by Gary Kemble
Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He was thinking of Mount Coot-tha, where he and Bec used to go when they were first seeing each other.
‘I know there are people who don’t believe politicians. They think we’re all talk, and rightly so after so many years of the current government. . .’
There was a cheer from somewhere back in the crowd.
‘That’s why I’m going to put my money where my mouth is. I’m confident we’re going to win the election. I’m confident Bill and Fred here are going to win their battle, too. So in cooperation with the current owners of this land, I’m going to put up new security fences. Proper security fences that will actually keep the kids out, so this place can be saved and can be enjoyed by future generations.
‘And not just here. Right around Brisbane’s western suburbs, we’re moving to protect icons that have been allowed to rot for too long.
‘Thank you, Fred. Thank you, Bill. You might like to take a step back before these guys eat me alive.’
A polite laugh from the press pack. Applause.
‘I’ll now take your questions. . .’
Harry turned away from the TV.
‘Well?’ Bill said, back on the phone.
‘Unbelievable!’
‘I know! Look I’ve gotta go. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a heads-up.’
‘No, that’s okay. I understand.’
He hung up the phone. He should have been angrier. But he was happy for Fred, after all his years battling Swenson and other developers. Besides, there would be plenty of local follow-up stories to this bombshell.
CHAPTER 14
Heat shimmered off rocks the colour of dried bones. In the valley below, the bright red and green of the poppies provided stark contrast to the deathly pale landscape. Women, dressed in black, moved between the rows like wraiths. The troopers saw the dust rise from a couple of kays out, watching through binoculars as the armoured vehicles approached the plantation.
‘They ours?’ Rob said, but he already knew the answer.
‘Looks like it. Bushmasters.’
‘What the fuck are they doing out here?’
‘Dunno.’
There was nothing they could do but watch. The guards at the plantation must have seen the clouds of dust rising almost as soon as Rob and Tim had, but they didn’t seem concerned. They ambled up and down, out of the mudbrick compound, AK-47s on their shoulders. There was another guy up on the roof, back against the wall, rocket-propelled grenade next to him, ready to go.
Rob lined him up in his reticle. Eight hundred metres. From the way his kameez rippled, there was a slight wind coming from east to west. A relatively easy shot. Beside Rob, Tim shuffled, watching the incoming convoy.
‘Reconstruction Taskforce?’
‘If they are, their satnav has let them down badly.’
Heat baked off the rocks. The men below continued to patrol. Three of them moved to the front of the compound as the Bushmasters neared. Dust soiled the clear blue sky.
Tim listened to the stolen Taliban radio. Spotters were watching the convoy come in.
‘There’s some chatter. Nothing suggesting the bad guys are going to light up some of those RPGs.’
Rob grunted. So far, the Taliban hadn’t decided to blow the convoy to kingdom come with one of the IEDs that peppered the rugged track between here and Camp Rhino.
‘Get onto the others. Tell them what’s going down.’
With his scope, Rob would have been able to make out Geoff and John on the other side of the valley, but only because he knew where they were. They were atop a low ridgeline, closer to the plantation but almost invisible. Tim got on the radio and relayed the information. Their mission was simply to observe the plantation, gather intelligence about Taliban players. The US had provided some intel that a Taliban commander was heavily involved with moving opium out of the place. He liked to micro-manage, apparently.
The plan was to watch the place for a few weeks, gather intel on his movements and then, next time he stayed the night, move in and secure him.
But this, this was something else.
The lead Bushmaster pulled up outside the compound. The second one stopped short, and half-a-dozen soldiers piled out, brandishing F88 Austeyr assault rifles. They fanned out, forming a rough line, giving them line of sight around the sides of the compound, far enough apart from each other that they wouldn’t make an easy target.
‘Contractors,’ Rob said.
‘Hmm. . . some of them.’
From the lead truck, another soldier climbed out. Unlike the other guys, he was in Australian uniform and only had minimal gear. No rifle, just a service pistol strapped to his hip. His silver crewcut shone in the sun. He reached back into the cab, grabbed his slouch hat and pulled it onto his head.
