by Greg Barron
‘Good.’ Badi smiles, showing white teeth. ‘When we meet again we will be well on the way to success.’
The last thing Badi does before leaving the Isra is to walk back to his cabin. Cassie is lying on his bed, watching the large screen AMOLED TV. He sits down beside her. ‘I’m going now.’
‘Be careful.’
‘Do you know what I’m doing?’
‘I think so.’
‘We’re going to kill them all. Does that shock you?’
Cassie shakes her head, throws her arms around his neck and holds him tight until he pulls away and walks out the door without a word. When he has gone she feels breathless, and a little nauseous, all at the same time.
A vessel comes alongside the Isra, a French-made Arvor GRP fishing boat, eight metres in length. It has a spacious wheelhouse, and an efficient Nanni diesel shaft drive engine. All in all, a type of vessel as common in British waters as seagulls.
At the wheel, Badi recognises, are two London employees of EMK, both skilled seamen. With fenders bearing the friction between the smaller hull and the much larger Isra, Badi and the six crewmen clamber down rope ladders and into the craft. The much smaller vessel makes way without fuss, pointing her bow towards the city of London.
Badi leans out from the open cockpit so he can feel the light spray as they plough against the tide, and contemplates the return journey — they will come through the ramp at the Isra’s bow. By then, of course, they will be heavily laden with the means of delivering hell on the unsuspecting people of London.
TEN
WINDSOR, NEW SOUTH WALES
LOCAL TIME: 0730
The airstrip is one of several unregulated fields in Sydney’s outer suburbs. The flight school is situated in a hangar and office complex on the edge of a green lawn and concrete runway. Djamil watches from behind the tinted windows of the Nissan van as the school staff arrive.
Djamil and his men are each armed with a 3D-printed machine pistol. The translucent magazines show thirty tightly packed 9mm rounds. On the end is a cylindrical silencer.
‘Let’s go,’ he calls, and the side door of the van slides open. He leaps out first, the others following close behind. They walk up the concrete path, all slight young men, eyes blazing with dreams of glory and determination.
After a convoluted route from the Isra, the guns, along with the pressure-sealed tank containing the spores, were shipped across from Jakarta, buried in a container of compressor spares destined for an EMK-linked petroleum distributor in Liverpool, in Sydney’s western suburbs. The men arrived on a Thai Airways 777-200, tourist visas stamped in blue ink on their passports.
Djamil holds the machine pistol behind his back, then kicks the door open and walks on through, the others still following behind him. The room has three desks in it. One is occupied by a woman of about twenty-five. Djamil brings his weapon out and it thumps against his hand as he fires into her chest and surprised face.
Because of the danger of heat damage to the working parts and silencer, the action of these weapons is limited to a three-shot burst rather than full automatic. For this kind of work, however, short bursts are ideal. The woman shudders and lolls sideways.
Another burst takes out the man who must be the pilot instructor. The third, an older man, runs in from another office, shouting. Djamil kills him coldly. He walks to all three bodies, starting with the woman. Only the pilot is still alive, twisting rhythmically as if trying to shrug. Djamil puts a single round into his forehead.
They drag the bodies to a storage closet, and leave them piled together, blood running from one to the other. This, Djamil reasons, will all be over long before the corpses start to smell.
He reaches into a key locker and chooses two sets of keys.
Moving into the hangar, their shoulders are hunched with the weight of the equipment they carry. The Evektor SportStar light aircraft stands just chest high, white paint shining in the harsh light. Djamil reaches for the catch, then starts to lift the cowling, easing it up on skeletal hydraulic struts.
Between the three of them, working to precise instructions, the pilot and co-pilot seats are lifted from the aircraft, then the clip-in floor carpeting. They use cheap cordless drills to bore anchor points into the aluminium frame, then to drive in crude self-tapping screws.
Someone curses as a tool slips. This is not an easy workspace — dark apart from LED beams from their head lamps, and cramped. Every nerve ending is hypercharged.
