Red Centre

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Do you think they have heard about the plane going down?’ asked Paulo.

  Hex shook his head. ‘I don’t think the SAS are saying anything about that.’

  Two lorries rumbled past. One had been the monitoring room; one had been Sergeant Powell’s room.

  Sergeant Powell strode up to them, his face grave. ‘I need to clear the area,’ he said. ‘We’re moving the operation to North Queensland, where the last trace was seen.’

  Amber and Paulo looked tense. Hex looked grim.

  Sergeant Powell added, ‘This is still a live operation, with people to be rescued. If you don’t hear from us within twenty-four hours call me.’ He held out a card. Amber took it. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘we have a problem getting you out of here. The police are taking the hostages home, and we’re all heading north. You can wait an hour for a police driver or there’s a spare vehicle . . .’ He looked at Paulo. ‘Are you old enough to drive?’

  Paulo drove. Sergeant Powell had given them the field ambulance. They were to take it to the hotel, then call the military to pick it up.

  ‘It’s not quite the style we’ve become accustomed to,’ said Hex. The thrill of the 5.7-litre Holdens was still clear in his head. The ambulance window was open and he had to shout to be heard above the noise. ‘Can’t it do more than 120 kilometres per hour?’

  ‘I am doing my best,’ said Paulo. ‘My foot is flat on the floor.’

  They skirted the edge of the rainforest. The lush greenery gave way to open pasture. On one side was the entrance to a ranch. Sometimes the grass cover was worn away to show a red streak of topsoil. Yellow diamond-shaped signs warned motorists to watch out for kangaroos and camels.

  Amber, seated by the window, grabbed Hex’s arm. ‘Hey, there’s a plane.’ She craned out of the window, looking up. A light plane flew over, quite low, its undercarriage barely clearing the trees. She drew her head back in. ‘No, it’s too small and it hasn’t got that X on the belly.’

  ‘But why would Pirroni come back here anyway?’ said Hex.

  Amber shrugged. ‘I guess he wouldn’t. Can’t help looking, though.’ She rested her hand along the door and drummed her fingers.

  Another yellow diamond-shaped sign went by: ROAD TRAINS NEXT 900KM.

  ‘Hey, we might see a road train!’ exclaimed Hex.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Amber.

  ‘It’s like a convoy of lorries, lashed together and pulled by a great big engine at the front,’ Paulo replied.

  Hex was talking fast. ‘They travel at nearly a hundred and thirty kilometres per hour and stop for nothing. They’re so wide they take up the whole road. If we meet one, we have to get off the road out of its way.’ His eyes were glittering and he took a breath to say more, but Amber’s face stopped him. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

  Amber’s expression was pure disdain. ‘You guys.’

  ‘But Amber, they’ve got ninety-eight wheels,’ said Paulo with feeling. ‘Imagine that.’

  Amber folded her arms. ‘So?’

  ‘You must have them in the States,’ said Hex.

  ‘If we do,’ drawled Amber, ‘I ain’t interested.’

  ‘How can you be so soulless?’ said Hex. ‘They’ve got ninety-eight wheels.’

  They came to a turning by a sign for a roadhouse. Paulo slowed momentarily and swung the ambulance onto it.

  ‘This isn’t the way back,’ said Hex.

  ‘No,’ said Paulo. ‘But look over there.’ He pointed in the direction they had been travelling.

  Hex and Amber looked. There was a cloud of dust in the distance, rolling along the ground as though the sand was boiling.

  ‘There’s a dust storm over there,’ explained Paulo. ‘So wherever Pirroni’s going, it won’t be that way.’

  ‘But he’s gone north,’ said Amber. ‘He’s not going to be down here anyway.’

  ‘Just a hunch.’ Paulo grinned. ‘And there was a sign for a roadhouse. We need diesel.’

  A short while later they pulled up at the roadhouse. It was just a shack in a section of scrubby pasture. On one of the fields behind it was the plane that had flown over them earlier. The pilot was refuelling it from a pump in the corner of the field. He finished, reholstered the nozzle and ambled towards the roadhouse, adjusting his bush hat against the glare of the sun.

  ‘How’s that for outback facilities?’ said Amber. ‘How many of the locals have planes out here?’

