‘Who was that boy?’ Nan asked, as they drove off.
‘He’s in my class,’ Josh answered, looking out the back window.
‘Oh, lovely, a new school friend for you,’ said Nan. ‘Speaking of your friends, how is Baxter doing?’
‘He should be back at school next week,’ Josh answered absently, still looking out the back window.
‘Good, good,’ said Nan. ‘He’s such a nice, smart boy.’
‘Josh,’ said Maddie, whispering. She looked up at him with a sheepish expression on her face. ‘I oopsed.’
Josh frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I told Kelvin about the blue dragon,’ she said, wincing. ‘Oops!’
Josh gave his sister a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry, he’s too dumb to know what you meant. But you have to keep quiet about it from now on, Maddie. Cross your heart and hope to die.’
Maddie nodded. ‘I will. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
‘Nobody can know.’
‘I know. It’s the toppest top secret.’
‘What are you two whispering about back there?’ Nan called from behind the wheel.
‘If I told you, Nan, I’d die,’ Maddie replied seriously.
‘Ah, well then,’ Nan said, breaking into a wide smile. ‘We can’t have that, dear. So, did anything interesting happen to either of you today?’
Josh looked at Maddie. ‘No, just an average day, Nan.’
In the dark of night, two twin-engine Chinook CH-47 helicopters lifted off from the Tarin Kowt airfield and, without lights, wheeled toward the south. Once the Chinooks were well away from the city, flying over open country, they turned west and made for the Hindu Kush mountains. This had been done to ensure that no Taliban agent in Tarin Kowt would see them flying toward Bamiyan Province.
Ben and Caesar were riding in the second heelo, along with Charlie, Lucky, Baz and several of the foreign members of Strike Force Blue Dragon. Duke Hazard and the Americans were in the leading Chinook, accompanied by the rest of the foreign Special Forces troops. On his usual metal leash, Caesar sat between Ben’s legs, tongue hanging out, looking around at the soldiers sitting on either side of Ben along the wall of the cabin. Caesar recognised his fellow Australians, and among friends, he was feeling right at home.
Bending down to Caesar, Ben ruffled his neck and, to be heard above the din of the helicopter’s engines, yelled into his right ear. ‘We’ve got an important job ahead of us, mate. You might even be doing a bit of swimming.’
At the mention of swimming, Caesar looked around at Ben, his tail wagging with excitement. Ben knew how much Caesar loved to play in the sea. Occasionally, the pair went swimming at the beach when they had time off. Like all labradors, Caesar’s feet were naturally webbed, which made swimming easier for him. Ben knew the origins of the labrador retriever breed went back to water dogs in Newfoundland, Canada, where they were used to retrieve nets and fish as well as waterfowl shot by their masters.
Seeing Caesar’s wagging tail, Ben grinned. ‘I thought you’d like that. You’d enjoy a swim, wouldn’t you, mate?’
In response, Caesar’s tongue snaked out and he licked the side of Ben’s face.
The US Naval Base San Diego in southern California is the largest naval installation on the west coast of the United States, with 20,000 military personnel and 6000 civilian employees. Scores of grey warships call San Diego home, including two massive nuclear aircraft carriers, cruisers, destroyers, frigates and support vessels. But Commander Dave Renzo and his deputy, Lieutenant Brad Ellerman, weren’t interested in any of them. They were looking for one of the smallest vessels in the US Navy.
Round-faced Renzo was greying at the temples and had a stomach that bulged over his belt. Renzo had spent all his adult life in the US Navy’s submarine service. After graduating from the Annapolis Naval Academy, he’d served as an officer in some of the US Navy’s largest nuclear submarines. But Renzo had an independent streak, and in later years he’d specialised in captaining small research subs.
Short, slim and movie-star handsome, Lieutenant Ellerman looked young enough to be Renzo’s son. Ellerman had a background as a US Navy clearance diver before he joined Renzo as co-pilot of deep-sea research vessels three years ago. Their regular research sub, the Davy Jones, had been undergoing repairs for months, leaving the pair without a posting and kicking their heels around the San Diego base. That is, until their commanding admiral had given them an unusual, dangerous and top-secret assignment.
