded and splinters flew around their heads as what felt like three or four magazines of 5.56mm were unloaded at them on full-auto.