Mick winked and pointed towards the smoke still drifting over Burning Mountain. ‘Don’t worry about the helicopter. Old deadeye Vincent’s done it again.’
Mick told Jesse what happened. He held up the small bag containing his slingshot, then showed her his shredded backpack and demonstrated how he held it out on a stick from behind the tree till he got a chance to aim his slingshot. Jesse drank a little water while Mick was talking and couldn’t help but be impressed when he finished.
‘Wow, Mick. That’s unreal,’ she said.
‘Yeah. I got the bloke with the machine gun. Then I sank a couple into the pilot. He must have lost control and crashed into the mountain.’
‘Serves the arsehole right,’ said Jesse.
‘Yeah. Bugger him. And his mate, too. So how are you feeling? You ready to make a move?’
‘Yes, all right. God! My bloody T-shirt stinks.’
‘The cut on your head’s starting to bleed again, too. Hang on.’
Mick took out his pocket knife and cut the bottom off his T-shirt. He split it, then tied it around Jesse’s head and stood back to admire his handiwork.
‘Shit! You look a mess,’ he laughed.
‘I feel like it, too,’ replied Jesse.
‘Where’s your camera? We got to get a photo of this.’
‘Ohh, Mick. Do we have to?’
‘Reckon,’ grinned Mick. ‘This has got to be the best day of my life.’
‘Good. I’m glad for you,’ mumbled Jesse. ‘Shit, my head’s aching. Did you leave any of those Panadeine?’
Mick set Jesse’s camera on automatic, rested it on a rock and got a photo of the two of them. Despite almost shredding his backpack, the bullets had missed his mobile and the packet of pain killers. He helped Jesse get a couple down, took a photo of the bullet-scarred tree, then returned Jesse’s camera to her backpack. He helped her into it then handed Jesse her staff.
‘Okay,’ said Mick, giving Jesse a fatherly once-up-and-down. ‘You ready, digger?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ answered Jesse.
‘Righto. Let’s go. I’ll lead the way.’
They set off at a steady pace and, despite her head wound, Jesse had little trouble keeping up. She wasn’t sure if Mick had a definite spring in his step as they strode along. But she could hear him whistling happily and she did notice him turn around every other minute and smile at her for no reason at all.
The sun was coming down over Burning Mountain when they reached the old barbed-wire fence. Mick let Jesse go first and they walked up to the viewing platform which was coated in a layer of ash and dust. The flames had stopped. But the burnt-out remains of the helicopter were still lying blackened and twisted on the ash mound like the husk of some monstrous dead insect. Jesse stared at it for a moment, then twisted her face up and turned to Mick.
‘Ohh yuk, Mick,’ she said. ‘Have a look in the front of the helicopter.’
Mick stared across to what was left of the Kiowa. Fused in the cockpit like ghastly footage from the Gulf War were the blackened remains of Agent Sierota and Commander Sisti. They were little more than piles of scorched flesh, and the only thing to suggest they were once human beings was their teeth frozen into macabre white grins on their blackened skulls.
‘Yeah. It looks a bit crook, doesn’t it,’ replied Mick. ‘But if they weren’t there, you and I would be lying back on the trail making a meal for the bush turkeys.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ agreed Jesse. ‘And how would you have liked me to be sitting in the front of the van with you when it went up?’ Jesse nodded to the helicopter. ‘That’s what we would have looked like.’
‘Exactly. So bugger them,’ said Mick.
‘Yeah, bugger them,’ agreed Jesse. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a bit of film left. I’ll get some photos.’
‘Fair enough. But just promise me one thing, will you, Oz?’
‘Sure. What’s that, Mick?’
‘Don’t ask them to smile for the camera.’
Jesse took her camera out of her backpack and snapped a couple of photos from the viewing stand, then they walked up to the helicopter and she took the rest through the cockpit. While the camera wound back, they left the wreckage and walked back to the viewing platform. Jesse put the camera back in her bag then eased up to Mick and put her arms around him.
‘Mick,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking. When we get to the motel, how about we check out, go back to Muswellbrook, get the Buick off your friend Og, then drive straight back to Newcastle. Yeah?’
‘Oz, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day,’ smiled Mick. ‘I’ve had it. I can’t wait to get home.’