The driver also climbed out of the first truck. He was tall and skinny. The door on the second truck opened and another Australian soldier climbed out. This one was stocky. Almost overweight.
‘Three Australians,’ Tim said. ‘The rest contractors. Looks dodgy.’
From within the complex of mud huts, men shouted. The women in the fields ran back to the compound, scooping up their children as they went.
Moments later, a man emerged from a darkened doorway, his tribal dress billowing in the wind. He was flanked by two men with AK-47s and RPGs slung over their shoulders.
‘Is that our guy?’ Rob asked.
‘Nah. I think it’s his second. Fazlullah.’
‘You think?’
A pause. ‘Yeah. Fazlullah.’
The RPGs would be useless at this range, they were just there for show. But it was bizarre. Usually, the Taliban would do everything they could to hide their weaponry. The only time you saw an RPG was through your reticle while you were taking out the bad guy trying to fire it, or, if things didn’t go to plan, as it was zooming towards you.
Here, it was all hanging out.
‘It’s like a fucking dick-measuring contest,’ Tim muttered.
‘Yeah, and guess who’s gonna get fucked up the arse?’
The men in the valley talked, but it was impossible to hear what they were saying or even to read their lips from this distance. At one point Old Silver laughed, throwing his head back at something Fazlullah said.
‘The silver fox down there,’ Tim said. ‘I’ve seen him before.’
‘Yeah. Me too. And he’s definitely not Reconstruction.’
‘What about the other two?’
‘Dunno. Just grunts.’
Old Silver turned and spoke to the tall guy, who then ran back to the truck and pulled something off the front seat. A large suitcase. One of Fazlullah’s offsiders slung his AK and moved to take the suitcase. Then Old Silver said something. Fazlullah raised both his hands in a what? gesture, then shook his head. He turned, moved inside the compound. Old Silver followed, and then the driver, still lugging the suitcase. It was heavy, and there were no prizes for guessing what was inside it. Fazlullah’s bodyguards were next to move inside. The guys in the second truck maintained their position, as did the Taliban guards on the roof.
‘You know what this is, don’t you?’ Tim said.
‘I know what it looks like. A drug deal.’
‘What should we do?’
Rob considered. It would be pointless compromising their cover, given they had no idea what was going on down there.
‘Could be an AUSTINT gig,’ Rob said.
‘And we’re not told?’
Rob shrugged. ‘This is bullshit.’
‘Same shit, different day. Right?’
Rob and Tim lay on the hot stones. Flies buzzed around their faces, settled on their lips. The guards walked up and down the roof while whatever business was being done continued inside. A drug deal. A suitcase of money. Australian Defence Force involvement. Rob seriously hoped it was what he thought it was – a communications snafu. This one, given the circumstances, was potentially very dangerous. But the alternative, t
hat members of the ADF were knowingly engaged in drug smuggling, was much, much worse. Worse, but not impossible. Sometimes the temptation was just too much.
Gunfire. The pop of small calibre rounds. An automatic handgun. Then something heavier. A sustained burst of an F88. Screams.
‘Fuck me,’ Tim said. He got on the radio. ‘Muzzle flash from the windows.’
‘Hold,’ Rob said. ‘Tell them to hold for now. We don’t know what the fuck’s going on.’
The soldiers outside the compound took cover. One of the guards fell. Through the scope Rob saw a spray of blood as the rounds took him across the chest. The other guard dropped too, taking up a defensive position on the top of the roof. The soldiers below took cover behind the Bushmasters.
Gunfire continued inside the compound. There was the low krump of a grenade detonating.
Rob let his reticle settle on the guard on the roof. Yeah, he didn’t know what was going on, but he wasn’t going to let this doofus take pot-shots at coalition soldiers, even if they were contractors.
He adjusted for wind. He began his breathing cycle, steadying his hands for the shot. The guy was still huddled behind the low wall, AK-47 poking over the top. Shots plinked off the wall, dusting him with shards of mud brick.