A huge dockside shed door slid open noisily and the two white-uniformed officers followed a tubby, white-haired chief petty officer inside.
‘Can we have some light, Chief?’ asked Commander Renzo.
‘Yeah, it’s black as night in here,’ said Lieutenant Ellerman beside him.
‘Hold on,’ said the chief petty officer, whose name was Brogan. Finding a bank of light switches, he flicked them all up. ‘There you go.’
Fluorescent light flooded the shed’s interior, revealing a motley collection of old grey boats. None was more than twenty metres long, most were metal and some were stacked on top of others. Barges, tenders and admiral’s launches, they had all once led active lives around the base, or had been aboard warships that had since been sent to the scrap merchants or sunk as diving wrecks.
‘What a junk heap,’ Ellerman exclaimed.
‘Oh, not so fast there, Lieutenant,’ Brogan said a little defensively. ‘I know the history of every single boat, and they have some life left in them yet.’ He began to make his way through the maze of small craft, heading toward the rear of the shed. ‘Follow me. Your baby is over here.’
With the sound of their footsteps reverberating around the metal walls, the chief petty officer led his superiors to a far corner, where a long, narrow shape lay covered with tarpaulins. Renzo and Ellerman helped Brogan drag the tarps away to reveal a long, slender black shape sitting on a metal cradle. The shape’s symmetry was interrupted by a bump toward the rear of its narrow deck.
‘Behold the Pencil,’ said Brogan cheerily. ‘Better known as the DSRV-801X. It’s a criminal waste, if you ask me, letting a perfectly serviceable craft like this sit gathering dust.’
‘So, she’s good to go?’ Renzo asked, walking around the mini-sub and studying it with a professional eye.
‘Oh, no, I didn’t say that, sir,’ said Brogan. ‘She needs work done on her before she goes into the water again. For one thing, all the electrics have been stripped out and will have to be replaced. Then there’s a mandatory maintenance check of her engines, ballast tanks and controls to make sure everything’s in good working order.’
Ellerman frowned. ‘How long will that take?’
‘Oh …’ The chief petty officer screwed up his face as he gave it some thought. ‘A month. Two at the outside.’
‘We don’t have two months,’ said Renzo. ‘We don’t even have a month!’
Brogan chuckled. ‘Don’t tell me you want the Pencil all shipshape in a few weeks, sir?’
‘No, Chief,’ Renzo replied. ‘We don’t even have weeks. This vessel has to be ready for sea in days.’
The chief petty officer’s mouth dropped open. ‘You’re kidding me,’ he said, once he’d recovered his composure. ‘This is a joke, right? It’s impossible to get this vessel ready for sea in just a few days.’
Renzo shook his head. ‘No joke, I’m afraid.’ Reaching into his tunic pocket, he took out a folded letter and held it out. ‘Read the signature on that,’ he instructed.
Taking the letter, Brogan unfolded it. Seeing the signature at the bottom, he stiffened. ‘The President of the United States!’ he exclaimed, almost in disbelief.
‘Our commander-in-chief says we have to have this vessel ready for operations in a few days, Chief. So, here’s what’s got to happen – you’re going to ship this vessel over to the air station on North Island. Then Lieutenant Ellerman and I are going to take it where no submarine has ever gone before. Is that clea
r?’
Brogan gulped. ‘Clear, sir.’
‘Whatever you need – men, equipment – you’ve got the President’s authority to bring it in. Drop whatever else you’re working on and you get this baby seaworthy.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Brogan sounded less than convinced that he could do the job in the time allowed. But orders were orders.
‘Carry on, Chief.’
The chief petty officer saluted, then almost ran from the shed to round up the men and equipment he needed. As he departed, Renzo and Ellerman surveyed the craft.
‘A little rust around the rudder,’ Ellerman observed, squatting to look at the slender stern, ‘but, otherwise, she looks pretty sound to me.’
‘Let’s take a look inside,’ Renzo suggested.
The pair climbed a narrow ladder to the deck of the little submarine. Then, kneeling on the deck, they opened the circular forward hatch. As the hatch cover swung up and open, stale air came wafting out.
Renzo looked at his deputy. ‘So, Brad, you and I have to operate this thing.’
