Traveller Probo

The team had often joked that traditional Maori were cannibals and Hami had no doubt that these ancestors would indulge in the time-honoured Polynesian tradition of devouring any stranger who fell onto their path. They wouldn’t find Markus. He knew it. The realisation made him furious. They could never barge into the village, guns blazing, to reclaim his body for his family, as such an action was prohibited by their rules of engagement. So, as he jogged to Pokere’s position, he experienced a hollow feeling of loss. In the last metres he warned of his approach and heard Ngawa do the same.

But of Elkington, there was no sign.

Hami sprinted across the clear ground that separated Pokere and Dr Chow’s position from the forest, knowing that as he ran he would be seen. He dropped to the ground near the pale face of Dr Chow while shifting his weapon to cover their position. They watched in relief as Ngawa ran from the opposite direction, his jungle boots making his progress almost silent. Of pursuers there was no sign.

“What the fuck happened?” asked Ngawa. His tone was conversational but his eyes were everywhere, missing nothing as they scanned the surrounding forest. Through it all, the village remained ominously tranquil.

“We’ve been spotted,” exclaimed Pokere. “They look like they’ve ambushed us. What can you tell us Hami?” They looked to Hami as he told them what he had found.

Ngawa’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck me! Anything about Elks?” They shook their heads and were silent and grim. Through it all, Chow sat wide-eyed, shocked at the sudden explosive violence and stunned more at what was not known, only implied, imagined, guessed. Pokere thought a moment. It was his call. “Elks is only about thirty metres away. If we make an open run to recover him, he may still be there. I suggest we make a quick recovery and if he’s not there we head for the extraction point and wait for extraction.”

“But that’s hours away at least,” exclaimed Chow, who looked terrified. Hami understood how the thought of waiting so long for safety could be distressing. The academic had made it plain how he had cherished every moment of this momentous research opportunity but now he looked like he wanted to leave.

“I suggest Hami and I move to Elks’ position, check and report,” confirmed Ngawa quietly. Hami could tell he, like Pokere, was shattered at the thought of any of the team not returning but they had to approach this as the professionals they were.

Hami added, “We can’t take Dr Chow, so Pokere will have to stay.” He looked to Pokere for confirmation. Their squad leader pursed his lips and nodded. Pokere had played Rugby for New Zealand in their famed All Blacks and was known as a furious, calculated player. Like the rest of them, he would never give up. Only his eyes betrayed the urgency of their situation. Here they were, on a lonely windswept hill in ancient New Zealand, one thousand years from backup.

“Go to it. If Elks is there, bring him, if he’s not...” Pokere just shrugged and his glance spoke volumes. They all knew that their mikes and cameras would record all. Hami wondered what Markus’ and Elks’ cameras were recording now.

As one, Hami and Ngawa rose and sprinted in the direction of Elkington’s position in a clump of shrubs overlooking the village gardens. The location had been hidden from Pokere’s view by a few large trees and they ran with that spine-tingling realisation that they were watched. As soon as they emerged from behind the trees they surprised three Maori men, and the woman they had dubbed as ‘Marilyn’, who looked elated as they dragged Elkington through the undergrowth. Hami and Ngawa paused momentarily, for they were ordered not to interact with the locals.

“Oi!” yelled Ngawa. “Oi. Fuck off!” he jabbed his weapon at the villagers who looked up at them in surprise.

Hami fired a short three-shot burst above their heads. The shots tore at the still morning air and the locals jumped in shock, eyes wide with a look of almost comical terror on their tattooed faces. But rather than flee, they sprang into defensive positions, taiaha and clubs raised in threat. Even in his fury, Hami had to concede the courage of these primitive people standing in the chill, wearing only their reed and feather skirts. Their broad feet were bare, bearded faces savage and yet somewhat familiar, like Uncle Tui after a big night. Even Marilyn appeared more savage than afraid. She wielded her sharp digging-stick in menace.

