Mark Abernethy - Second Strike

Shaking his head, Mac admitted there wasn’t much to see but now he was smelling something. ‘What’s that smell?’

‘Burnt wood,’ said Johnny. ‘This way.’

They walked north along the edges of the runway, the wreck of a once-operational military air base now lost to the jungle. There were water towers, fuel storage tanks, an ablutions block and assorted dilapidated buildings which Mac guessed were the offi cers’ club, air-traffi c control tower and chow sheds. Halfway up the side of the runway, between other rundown structures, was a patch of scorched, still-smoking ground about twenty metres square. It was freshly burned, whatever it had been, and amidst the heat and tendrils of blue smoke Mac caught a distinct whiff of gasoline.

Johnny got them to stand back as he inspected the place for booby traps and IEDs. After giving the ‘clear’ sign, they moved into the area.

Apart from a few struts and beams that were still recognisable, the rest had been burned to the ground. Mac’s mind was going through all the possibilities but he couldn’t think what the Hassan team would fi nd so important that they would risk capture to circle back and do this. The fi re must have been set no more than two hours ago, judging by the smell and lingering heat of it.

‘Want to search it?’ asked Johnny, already scanning.

‘Just looking for anything out of the pattern,’ said Mac.

They fanned out and walked back and forth over the fi re ground.

It was still hot and there was nothing to see. Mac was about to fl ag it away when he saw Tom and Johnny conferring.

‘There’s a steel door in the ashes at the back,’ said Tom, turning to Mac. ‘Might be worth a look.’

Mac and Johnny pulled off their tops and put them on either side of the door that was lying fl at in the ashes, then lifted it away. The door must have been one of the fi rst parts of the building to drop, suggesting it had been on or near the seat of the fi re. It had fallen on some papers, the destruction of which was probably one of the purposes of the blaze. Mac imagined a bunch of soldiers in a rush, not knowing what to take or leave, so they’d just doused the place in petrol and thrown a match on it.

A small pile of A4 sheets had survived the fi re with some blackening. Mac picked up what looked like scientifi c papers: some in Arabic, others in English. It didn’t mean much to him but he rolled them carefully and was about to put them in his back pocket when he saw a handwritten note in blue ballpoint just below the burn-line on one of the pieces of paper.

Mac inspected it: the scrawl looked as if it said N W. He showed the other two. Was it just referring to north-west or did N W mean something special in Sumatra? Johnny and Tom didn’t think so, but said they’d ask around.

They walked the rest of the runway perimeter until they were back at the LandCruiser. Johnny lined himself up at the north end of the runway, knelt down, and by looking down the weeds and grasses that had grown through the concrete over the years determined that no aircraft had recently landed on this fi eld.

They left just after four o’clock and Mac asked how long before they were in cellular range; he wanted to speak with Joe again and Viktor would be calling back.

Moving back into the green tube of the track, Mac felt a little sheepish about coming so far out on a whim for nothing. Johnny drove and his father opened a sports bag, doling out sandwiches and small local oranges that were almost red.

Mac knew from his experience with his own father to steer clear of war-talk with Tom. He and Johnny wanted to know what their fathers had done in Vietnam but Johnny had confi rmed that, like Frank, Tom got annoyed when asked. Very annoyed. So they spoke about the guiding business and the intensity of the industry. When the gold and gem merchants made their buying trips into some very dangerous places they needed hired muscle and Sunshine provided that.

‘You know, these guys are middle-aged dudes, grand-daddies.

They’re totally hard-case,’ laughed Johnny. ‘I thought some of my old regiment mates were tough, but the merchants…’ He whistled low, shaking his head. ‘They trust no one and we’re taking them into places where there is no law. Pakistan’s north-west, Hindu Kush, inland Kalimantan – no places for a jeweller, mate, but they still go, eh Dad?’

Tom grimaced. ‘Yeah, they’re crazy but at least they know where there’s risk. Some of these oil guys we escort around Sumatra have no idea what’s out there; no concept of a teenage bandit who’d kill for a watch.’

Coming around a tight corner, there were two young boys walking on the road, carrying a jungle pig between them. Johnny swerved to avoid them, the LandCruiser slid to the other side of the track and, before he could correct it, the heavy vehicle had dropped into the rocky culvert and come to a smashing halt.

It took fi fty-fi ve minutes to get the stricken Cruiser out of the ditch and Mac could feel his momentum evaporating with the lowering sun.

They got the LandCruiser started but fi fteen metres down the track Mac realised the day was gone: the gearbox had taken a hammering and Johnny couldn’t get higher than second gear.

‘Sorry, bro,’ said Johnny, slipping an old Elvis tape into the stereo.

‘No dramas,’ sighed Mac and settled back to the hissing and crackling sounds of the King.

The Cruiser was overheating by the time they could see the lights of Medan so Tom asked Mac if they could stop at the family compound rather than continue to the Sunshine Tours depot in the city.

Mac said, ‘Sure, why not?’

‘There’s a feed in it for you,’ Tom said with a smile as they pulled through farm gates and crawled up a long drive to a series of houses and sheds.

While Tom and Johnny went into the house, Mac lingered outside, made his calls. Joe Imbruglia wasn’t answering so Mac tried Ari, who picked up on the fi rst ring.

‘McQueen, where are you?’ said the Russian.

‘Nice to hear your voice again too, mate. Where are you?’ Mac replied.

‘Look, we have to talk, yes?’ said Ari. ‘I’ll be in Medan tomorrow morning.’

‘So call me then.’

‘First thing,’ said Ari.

Mac hung up and checked his clean phone for messages. There was one from Viktor, saying he was calling from a payphone as Mac had asked, but was leaving a cell phone as an after-hours number.

Mac wasn’t going to use that number – all nuclear scientists and engineers were constantly under surveillance from their governments or their employers. It was a simple rule, and what he needed to ask Viktor could be the kind of thing that brought heat from the friendlies.

Mac decided to let it go until morning and start all over again.

The Hukapas’ cook had made fi sh curry stew, with rice and rotis. Mac washed up and when he came back to the family table there was a tall Maori girl, mid-twenties, walking back from the fridge with several bottles of Tiger arranged between her fi ngers.

Johnny grabbed one of the beers from her and beckoned Mac over.

‘Macca, this is my sister, Mari. Don’t think you guys have met.’

Mac shook her hand, which was wet from holding the beers, and said, ‘G’day. Alan McQueen.’

‘Well, Mr McQueen,’ said Mari smiling as they sat down to eat,

‘not one of our little Elmer Fudds are you?’

‘I’m sorry?’ asked Mac.

‘Watch it mate, she’s a vet,’ said Johnny, teasing.

‘You know, Macca,’ continued Mari. ‘Shoot a rare animal, go back to the suburbs and tell all the boys at the golf club what a man you are? That great white hunter crap -‘

‘Marama!’ snapped Tom. ‘Cut it out. This is Frank McQueen’s boy.’