‘Can’t be much different from the other deep sub- mersibles we’ve piloted, Commander,’ said Ellerman, peering down into the dark interior.
‘Here, use my flashlight,’ said Renzo, taking a torch from his trouser pocket and handing it to Ellerman. ‘Lead the way. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.’
Flicking it on, Ellerman clambered down through the narrow, round hatchway and entered the Pencil’s forward compartment. ‘Don’t get stuck in the hatchway, sir,’ he called back jokingly.
‘Ha-de-ha!’ Renzo retorted as he reached the hatchway. ‘I might have put on a few pounds since the last time we worked together, pal, but it’s just stored-up muscle.’
As Renzo and Ellerman were inspecting the Pencil in San Diego, Dr Park was sitting deep inside a dark, dank cave in Afghanistan.
‘Our ordeal will not last much longer, my friends,’ he assured his companions.
Secretary-General Park was doing his best to keep the spirits of his fellow hostages raised, despite their difficult situation. He and his six companions had each been given a single blanket by their Taliban captors. Their lavatory was a stinking bucket which their captors exchanged daily for an empty one. The captives were being kept on a dry ledge beside a large freshwater pool, so were able to drink when they were thirsty by scooping water with cupped hands. But food was in shorter supply. They were fed just once a day, in the evening – a little cooked chicken or goat with a small bucket of rice and a few cooked vegetables.
Their new diet was hardest on the only female member of the hostage party, Liberty Lee, who was a Buddhist and a vegetarian. Yet Liberty endured their primitive conditions without a word of complaint or any sign of discomfort. She was, after all, Dr Park’s personal bodyguard and a martial arts expert highly trained in how to use her mind as well as her body. She faced their tough situation with blank-faced fortitude.
The same could not be said of some of her male companions. Lieutenant Frankel, their German co-pilot, had fallen and broken both an ankle and a wrist while being marched through the mountains by their Taliban captors. Liberty, who was trained in first aid, had strapped Frankel’s ankle and wrist with the help of their pilot, Captain Rix. But without painkillers, it was clear that Lieutenant Frankel was in great discomfort. And although he didn’t complain, he groaned throughout the night, keeping the others awake.
Fader, a Danish member of the secretary-general’s staff, had developed a fever with a dangerously high temperature. But he also bravely made no complaint. Loubet, the French transport officer on Dr Park’s staff, had jolted his back when the helicopter went down. But, while in obvious pain, he assured the others he was fine. It was Mikashi, the secretary-general’s press officer, who was faring worst of all. Though highly intelligent and a whizz with words, Mikashi was a delicate man. Not only was he taking their deprivations badly, he was convinced the Taliban were going to kill them. Every now and then, he would burst into tears and wail, ‘We’re all going to die! We’re all going to die!’
When he did so again, for the seventh time that day, Dr Park tried to calm and comfort him. ‘It is all right, Mikashi,’ he said soothingly. ‘Do not worry, we are all going to get out of this.’
‘Yes, do buck up, Mikashi, there’s a good chap,’ said Jeremy Brown, Dr Park’s secretary, trying to hide his impatience with the man. ‘Of course we’ll get out of this.’
‘Yes, without doubt,’ Loubet concurred, wincing as he shifted his position to try to get comfortable.
‘How can you be so sure?’ Mikashi snivelled. ‘The coalition forces are not going to leave Afghanistan in a week. The Taliban will start shooting us one at a time, just as they have threatened.’
‘It will not come to that,’ Dr Park assured him. He lowered his voice. ‘We will be rescued before that time arrives. I am confident of that.’
‘How so?’ Mikashi looked at the secretary-general beseechingly. ‘The ISAF troops don’t even know where to look for us. They cannot know that we are here. How would they find us?’
Dr Park took Mikashi’s hand and patted it reassuringly. ‘I can assure you, Mikashi, that the ISAF generals know where we are and that a rescue mission will be mounted.’
Mikashi looked unconvinced, then his eyes widened. ‘Is there a homing device on one of us?’
‘Something like that,’ said the secretary-general. ‘It is best that I do not reveal the source of my confidence.’
Mikashi brightened considerably. ‘Ah, of course.’
