No Man's Land

by Roland Fishman

  Samudra clicked off.

  He gently stroked the keypad of the phone with his forefinger. To unleash the wrath of God on Sydney, all he needed to do was dial a number and hit send.

  The phones would vibrate simultaneously around the harbor, detonating the explosives his men wore on the bridge, near the Opera House and inside the truck. If anyone tried to tamper with the bombs, they’d explode instantly.

  The men would die as heroes and enter paradise, as was their wish.

  A bolt of energy shot through him. He’d never felt so close to God.

  17

  Carter and Erina dangled from the nylon cord with the gusting southerly buster blowing them back and forth in an arc.

  The harness dug into Carter’s chest. He held onto the ascending cord with his left hand and the trigger guard of the SIG with his right, aware of how exposed and vulnerable they were.

  Time, always elastic, slowed. All of his senses were heightened, enabling him to take in every detail of the world around him.

  He looked up. The bridge’s underbelly loomed cold and malevolent, casting an ominous shadow of energy that sent a tingle down Carter’s spine. It was as if the bridge knew it was under threat.

  Its crisscrossing steel girders and metal beams formed an intricate pattern of interlocking angles, all providing myriad potential hiding spots. If a sniper was concealed on one of the metal struts, there was nothing he and Erina could do to defend themselves.

  He shook off these counterproductive thoughts and looked to the south, toward the city, seeking inspiration. Thousands of bright lights shone through the slanting rain, homes and offices to hundreds of thousands of people ignorant of the threat facing their city.

  His gaze swept a hundred and eighty degrees over the twinkling nightscape of Sydney’s harbor suburbs, stopping at Luna Park. The huge lit-up clown face grinned at him as if amused by the folly of their endeavor and wishing to share the cosmic joke of human existence.

  The Magnogun pulled them steadily toward the base of the walkway, now less than fifty feet away.

  A strong gust of wind blasted them. He gripped the cord tighter. Erina’s cold wet cheek brushed against his. He looked into her eyes and saw no sign of fear, only alert anticipation.

  Without thinking, he stroked the small of her back with his left hand. She gave his right shoulder a gentle squeeze. The shared touch was one of the most intimate connections he’d ever felt.

  —

  The Magnogun clicked to a jolting stop. They hung in the center of the three-foot-wide walkway, buffeted by the wind.

  Carter pushed the SIG back into its holster and said, “Time for some monkey business.”

  “Okay, you big ape,” Erina said, “show us what you’ve got.”

  A steel bar ran along both sides of the base of the walkway, suspended about six inches below it.

  He reached out with one hand, grasped the cold wet metal bar closest to him and hung from it by one arm. Then he unclipped his harness and swung his body around, reaching out to grab hold of the bar with his free hand. He hung there at full stretch, facing Erina, who was still attached to the Magnogun.

  “Nice move,” she said.

  The bar was slippery from the rain, making it hard for him to gain a firm hold.

  “I’m going to need a leg up,” he told her.

  “No kidding.”

  He tightened his grip on the bar and raised his right leg toward her until his foot found her cupped hands.

  She held his foot firmly. He pulled himself up as if doing a chin-up and pushed off her hand as she gave him a final shove. The combined force thrust his body up into the air and he grabbed onto the metal bars of the security fence above with his left hand and then his right. Clinging tightly, he scrambled one foot, then the other, onto the bar he’d just been hanging from, and pulled himself up into a standing position.

  He yelled down to Erina, “Your turn.”

  Erina repeated his maneuver and hung from the metal bar to the right of where he was now standing. This was the riskiest part. He needed to get a firm hold of Erina to pull her up.

  He gripped onto the security fence hard with his left hand and then leaned out and down toward her, bending his knees until he could reach her with his right hand.

  Their hands locked on each other’s wrists and he pulled her up next to him.

  They took a moment, standing beside each other, holding onto the rungs of the side of the metal walkway, giving their arms and hands a chance to recover.

  The southerly buster whistled through the struts and rigging, and the walkway shook and shuddered. Looking over their shoulders, they peered down at the dark waters of the harbor a hundred and fifty feet below.

  “No point hanging about here admiring the view,” Erina said.

  “I guess not,” Carter replied.

  He stretched his right hand upward and started climbing the fence, using the crisscrossing metal bars as footholds. On reaching the top, he jumped over and dropped onto the three-foot-wide metal floor below. Erina followed closely behind, leaped down and squatted next to him.

  He studied the creaking dark shadows of the metal structures above them.

  “See anything?” Erina asked.

  “Nothing – but I have a creepy sense of being watched.”

  “Me too.”

  “Let’s go.”

  —

  Carter led Erina across the walkway toward the western side of the bridge, holding the SIG in his right hand. The thin soles of his Vibram shoes made him feel light on his feet, connected to and part of the cold metal structure underneath.

  They moved at a steady, even pace, the wind pushing them as if urging them forward.

  His gaze flicked from left to right, but he saw nothing suspicious.