  ‘Quite a lot,’ replied Paulo. ‘The ranches here use planes to round up cattle.’ He steered the ambulance towards a diesel pump, braked and cut the engine. ‘They’re so huge, there’s no other way of getting around them.’ He jumped out. Hex and Amber followed.

  ‘Another plane,’ said Amber, tilting her head back to look. ‘By the time we get to town I’m gonna be a nervous . . .’ Her voice tailed off. She squinted into the sky. ‘Was that . . . ?’

  Hex was looking up too. ‘X marks the spot.’

  The plane carried the distinctive mark painted on the belly of the fuselage.

  ‘Phone Sergeant Powell,’ said Paulo immediately, sprinting for the roadhouse.

  The others crowded in behind him. Inside, it was a big wooden room – a general store combined with a lounge bar. The pilot of the light plane was sitting on a stool at a bar chatting to a deeply tanned woman behind the counter. Their heads were close together over their beers. They looked round sharply at the three figures who had burst in so suddenly.

  The woman called out, ‘We’re closed, mate. Leave the money on the counter.’

  ‘We need to make a phone call, urgently,’ said Hex.

  ‘Don’t have a public phone,’ said the woman. The man whispered something to her and she giggled in return. Her leathery skin creased deeply as she smiled.

  Amber had the card with Sergeant Powell’s number on it. She walked up to the counter, holding it out. ‘It’s a matter of national security,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you see on TV about the siege?’

  ‘I was watching the rugby,’ replied the woman.

  ‘Look, you can phone it yourself if you don’t believe us—’ Amber got no further.

  The man took a deep draught of beer and rounded on her. ‘Didn’t you hear the lady? She’s closed.’ His mouth was set in a tight, hostile line. ‘Now why don’t you pesky kids just go and play your games somewhere else?’

  Paulo pulled at Hex’s and Amber’s sleeves. ‘Come on,’ he said.

  They had barely got outside before Amber exploded. ‘What kind of dumb—?’

  ‘Amber, look.’ Paulo tapped her arm and pointed in the direction of the light plane standing in the field. ‘All refuelled and ready to go.’

  They sprinted over to it. ‘Hope he left it unlocked,’ said Hex.

  Paulo pulled the door open and scanned the ignition area. ‘Right . . . master switch to turn on the electricity . . .’ He flicked a switch. ‘Primer . . . to put some fuel into the engine . . .’ He pressed another switch. ‘But no keys.’ He dug under a panel with his fingernails and levered it off. ‘We will have to hotwire it to start it.’ He reached delicately into the panel and pulled: two wires came out in his fist. Taking one in each hand, he touched them together.

  The engine spluttered into life. The propeller started spinning and became a circular blur.

  ‘Hey, guys,’ said Amber, looking at the interior, ‘this is a cosy two-seater.’

  ‘Can you squash in the back, Amber?’ asked Hex.

  There was a narrow crack behind the two seats. Amber climbed up and eased herself into it. ‘Well, it’s hardly what I would call comfortable.’

  Hex belted himself into the co-pilot seat. Paulo pulled the door shut and took the parking brake off. The plane began to move. He guided it around in a large arc until it was facing straight down the runway, then opened the throttle. The plane rumbled down the field.

  Hex looked at Paulo, worried. ‘Can we get into the air with Amber’s weight?’

  Amber cuffed Hex around the head. ‘
Wash your mouth out.’

  ‘We can carry an extra passenger if we take a longer run to take off,’ said Paulo. ‘Amber, how many hot dogs did you eat?’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ she said. ‘You’re lucky you don’t have to take my luggage as well. Anyway, I never knew you could fly a plane, Paulo.’ She shifted her position. Already she was getting cramp.

  ‘I hope he flies them better than helicopters,’ said Hex, remembering a rather wobbly experience in Canada when Paulo took the controls of a chopper.

  ‘Planes are much easier than helicopters,’ answered Paulo. ‘My uncle used to visit our ranch in a Cessna and he taught me.’ He felt the nose lift. ‘Ah, here we go.’ He eased the plane off the ground.

  Hex checked off the instruments. The plane was rather basic compared with the flight simulators he was used to. ‘We have airspeed indicator, artificial horizon, turn co-ordinator, altimeter, vertical speed indicator . . . . Oh.’ He peered into a hole in front of him. ‘We have a couple of wires where the radio should be. Great.’ He took out his palmtop and powered it up.