‘Hurry,’ Djamil hisses into the cockpit, ‘we need to finish now.’ There is a croak in his voice, a cold coming on. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Soon it will all be over, a journey that began for him at Ka Tirsan training camp in Somalia, where Istikaan and the Saudi flight training instructor had prepared him for this moment.
He is proud to have been chosen to take the fight to Australia. This country must be punished. They were part of the American coalition that destroyed Iraq. They cheered on the interference in the Libyan revolution, and aided the enemies of Syria. Their SAS have roamed Afghanistan and Iraq in their deadly Land Rovers. Along with the Americans, British and French, they all must die.
Djamil removes the chocks and takes position, ready to start pushing the machine out of the hangar. He finds it hard to contain his building excitement. They are so very close to success.
Together they push the 350 kilogram craft out through the open doors onto the concrete apron where she sits, leaning forward, all gorgeous curves and tilted wings, seemingly too innocent and beautiful to become a weapon of war.
Djamil steps up onto the wing, then into the cockpit, slipping the headphones over his ears, adjusting the mouthpiece to fit.
The plan is simple, having been discussed at length: Stay low, within a thousand feet of the houses where enemy jets cannot fire upon you. Down low they will have a dilemma, to try to bring you down, or not. At five thousand feet the broadcast will begin, and death will descend upon the city.
One of the others closes the cowling and steps back from the aircraft. Djamil pushes the magneto and the engine surges into life, the propeller building to a satisfying roar. He forces himself to go through the standard checks before easing the throttle forward. Feet on the rudder pedals he steers the little plane out onto the runway. Waits, warms the engine, watches the tacho and oil-pressure gauges.
Racing down the runway, the wings provide lift, and with a slight back pressure on the elevator control, the little plane rises from the tarmac, towards a yellow sun over the distant sea. Across a city that Djamil envisions as a wasteland, awash with the blood of millions.
ELEVEN
WINDSOR, NEW SOUTH WALES
LOCAL TIME: 0810
Marika brushes a stray wisp of brown hair back from her ear. Sweat dampens her palms and the small of her back. She winds down the window and a blast of cool air, redolent of eucalyptus, strikes her in the face as the car hurtles out past Windsor, where the Hawkesbury River cuts deep into the sandstone matrix.
The driver, Australian Federal Police Sergeant Kerry Phillips, steers the Toyota LandCruiser with one hand, sun-bleached curls blowing in the breeze of the open window. He turns to her. ‘Where now?’
‘Turn right,’ she says, pointing at a gravel road with a faded yellow signpost: Aerodrome Road. According to her intel it is a minor field, used by crop dusters and ultralights; uncontrolled airspace, one of a network of small private airstrips across the country. ‘And just pray like hell we’re on the right track.’
The breakthrough was, as is so often the case, random in nature — an international text message intercepted by the ASD — Australian Signals Directorate — early that morning, addressed to a young woman in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia with known links to the terrorist group, KMM. The message was tracked to this small, unregulated airfield near Windsor before being lost, the batteries obviously removed or the unit disabled.
The vehicle rattles over potholes, slides around a ninety degree bend, bare poplar trees lining both si
des of the road. Marika reaches for the comforting grip of her Glock 22 in its shoulder holster, not knowing what to expect. She looks ahead. Buildings clad with steel sheet appear from between the trees, then a chain-mesh fence and a spacious area beyond. A number of single and twin-engine propeller craft are parked on the apron. ‘That’s it!’
Better equipped forces will be converging on this little airstrip. ARH Tiger gunships and an MRH90 Taipan transport from the 171st Aviation Squadron at Holsworthy, carrying Special Forces assets from the 2nd Commando Regiment are on the way, but Marika will be first on the scene.
The LandCruiser screeches to a halt outside the only substantial set of buildings. A faded sign on treated pine poles has an amateur drawing of a light plane and ‘Hawkesbury Flight Training Centre’ in giant blue letters.
Marika pushes open the vehicle door, crouches her way out into the open, holding the handgun with both hands at full reach to cover the office and hangar exterior in a wide arc. The grounds hold a few scattered shrubs, and a couple of straight gum trees, but very little cover.
