Unsung Warrior Box Set, page 14
part #1 of Unsung Warrior Series
“Rather have my Beretta,” said Russo dismissively. It wasn’t surprising she preferred a handgun produced in Italy, thought Maric. Mind you half the US defense force did as well.
“I can do better with my knives,” said Bert. Maric filed that information away for future use. She could be quite useful eliminating sentries.
Hoist shrugged. Maric figured the powerful giant could shut down a close-quarters fight with his bare hands.
Once the topic of pistols had been exhausted, Maric turned his attention to their journey into the interior.
“How’s your gear getting here?” he queried.
“Same as yours,” said Russo. “Same cargo flight. Should be at the docks a couple of days after we arrive.”
That made sense.
“Where are we staying?” asked Bert, and Maric explained his forestry friend had been asked to secure them a house for a few weeks. It would be close to his friend’s home on Pontianak.
“We stay low, wear civvies, and blend in as much as we can. Dick’s wife is Maria, and they’ve got two kids. There’s usually three or four of Maria’s extended family staying with them. At the moment it’s an adult student, who’s also a nanny for the kids, and an uncle who runs a business in town. By the time we get there they’ll have brought in more of the extended family to act as cooks and housekeepers for us.
“The Dayaks are respectful people, at least toward outsiders. Make sure you treat them the same way.
“I’ll make some excuse why they can’t come to the second house once we’re settled in, and they’ll accept that. We can store our op gear there once it arrives. I’ll rotate one of us to keep guard at all times, just to be sure.
“They’re great hosts,” he emphasized, “just don’t piss them off. They didn’t get a reputation as head-hunters for nothing.”
“Yeah, but that’s in the past,” said Jinks, “right?”
“In the riots a few years back,” Maric continued, “for an independent Dayak state, a number of Dayaks were photographed carrying heads. This was a warning to dispossessed people from other islands not to try and resettle in Kalimantan, where there’s more land.
“Beheading is still the preferred means of settling disputes among these people.
Particularly when they get wound up. They live and die for the extended family, and we’d do well to remember that.”
Heads were nodding around the circle. This was important.
Maric turned to some basic facts and figures.
“Pontianak runs either side of the Kapuas River. This is a big river, people, fast flowing and wide. I’d compare it to the Amazon at Iquitos, where it enters Brazil. Remember, the Kapuas is emptying a very large area of rain forest.
“The dry season is from May to September. That’s a better time for us, and as long as we keep our water intake up we can function. Rains and humidity slow us down.
“We’re into April now, and Dick reports the Dry seems to be early this year. I’m hoping it will stay that way for our mission. By the time the main force arrives, we should be into the Dry proper.
"The daytime temperature is close to 30°C all year round, but that’s on the coast. We can expect closer to 40°C in the interior, especially in the dry season.
“The population in Pontianak is a little over half a million. There’s quite a racial mixture round the coast, but the Dayaks rule the interior.
“The center of Pontianak is mostly wooden, with buildings up to three stories. The city’s not far from the sea, and built in a low-lying area. Every street has a corresponding canal next to it to drain the water away. The only problem with that is the river backs up at high tide, and the canals overflow. If sea levels rise a meter as global warming predicts, Pontianak won’t be livable.”
There were a few raised eyebrows at that.
“I’ve been working on my command of Dayak,” continued Maric, "but it’s still fairly basic. We shouldn’t have troubles though. Dick will provide an interpreter in most situations, or come along himself.”
He turned to his right. “How’s your Dayak, Bert?” he asked the language specialist.
“About the same as yours,” she said. “What I’ve learned in the last ten days. The chief languages are English and Chinese. My Chinese is reasonable, as long as it’s Mandarin or Cantonese.”
Maric nodded. Good to see she’d done some preparation. He turned back to the others.
“The unit of currency is the Indonesian rupiah,” he continued, “and at the moment we’re getting a little over eight thousand rupiah to one New Zealand dollar.
