Dawn of the Tiger

by Gus Frazer

  Bull crashed into the bush not far behind.

  ‘Move back!’ yelled Higgins above the gunfire.

  Standing in a low crouch, Finn shuffled backwards, still firing on the Chinese. There were so many of them now, and they were moving up quickly.

  A grenade went off near Finn, the force of the explosion punting him sideways and to the ground. Stunned but not hit, head fuzzy, ears ringing, he could still see the insanity that was raging around him. Pulling himself together, he shook his head and opened his mouth wide, trying to pop his ears.

  He saw Higgins yelling, but he couldn’t make out what he was saying. All Finn could think was to get as far away from there as possible. Turning to run, Finn held his rifle behind him, firing randomly.

  Looking over to his right, he could see Carver running through the scrub, doing the same. He saw him stop to throw a grenade. As soon as Carver had thrown it, his left shoulder jerked wildly backwards. He had been hit.

  Finn changed direction and ran over to Carver, who was unconscious on the ground, his shoulder at an unnatural angle and bleeding profusely.

  Reaching for his good arm, Finn lifted him to a seated position. Heaving him desperately up to his shoulder, panic kicked in. He knew the Chinese were close.

  Finn sensed something close to him, moving quickly. Turning too late, Finn felt a split second’s pain … and then, blackness.

  Chapter 14

  Consciousness came slowly to Finn. The first thing he noticed was an intense pain in the front of his head, which shot through to the back as he opened his eyes. His mouth was bone dry, his vision blurry. A sound was slowly registering above the ringing in his ears. A distant scream, like nothing Finn had ever heard before. It was removed though, detached from reality, like it was happening far away. He tried to sit up but realised his hands and feet were bound. Rather than struggle, Finn looked around, taking in his surroundings — dirt floor, dim light, confined space, corrugated tin walls, a single wooden chair in the middle of the room, a workbench opposite.

  Finn grunted, trying to get up again. Head pounding like mad, he squeezed his eyes shut to try and counter the feeling of his eyes popping out his skull. His vision was still blurry when he opened them again.

  The sound of the man screaming was louder and clearer now — it made Finn’s whole body feel raw. It also sobered him up and sharpened his awareness of his surroundings. He started to remember what had happened at the bridge. Though he couldn’t be sure, he thought it was still dark, given the dim light in the room, so he had to assume that he had only been unconscious a few hours and that he was still somewhere near the bridge. Taking inventory of himself, he didn’t think he was bleeding anywhere — but his comms unit and weapons had been stripped from him at some point.

  The screaming stopped. Finn’s body immediately relaxed, as though an electrical cord had been unplugged in him. A moment later, the door to the tiny shed was thrown open. A Chinese officer strode in first, followed by two men dragging in another by the shoulders. The man being dragged was unconscious. The officer pointed to the ground and barked an order. The two soldiers flung the man to the ground, wiping their bloodied hands on their jackets.

  The officer looked over quizzically at Finn, who was lying face-down on the ground. He walked over and crouched beside Finn. ‘Ah, you’re awake,’ he said, ‘I’m glad. I hope your head does not hurt too much.’

  Finn just stared groggily, his eyes straining to focus, his mind trying to make sense of the compassionate tone of his captor’s stilted English.

  The officer leaned in closer to Finn’s ear. He could smell the officer’s rancid warm breath. ‘You’re next,’ was all he said. With that the officer stood and walked out, followed by the two soldiers.

  Finn’s mind was reeling. He looked over at the lump of human flesh beside him. It was Carver. What the hell had they done to him?

  ‘Carver,’ whispered Finn, as loudly as he could. ‘Mate, wake up.’

  There was no movement. Finn watched carefully. He was still breathing.

  There was nothing Finn could do for him from where he was, with his hands and feet bound. All he knew was that they had to get out of there. Suddenly the prospect of an excruciatingly painful death sharpened his mind.

  Looking around, Finn noticed a piece of the corrugated iron wall had bent back slightly, revealing an edge that just might cut through the rope that bound his hands. He shuffled over to the spot and went to work, slowly at first, making sure it did not create noise, then getting faster when he realised it was working. What noise he did create was drowned out by the sound of a nearby Fusor neutron generator that was powering the camp.

