by Greg Barron
‘Heavy enough, no doubt about it,’ PJ says, shaking his head at the size of them. He slips six into the cylinder with his forefinger and thumb then closes the weapon. He takes the stance known as the ‘modified weaver’, feet about the same distance apart as his shoulders and the firing arm straight, focuses on the target, and fires twice in quick succession, a pause, then four more times. He slips off the muffs and turns to the armourer.
‘You can feel the recoil. Big change from a 9mm.’
‘We’ll make a man of you yet.’ Frank nods his head. ‘Not bad shooting, all inners. You want me to adjust the sights up a bit?’
PJ breaks open the revolver, thumbs out the empties and refills the cylinder. ‘No, I’ll compensate. I’d rather have it zeroed for a bit of distance.’
‘Balance feel OK?’
‘Yeah, it does, actually. I like it.’
‘You want to try the reactive target?’
The reactive, or jumping, target is an iron contrivance with arms like stop signs extending in four directions so one will always stick up. A good, square shot will make the target ‘jump’ and rotate, presenting a new target for the shooter. There is some competition in the 2CG arm of the organisation to see who can make one rotate the fastest.
The phone rings inside the office. The armourer hurries in to answer it, then comes back out again. ‘That’s the boss, needs you up there right now.’
PJ turns just his head, keeping the gun dead level on the target. In less than two seconds he sends all six rounds down range. All connect with a dull iron clang, and the target jumps and rotates like a living thing.
‘Show off,’ says Frank. ‘Now good luck with the piece and get your arse upstairs. The boss sounds excited.’
PJ rides the elevator up, the Warlock heavy in the holster yet so well supported that he suspects that after a while he won’t know it’s there. The vinyl carry bag in his right hand holds a cleaning kit and a box of fifty rounds. Countashot or not, that allocation will have to be accounted for, round by round.
PJ, like the rest of his organisation, has been anxiously following events in Sydney, and that is his first question as he walks into the Blair Room, the main ops room for the DRFS.
Tom Mossel looks up. ‘Agent Hartmann is in the air over Sydney in pursuit of a light plane that’s suspected of carrying anthrax spores.’
PJ struggles for words, staring back at his boss. Tom Mossel’s eyes lack the fire and enthusiasm of just a few months earlier. His hair has taken on a lustreless shade of grey, and retreated to the borders, leaving the crown as bald as a plum.
‘Jesus,’ PJ says at last.
‘Precisely.’
Mossel points up at the screen that dominates the room — a new integrated command and control technology known as SITPOL. An image of a corporate logo appears on the screen. EMK Corporation, a multinational company just starting to make its mark in the petroleum industry, funded, it seems, with unlimited, hidden billions from the former ruling families of the Middle East.
‘We have a possible lead. You know we’ve been investigating EMK, and GCHQ appears to have partially cracked their communications. They’ve pointed us to a flat in Wanstead that may have been the source of a coded message — some kind of acknowledgement — they’re working on the meaning now.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘We’ll go in soft, for a start. They’re just finalising a surveillance team of five to set up “ears” outside the apartment from which the message was sent. You’ll tag along in case anything happens. We’ll have a full 2CG team ready for deployment by the time you get there if it becomes necessary.’
PJ nods. ‘Sounds clear.’
‘Got your sidearm organised?’
PJ pats the heavy Warlock in its holster. ‘You could say that.’
Ten minutes later he is in a black surveillance van, decked out with LCD screens, technicians and banks of cables, speeding up Park Lane, then east on the A501. After a twenty-minute run they turn up past Olympic Park and onto the A12 into Wanstead. PJ peers into the darkness, making out the golf course on the left, glancing at a coloured sign advertising golf lessons before they turn north again, into a side street and stop a discreet distance from a block of flats.
These flats look little different from most of the others in the borough. Although the area dates back to the Saxon era, and housing estates were established here in the 1930s, most of the flats were built post-war, with rendered brick walls, ruddy red roof tiles, white windowsills and peaked eaves.
