From our cell window, I could see lights and activity in the main workshop, where the boffins and engineers were pulling an all-nighter to get the cruise missile ready for the early-morning launch. It was a warm night, the cell was stuffy, and sleeping was impossible, so Ed and I rehearsed a little performance for when the goons walked in with the bolt-cutters. Pergo hadn’t bothered to post an overnight guard on the cellblock, and given the solidness of the barred windows and the steel doors, I could see why.
They took Clare away just after six in the morning, and when no one came for me and my toes I figured she must have cooperated. Around seven, one of Pergo’s men brought her back to her cell. She was bruised and bleeding from a split lip.
She looked at me and shook her head. ‘What choice did I have?’
‘Looks like you live to tango another day, Alby,’ Ed muttered quietly. He was on his bunk under a blanket.
While it was nice to still have all ten toes, it wasn’t what I’d expected from Clare. She was career Navy – Annapolis. Why had she caved in so easily?
When the guard had locked Clare in her cell I whistled to him. ‘Hey, tough guy, my mate’s in bad shape. Reckon you can get someone to take a look at him?’
The guard peered warily through the small opening just as Ed let out a low moan.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ the guard asked.
‘Beats me. He just started feeling crook in the night. I think he’s got a fever.’
Under instructions, I put my hands on my head and stood facing the wall while the guard unlocked the door and edged in.
‘Crikey, maybe he got bitten by that snake!’ I yelled, pointing to the corner of the cell. I don’t like using the same ruse twice, but we had limited options. As the guard swung the muzzle of his Walther submachine gun away from me, I kicked him in the nuts and then biffed him with the cell door while he was on his knees. Not an elegant tactic, but it worked.
Ed sat up on his bunk. ‘Jeez, mate, that was more Three Stooges than 007. I’m a bit disappointed.’
‘Wait till you see my Abbott and Costello,’ I said as I frisked the guard. ‘That always lays ’em in the aisles.’
We tied the guard’s hands with his belt and put him on my bunk, tucked up under the blanket. I couldn’t find a phone on him, or any more ammo for the Walther, so I was stuck with what was in the magazine. The Walther is a good close-in weapon, but it only holds thirty rounds.
I left Ed locked in the cell with the unconscious guard for cover and started to work my way towards the launch site. I planned to get as close as I could, wait till they rolled the missile out, then try to put all my bullets into the engine. My plan hit a slight snag before I’d gone twenty paces, when someone else with a Walther tried to put all their bullets into me.
I ducked behind the nearest rocky outcrop and squeezed off a three-round burst in the direction of the shooter, who had his own rock to hide behind. Only twenty-seven shots left and a lot of open ground to cover, which wasn’t the way I’d planned it.
I popped my head up for a quick look and got a lot of encouragement to keep it down. Two or three shooters had me spotted now, and another three-round burst from me brought about a hundred in return. Bullets, ricochets and rock splinters were suddenly flying in all directions, and I hunkered down in a cleft in the rock.
Around twenty-four shots left. Between bursts of fire I risked another peek, and really didn’t like what I saw. The steel doors to the workshop building slid silently open and half a dozen of Artemesia’s armed heavies spread out to form a protective circle. A bunch of nervous-looking, white-coated technicians pushed the missile down the railway tracks to the launching ramp. Sheehan was in the group, with one of the guards holding a gun on him. His face was puffy and bruised and I wondered if he’d had a discussion with Pergo about nukes.
The warhead compartment on the missile was shut, and it looked like everything was in place for the Japanese to get their lunchtime surprise. The boffins made some last-minute adjustments and then withdrew into the workshop, followed by the guards. The steel doors were closed to protect the workers from the red-hot backwash of the solid-fuel booster rocket that would get the missile airborne.
At exactly 7.25, according to my watch, a loud klaxon blast echoed across the island. The five-minute warning for the launch. By now I calculated I had fifteen rounds left in the magazine. At this range I had no chance of hitting the engine on the missile, but if I left the shelter of the rock there was no way the goons could miss me. It was all about to hit the fan in a very big way and there was bugger all I could do about it.