  Furiously he rubbed the rope up and down the tin, not even noticing the pain each time the rope slipped and he ran his arm down the tin instead.

  After about 20 minutes of rubbing, the rope finally gave way. Arms bleeding and sore from the effort, Finn wriggled out of the binds, then undid his feet.

  Crawling silently over to Carver, he rolled him over onto his back. ‘Jesus, what did they do to you?’ he muttered to himself.

  Carver’s shoulder was bloodied from the gunshot wound, but his face was covered in blood, too. Finn shook him gently, trying to revive him. There was no way, even if they could get out of this shed, that he could carry the unconscious Carver too far.

  ‘C’mon. Wake up, mate,’ he whispered, shaking his body roughly.

  Carver gradually came around, blood-crusted eyelids flickering up. Finn took his shirt off and rubbed Carver’s face clean, starting with his eyes, then moving down to his mouth. When he rubbed Carver’s chin, Carver’s eyes suddenly widened in pain and he let out a high-pitched grunt of agony.

  He opened his mouth slightly to reveal a gaping hole where his lower front teeth had been. They had ripped his front teeth out.

  ‘Didn’t ask nuthin,’ spluttered Carver, his eyes wet from the tears of pain.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate. Don’t talk. Just keep your mouth shut, okay? I’m going to try and find a way out of here, so you have to stay conscious and be ready to move at any time,’ whispered Finn, trying desperately to keep his mind focussed.

  Carver nodded, looking like he may pass out at any time.

  Finn went to the door to see if he could get a visual on the camp and the guard situation. From what he could see, there were no guards on the shed.

  Satisfied that there was nobody immediately outside the shed, he set about inspecting the walls of their cell.

  The walls of the old shed were flimsy, kept together by rotten wood and rust. Finding the spot where he had cut his bindings, he pulled the sheet of tin back even more, revealing the darkness of the outside world. As quietly as he could he bent it back even more, creating a hole that he could just squeeze through. Clawing at the dirt floor, he made the hole big enough for them both to slide through.

  Finn’s heart was racing. Panic and fear were starting to take over. If the Chinese came in now, it would be over and he could look forward to a visit from Carver’s dentist.

  He shuffled back over to Carver. ‘C’mon, we’re getting out of here. You gonna be able to run?’ asked Finn.

  Carver grabbed Finn’s shirt with his right hand, hoisting his head and torso off the ground. With a wild look in his eyes, Carver grunted, spitting blood over Finn.

  Finn interpreted this correctly. Carver would run. ‘All right, let’s go. Don’t know where we are, but let’s just get the fuck away from here.’

  Sliding out the hole, it was a relief to feel the cool air of the night. The horizon was brightening to the east. It would be light soon. They needed to get moving — and fast.

  Once they were both outside Finn looked around, lifted Carver by his right arm, then crouched and started slowly creeping away from the shed. He desperately wanted to sprint straight for the bush, but he knew that the noise would alert the Chinese.

  With every step the anticipation grew. The need to reach the bushline was all-consuming, the sound of Finn�
�s quickening pulse pounding through his ears.

  Forty metres to the bushline — hold your nerve.

  Thirty metres — nearly there. Stay calm.

  Twenty metres — you’re going to make it.

  Ten metres from the safety of the bush, the silence was broken by yells in Chinese, followed quickly by automatic fire. Rounds were whistling past Finn and Carver, tearing apart the dirt and foliage around them. Finn gripped Carver by the sleeve, willing him to run faster.

  In an instant, Finn heard a strange thump — something warm and wet was on his face. Carver’s sleeve was ripped from his fist. Stunned, he stopped to see why Carver had fallen. Crouching low and turning around to reach for him, he realised in horror that his friend’s head was split in half. The remaining half was splattered all over Finn — tiny bits of bone and brain, and a lot of blood. Finn reeled from the realisation, frantically wiping what he could off his face. A bullet whistling by his head snapped him out of it. No time to do anything about it now. Finn was up and running as fast as he could, the bullets landing all around him.