“That means you're about to become millionaires,” he said with a laugh. “If I were you I’d savor this moment. You’ll each be given five million rupiah for expenses when we land."
"Don't get excited, that's about six hundred New Zealand dollars."
The others smiled. Maric noticed there seemed to be approval of his attention to detail. It was part of what was needed to wield this group into an effective team. On such small things was leadership built.
After the briefing the team got something to drink from the all night cafe, and walked the terminal. Trying to counteract the many hours sitting in the plane. Then they made their way to a smaller jet, and boarded it for the hop backwards to Kuching.
The giant terminal at Kuala Lumpur had been air-conditioned. The much smaller, and definitely quaint, airport at Kuching had no such modernisms. Tidy wooden fences and acres of white paint reflected the heat almost as badly as the tarmac.
“Thought you said thirty degrees,” groaned Hoist, sweat already dampening the back of his shirt. They were struggling into a terminal that did have a roof, but was open along the sides.
“Been raining overnight,” said Maric. “Humidity’s making it seem worse. Be better in Pontianak, I promise you.”
He knew the problem would continue for the big man. Hoist just couldn’t lose the heat he was generating fast enough. Maric figured he’d do better in the dry season. When he explained his reasoning to Hoist the big man didn’t seem convinced.
Two hours later they were in an even smaller turbo-prop, and descending over Pontianak. Maric wondered how he’d ever describe the airport to someone who hadn’t seen it.
It was much like provincial New Zealand, with three or four airline counters and a couple of displays of Dayak clothing and weapons. Except the colors weren’t anything you’d find in New Zealand. They were more vibrant. None of your pastels or earth colors here.
His friend Dick was waiting for them. He would have been hard to miss in a crowded airport, let alone in the straggling line of people at the fence. A shortish, solid, and very white, man at the fence waved enthusiastically. A baseball cap covered his short and thinning hair. He seemed to be the mother ship for a group of smaller, and much thinner, Dayaks. His retinue were constantly darting away and back on various errands. Two small boys clung to the mesh on the fence in front of him.
“Pendithh, Pendithh!” called the younger one.
A slim Dayak woman scooped him up to the top of the fence so he could see better. Her full dress stood out in blocks of color, and darker lips and eyes accentuated skin the color of tropical heartwood. An onlooker might be mistaken for seeing something doll-like in her barely five foot frame. But that would be a mistake. She ruled Dick’s menagerie with an iron hand, and could take the shirt off your back in a business deal.
“Hello Maria!” called Maric. “How’s it hanging, Dick!”
“None the worse for seeing you, boy!” bellowed Dick in reply.
The new arrivals had to pass through a cursory customs and immigration check before they could join the welcoming party. It didn’t seem to matter that Maria had passed the younger boy across the fence to Maric. He was formally assessed and permitted entry to the country as well.
Only in Indonesia, thought Maric.
When they were released on the other side of the barrier, Maric enveloped a protesting Dick in a bear hug, and kissed Maria on the cheek. The Dayak entourage around Dick enveloped the the reconnaissance team and shepherded them toward three vehicles. All the vehicles were at least ten years old, and had been driven hard.
Neither Dick nor Maric attempted any introductions, apart from Dick’s offering that Uncle Pau would drive one vehicle, Maria another, and Dick the last. Maric wondered how many of the Dayaks would have licenses, or for that matter, much in the way of driving experience.
Not that they weren’t mechanically minded. Dick’s logging gangs in the interior felled fast-growing scrub for palm oil plantations. They knew all there was to know about chainsaws. Despite their slight build and wiry nature, the Dayak workers were remarkably strong.
During the trip into the city, the Dayaks put questions to the drivers, who translated them for the visitors. The drivers were the only ones who had, it seemed, any ability with English.