‘And you can stay at my place tonight, too. All right?’
‘Suits me. But the first thing we’ll do when we get back is call into John Hunter and get your forehead looked at. It’ll probably need a stitch and you might need a tetanus injection.’
Jesse looked at Mick for a moment, then stepped over and hugged him. ‘Mick,’ she said, ‘have I ever told you I love you?’
‘Oh, you might have mentioned it once or twice, Oz,’ replied Mick.
‘Well I do, Mick. With all my heart.’
‘Thanks, Oz. And believe me, mate, the feeling is very, very mutual.’ Mick stared over the top of Jesse’s head. ‘Hey Oz,’ he said. ‘Check out the way the sun’s setting over the Piggiebillah Hills. They look like they’re glowing. And there’s a funny-looking ring over the top.’
Jesse turned around. In the distance, the mountains were radiating an intense orange light and above them the clouds had formed an ever-widening silver halo that drifted lazily against the sky in the late afternoon sun.
‘Yes. You’re right,’ said Jesse. She stared at the mountains for a moment, then turned back to Mick. ‘They can glow as much as they like for all I care. I just want to get back to the car.’
‘Yeah. Me too,’ said Mick. ‘Come on. Let’s hit the old frog and toad.’
‘Let’s.’
They smiled, held each other for moment, then shared a kiss before picking up their things and taking the trail down Burning Mountain.
When Mick and Jesse arrived back at the car park it was close enough to 7.00 pm daylight saving time. Not that far away in his beautiful home, the big man was still dressed in his polo outfit, storming around the loungeroom before his guests in a decidedly bad mood.
‘What do you jolly well mean the station has gone off the air?’ he demanded to know. ‘That’s my bloody TV station. What the devil is going on? I’ll wager it’s that new CEO. I had my reservations about him, you know.’
The big man’s lantern-jawed son held up the phone. ‘I tried to ring the station, Dad, but the phone’s off.’
‘It must be a power out,’ suggested one of the guests.
‘A power out?’ thundered the big man. ‘Look around you. The power’s on. No. It’s a stuff-up at the station. And I tell you, some overpaid flunky’s going to get his backside kicked when I get back to Sydney. Fools. Damn their incompetence.’
The big man’s doting and faithful blonde wife tried to console him. ‘Now take it easy, dear,’ she smiled. ‘Remember your heart.’
‘My heart? To hell with my heart,’ thundered the big man.
On Queensland’s Gold Coast it was a little after 6.00 pm eastern standard time. Three floors up at Radio 4GGG, overlooking Southport Beach, bearded talkback radio host John Berry was getting ready for arguably the biggest night of his career and the station’s.
Following weeks of negotiations, Berry had okayed it with the station owner to pay a notorious Brisbane gangster, Joe Renton, fifty thousand dollars for his story. Joe had just done five years in Boggo Road for murder. He should have done twenty. But Joe had struck a deal with all concerned to keep his mouth shut and leave any bodies buried where they were buried. So the charge was downgraded to manslaughter. Two months after his release, Joe found out he had cancer, very little money and a year to live if he was lucky. Figuring he had nothin
g much to lose and fifty grand would make his last days infinitely more comfortable, Joe agreed to do a huge steaming dump on everyone he’d been involved with during his criminal career. Fellow criminals, police, politicians, club owners, developers. Even two respected judges Joe had supplied with heroin and very young boys before he went inside. They were all going down on shock jock John Berry’s top-rating Sunday night program. Joe had warned Berry that what was left of his disreputable life was now on the line. And if the station changed its mind at the last moment, he would kill him. John knew this was no idle threat. So it was all go ahead. The lawyers had been briefed. The advertising had been booked and the station had been promoting Renton all week. It was the talk of the Gold Coast. The owner of the station was listening, along with the staff and half of Queensland. A photographer from the Gold Coast Bulletin had just arrived in the foyer and Joe was on his way to the station from the safe house in Brisbane and due on air in fifteen minutes.