  A powerful force wrenched his left shoulder forward, followed quickly by a searing pain in his arm. Finn looked down to see his shirtsleeve had been torn and darkened by blood. He kept running, the adrenalin keeping the pain manageable.

  Into the scrub, bullets still flying all around him, Finn didn’t slow down. He was on autopilot now, his legs moving, but he was no longer in control — his body was now in charge and doing its job to execute a flight response.

  He was going downhill now, gathering pace. The gradient was steepening. At the same time, Finn’s limbs were tiring, his legs were struggling to keep up with the momentum of his body. The shooting had stopped but Finn could still hear yelling — they were coming for him. The light was brightening now, enough to make out shapes and clear silhouettes, though not enough to distinguish colours.

  Resting against the trunk of a tree Finn gasped for breath, chest rising and falling deeply and rapidly. His heart felt as though it would burst through his ribs at any moment. A mixture of his sweat and Carver’s blood dripped down his face to his lips, connecting with his tongue — the metallic taste horrified him. Finn rubbed feverishly at his face using his shirtfront.

  Ahead, the gradient dipped steeply and beyond that Finn thought he heard the sound of the river. Setting off again, he tried desperately to slow himself as he descended to the river. The last thing he could risk now was an injury that would really slow him down. The pain in his arm was beginning to intensify but he blocked it from his mind, focussing entirely on getting to the river safely.

  The shouts and yells of the Chinese were fainter now — perhaps they had given up on him, thought Finn. Unlikely. They were probably just regrouping to conduct an organised search.

  Crashing through the bush to the river’s edge, Finn threw himself into the freezing water and scrubbed at his face, neck and shirt. Washing off the remains of his friend, he noticed the white bits float away and sink into the now bloodstained water. He knew he had to keep moving and get as far away from here as possible. Tearing off his shirtsleeve, he revealed an ugly, open wound where a bullet had ripped through the flesh of his left arm. Tying the sleeve around his arm, he pulled it tight to try and stem the flow of blood.

  He stood in the river, water up to his knees, searching for something to help him float downstream. Spotting a log caught up in the trees and hanging over the river, he hauled it out and pushed it and himself into the river. Going with the gentle current, Finn slung his arms over the log and began kicking gently. He had a flashback of swimming at the Boy Charlton Pool with the swim squad. It seemed like someone else’s memory, something that someone had told him about — not something that he used to do every other day.

  Chastising himself for daydreaming, he started to think about his next move. It was now fully light, though the sun had not yet risen. If the Chinese saw him drifting down the river they could easily shoot him. Finn decided to angle across to the other side of the river. At least that way he could get to cover quickly if he was spotted.

  After three hours of drifting down the river, Finn felt like he had put some distance between himself and the Chinese. His arm was throbbing now and his legs were beginning to cramp. Reaching the bank, Finn hauled himself out — exhausted, thirsty, hungry and completely lost. His legs shook weakly. He needed to get his bearings, work out a way of getting help. Finn knew if he headed east he’d have a better chance of finding help — he’d just have to be careful not to run into an enemy search party. The prospect of being captured again was not a thought Finn wanted to entertain, having seen what they were capable of. But what choice did he have? He could die out here, wandering around lost, or he could give himself an objective and see how far he could get.

  He would head east, directly away from the river for as long as he had to. That had to get him back into the vicinity of a town or farm.

  Finn drank as much as he could from the river, praying that it would not make him sick, and then set off up the hill. After six hours of beating his way through the bush and desert, Finn felt he could go no further. Exhausted and weakened by the loss of blood from his injury, he collapsed on the ground.

  Heat, throbbing arm, nagging hunger and an all-consuming thirst conspired to create a fog of delirium. The sun was still high in the sky, with no clouds. There was no sign of respite. The terrain had changed markedly from the hillside near the river. He was now in semi-arid desert — no cover if a Sankaku flew over. He only hoped that, if their mission was part of a coordinated attack, the Chinese would be far too busy to run after a lone escapee who may or may not be alive.

