Mi-6 and an Mi-26.
In front of the aircraft Wang remonstrated with a Filipino soldier; a bunch of Chinese Special Forces milled around, disarmed, while eight Filipino soldiers watched them like hawks. Wang yelled out to Mac as they got to their Black Hawk. Mac ignored him.
The clear-out fl ight from the island to Zam took thirteen minutes and Mac was given a room at Camp Enduring Freedom. Spikey lent him some clothes. It may have been the tail end of a terrorist incident, but it was Saturday night in Zam, and the Yanks wanted to party.
Mac got out of the Jeepnie behind Manz while Sawtell paid the driver. Spikey got out the other side. Behind them, another orange Jeepnie pulled up and more special forces guys piled out, everyone in jeans and T-shirts. They stood in front of Il Puesto, a bar that was rocking with live music. It was 11.10 pm.
Sawtell stood on the pavement and made sure everyone was there.
In a white polo shirt, Levis and sneakers, he looked like a guy Rocky might fi ght.
The beers went down fast and cold. The band played ZZ Top and Rolling Stones, the female singer raunching it out like Linda Ronstadt.
Sawtell ordered a bunch of pizzas. Other soldiers came over and there were thumb-shakes, chest-touches and loads of ribbing. The kind of thing Paul and Limo would have loved.
Mac noted the designated shooters. One was a large, heavily muscled Latino who looked a bit like Limo. The other was smaller but looked like a boxer. A Leb guy. The Leb stayed by the entrance, drank water. The Latino sat at Sawtell’s table. They both wore black holster bags of the type Carl had worn during Mac’s last supper with Diane.
Mac mentioned it to Spikey. ‘Yeah man.’ He pointed at the Leb.
‘That’s Arkie. A Muslim dude, so he’s cool to carry when we go out.’
Mac nodded his head at the big Latino sitting opposite and Spikey laughed. ‘That’s Cheekie. He don’t drink ‘cos his momma won’t let him!’
The table laughed. Cheekie raised his chin, put his hand out.
‘Name’s Chico.’
They shook, Mac feeling a bit silly. The biggest argument he’d ever had with Jenny had revolved around the problem of guns and grog.
There’d been a strange and revealing surveillance gig concerning a Malaysian politician and a senior Indonesian bureaucrat. It turned out the blokes weren’t swapping secrets, they were lovers. Mac and Garvs had started drinking early after they wrapped, had got on it something bad down at the Jakarta Golf Club.
By the time the evening had swung around, Mac reckoned he was ready to drop in on Jenny. Trouble was, he’d forgotten he was still carrying. He’d turned up at Jenny’s apartment with some Carlsbergs, thought it was all going well. Then she’d felt the Heckler, hit the roof, yelling. She gave him a good clip over the ear then took the piece, shoved it in a drawer and told him to get the fuck out.
When it came to alcohol and fi rearms, Jenny was a lot like his father.
Mac realised Sawtell was that way too. No one carried unless they were off the booze. Mac had this feeling that maybe it was time to grow up.
Mac danced with an American girl from the navy, talked with a local bird, laughed with Spikey, who was hilarious. He asked after Hard-on and got ten different responses, all of which had something to do with either masturbation, nurses or penises. The attitude was that Hard-on was bludging while Alpha team ran around after tangos and nerve agent.
No one talked shop till it was one-thirty and the band was between sets. Sawtell turned to Mac, brought out an envelope, handed it over.
‘Can you get this to Paul’s momma?’ he said.
All eyes looked at Mac. He had a peek inside. There must have been three thousand US in that envelope. Mac knew how much these people got paid, knew they weren’t cashed up and he felt totally humbled. A bit overwhelmed. He’d spent years under the kind of stress that would buckle most people. He had methods for burying that. But an act of simple kindness was enough to bring him undone.
Mac looked away, looked at the ceiling, tried to keep the concrete where it was but he couldn’t. He felt the bottom lip go, tasted tears.
It was the fi rst time he’d cried since he was nine years old and Frank had whacked him for mucking round with the Holden’s handbrake in the driveway. After Frank had told him not to.
He nodded. He cried. Sawtell roughed his hair. Spikey put an arm round him, play-punched him in the jaw.
Sawtell raised his beer glass, said, ‘To Paul.’
Everyone drank to Paul.
Mac pulled it together, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, raised his glass, said, ‘To Limo.’
They all drank to Limo as Spikey stood, put his hand on his hip and did a cruel mimic of Limo’s deep, ghetto accent. ‘Ain’t made for running, motherfucker!’
The soldiers whooped and laughed. Someone said, ‘Was made for eating, tho’. Got that right!’
Spikey stood again. Another mimic. ‘I can’t have thirds? What kind of army is this anyways?’
They squealed with laughter and Spikey got high-fi ves. The navy girl pouted at Spikey, said, ‘Poor Limo!’
Spikey laughed at her, said, ‘That boy could eat like a rabbit fucks!’
The evening ground on. They got boozed.
The owner kicked them out about a quarter to three, when Sawtell wanted to sing. The designated shooters left fi rst. Stood on the pavement. Eyes up and down the streets of Zam. Hands hovering over holster bags as they got into the Jeepnies.
The navy girl kissed Mac on the cheek when it was her stop, said,
‘You’re sweet.’
Mac realised he didn’t want to sleep with her.
That made him smile.
Mac passed through the security section of the British Embassy in Jakarta. They’d scanned the Cordura carry-all he’d grabbed at Camp Enduring Freedom but they couldn’t fi nd any crime with the contents. They showed him through to a large, open-plan waiting area in the public partition where Mac sat on a chocolate brown leather sofa.
He leaned back, easing his hangover into the day. It was early afternoon, maybe the last afternoon he’d ever spend in Jakkers, and then he was on the evening Qantas fl ight into Sydney. There’d be one stop after this, at the Aussie Embassy. Then a whole new life.
Three minutes later a middle-aged bloke came out. Pale blue cotton Oxford shirt, dark, expensive slacks and black lace-up shoes.
He introduced himself as Martin Cottleswaine.
To Mac he’d always be Beefy.
‘Told you I look better in my goldilocks, didn’t I?’ said Mac as they shook.
‘I never had a doubt,’ said the Brit, also smiling.
Mac thanked him for meeting him, gave him a vague rendition of what Paul and he had been up to with the Americans. Beefy raised his eyebrows and followed British protocol for discussing any countryman in a military or intelligence capacity. ‘Didn’t know one of ours was in that.’
Mac had tracked down Beefy from his recollection of the guy’s name-tag. Mac had given ‘cottage’ and then ‘cotton’ to the switch woman, and the trail had led them to Beefy.
Mac leaned over, unzipped the carry-all, pulled the envelope out and showed Beefy the contents. Pushing the sides of the carry-all down, he also showed Beefy the gold brick. Away from other bricks of the same size, it now looked enormous.
Beefy’s mouth dropped slightly. Years as a Customs guy, but some things still surprised. He looked at Mac. ‘How can I help?’
‘The Americans pitch in and send a fallen comrade home with what they call a pension.’
Beefy smiled. ‘Tax-free, you mean?’
Mac shrugged. ‘The tradition is that the body bag or the casket doesn’t get opened until Mum or the wife opens it. Last perk left in American life.’
