No Man's Land

by Roland Fishman

  He knew now that he had made the wrong decision. His world had become narrower since leaving the order, and he’d suffered a deep and unshakable unease, almost a sickness, that had only ever been momentarily appeased by the surf.

  He was caught in the turbulence of the spiritual no man’s land created by his ego, and eventually he would drown. If he wanted to avoid Alex’s fate, the only way out was to return to the order. By submitting, by allowing himself to be guided by its principles, he could transcend the chaotic waves of the material world and reach calm water. He could know peace.

  A surprising wave of compassion for Alex washed through him.

  He leaned forward and closed Alex’s eyes.

  29

  Five minutes later Carter stood on the gun deck, strapped into the harness of Alex’s hang-glider, facing the wind. The flexible black wings fluttered above his head, pulling at him as if an unseen force was impatient to pluck him from the earth.

  Vivienne and Erina stood on either side of the glider. They held the struts in place against the wind, ensuring Carter remained earthbound long enough to make a final check of everything before lifting off.

  He’d taped two high-powered bombs made up of C4 explosives from his pack to its nose, turning the simple hang-glider into a flying kamikaze missile.

  The C4 consisted of explosive chemicals and a plastic binder substance; he’d molded it into a couple of oval balls the size of a small bread roll and then embedded a detonator cap in their hearts. The jury-rigged bombs would detonate on impact.

  Erina held Alex’s GPS device in front of him at eye level.

  A blinking red light flashed on the screen, marking a point off Watsons Bay near Sydney Heads, roughly four miles from the bridge.

  That’s where he expected to find Samudra.

  “The light hasn’t moved,” Erina said.

  “Good.”

  She stuck the palm computer into a side pocket of his daypack and zipped it up.

  “You’ll call Watto?” he said.

  “You don’t need to worry about things at this end,” she told him. “Vivienne and I will take care of it. You take care of Samudra.”

  He pressed the button on the side of Alex’s bluetooth earpiece and heard a dial tone. The earpiece and Alex’s phone were now synced, and tucked into the neck of his wetsuit. Samudra would, he suspected, call at any minute to check in with Alex.

  As a final preparation Carter made sure the night-vision binoculars hanging around his neck were secure. Then he pulled the daypack tight against his body and clasped the roll of duct tape in the side pocket to make sure it was still there.

  A fresh gust of wind surged in his face.

  It was 11.40 p.m.

  “All set,” Erina said. “Now get this done.”

  “Will do. See you next year. You know where I’ll be.”

  She reached out her free hand, still holding onto the strut with the other, and squeezed his shoulder. “That’s a date.”

  He nodded at Vivienne, who smiled for the first time and said, “Take the motherfucker down, Carter.”

  Still holding onto the controls with his left hand, he gave them a thumbs up with his right.

  Time to go.

  Vivienne and Erina released the struts.

  The strong southerly lifted the wings.

  He gripped the steering bar as tightly as he could, held his breath and clenched his stomach muscles to counter the waves of pain stabbing through his ribs.

  Then he took three steps forward and leaped into the abyss.

  The hang-glider surged high above the pylon. Two seagulls, lit up by the lights from the bridge, hovered alongside, appearing to take a sympathetic interest in him.

  He leaned forward on the controls, pointing the hang-glider’s nose toward the dark waters below. His injured arm hung by his side.

  For half a second the man-made apparatus quivered in the air as if making up its mind what to do. Then it lurched forward and plunged down, a black flying ghost.

  He didn’t look back.

  30

  Roughly three hundred and fifty feet below Carter, twenty-three-year-old Youssef bin Hassan, dressed in green overalls and wearing a Lakers baseball cap, drove the diesel truck marked Rapid Transfer into the underground Sydney Harbour Tunnel, heading toward the city’s northern suburbs.

  His boyhood friend Faisel Aman sat in the passenger seat wearing matching overalls and cap. They travelled in silence.

  They’d joined the Lakemba cell a year ago. This was their first and last important assignment. They’d been told to wait in the truck until midnight, when the bombs inside would detonate.

  Death held no fear for Youssef.

  He and Faisel would die as heroes for Allah, bringing honor to their families. They’d receive their reward in the afterlife and spend eternity enjoying the fruits of paradise.

  On reaching the first breakdown bay, Youssef pulled over to the left as instructed and turned the hazard lights on. They stepped out of the truck and placed seven orange witch’s hats around the vehicle at regular intervals.

  They got back into the front seat. Youssef typed a text into his phone: Have reached target.

  He pressed send.

  The reply came back a minute later from Samudra. Good work. Allah akbar.

  31

  Carter stalled the glider so that it hovered about three hundred feet from Watsons Bay, toward the far eastern end of Sydney Harbour, close to Sydney Heads and the open sea. The wind blew into his face from the south-east.

  He looked down at the dark waters a hundred and fifty feet below and then over his shoulder at the bright lights of Sydney. The only sound was the vibration of the wings.

  For a moment he wondered how many people would be awake, sitting in front of their television sets waiting for the midnight fireworks, hoping it would signal the beginning of better things for the new year.