  A semi-enclosed metal cage made of galvanized steel grating was attached to the end of the walkway, connecting it to the deck of the bridge above. They passed through its rectangular entrance, stopped in the center and looked up. A metal lid sealed what looked like an access point leading up the inside of the cage onto the deck.

  “An internal ladder would’ve been nice,” Erina said.

  “So would a hot coffee.”

  Carter stretched upward and pushed hard against the metal cover. It didn’t budge. There was no way round or through it. As he’d always suspected, they’d need to climb up the outside of the cage.

  There was a rectangular opening at the end of the cage, almost like a window, giving a view out over the water, and they moved toward it. Carter leaned out over the top of the chest-high security railing, turned his head and looked up.

  He liked what he saw. The front of the cage, about five feet wide, ran approximately thirty feet up the outside of the bridge, stretching all the way to the top of the security fence on the main deck.

  A flat metal grid formed its roof. Once they’d climbed up the outside of the cage and onto its roof, they’d be able to jump over the barbed-wire security fence that ran south to north along the side of the bridge, and land on the bridge’s deck on the bicycle lane. There was no need to utter a word. Both understood that climbing the cage and getting onto the bridge was the easy part.

  The hard part would come if a squad of Alex’s men were in position above, armed with automatic rifles, waiting for them.

  But they could only deal with one problem at a time. Carter had a motto in situations like this: If in doubt, keep moving forward. Waiting any longer would change nothing.

  Erina pulled the climbing cord over her head, untied it and handed it to Carter. He slung it over his right shoulder and pulled himself up onto the open metal ledge of the cage. He stood facing Erina, holding a bar above him with his left hand for support.

  His daypack hugged his back and the SIG hung over his left shoulder. He shrugged the climbing cord off his shoulder into his free hand, then uncoiled six feet and dropped one end toward Erina.

  She took hold of it with both hands.

  If he discove
red the way forward was clear when he reached the bridge’s deck, he’d pull the rope twice to signal for her to come up and join him.

  He leaned away from the cage and balanced outside over the water. He let six feet of the top end of the rope drop below him and began twirling the hook in the air.

  After half-a-dozen spins, it had gained enough momentum. He hurled it upward toward the top of the cage, releasing the rest of the cord as the hook flew through the air.

  The hook landed on the flat top of the cage. He pulled the cord hard to make sure the hook had caught and turned to Erina.

  It felt like that instant before taking off on a giant wave, where everything hung in the balance. He had no idea what was waiting for him up there on the bridge’s deck.

  Alex and his men had probably been on the bridge for over twenty-four hours, and once he pulled his head above the line of sight, he’d be totally exposed.

  “If I don’t signal you within three minutes,” he said, “call Watto.”

  “Carter?”

  Erina let the word hang in the air.

  “What?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He started climbing.

  18

  By 10.04 p.m. Erina and Carter had reached their target, the entrance to the south-west pylon on the main deck of the bridge. Footlights bathed the pylon in a golden glow, making them both easy targets, but there was nothing they could do. Shooting out the lights would only draw attention to their position.

  Erina was working on the lock of the thick grey metal door with acid and picking keys while Carter covered her back, swinging his SIG in an arc, scanning the deck.

  It looked like an urban wasteland from an end-of-the-world disaster movie. Wind and rain swirled over the concrete and steel structures. Street lamps lit up the bike path, two railroad tracks and the eight empty traffic lanes. All four pylons were illuminated.

  So far everything had gone to plan. They’d worked together like dancers in a ballet, each anticipating the other’s moves. They’d jumped down onto the bike lane from the top of the cage without incident. Erina had picked a lock that opened a gate in the security fence that separated the bike lane from the train tracks and the pylon. They then climbed down a four-rung yellow ladder onto the tracks, ran to their right along the sleepers and finally pulled themselves up onto a wooden deck right by the entrance to the south-west pylon.

  Carter kept a keen lookout as Erina worked. There was still no sign of human activity, but once they passed through the pylon door, they’d be in territory controlled by the clan. It all depended on when Alex chose to make his move against them.

  Sun Tzu, the famous Chinese military strategist, would’ve approved of the clan’s strategy.

  The clan had chosen the location of the battle well. They’d arrived first, occupied the high ground and were numerically superior. They’d be watching and waiting for their enemy from a position of safety and had given themselves plenty of time to prepare and execute an ambush in an enclosed space. Once inside the pylon, Carter and Erina would have nowhere to run, making escape almost impossible. The odds were all in Alex and his men’s favor.

  Yet Carter knew that in any fight there was always something you couldn’t plan for. And that something invariably made all the difference.

  Their job was to find it.

  “We’re in,” Erina said.

  He turned around. The door was slightly ajar and the lock was smoking.

  “Cover me,” he said.

  She stepped away from the door, gripping her Glock in both hands and holding it out in front of her. Carter pushed the door open, his SIG pointing forward, cocked and ready.

  He moved into a small, gloomy stairwell, barely illuminated by light coming from above. He counted twelve metal steps, three feet wide, leading to a small landing, from which a second set of steps led upward to another landing, then another.

