Mark Abernethy - Double back

Helping Didge towards the labs as one of the doors behind them was blown off its hinges, Mac stopped around the corner, turned back and fired a shot into the darkness, ducking behind the doorjamb as the incoming ripped the other door apart. Grabbing a flash-bang from his rucksack, he pulled the pin and threw it around the corner before catching up with Didge.

The concussion from the grenade almost threw Mac off his feet as he reached Didge, got a grip under his armpits and headed through the lab containing the spray driers, fermentation vats and the sterilisation equipment. Racing breathlessly into the room where the rappel rope hung from the open vent, Mac pulled his rucksack onto both shoulders, but did so too quickly. The motion threw the Nikon out of the bag and it bounced on the white linoleum floor. Retrieving it, Mac shoved it to the bottom of his rucksack and, trousering the Heckler, cupped two hands into a platform for Didge, who grabbed the rope with one hand and threw the other hand over the edge of the ventilator duct. Suddenly the lights arced up, filling the room with clinical whiteness as Didge groaned with exertion and disappeared into the duct.

Mac heaved for breath, barely able to contain his panic as he tied the rappel rope to the sealed fan section that had blocked the vent. Reaching down from the duct, Didge offered his forearm. Taking it, Mac clambered up into the duct, then turned to help Didge retrieve the fan and pull it back into place. Replacing the fan was not going to fool anyone looking for them, but in the confusion of gun battles, a ten-second advantage was better than no advantage at all.

With no time to fasten the screws, they moved back along the duct as fast as they could, the sound of gunfire growing stronger from above them. After a few seconds of crawling, Didge found the vertical venting shaft that would take them to the surface. As he pointed it out to Mac, a round of full-auto gunfire ripped through the horizontal vent shaft, punching along its steel sides just inches from Mac’s Altama boots. Men shouted in Bahasa Indonesia and a rifle tapped against the fan section they’d just replaced, before the voices indicated the men were moving to another lab.

Waiting for Didge to get to the top on the rappel rope, Mac wondered whether Robbo was maintaining silence or if the commandos had become engaged in the battle above them. At the top of the rope, Mac clambered over the edge of the venting shaft and duck-walked to where Didge crouched under a bush, his mask on the ground as he slapped a fresh magazine into his SIG Sauer.

Chucking away his own mask, Mac looked across to the Lombok buildings, where fighting was carrying on sporadically but intensely around the main compound.

‘What’ve we got, mate?’ asked Mac, trying to work out who was fighting. ‘Is it our guys?’

‘Can’t see any of ours,’ murmured Didge. ‘It looks like Indonesian soldiers against irregulars.’

Keying the radio, Mac asked for Blue Leader and stood by, but only dead air came back. Mac tried again. Nothing.

‘How’s the wound?’ asked Mac, scanning the ground.

‘Okay, but I’m losing blood,’ said Didge. ‘Got any binos, McQueen?’

Foraging in his rucksack, Mac passed the mini Leicas and then tried again on the radio. He didn’t want to be running across open ground, just the two of them, while there were unfriendlies out there shooting at people.

‘Fucking classic,’ snarled Didge, the Leicas focused on a group of shooters crouched behind an army truck in the main courtyard.

‘What?’ asked Mac.

‘Thought these brothers were all a myth,’ chuckled Didge.

‘Myth?’ asked Mac.

‘All that noise? That’s Falintil.’

Mac and Didge took the long way back to the field base, breaking out of the fence on the north side, then trekking around behind the guard houses at the end of the compound, up into the jungle to the ridge from which Robbo was supposed to be running the op.

Mac tried to keep Didge’s spirits up, assuring him he’d only sustained a flesh wound, there wasn’t too much bleeding, and Toolie would be able to deal with it.

Slowing for the approach to the base, Didge crouched with a wince and gestured Mac closer.

‘What -’ Mac started, before realising the barrel of an assault rifle was trained on him. He raised his hands, dropping his gun.

Someone grabbed Mac’s shirt, dragging him into a standing position. Their three captors were skinny locals, badly dressed in various types of jungle fatigues, suggesting they were Falintil.

‘How’s it going?’ said Mac to the mestizo guerrilla who was obviously in charge. There was no response as gunfire rattled in the background and an explosion boomed. The lead man waited for a moment then gestured with his G3, and Mac’s rucksack was taken from him.

Mac’s mind spun with the possibilities as he and Didge were led through the jungle at gunpoint. Was being Australian an advantage or, given Canberra’s acquiescence with the Indonesian occupation, would it get them killed? And if they were in open conflict with the Falintil guerrillas, were Robbo and his men even alive? It was a tall order to deal with Falintil on their own ground; fighting Falintil at night was virtually impossible. The might of the Indonesian military had spent a quarter of a century attempting to do it and had failed repeatedly.

They paused before dropping to the commandos’ field base and as they came into the clearing, Mac was pushed in the back and stumbled into Robbo, Toolie and Mitch, who were sitting on the forest floor, hands bound behind their backs.

Hitting the dirt beside Robbo, Mac decided to try his luck.

‘Got an injured guy here, mate,’ said Mac to the leader, pointing at Didge. ‘Can we get a medic on him?’

The leader stared, stony-faced, and Mitch leapt into the awkward pause, making the same request in Bahasa Indonesia. Nodding slowly, the Falintil leader issued a command while the guerrillas found the commandos’ medic pack. The guerrillas had already checked the packs, noticed Mac, and he was happy that he’d found a hiding place for the US dollars before he’d gone on the gig. It might turn out to be the only leverage he had.

The guerrilla medic knelt beside Didge and worked on the leg injury, as another guerrilla knelt behind Mac and bound his wrists.

Turning to the leader, Mac tried to keep it friendly. ‘We’re Aussies, mate – we’re on your side, okay? I was with you guys a few days ago -’

The leader raised his hand slightly to stop Mac from talking. It was dark in the jungle and the silence of the guerrillas against the boom and crack of a fight in the Lombok compound was a strange mix. Johnno and Beast were still out there somewhere and Mac hoped they were alive and working on a rescue.

The guerrilla finished tying Mac’s wrists and stood with his rucksack. Out came the Nikon and the field-glasses, and Mac prayed they wouldn’t destroy the camera or the samples.

‘Easy on the camera, eh boys?’ said Mac, as the guerrilla threw it to the leader. Mac’s heart beat against his chest – the last thing he needed was a bunch of hungry freedom fighters finding the digital images he’d taken of the Timorese in those inhalation chambers. He thought back to the argument he’d had with Didge, as he refused to release those captives. Should he have released those people in the inhalation chamber, like Didge wanted? Would his refusal to do the right thing get both of them killed now?

Rodrigo and Yohannes were also absent – a particularly bad development if those kids told the guerrillas that Aussie soldiers were taking children hostage.

‘What do they want?’ Mac asked Robbo.

‘Waiting for someone, I think,’ said Robbo.

‘What’s the damage, Didge?’ Robbo asked, as the soldier’s wound was bandaged.