Rogue Element

by David Rollins

  Coombs nodded. ‘Where else? God knows what something like this is intended for here. Probably just some wanker’s toy.’

  ‘Any hairdryers?’ asked Gibson playfully. He’d recently shaved his head to get rid of a bad case of lice.

  At that moment an Australian major walked into the demountable with a couple of men in nondescript uniforms – the spooks. The informal atmosphere within the room instantly dissolved, not because there was an officer present or because he had company but because the men could tell from their guests’ body language that there was news. ‘You’re going in,’ the major said as he loaded a disk into the laptop attached to a projector on the table, and turned it on. The computer booted up and the overhead light went off.

  The now familiar overhead view of the remains of the 747 appeared on the wall. It was replaced quickly by a view from a similar angle of the logging camp. Both shots were slightly different to the ones Wilkes and his men had seen earlier, because they were more recent and taken at a different hour of the day. The camp had obviously been destroyed with the tents and other structures all burned.

  ‘We’ve just got word from Canberra. There are Indonesian troops – we think it’s our Kopassus friends – in the jungle. And they’re hunting for crash survivors,’ said one of the spooks. An electricity filled the room. Wilkes’s Warriors exchanged glances. Not much shocked them any more, but this news was beyond even their experience.

  A new satellite image flashed up on the wall. A number of bright green dots floated on the darker green chaos of the vegetation. ‘Precisely which of these dots are Kopassus and which are our survivors is uncertain, although we do have a point of view. Initial reports suggested around twenty unfriendlies, plus two survivors. Unfortunately, we can only locate twenty contacts in total, rather than twenty-two. That could mean any number of things, including the worst – that our survivors have already been eliminated. However, the deployment of these forces would suggest something different.’

  Another image was projected on top of the previous slide. ‘Now, if we superimpose a topographical map over the satellite view, the picture gets clearer.’

  ‘An ambush,’ said Wilkes.

  ‘Classic,’ nodded the spook. ‘The way the Indon soldiers are deployed makes their intentions obvious. That leaves two separate pairs of contacts away from the main group.’ He circled them with a laser pencil. ‘One of those sets is our pair of survivors. Obviously we can’t be sure which is which but this pair here appears to be static,’ he said pointing to the contacts at the base of the image. ‘They could well be in hiding, which could explain their lack of movement. This couple up here appears to be on the move. One interpretation is that they could be forward scouts.’

  The major stepped in. ‘As has been said, we can’t be sure which set of contacts are the survivors. These photos are less than half an hour old. The satellite we have on this is taking shots of the area at every pass, so we’ll hopefully be able to freshen the intel at least once before you go in.

  ‘These two people have lived through a plane crash and survived three days in the jungle. You’re tasked to get to them before the Indons do, and bring them out.’

  ‘Just two questions, Major,’ Wilkes said after considering the presentation. ‘Dili’s a good 500 nautical miles from there. If we load now, and I assume we’ll be in Black Hawks flying nap of the earth for most of it, we’ll be pushing shit uphill to get there within four, but more likely six, hours from now.

  ‘And with an educated guess about the kind of terrain they’re in, I’d say these contacts here, the ones on the move, are only a few hours walk away from strolling into the known Kopassus placements indicated here.’ Wilkes stuck his finger into the projected light, turning it into a pointer. ‘You suspect these moving dots are also Kopassus troops. What if you’re wrong? What if they’re our survivors? Unless we’re certain, we might get put down in completely the wrong place to do any good. So, question one – how do we get there before it’s too late? And second question, sir, what are the ROEs here?’

  ‘The rules of engagement are straightforward, Sarge. Go in, get our people out and don’t take no for an answer.’

  Wilkes nodded. This could be a tough one to pull off and he didn’t want his hands tied with any niceties. ‘Okay, so we’re not sure which of these other contacts are our survivors, but we do know what this large group is and what they’re up to.’ He indicated the ambush placements. ‘My suggestion is we take them out first – the large group – and then sort through who’s friend or foe amongst the rest.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ agreed the major. ‘The mission details are your call, Sarge.’ The men in the SAS, even the lowest private, were selected on a number of criteria, not the least being resourcefulness and intelligence. They were all bloody tough bastards too. They knew what they were doing and they now knew what had to be done. It was not the major’s job to tell them how to do theirs.