  ‘Pirroni was heading south-south-east,’ said Amber. ‘He must have dumped the GPS and doubled back.’ She craned her neck to look at the tiny screen.

  Hex frowned at his palmtop. ‘This is nearly out of batteries. I can get one more fix, which will show us an immediate map, and we can plot a course that’s on Pirroni’s trail.’

  The palmtop showed they were heading well away from the Daintree Rainforest. Hex indicated a line with his finger. ‘He could be going for this point on the coast here. We’d better keep a close eye on the ground in case he lands.’

  ‘At least in this open space we should be able to see,’ said Amber.

  Down below, the colour of the land changed. The lush green of the rainforest dried out and the ground became deep orange, like the surface of Mars. A gravelly strip marked the only road for miles, a long stripe of deserted hardtop. Occasionally they passed over a vehicle: sometimes it was a truck, tiny from that distance; sometimes it was a road train. Now and then there was a wreck – burnt out near a scrubby wood, or simply abandoned and thickly coated with dust, as if it was being absorbed into the red earth. But mostly they saw no sign of life below them. Amber, Hex and Paulo were venturing into the most arid, hostile place in the giant land of Australia, a land of frequent storms and ferocious fires – the Red Centre.

  17

  RED CENTRE

  ‘Paulo, look at that.’ Hex pointed through the cockpit window at a smudge on the skyline. It was a line of dust a few miles in front of the plane.

  ‘It could he that storm,’ said Amber.

  ‘Better steer around it,’ said Paulo. ‘Storms are not good news.’

  As he began to turn, the windscreen clouded over and the plane dropped like a stone.

  ‘Aaagh, Paulo!’ screamed Amber. She gripped the back of his seat so hard her fingers hurt. Hex clung onto the door, his arm rigid.

  Paulo wrestled with the throttle, his teeth gritted. He pulled back on the control wheel to try to gain more height.

  The windscreen cleared. The plane stopped its rapid descent. It flew along, bumping like a boat caught on choppy water.

  ‘Well done, Paulo,’ said Hex. ‘Forwards good, downwards not.’

  Amber adjusted her uncomfortable position. ‘Paulo, I nearly lost my breakfast. And that’s not funny because if I do I shall have to find some more.’

  Before Paulo could reply it happened again.

  The windscreen went completely dark. The plane dropped. It was like being in an elevator plummeting to the ground. It lifted Hex and Paulo from their seats and pressed the seatbelts painfully into their legs. It threw Amber hard against the ceiling.

  Paulo’s stomach was in his mouth. He jerked on the throttle. He had to gain height. He couldn’t see anything out of the windscreen. The altimeter reading was the only information he could take in. It seesawed crazily.

  They hit a clear patch. They could see again, but without the drag of all the dust the plane soared into the sky. Within moments it was vertical. Paulo scarcely knew what he was doing, but he guided it round in a smooth loop until it was horizontal again. Then they continued as though nothing had happened.

  ‘Paulo,’ said Hex gravely, ‘we have just looped the loop. Whenever I do that in a flight simulator, I crash.’

  ‘I think that was pretty cool,’ said Paulo. But his voice came out as a rasp and he looked bug-eyed.

  ‘Paulo,’ grumbled Amber, ‘if we crash, I shall eat you. And I won’t necessarily wait until you’re dead.’

  Paulo saw red earth whirling towards the windscreen like a blizzard. ‘Here it comes again.’ He braced himself against the controls.

  The plane plummeted again. Hex and Amber clung on, their knuckles white. Paulo desperately worked the throttle. He noticed to his horror that the altimeter was in the red zone. There was a bang. He hoped it was the wheels hitting the tops of some trees and not the ground.

  The engine started to splutter. Paulo went cold. Sand had worked into the filters and was interfering with the air intake. The engine could stall.

  They had to land, but they were going far too fast and if they touched down at this speed they would crash. He had to reduce airspeed drastically. Paulo pulled all the flaps out.

  The engine coughed and misfired. ‘Come on,’ Paulo found himself shouting, ‘come on.’ The dust cleared and the plane soared giddily at forty-five degrees.

  ‘Paulo, look, there’s a road.’ Amber got a perfect view of a black strip of tarmac ahead of them. ‘Please tell me we’re not going to land upside down.’