Identifying the correct unit takes a few minutes. PJ leaves it to the techs while he studies the place through the darkened windows of the van.
The techs set up a long-range laser listening device. An updated technology, replacing the old parabolic microphone, the LRLLD works by firing an infrared laser at a window, which picks up conversation through minute vibrations in the glass.
They listen for a while. Very little sound at all — breathing, and faint music played through earphones. Thermal imaging shows at least one person inside the flat.
PJ finds the wait tense. He thinks of Marika, over foreign skies right now. Of course she will handle it, she is one of the most capable people he has ever met. She will be back in the country within a day or two. Marika is the only part of his life that makes him waver about the next step into the world of truly secret intelligence. The thought of not being able to see her is a stab in his guts …
PJ forces himself to stop thinking about her and makes himself comfortable. He settles down to what might be a long and tedious wait for anything, or nothing, to happen.
SEVENTEEN
SYDNEY
LOCAL TIME: 0835
Djamil knows that security services have arrived at the flight school or the radio call asking him to turn back and threatening him with missile fire would not have happened. It doesn’t matter. It was inevitable that they would find out. There is nothing they can do now.
He has switched off both UHF and VHF radio sets. Best not to engage with them at all. Keep them confused about his intentions. At the same time he is careful not to draw attention to himself, keeping the revs low to reduce noise, avoiding any kind of unusual in-air movement that might raise suspicion from below — waggling the wings or sudden altitude changes. Instead he flies on, following the GPS slavishly. Doing everything right.
The minutes pass by. The Parramatta River diverges into dozens of jagged, drowned side valleys that give it so much character. The chart-plotting software shows their names. The absurd Hen and Chicken Bay, Abbotsford Bay, Five Dock Bay, Drummoyne Bay. Far ahead he can see a dim outline of the Sydney CBD and its cold grey skyscrapers.
Adrenalin jets into his system, knowing how close he is to success, that even if the engine stops now he will have time to press the release switch and start the process. He flies on, knowing that, with this wind blowing, the best release point will be over the eastern suburbs, Malabar or Bondi, or down as far as Cronulla, but anywhere from now will do. The suburbs of north western Sydney would bear the full brunt.
The sight of the white sails of the Opera House in the distance, and the simple beauty of the Harbour Bridge, sets his heart racing. Having them as part of the kill zone will be important. They are just symbols, yes, but Djamil knows how powerful symbols can be, how they can define a life, a society, a religion. The Christian cross, the Muslim crescent, the hammer and sickle, the face of Buddha. And down below are some of those buildings that these white people use to seek to define themselves in the barren landscape of their spirituality.
When the load has been jettisoned he will fly south. Land in a paddock or disused field and go to ground, head south for Melbourne where he has connections. Travel is easy when unlimited funds are available. Passports from half-a-dozen countries can be purchased on the black market when you know where to look.
In preparation he lifts the PAPR mask from the seat beside him, slips it on over his face and checks the seals. His hearing an
d vision are affected, but that is unimportant in the circumstances.
He has just passed over what the chartplotter identifies as Cockatoo Island when a sound from behind becomes audible over the little plane’s engine and air wash of the propeller. He whips his head around to look, yet nothing is visible at first.
The growing roar of jet engines does not surprise Djamil. This invasion of controlled airspace was always going to provoke an attempt to bring him down. With the radio off he has no idea if there have been further attempts to contact him. In aviation, a failure to answer radio communications is almost as bad as a declaration of hostility.
The noise grows in intensity. A Royal Australian Air Force F-35a Joint Strike Fighter sweeps past at five times Djamil’s speed. His skin and nerves tingle with anticipation.
The jet all but disappears towards the ocean, then turns and comes back. This time he sees the pilot clearly, helmeted and dark, looking subhuman through the lens of two canopies.