Dick’s house was a two-story concrete and plaster affair, basic but quite livable. Once there the bulk of the Dayaks spilled out onto a small front lawn. One made of wiry grass that had just managed to survive hundreds of feet and the occasional machete attack.
Dick motioned the drivers forward, and the vehicles grumbled down the hard-packed grit road and around the corner. They stopped at a wooden bungalow with extensive verandas. colorful flowers decorated bushes under spreading shade trees. One of the many canals ran between the road and the house, with a narrow plank bridge over it.
“This is heaven!” exulted Bert, once they knew this was theirs. The others had to agree. The inside proved equally enchanting. The rooms were simple, but the lounge and kitchen were paneled with tropical hardwoods, and sported old-fashioned ceiling fans.
“This is better than your place, Dick!” said Maric. “I’ll have to charge you to come and visit us.”
“Ha!” said Dick. “It’s the only place within walking distance of the old homestead, so we can bring you food and pick up washing.
“Half a mill a day, but Maria got you a deal, and it gets cheaper the longer you’re here. Say two and a half mill a week if you need it for three weeks.”
Maric nodded. Maria was a sharp businesswoman.
The team grabbed their light carry-on cases and threw them onto the built-in seats and cane chairs of the lounge. They had one change of clothing and basics for a few days. The rest of their gear would be arriving at the wharves downriver in three days.
“Look at this,” exclaimed Bert from the kitchen. A wide back veranda opened onto an area paved with flat stones and surrounded by lush gardens. Something like a small band rotunda poked out from a grove of trees at the back of the section. A real hideaway.
“Ella and Subi will bring you lunch in an hour,” said Dick. “No playing with the Dayak girls, even though I’m sure they’d want you to. You’re not staying, and their bride price drops dramatically once they’re used goods. Understand?”
The concept of a bride price surprised the team. Still, important local customs and all that. They nodded.
“Any limits on what we can do with the young men?” said Bert, and the room dissolved in laughter.
“Knock yourself out,” said Dick, with a grin. “There’s local beer in the icebox. You’ll find the electricity cuts out for an hour around midday sometimes, and the tides will wash over the road later in the week. You can forget about Internet, unless you’re prepared to wait. It’s slow, and patchy. Hope you’ve got your satphones with you.”
Maric nodded.
“I’ll tell you more later. Big welcome party at our place tonight. If I were you, I’d catch up on my sleep.”
There was a profusion of thank yous, and Maric shook his hand warmly. Dick was a kiwi but his parents were English. One hug per visit was about his limit.
Russo commandeered the smaller of the two rooms at the back for her and Bert. Maric chose to sleep on one of the built-in seats in the lounge. The rest of the men dumped their stuff in the other room, which was a bit crowded with four of them in there. Hoist asked Maric if he minded sharing the lounge. Maric nodded his okay.
Hendrik got to work in the kitchen. A round of teas and coffees arrived in short order. Bert was especially touched by Hendrik’s generosity, and pitched in to help. They seemed an odd pair. Maric was pleased the two teams had started looking out for each other.
After that it was time to unpack, and explore the house and gardens until lunch arrived. It was a simple meal of rice, greens and stringy local chicken. Then they turned in for an afternoon nap.
CHAPTER 14
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Dick turned up about six. He’d walked from his house, and the recon team walked back along the grit road with him.
The presence of so many white people in one place made them a form of local entertainment. A ragtag bunch of kids slowly grew into a crowd behind them. Dick spent his time waving to his Dayak neighbors, and answering questions.
“I’m saying you’re here to look at palm oil plantations in Kalimantan,” he said, sticking to the cover story. “You might invest in palm oil if all goes well. Apart from that I’m being deliberately vague. Telling them you’re in no rush.”
Maric grunted his thanks. It was the most likely story, exploiting the fact Dick made his living from palm oil now. And it would continue to be a perfect excuse when they headed into the interior.
The number of people at Dick’s house had doubled from those that met them at the airport. Dick assured Maric this was everyone who was coming.