Cristobel’s prediction of retribution from on high came to pass with a vengeance, and not a moment too soon. It actually started at ground level, with short bursts of submachine gun fire from commandos in camouflage battledress. The main attack force came from three Blackhawks that raced in at high speed and low level, hovering just long enough and low enough for black-clad SAS teams to rappel quickly down ropes slung from each door of the chopper’s main cabins.
The twenty-four SAS guys split into teams of four as soon as they hit the ground, spreading out and racing towards the different buildings, with the Blackhawks screaming away immediately the ropes were clear. The air- and ground-assault teams quickly linked up and suddenly doors were being kicked open, stun grenades tossed in, and soldiers were charging straight into the smoke and confusion that followed the blasts.
Two teams of four broke away from the rest and sprinted towards the jail, disappearing round a corner. I heard the crunch of boots on the gravel path, followed by about ten seconds of silence, then an almighty bang. There was smoke and yelling from inside the jail, then two smaller bangs and more yelling. ‘Get out, get out, get out.’
Then troopers were half dragging, half throwing Ed, Cristobel and Clare from the smoke-filled building. They stumbled, dazed and shaken by the explosions, and fell on their knees, coughing and wheezing and gasping for air.
I popped my head up a little higher from behind the rock, and when nobody tried to shoot it off I figured things were safe. Leaving the Walther behind and coming out with my hands up seemed the smart thing to do. I was still wearing the camouflage uniform of Artemesia’s security goons, and I didn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression. Especially not someone packing an MP5.
With my hands in the air I joined the group outside the jail. Suddenly my feet went out from under me and my face was in the gravel. I started to get up but a boot in the small of my back suggested I reconsider the move. I was quickly and efficiently frisked by someone who knew exactly what they were doing and then I was hauled back onto my feet.
Three SAS men kept us covered while a fourth gestured to the other team, sending them off in the direction of the main workshop. I could see a line of about twenty white-coated men on their knees with their hands clasped on top of their heads. While others kept watch, a pair of SAS troopers worked their way methodically down the line, searching each of the prisoners and then securing their hands with plastic ties. One of the men was pulled out of the line and marched over to our little group.
‘White isn’t really your colour, Pergo,’ I said when he joined us. Trust him to grab a dustcoat and try to look like one of the boffins. He started to take his hands off the top of his head but when one of the SAS bods raised his submachine gun he changed his mind. He didn’t change his attitude, though.
‘My name is Chapman F. Pergo and I’m Special Assistant to the Minister for Defence,’ he announced. ‘I have full authority to take charge of this operation and I order you to release me immediately.’
The SAS men looked at the soldier who was covering Pergo. The trooper gave a negative shake of the head. There was something familiar about the slight, black-clad figure.
Ed climbed to his feet and addressed Pergo’s guard. ‘I was wondering if I might have a brief word with Mr Pergo there?’
The SAS trooper nodded. Pergo lowered his hands as Ed walked up.
‘It�
�s about my bloody boat, and those bolt-cutters you mentioned,’ Ed said, and then his right shoulder dropped a bit and Pergo began raising his right hand. But it was a feint and Ed’s left shot out. There was a solid crack as his fist connected with Pergo’s chin, and the bastard went down like Sonny Liston to Ali in ’65.
Ed started walking in circles, shaking his hand and cursing quietly to himself. Hopefully the damage to his knuckles would be less than that to Pergo’s head. Pergo sat up slowly after a minute and rubbed his jaw.
‘I guess that would make it eight losses,’ I said to him.
He started to get to his feet, but two SAS troopers forced him back on his knees. Besides their submachine guns, they had pistols strapped to their thighs, and the holster on the trooper in front of Pergo held a black, nine-millimetre, Teflon-coated ASP.
