‘I understand. May I ask something of you?’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Could I take a walk around the neighbourhood? I’d like to walk among my people and think for a while. I have been inside a cell for so long.’
Hassan considered the request for a moment, and then he smiled. ‘Of course. There is a dry creek out the front; if you follow it, it will take you to the local market. You may go for an hour.’
‘Thanks be to God,’ said Faisal, standing up.
Hassan stood too. ‘But, Faisal,’ he added, ‘if you run off, I will have everyone in your family killed, not just your son. Do I make myself clear?’
‘No need for threats, brother – I am already at your service.’
3
SYDNEY
‘Twenty minutes, sir.’ The Blackhawk crew chief climbed inside the aircraft and closed the side door to protect the soldiers from the heavy rain. The helicopter lifted off in formation with three others and ascended into the low-hanging cloud above Luscombe airfield. Moving to their first insertion point, or IP marker, the pilots monitored their instruments and vectored in on their target. In this downpour, it was going to be impossible to get a clear visual on the target until they were right on top of it.
Trav Mercardo, the sniper platoon commander, looked around at his team ensuring everything was in place. He focused the left lens of his night-vision goggles so that he could clearly make out the details of his men’s faces in the dark. Some of them had yet to pull their NVGs down and were still fastening themselves to the floor of the helicopter with their retaining straps.
Trav raised his voice, shouting above the thumping of the blades and engine noise. ‘Lads, switch to NVGs now and get the charges ready. We’ll put the detonators in at the six-minute mark.’
Trav looked around at the twelve other men as they readied their equipment. The helicopter shook as it hit some cross winds and the commandos steadied themselves against the airframe. Trav checked his own gear. His black body armour was tightly fastened and the quick-release handle – which he would certainly need if the helicopter ditched in water – protruded through the slimline life jacket that he wore over the top of it all. He checked the small bottle of emergency air attached to the jacket and then the bite valve itself to make sure it was off and ready to go.
One of his men was watching him. ‘What’s the problem, boss?’ the young commando asked. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘What makes you say that?’ Trav checked the night-vision device on his M4. The laser cover was in place. He checked it again, though, just to make sure.
‘You’re checking and double-checking everything.’
‘I just like to be thorough.’ Trav looked at the other guys; they were either doing the same or staring out the helicopter windows into the black of night and one of the summer storms that Sydney was famous for, especially in December.
‘It’s only training, it’s not like its real. We’re carrying fake charges and paint rounds, for Christ’s sake.’ The young soldier laughed.
‘Train as you fight, bro. Train as you fight.’
Trav steadied himself again as the helicopter hit another strong cross wind. He thought he could see the lights from one of the other Blackhawks out the window and on any other night perhaps he could have, but not in this pea soup. He saw the light again and then realised it was the reflection of one of his team’s NVGs in the window.
The four birds descended in formation, hidden from one another, down to where Georges River met Botany Bay.
The senior flight lead of the formation gripped the cyclic control of the Blackhawk and squeezed it hard to keep the airframe steady.
‘Winds are rough,’ he said to his co-pilot. ‘Let’s keep it above sixty feet in case there are some downdrafts we can’t see.’
‘No worries. I have the objective ten minutes out on the port side. Do you still want the approach speed at one-thirty knots?’
‘No way.’ The senior pilot looked over his right shoulder to make sure that the platoon commander in the back wasn’t on the headset. ‘It’s only a training exercise and there are enough things going against us without adding to the problem with excess speed. This weather is not far from abort criteria as far as I’m concerned.’ ‘Got it. So, how’s this for a new approach profile? Ninety knots approach speed from the south-south-west at two minutes out and then hover at forty feet above the ship’s bridge; bird one on landing point two. Confirm, sir?’
‘LP two? Yep okay, that’s fine. Like I said, it’s not a suicide mission. Radio the corrections through to the other birds.’
In the back, Trav checked his watch. By his reckoning, they would be on the target in ten minutes and perfectly synchronised with the other platoons. Then he noticed the aircraft slowly bleeding off speed. He rolled his eyes and groaned.
Here we go, he thought.
...
‘Slow down, Barns. I need to get an idea where the hell we are; all this bush looks the same in the rain.’ Matt Rix tapped his GPS on the front roll bar of the four-seater Polaris and wiped the fog from its screen. He looked down at the sodden map in his hands. Even though he had covered it with contact paper and stashed it in a map cover it was now effectively a balled-up mess of wet paper. ‘Christ, this is not going well,’ he said.
Barnsley brought the vehicle to a halt and the other seven Yankee Platoon vehicles behind slowed down to a crawl and moved into their defensive formation. The drivers cut the engines and silence settled over the bush, except for the sound of the rain steadily hitting the men’s Gore-Tex jackets and weapons.
‘I was on track when we went under the highway, then it started pissing down again, which is great for covering our noise but it made navigating near on impossible.’ Matt stood up above the roll bar and looked around at their formation.
‘Want me to move, boss?’
‘Nah, this looks as good a place as any.’ Matt flopped back into his seat with a squelch. ‘Seriously,’ he continued, ‘I couldn’t see a damn thing. I’m sure this is the dismount point and so the target should be out through there.’ Matt pointed to the left to some dull lights about six hundred metres beyond a line of trees.
