Only two of the men spoke English with any fluency: the commander, Captain Deris, who had studied for two years in Australia; and Private Isnin, whose nickname was Monday. Monday was the point man, and he had the instincts of a cat. Slight, and barely out of his teens, he managed to get through the brush without making much of a sound, and seemed as comfortable in the thick trees as he was on the road. Though he was at least five years younger than the next youngest man, it was clear they all trusted his instincts, and even Deris deferred to his sense of direction.
Monday and Sergeant Intan, about forty and a devout Muslim, seemed to communicate by telepathy. Neither spoke during a patrol, but the NCO constantly flashed hand signals back to Turk and the rest of the patrol as they walked, somehow perceiving what Monday wanted to do.
Turk wore a set of Whiplash glasses, which allowed him to see the feed from the two Seagull UAVs overhead as they patrolled. The drones were strictly reconnaissance aircraft. Relatively simple but capable of automated flight through a designated orbit, they fed back infrared images without interpretation by a computer or other device.
Operating in a remote section of the jungle a few miles from the Indonesian border, the patrols were designated as “presence and contact” missions by the Malaysian command: the unit swept through different areas, showing that they were there and hoping to come in contact with enemy guerrillas. The settlements here were isolated and tiny, generally with less than a hundred people. Most of the time was spent simply walking along trails. In the three days they’d been out, they had yet to see the enemy.
Today they had a target to check out — an abandoned mine about three miles from the highway. The Malaysians had been given intelligence claiming the rebels were using it to store weapons. A flyover by the Marine F-35s the day before had failed to find anything. The Seagull circling the area showed no activity now. But the terrain around the target area was the most complicated they’d worked through yet, and there was always a possibility that something was hidden in the foliage.
Turk followed as Monday continued up the trail, weaving toward a small rise that would let them see the approach to the mine. Suddenly, Sergeant Intan waved him to the ground; Turk dropped, then turned to signal to the others. Moments later he heard the sound of a truck straining up the hill nearby.
Turk crawled toward Monday and the sergeant; Captain Deris followed.
“Bandits,” the captain told Turk. That was the English word they used to describe the rebels, whom they regarded as criminals. “They must be driving to the mine. We will move back and parallel the road.”
He gestured with his fingers to make sure Turk understood.
“OK,” said Turk. He clicked the back of his glasses, opening the window on Seagull 2’s feed. The truck was an older pickup. The bed had been pulled off and replaced with a wooden platform surrounded by wide stakes. It was moving through a pass that led to the mine.
Turk dialed the Marines into his radio circuit.
“Basher One, this is Ground,” he said. “Do you copy?”
“Loud and strong, little guy,” said Cowboy. The Marines worked in two-ship units, with two planes always on alert as the Malaysians patrolled. The length of the patrols and the lack of refueling assets made it impractical for them to stay airborne when there was no contact with the enemy, but the base was close enough to the patrol area that they could be in firing range in under ten minutes.
“We think we have activity out here,” said Turk. “Request you get onboard.”
“Roger that. We’ll be airborne in zero-two. Check in when you have a definitive word.”
“We’re moving toward the target now. Check the feed on Seagull 2.”
“Looking at it, Ground. I see the truck.”
“Roger that.”
After a few minutes of walking, the patrol left the trail and moved into the jungle, intending to sweep around from the east in case anyone had been posted near the road. As they were about to start back toward the hill overlooking the mine, the Seagull spotted another pair of trucks heading in the same direction as the other one. A total of a dozen men sat in the back of the pickups.
It was a sizable force for the guerrillas. Captain Deris was pleased.
“A good catch. The airplanes will help,” he said confidently. “Bomb them at the mine.”
“We need to ID them first,” said Turk, citing the rules of engagement.
“Why? It’s an enemy site.”
“We need to confirm that they’re enemy, and not Malaysian army,” said Turk. “Or civilians.”
“No civilians are here. We’re the only army.”
“I didn’t make the rules,” said Turk. “You know them as well as I do. Visual IDs, or we’re under fire. Otherwise the Marines can’t do anything.”
The captain frowned but didn’t argue. After talking with the NCO for a few moments, he broke the squad into two units. Deris led the first, with Monday, Turk, and another man in a semicircle toward the hill where they could see the mine. The other half of the squad was assigned to hold the ground between them and the road, in case of an attack or reinforcements.
It took roughly ten minutes for them to reach the position, but it felt like hours. With each step, Turk felt his heart beat a little faster. He checked his M-4 several times as he walked, making sure he was locked and loaded; he kept his finger against the side of the trigger guard, tapping occasionally to reassure himself that he was prepared to fire if he had to.
Inevitably, he thought of Iran. The memories were confused, more about the emotion he’d felt than what had actually happened. He remembered the exhaustion and anger rather than the men he’d killed. His adrenaline kicked in; he was excited in the same way he’d be excited if he were in the air.
But it was different. In the air, Turk felt like a king — he knew his aircraft and his own abilities so well that he was never afraid, never less than completely confident. On the ground, his weapons felt cruder and less dependable, even though he’d been shooting rifles since he was a boy.
The mine was an open pit a little over a hundred yards in diameter, pitched on the side of what had been a low hill. Abandoned several years before, its sides were devoid of vegetation, thanks to whatever poisons, manmade and natural, were left from the operation. A misshapen green pool of water sat at the center.
The three trucks were parked in a semicircle at the entrance ramp to the flat land surrounding the pit. Three men were standing near one of the trucks, consulting a map. The rest of the men had gotten out of the trucks and were milling around the area. Turk counted a dozen.
“Attack now,” said Captain Deris.
“We still don’t know if they’re rebels,” said Turk. “They could be miners, just checking the site.”
Deris frowned. “You see they have guns.”
“Your government wrote the rules, not mine,” said Turk. “I’m as frustrated as you.”
“What’s ‘frustrated’?”
“It means — just hold on.” Turk examined the feed from Seagull 2. There was a list of items that indicated rebels — a flag was the most obvious, but he couldn’t see one. Nor could he identify the black armbands the 30 May Movement regularly wore on operations.
Guns were permitted — as long as they were from a list that included American rifles and the ubiquitous AK-47, all popular out in the bush. But if Turk could identify them as modern Chinese assault rifles, it could be assumed the group were rebels.
The normal Dreamland systems would have ID’ed the gun automatically. Turk had to work harder with the Seagull.