John was at his microphone, primed and waiting for the six o’clock news to finish. He’d go to an ad break, play a track by the Beatles, ‘Money.’ Then give his preamble. Once that was out of the way, he’d shake hands with Joe and introduce ‘Career criminal and notorious standover man Joe Renton.’ And let it go from there. John was absently tapping a biro against a sheet of questions he intended to ask Joe, when his headphones cut out. He checked them. The console light said they were on. Yet nothing was coming through. John pushed the mike button to put him through to Tall Paul, his panel operator in the booth opposite. The intercom wasn’t working either. John stared blankly through the glass at Tall Paul, who gestured helplessly and stared back. Paul took his headphones off and a moment later his gangly form draped in a red Hawaiian shirt appeared in the doorway of John’s studio.
John held up his headphones. ‘What’s going on, Paul?’
‘I don’t know, John,’ replied Paul. ‘We’re not broadcasting.’
‘Not broadcasting?’ said Berry in disbelief. ‘What do you mean, not broadcasting?’
‘Just that,’ said Paul. ‘The power’s on. But the computers are down. And nothing’s getting through.’
‘Well, ring the bloody technicians.’
‘I tried,’ said Paul. ‘But the phones are out. I can’t get through on anything. Not even the intercom.’
‘Oh Christ!’ exclaimed John, looking up at the studio clock. ‘Renton’s on his way to the station.’
‘I know, John,’ nodded Paul.
‘Well, do some bloody thing.’ Berry stared out the studio window at the view across the ocean. ‘Jesus! It can’t be a storm. There’s not a cloud in the bloody sky.’
‘I know,’ said Paul. ‘I’m hoping it’s the main computer.’
John Berry dumped his headphones on the console and buried his bearded face in his hands. ‘Hoping it’s the computer. Good God Almighty,’ he moaned. ‘That’s all I need.’
In Auckland, New Zealand, it was 9.00 pm and raining. Truck driver Sione Faimu was in a lot of pain. He’d just rolled his delivery van off the NW Motorway and was pinned behind the steering wheel, bleeding from a head wound and internal injuries.
No one had seen the accident. But he’d managed to ring Emergency Services before his mobile phone went out of range and the operator assured him an ambulance and a rescue crew would be there in no time. Sione hoped so. He knew he was hurt badly and if he didn’t get help soon, the ditch he was in would be a lonely place to die. He stared through the shattered windscreen and tried to shut the pain out by thinking of his wife and five children.
Parked in their ambulance outside a close-by hospital, paramedics Manase Halatau and Grahame Whittle were thinking how quiet it was. In this sort of weather they were generally kept busy. Manase picked up the radio to check with Dispatch. He clicked the on/off button and got nothing but static.
‘Ohh, that’s what’s wrong,’ he told his partner. ‘The radio’s off.’
‘Give me a look.’ Grahame tried the receiver then put it back in its cradle. ‘Must be something wrong in the office. It’ll come good.’
‘Instead of waiting here,’ suggested Manase, ‘why don’t we take a run out to Parnell and get a pizza?’
‘Good idea,’ replied Grahame, reaching for the ignition. ‘A hot chocolate would go well, too.’
In Karachi it was 2.03 pm and taxi driver Sunil Vajpahi was in an excellent mood. Usually a temperamental man, he was sitting smiling in his taxi on Mangopir Road after dropping off a foolish Saudi tourist and his Italian girlfriend at the Zoological Gardens. Obviously full of hashish, the man had left him with two US one hundred dollar bills instead of two ones. Most unfortunate for the tourist. But indeed a blessing for Sunil. He had started his shift at noon and would normally finish at midnight. Now he would go home to his young wife Zashi, take her for a meal, then stroll with her along the banks of the Layari River. Later they would see a film. Sunil would always ring his wife before he came home, so she could have something waiting for him to eat. And he liked her to ring him at work. Now for some reason his mobile phone wasn’t working, nor was the taxi’s radio. He would have to surprise her.
In Sunil’s modest apartment on Quadin Road, Zashi was lying back in bed with her latest young lover, artist Sanjay Khilnani. Like Sunil, Zashi was also in a good mood. She was always in a good mood when Sunil was at work. Sanjay and Zashi had just finished making love and were enjoying a cool drink.
‘You are sure your husband will not be home?’ asked Sanjay.
Zashi shook her head adamantly. ‘Not until midnight. If he does come home, the pig always rings first, so I can have food waiting for him.’
