Alan McQueen - 02 - Second Strike

by Mark Abernethy

  Sighing, Mac realised it was beyond that. ‘Mate, the way she’s talking, I’d prefer it if you did ride along. With me?’

  ‘No worries,’ said Johnny.

  Then Mac texted the number to his wife and tried to get his focus back on Hassan and the mini-nuke.

  As they rolled to the base security gate, a military guard with a German shepherd walked down the passenger side of the van, while another came out of the glass box and asked for IDs and weapons. The 4RAR

  boys were cleared for their bags of guns and ammo sitting in the back but the MP with the dog took Mac’s Heckler and followed them across the steaming-hot tarmac to a large hangar, giving it back once they were handed over.

  There were some USAF planes sitting around, including a huge C5 Galaxy hunched over like a drab olive monster. Inside the hangar, Mac was greeted by a bloke in a white trop shirt whom Mac knew only as Don.

  After shaking hands, Don pulled Mac into an offi ce where a tech sat at a series of screens. Don was DIA, US Defense Intelligence Agency, and had once been tasked to the US Army Twentieth Support Command, the world’s policeman for illegal use and possession of CBRNE weapons. Now he was the DIA’s liaison guy for the American spy assets in northern Australia and Mac was confi dent he could help.

  ‘So what are we after?’ asked Don, cheery but focused.

  ‘See that van out there? There’s an exact same model and colour driving around the Northern Territory with at least three mercenaries in it. I need to fi nd that van.’

  Don laughed. ‘The NT’s a huge place, McQueen, case you haven’t noticed.’

  ‘Yeah, massive,’ Mac replied. ‘That’s why I came to the best.’

  ‘Shit, man. Most Americans wouldn’t have the guts to come asking for this.’

  ‘Well?’

  Don looked at the techie, who shrugged. ‘Looks like a standard Toyota HiAce,’ said the tech guy, an adult with dental braces. ‘Must be thousands on the roads up here, especially when you consider they convert them to campers.’

  Calling Robbo over, Mac eyeballed Don. ‘Mate, it’s not the van, it’s what they’ve got in it.’

  Robbo gave Don the radio frequencies for the mission and the American humphed, said they’d try. They’d take a top-down image of the Toyota HiAce, make a diagram model of it and feed it into the NSA’s ground systems in Maryland. Then they’d use their satellite surveillance network to take millions of photos of the Northern Territory which would be instantaneously matched or discarded by the computer banks. Within forty minutes, virtually every white Toyota HiAce on NT roads would be photographed, identifi ed and logged for exact location. And once Don and his team had a lock on all of them, Mac was going to ring the luggage label transmitter, at which point the Federal Police would be waiting and monitoring with their cellular tower intercepts. If things worked properly, they might get an ID of the van without the Hassan crew even knowing they’d been made.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said Mac, and peeled away.

  ‘No worries, buddy,’ said Don. ‘So what’s in the van?’

  ‘It’s one of the CBRNEs.’

  ‘Which one?’ Don shouted as Mac walked across the hangar.

  ‘Put it this way - if you guys’d used it on Hanoi, you wouldn’t have needed Guam.’

  At a hangar further north an Australian Army Black Hawk had been wheeled onto the tarmac and a crew sat in the cockpit going over the switches. Didge parked the HiAce in the hangar and they pulled the black gear bags from the rear door of the van as an army bloke in dress greens approached with a clipboard.

  Robbo handed Mac a Kevlar vest and a helmet, and an M4 assault rifl e. Mac took it, checked for safety and load then, attaching his Heckler holster, asked Robbo to give the Feds a radio update.

  The call came through on Robbo’s radio once they’d been fl ying south for twenty-fi ve minutes: the Yanks were ready to go. They had seventy-one vans outside the Darwin area and ninety-six on the roads of the Northern Territory. Flying for another eight minutes, they landed at Three Ways junction just north of Tennant Creek, where travellers coming south from Darwin could choose to continue south for Alice Springs or turn east for Mt Isa in western Queensland.

  Geographically, Three Ways was almost the centre of northern Australia and had the densest non-Darwin population of white Toyota HiAces, according to the NSA computers.