The four of them make an arc, covering the area. Marika, still with weapon extended, says, ‘Looks quiet. Kerry … you and I can clear the office, you other two the hangar. OK?’
‘Choppers won’t be far away though, maybe we should wait …’
‘The situation is time critical. You know that, we need to find out if there are any aircraft up in the air.’
Marika moves crab-wise towards the door, while Kerry, with his compact surfer’s body, echoes her movements. He carries a KRISS Vector SMG in .45 ACP, which looks more like a water-blaster than a weapon, though lots of fun on the range.
Moving in alternate bounds, Kerry is ahead of her when he raises the KRISS to his shoulder, aiming at a target near the main door of the flight school. ‘Hey, you. Hands on your head. Police!’
A figure stands up from a bench near the door, shrinking against the wall and quickly raising his hands. Young, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, hair tied at the nape of his neck.
Marika runs forward, covering him all the way. ‘Get on the ground, keep your hands on your head.’
‘What is this?’
‘Just do it. Now.’
The youth complies, folding his body down, lying on his side then rolling onto his front, head sideways until Marika can see the rounded whites of his eyes. ‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘And we’re not going to hurt you,’ Marika says. ‘But we need to know who you are.’
‘My name’s Jake Tierney. I came for a lesson. The door’s locked and no one’s answering. Another one of the students came too but they went away again.’
Marika regards the pitiful form of the youth, wriggling on the concrete like a worm. The flap of a packet of cigarettes hangs out of the hip pocket of his jeans. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘About ten minutes.’
‘Have you heard anything from inside?’
‘Not a thing. Just someone’s mobile ringing in there. Please, let me go now.’
Marika turns to Kerry, who has his back to them, using his firearm to protect the three of them from exterior threats. ‘You got cuffs?’
The Fed Sergeant passes across a pair of Max-cuff double restraints. Marika kneels beside the kid. ‘I’m going to restrain you because there’s something serious going down, OK. Just stay calm and you’ve got nothing to fear.’
The youth whimpers as Marika forces his left foot close to his right wrist, immobilising both with a firm pull on the plastic extension, the ratchet clicking audibly as she does so. Marika stands, checks her handiwork then moves across to the glass door.
Kerry stands at the other side, trigger hand clamped on the grip of the Vector. ‘You open, I’ll go in.’
Marika tries the handle. Locked. She steps back and fires a single round into the lock, loud under the veranda eaves. The youth yells in fright. She pushes the door steadily with her foot rather than kicking it, admitting the policeman, who enters frontally, then moves to the right.
‘Go now,’ he shouts, and she enters, moving in the opposite direction, every muscle tensed, hugging the wall, conscious that the windows make her vulnerable.
Each step is taken with care. The Glock’s muzzle delineates every square metre of ground before she moves on. An IED is always a possibility, even here. Moving around one corner, she finds herself facing a desk. Now she can see a dark stain in the carpet behind it, and a spatter of blood across the papers strewn across the surface, like red paint flung from a brush. The telephone is off the hook, emitting an audible double beep.
Then a doorway to a side office, wide open. Another bloodstain in the entrance, still glowing wet. Marika enters the office slowly, checking behind the door first. The room is tiny, with just a couple of grey three-drawer filing cabinets, a desk and a computer server rack-mount unit. Checking behind the desk she moves back to the doorway, into the main office. ‘Room clear,’ she calls as she leaves.
The Fed is now at the rear of the main office, the Vector at his shoulder, eye down, sighting along the barrel, focused on a closet. Marika moves towards it, pace by pace, half expecting someone to come out firing.
Marika looks down. More blood seeping from under the door. She feels sick to the stomach. She reaches out with her free hand, grips the handle of the closet door and rips it open.