  Paulo tried to level the plane. It dropped again and knocked all the air out of him like a punch. There was a bump as the wheels touched down. But the plane bounced upwards again.

  ‘More flaps, Paulo,’ yelled Hex.

  ‘They’re all the way,’ Paulo shouted back. The plane touched down again and hopped into the air. The engine coughed and died. Paulo put the nose downwards and this time when the tyres bit the road, the plane stayed on the ground. Paulo braked hard. The craft skidded and he eased off. Little by little he brought it to a standstill.

  He sank back in his seat. His hands flopped away from the controls and he let out a long sigh. Amber patted him on the shoulder, shaking her head. She was speechless.

  Hex looked out of the window. All around the dust was swirling, turning the sky a thick red. The wind roared, steadied, then roared again.

  The plane began to move.

  ‘OK, Paulo, that’s enough,’ said Amber weakly.

  ‘I didn’t touch anything,’ said Paulo. ‘We shouldn’t be moving.’ The plane drifted along the road and started to pick up speed.

  ‘Well, do something!’ exclaimed Amber.

  Paulo had his hands back on the controls and his feet on the rudder pedals, but the plane was being swept along by the wind. He put the parking brake on, but that was worse. It skidded on the locked wheels and when he released it again they were going even faster.

  ‘Look at that wind speed,’ said Hex. ‘Sixty-four kilometres per hour.’

  ‘We’re being blown like a yacht,’ said Amber. ‘Try pulling the flaps in.’

  ‘I have. It’s not doing anything.’

  The dust settled again and the plane slowed. ‘What’s that in the distance?’ said Hex.

  Amber peered into the russet gloom. ‘Lights. Could it be a roadhouse? There aren’t any towns out here.’

  Another curtain of dust erased the lights. The plane surged forwards again. When the dust cloud had passed, the lights were bigger.

  ‘We’re getting closer,’ said Amber.

  ‘How do you suppose we’ll stop this thing?’ asked Hex.

  ‘I think we just go with the flow and wait for the storm to die down,’ said Amber. ‘So long as nothing comes . . . at least we’re sheltered.’

  Another wave of dust passed, thick like soup. It cleared.

  ‘Those lights are closer st
ill,’ said Paulo.

  Hex squinted at them. ‘I think they’re moving as well . . . towards us.’

  Paulo and Amber stared into the distance.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Paulo.

  ‘But what is it?’ asked Amber.

  ‘Dios,’ whispered Paulo.

  Amber realized there was something around the lights. They took shape to become two headlights, with a gigantic fender like a snowplough, and a smaller cab. A string of orange lights like carnival decorations looped across the top.

  Hex said, ‘It’s the road train.’

  ‘Well, you were so keen to see it,’ said Amber. Her throat strangled the words so they came out without the bravado she’d tried for.

  Paulo wrestled to regain control of the plane. Instead he spun it in a circle. When the wind eased they heard the roar of the road train’s colossal tyres and the rattle and clatter as its great loaded axles bounced over potholes. It was approaching fast.

  ‘It’s too close,’ yelled Amber.

  Paulo pulled at the door handle. ‘Get out, quick!’ He dived out.

  Hex followed, then Amber. They landed hard and tumbled off the blacktop into the scrubby bush.

  Hex was the first to get to his feet. ‘Run!’ he yelled.

  The wind threw red dust in their eyes, up their noses, into their ears. It scoured their faces, necks and hands. It stung like acid. Amber stumbled blindly, one hand protecting her eyes and the other feeling in front of her as if she was playing blind man’s buff. Paulo took her hand and led her. She followed, placing complete trust in him.

  Over the roaring wind they heard a loud, blaring air horn, like the kind used on big locomotives in America. Amber opened her eyes.

  In the split second before she closed them again, she saw the road train boom down the highway, into the little Cessna. The plane slipped under the engine’s front wheels before the lorry’s momentum batted it aside. The road train rumbled on, its sides festooned with orange running lights like a travelling fair. The wind howled again and the sky rained needles. The three huddled together in a tight ball, hiding their faces in their clothes.

  Pirroni struggled to land. The world outside had turned to brick-red soup. Gusts of wind flung the plane back into the air whenever the wheels on the underside of the floats touched down. Alex watched Pirroni wrestle with the controls, grim-faced. The terrorist’s expression was that of a man who expected to win because he would battle for the longest.