see this.”
Barnes thumbed a control wand, and the theater map disappeared, replaced by a movie, quite obviously shot in stealth. The cameraman—
Major Horan provided a commentary. “This vision was taken by a four-man patrol. The Japanese have established a major garrison and staging post at Bundaberg, which had a prewar population of approximately thirteen thousand people.”
As the officer spoke, seemingly without emotion, two soldiers in the movie clubbed an old man to death in front of the other prisoners. Robertson felt ill just watching it. The PM’s face twisted with revulsion. Most of the time travelers, he noted, did not react with anything like the same intensity, although Brigadier Barnes’s jaw muscles were moving slowly, as though he was grinding his teeth.
“The civilian population have been separated from the small contingent of Allied personnel who were based in the town, all of whom, as best we can tell, have been executed. The civilians are being held in a large open area on the banks of the Burnett River. During the day they are employed building earthwork defenses. There is very little food or water, and casualties are estimated at thirty percent to date.”
“Good God,” breathed the prime minister. “Are they giving any succor to the women and children, Major?”
“None whatsoever,” replied Horan. Brigadier Barnes handed him the video control, and the officer brought up a new window within the main display. Hundreds of children, some of them little more than toddlers, were shown working in a large excavation. The focus zoomed in on two small boys scraping away at the dirt with toy shovels. Their arms were engulfed in spasms. When one stopped digging, the other appeared to encourage him, but to no avail. The picture began to shake a little, but steadied itself again. The lower half of a Japanese soldier appeared and kicked the child who had stopped working in the head. Audible gasps filled the briefing room, followed by several groans and protests when the other boy attacked the soldier, only to be run through with a bayonet.
Robertson heard a strangled sob somewhere nearby, but he couldn’t identify the source. It may well have been Curtin. The fight seemed to have gone out of MacArthur. He was standing, his shoulders slumped, his face a picture of pure horror. Robertson recalled that the general had a son of about the same age as the boys in the video.
Horan closed the pop-up window, returning them to the scene at the schoolyard, where Robertson was mortified to see that many of the prisoners had been killed. An untidy scattering of headless bodies lay in front of the survivors, mostly women, who were silently screaming as a boy—who couldn’t have been more than ten years old—was forced to his knees in front of a Japanese officer wielding a long sword.
Curtin’s voice boomed out. “I think we’ve seen enough, Major Horan.”
The screen went blank, for which Robertson would be forever grateful.
“Was there nothing your men could do, Major?”
The PM’s adviser was surprised to find that he himself had asked the question.
“It’s a four-man patrol, sir, under orders to remain undetected. They have endeavoured to collect enough identifying material so that the responsible enemy combatants may be sanctioned when the opportunity arises.”
“We’re still a long way from war-crimes tribunals,” said Freyburg, the New Zealander.
Brigadier Barnes replied before Horan could speak. “Actually, sir, under ADF Standing Rules of Engagement, enemy combatants apprehended in the course of, or after the commission of, crimes against humanity are to be summarily executed without recourse to appeal.”
The statement fell into empty space, the implications tumbling over and over in everyone’s minds.
Nobody spoke for what felt a long time, until MacArthur broke the spell. “Colonel Jones, do American forces operate under the same rules?”
The giant marine nodded his shaven head. “Something like them, General. The effect is the same. President Clinton signed an executive order in two thousand nine. Congress passed its own legislation a year later.”
Robertson could see from the faces that the contemporary personnel and their civilian counterparts, many of whom had thought themselves well adapted to the disturbingly predatory culture of their grandchildren, were given pause to think again.
Major Horan interrupted their thoughts. “Prime Minister, as you know, all Multinational Force elements still operate under their original rules of engagement. The guilty parties in this instance have been identified. They could be sanctioned immediately, if you wish. But it would inevitably lead to reprisals against the surviving population.”
“Inevitably,” breathed Curtin in a very soft voice. He sighed heavily, coming to a decision. “I’m sorry, Mac, but I can’t have this. We need to act now. Colonel Jones, Brigadier Barnes, pull whatever forces you need out of the line and shut these bastards down.”
“We’re on our way,” said Barnes.
The glory of a subtropical spring day was a jarring contrast with the darkness of the footage they had witnessed in the briefing room. Jones and his Australian colleagues lingered under a stand of jacaranda trees, their foliage a riot of bright pink blossoms. Jones stood with his foot propped up in the doorway of his Humvee while the Australians leaned against their smaller Land Rover.
“That was quite an ambush, Major Horan,” the big marine growled, but not disapprovingly.
Horan shrugged. “Strategy, policy, it’s all a fucking wank. Bottom line, it’s always some poor prick trying to outrun a bullet.”
“Uh-huh. Speaking of which, how’re your war stocks?”
Barnes waggled his hands in a so-so gesture. “Fuel’s not a problem. We’ve got enough JP-Eight off the
Both men rolled their eyes.
“Be nice if we had some more bladders to move it around in,” he continued. “And some heavy lift choppers to do the moving. Ammo
Jones sucked air in through his teeth. “I just wish things were that simple at home. Kolhammer’s banging his head against a brick wall, trying to get an assault rifle into general production.”
Horan used the toe of his combat boot to dig a well in the thick carpet of jacaranda blossoms that lay at their feet. The air was almost sickeningly sweet with the scent of their decomposition. “He’s equipping the guys you’ve got to train with one, isn’t he?”
Jones nodded. “With a Forty-seven knock-off, just like you. Weapon of choice for the third world, and that’s the comparative level of industrial sophistication we’re dealing with, even in the U.S. I think it’s going to be a long time before we see caseless ceramic again.”
“Or GPS,” added Barnes.
“Or VR porn.” Horan grinned.
Jones grunted. “Colonial riffraff.”
The dull thud of rotor blades reached them through the warm, moist air, but the sound trailed off before they were able to spot the helicopter.
“Well, gentlemen, I suggest we get our staff together ASAP and sign off the plan for this party.”
Brigadier Barnes fetched a data stick out of his shirt pocket and handed it over.
“Holomaps of the route I’d suggest we take. We’ve got rail transport for about a hundred and twenty klicks. Robertson has already requisitioned the rolling stock. It’ll save on the fuel bill.”
Jones slotted the stick into his flexipad and thanked the tank officer for the maps. “Just one thing, Mick,” he said. “How in hell do they fit you into a tank, anyway?You’re what, six-three?”
“Six-four.” Barnes smiled. “I crouch.”
12