Three. . . two. . . one. . .
Rob took the shot. The guy rocked back as the round tore through his chest.
‘Bullseye,’ Tim said.
A couple of the soldiers looked around. They’d heard the shot but Rob had chosen his firing position well, the geography making it sound as though the gun had been fired from further down the hill. He searched for other immediate targets, but none presented themselves.
‘We’d better move,’ Rob said.
‘Wait.’
More screams. Women wailing. A baby screaming. The soldiers from the second Bushmaster now formed a phalanx across the front of the compound. A woman ran out the front door, her niqab ballooning in the wind. She stopped still when she saw the soldiers shouting at her to get down.
Gunshot. She slumped forward, pushing up a cloud of dust where she fell.
‘Shot came from inside,’ Rob said. ‘Pretty fucking stupid with those guys out front.’
He watched her. At first he thought it was a one-shot kill. Then she struggled to her hands and knees. Blood bubbled from her mouth. She slumped down again.
‘Out back,’ Tim said.
Rob pulled back from the scope. A woman ran between the poppies. Old Silver chased her, handgun out. He yelled at her in Dari, then Pashto: Stop! Stop! Rob waited for the shot.
The woman staggered, fell. Old Silver grabbed her, dragged her back inside the building. Her hijab fell away from her head, onto the ground. Through the scope, Rob saw the terror on her face.
‘Fuck me. Call this shit in. Find out what the deal is.’
Tim got on the field radio. He spoke for a few minutes, checking his map and calling in the coordinates. Rob gathered enough of the conversation to know what the verdict was.
‘They don’t know anything about it. They want us to maintain position, while they find out what’s going on.’
‘Shit! Fucking spooks.’
So they waited. The sun tracked across the sky. The screams continued. The worst was the baby. For hours the baby screamed until suddenly the cries stopped. Rob found that even more disturbing. Gradually, the soldiers outside moved inside, two guards rotating in and out of the compound.
Tim called in again. Same message. As dusk fell, soldiers emerged carrying what looked like ammunition crates, twenty of them. They loaded them onto the first Bushmaster. Old Silver and his driver emerged, had a brief chat with Fatty. Rob settled his reticle on him. Yeah, he’d seen him around. Now he knew why he didn’t know his name. Because it was Old Silver’s job for people to not know his name.
Old Silver took a look around, climbed into the Bushmaster. They fired up and rolled out, chasing their shadows back down the valley.
‘Come on,’ Rob said. ‘Let’s check this out.’
***
Rob expected to find dead men. He expected to find the women cowering in one room. He expected another room to be littered with cable ties, knives, engine oil, electric cables – tools of trade for the interrogators. Not officially of course, but from the screams he’d heard that afternoon, this clearly wasn’t an official mission.
But he wasn’t prepared for what he found. The death room. Caked in blood. A man still tied to a chair, naked body covered in cuts of all shapes, sizes and depths. The last one, presumably the last one, across his neck. He’d shat himself when he died. Flies buzzed around the room, landing on his filth and on his mouth.
Rob grabbed a handful of hair and lifted the dead man’s head up, so he could see his face. It was barely recognisable.
‘Fazlullah,’ he said.
Lying on the floor just inside the doorway were two once-white forensics suits, now stiff with dried blood.
‘They wanted to do the dirty work, but not get dirty,’ Tim said.
Geoff and John were still outside, keeping guard. The last light was fading from the sky, but they had night vision goggles. Rob pulled a camera from his pack and started taking photos. The gaping neck wound. The car battery in the corner of the room. Fazlullah’s left hand was missing its fingers. Rob searched the room, couldn’t find them.
‘We’ve got company,’ Tim said, holding one hand to the earbud. ‘ETA half an hour. Looks like locals.’
‘Well, we better make this quick then.’