  Mac asked for the radio and patched into the AFP command post in Darwin, telling the techie he was about to call the luggage tag number. The techie said, ‘Standing by’. The Hawk depowered, red dust settling like talc around the helo. Mac selected the number he’d input and hit the green button. There was a good chance it wouldn’t even work, since Dr Gough had been confused about whether the luggage tag transmitter was on global roam. Mac listened to the calling tone while Robbo held his radio set to his ear, shaking his head. They held on for forty seconds and the AFP wasn’t detecting a pick-up. Then Robbo suddenly gave the thumbs-up and was tracing his pen across the plastic covering on the map on his lap. Mac watched as Robbo said yes and yes and then out-fucking-standing, his pen circling an area on the map cover. Radioing Don in Darwin, Robbo gave the coordinates for the luggage tag and asked where the vans were in that area. His face turned into a smile a few seconds later, his pen poised on a point about fi ve miles south of Three Ways.

  Robbo whooped and Jacko - the sandy-haired bloke who liked cracking jokes - said, ‘Let’s get hunting.’

  CHAPTER 57

  As they got closer to the point identifi ed on the map, the Hawk’s pilot banked outwards slightly and circled around the white HiAce parked in the scrub about six hundred metres off the Stuart Highway. It was parked on the side of a landing strip, seemingly abandoned.

  They set down in front of a battered shed and hangar with the faded words WAUCHOPE AERIAL SERVICES painted in large letters on plain corrugated iron. The red dust rose as they touched down and Mac and Robbo stepped out and ran doubled over to the hangar, M4s held across the body. It was dark and hot inside, and Mac wiped his face on his shirt sleeve but only succeeded in smearing red ochre across his face. To their left were several old Cessna single engines, two of which had been cannibalised to support the third, an old ‘58 model.

  The hangar turned into a dustbowl as the helo depowered and, turning to his right, Robbo acknowledged someone. Mac followed his gaze and saw an elderly man in white overalls, white hair and a can of XXXX in his hand, leaning on the mechanic’s counter staring at them.

  ‘How youse going?’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Mac. ‘Looking for some people.’

  ‘They come in about forty minutes ago,’ the old guy estimated,

  ‘and then this white Skymaster come in, bought some gas from me, paid in cash and then they all fucked off.’ He burped, looking down into his beer. ‘Bunch of fruitcakes, if you ask me.’

  Mac felt the sweat making his back wet under the vest. ‘You meet the people in the van?’

  ‘Nah, mate,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘There were four of them, right? And they sat in that fucking van down there till the Skymaster come in.’

  ‘What did they look like?’

  ‘Asian, curry-munchers maybe.’

  ‘Indian, Pakistani?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Yeah, mate.’ He burped again. ‘All that. They run across and got in the plane, and they looked like oil and gas guys. White overalls, work boots, nice haircuts and this big case -‘

  ‘Case?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Yeah. Light green - the size of a suitcase, maybe fatter, but it didn’t look too heavy.’

  ‘What was the ID on the plane?’

  ‘Let’s see,’ he said, swirling his beer can. ‘VH-CWB? That sound right?’

  ‘Who was the pilot - ever seen him before?’

  ‘Nah. Never been around here, mate. I reckon WA, that’s what I reckoned.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Mac.

  ‘The dust on the undercarriage, mate,’ said the bloke, chucking his beer can in an overfl owing
Castrol pail. ‘It was caked on, you know, lumpy an’ that? They’ve been having rain over that way, see?’

  When outback dirt got wet, it set like plaster of Paris. ‘Which way did they fl y out?’ asked Mac, impatient.

  The oldie pointed east. ‘By the way he was going, I’d say Winton, Longie, Hughenden - that gear. Maybe push through to Barkie?’ he said.

  ‘Barcaldine,’ said Robbo.

  ‘With the fuel and fi ve people, what’s the range?’ asked Mac.

  The bloke stooped to an old bar fridge, pulled out another XXXX

  and cracked it with a one-hand technique. ‘With fi ve-up, and the revs they were carrying, I’d say no more than eight, nine hundred mile.

  You’d feel safe with Barkie, Aramac, Blackall. See what I’m saying?’