  ‘Your assessment of the time constraints is spot-on. Fast transport is the primary issue. We’re working on it with some help from the Americans. RV at Dili heliport within the next twenty minutes.

  ‘What medical expertise you got here, Wilkes?’

  ‘Trooper Beck has done all the battlefield courses and knows a thing or two about tropical diseases,’ said Wilkes, tipping his head in Stu Beck’s direction. Beck raised his finger in acknowledgement.

  ‘Well then, I suggest you go over to the hospital, Beck. I know you don’t have nearly enough time but talk with the doctors about the kind of condition you’re likely to find these survivors in. They’ve been through hell and they’re not going to be in a good way.’ The major’s eyes flicked around the room and found it question-free. ‘Okay then, if we’re all done, good luck. This is an important one, you blokes.’

  ‘We’ll need a passenger manifest of QF-1 so that we can identify the survivors,’ said Wilkes.

  ‘Of course,’ said the major.

  ‘Also, we don’t have any native speakers amongst us.’

  ‘Yeah, not ideal, but then if our intelligence is accurate, I don’t suppose you’ll be doing too much negotiating, Sarge.’

  Wilkes frowned. The major’s comment was ill informed. When going into a foreign, and most likely hostile, land it made good practical sense to be able to speak the language, in this instance, Bahasa–Indonesian.

  The major sensed Wilkes’s disquiet. ‘You’ve gotten by okay here on East Timor, haven’t you?’

  The more Wilkes listened to this major, the less he was impressed with him. Language hadn’t been a big issue on East Timor because multilingual forces surrounded them. In the middle of Sulawesi, they’d be well and truly on their own. But there was nothing Wilkes could do about it, and obviously nothing the major could help with either. Wilkes let it go.

  There was something else far darker niggling at the sergeant. ‘Major, do we know why the Indons shot the aircraft down?’

  ‘We’re kind of hoping you’ll be able to answer that one for us once you’ve been out there. Have you got everything you need?’

  ‘Pretty much, sir.’

  ‘So I see,’ said the major with a hint of a smile, surveying the collection of goods on the table in the centre of the room before stepping out into another stinking hot day in East Timor.

  Parliament House, Canberra, 0515 Zulu, Friday, 1 May

  Griffin burst into Niven’s office, obviously excited.

  ‘What?’ asked Niven.

  ‘We have another useful asset besides the one in Maros, Sulawesi. We have someone in Jakarta. I just found out. Real deep cover. A woman – Mata Hari type.’

  Niven raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You’re not gonna believe whose bed she’s been lying in. Bloody Suluang’s!’

  Dili, East Timor, 0530 Zulu, Friday, 1 May

  The Mobile Assault Group, hauling heavy packs on bent backs, made its way across the Dili heliport apron towards the Black Hawk. There was a deceptively large space inside the chopper, but
there wasn’t much of it left once the ten men and their gear were stowed and secured.

  SGT Wilkes found a position of relative comfort against the forward bulkhead, pack at his feet. The floor of the Black Hawk was bare alloy, and no matter how comfortable he was now, Wilkes knew the bones in his butt would soon ache against the unforgiving surface. But it was a minor discomfort. He was far more concerned about the job at hand.

  There had been fuck-all planning on this op. Usually, every detail within reason would be thought through and shit still happened often enough even then. Shit happening looked likely on this one from beginning to end.

  Lack of knowledge was the biggest killer in the field and a severe lack of it was gnawing away at the pit of his stomach. He felt like doing a nervous crap but couldn’t. Black Hawks were lacking in passenger comforts. Questions swam around in his brain that he knew he’d get no answers to. He didn’t even know how they were going to get into the middle of Indonesia in time, let alone get out in one piece. The whole business was one big shitty question mark.