At their feet lay Elkington. A quick glance showed him to be unconscious, possibly dead. His head had a messy wound on the side as if struck with one of the clubs. Elkington was normally sharp and alert, so these big lads must have been incredibly quiet to have surprised him like they had.

“Move! Move! Fuck off! Move!” the two soldiers yelled as they jabbed at their bare-skinned rivals in obvious threat. Hami suspected their own camouflaged faces would look mysterious, like spirits that had emerged from the forest itself. He fired another burst above their heads but to no avail.

One giant of a man they had named ‘Slim’ because he was anything but, bellowed with grotesquely wide eyes of traditional threat as he launched his attack. He ran at them, his taiaha raised, ready to sweep all before him. He had barely run half a dozen paces when he died, three shots fired point-blank to the centre of his chest. Ngawa’s face was grim as the man collapsed onto his face with a thump. He had been so close they heard the bullets smack into his meaty body. The attacker’s companions looked on in astonishment, now comprehending the blast meant death. They were suddenly hesitant.

“That’s right! That’ll happen to you, you fuckers! Now back off!” screamed Hami. His blood lust was up. Despite their training and weapons, they could die if the villagers decided to rush them. They urgently needed to move.

Uncertain, the warriors and the woman backed away, their wild elation broken.

Without hesitation, Hami dashed to Elkington and grasped him by the webbing of his camouflage uniform. Hami was only scant metres from the villagers’ powerful bodies. He could smell them, their sweat and body odour mixed with stale fish and musty dampness. While Ngawa covered him, he dragged his friend, one handed, back some paces and then straightened to peer at the villagers and reposition his grip on his MP5. Cheated of their prey, the men and woman cried out in fury and glared. To Hami, they looked just like Maori performers of the traditional haka, the Maori war dance. Popular at football games, to a New Zealand sports fan the haka looked cool but from the villagers that look, destined to intimidate enemies and wish death upon them, was a terrifying. If they got out of this, Hami was certain he would forever feel a chill when he witnessed a haka from now on.

The warriors coiled to attack. Ngawa saw their intent and fired more rounds into the ground in front of them, kicking up a burst of soil and leaves in a spurt that startled. They glanced, uncertain, at Slim’s body lying deathly still before them. Their pause was enough for Hami to shoulder his weapon and grasp Elkington’s webbing with both hands to drag him further backwards. Ngawa rushed to his side to grasp one of the recumbent man’s shoulder-straps while Hami held the other and they sprinted as fast as they could, laboriously dragging the heavy man to where Pokere and Dr Chow were hidden.

Seeing their prey flee, the villagers bellowed again and they ran in hot pursuit, heedless that they could be killed. Their cries rapidly drew closer. Dragging Elkington while trying to maintain vigilance and avoid stumbling, Hami looked up and narrowly dodged a stone thrown by his pursuers. That could have made a mess of his face. Ngawa fired another burst into the forest behind them, more to discourage than kill.

They sprinted the final exhausting metres to Pokere, who stood from his hide to fire a burst above the pursuit. Both Hami and Ngawa were winded, for Elkington was a big man and the up-hill sprint left them panting heavily on legs that trembled. Another large stone just missed Ngawa, bounced off a boulder and thudded into the ground by Dr Chow, who looked up in pale-faced shock. He clutched the video camera with which he had filmed their mercy dash. Pokere saw an attempt to make a flanking move by one of the warriors and fired a short burst so the 9mm rounds ricocheted off nearby boulders with an angry whine. The villager dived for the shelter of nearby bushes.

With a professional’s eye for a defendable position, Pokere had selected the observation post because it was surrounded by granite boulders decorated with furry, green-grey splashes of lichen. As the two soldiers bundled Elkington into a clear space next to Dr Chow, they formed a protective triangle with Pokere at the apex, each crouched against the boulders and aiming outwards.

“I’m out!” muttered Ngawa. He paused to change magazines, removing the empty clip to smoothly replace it with a click. Hami knew that was one of only three spares each had included as part of their kit. They hadn’t expected to need a lot of ammunition and, as the MP5 clips held only 30 rounds, they didn’t have a lot of ammunition to waste.

