Double Back (21 page)

Tommy aimed his pointer at the large black-and-white aerial photograph being projected onto the wall of the briefing room. One of the analysts with the Defense Intelligence Agency, Tommy was a swaggering, bearish operative whose job was to track the supply chains of medical and scientific research programs.

‘This is the Maliana area of Bobonaro regency, taken ten days ago,’ said Tommy.

Mac was sitting in the first-floor briefing room of the DIA building in Denpasar with Jim and a yuppie analyst called Simon who looked as if he would be happier in a stockbroker’s office.

‘Lombok is a vaccine facility,’ said Tommy in his no-nonsense Brooklyn accent. ‘And most matériel used in this program is DPI.’

‘Which is?’ asked Mac.

‘Dual-Purpose Items – they can be used for purposes other than those declared,’ said Tommy.

‘Don’t countries have to file reports on what these facilities do?’ asked Mac.

‘Yes, Mr McQueen,’ said Tommy, his black trop shirt rustling as he turned. ‘You’re talking about a Confidence-Building Measure. It’s a declaration of materials, weapons and processes that each state must make annually.’

‘So what do the Indonesians say about Lombok?’ asked Mac.

‘Indonesia has never filed a CBM return,’ said Tommy, as if Mac might be a bit slow.

Swapping a glance with Jim, Mac let the briefing continue.

‘The Lombok site is registered with WHO and it produces a vaccine that seems to work,’ said Tommy. ‘But we have some questions.’

The DIA people scrolled through their surveillance pictures and explained their concerns: the incinerator was burning too often and too hot to be destroying the waste Lombok officially produced, the food supplies to the site were too great for the residential staff, the water reservoir was eight times larger than required and the Siemens gas turbine that powered the Lombok site produced enough power to drive a small car plant.

‘We like this one,’ said Tommy, clicking to a photo of a dock worker standing in front of an open shipping container. ‘Lombok declared this as a shipment of Petri dishes from Malaysia, but when we bribed this fellow to open that container, we found something interesting.’

‘Yes?’ said Mac.

‘There was a single wall of boxes, and behind them were four sterile drying cabinets, made in Germany.’

‘That a bad thing?’ asked Mac.

‘It’s a good thing if you’re producing large amounts of methamphetamine – especially the crystal meth drug they’re calling “ice”.’

‘Okay, so Lombok is much bigger than they claim because a secret part of it is a drug lab?’ said Mac, swigging down his bad American coffee.

‘Perhaps,’ said Tommy, clicking his button until the area north and west of the Lombok buildings came back into the picture. ‘Hiding an illegal program with a legitimate one is a popular business decision in this part of the world.’

Nodding, Mac thought back to his recent infiltration of a medical research facility that turned out to be a paracetamol counterfeiting ring.

‘So where’s all the extra capacity?’ asked Mac.

‘Good question,’ said Tommy, aiming his pointer back at the screen. ‘The Lombok AgriCorp facility is built on a campus of about one hundred acres, with only a few buildings on it, grouped in one corner.’

Clicking, Tommy changed the photo to a close-up of the empty part of the campus, on which had been drawn parallel dotted lines along the ground linking six objects in the middle of the open area.

‘So what do we have here?’ demanded Tommy, slapping his pointer at close-ups of six ventilation stacks in the middle of a large field, camouflaged by trees and shrubs. ‘Why do we have ventilators in the middle of a field?’

‘It’s underground?’ asked Mac.

‘We think so,’ said Tommy.

Bringing up a new picture, Tommy indicated a rectangular building. ‘We believe this is a refrigeration plant. It runs twenty-four hours a day and gives off a heat signature associated with a meat-packing plant or an ice-cream factory.’

‘I see,’ said Mac.

‘I hope so, sir,’ smiled Tommy. ‘Because whatever else you do, this unit has to keep working, or the heat sensors will trigger an alarm.’

‘What do you mean, whatever else I do?’ laughed Mac. ‘What would I be doing there?’

‘Didn’t Jim tell you?’ asked Tommy confused. ‘We need someone inside.’

‘Someone?’ asked Mac, shifting in his chair. ‘You mean this little black Aussie duck?’

‘Well -’ said Tommy.

‘Where’s the SEALs or the Delta boys?’ said Mac, turning to Jim. ‘And I thought this was about Blackbird? Now I’m going back into a place where I’ve already been made, to infiltrate an underground drug lab? How did we get here?’