  He jacked into the helo’s intercom and tipped his forefinger to his brow in a casual salute at the LM securing the Black Hawk’s human cargo. The LM checked Wilkes’s seat-belt, no more than webbing fastened into the floor of the aircraft, and then went on to secure the next trooper. When the soldiers and their kit were secured, the LM indicated as much to the two pilots on the flight deck, and the pitch on the rotor blades changed, carving deep into the air. The Black Hawk lifted positively, climbing rapidly, nose low. The helo banked as it climbed and turned through a steep 180-degree arc. Wilkes felt his cheeks being sucked down and his arms grow heavy with the gs.

  As the helo gained altitude, Wilkes forced his mind to focus on the immediate issues. He scanned his men, receiving grins from most. But there was tension in the hot, cramped confines of the Black Hawk. Not the usual tension before a mission, the sort of fear checked by an innate belief in their training and ability. The atmosphere here was one of uncertainty, coupled with a sense of being up against it – time, stupid odds, and a situation that seemed, to put it bluntly, plainly fucking bizarre.

  A voice in the headphones pierced Wilkes’s concentration. ‘Hey, Sarge. Lieutenant Harvey. I’ve been your taxi before. Up in the hills? I medivacked you and your mate after that firefight back in ’99. How’s your shoulder?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Wilkes, recalling the pilot’s face as he turned around and waved. ‘Never got to thank you.’

  ‘No wukkas.’

  ‘Well, thanks anyway,’ said Wilkes, dialling his brain back to the skirmish with the militia.

  ‘What about the other bloke?’

  ‘He lived.’

  ‘Looked pretty bad.’

  ‘Bad enough.’ Wilkes changed the subject. ‘So what you doing back here?’

  ‘Exchange program with the States. Six months into it my Yank squadron got seconded to UN duty and here I am, back where I started.’

  ‘Groundhog Day,’ said Wilkes.

  ‘You know it, girlfriend,’ said the Royal Australian Army lieutenant in his best white trash American accent. ‘Only there’s probably some American lying in my bed back home screwing my missus, while I’m up here chewing dirt.’

  Wilkes laughed.

  ‘Nice to see you guys back to your old tricks. Ever landed on an aircraft carrier?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well, today’s your lucky day.’ The lieutenant didn’t bother asking specifically what mischief these SAS boys were up to because he knew it was none of his business, and trying to make it so would get him nowhere.

  ‘What’s the flight time, ace?’

  ‘There’s a touch of headwind so, providing that’s constant, I give us twenty-five minutes airtime.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sweet. Just sit back and enjoy the kind of service our competitors shoot at us for.’

  Wilkes smiled and let his mind wander.

  On a mission, the rigid formalities and observances of rank dissolved. They were just men doing a job, a job that could get them killed. On this kind of sortie, the SAS carried no rank or indication of nationality. They were going in to a foreign country, one considered friendly, yet they would very likely leave a number of dead Indonesians behind them. In the event of capture, all hell would break loose. It would be highly embarrassing for both countries. Australia would cut them adrift. What they were about to do never happened. It was a hazard of the job – not all jobs he’d done as a member of the SAS, but definitely a hazard of this one.

  Wilkes reflected on that, and the new information just passed to him through his phones from the flight deck. The Americans were involved. An aircraft carrier, for Christ’s sake! Somehow the Yanks were going to get them into the middle of Indonesia in double-quick time. That kind of joint operation was rare, especially when the op had been put together on the fly as this one obviously was. So the S70 A9 Black Hawk wouldn’t be making the insertion. He wondered what would.

  The sergeant closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the bulkhead and he tried to separate the known from the speculation. Indonesia had shot down a Qantas 747 and denied doing it. Why? It made sense to lie about something so heinous. They had then sent in Special Forces troops to kill any survivors. Again, why? That fitted with something they wanted to keep hidden.

  Australia was sending in a MAG to protect the survivors and get them out. Nothing odd there – they were probably Australian citizens. But if this was such an important mission, as it undoubtedly was, why not send in a Special Recovery Squadron? Because sending in a full thirty-man SRS would require three times the logistics and it would be unlikely they’d manage that with any stealth. Wilkes had to admit to himself again that he didn’t know much at all. He also had to admit that he was intrigued, but no less nervous. The MAG was going in armed to the teeth and ready to wreak serious havoc. They knew they were outnumbered almost two to one by the Indon forces, but they did have surprise on their side.