  ***

  There was nothing in the van except the smell of the new David Beckham cologne. Mac knew that smell because Johnny had got a bottle as a birthday present from his wife Arti, and Mac had ribbed him about it being a little femme for a Hukapa. The HiAce had been rented, driven and cleaned by pros and Mac wasn’t going to fi nd anything.

  Robbo phoned in their position and situation to Morris in Darwin, who said he was sending local Queensland cops out to the airfi elds in Barcaldine, Aramac and Blackall. It wasn’t entirely scientifi c - they could veer south to Charleville if they had enough gas, and there was nothing to say they didn’t. The trouble with a forty-minute head start was that it would barely give enough time for the local cops to get out to the airfi elds, let alone to stop someone. And with the amount of small aircraft traffi c in the outback, a white Cessna Skymaster - one of the most popular planes in rural Australia - was hardly going to attract attention.

  The other thing was that the Hawk was a thirsty bird and they were going to have to stop in Longreach.

  It was past three pm when Mac and the 4RAR boys reached Longreach airport and went into the terminal for some nosebag while the aircrew supervised the refi lling. Mac looked out over the brown grass of the world’s original long-haul terminus: in 1921 Qantas started regular fl ights around the outback from Longreach and the fi rst hangar was still in use.

  Robbo wanted to know what was next.

  ‘Wait for an update from the Feds,’ said Mac, trying to think like Hassan. Queensland was more than twice the size of Texas and every town had its own airfi eld. Operation Limelight was a pursuit, and the pursued were in control.

  The radio squelched and Robbo picked up. Shouts barked from the earpiece and Robbo looked at Mac. ‘Local police are holding a pilot at Cooladdi airfi eld, west of Charleville.’

  ‘We’re there,’ said Mac, as he gulped the bottled water and grabbed a pie for the run across the tarmac.

  ***

  The white twin-engine Skymaster was parked in an unmown fi eld in front of a BP tender, on the side of the Cooladdi airfi eld. A police Nissan Patrol was parked beside the plane and the VH-CWB marking was clear on the tail section. When they got to the pilot Mac felt immediately that he was straight. He was tall, thin and nerdy with a small chin and mousy hair.

  While Robbo led the commandos into the Skymaster for a quick search, the police allowed Mac to take Dave - from Fremantle - for a quick stroll.

  ‘You know who these people were?’ asked Mac, as they got to the shade of a stand of trees behind the air club hangar.

  ‘It was booked as Michael Smith, a month ago, and they forwarded a money order as down payment,’ said the bloke, fi shing for a smoke from his polyester blue shorts.

  ‘Look like Michael Smith to you?’

  Dave shrugged again, shook his head. ‘Mate, I didn’t meet them till I picked them up this morning in the Territory. Why, what’s up?’

  he asked, eyes darting around under the sunnies.

  ‘Never mind. What happened here? Where are they?’

  ‘Left the money in an envelope, got out and walked straight across the airfi eld.’ He pointed, his skinny arms sticking out of his white short-sleeved pilot’s shirt. ‘They got into the trees and into a car or a LandCruiser, or something.’

  ‘Did you see it, Dave?’

  Sucking on the smoke, Dave sneered. ‘What was your name again?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not confused. Tell me about the car.’

  Dave smiled at the sky. ‘What, you a spy or something?’

  It happened so fast it even surprised Mac. Dave was suddenly on his knees in the brown grass, his right wrist bent under itself in a Korean wrist-lock. ‘Fuck, please, you’re breaking it,’ he gasped.

  Mac kept the pressure on while Dave cried and tried to gulp down the pain. ‘Look at me, Dave.’

  ‘Yes,’ he whined, looking up.

  ‘The car.’

  ‘It was - ouch - it was white, LandCruiser. Please, mate - it was a late model, GXL.’

  ‘All four got in?’

  Dave winced with pain. ‘No, only two.’

  Mac eased up and let the bloke go. Dave collapsed in the grass, sobbing and holding his arm out like the further he could get it away from his body the less it would hurt.

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I was going to tell you -‘

  ‘So tell me, Dave.’

  ‘We dropped the other two in Betoota. It’s in my log, YBEO.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They got on another plane - white Cherokee.’

  ‘Did they take anything with them?’ snapped Mac, at the end of his rope.