‘Picton.’ Barnsley shook his head. ‘Jesus, why do people even live out here?’
Matt shrugged. ‘I like it,’ he said. ‘It’s far enough from the city not to feel crowded and the bush makes a nice change.’
‘You would like it, boss, you’re from Bendigo – it’s much the same.’
The crackling of Matt’s radio interrupted their conversation.
‘Boss, shall we cache the raptors here?’ It was JJ’s voice, asking him the obvious.
‘Yep, do it, and get the guys formed up. We’ll go out in single file and try to keep to the low ground out to the right.’ Matt couldn’t even be sure there was low ground to the right with the darkness and rain hindering his vision, but he guessed there was because the treetops were lower on that side.
Yankee Platoon dismounted from their vehicles, double-checked each other’s gear and conducted their last-minute radio checks. A few minutes later the teams were assembled ready to move.
The platoon patrolled cautiously, moving towards their final rendezvous point, the place where each team would go off in search of their predetermined entry point. It was also the place where Matt would link up with the sniper team commander, Kiwi, who’d had his team monitoring the stronghold for the past six hours.
Matt’s forward scout stopped and the line of operators stopped behind him, rifles pointed, staggered on either side for protection. Through his NVGs Matt could see the outline of a sniper slowly moving towards the front man of his platoon. The sniper closed in and was directed down the line to meet up with Matt.
Kiwi dropped onto one knee beside Matt. He placed his Blazer .338 rifle down on its bipod and leaned in close to Matt’s ear. ‘Hey, boss, what’s happening? Glad to see you made it.’
‘Kiwi, how are you?’ Matt moved some of the
wet camouflage strips from the sniper’s face to see him. ‘Gee, that ghillie suit looks comfortable.’
‘Jesus, bro, it’s heavy as hell when it’s saturated like this. I thought about ditching it but I can’t afford the loss-and-damage bill.’
Matt laughed quietly. ‘So tell me – where’s the target?’
‘It took us a while to find it, to be honest. In the end one of the directing staff had to come and point us in the right direction. All these houses look the same. There are about twenty in that street down there and they’re all set in thick scrub. Ours is the one the furthest to the right.’ Kiwi pointed to the edge of the clearing and a faint set of lights.
‘What’s on the target, mate?’
‘Nothing; it’s been dead as. I think there’s a vehicle in the garage matching the description that the police gave us. All your entry points have been identified. I can’t see any of the safety guys for the demolitions, though, so I assume they’re already inside and out of the rain.’
‘Yeah, the brief was to treat it like a real job and just blow our way in. They have an overlay of our primary and secondary points. There are only two charges anyway – the rest of the entry points are through the sliding doors and we’re just going to sledge them.’
‘Got it, no drama, bro. I put a Cyalume stick up ahead – that’s the point where the teams can orientate onto the target. I’ll take you right to your point as well, boss.’
Matt adjusted his NVGs and focused them on the small source of white light that shone on the ground a few hundred metres ahead.
‘Cheers, Kiwi.’ Matt looked down at the fluorescent hands of his watch; it was now 2044 hours. ‘Let’s get moving then, shall we?’
The wind picked up as the commandos headed off once again; the rain, a little softer now, had started to get inside everyone’s waterproof clothing.
Matt watched his lead team make their way through some thicker foliage to approach the house from the left side. The other teams broke off too. This was the most dangerous time for the platoon; compromise now and they would have to crash action into the target. There were ways to mitigate this, certain techniques and procedures, but Matt didn’t have this luxury as the other platoon were in helicopters racing towards a ship off the coast of Sydney.
Barnsley stopped at an iron gate that accessed the side of the yard. Matt covered him from the side. Barnsley opened the small gate and walked in with Matt moving in behind him. The pair covered each other as they made their way towards the patio window. Stepping over a discarded bicycle, Matt took the lead from Barnsley and switched his attention to the sliding glass door. Through the curtain he could see two people sitting on a sofa, their backs to him. The TV was on. A third person entered the room. Matt froze, slowly lowering himself to his knee, now maybe six or seven metres away from their entry point.
The person walked towards the sliding door and moved the curtain to one side. Matt quickly flattened himself on the wet ground. Fortunately, the lawn was unkempt and partially concealed him. He knew that behind him his other team members would be lying there in the dark, their weapons all trained on the terrorist. The door opened and a dog ran out, barking and yapping.
Matt’s heart was beating like a drum. It always sounded louder at times like this, mainly because of the communications earpiece that sealed his left ear. He slowly moved his eyes to his watch: 2058. They had to make entry in two minutes to synchronise with the others. Matt was sure the dog wasn’t a guard dog; more likely a labradoodle, judging by the curly coat and the fact that it was now licking Matt’s face and trying to play with him. The dog ran off, suddenly interested in a noise from another part of the yard.
The person at the door had retreated inside and away from the curtains. Matt stood up slowly and waited for a second before ghost-walking towards the door, silently lifting one foot up and placing the heel down first then transferring the weight slowly to his toes. He covered the door with his weapon, alert to any threats that might appear. There would be no need for a sledge, of that he was certain; the door was still slightly open. The rest of the team fanned out behind him in assault formation, the same pattern replicated at each entry point.