‘Sorry, buddy,’ said Jim. ‘You’re the only person in Western intelligence to have entered Lombok – we can’t get to Yarrow right now, so you’re a better bet than briefing a Delta operator. Besides – it dovetails with Blackbird.’

‘Dovetails?’ said Mac, ears pricked. ‘We’re snatching Blackbird to find out about Boa. So you’re saying Lombok is tied-up with Boa?’

‘I’m saying we have to take a look – it’s a volatile time for Indonesia and we don’t like some of the personnel associated with this site. We need eyes.’

‘Then it’s about time we talked about this personnel,’ said Mac, annoyed.

‘Fair enough,’ said Jim. ‘Fifteen years ago, when Soeharto’s New Order was going to transform Indonesia, the government decided the country had to be modernised.’

‘Sure,’ said Mac, holding out his mug for Simon to pour more coffee.

‘There was housing, defence, education and IT,’ said Jim. ‘And there was science and technology and medical research…’ He did the wind-up signal to illustrate a lot more categories. ‘Government departments had to help fund projects that were going to lift Indonesia into the realms of international greatness.’

‘Like Malaysia and Singapore,’ said Mac.

‘That’s it,’ said Jim. ‘Except the financial fruit didn’t fall far from the tree in Indonesia, and there weren’t as many medical research projects as Soeharto’s ministers expected. So this enterprising young officer in Kopassus, Ishy Haryono, used his family connections to promote a couple of medical research programs that attracted most of the funding.’

Jim signalled to Tommy, who found a picture of Haryono – a heavy-faced, pock-marked Javanese man with a moustache.

‘He looks very Noriega,’ said Mac. ‘He CIA?’

‘Well,’ started Jim. ‘You know how -’

‘That’s classified, Mr McQueen,’ said Simon, leaning over. ‘The US Department of Defense does not confirm or deny its associations with foreign nationals.’

‘He’s right,’ said Jim, shrugging. ‘We don’t.’

‘Did Haryono’s projects work?’ said Mac.

‘Some of them,’ said Jim. ‘But besides making Haryono very wealthy, these early programs attracted our friends the North Koreans.’

‘Why?’ asked Mac.

‘The North Korean military derives its main income from drug manufacture and distribution, which is outsourced to people like Haryono.’

‘Operasi Boa has something to do with Lombok and Haryono? It’s about drugs?’ asked Mac.

‘We want to cross it off our list,’ said Jim, as Simon loudly cleared his throat.

‘I’m sorry, Jim,’ said Simon, flustered and standing. ‘That is classified. McQueen’s operation is tightly defined: recon at Lombok and render Maria Gersao. Period.’

‘Let me tightly define it for you, Simon,’ said Mac, standing and looking the American in the eye.

‘I’m sorry, Mr McQueen,’ said Simon, his New England accent a little too superior for Mac’s liking. ‘We can’t compromise our own intelligence sources to tell you what we think might be happening.’

‘He’s right, McQueen,’ said Jim, edging between them. ‘We can’t judge the intelligence before we even collect it. Operasi Boa is still unconfirmed – that’s why we need the woman you call Blackbird.’

Addressing all of them, Jim tried to defuse the tension. ‘Guys, let’s do this the way Washington and Canberra want it done, okay? We collect the intelligence, and we’ve done our jobs.’

Looking at his hands, Mac made a noncommittal noise. Davidson had warned him about how close post-Soeharto Indonesia was to democracy and how easy it would be for the Indonesian generals to scuttle that by goading Australia or the US into direct actions. He was going to keep his mouth shut.

‘Okay, priority one,’ said Jim, holding his left thumb. ‘Snatch Blackbird and do so with minimum heat. Priority two: get as much intel on this Lombok facility as we can. Who knows what they’re making down there?’

‘Okay,’ said Mac.

‘And let’s remember that, as things stand,’ said Jim, ‘McQueen’s sample from Lombok shows that Indonesia has a legal and WHO-registered vaccine that could inoculate millions of Asians against a SARS-like respiratory disease. How many Western politicians want to claim responsibility for destroying that?’

‘So, who’s the cavalry?’ asked Mac.

‘Aussie special forces,’ said Jim. ‘Technically 4RAR Commandos – if that means anything – but for our purposes, known as the Six-Three Recon, okay?’