  ‘Yeah,’ moaned Dave. ‘They took a green plastic case.’

  CHAPTER 58

  Dave ID’d Hassan and Lempo from Mac’s fi les as the two who switched planes in Betoota, a dot on the map consisting of two gas pumps in the middle of a rock fi eld on the road to Birdsville. Dave fi ngered the photo of Gorilla, identifi ed him as the one who stayed on the plane and got into the LandCruiser in Cooladdi.

  Dave tried to describe the man who travelled with Gorilla; he was a fi ner looking bloke, the pilot said, and might have been Indonesian.

  Mac had a sudden fl ash of intuition - he now knew why Freddi had been so defensive at the Idi airfi eld. That fi ner-featured Indonesian would have to be Freddi’s underling, Purni. Purni, who had gone to Monash University. Purni, with his beautiful English and knowledge of Australia, was probably Hassan’s Australian scout. And if Purni was being protected in Jakarta, the whole smell of this thing went higher than Mac had fi rst suspected.

  Dave and Mac got back to the local cop, who told Dave to get in the back of the Patrol.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ the cop asked Mac, waving fl ies from his face as if he was born doing it.

  ‘I’d like to be able to stay in touch with him,’ said Mac. ‘But other than that, he’s a friendly.’

  The cop read out Dave’s mobile number from his notes and Mac input it into his phone.

  ‘Where would a fugitive go from here?’ asked Mac.

  The cop smiled. ‘It’s a crossroads, mate. You could go in any direction and get yourself lost.’

  Exhaling, Mac asked him to radio it out there - white LandCruiser, two Asian men - knowing, as he said it, that they could be anywhere.

  They touched down at Amberley Base on the outskirts of Brisbane, Mac having spent most of the journey on the radio to John Morris in Darwin. He’d given the bloke everything, knowing that the search was about to go to a level in which live sightings by people like Mac and Robbo would become rare. Once you lost touch you relied on the public reporting strange things or you hoped the fugitives would go through an airport or a railway station or be reported by a hotel receptionist or a parking building operator. With Christmas coming up, there might even be a chance of picking up something from a random breath test.

  Mac felt overwhelmed by the size of what was happening but Morris wasn’t annoyed with him, which was a nice step forward.

  ‘You took a shot, mate,’ said Morris, ‘and at least you’ve chased the bastards east.’

  Morris had said that there
was a Piper Cherokee logged in a 16.21

  landing at Nebo, outside of Mackay. The fi eld wasn’t manned or under surveillance and a plane-spotter called it in.

  ‘We’re pretty sure this is in Queensland now,’ Morris had said. ‘It’s looking like a Christmas hit.’

  The Hassan crew had split and they were well organised. And they’d managed to lose Mac, the Feds, Customs and the 4RAR Commandos.

  For now. The whole purpose of JI had been to create outrages and Mac was leaning towards the John Morris view of Hassan’s crew. They were going to crop up in a place where their risk of capture was higher than in the Territory or western Queensland. There were going to be crowds and there was going to be decadence, at least as far as the jihadists saw it.

  The new accommodation suites at Amberley had come way up in the world since Mac had last stayed there, but he wanted to get back to Jen and Rachel. A fl ight lieutenant from the transport pool was sent over and he grabbed his pack, thanked the 4RAR boys, wrote down his mobile number, and did the Harold.

  The drive south was smooth and they listened to the ABC Radio

  news: Australian Federal Police had confi rmed they were chasing several known terror suspects of Pakistani origin. They were last seen heading towards the east coast of Queensland and anyone with anything strange to report should do so on the AFP hotline. The report cut to a grab-style interview with John Morris, whose grumpiness translated perfectly for radio:

  ‘We’re looking for three men in their thirties and forties, of South Asian appearance.

  One of these men has a noticeably heavy build. We believe they are travelling with a man, in his twenties, of Indonesian appearance. They were last sighted out of Mackay and we understand they are heading south. I make a serious request to the public: please do not approach these people, they are considered to be very dangerous and are heavily armed. Just call your local police command and please follow their instructions -‘

  ‘Sir, can you confi rm the rumour that these fugitives brought a bomb device into Darwin this morning?’

  ‘I repeat: do not approach these people, please let your local police …’