“Fuck me ehoa, you didn’t tell me you were running on empty,” muttered Hami without taking his eyes from the targets, two of whom had returned to stand fearlessly in the open only fifteen metres away. The woman wasn’t to be seen.

“Marilyn gone, probably to get reinforcements,” observed Hami dispassionately.

Pokere called briskly to Dr Chow, “Doctor, is Elkington alive?”

“Pardon?” asked Dr Chow. The flare of violence sent him into a mild shock. He looked dazed and thick-headed, as if freshly woken from sleep.

“Check Elkington! Check his pulse! Feel for a pulse at his throat!’ ordered Pokere sharply.

Dr Chow fumbled at the man’s throat. As his squad-mates had dragged him by his webbing, Elkington’s clothes were partially tangled up over his throat and the academic fumbled to loosen the cloth so he could feel for the carotid artery. “I can’t find a pulse!” he exclaimed in near panic. Hami watched as Dr Chow moved Elkington’s head to one side. There was a large crease in the side of the big man’s head from which bright red blood and clear fluid oozed. The fluid had already wet the ground where Elkington lay and soaked one of the elbows of Dr Chow’s camouflage combat suit.

Hami swore. This did not look hopeful. Elkington had been a great friend and a real joker.

“Ok. We can’t stay here or the locals will soon have reinforcements. One of them will get lucky with their rock throwing. Or we’ll have to kill the bloody lot of ’em,” explained Pokere in perfectly conversational tones. “We have the choice to take Elkington, or leave him here if he’s dead.”

“I’ll check him,” replied Ngawa and he dropped to his knees by his squad mate.

“Nope, he’s gone,” called out Ngawa angrily as he crouched. All of them were trained medics and if there was any chance to save Elkington, Ngawa would know.

“Okay, the longer we stay here, the more likely it’ll be that we’ll be fighting the whole tribe,” exclaimed Pokere. “We all ready?” He glanced at Ngawa, who nodded his confirmation as he stripped Elkington of any useful gear, ammunition, and identification, his dog-tags placed safely into Ngawa’s pocket. His camera was left in place. Ngawa’s face was wooden and the glance he passed Hami showed barely a flicker of his murderous rage.

Hami thought it ironic that poor Markus was momentarily forgotten, assumed a fatality.

“We all know the run back to the drop off. Dr Chow, you’ll run behind me, Ngawa, you lead and Hami, you take the rear.”

Pokere paused a moment as he carefully considered their options. “Shoot to kill if threatened. They have the advantage. This is their home. We just want to get home. Agreed?” His two remaining squad members gave their affirmation and readied themselves, dropping binoculars and food packs next to Elkington’s body. They would have to travel light and fast. To have no food for a few hours wouldn’t kill them but to be hindered by excessive equipment could prove fatal.

Ngawa placed a farewell hand on Elkington’s shoulder and then cautiously emerged from their scant shelter. Hami watched as he scanned the scrub to their rear and then forward in the direction of the drop-off. The two visible warriors hooted in glee and shouted insults. Hami could clearly see the tattoos on their faces, sweaty despite the chill. They brandished their primitive weapons as Ngawa moved stealthily from the boulders and then jogged briskly through the ferns in the direction of the drop-off. Pokere and Chow were close behind as Hami followed. The warriors gave a yelp and started in hot pursuit but stopped immediately they realised Elkington had been left. As he ran, Hami looked back and saw them eagerly drag Elkington’s body from the shelter of the boulders. Their mighty arms rose and fell as they beat his injured head again and again with their war clubs. One of the men, dubbed Max because of his similarity to a famous All Black rugby player, wiped bloody hands over his face and chest and laughed as they retreated. He waved his muscular arms with glee while his fellow warrior rummaged about the body to see what secret delights it might contain.

