Unsung Warrior Box Set, page 11
part #1 of Unsung Warrior Series
Cal had assured him the SIS wasn’t far from finding where in Indonesia the op would be. Only a matter of days. After a few moments thought Maric decided Luela’s car could stay where it was until then.
When he had time he tried to brush up on his command of the Dayak language. He located some good material online in Cal’s office, and printed it off.
Maric found he excelled in the jungle warfare section of the training. Not surprising really, considering his early training with Cal. He’d not had a chance to develop his jungle skills in the mountains and deserts of his SAS tours. Now, they came to the fore. Distance and direction were hard to pick in the dense undergrowth of the New Zealand bush, and it would be the same in Indonesia.
Maric was made a captain, as he had been previously, and given responsibility for this part of the training. He rather enjoyed the work. It felt good to be part of something bigger than himself again. Maybe it was the same as that family thing he enjoyed on farms.
He took the men on forced marches, alternating with Davies. At first the men thought they had the easier choice when he led.
Unlike the ‘bull at a gate’ approach Davies used to bash his way through the forest, Maric stuck to paths. The men even approved of his old-fashioned tire training, which forced them to lift their legs higher as they stepped along.
Until he combined the two exercises in a series of forest runs. From the beginning there was a steady stream of bloodied shins and twisted ankles to the first aid post.
“Lift your legs! Trust to your peripheral vision! Think about where you want each foot to land. Think ahead, dammit!” he roared, as he followed them through the forest. If he’d led from the front the men would have placed their feet where he placed his. Now, they had to make their own ways along the forest tracks.
It was treacherous. Thin layers of leaves lay innocently over greasy pools of mud and roots poked out at odd angles. All too often there was a dangerously small area of safe ground for a foot that was flashing around obstacles.
When the path itself was impassable, the soldiers had to use their momentum to angle up banks on either side of the track. They had to pick the best of the softer ground along the top, and leap from side to side when that ran out.
Maric, with his long legs, tackled most of these places with a foot on either bank. He adapted to each situation without losing any of his momentum. The others struggled to follow his example. Over time they developed their own running style for the conditions.
It was life-threatening stuff. Maric figured he had no choice but to drive them hard. They might only have days before they had to ship out. The men persevered, but to many of them it was a form of torture. Slowly, however, they improved.
The men’s frustration with his unorthodox methods came to a head on the third day, when a soldier went down with a sharp crack the whole troop could hear. He came up clutching his lower leg.
Rigging a makeshift stretcher, Maric had the men carry him back to camp at double time. When they arrived at the first aid post – a wall cupboard on the veranda outside the doss house – a paramedic was waiting. He felt carefully over the tender area along the man’s shin.
“Could just be a hairline fracture,” he said. “Electrical stimulation of the bone might be able to speed up the healing. On the other hand it might be a clean break. I can’t feel any jagged edges.”
He turned to Maric.
“Either way it’s unlikely he’ll make it for the show.”
The soldier had refused morphine, and his temper wasn’t improved by hearing the paramedic’s words.
“It’s this idiot bloody training. What use is it?” he fumed. His frustration skyrocketed at the thought he’d probably not make it for the op.
He’d still get most of his pay during the op, but Maric knew that wasn’t it. The men had been pushed too far, too fast. And he hadn’t explained what he was doing.
Some things about leadership you just had to learn on the job, he realized grudgingly.
Other men started grumbling now, supporting the downed soldier. Maric understood how they felt. Still, grumbling was unacceptable if discipline was to be maintained. He had to do something.
Cal looked on from the door of the firing range. His practiced eye assessed the situation as it unfolded. He could see that the men were still showing the respect due to an officer. Knowledge of Maric’s tours of duty had ensured that. And it was supported by his natural leadership abilities.
One of Cal’s more senior officers went to handle the situation, but Cal motioned him back. He wanted to see what Maric would make of the discontent.
“You knew it wouldn’t be easy when you came to look at the op,” said Maric decisively, and the grumbling stopped. No SAS soldier blamed the leadership, the weather, bad luck, or anything else. They were the best of the best, and it was up to them to get the job done – whatever the cost.
That was step one of Maric’s plan, now for step two.
“Listen to me, you plod-hoofed, flat-footed, pavement-walking lumps of lead,” he growled, raising the level of his voice. “I’ve been to the Indonesian jungles, you haven’t. I’ve lived in Kalimantan for weeks at a time, and I know what you’re going to find in the jungles of the interior.
“First up you’re going to find a small black and red ‘two-step’ snake, which just loves to lie about on jungle trails. And why is it called a ‘two-step’ snake? Because it bites you, you take two steps, and you fall down dead.
“You won’t see it until you’re right on top of it. If you can’t do the jungle hop, getting your feet real high, it’s going to take you out.
“There’s razor vine. You think cane chairs just grow in the bush? The vine grows in thickets like our supplejack. The soft outer covering has huge, razor-thin thorns on it you don’t want to mess with.