Not the whole tribe – he was confident he could field 50 fighting men with assorted weapons if he needed to protect his plantations – but the city part of it.
There were Dayaks crowded on the arms of two settees, and more perched on the windowsills. Others sat on the floor with their backs against the wall. They’d waited until the guests of honor arrived, and now handed glasses of local beer to the older men, Dayak and European alike.
Dick proceeded to toast the team in arrack, the local distilled liquor, and compelled Maric to join him. The Dayaks found Maric’s gasps as he sipped at the arrack hilarious.
Now that honor was, apparently, satisfied, platters of food appeared from behind the kitchen servery. They were loaded onto the big table in the lounge. There were more of the rangy chicken pieces, fried this time, and a colorful rice dish with some delicate seasoning and sliced vegetables.
Root vegetables were rare in Maric’s experience of Kalimantan, but one of the plates contained something akin to kumera. Bowls of plain rice and steamed greens completed the feast.
More glasses of fruit juice and beer appeared after the meal, and the social side of the evening began in earnest. Maric and Bert were an instant hit with their attempts to speak the Dayak language. The room collapsed with laughter every time they uttered a word.
Dick had to reassure them they were doing well. They were having most trouble with their rrrrs, which apparently had to be almost forced out, making a purring sound.
“It’s your accent,” he told them, laughing. “New Zealand English is a pretty clipped language compared to others. It sounds like you’re attacking the Dayak words, chopping them up and pushing them into a regular order.
“They understand you,” he assured them. “No problems there. Just slow down a bit, and draw the words out. Hey, they love the fact you’re trying!”
Oddly, there was no attempt by the locals to try out their English on the visitors. English was rarely taught in schools, and it wasn’t a main language of commerce. It was a hard lesson about relying on English as the world’s first language.
Apart from that, it was a very enjoyable evening.
Back at the base house, just after midnight, Maric asked the team what they thought of the Dayak people.
“I wouldn’t want to upset some clan loyalty, or cross some religious boundary,” said Russo. “Once they were angered I don’t think they’d listen to an apology, or the voice of reason.”
The others agreed. There were comments on their generosity, and industriousness.
“Exactly,” said Maric. “And that’s where Dick comes in. He can warn us before we make those mistakes.
“We get some leeway as honorary tribal members, but they’d be too polite to let us know we were digging ourselves an ever-deeper hole. As far as our conduct goes, be on the lookout for unintended affront, okay?”
There was a chorus of yessirs.
“We’re going to need members of Dick’s tribe in the field. As guides and interpreters. As locals to speak for us when we meet other tribes in the interior. And to bring the vehicles back when they’ve taken us as far as they can.”
The others nodded.
“Right,” said Maric. “You’re not on holiday, though it may feel like it. Lights out in ten minutes, and a sleep-in tomorrow to help you with jet lag.”
Ten minutes later the house was silent. Maric was out on the back veranda, sitting on a wide cane seat. He’d sprayed a couple of cleaning cloths from the kitchen with insect repellent. One lay across his shoulders and the other across his knees. The stuff seemed to be working. He was surprised when the back door opened silently, and Russo appeared.
She hesitated, and obviously hadn’t expected to see him.
He waved her over to the seat beside him. He sprayed the last of the cleaning cloths and handed it to her. She smiled, and let it drape down from her knees, where her legs were exposed under her skirt.
“Can’t sleep?” whispered Maric.
She nodded.
“I usually let everyone else nod off first,” she said. “It gives me quiet time to plan things.”
It was Maric’s turn to nod.
“Same here. I think the men like it. Makes them think someone’s in charge, things are going to go okay. That was how I felt when I was new to the SAS.”
She smiled appreciatively. It was a nice sentiment.
“It was you that got me into this,” said Maric. He found he wanted to tell her what she’d done for him. Then he realized it was a long story.
She raised her eyebrows encouragingly. She was intrigued.