  He shrugged the thought off, hooked his wounded arm under the steering bar and extracted Alex’s palm computer from the daypack with his other hand.

  The blinking light was in the same spot, marking a point halfway between the Watsons Bay shoreline and South Head, where he could see a fleet of around fifty pleasure craft gathered in the lee of a headland reserve.

  He returned the computer to its pocket in his daypack, brought the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the fleet.

  Samudra would choose a position on the edge of the other boats, most likely the closest to Sydney Heads, to facilitate an easy getaway.

  The furthest boat to the north of the fleet was a shabby-looking cabin cruiser rolling with the gentle swell.

  He focused the high-powered binoculars on two men standing in the bow.

  Bingo.

  They were Indonesian. One of them was Samudra, dialing a number on a cell phone.

  If Samudra stuck to his schedule, he wouldn’t be detonating the bombs until midnight.

  However, if Alex or his men had failed to meet a prearranged reporting deadline, it might spook him into striking prematurely – making whatever Carter did too late to stop him.

  Samudra put the phone to his ear.

  Alex’s cell phone started vibrating under the wetsuit against Carter’s chest, just below his neck.

  He checked the time.

  Ten minutes to midnight.

  He ignored it. He wanted to hold off making contact until he was in his final dive.

  After four more rings it fell silent.

  Carter lined up the midsection of Samudra’s launch with the armed nose of the glider, pointing the man-made bird toward the ugly craft at a forty-five-degree angle. The hang-glider quivered for a moment in the darkness and then dropped into its final dive.

  A bolt of energy surged from the center of his hara and he let out a deep “haah,” his version of a battle cry.

  He grabbed the roll of duct tape and lashed the controls into place with one arm, breaking the tape off with his teeth.

  Satisfied the hang-glider was
locked onto its target, he lifted the binoculars to his eyes for the final time.

  An enlarged image of Samudra’s normally smiling face stared straight at him. A nasty scowl twisted his features, but there was no look of recognition – not yet.

  He’d probably seen the glider, expecting Alex. When the phone failed to answer, he’d most likely suspected something was amiss.

  Carter saw Samudra take the phone out of his pocket and dial once more.

  Alex’s phone vibrated against his chest again.

  Carter took out the phone and pressed answer on the third ring, keeping the binoculars trained on Samudra.

  “Abdul-Aleem,” Samudra barked. “What’s going on?”

  Carter said nothing.

  “Are you there?” Samudra said, his voice urgent. “Is that you on the hang-glider?”

  Silence hung over the phone line. A drop of rain spat in Carter’s face.

  “Alex is dead,” he said.

  “What? Who is this?”

  “Carter.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “Afraid so.” Carter paused to let the information sink in. “Don’t even think about hanging up and dialing the number,” he said. “I’m on the hang-glider and you’re lined up in the night scope of my sniper rifle.”

  Samudra lifted his head and stared at the glider.

  “I can see you clearly,” Carter said. “You just lifted your head. Make one wrong move and you’re dead. So is the man next to you.”

  He saw Samudra peer into the night, holding the phone in his left hand. It was too dark for him to make out whether Carter carried a rifle.

  “You start dialing, I start shooting,” Carter said. “Drop the phone. I don’t miss.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Try me.”

  A gust of wind caused the glider to accelerate.

  The nose of the makeshift missile was perfectly lined up with the midsection of the launch, less than twenty yards away.

  Would Samudra choose self-preservation over jihad? Carter would have to wait to find out. He unclipped the harness and pushed himself away from the struts, letting himself drop toward the water. Whatever was meant to happen would happen. He’d done all he could.

  32

  Carter plunged into the cool water and kicked and stroked to propel himself toward the bottom of the harbor.

  After a few seconds the water shook and churned violently.

  Carter had no idea how Samudra had responded to the dilemma he had posed. Had he dialed the number to detonate the explosives or dived over the side to save himself?

  He’d bet on the latter.

  A giant watery hand grabbed hold of him and thrust him even deeper underwater.

  He relaxed and went with it.

  There was no use fighting.

  Less than four seconds later the water stopped moving.

  Carter stroked and kicked upward until his head burst through the surface.

  Sucking in a lungful of air, he stared at where the launch had been.

  The hang-glider had made a direct hit. All that remained on the surface were fragments of floating plastic and wood.

  A couple of the other boats in the fleet had capsized and several more had rammed into each other.

  People were yelling and waving their arms. Some were inexplicably cheering. Thankfully no one appeared to be seriously injured.

  Fifty feet away he spotted a lone figure swimming toward shore using a cross between a frantic freestyle and a dog paddle.

  Samudra.

  He’d opted to jump overboard rather than dial the number, choosing to save himself rather than die a martyr’s death. His rhetoric had proved hollow when put to the ultimate test.

  Carter started swimming toward him, his gaze never leaving the back of his head.

  Samudra was no swimmer. He thrashed his arms and made slow progress. Even one-armed, Carter caught him in a dozen strokes.

  Samudra turned and faced him, defiant. Treading water seemed an effort for him; his arms splashed about as he struggled to keep his head above water.