So that they would not get their hopes up too high, or let something slip to their captors, Dr Park had told none of his companions that he had tried to alert friendly governments to where they were being held via the video the Taliban had forced him to shoot. He had not even let on how he’d worked out where they were being held. Prior to coming to Afghanistan, Dr Park had taken a crash course to improve the basic Pashto that he already spoke in order to converse with local leaders in their own tongue, without the use of interpreters. The Taliban commander who had captured the UN party was unaware that Dr Park could speak their language, and while marching the hostages to this place, the commander had spoken to his men about ‘the large cave’ and ‘the blue lake of the dragon’.
‘But when you spoke on the video,’ said Mikashi, ‘you told the world that you did not want any attempt made to rescue us.’
Dr Park shook his head. ‘No, I said that I did not wish any lives put at risk on my account. I was telling my friends and colleagues to devise a method of rescuing us that minimised the potential for loss of life.’
‘Oh. Then, you think that they are going to rescue us?’ Mikashi sounded even more hopeful now.
‘Yes. And soon.’
‘Secretary-General, someone is coming,’ whispered Liberty Lee.
A faint light could be seen in the distance, coming through the cave toward them. Before long, five bearded Taliban fighters with round caps on their heads appeared, with a few of them carrying gas lanterns. All were armed. Their leader had not yet introduced himself to his hostages, but his name was Commander Baradar and he was the most senior Taliban commander in Uruzgan Province. After taking Dr Park and his party captive, Baradar had brought them across the mountains to this hiding place in the neighbouring province.
Baradar was a solid man with deep-set eyes and a black beard flecked with grey. He wore loose, dark clothes. With an AK-47 automatic rifle slung casually over his shoulder, Commander Baradar came to a halt in front of the hostages. In the light of the lanterns carried by his men, he studied the hostages in silence.
‘Food,’ moaned Mikashi. ‘Give us food!’
‘Too early for food,’ Baradar replied in halting English. It was only midmorning, and their rations would be delivered in the evening. ‘UN Chief, come,’ barked Baradar.
Two of Baradar’s men hurried in and took the secretary-general beneath the arms, hauling him to his feet.
‘Stop!’ Liberty L
ee yelled, jumping up. ‘You will not harm him!’
Baradar quickly unshouldered his AK-47 and pointed it at her. ‘Sit!’ he snapped. ‘Or I shoot you!’
‘Yes, please sit down, Miss Lee,’ said Dr Park. ‘That is an order.’
Glowering at their captors, Liberty sank back to the ground.
Baradar turned and walked further into the cave, followed by the two insurgents escorting Dr Park.
‘Abdul, set it up facing that rock,’ Commander Baradar ordered in Pashto.
The slovenly Abdul Razah, one of Baradar’s longest-serving fighters, set up a tripod with a video camera facing the spot designated by his leader. Abdul had been one of the Taliban fighters under Baradar’s command who had ambushed the joint Australian–American Special Forces patrol involving Ben, Caesar, Charlie and Duke Hazard. After Caesar had been handed over to the Taliban by the Haidari family, Baradar had put the cruel Abdul in charge of guarding Caesar.
The secretary-general sat on a rock facing the camera, the same place that he had filmed the video three days before. ‘Please, Commander,’ said Dr Park, ‘can you bring painkillers for Lieutenant Frankel? And Mr Fader is very unwell. He needs a doctor.’
‘Not my concern,’ Baradar answered with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘You will make new video. Days are passing and, the infidel armies, they do not make to prepare for leaving my country. You must tell them that you will die if they ignore warning.’
Baradar gave Abdul an instruction in Pashto, and Abdul came around from behind the camera to hand Dr Park a sheet of paper. Two other insurgents strung up a green curtain behind the secretary-general, fixing it to the rocky wall with duct tape. The two men then stood either side of Dr Park, holding their lanterns high to light the scene.
‘Start the camera,’ Baradar ordered.
‘Yes, Commander.’ Abdul scurried behind the camera and pressed the ‘record’ button. Frowning quizzically, he bent down to examine the camera.
‘What is wrong, Abdul Razah?’ Baradar demanded irritably.
Abdul looked up, bewildered. ‘The camera, it will not work, Commander.’
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