Mark Abernethy - Golden Serpent

Sawtell stared at Mac, thought dawning. ‘So, that mine at Sabulu?

That what we’re talking about?’

Mac nodded. ‘I reckon we blew their Plan A. I think Sabaya and Garrison had prepped that one for the gold but we found it. I think they’ve gone to Plan B.’

Paul scoffed. ‘What, a whole separate set of trucks, forklifts?

A whole new mine prepared?’

‘Sure,’ said Mac. ‘If the haul is a billion dollars US, why short-change yourself on an exit plan? When you pull a job, you have a Plan B?’

Paul nodded.

Mac swigged the water. ‘And remember, the Japs have already done your hard work. Some of these storage mines were very well engineered.’

A shout came from the Black Hawks and the whine of the starter motors began.

‘So what are we looking for?’ said Sawtell.

‘I reckon we fl y across the interior, fi nd the mine opening and see where the recently used roads are. Shouldn’t be hard – it’s been raining every arvo.’

Mac paused, looked from Paul to Sawtell. ‘I reckon they’re already inside.’

‘You know where most of that Yamashita Gold came from, right?’ said Paul, chuckling, as they headed for the Black Hawk.

‘No.’

‘Fucking China.’

The Black Hawks swept down into the Sulu Islands – the Wild West of South-East Asia. Sawtell and the SEALs had sit-repped. The SEALs were about to relieve the Marines at the Hainan Star, then they were going to work inland to a small township and secure it, ask some questions, see where the bomb might have been left.

Sawtell’s Alpha group was going straight into the highlands. Using map databases, DIA had confi rmed a mine at the top of one of the island’s valleys.

If things turned bad upstream, the SEALs would support. Mac didn’t like it, thought the navy could take the ship, the Marines could move into the small town. He wanted those two other Black Hawks fi lled with SEALs to be right on his wing.

Mac fi red up the mic to Sawtell. ‘Mate, this is Sabaya country.

I’d feel happier if the SEALs were with us.’

‘Negative,’ Sawtell fi red back. ‘It’s a CBNRE mission so we’re tasked for the VX. The Twentieth sets the priorities on this. Sorry.’

Mac sort of understood that you couldn’t go chasing the bad guys when the actual item you were trying to retrieve could be anywhere

– could be on a ship, could be in a town, could be sitting on the side of a road waiting for a farmer to pick it up, take it home in his cart.

The island was very small but it had to be shut down. And that started with the wharf and the ship.

They fl ew over the island with a couple of hours of daylight to play with. About three miles across, it was fi ve miles north-south. Mac’s gut churned when he saw how diffi cult the terrain was – mountainous, heavily jungled with jagged peaks and valleys running down to river deltas at the coast. It looked like the pictures they showed candidates at the Duntroon military academy in Canberra. The pictures they put on the wall when they talked about Vietnam and why foreign powers shouldn’t fi ght a land war in Asia. Mac had a second lesson to add: don’t fi ght an island war in the Pacifi c. The Americans had tried that during the Second World War and suffered casualty rates they were still embarrassed about.

He controlled his breathing. Next to him, Spikey shook his head as he looked out the window. Turning to Mac he said, ‘Looks like Basilan. Holy shit!’

‘That’s enough, Spike,’ came Sawtell’s voice over the headset.

The other soldiers might have heard about Basilan Island – the Abu Sayyaf fortress – but they hadn’t fought there. They were new to this. Sawtell had told Mac what the Basilan campaign had been like and it had sounded like a cross between hell and purgatory: snipers in trees, Claymore mines strung across water sources, poisoned dams, bear traps, hit-and-run guerrillas, and all of that while fi ghting blind against people who knew every inch of the place.

Now they were back to do it again, with Mac along for the ride.

Acid stirred in his stomach as he sensed Abu Sabaya waiting, smiling.

It was going to be a long, long night.

The Hainan Star looked intact and under wraps as they swept over it and aimed up the valley leading away from the wharf. Sawtell spoke with the Marines commander at the ship. They were waiting for the SEALs to come in. Waiting for the Twentieth to start their search.

Mac watched Sawtell point his pilot up the valley, thought he saw a glint of excitement. It was funny the way different people were strong, thought Mac. Sawtell had fallen apart in the face of child slaves. But he was the guy you’d follow into a direct confrontation.

His courage was infectious.

Mac craned his neck around, saw Paul up and about, stretching, looking out the window in the sliding door, looking down at the terrain. Then he walked to the cockpit bulkhead, shoved his head between the pilot and co-pilot, turned to speak with Sawtell and came back to Mac, kneeling in front of him.

‘Only one road up here, mate,’ shouted Paul.

Mac gave thumbs-up, and the sweat came down cold and sticky from his forehead. There wasn’t going to be any screwing about. One road, one valley, one mine entrance and one Green Berets captain with a glint in his eye.

Sawtell had a set of binos at his eyes as he mouthed something to the pilot, or maybe to Don back in the Chinook. The soldiers around Mac were tuned in to their leader, legs jiggling up and down, thumb-shakes starting along with small whoops, little regimental chants.

Mac concentrated on his breathing.

The Black Hawk gained height as they got closer to the head of the valley. Remembering the thing about SAMs and heavy machine gun fi re, Mac realised if there was an anticipated hot zone on this island, Sawtell and the pilot thought they were pretty close to it.

Mac burned inside, desperate to be on the ground – to stand, get running, get his bearings.

The Black Hawk suddenly banked away in a massive loop, like a dipper on a roller coaster. They fl ew up the other side of the loop by banking in the opposite direction, moving around the peak of the valley to another valley.

Finally they set down. Sawtell roused the troops, checking lists, giving orders, yelling instructions into his mouthpiece to the Black Hawk behind them.

The door slid open to reveal a clearing with jungle rising wherever he looked. Everything around them was fl attened by the helo’s downwash. Mac hauled his lightweight Army bergen on, tightened it as Paul slapped him on the shoulder and leapt out onto the grass.

The noise was deafening as Mac raced behind Paul to an RV by the ringing trees, keeping his head bowed and stowing his M4 with both hands, his US Army helmet bouncing slightly on his head.

The troopers assembled and Spikey counted heads. Sawtell was the last across, arriving as the two Black Hawks rose into the afternoon sky.

Spikey gave the head-count to Sawtell, then the troopers checked guns, grenade launchers, grenades, rat packs, water and radios. They cammed-up, pissed, took a shit. Some vomited and some prayed. Did what they had to do.

Sawtell pulled the team into a huddle, kneeling in the middle and spelling it out. He looked into faces, zapped people with courage, reminded his boys they were professionals.

He caught Mac’s eye, winked, and then said to everyone, ‘No heroes on my watch. Okay, ladies?’

The team walked in two groups to create a less-concentrated target.

Mac walked with Sawtell in the middle of the fi rst group. The ‘jockey’ they called Fitzy took point, Spikey swept. Mac felt in good hands.

Sawtell’s boys had been one of the fi rst special forces outfi ts into Kandahar in ‘02, but their real specialty was jungles like Mindanao and Basilan. Tough environments where tiny mistakes were the difference between everyone living and everyone dying.