‘Where we meeting?’ asked Mac.

‘They’re in Timor.’

‘Cheeky buggers,’ said Mac as he stood.

Mac left the officers’ mess of the east-bound Madura Star – a Malaysian-registered container ship – and made his way to the guest stateroom. Shutting the door softly and snibbing the lock, he hauled a large green canvas kitbag from the floor onto the bed.

The locks were untouched and there were no signs of tampering. Jim had packed him two sets of drill fatigues, one in black and one in tan, as well as a black field jacket. There was a large digital camera and accompanying cable in a Ziploc bag and a black sat phone with which Mac could transmit digital pics. Spare batteries for the phone and camera were provided in their own ziplocked plastic bags along with a full set of marking flares. The single item Mac had requested – a Heckler & Koch P9s automatic pistol – was nestled in an aluminium gun box with two spare mags and a box of Ruger loads. Also in the box was a large screw-on suppressor that was longer than the gun itself. The P9s was no longer the weapon of choice in Mac’s circles because the fifteen-round Glocks and SIG Sauers – with their longer barrels for accuracy – were superseding the seven-round, close-range Heckler. But in Mac’s opinion the Heckler was still the most robust handgun you could buy, and its slide action worked best for sound-suppression, which was why the US Navy SEALs still used a version of it. Putting the box back in the bag, Mac noticed a pair of black Altama boots and a nylon bag containing two biohazard helmets – rubberised grey face masks with two breather cylinders sticking out of the jawpiece and a kind of hood that fell down the sides and back, making the wearer look like Darth Vader.

At the bottom of the bag was a packet of disposable rubber gloves and a small samples kit, not much bigger than a travelling first-aid kit. If he could manage to get into Lombok’s underground facility, DIA wanted samples of what was there, with the correct labelling protocol. There was also an electrical engineer’s work-up on the Lombok AgriCorp facility. It didn’t mean much to Mac, although the notes attached indicated that while DIA had no blueprints for the actual buildings, the wiring schemata showed PIN-enabled security doors, but no motion sensors in the buildings. However, it appeared there was circuitry for a security camera system.

Jim had also included a bulk pack of Hershey chocolate bars, about thirty of them in a sealed brown plastic bag. It was a reminder that, in the end, most spooks were shameless charmers and manipulators.

Dressing in the black fatigues, Mac put his boots beside the bunk, hit the bedside lamp, lay down in the dark and let his mind drift with the soft roll of the ship.

There’d be plenty of time for the cold, single focus of the gig. For now he thought about a girl named Jessica, and wondered at how she affected him. He’d always seen women as smart or hot or funny. They either ran rings around Mac, or they had him in stitches, or they looked great in a bikini. And sometimes they were all three. But Mac actually admired Jessica – she was a UCLA law student wandering around a war zone, demanding answers about her father; she had the strength to shoot a man dead, and the compassion to feel bad about it. As he dozed off he was wondering if he only liked her so much because it could never be, or if it could never be because he liked her too much.

Some time later a rap on the door woke Mac and for a moment he didn’t know where he was.

‘Ready, sir?’ came the first officer’s voice.

‘Yeah, mate,’ whispered Mac, looking at his G-Shock. It was 10.02 pm. Time to go.

The Royal Australian Navy’s submariners already had the flyingfox line over Madura Star’s sides where it had been lashed to the poop railing. As Mac got to the edge of the decking he felt the warm sea breeze from the Indian Ocean. Slinging the kitbag over his shoulders he put on the harness, looped the pulley wheel over the rope and put his weight on it to make sure the wheel sat snugly.

Leaning forward, he swung first one leg then another over the railing, before pushing off from the side of the Madura Star. He felt the acceleration as he hurtled into the night, his feet held out in front of him like shock absorbers. Halfway across the gap, the submarine loomed out of the black, and Mac’s speed was slowed by the safety ropes. His bum fell slightly until he thought he was going into the dark, oily water below, then he was being hauled to the sail of a sub with a large 62 emblazoned on its side – it was the last of Australia’s Oberon-class boats, soon to be scrapped in favour of the Collins class.

‘Thanks, boys,’ said Mac to the crew who dragged him up to the duckboards and unfastened his harness.