Djamil giggles to himself. They cannot do anything. Any attack by missile or gunfire will spread his payload. They are impotent. The planning team even discussed the threat of a deliberate collision, such as the one that caused the death of the martyrs Istikaan and his pilot over East Africa, but Australians will not do something so selfless. They are too anxious to get back to their kangaroo burgers, indecently dressed females and thuggish sports to make such a sacrifice.
Djamil adjusts course, fine tuning his direction towards the city. The jet screams out from port to starboard again, leaving a white vapour trail in its wake. It then disappears into the north, and Djamil wants to laugh. For all their weaponry and arrogance, they cannot stop me.
Choppers arrive soon after, a pair of Tiger gunships, painted camouflage green, rotors blurring over the fuselages, low down at the noses, tails high up, racing in from the south west. Djamil braces himself for the chatter of a mini-gun, but of course it doesn’t happen. They will not risk it. They know the power of what he has aboard.
With a growing sense of omnipotence he watches the two machines come up on either side of him, keeping pace with him easily. He sees cameras, door gunners behind the mini-guns, and then, remarkably, on the most easterly machine, a man with a megaphone in the open door.
The voice only barely carries over the combined roar of turbines, rotors and props: ‘You are ordered to land at Bankstown Airport. All runways have been cleared. Change course immediately or we will take steps to ground you.’
Djamil turns away, as if to remain in eye contact with the man would be an admission of defeat. Instead he remains on course. He swallows.
They can do nothing to stop me. Nothing.
EIGHTEEN
SYDNEY
LOCAL TIME: 0840
Sydney Harbour looks like a sheet of foil out in the sun. Goat Island is below, with its neat mown lawns and rocky fringe. Fishing boats, and ferries carrying Sydney commuters leave lines of white wake behind them. Marika’s hands are clenched, thinking ahead, fighting off a feeling of futility.
The door gunner: ‘I’ve got visual on him now. Eleven o’clock.’
‘Roger that, good spotting.’
The engine roar eases as the Taipan slows to match pace with the smaller plane.
Marika squints ahead into the glare. The little plane is already being shepherded on either side by the Tiger gunships, yet does not seem to be deviating, just flying straight ahead into the south east. She studies the slow flying Evektor aircraft and considers all the options. Getting the door gunners to shoot off the rudder might send it off course, but the pilot’s reaction might well be to rupture the tank and spread the cargo. Even at this height that is not a risk worth taking.
‘We haven’t got enough fuel for too much of this,’ says the pilot, and she can hear the gritted-teeth strain of it, the self-control short-circuiting down to bare wires. ‘What can we do, anyway?’
‘We’re going to stop him. That’s what.’
‘How?’
Marika slips off the headset, and raises both hands to retie her hair, calls the loadmaster over. ‘Will this aircraft take the weight of that plane?’
The man looks uneasy. ‘Carry it, you mean?’
‘That’s right.’
‘On a dead-weight basis, of course. That little plane can’t be more than six or seven hundred kilos, but what the fuck are you talking about?’
Marika points to the SAR wire reel and sling, mounted on the cabin roof on the port side. ‘We could render the aircraft inoperable then sling it down to the ground.’
‘No fucking way, that’s an SAR sling, rated for two men — two hundred and fifty kilos max.’
‘These things are always underrated.’
‘Yeah but not by a factor of two or three.’ The man’s face has turned bright pink, and dabs of sweat are breaking out on his forehead. ‘Besides, you think that fucking terrorist in that plane is gonna let me slip a noose over the tail?’
The lieutenant looks sceptical, but says, ‘Settle down. Let’s hear the plan first.’
‘Thank you.’ Marika points at the man with the Barrett rifle. ‘We’ll need your platoon sniper.’
‘Bates, get over here,’ the officer bawls.
The man looks up, hefts the rifle, and crosses the cargo space of the chopper. He kneels beside them.
‘OK,’ Marika says, ‘this is what we’re going to do.’
