‘But – hang on,’ said Mac. ‘ Guatemala? What were you doing down there?’
‘Remember I told you Dad paid my college fees?’ said Jessica.
‘Yep,’ said Mac.
‘He said I had to do a week of community service each year – he didn’t want me to become a spoiled brat.’
‘A brat?’ said Mac, chuckling.
‘It was a drag at first,’ said Jessica. ‘But in my second year at UCLA, I started spending most of the summer vacation down there.’
‘You hear that?’ asked Bongo, laughing and kicking at Mac’s foot.
‘Yeah, I heard it,’ said Mac, avoiding Jessica’s gaze.
‘So, you guys soldiers, spies – something like that?’ asked Jessica, sitting cross-legged.
‘Nothing like that,’ said Mac.
‘And you two?’ asked Jessica, turning to Jim and Tommy, who just smiled noncommittally.
‘So what is this place?’ asked Jessica.
‘See the helicopters?’ asked Mac. ‘And those tanks, and the booms that attach to the underside of the helos?’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Jessica.
‘They spray a bio-weapon,’ said Mac, so tired he could barely keep his eyelids from dropping.
‘Bio-weapon?’ asked Jessica. ‘You mean like anthrax or something?’
‘Like that,’ said Jim. ‘But this one won’t kill most people.’
‘So -’
‘It gives most people a bad cold,’ said Jim, sounding resigned. ‘But Melanesian – and perhaps Polynesian – people contract a powerful pneumonia and die within forty-eight hours.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Jessica, looking from Mac to Bongo to make sure no one was pulling her leg. ‘It’s racially selective?’
‘No,’ said Jim. ‘It affects everyone, but it will kill the local Maubere people that it’s dropped on today. They have no immunity. It’s called an “Ethno-Bomb”.’
‘It even has a name?!’ said Jessica, amazed. ‘That’s disgusting! Why pick on people who already have so little?’
The four men sighed and looked away – nothing left to say. They’d done what they could and been caught in an historical no-man’s-land, unable to move militarily on Lombok AgriCorp for fear of disrupting the democratic process, yet unable to act within democratic norms because the Indonesian military still ran East Timor. They held a terrible secret yet were unable to do anything about it. Even the US Defense Department, when faced with a rogue from DIA, wanted the embarrassment minimised rather than Operasi Boa shut down. Mac wondered what the East Timorese had done to deserve their lot.
Grimacing in pain, Jessica fished in her pocket, pulled out a pocket knife and threw it to Bongo.
‘I forgot to give it back in Suai,’ said Jessica. ‘Although I guess you have no use for it now.’
Eyes glowing as he picked it up, Bongo opened the blade and then a series of long steel picks.
‘Farrier’s pocket knife,’ said Bongo, standing. ‘The most useless tool known to man – unless he owns a horse…’
‘Or is locked in a cell,’ said Mac, joining Bongo at the door.
Bongo removed the back-plate from the door and tumbled the last barrel in the old lock in less than five minutes.
‘I think the best we can do is disable the choppers and get out of here,’ whispered Jim. ‘I don’t know how to destroy that bio-weapon safely.’
Bongo spoke Tetum through the door and there was no reply, so he pulled back on the cell door and moved into the stockade corridor.
‘Okay,’ he mouthed, and the rest followed him through.
At the end of the hallway a fire axe was mounted on the wall, above a red pail. Grabbing the axe, Mac moved in behind Bongo, holding Jessica by the hand.
Pausing at the vestibule that led into the provost’s office, Bongo peeked through the door and indicated two guards to Mac. Unclasping the long blade of the farrier’s pocket knife, Bongo showed that he’d go right, leaving the left guard for Mac.
The bile rising in his throat, Mac watched Bongo count down from three and then they were through the door, the pale light before dawn gently caressing the sleepy young guard’s face as Mac brought the axe to his throat and held it there.
Waking with a start in his chair, the youngster from the 1635 Regiment tried to yell but Mac had a hand over his mouth. Grabbing the guards’ keys, Mac picked up their M16s and led them to a cell, threw them in and locked the door.
Joining the other four back at the guard’s station, Mac listened to Bongo spell it out: there were no other officers in this part of the building, and the other two guards were down the end of the building.
‘Look at this, McQueen,’ whispered Jim.
Following the American’s finger, Mac saw for the first time how close they were to the unmarked helicopters that would be doing the spraying. They were not thirty metres away, the large tanks obvious in their load space and the big spray booms attached to the undercarriage making them look like giant insects.
‘That true about your ability with aircraft?’ said Jim to Bongo. ‘That extend to Black Hawks?’
‘Not specifically,’ said Bongo, eyes scanning the ground in front of him.
‘Helicopters generally?’ asked Jim.
‘Not lately,’ said Bongo. ‘I say we aim for the hangars, get behind them so we’re shielded from the sentry posts at the gate, run around the length of the hangars, come out at the end. Take that last helo, okay?’
‘Sounds good,’ said Mac.
‘Can you fly us out of here?’ asked Jim, annoyed.
‘I have the ability, yes,’ said Bongo. ‘But we need some explosives.’
Searching the stockade, they found a locked room and opened it with the confiscated keys. It was a small armoury and, hitting the lights, Mac and Bongo found a box of phosphorous grenades – perfect for sabotage – and loaded them into a small canvas carry bag.
Flagging them through like a traffic warden, Bongo brought up the rear as they ran silently behind the first hangar.
Pausing for breath in the lee of the steel-clad building, Mac looked back at the camp. No one had stirred. They ran the length of the hangars, jumping over piles of airfield junk, and arrived at the far end as the sun touched the horizon. Jessica stayed close to Mac – she was scared but composed, noticed Mac.
‘Now or never,’ said Bongo. ‘Guard changes soon.’
Panting for breath, they scanned for unfriendlies.
‘Want to check the helo?’ asked Mac, wondering if Bongo needed a key or something.
‘We’re all in the helo,’ snarled Bongo. ‘Or none of us are. No one gets left behind. I need Jim in the front with me. McQueen, you’re in the back, with Tommy and Jessica. You guys are the shooters, okay?’
Tommy nodded as Bongo handed over his M16 and, falling in behind the Filipino, they stealthed to the last Black Hawk.
The side door creaked slightly as Mac pulled it back and realised the rear load space was almost entirely filled with a tank of the bio-weapon. Moving forward, he slid back the jump-seat door that sat between the pilot’s hatch and the main door. Helping Jessica up into the jump-seat, he shut the small door and squeezed into the small area in front of the tank, and then pulled Tommy up alongside.
Mac and Tommy checked their weapons as Bongo and Jim clambered into their places in the cockpit.
Tension rising, Mac looked Tommy in the eye. ‘Done this before?’
‘No,’ said Tommy, gulping down the stress. ‘But I was a baseball player in Brooklyn – I’m prepped for anything.’
‘Just wait for the action, make sure you get a good shoulder behind your rifle, and don’t get out of the aircraft, okay?’ asked Mac.
‘Sure,’ said Tommy.