‘Until midnight, you say?’ smiled Sanjay. The young artist thought for a moment. ‘Then we have much love-making to look forward to.’
‘Oh yes. Much,’ purred Zashi.
Sunil put the taxi into gear and the large hunting knife he kept under the front seat rolled forward beneath the brake pedal. Sunil’s knife would often do that. It was bothersome. But it was easy to get at under the seat and it was an excellent deterrent against villains who tried to rob or abuse him. And Sunil was not afraid to use it. Sunil placed it on the seat next to him and smiled. He would wrap it in its cloth and take it home. Thanks to a foolish tourist, Sunil would not be needing his knife today.
In Hong Kong, it was 6.07 pm. Wearing a beautifully tailored grey suit, Li Lin Xun, executive with the Bank of China, was seated in his office staring at his computer, smiling and rubbing his fat little hands together. Unknown to the Party, Li Lin had purloined HK$100,000,000 from the Bank of China, which he had zipped round the world on the futures market over the last week and was now about to zip back, leaving him a tidy profit of HK$5,000,000. Such practices were heavily frowned upon by the Party, and meant a one-way ticket to the firing squad. But Li Lin had covered every angle. There would be no problem. The only problem was what to do with all the beautiful money? Li Lin was about to log on when his computer crashed. However, Li Lin was not unduly worried. This often happened in the Democratic People’s Republic. Li Lin eased back in his leather chair, lit a cigarette and, with inscrutable Oriental patience, waited for his computer to come back online.
In London, it was 10.05 am. Captain Dennis Bigwood was in a holding pattern above the clouds covering Heathrow Airport. He’d just piloted British Airways Flight 379 back from Jamaica packed with tourists—a face at every window and a bum on every seat as one of the female flight attendants had informed him when they took off from Montego Bay. Looking down at the clouds from the air-conditioned cockpit of the jumbo jet, Captain Bigwood was wishing he was back in Jamaica, drinking rum and bonking the vivacious flight attendant he’d met from Air Italia. London in October definitely wasn’t Jamaica. He was checking the fuel gauges when he lost radar and the ship’s computer faded. His co-pilot, Brian Murray, noticed it at the same time. They were about to comment when the plane’s navigator, Martin Cochrane, spoke up.
‘Dennis,’ he said, a little urgently.
‘I’ve lost radio contact with Heathrow.’
‘Yes. We’ve just lost radar, Martin,’ replied the co-pilot.
Captain Bigwood went over the controls again, then turned to his co-pilot. ‘The power’s on, Brian. And there’s nothing wrong with the hydraulics. It must be a hiccup in the main computer.’ The captain thought heavily for a moment. ‘Well, lads,’ he said quietly. ‘I imagine there’s going to be a bit of a delay. So I’d better inform the punters till we sort things out.’
Captain Bigwood picked up the microphone. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘This is your captain, Dennis…’ Captain Bigwood clicked at the intercom button. ‘Now this isn’t working either.’ Captain Bigwood turned to the navigator. ‘Martin, could you go and fetch the head steward, please.’
Martin Cochrane rose from his seat. ‘Right away, Dennis.’
In New York, it was 4.00 am. Cold but clear. Drug Squad Detectives Joel Vears and Lou Halavic were parked off Flatlands Avenue, two doors from a suspect crack house on the second floor of a graffiti-covered apartment block in Carnasie. They’d been there almost an hour and to their knowledge the only people inside were a Venezuelan dealer, Hector Guerro, and his girlfriend Coliza. Hector was an up-and-comer in the drug trade and, according to Detective Halavic’s snitch, Hector had just taken delivery of two kilograms of high-grade Peruvian cocaine. A good bust. The two detectives would keep most of the money in the apartment, hand in the coke and take credit for the collar. Nevertheless, Detective Vears still preferred to have back up. You never knew where these greasy Venezuelans were coming from. But his partner Detective Halavic figured it wasn’t worth the effort and any more police would only get in the way when it came to splitting the cash. Besides that, their radio had just gone off the air.
Detective Vears waved his cellphone. ‘This ain’t working either, Lou,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you recharge the batteries?’ suggested Detective Halavic. ‘Anyway, who gives a shit? He’s only in there on his own. Let’s just kick the door in and take the piece of shit down.’
The Tesla Legacy Page 26