“But the dangers in the jungle are nothing. How’s the Count going to protect his operation in Indonesia? He’s going to recruit tribesmen. Iban, or Sea Dayaks, if I’m guessing correctly. And that’s the group that still practices piracy in the shipping lanes off the Indonesian coast.
“Think about it. All Dayaks are born knowing how to hunt and live in the jungle. If you can’t keep up in a running gun battle, you’re going to be of no use on this op.”
Maric paused, to see the effect his words were having on the men. They were very quiet now. It looked like he was getting through to them.
“Spoke out of turn, Captain,” said the soldier on the stretcher. “Won’t happen again.” The others nodded their agreement.
Now was the time to let the men chew over what he’d said among themselves. Maric grunted his acceptance of the apology, and left the paramedic to it.
As he walked away, Cal beckoned him over.
“Good work, Captain,” he said, smiling. “You handled that like an experienced leader. Which is just as well, because I’m going to need someone to take a reconnaissance team into the field.”
“I haven’t said I’m going yet!” protested Maric.
“You will, son, you will,” said Cal.
Maric decided not to argue the point.
“You do realize what we’re up against?” Maric said, turning to look at Cal.
“Indonesian tribesmen who are naturally great hunters and jungle survivors,” said Cal. “Maybe Russian heavies keeping an eye on their investment in the Count’s operation? Yes, I’m planning for all of that. And you don’t need to tell me stories about Dayak ferocity.
“When the Japanese treated the Indonesians badly in the Second World War, the Dayaks formed a special force to help the Allies,” he recited. He’d done his homework all right.
“The Allies came up with a ‘ten bob a knob’ scheme for the heads of Japanese. Living or dead. The Dayaks cashed in almost 1500 heads.”
Maric nodded. He knew the story well. When he’d been staying with his plantation-managing friend, his friend’s father-in-law had talked about his part in that war. It was still discussed in the Dayak villages.
“That’s why I need you to get on the ground over there, and get the Dayaks on our side,” said Cal. “Supposing you do go, are your medical shots up to date?”
Maric nodded. He’d saved enough from his farming wages to visit his friends in Kalimantan around two years ago, and he’d redone the lot. He didn’t think they would have lapsed since then.
“Good,” said Cal, “and you won’t have to worry about taking malaria tablets for weeks before you leave. Considering the jungle environment you’ll be on a daily antibiotic that’s anti-malarial. That should stop any form of illness while you’re there.
“Though you’ll still get diarrhea from the change in food.”
Maric nodded again. When you were in the SAS you came to understand digestive systems didn’t need foreign bugs to get upset, just a radical change in diet.
Cal smiled. “It looks like we’ll be deploying close to your old stomping grounds in Kalimantan. Details at the briefing tonight.”
It was the fourth night since Maric had arrived at the camp. It was also the night the SAS soldiers found out how ‘the Count’ was financing his interests around the world. And more to the point, where his operations were.
“Gentlemen,” said Cal, looking out over a number of tired but intrigued faces. “I’m sure you’re all eager to find out how the Count is generating his megabucks – and ready to kick yourselves for not thinking of it first!”
There was a smattering of rueful laughter.
“The Count is no slouch,” said Cal, coming right to the point. “We’ve discovered he’s running diamonds, and high quality diamonds at that.”
The screen behind Cal burst into life, showing the southern half of Kalimantan. Scattered across it were a number of red dots, with the bulk of them centered on a town marked as Martapura. The only other towns of any size were Sampit and Amuntai.
South Kalimantan looked like a short version of the South Island laid on its side. Some sort of ring road wound along the coast, but the interior was surprisingly blank. River estuaries petered out as they disappeared under jungle canopy further inland. From then on they simply ceased to exist on the map.
“The top two-thirds of the island is mountainous,” continued Cal, “but the southern third is one vast swamp. As you can see, the interior is largely unexplored, and very lightly populated.
“The red dots are sites where villagers are known to be sluicing through wet areas for diamonds, using muscle power and simple tools. But there’s a lot of mining going on the government doesn’t know about. Total production could be as high as 50,000 carats a year. The Count’s funneling part of that production away. He could be doing that as a middleman, buying from the villagers, but it’s more likely he’s started his own mining operations.
“At this stage I’ll read some facts I’ve prepared about the area for you.”
Cal picked up a clipboard and flicked over a couple of pages.
“Significant quantities of diamonds appear to be concentrated beneath the extensive Danau Seran swamp. Traditional hand-mining methods are the only means of extraction at the moment. Virtually all of the diamonds recovered are gem quality, although most are relatively small, averaging about 0.30 carats. The potential for commercial diamond mining in the area appears to be excellent.
“Diamond deposits have been scattered by dispersal along numerous rivers flowing seaward from the interior. The original diamondiferous pipes have either been eroded away or are yet to be found in the jungles of the interior. In Kalimantan the richest diamond concentrates are, contrary to the usual rule, found far away from their presumed original source. The diamonds are well crystallized with octahedrons predominant and frequently with rounded edges.”
Cal looked up. “From there on it gets more technical,” he said, “and of little use to us. However, we can now estimate the value of the diamonds produced in South Kalimantan, if sold for sale in the West.
