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Chapter Five;
Know Your Enemy

Bomber awoke in darkness, her head spinning from the attack she'd received earlier that day. Trying to see her watch in the darkness, but struggling through pulsing and watery eyes, she saw it was a little after 9pm. She'd been out for about eleven hours. Frowning to herself at the memory of what had happened she recalled just barely the small village they had passed through after she'd been split up from her crew. The faces of the villagers peering out of their doorways. The sadness on their faces. But also the relief. While the insurgents had Bomber they could find no reason to take one of them. She recalled also the method they had used of knocking her out. Basic but effective, they had hit her with the butt of a gun. But Bomber frowned to herself. A knock like that wouldn't knock her out for eleven hours. She then figured she'd probably been drugged in her sleep and instinctively looked at her arm. Indeed across the top of her elbow she could make out a makeshift tourniquet made out of a ripped cloth wound around a stick. It pressed tight on her arm and now she could feel the compressed blood throbbing in her arm. She reached up and ripped it off. Now she was angry. Pushing herself to her feet in the darkened room, she looked around for something to hit someone with. Then she stopped and words flooded her head.

… remember; while anger makes a good fighter, it can also make an unstable entity. Unstable people make decisions that likely will not benefit either them or their team…

And, slumping back against the wall, Bomber knew what that meant. An angry soldier makes dumb decisions. She swore softly to herself. If anyone should know this it should be her. Her and Spider; the victim of her last anger attack. Despite the circumstances she smiled to herself. She should've known this straight out. That line was from the manual, and she read the manual!

Gathering her thoughts for a minute she stood again and looked around her. The darkened room yielded nothing, as had been the intention of the men when they'd shut her in here, but Bomber had already gathered from feeling alone that she was in some kind of hut. The walls were hard, likely clay, and the floors were wooden. She could hear every one of her footsteps as she trailed her hand along the walls, mentally mapping her surroundings. She cursed the darkness as her forefinger hit a snag as she felt blood. Darkness had long been the friend of numerically under strength or militarily inferior forces. And while these men had both numbers, weapons and training on Bomber, she did not doubt the usefulness of darkness and guessed they hadn't either. Likely something they learnt off the French. Crouching slowly to catch some breath, rub her eyes and suck on her cut finger, Bomber thought about everything she knew about Libertile. And that wasn't much. Discovered in 1894 by a French sailor looking for Papua, René Dufront had named the island after the French term for Liberty Island. But it was no liberty for the French who, although acquiring the little archipelago for the fun of it, soon discovered it was costing them more than they were making from it. The UN came down on them in 1916, the height of the First World War, and ordered they maintain their island. The people were starving, their lands being used for paper and farming sources (the ground unnaturally prosperous) without any profit to the people, and the French realised they couldn't keep it. They had pulled out of Libertile in 1923. The people had been left to their own devices. For the last 85 years at least. So why were the French suddenly making a show again now? Bomber scratched her head. None of it made sense. Unless they'd finally discovered something here that was worth the effort getting. Which meant one of two things; oil or uranium. They were possibly the only two things in the world that were worth killing for. Worth defying everyone for. Someone here had struck oil or uranium. And the French had heard about it. Now they wanted their island back.

He didn't know it, but at the same time that Bomber was trying hard to remember everything she knew about Libertile, Spider had the book she'd learnt it from laying on his lap in the mess. It was an A3 sized pictorial atlas filled with a short summary of each country in the 6 different regions of the world. The book had been found by Nav in the room she shared with the ship's chef earlier that day and she'd given it to Spider as an attempt to cheer up the downtrodden young seaman. Now, after having stared at it without opening it for 20 minutes, he'd finally flipped it open. Inside the front cover was a message to the book's owner.

Bec,

Remember us when you're travelling the world and seeing all these places for yourself.

Love

Jessie and Tom

P.S Just so you don't forget where you came from, I've circled Mount Isa. Lol.

Spider flipped to the map of Australia near the back and noticed that Bomber's younger sister had, indeed, circled the Queensland country town. He gave a small smile and flipped back to the index. There, halfway down the page, he saw the area they called 'Australasia'. Page 45. He found Libertile quickly and started to read.

Libertile

Population: 7,800 (unconfirmed)
Area: 19.6 square kilometres
Capital: Tripolni
Language: French, English and various tribal languages
Currency: Libertile Franc

Discovered in 1894 by French explorer René Dufront, who according to rumours had been looking to land in Papua, the small archipelago was given the name of the French term for Liberty Island. While a French acquisition, the war torn European nation soon realised it couldn't maintain the upkeep of the island country. The UN ordered the French, in 1916, the height of the First World War, to help the Libertilese people. The people were starving and the country was falling into a state of decay seen only in African nations. In 1923 the French ordered an election and the island became independant. To this day, however, it is still seen as a French country. The lands are prosperous and amazingly fertile, exporting large numbers of coconuts and wheat. They're also famous for their livestock, coffee and paper trees. Tourism is unfortunately much lower than other countries, and the country does not have a working airstrip. Nonetheless Libertile's place in the Pacific Islands area is growing. It's flag, four red stars on a French flag background, represents the four mythical gods that protect the islands and the French-controlled history.

Spider gaped at the history then shut Bomber's book slowly. He'd never been much of a student at school, and certainly not a Geography student, but until now he'd never even heard of Libertile let alone understood it's torrid history. To think that this country, inside Australian waters, was allowed to suffer at the hands of their European masters, enraged him. And now they seemed to have forgotten this and were pledging their allegiance again to the French. So much so that they'd kidnapped Bomber. He sighed and ran his hands over the thick binding on the side of the book. Know your enemy. He hoped Bomber did.

Bomber did.

She also knew how best to use it to her advantage. Know your enemy. It was basically rule number one in the manual. Knowledge of one's enemy helped you figure out exactly what they would do next. Thanking her sister's cocky sense of humour and what had intended to be a joke present, Bomber sat in darkness trying to remember what else the atlas said about Libertile. There wasn't much. Low tourism, no airstrip. No wonder, with natives like these who would want to come? She chuckled to herself in the darkness then slid back against the wall, overcome again by a bout of weakness. She guessed it was down to the drugs in her system and started to wonder what they'd put in her. But then, just as she was mentally running a list over in her head, a door to her left burst open and light flooded the room. She had a second to push herself to her feet before the scramble of boots on boot and the sound of yells of 'get him in here' and 'watch the girl' in French washed over her. Then, with a loud protest in English, a familiar figure was unceremoniously thrown into the room. Even in the partial light Bomber recognised him straightaway.

"Caesar?" She gasped.

The door slammed. The room fell dark again. And from the ground nearby Caesar's deep voice sounded, his voice traced with pain but still humour. "Hey Bomb, how's it hanging?"