‘The beetle’s head contains an antidote to the sleeping,’ said Timbu. ‘But its body is pure poison — a nerve toxin. They mash a few of ’em up and dip their arrows in it. Handy when your dinner’s up a tree. One scratch with that stuff and it’ll fall onto your plate.’
Beck was intrigued. He knew there were many species of plants and animals that had medicinal qualities undiscovered by western medicine. And he’d seen that beetle many times before throughout the Asia — Pacific region, yet he’d never heard of it having the properties it apparently possessed.
Timbu spoke to the old woman, who replied tersely before pointing at the shattered foot. ‘Apparently you’ve got around twenty minutes before the pain finds its way through the medicine. She says you should remove the bullet before he wakes, because she says she’s not doing this again,’ he said, screwing up his face, mimicking her.
Beck didn’t say anything, silently agreeing that eating live beetles was not something he’d want to make a habit of. He wondered what on earth was in the collection of nuts and leaves that, combined, had acted so fast and so completely to knock the patient out.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Timbu, ‘but you’ll never find out. It’s considered magic and they guard it jealously.’
Beck shrugged and got to work. He poured antiseptic on his hands, and then felt around in the flesh and bone of the man’s foot with his index finger until he found the slug. It was difficult to reach. He cut the skin further with a scalpel, working quickly, and then dug out the bullet, again using his index finger. He could feel that many of the delicate bones were broken. It must have been a ricochet, tumbling elliptically as it penetrated the skin, smashing its way in. The warrior would also have to make the trip in the chopper to the hospital at Mt Hagen. Beck did the best he could, dousing the wound with antiseptic and applying a pressure bandage to help stop the bleeding and keep the flies off. When the patient woke, the pain would be excruciating. ‘You know, it’ll be touch and go whether you keep this foot, sunshine,’ Beck said to his unconscious patient. Infection would be the major concern, ironically possibly introduced by his probing finger, but there was not much else he could do. When Beck was finished, he sat back on his haunches. ‘Okay, next,’ he said. Timbu told the villagers that Beck was done. The men picked up their wounded comrade and began to carry him off.
‘Better explain he has to go to hospital, Timbu. On the helo. They should carry him over there. Put him with those two blokes,’ said Beck, pointing at the sedated PNG soldiers who were also now miraculously sleeping like babies after having been visited by the beetle woman.
‘Boss, the helo will be here in twenty,’ said Ellis, panting from his run to and from the vehicles.
‘Good,’ said Wilkes, distracted. He’d noticed the TV news crew filming, using the activity of the SAS as background and that was a concern. It annoyed him. He walked over, careful not to be within the camera’s frame.
‘…violence continues to be a feature of these elections, but now there’s something new. The primitive highland warriors, people happily living a simple hunter — gatherer existence for thousands of years, are armed with modern military rifles. And they’re using them…on each other. This is Jim Fredrickson in the highlands of Papua New Guinea, for NQTV News…’
‘How was that, Barry?’ said the journalist to the producer after a few seconds’ pause to let the tape run.
‘Looked good to me,’ said the cameraman.
Barry gave the thumbs up.
‘Look,’ said Wilkes, walking up to the crew as the man called Barry checked the sound equipment, ‘I appreciate that you blokes have a job to do, but I asked you to keep us out of your reporting.’
‘I know. Don’t worry, Sergeant,’ said Barry. ‘The background is way out of focus — just a bit of colour and movement, that’s all. I can assure you that you and your men won’t be recognisable.’
‘Okay,’ said Wilkes. Anonymity was important to the SAS. If they could be identified by any bad guys, there was always the chance that revenge might be exacted on them through a hit on their friends and family in the future.
‘Hey, now I know where I’ve met you before,’ said Barry. ‘It’s just dawned on me.’
Wilkes cocked his head to one side. The guy did look familiar.
‘Well, we’ve never actually met, but aren’t you with Annabelle Gilbert?’
Wilkes didn’t answer. He was uncomfortable about having his professional and private lives mixed.
‘Yeah, I’ve seen you around the station a couple of times. Barry Weaver, producer,’ he said, holding out his hand.
Wilkes reluctantly shook it. ‘Tom Wilkes.’ He remembered that Annabelle had mentioned Weaver in the same sentence as ‘sleazebag’.
‘Look, Wilko, don’t worry about us,’ said the producer, putting his arm around Wilkes’s shoulders as if he’d become his new best friend. ‘We’ll do the right thing by you. And, by the way, I reckon you’d have to be the luckiest man on this planet.’ Weaver jiggled his eyebrows up and down repeatedly — suggestively — so that there was no mistaking why he thought Wilkes was so lucky.
The helo arrived with the familiar thump-thump, distracting Wilkes. Ellis came over.
‘That was quick,’ said Wilkes.
‘It was already airborne and close by, boss. Mt Hagen thought it better to pick the wounded up now and ferry them in, rather than turn the bird around and collect a medical crew.’
Wilkes looked at Beck.
‘That’s okay with me, boss,’ said Beck with a shrug. ‘The patients are as stable as I can make them, anyway.’
Wilkes nodded. Fair enough. He walked Ellis out of earshot of the producer. ‘Listen, when the help leaves, find some excuse to get that news crew on it will you?’ Fuck ’em. They had their story, didn’t they?
Twenty minutes later, the Blackhawk lifted off, carrying away the wounded and the news crew. Barry waved goodbye from the helo’s open door. From a distance, Wilkes and Ellis watched. Ellis yelled over the noise of the helo’s departure, ‘Told the producer guy the trucks had broken down and that we were going to have to walk out through this,’ he said, indicating the impenetrable wall of jungle nearby.
‘Yep, that’ll do it,’ said Wilkes, feeling relieved enough to return the friendly wave.
The tribespeople had gathered to watch the wounded men being loaded into the Blackhawk. They were all familiar with helos. The villagers about to get a ride in it were considered lucky, for this was seen as a real adventure. As the Blackhawk rose from the grass clearing, a small boy started spinning with his arms out, imitating the aircraft, and soon every child was doing it — spinning until they fell over, dizzy and laughing.
The smoke of several fires hung in the village at about waist height. Night fell quickly at this high altitude, and so did the temperature. The soldiers came prepared for it with khaki flight jackets, the same type used by military pilots. Timbu and the politicians threw on jumpers. Most of the locals ignored the cold, going about their business near-naked. Some of the older folk and the youngsters had grey blankets wrapped loosely around their shoulders. The days were hot, but the nights cool.
‘Ples bilong yu?’ asked the chief as he took a seat beside Wilkes. Where are you from?
‘Mipela bilong Ostrelya,’ said Wilkes, a bit of pidgin coming back to him.
‘Yu marit o nogat?’ asked the chief, making small talk.
‘Mi no marit,’ said Wilkes, hoping the question was not a prelude to the chief offering him a daughter. ‘Mi gelpren,’ he said.
The fact that Wilkes had a girlfriend seemed to satisfy the chief, who then turned away to answer a question Pelagka put to him about the health of his people.