Mark Abernethy: Double back

Mac clung to a rock face, now sweating in the jungle humidity, and looked skywards as the roar faded.

‘The rules of travelling with me in the jungle,’ said Bongo, addressing the group but scanning the environment. ‘Don’t speak, don’t smoke, obey instructions, okay? It might be the difference between living and dying.’

Without waiting for the reply, Bongo hefted his gun bag’s hand-grips over both shoulders and swung the M4’s strap over his neck.

‘I’ll walk point, then comes Jim and then Tommy,’ said Bongo. ‘McQueen, you can sweep, okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Jim, who Mac had noticed was limping. ‘But let’s get it straight, for when we get to Neptune.’

‘Sure,’ said Bongo, looking around.

‘The priority is Simon – we have to snatch him, and I’d rather have him alive.’

‘This is no time for Pentagon politics,’ said Bongo, chewing gum.

‘Not politics, buddy,’ said Jim, lowering his voice. ‘If we can root out Simon, debrief him somewhere, maybe we shut down an entire network.’

‘Mate, the priority has to be Boa,’ said Mac. ‘Let’s stop the spraying, then worry about the network – I agree with Bongo, this isn’t the time for damage control at the Pentagon.’

‘I have to insist,’ said Jim. ‘Sorry guys, but this operation is DIA.’

‘Actually,’ said Bongo, his voice a monotone, ‘when I take a bunch of white boys through the jungle, it’s a Bongo operation.’

‘Okay,’ said Jim. ‘But I -’

‘And by the way, I’m employed by McQueen. And this dude, Simon, he shot me, right? So he comes into the open, he’ll probably have to drop.’

‘Okay, Bongo,’ said Jim, carefully. ‘It’s just that Simon seems to be running Operasi Boa, and if we shoot him, and the money strategy doesn’t work, how do we call it off?’

‘Let’s hope the Simon dude doesn’t want to shoot it out,’ said Bongo, as he turned to go. ‘’Cos that won’t work for anyone, right?’

It was 7.12 pm, just after dusk, when they reached the ridge that looked over the airfield renamed Neptune. Floodlights illuminated the admin section at the east end of the dusty lime runway, and an armada of unmarked helos with large spray booms underneath were lined up in front of the hangars. Some of the soldiers moving towards a long wooden building wore the red beret of Kopassus – Indonesian special forces. But most did not.

‘Two men on the gate,’ said Bongo. ‘And there’s a regiment stationed here and judging by their flag…’ Taking Jim’s field-glasses, Bongo took another look at the dark flags on the parade-ground pole. ‘Two regiments in the barracks,’ said Bongo, a smile on his face. ‘Kopassus and the 1635.’

‘Does that work for us?’ asked Jim, wanting his binos back.

‘Well, from what McQueen tells me, Kopassus is running Operasi Boa, which is a bad thing.’

‘And the 1635?’ asked Jim.

‘That could be good,’ said Bongo, handing back the field-glasses. ‘They’re the local regiment.’

‘Where does Haryono stay?’ asked Jim.

‘See that main administration building?’ asked Mac. ‘The officers’ quarters sit right behind it, with their own guard. Simon will be there, and so will Amir Sudarto – maybe Benni too.’

The sat phone trilled and Jim picked up. ‘For you, Bongo,’ he said, handing it over.

‘Yep?’ said Bongo, and then clicked his fingers at Tommy, who opened the laptop and started typing as Bongo mumbled in his ear.

‘You thought there’d be some mercenaries?’ said Jim to Mac.

‘Those helos belong to a mob called Shareholder Services, Pik Berger’s crew,’ said Mac. ‘They’re very pro – Saffas and Aussies, mostly. But they’re also contractors, so with any luck they won’t fight.’

Mac and Jim swapped a look and then hammered out a plan: infiltrate the Neptune camp, hold Simon and Haryono, and coerce them to shut down the operation.

Signing off on the phone call, Bongo picked up the conversation. ‘We’ll need Haryono as a hostage. No offence, but an American won’t count for Kopassus.’

‘And once we have him, we need to make him angry with Simon,’ said Mac.

‘Understood,’ said Jim.

‘I think we should go now,’ said Bongo, rifling in his gun bag.

‘Why?’ asked Jim.

‘Smell that?’ said Bongo. ‘Chow time – we know exactly where they are for the next thirty minutes.’

‘Still only four of us,’ said Jim, unsure.

‘Sure,’ said Bongo, screwing a suppressor onto the Beretta 9mm. ‘Grab a snake by the head, and you control the snake.’

‘Grab the head wrong, and you die,’ said Tommy.

‘So let’s grab it right,’ said Bongo, slamming a magazine into the grip of the Beretta.

Mac gasped for breath as he dived into the long grass abutting the security fence behind the officers’ quarters and mess. Jim followed with a thump, his injured leg starting to weaken.

‘What was that shit about a snake?’ breathed Jim, as they looked through the grass at a glowing set of windows along the side of the quarters.

‘Just that if we grab Haryono then we control the Kopassus element,’ said Mac, seeing a guard at the foot of the main stairs to the officers’ building. ‘The Kopassus guys will stand off if their major-general is in our hands. Then we have a chance to turn Haryono against the treacherous Anglo.’

‘So what about this 1635 Regiment?’ said Jim, not convinced.

‘Bongo was probably thinking that a regiment comprised of young East Timorese men might rebel if they know what’s in those spray tanks.’

‘You agree?’ asked Jim.

‘They have a history of mutiny and desertion,’ said Mac, getting the wire-cutters onto the first ring of the fence and snipping. ‘East Timor and Java might as well be different planets… Time?’ he asked, as he peeled back the small door he’d made in the cyclone fencing.

‘Nineteen fifty,’ whispered Jim, tensing.

‘Let’s go,’ said Mac.

Slipping through the hole, Mac grabbed his suppressed Beretta and ran with Jim for the side of the officers’ building, both of them lying flat against it while the guard lit a cigarette.

‘How’s the leg?’ asked Mac.

‘I’ll live,’ said the American.

‘Through the wooden walls they heard the sound of chairs being scraped back too fast, and raised voices of panic – Bongo and Tommy were in the officers’ mess, via the side entrance. Running fast but silently along the side of the building, Mac came around the corner to the main entrance, his handgun in a cup-and-saucer grip.

The soldier reacted quickly and went for his rifle but Mac shot him in the temple, the slide-action of the Beretta making more noise than the small spitting sound of the bullet.

Joining Mac, Jim helped drag the young man’s body around the side of the building.

The chow time was dragging on, and although Mac could see the guards at the front gate through the buildings, the alarm had not gone up.

Pushing into the building’s entrance, they closed the doors silently behind them and moved down a dimly lit corridor. They looked for the portico and pushed through the mahogany swinging doors into a large and well-appointed mess. In front of them about fifteen men sat at dining tables, hands above their heads, looking at Bongo and Tommy.

Bongo stood beside Ishy Haryono, the suppressed Beretta against the major-general’s ear.

‘Okay, okay,’ said Haryono. ‘What you want, Morales? Money? Drug?’

‘Where’s the American?’ said Bongo.

Spreading out to cover the officers with Jim, Mac looked into Amir Sudarto’s face, a white strap of plaster across his broken nose. The big Indonesian made a throat-slitting gesture as Mac levelled his gun.