Movement. A head and shoulders falling. The body of a man falls out and thumps to the carpet, teeth fixed in a macabre smile. Two others loll against the wall under coat hangers filled with flight jackets and luminous ground overalls. Their wounds are concentrated in the upper body and head, craters torn by high-velocity projectiles.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Marika steps back. The AFP sergeant is already calling in the find. She walks back, through the doors to where the teen has, despite his restraint, managed to extract and light a cigarette, puffing on it with the aid of his free hand.
He turns, ‘What the hell is going on, anyway? I’ve got a right to know …’
Marika feels hollow from what she saw inside. ‘You’ve got a right to jack shit. Just tell me, have you seen any planes leave?’
‘Yes, just as I got here. One was taking off.’
‘Give me details, quick.’
‘Evektor SportStar RTC. It’s the one I fly — I’m going for my rec pilot’s licence.’
‘Registration and any other markings?’
‘Registration number is oscar-zero-three-zero …’
The youth talks nervously while Marika uses ‘speech to text’ on the GU to update control. Already she is thinking ahead. A light plane — almost certainly stocked with spores from al-Hajjuf and some kind of broadcast mechanism. Hard to counter.
Australian forces are not equipped with the UHTM — Ultra High Temperature Missiles — developed in the US by the giant Lockheed Martin Corporation to counter biological weapon delivery by producing extreme burn temperatures. Some are being shipped, but will not arrive in time. Conventional surface-to-air missiles would just broadcast the deadly cargo over an even wider area.
There is no easy answer. They did not envision this — a tiny aircraft, flying low and alone, so small it would barely be heard from the ground. An agent of death in the cheapest and lightest of planes.
Marika raises her head to the unmistakeable sound of chopper rotors heading in from the south east. She strides out towards the apron.
‘Hey, can you get these cuffs off me,’ the youth calls out.
Marika ignores him, walking out to meet the three choppers that settle down onto the tarmac. There are two models, both part of the ADF’s upgrade from the well-used Bell Kiowa, Iroquois ‘Bushranger’ and Blackhawk rotary aircraft.
The first two down are ARH Tiger gunships, long, dark and sleek, in pastel yellow and green camo. The nose section, with its double canopies, resembles a man wearing a gas mask. Missiles and sensor pods bristle from its stubby side wings, and a machine gun barrel hangs from the extreme tip.
The third is
a new-generation MRH90 Taipan medium lift multi-role chopper, one of forty-six that were partially built in Australia for the Army. Powered by twin Rolls-Royce Turbomeca engines, each delivering over two thousand horse power, this craft is capable of carrying eighteen fully equipped infantry, the pilots and one or two loadmasters. In addition to the two door gunners, it packs up to four missiles for close fire support and LZ protection.
Marika reaches the Taipan, just as a man in the uniform of the ADF’s Second Commando regiment, with lieutenant’s pips on his epaulette, jumps down. ‘Lieutenant Clarke here. What’s going on?’
‘Marika Hartmann, British SIS but I’m working with ASIS and the Federal Police on this. We’ve got three dead bodies in the office there, and an offensive plane in the air.’
‘Shit.’
‘Let’s mount up. I’ll explain in the air if you don’t mind.’
Marika climbs aboard, the loadmaster extending a hand that she ignores, using an iron stirrup to spring up into the interior. The rear of the craft is open space, with two facing benches, a squad of eight men kitted up and belted in. The loadmaster fusses over her as she moves forward to the cockpit. The lieutenant moves up also.
The pilot lifts off his flight helmet and turns to her. ‘You’re the Marika Hartmann we’ve been told about?’
‘That’s me.’
‘OK, they said you’d be on site.’
‘You’ve been briefed fully on this?’
The lieutenant answers for them. ‘We’ve been told that at least one canister of these al-Hajjuf anthrax spores have probably entered the country.’
‘Well there’s a damn good chance that canister is in a tiny Evektor aircraft, call sign SportStar oscar-zero-three-zero heading over Sydney right now. If he releases those spores it’s not only going to kill a lot of people, but render the city uninhabitable for decades. I don’t know much about these Evektor planes, how fast are they?’
‘About a hundred knots,’ says the pilot, ‘we can move at one-fifty, at least. Can we shoot him down?’