‘I’ll have your balls for this, you bastards!’ Pergo hissed at the soldiers.
‘Not mine, you won’t,’ the trooper with the ASP said, pulling off her helmet and balaclava.
‘Hello, Jules,’ I said. ‘You know, you look really good in basic black. And those stun grenades are a nice touch. Very elegant.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Julie hooked the compact MP5K to the front of her combat harness and scratched her face. ‘Those damn wool balaclavas are really itchy,’ she said.
Her submachine gun was customised with a nifty ACE skeleton folding stock and an Aimpoint comp sight. It was a very nice-looking little package with a lot of punch close-up. Not unlike Julie herself.
This scenario would explain all those trips she took to Perth whenever she had a break. She always said she was going surfing at Margaret River, but she’d often come back with bruises and sprains. Once she’d even shown up with a broken collarbone, saying she’d got hammered on a righthander at North Point.
The SAS trained out of Swan Barracks in Perth, and since I hadn’t been smart enough to join the dots on that one, I wondered what the hell I’d been doing running an intelligence service.
‘Exactly how long has this being going on?’ I asked.
She smiled. ‘A year or three. A girl’s got to have a hobby.’
‘Well, your timing, as always, is impeccable, Ms Danko.’
‘I got alarmed yesterday afternoon when Ed’s floating gin palace disappeared off American satellite surveillance. Then when Artemesia’s radar went down and your homing beacon cut in and out, I figured it was time to call in the heavy mob. But it was your happy snap of Pergo and the missile that clinched the deal. I forwarded it to Lonergan, who took it straight to the Defence Minister.’
‘That must have been an interesting meeting.’
‘I’d say so. Suddenly everyone was white and shaking and in full get it sorted and let’s pretend it never happened mode. Next thing, Gwenda received an order authorising me to do whatever was necessary. She wasn’t all that happy about it, though. I won’t be hanging out for a Christmas bonus this year. Getting the ground-assault teams ashore held us up a little, but we got here in the end.’
‘Who’s we?’ I said.
‘Well, there’s the SAS, as you can see. We choppered in out of Hobart. And Lonergan organised for the Altoona to make a high-speed run down from Sydney with commandos from 4 RAR. They came ashore by rubber boat for the land assault, and the Altoona’s been standing off just over the horizon, watching the radar for anything in the way of a rocket launching, with her anti-missile missiles armed and ready, just in case.’
‘SAS and commandos? You weren’t taking any chances.’
‘With Pergo and the choirboys here, I figured we’d need all the firepower we could muster.’
‘You got that right.’
A figure jogged up dressed in US Marine combat fatigues and carrying an M4 carbine.
‘Very glad to see you and the cavalry, Carter.’
‘You too, Alby. You okay? All in one piece?’
‘Yeah, thanks, mate. Rounded up your choirboys?’
‘Yep. Every one of them. And let me tell you, they’re singing like canaries.’
The US Navy would get the surviving members of the choir on charges of mutiny, murder and desertion. Once convicted in a closed court, I figured they’d be stuck in the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth until the next millennium or beyond.
There was a loud bang from the direction of the staff quarters and I looked around.
‘Just our boys tidying up the loose ends,’ Julie said.
A trooper broke away from the group of prisoners near the workshop and raced over to us. He spoke quietly to the bloke who’d been giving the orders, who glanced over at Julie and said, ‘We can’t account for Target One.’
‘Artemesia?’ I asked.
Julie nodded.
‘And you’ve got all the chopper pilots?’
‘In their quarters, secured,’ the SAS commander said.
‘Where the hell is she?’ Julie said, and then there was another loud bang from the direction of the launch ramp, followed by the rumbling roar of a booster rocket firing up. We all turned in the direction of the ramp.