They moved through the compound, documenting the atrocity. It was clear that while there may have been some intel gathering going on, it was secondary to Old Silver’s sick games. Most of the guards had died quickly, chests and heads torn open by the F88s and, in one instance, a shotgun. One man by the doorway to the second big room had his throat slit.
They pushed inside the room. Saw the women and children.
‘Oh, fuck me. Fuck me,’ Rob said.
The women had tried to protect their kids. The kids were in the corner of the room. The women over them. A mass of broken bodies, blood, flesh and bones. Tim had a quick look. They were all dead. One of the women had been dragged to face into the middle of the room, hands tied over her head and secured to an eye bolt on the wall.
Her traditional robes were pushed up, revealing bruised and bloodied legs, still spread.
‘This is fucked up,’ Rob said. ‘This is really fucked up.’
Her hijab was missing. At first he thought it was because it had been souvenired. And then Rob recognised the robes. He took photos. The bastards wouldn’t get away with this. He’d make sure of it, if it was the last thing he did.
‘Out this way,’ Rob said, leading Tim out the back of the compound. They cleared each of the rooms, taking photos of the dead. It seemed odd to him that Old Silver had left the scene of the crime intact. It would have made more sense to burn the place to the ground. Maybe they were planning on coming back. Maybe they wanted locals to find the bodies. Maybe it was part of a plan to expand their operation, encroach on the warlords in surrounding fiefdoms.
Only once they were back out in the fresh air did Rob fully appreciate how badly the compound stank. The rows of poppies glowed in the last light. Tim made straight for the low rise off to the left. Geoff and John were up there. Rob detoured via the plantation. It was still there, lying in the dirt, the woman’s hijab. He picked it up, stuffed it into his pack, and followed Tim into the gathering darkness.
CHAPTER 15
Harry’s eyes shot open.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! Where am I?
He reached under his pillow for his Glock 19, trying to control his breathing and get his heart rate steady. The gun was gone. He scanned the room, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
‘Tim? Tim!’
He sat up in bed, crying out as the sheet peeled away from his back. It was sticky with blood. He fell to the floor, dizzy.
‘Fuck! Tim!’
Harry cl
osed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Opened his eyes. It was like adjusting to a 3D movie, or pulling yourself out of a really good book. He got up onto his knees, let his eyes drop closed then opened them again.
‘There is no Tim,’ he said, under his breath. A lie.
‘There is no Rob.’ Another lie. But it helped. ‘I’m Harry Hendrick.’
His breathing slowed. He sat on the mat. ‘This mat. Dave gave me this mat when we were still working at the pizza joint.’
He stared at the pattern. It wasn’t anything like mats they had in Afghanistan. He’d never been to Afghanistan. But he just knew. He turned, rested his head on the edge of the bed. Closed his eyes.
‘Bec hated it. It stayed in storage most of the six years we lived together,’ he muttered.
Opened his eyes. Afghanistan wasn’t real. Afghanistan wasn’t real. A third lie. Just a nightmare. Just a nightmare. He looked at the blood.
But that’s real.
Seeing the blood, realising it was his own, sparked a connection and suddenly he felt a long, pulsing throb across his shoulders. A burning sensation. Severe bruising and severe gravel rash, both at the same time, but much, much worse.
Harry reached back and gently touched his skin. His fingers came away red. He gingerly carried himself to the bathroom. He turned, prompting a new wave of agony, and twisted his head to see his back in the mirror. Harry moaned. The top third of his back was covered in blood. In some places deep red, in others purple and black as it started to dry. There was a tattoo underneath, but he couldn’t see it through the blood. Just lots of lines, circles maybe.
Harry leant over the sink and sucked in deep breaths, trying to decide what to do. Sweat dripped off his forehead. He felt sick. Feverish. He could try and wipe his back down with a washer, or he could climb in the shower. Neither option appealed. He considered going next door for help, but shied away from it. He hunkered down on the balls of his feet, placed his hands against the cool tiles. He felt violated, that was the long and short of it. He wasn’t doing this to himself. He knew that now. So someone or something was doing it to him. All he wanted to do was get clean.