On the other side of the building, Team Three placed an explosive charge on the back door, while at the front Team One prepared their window frame charge, and as Matt placed his hand on the door the charges went off on either side of the building.
BOOM!
The men rushed in, weapons up, with a stream of sound and flash grenades heralding their arrival. They flowed through the house, moving like so many swarms of wasps in and around the furniture. The bursts of white light from the sound and flash pods made the whole scene look like some crazy nightclub. The scene was being played out in strobe-like segments. One moment a commando was in a doorway, in the next flash he was two metres away, throwing yet another distraction grenade. Any terrorist in location would be completely disorientated and then neutralised in order to save the lives of the hostages. There were no shots fired, and the only noises, save for the distraction grenades, were the terrified screams of those playing the parts of the innocent.
...
‘Two minutes!’ The loadmaster held up a pair of Cyalume sticks to reinforce the shouted verbal command.
The men in the back of the Blackhawk repeated the call in unison.
The loadmaster opened the doors on either side of the aircraft and the wind immediately carried the rain into the back. Trav checked the time: 2105 hours. They had already missed the synchronisation time. He unfastened the strap that had held him in the airframe and stowed it in his flight suit leg pocket. Another check of his weapon retaining hook – in place and secure.
The pilots eased the aircraft twenty metres above the bridge of the ship and settled into a hover. Trav could see that the other aircraft were all at their insertion points and going through the same process. Looking down, he saw the clearance divers, or CDs as they were known, climbing up their steel ladders on the side of the ship. They had timed it well and had waited, fastened by magnets under the ship, until the helicopters had arrived.
The ropes were kicked out of the helicopter and they tumbled to the bridge of the ship below. Trav moved in behind his team on the right-hand side of the aircraft as they lined up behind the big nylon rope. And then they were off: first one, then another, then Trav. He extended his arms into the night air and focused his vision on the rope. His NVGs were set to further out, so a guesstimate was the best he could do. The downwash of the aircraft rotor blades buffeted him as he reached out into the void and the guy behind him was close enough to ensure Trav was given a gentle nudge as he made his way out of the aircraft.
For a moment, there was nothing, and his stomach rose up with the uncertainty. Best case, the fall was about twenty metres to the bridge below; worst case was sixty metres to the water in full kit and, provided he actually survived the impact, a race to get his body armour off and the air bottle into his mouth before he drowned. Finally, Trav felt the rope between his hands. He held it to his chest and created a choke-style hold to slow his descent. His feet found the rope moments later and he steadied himself to time his landing with the roll of the ship. As his feet hit the deck he was off, just as another pair of feet landed and then another, and now the whole team was in a race to get inside the bridge of the ship before the terrorists could respond.
The assault was over within minutes, the six terrorists struggling to hold a three-hundred-and-sixty-metre oil tanker.
Trav stood in the wheelhouse looking over the ship.
‘All areas cleared, boss.’ The call came from Team One on the middle deck.
‘Roger that. Move the crew to the galley and keep them secured. Bravo’s on his way now to do the walk-through.’
The door to the bridge opened.
‘You guys took your time, Trav,’ said Mitchell.
‘I don’t control the birds; they pulled back speed for some reason. We got here when we got here. Nice flippers, ch
amp.’ Trav knew full well this would get a rise out of the head clearance diver.
‘They’re fins, dickhead.’ The CD put his fingers inside his dry suit collar and gave his neck some relief from the choking rubber that sealed it tight.
‘Your area secure, Mitch?’ Trav liked the CD. He was short and powerful and, as they all were, supremely fit. What Trav really liked, though, was that he had a no-nonsense attitude and strong work ethic, but absolutely no sense of humour – a fact that Trav took great joy in exploiting.
‘Of course it’s fucking secure. Why else would I be up here?’
‘Just checking that you guys didn’t just go for a little paddle and then a pleasant stroll around the ship foredeck, that’s all.’
‘Seriously, you’re a dickhead, do you know that, Trav? Just radio it in, for Christ’s sake.’ The CD threw open the door of the bridge. It bounced back and hit him front on, sending him a few steps back. He smashed it open again and made his way down the ladder. The door crashed closed behind him. Trav laughed to himself.
He spoke into his radio. ‘Oscar Charlie, this is Xray Alpha. All areas secure, hostage terrorist count. Prepare to copy. Over.’
‘Send. Over.’
...
‘That can’t be right. Guys, send hostage terrorist count again.’ Matt looked around the main bedroom of the target house; surely there was some mistake.
The teams repeated their count. There was no change – three hostages and no terrorists.
‘What the hell is going on, Barnsley?’
‘Not sure, boss.’
‘No terrorists, no weapons, what are these guys playing at? A dry hole, perhaps?’ Matt was referring to a situation where a target had no enemy or information on it – something he had grown accustomed to in Afghanistan.
‘Wrong target, boss?’ said Barnsley.
‘What? Don’t be daft. Right, follow me, and let’s go look around. Don’t report anything up yet.’
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