Below decks, Mac was led to the officers’ wardroom, where he took a seat on a sofa that curved around the main table. Accepting the offer of coffee, Mac pulled the sealed manila envelope containing Jim’s work-up from the bag.

The envelope contained a plastic-covered map of the Cova Lima and Bobonaro districts – those areas immediately east of the West Timor border – and a list of the objectives that corresponded to designations on the map. By earlier agreement with Jim, the Americans had changed Blackbird’s location to Mars and the Lombok AgriCorp site was labelled Saturn.

A third marking on the map, labelled Neptune, was a recon target-of-opportunity. In the DIA briefing room, Tommy had two indistinct U2 fly-over pictures of Neptune which showed what looked like a small airfield, high in a valley in East Timor, near the border. There had been some radio and cell-phone chatter from around the site in which the word Boa had been detected, and they wanted Mac to take a look.

There was also a pocket-sized GPS device with the coordinates pre-programmed, although Mac trusted that with the 4RAR Commando boys the GPS would be redundant.

A muffled knock at the wardroom hatch was followed by the appearance of a smiling XO, who introduced himself.

‘Cranleigh – XO, sir,’ said the trim, fortyish bloke, before grabbing a coffee and sitting at the table opposite Mac. Pushing a piece of paper across the table, Cranleigh retained the one he was carrying.

‘Won’t be landing you by tender tonight, sir,’ he said in a cheery voice. ‘Indon Navy’s sweeping the south coast so we’ll go to Plan B, if that’s okay, sir?’

Mac read the message quickly and pushed it into his pocket as the sub eased over, as if it was freewheeling down a hill. The final orders – held back till he was on the sub – gave him an exact landing point on the shore, the E &E call sign of ‘Chinchilla’ and the colour blue. If the whole thing went pear-shaped, they’d go to an ‘evade and escape’ plan where he’d use the Commandos’ radio, issue ‘Chinchilla’ as the call to the Royal Australian Navy, give his coordinates and then throw blue flares when the helo got close. If he got it wrong, triggered red or orange flares, the helo would abort and head back to its ship.

Mac looked up at Cranleigh as the sub gained speed in its downward trajectory. ‘Sorry, mate. Did you say Plan B?’

‘Yes, sir. Don’t want you punting about on the Timor Sea with that lot patrolling, so we’ll use the diver’s lock, okay? Let’s aim for twenty minutes earlier than -’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mac, who’d been concentrating on his objectives. ‘Diver’s lock?’

‘Yes, sir. My notes say you’re former Royal Marines? Commandos, I gather, so diving’s not a -’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Mac, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘Combat diving’s in there somewhere.’

One of the most annoying aspects of having a special forces CV was its capacity to create Plan Bs. Mac had completed P-company at Aldershot, the Parachute Regiment’s base, and a year didn’t go by without some planner turning a routine assignment into a chance to make Mac jump out of an aeroplane. It was the same with his completion of the SBS jungle survival course in Brunei, the final component of the brutal swimmer-canoeist program. On the basis of that near-death experience, his various controllers had spent almost a decade ensuring that Mac spent more time in the boonies of South-East Asia than he ever got to spend at cocktail parties.

His combat-diving history had also drawn a lot of Plan Bs, the worst being the time Mac had been ‘volunteered’ by Australia’s reps on IAEA to join French frogmen in a search of the Badush dam north of Baghdad. They’d been looking for the underwater entrance to a nuclear breeder reactor with a highly enriched uranium capacity. That job had combined just about all of Mac’s phobias in a single four-day adventure and he’d almost received an early ride home when he’d asked the IAEA head-shed why they didn’t just lower the water in the dam. Mac’s superior had gone red with rage, but the French thought it was hilarious: Jerst lower ze wort tur! Mais par course!

Now they were talking diver’s locks, the submariner’s version of the pilot’s ejector seat. Mac had done scores of dives from locks, bells and chambers. But there was a major problem with what the XO was proposing.

‘So, Cranleigh – we got a moon tonight?’ smiled Mac, in hope more than expectation.

‘No, sir,’ said the XO, obviously thinking this was good news. ‘She’s darker than the deep.’

‘That so?’ said Mac, coffee rising in his throat.

Something not listed in Mac’s military CV was that he’d done the marines’ hardest frogman section after a few rums. And he wasn’t alone. Like many of Britain’s finest, Mac didn’t like diving at night.