NINETEEN
SYDNEY
LOCAL TIME: 0842
The Tiger gunships hover two hundred metres out on each side as the Taipan takes a turn so hard it tilts almost sideways. Marika is on comms advising the pilot, watching the sniper settle into position at the starboard side hatch beside the door gunner, bipod extended. On the other side the loadmaster readies the cable reel and lengthens the sling, fashioning the ‘slip knot’ that will enable it to fasten on the target.
The Taipan comes up on the Evektor to one side, and just a little above, trying to match its speed.
Marika calls to the man on the Barrett rifle. ‘Take the shot as soon as you can get it. We’ll put you within a hundred metres. Don’t give him time to spot you. As soon as he’s spooked he’ll start evasive action.’
The tension inside the cabin means silence, anxious glances. The sniper, lying prone, spreads his legs wide, right eye fifty or more millimetres back from the lens of the variable magnification Leopold telescopic sight.
‘What kind of projectiles have you got in there?’ Marika asks.
‘Standard armour-piercing rounds. They’ll go through that Perspex like it’s not there.’
‘A little faster,’ Marika calls to the pilot. ‘Nearly there.’
Time slows as the Taipan comes up alongside the Evektor. Marika sees the pilot for the first time. Sees him turn, wearing some kind of mask. His eyes appear to focus on the sniper rifle in the side hatch.
‘Take the shot,’ Marika calls.
The gunshot, despite the heavy calibre, is almost lost among the cacophony of aero engines. Visible fire spurts from the muzzle of the rifle and the butt kicks against the sniper’s shoulder.
A hole appears in the Perspex. The head of the pilot snaps sideways, and the inside canopy is sprayed with an aerosol of red. Yet the plane flies on, at first as if nothing untoward has happened.
‘You got him,’ Marika shouts. ‘Now go for it, we’ve got about ten seconds. Those planes are designed for students — it’ll stay level for a bit, but not forever.’
Intense G-forces peel Marika’s skin sideways as she helps the sniper back and out of the way, while the Taipan banks and desperately ascends.
The loadmaster is sitting on the edge of the doorway, peeling wire rope out of the winch, guiding the sling down into the abyss. The chopper straightens, then surges forward on a line some twenty metres above the Evektor.
Marika turns to the door gunner. ‘You ready?’
‘Yep, all good.’
‘Timing, right.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
/> Marika kneels at the edge beside the loadmaster, one hand on a grab handle, looking down at the giddying harbour and city far below, where the SAR sling slices through the air, kept at forty-five degrees by the weight of the cable.
The loadmaster is guiding the cable with his hand. His face is that of a man about to perform the most important physical act of his life. The sling nudges up against the tail fin of the Evektor, and Marika wills it over.
‘A touch of speed,’ she calls into the comms.
The sling starts to ride up, then slips past.
‘The fucking plane is starting to dive,’ the loadmaster screams. ‘The angle’s changing.’
Marika looks down, they have a few hundred feet to play with — mere seconds. Already, Centrepoint Tower, only kilometres ahead, appears to be not much lower than her eye level.
‘Slower,’ Marika calls to the pilot, ‘and stay with it.’
They drop back a touch, until the sling is again just behind the tail fin. The loadmaster swings the cable forward with all his strength. Marika can see the strain in his face, and the taut sinews of his neck as he tries to hold it.
‘Speed,’ Marika calls, ‘we’ve almost got it.’
The Taipan surges forward and Marika sees the moment as the sling passes over the tail fin and one side of the stubby little rear wings.
‘Got it,’ shouts the loadmaster.
‘Now,’ she screams into the headset. ‘Lift, go, go.’
The Taipan reefs violently upwards, but the light plane is still under power. Marika shouts to the door gunner. ‘Take out the prop, now, hurry.’
‘I can’t bear on it. I can’t bear.’
The Taipan is screaming upwards, dragging the light plane behind it, but the smaller craft is spinning uncontrollably. They are seconds from disaster, when the unstable craft will fly upwards into the rotors of the chopper and bring both craft plummeting downwards.