  According to their research there were three levels above the main deck: the second floor, a third floor, and then a rooftop level, partially covered, but with an open-air balcony. They would have to climb sixteen staircases and nearly two hundred steps to reach the lookout that surrounded the roof of the pylon.

  Erina closed the door and forced a throwing knife into the lock, twisting and breaking it so that it jammed. She then slid two more throwing knives under the door and pushed them forward so they formed a tight wedge.

  She gave the door a good shake. It appeared to hold firm. It wouldn’t deter a determined force, but at least they’d hear anyone coming in.

  Carter gripped the SIG lightly and started walking up the metal steps on the sides of his rubber shoes, not making a sound.

  Erina followed one step behind.

  19

  A hundred and thirty feet above Erina and Carter, Alex once again stood on the narrow, open lookout on top of the pylon. He was looking west down the harbor toward the waterside suburb of East Balmain, waiting.

  Zaheed and Putu stood on either side of him, wearing full Australian Tactical Response Unit uniforms concealing vests stuffed with C4 explosives. One carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, the other a Mossberg 500 pump-action shotgun.

  Alex ran his fingers along the smooth scabbard of his beloved samurai sword, the Drying Pole. The beautiful two-handed sword, made famous by the master samurai Sasaki Kojiro, was roughly five feet long and designed to hang from the waist. According to legend the blade embodied the soul of the warrior who possessed it.

  With studied reverence he unsheathed the weapon with his right hand. Spots of rain glistened off the polished blade. He held it in front of his face and pointed it upright, the top of the handle level with his chin, searching for his image on the naked blade, but the angle of the light made it impossible.

  Taking great care, he placed the sword on top of the low ledge that encircled the balcony. The ledge was chest-height, and was the only barrier against a fall of nearly three hundred feet to the ground below. On the south-east pylon, whose rooftop lookout was open to the public, there was a clear plastic shield to protect visitors, but no such protection was offered here.

  He’d use the ledge later that night to good effect, when he met Carter and Erina face to face.

  Reaching into the thigh pocket of his trousers, he extracted a tablet computer. During the day he’d run a cable up to the lookout and connected it to a router, allowing him to link his tablet wirelessly to the pylon’s security cameras.

  He checked the screen and pressed Camera B.

  Sure enough, the shadowy images of Carter and Erina filled the screen. They were climbing the stairs from the deck of the bridge to level one. Carter held an automatic weapon and Erina a handgun.

  He picked up his phone and dialed the number of Hazeem, the leader of his second unit. The group of three were in position on the bridge, waiting behind the south-east pylon for his signal.

  They’d trained on Batak Island with Samudra and himself for eight months and had been working with the Sydney cell based in Lakemba.

  “The targets have made their entrance,” Alex said. “Move the men into position in two minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alex clicked off.

  The endgame, when he had his target helpless and cornered, ready for the kill, was always his favorite part of the hunt.

  His thoughts turned to the men from the Sydney cell. Unlike Zaheed and Putu they had no combat experience. Under normal circumstances they’d be no match for the likes of Carter and Erina.

  But this wasn’t going to be anything like a fair fight. More like shooting blind barracudas in a concrete pond.

  So long as they delivered Carter and Erina, he didn’t care what happened to them.

  He picked up the Drying Pole and held the blade in front of him, pointing it south-east toward the city lights. The sword was thirsty.

  A thin smile spread across his face.

  20

  When they reached the second floor, dimly lit by o
verhead halogen lights, Carter motioned for Erina to check the two large rooms to their right while he covered the stairway. She reappeared a minute later and whispered, “All clear. Just a lot of stored equipment.”

  They started up the stairs to the third floor, Carter leading the way, but after just a few steps, he raised his hand and stopped.

  Two bodies wearing fluorescent lime-green jackets lay facedown in pools of blood on the metal landing above them. They had been shot in the back of the head, execution style.

  Carter continued up the stairs, knelt beside the bodies and gently turned them over. They were men, Caucasian, in their early thirties. Their jackets carried the New South Wales Roads and Maritime Services logo. Just a couple of government workers unlucky enough to be rostered on for New Year’s Eve.

  More than anything else Carter hated seeing innocent people murdered because they’d inadvertently got in some madman’s way.

  He was sure Alex had used their deaths to send a message. He was waiting for them above and he wanted them to know it.

  Erina stood next to him and said under her breath, “Fucking bastard.”

  Carter stood up, raised the SIG to shoulder height and carried on up the stairs one deliberate step at a time, Erina’s soft tread coming half a pace behind his.

  Just before they reached the third floor, he signaled for her to stop again. He leaned against the metal railing and listened, holding the SIG in front of him.

  He heard nothing.

  He crept up the last few stairs and then, holding his gun out in front and keeping his finger lightly on the trigger, he scanned the room.

  In the center were more stairs, leading up to the lookout on the roof.

  Old CCTV camera equipment, extension cords, cardboard boxes of fireworks and a pile of lime-green security jackets were heaped against the south wall.

  None of that held his attention.

  What did, though, were the two large sliding doors on the eastern and western sides of the room. Both were painted black. He filed the information away and kept looking around the room.