‘Looks like someone left the keys in the ignition,’ Ed said, and suddenly, with a deafening roar and billows of white smoke, Artemesia Gaarg’s lesson to the world’s whaling nations was blasting its way up the ramp and into the clear blue Tasmanian sky.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The solid-fuel booster rocket burned out around three hundred metres into the air and fell away from the missile. There was a brief spluttering sound from the missile’s engine, then a loud metallic bang, then silence. The momentum provided by the booster rocket kept the missile going forward and upward for another fifteen seconds or so, then it slowed, the nose dipped, and it began a slow descent towards the water.
It looked like Sheehan had pulled a bang-and-burn sabotage mission on his own cruise missile without Pergo noticing, and if he had I’d be willing to swallow my pride and make the man the best Spamburger he’d had in his life. Of course, how long that life was going to be was currently up for discussion.
I considered putting my fingers in my ears to block out the noise of the nuke going off when it hit the water, but decided it was probably pointless. Even the tough SAS men were staring wide-eyed at the falling missile. The only person who wasn’t holding her breath was Clare. She either had nerves of steel or she knew something I didn’t. I was really hoping it was the latter.
The missile was heading straight down now and it hit the water with all the grace of a high diver. There was one small splash of white water and then it was gone.
No one moved for a full sixty seconds after the impact, and when we hadn’t been vapourised by that point it seemed safe to relax.
I looked at Clare. ‘No bang?’ I said. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’
‘The warhead is fitted with a standard category-G permissive action link. You have to key in a twelve-digit code to arm it. But this one also has an AUD lock. If you hesitate for three seconds between the third, sixth and tenth digits, it reads it as Arming Under Duress. It finishes the procedure normally on the display but totally shuts down the detonation sequence. I let Pergo smack me around a bit for appearance’s sake, and then I tripped the AUD code.’
‘Any chance of the nuke breaking open and producing a generation of glow-in-the-dark whales?’ I asked.
‘Minimal. The casing is designed to withstand substantial impact. Plus there’s a homing device fitted, so we should be able to retrieve it pretty quickly with an unmanned submersible salvage vehicle.’
Now that the warhead was safe on the bottom of the ocean, that left Artemesia.
‘With the chopper pilots locked up, there’s only one way off this place,’ I said, looking down towards the jetty, where a white sail was already being hoisted on the old whaleboat.
Julie was on the move, heading towards the jetty and unhooking her MP5K as she ran. Two SAS troopers were sprinting towards the headland, leaving the fourth to guard Pergo.
By the time I caught up with
Julie at the beach, Artemesia had the whaleboat under sail and well away from the jetty. We had no way of stopping her. Julie took off again, sprinting towards the headland. It was obvious Artemesia was going to make the open ocean without any trouble, but what did it matter? She really had nowhere to run to.
The craft cleared the harbour entrance, and just as I was about to yell to Julie to radio the marine police, its mast began rocking violently from side to side. There was a billowing of foam and white spray and suddenly the whaleboat was up in the air, then falling sideways as a huge humpback leapt almost clear of the waves. The tiny boat slid off the whale’s back like it was just another droplet of water and landed on its side, sails flat to the waves. I could see a yellow flash of Artemesia’s lifejacket as she was tossed into the maelstrom.
More whales were breaching now, some just blowing spray into the air while others leapt and twisted, the white flashes of their bellies showing through the blue-green water. Caught in the middle of these leviathan aquarobics was the tiny yellow dot that was their strongest champion. There must have been thirty of the huge mammals, and I couldn’t imagine what Artemesia must have been thinking out there, all alone with her beloved whales.
There was one final flurry and a massive tail smacked down with a sound that carried clearly to the shore, and then they were gone.
The ocean returned to a steady swell, and the hull of the capsised whaleboat bobbed on the waves, but there was nothing else. No sign of the yellow lifejacket or Artemesia’s white hair. Did whales swim along with their mouths open? Could a whale actually swallow a person whole? There it was again – that question which had led to my traumatic expulsion from Sunday School and dashed my hopes of playing the third Wise Man in the Christmas pageant.
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