Hami could have, should have, killed them both right there but orders were orders, so he again scanned the forest for unseen danger. He may need the rounds later and he wasn’t a murderer. They knew these people were hard, deadly, and violent. Each of the team had taken on this mission with that understanding.

As they ran, more villagers hurried from the hidden settlement. Emboldened by the flight of the strangers, they were instantly aggressive. Rocks were thrown while warriors dashed forward to make threats and posture their courage and ferocity. Two rocks narrowly missed Ngawa while one struck Dr Chow in the upper arm, knocking him sideways. This forced Pokere to fire a burst into the face of the thrower, the young warrior they had dubbed Junior. Until these villagers recognised the killing power and range of their weapons, they would be forced to fire into the enemy at close-range. Rose-like petals bloomed beneath the young man’s right eye and forehead before he collapsed backwards.

They had only fifty or so metres to their drop-off, the Transporter’s Area of Convergence. It was near to the top of the rise at the edge of an extinct caldera where the village was located. Even in the 21st Century, this area had no dwellings and scant vegetation, so had been relatively easy to set up for the project. However, it also had little or no cover and was next to the mountain’s peak while the rest of the mountain sloped away, through dense forest, to the village. Their pursuers began to crow with delight, for their prey headed for a dead-end from which there was no escape. The villagers’ smiles and laughter showed there would be no relief for these strangers.

Hami imagined the fate of Markus and Elkington, his friends and team mates. He had seen many a hangi; the traditional Maori earth oven, prepared for celebration feasts. He knew what was to happen to them. The thought of his comrades being carved up, cooked and eaten horrified and sickened him.

Though the fleeing team was slowed by Dr Chow, whose arm had been injured, they soon stood at the extraction area. The Area of Convergence was a bare, lonely spot that would normally attract no attention. The only indicator was the fibreglass rock in which the data collector; a portable computer with hidden antennae, was located.

Soon the remainder of the village men and most of the women stood or squatted only fifteen metres or so away, making hooting calls as they pulled faces and poked out tongues in traditional threat. They had lost two of their village family and Hami had the impression they were priming themselves for the satisfaction of torturous murders. Some men ran forward a few paces, waving clubs as they cried out in challenge but for some reason they did not attack. Obvious admiration was directed to Max and his companion who were covered with the blood of Elkington. The two stood, laughing loudly at the four isolated men who crouched at the bare spot near the top of the lonely hill.

A figure walked leisurely from the village. He was a large, powerful man immediately recognisable as Elvis, his muscular bulk and mere frost of grey on his frizzy beard and temples identifying him from afar. He carried something bulky at his side and Ngawa groaned, “Oh Fuck. Is that what I think it is?” Hami watched and, despite his training, felt appalled as Elvis raised what was left of Markus’ head. They knew it was Markus, as his hair was shorter and spikier than Elks. Part of the head had been broken away and Elvis held the gruesome trophy by a braided flax chord that had been looped through holes pierced in the tops of his ears to make carrying easier. The face had been so battered it was barely recognisable.

Elvis bellowed out a threat and laughed at his enemies as he shook the dripping head at the end of his extended arm.

A short burst of fire struck Elvis in the face and the big man collapsed in mid-laughter, to hit the ground with an audible thump. By his side, the trophy bounced, its chord still in his meaty fist. Hami glanced at Pokere, whose face was as if carved from stone, his eyes iron hard. A man of few words and a quiet disposition, he was known for his intelligence and calm but his smoking gun had spoken for him. He didn’t need any affirmation, though Hami nodded his agreement.

Elvis got what was coming to him.

The villagers surged away and screamed in primal rage. Hair greasy and unkempt, faces tattooed with glaring eyes and mouths agape, to Hami they were a vision from Dante’s Hell. A few threw rocks with terrible accuracy and, though they were barely dodged or blocked, the Travellers knew that it wouldn’t be long before one of them was critically injured. They were forced to fire at a couple of stone-throwers and a man and a woman fell, struck down by weapons they would never understand. The soldiers shot as a matter of necessity. The villagers had no fear but the death of two more caused the rest to retire, dragging their dead with them.

