Rogue Element

It was different up here, away from the cameras that sent mostly sanitised images back home, if they sent anything at all. The world had largely forgotten about East Timor, only someone had forgotten to tell the desperados along the border that the cause was lost. Wilkes and his men had seen plenty of action that was never reported. The battles were often a one-sided affair. The bandits sprayed their bullets, often just holding their weapons out from a wall or a tree while firing off a full clip without looking where or what they were shooting at. The tactic had worked perfectly effectively against unarmed civilians. Wilkes’s Warriors liked to be more frugal. Pick a target and launch a round humming on its way. One target, one bullet. Ammo lasted longer that way.

Just recently, though, several lone UN soldiers had been ambushed and killed by gunmen who got lucky. Something subtle had changed in the attitude of the other side. It was like going back to the bad old days at the beginning of the conflict. It was becoming an increasingly dangerous world, and it didn’t pay to be cocky.

The cooler morning air lifted the thump of the rotors, carrying it echoing up the valley — a harbinger of decent food and a shower. It belted up through the trees and throbbed in their heads like a pulse. The helo’s dark green paint scheme appeared black in the frail light of the morning as the Black Hawk swung out from behind a ravine.

This Black Hawk was a gunship. It had a nasty sting with rocket launchers (empty) and mini guns on either side. The mini gun’s rate of fire was so rapid and intense that at night it appeared as a solid spike of yellow-white metal. As the helo orbited the target, it seemed tethered to the ground by the glowing spike. The Black Hawk was a frightening piece of hardware to be on the wrong side of, which, in this instance, wasn’t the case.

The helo passed through the green smoke of the flare that marked the RV, and settled on the gently sloping grass of the hill’s crest. The men swung aboard with practised ease. The loadmaster handed Sergeant Wilkes a pair of ’phones which he slipped over his head. ‘Wilkes’s Wankers, eh? Welcome aboard, ladies!’ The LM flashed the sergeant a phoney smile and batted his eyelids.

Wilkes gave him the finger in return and shouted, ‘This is for you, now.’ Then he made a fist and added, ‘And you can use this later in the privacy of your home.’

The banter was good-natured between the small numbers of Yanks and the Aussies in the UN force. Occasionally it became aggro but there wasn’t enough nightlife in Dili — women or alcohol — for anything serious to develop. The Americans regarded the Aussies highly for their craft in the field. They also appreciated the fact that, for once, another country’s armed forces were first on the beaches, getting their hands dirty, something the Americans were usually stuck with as the world’s policemen.

There was a fair bit of mutual admiration between the two countries’ soldiers — the American equipment and resupply particularly impressed the Australians. Those guys didn’t want for anything. The only thing that gave Sergeant Wilkes the shits was the way the Yanks said ‘mate’. They just couldn’t get it right. It always sounded forced and try-hard. ‘Mai-yt’ was the way the Yanks said it, somehow managing to put extra syllables into it that he couldn’t identify. When they added a ‘Ger’daiy’ to it, well, that was the fucking end. For Wilkes, it was like someone dragging their nails across a blackboard, which he didn’t mind half as much.

Wilkes and his men sat in silence and watched the countryside slip by beneath them. Remnants of villages trashed by the militia back in ’99 could still be seen. The weeds had reclaimed some of them, particularly those built with wood, fibro and dried grasses that had been burned to the ground. Other villages were still just a mess of broken buildings, abandoned to scavengers. From altitude, they had the appearance of smashed teeth set in rotting green gums. The poor countryside eventually gave way to the relative order of Dili, which had been transformed over the initial occupation by INTERFET and subsequent UN forces.

The leaders of Dili’s independence movement had returned soon after the Australians had secured the country from the militia attacks. The capital of East Timor quickly regained the daily routine of a country at peace, despite the thousands of East Timorese reportedly slaughtered by the TNI-backed militia. Now there were friendly soldiers in town, and soldiers meant money and money meant commerce. Trade was a wonderful balm for the country’s wounds.