  Finn heaved himself up off the ground, telling himself to keep moving. One foot in front of the other, his head drooping, all he could look at was his feet, making sure that they landed securely on every step.

  Darkness came quickly, as it does in the desert. He was so exhausted he collapsed beside a rock. The cool desert evening felt good after the heat of the day, but quickly Finn started to shiver as the temperature continued to drop. That night Finn slipped in and out of consciousness — fitful dreams and hallucinations played with his mind as he tried to deal with the shock of what he had been through.

  Waking as the sun rose, Finn struggled to his feet and willed his legs to move forward. His head thumped from dehydration and his shoulder now ached mercilessly. He looked at the ugly mess of his shoulder wound. It was only a flesh wound, but it could be serious if it became infected. Finn tried to keep it from his mind. If he didn’t get some help soon, his shoulder would be the least of his concerns.

  Five hours of erratic stumbling and the horror of feeling his body shutting down began consuming his mind. The pain was now being eclipsed by the panic of realising the symptoms they talked about in training were actually happening to him — swollen tongue, cramping legs, headache and dizziness. Finn had to fight the rising panic — he knew that if he let the terror of what was happening to him take over, he would be dead.

  The sun was dropping low again. Finn, exhausted like never in his life, cried a tearless cry at the thought of another night in the desert. Between sobs he tried to talk to himself, willing himself to harden up and just deal with it, telling himself that tomorrow he would find help and get out of this hell.

  That night his body convulsed and shivered from the cold, hallucinations playing with him mercilessly, replaying images back to him: Carver’s head being blown off, the Chinese commander with a pair of pliers, his mum being shot, his arm being amputated with a saw. On and on the dreams and visions came to him — it was like his mind was punishing him.

  Finn woke feeling just as exhausted as when he went to sleep. His mouth was dry as sand. His tongue felt huge, but his gums had shrunk and his teeth felt loose.

  ‘Get up, just get up,’ he told himself.

  As soon as he moved, his head started to pound again with a vengeance. His shoulder thumped as blood came back to the wound. Clutching his sh
oulder, he stumbled onwards. Walking towards the morning sun, he knew this would keep him heading east.

  By the afternoon he was so delirious he did not notice the dust plume on the horizon. In fact, Finn didn’t even register the sound of the truck as it got closer, not until it reared up over the steep ridgeline he was on and skidded to a standstill only a metre from him. Startled, Finn fell backwards as his balance gave way and he collapsed on his back. Closing his eyes, darkness engulfed his mind as consciousness slipped away.

  Chapter 15

  In the general’s office in the SOF, General Stephens was with Sarah and Fletcher going over the post-attack evaluation reports.

  ‘Looks like a good success rate, Fletch,’ Stephens said with a satisfied look on his face.

  ‘It certainly does, Marty,’ replied Fletcher, grinning.

  Sarah turned away from the screen she was reading from. ‘Australian casualties are low and the key missions were all successfully executed.’ Sitting forward, Sarah continued. ‘Our strategists say these attacks will slow down their exports to a point where it is about four times more expensive to get a ton of iron ore out of Australia than it was for them to buy it from us two years ago.’

  ‘That’s an excellent result,’ said Fletcher. ‘At this stage our only game plan is to make it economically untenable for China to stay here.’

  ‘I think we’re succeeding,’ said Stephens, ‘however, the Chinese have massive resources — they may be able to take short-term losses, holding out for long-term gains. They know that we cannot continue with a guerrilla war for long. Whereas, for them, every day they’re on Australian ground, they’re expanding their roots, creating more infrastructure.’ He rubbed his face with both hands, moving them to the back of his neck, squeezing his shoulders. ‘I just don’t know if we’re being utterly futile with these guerrilla attacks.’

  ‘Marty, this is like back in the early 2000s. Remember when the Howard government got us involved in Afghanistan and Iraq? We were the invaders then, along with the US coalition. Do you remember the terrorists who fought so hard to get us out? Well, remember how godawful they made it for us — remember how many lost their lives trying to fight the local terrorist cells?’