Hami felt the stirrings of desperation as he crouched to examine Dr Chow’s injury. The academic’s right upper-arm was already swelling, indicating the bone was broken. Hami applied a sling from his field kit. Dr Chow looked surprisingly bright, though pale. The last few metres of flight, running with a broken arm, had obviously been the hardest in his life. He was plainly terrified but was doing his best to hide it, something Hami respected. He patted Dr Chow’s good shoulder in comfort.

“What d’you reckon they’re up to?” muttered Pokere.

Dr Chow responded, grateful to finally make a useful contribution. They knew the villagers were watching them closely, puzzled as to why they didn’t flee further. His voice cracked with the strain and he had to cough gently to resume speaking, “I’m guessing that the demise of Elvis took them by surprise. I suspect that he’s been leader of the group for quite some time and the new ‘King’ will need to organise his way of doing things.”

“Hmph. So the King is dead, long live the King hey?” murmured Ngawa and there were wry smiles in response. They were all afraid and affected by the brutal deaths of their two friends and squad members, so the gallows humour was welcome. In a small unit like this, it was impossible not to forge strong bonds of friendship and trust. For a brother in arms to go like that was not right.

But it would be infinitely worse to be caught alive.

Hami glanced to Pokere. “That was a nice shot, by the way.”

“Damn right,” grunted Ngawa. “Thanks for doing that.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s 10am. Jesus Christ! We only have to last for two more hours!”

“So much for recon with no contact,” Pokere muttered and he pulled the camo-hood from his head. His camouflage paint was smudged and streaked as his normally placid face frowned in concentration. “Thank God the data download takes place twice a day. That means we have a chance to get off this hill.”

Hami grunted. The planned emergency extraction option at midday could save them. They wouldn’t last until their normal four o’clock return. No-one said it but they all knew it. The requirement to be vigilant for so long would be exhausting, despite their training and experience.

Ammunition was now of concern. Twice they were forced to blast a few rounds over the heads of stone throwing warriors, causing the attackers to duck behind whatever cover was available. It seemed that the death of Elvis reminded them that these strangers could kill a lot more effectively than originally thought.

The hours passed slowly as the misty cloud thinned to have the dreary drizzle cease. Only minutes remained. At midday, the Transporter would be activated to admit a soldier from their squad who would collect the data store that would be immediately replaced with a new unit. Today, the activation would take Dr Chow and one of the soldiers, as the configuration could only accommodate two at a time.

They had drawn lots. Despite Ngawa’s objections, he would accompany Dr Chow home.

They knew that those left behind would be attacked. The soldiers watched as more of the villagers wandered up the hill, led by the blood-smeared Max. “Looks like our friend Max is the new chief,” observed Ngawa. The warrior looked grimly satisfied and he carried a pale, bone war-club in his left hand and the battered head of Markus in his right. He looked to the group huddled on the open ground and bellowed a long howl of mirthless laughter while he held the head aloft, daring them to strike him down.

Hami couldn’t help but notice he was a good deal further away than Elvis had been but, unknown to Max, was still close enough to kill if they opted to do so.

“Get into the Area of Convergence,” ordered Pokere who glanced quickly at his watch. “It’s due to Transport in a moment. Let’s hope they’re not bloody late.”

Ngawa helped Dr Chow back the few steps to the bare area which had heralded their arrival to this astonishingly beautiful and dangerous place. The steep, exposed drop behind them made it impossible for the villagers to attack from that direction but Dr Chow and Ngawa were plainly visible to the gathering hostiles. Ngawa handed his squad-mates his remaining ammo clips and then slapped Pokere and Hami each on the shoulder as they faced their antagonists over raised weapons. He stepped back, his weapon also ready. “Only five rounds left,” he mused.

Hami watched as Max raised the head again to crow his challenge. “See you in a sec,” called Pokere with a smile.

And then they were gone.