  Being SAS, the men were permitted to take in weapons of their own personal choice. The US-made M4 was popular, a development of the 5.65 mm M16 A2 carbine, with 14.5 inch barrel and collapsible stock. The M4 was ideal for engaging multiple targets. It had low recoil, making it easier to keep the gun pointing in the right direction, and it was also very light, feeling more like a toy. Yet at three hundred metres and in the hands of a skilled shooter, the M4 was a devastating weapon. Excellent ergonomics also made it simple and reliable in the field, and hard to fuck up in a high-stress situation.

  The M203 was a separate weapon slung under the M4. It hurled a grenade, which looked like a miniature artillery shell, up to four hundred metres. It was a useful weapon in open territory but Wilkes thought it was of questionable value in a jungle environment, where branches and other foliage could easily deflect the grenade’s trajectory with possibly disastrous results. Also, once fired, the grenade required a minimum distance before it would arm itself and it was unlikely that the jungle would provide the open air necessary. It packed a powerful punch, though, and, who knows, might come in handy anyway. Most of the men favoured the HE 463 round. It was smokeless and trackless and so didn’t give away the firer’s position. Troopers with 203s had at least a dozen of these rounds.

  Wilkes preferred the 5.56 mm Minimi light machine gun. He’d had the barrel shortened, and a silencer fitted. The weapon still made a healthy racket but the silencer eliminated muzzle flash, reducing the chance of giving his position away in a firefight. PTE Mac Robson also carried the Minimi, and with the same improvements. The Minimi could fire up to sixteen rounds per second from an underslung box containing two hundred rounds, so it was the ideal weapon when covering fire was needed. And if the weapon ran out of ammo, the M4 magazine slotted right in. If the Minimi did have an Achilles heel, it was the ammo box. It was not as easy to replace in the heat of battle as an M4’s magazine. Wilkes’s insurance policy covering him against being caught between magazines was a butt-
ugly, sawn-off pump-action Remington loaded with heavy #4 buckshot. Extra cartridges were held on the outside of the weapon with clips. It looked like it had been run up in the garage, probably because it was, but it comforted Wilkes enormously to have the weapon along for the ride. Wilkes carried the Minimi and had the shotgun strapped to the outside of his pack, so that it could be readily reached and deployed.

  Robson snatched at a fly that had been caught in the dead air of the cockpit. He opened his hand in front of PTE Gibson’s face. Empty. He’d missed.

  ‘Wanker,’ said Gibson, shouting over the helo’s massive whirling blades and punching Robson solidly in the arm.

  Wilkes smiled. At thirty, Gibbo was the grandfather of the section. A former secondary school maths teacher at a tough western Sydney state school, Gibbo had attended a presentation given by the Australian Defence Forces during Vocation Week. He’d sat through the presentation open-mouthed at the opportunities in the forces presented by the army lieutenant. Barely halfway through the one-hour presentation, Gibbo had been convinced. The lecture broke for lunch and Gibbo went AWOL from the school, taking a bus to the city to enlist. The love affair with the regular army hadn’t lasted long, though. The life of a regular army trooper was dull between exercises. He wanted to be training full-time. That’s when Special Forces caught his eye. Gibbo failed at his first attempt, the rigorous and difficult selection processes for the SAS taking him by surprise. But he’d succeeded at his second.

  Gibson laid his M4 on the deck briefly and adjusted the pistol on his hip. It was his backup weapon – the same one they all carried – the H&K USP, the 9 mm self-loading pistol commonly in use in the Australian army.

  Wilkes looked around, trying to read the state of his men. Morgan had his head back, resting against the bulkhead. It moved slightly as the helo rode the air currents. He appeared relaxed. In the crook of his arm was the H&K MP5SD, a 9 mm sub-machine gun, silenced, of course; the expelling rounds made no more noise than a baby farting. On his chest webbing were four M26A1 defensive hand grenades and four M34 ‘Willie Pete’ incendiary/fragmentation hand grenades. The M26A1 had been in service with the US forces since the Korean War. The body was of thin sheet metal lined with a prefragmented spirally wound steel coil, and filled with 155 gm of composition B. On detonation, the M26A1 created a casualty zone with a radius of fifteen metres. A blunt instrument, but effective.