“Small, quality diamonds retail at around $2200US a carat, so 50,000 carats is a total of $110 million US a year. The Mafia will be able feed those diamonds into the Russian market at full price, but they’ll take a third of the proceeds for their trouble. If the Count can get his hands on twenty percent of what’s mined, he’d be looking at around $15M US a year, with almost no labor costs or overheads.
“The problem is, that’s not enough for what the Count is funding. AK47s may be cheap on the black market, and fanatics don’t work for wages, but we figure he needs to be making twice that amount for these groups to do what they’ve been doing.
“The SIS think he’s been smuggling a lot more diamonds than is possible from the swamps. We’ve begun to wonder if he hasn’t found one of the source pipes in the middle of Kalimantan.”
The men stirred. It was blood-pumping stuff. An improbable story of a treasure trove, hidden at the ends of the Earth.
“We can see why the Count needs the Russians,” continued Cal. “Russia has a long history of mining and selling gemstones. The Russian Mafia would be able to feed the Count’s smuggled diamonds onto the world market without any trouble.”
Cal let the murmurs and comments subside.
“What we need, for our purposes, are details of the Count’s mining operation on the ground, and ease of access to it.”
He looked up.
“How we would manage a rapid insertion into the area is at this stage entirely unknown.
He flipped over one more page.
“The search for diamonds and their sources is very difficult in Kalimantan. Only some areas can be reached by road or navigable rivers. The rest is a forbidding and primitive land.
“The Dayak tribes of Central Kalimantan are mainly settled along the Lamandau River. About one third of them are Tumon Dayaks, mostly Christian, who were evangelized in the late 1920s and early 1930s.
“The interior can only be reached by speedboat, and in the most central areas by motorized long boat. The Dayak tribes of the interior still maintain traditional cultures, live in longhouses, and enact ritual ceremonies from their headhunting past. Facilities in this area are very limited.”
Cal put the clipboard down.
“However, now that we know what we’re looking for, we’ve turned up something interesting. This picture was taken by an Italian Cosmo SkyMed reconnaissance satellite – a spy satellite – and enhanced through MUSIS, the European imaging system that coordinates the German, French and Italian satellites.
“I had to pull in a few favors to get the whole of Kalimantan covered, and it took a while to get a satellite in position.”
A high-resolution image of a small airfield filled the screen behind Cal. It nestled in an unusually shaped bowl in the jungle. It was invisible to anyone not in it or directly above it.
The pilots among the men shook their heads. It would take an experienced bush pilot to make it in and out of that airfield.
A small rectangular red icon appeared in the lower center of the map behind Cal. It showed where the image had been taken.
“Small airfields like this are not uncommon, but they’re nearly always around the coast.
“They service mission stations, and the few government agencies trying to keep a tally of the indigenous peoples. Missions are mostly Protestant, though there are some areas that were evangelized much earlier by Catholic priests. The planes they use are Cessnas, mainly provided by Protestant churches in the States. Most use the airfields. Some have been fitted with floats to land on the rivers.
“The interesting point for us is the airfield doesn’t belong to any of those groups. SIS can’t find any record of an airfield there, government or private.
“It’s an ingenious set up, and ideal for smuggling diamonds. One more Cessna in the skies over Kalimantan would hardly be noticed. There wouldn’t be any border formalities if it landed at an airfield somewhere else in Indonesia. However bush airfields in Malaysia and The Philippines would do just as well. From there the long trek of smuggled goods begins. Up through Afghanistan and on into Croatia.”
Cal let the men digest this.
“Our first thoughts were of a HA/LO approach for the op – high altitude low opening – but that would be impossible over dense jungle. It’s also going to be impossible over an airfield, unless we can secure the area first.
“We need to send a reconnaissance team to the airfield, and then decide. It takes longer to do it this way, but it’s best to be prepared when we arrive. We’ll all live a lot longer!”
There was a hum of excited comment. There was a lot of experience in the room, and the men liked what they saw.
Cal raised his arm for silence.
“Back here in camp there are other decisions we need to make.”
Cal paused. Basic training was over, and the men knew what came next.
“Those of you who want to be part of this op, fall in at 0700 tomorrow. You’ll be assessed for fitness and weapons readiness. If you’ve decided the job is not for you, see me here at 2200 hours tonight. I’ll pay you out, and arrange transport if you need it.”
The time for the men to decide if they were in or out had come. It increased the pressure on Maric to make up his mind.
He knew Cal wanted him for the op, and it was nice to be wanted. On the other hand he’d spent the last six years as a farm hand. It made him a passable living, and mostly he did whatever he pleased.
It had been an idyllic time. It had almost made him forget the problems he’d had in the SAS. Not with the SAS itself, but with the things he’d had to do in the line of duty. Did he want to take the chance this op would bring the past back to haunt him? Or even worse, create new memories just as difficult to live with?
Maric looked at the clock on the wall. He didn’t wear a watch. When he’d served in the SAS a clock function had been built into the soldiers’ comms devices. The time was around half past eight. That gave him an hour and a half before he had to report to Cal.