  “You cannot harm me,” he said. “You have no idea of my power. If you lift a finger against me, God will strike you dead.”

  “Let’s put that theory to the test, shall we?”

  “If it’s money you want, I’ll give you whatever you ask. Name your price.”

  “I don’t have a price.”

  Carter kicked hard and strong, propelling his torso out of the water, reaching out with his arm and putting his hand on the crown of Samudra’s head.

  A look of alarm and indignation crossed Samudra’s face. He swung one arm in the air, trying to swat Carter’s hand away, with no effect.

  Carter gripped his hair and held him at arm’s length.

  “I’m warning you in the name of Allah,” Samudra said. “No matter how hard you try, you cannot defy the will of God. Djoran tried to do that and for his efforts I slit his miserable throat.”

  “You fucking arsehole.”

  Carter allowed grief and anger to well up inside him, allowed himself to feel them.

  “You cannot defy God’s will,” Samudra said.

  “No man can know what God’s will is,” Carter said. “But I know what it’s not.”

  He kicked his legs harder, pushing his torso further out of the water, and forced Samudra’s head under, holding him down using every ounce of his weight.

  Samudra kicked and thrashed, trying to grab Carter’s arm and break his grip, but Carter was far too strong.

  Forty seconds passed.

  The thrashing subsided, growing weaker, and then finally stopped.

  From down the harbor Carter heard the distant roar of the crowd counting down the new year.

  Four, three, two …

  Horns and whistles sounded.

  Carter held his breath. Samudra might’ve dialed the number before he jumped.

  He still held the man’s head underwater.

  A distant explosion rocked the night.

  He looked down the harbor toward the bridge.

  A dazzling spiral of white light flashed above it.

  Then, after a brief pause, another set of explosions erupted.

  The skyline was flooded with every color of the rainbow, throwing myriad multicoloured reflections on the water.

  The Sydney Harbour Bridge stood firm.

  Amid the mayhem people were clapping and cheering.

  He heard the opening line of “Auld Lang Syne”: “Should old acquaintance be forgot …”

  He thought of his friend Jacko, of Muklas, Wayan and Djoran.

  They’d all shown ultimate courage in playing their role. Any success he’d had that night was founded on their sacrifice.

  The ugly truth was not everyone made it home.

  Another explosion rocked the night.

  The Harbour Bridge erupted with showers of dazzling pink, green, purple, red and orange.

  Waves of sparkling silver stars shot into the night, exploding with bursts of color.

  A moment of quiet darkness followed. Then, as if out of nowhere, two bright pink hearts burst in front of the bridge, surrounded by an orb of golden light.

  Blue lights spelt out one word.

  LOVE.

  He released Samudra’s head, and his lifeless body floated to the surface and drifted away.

  33

  Carter trod water, watching the spotlight from the police launch speed across the harbor toward him.

  Erina stood in the bow, composed but smiling.

  The launch swerved and slowed to a halt, sending a bow wave of broken water toward him, lifting him up and then dropping him down gently.

  Erina, still dressed in her wetsuit, climbed onto the gunnels and dived into the harbor.

  She disappeared under the water and surfaced a few feet from him, pushing the hair out of her eyes.

  He swam toward her and, with one arm, gathered her around the waist.

  They bobbed up and down with t
he gentle swell, locked in each other’s embrace and cocooned in their own private world.

  She kissed him gently on the lips. “We got it done.”

  “At a cost.”

  “It’s who we are.”

  “I know.”

  He held her tight.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you too, Russell Carter.”

  EPILOGUE

  Lennox Head, 7.50 p.m., 15 February

  Darkness was fast approaching on a big Sunday out the back at the point of Lennox Head.

  There was not a breath of wind. The water was smooth as glass and the dying sun was only minutes from slipping below the green hills running behind the town of Lennox.

  Carter sat alone in the take-off zone, watching a swell roll in from the north-east, hoping to catch a final wave before the light disappeared altogether.

  It’d be his last surf at Lennox for a few months at least. He was heading to Bali in the morning to train some new recruits for the order and, to his surprise, was looking forward to the challenge.

  In the gathering gloom a familiar voice yelled out to him. “Hey, Carter!”

  Carter turned to see Knowlsie pulling up next to him.

  “Haven’t seen you around for yonks,” Knowlsie said. “You been on holidays?”

  Carter paused a beat. “Something like that. What’ve you been up to?”

  “Visiting the rellies in Perth. And I’m now in Year Ten. Man, it’s full-on.”

  “You’ll be sweet.”

  “Dunno about that.”

  “Just do what you do in the surf. Charge every test. You’re a smart kid.”

  A broad grin spread across Knowlsie’s face and his eyes dropped as if embarrassed.

  “Hey,” he said, changing the subject, “one of my mates reckons he eyeballed you arm-in-arm with a hot-looking woman. Is that your new girlfriend or something?”

  “Wouldn’t say that exactly.”

  Erina had left the day before for Burma – there was trouble on the Thai border at the refugee camps – and he didn’t know when he’d see her next. He’d miss her, but their relationship was what it was.