Sword of Allah

by David Rollins

  Duat raised his eyebrows. One thousand four hundred miles was a very long way indeed. He looked at the world map hung on the wall and found the scale. The additional fuel load, he saw, gave them a phenomenal range of possible targets.

  Hendra read the METFOR a second time to make sure he wasn’t mistaken. Indications were that conditions looked like they’d remain stable for the following thirty-six hours, but weather was fickle, he reminded himself, and the forecast was nothing more than that – a prediction of what might happen, not a statement of fact about what would actually come to pass. He shrugged. There was nothing that could be done about it, anyway. With the boy’s death, reprogramming the Gameboy chip was not an option, although small alterations allowing for wind direction could be made in the location of the waypoints, downloaded to the UAV’s guidance system from a laptop.

  Hendra felt a pang of sympathy for those in the target area. The encampment had probably suffered only a mild exposure to the nerve agent. The pain, suffering and death that would result downwind of an airburst of VX was something he now felt that he could relate to. And the truth at that instant was that Hendra wished he’d never become involved in this cause. He’d allowed himself to be persuaded. And the group had needed him at a time when a sense of usefulness after his discharge from the air force was what he craved most. He had no wife and no children and, now that the air force was no longer his home, no family. What also troubled Hendra was where God fitted into this. He could identify his own purpose or lack of it, but what about God’s? Was he, Hendra, really God’s instrument as Duat had told him? Or was he just Duat’s? The project with the Prowler drone had absorbed him completely, given his life meaning and direction, and now the time had come to let it loose so that it could rob the lives of possibly thousands of innocent people. But he had come this far and if he did not see it through, then what had been the point?

  Duat opened the hatch on the top of the drone’s fuselage and looked in. He saw a mass of wires attached to the moulded blocks of explosive that encased the epoxy chemical containers. ‘Hendra, how will this work?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s simple,’ said Hendra, the question refocusing him on the task at hand. ‘The drone will hug the waves until it nears the target. It will then climb to a height of five thousand feet. When it reaches this altitude, a switch activated by low pressure will close the circuit, allowing current to pass to the detonators triggering the explosives. These will crush the four epoxy canisters that hold the inert components of the VX in separate halves, mixing and atomising them at the same time. A deadly cloud will be formed on the wind. As it slowly drops to earth, it will kill everything in its path.’

  Duat couldn’t help himself. He smiled. Hendra’s description had a certainty about it that Duat found rewarding. Babu Islam would make a final dramatic statement on Allah’s behalf that the world would not soon forget. He closed the hatch, secured it and began pumping fuel into the tank.

  ‘Emir, has the target changed?’ asked Hendra, looking up from the laptop.

  Duat had considered doing just that, especially given the news of the drone’s extended range. The news media carrying the panic from Jakarta and Darwin had certainly given him some interesting ideas. He shook his head. ‘No, it remains as planned.’ Duat had also given some thought to life after the weapon was launched. Kadar Al-Jahani had decided on the target in conjunction with himself and their supporters in the Holy Land. The influence and friendship of those supporters might have to be called on again, and soon.

  Hendra keyed in the final lat and long coords. According to the METFOR, a ten-knot sou’easter was running at ten thousand feet, still ten knots at five thousand feet, but reducing to light and variable winds at one thousand feet. The chances of rain in the area were less than twenty-five percent. Acceptable odds. But there was a problem. Rahim had died before providing him with an accurate descent rate for the atomised droplets of VX. If the cloud took five hours to fall to earth, the toxic miasma at ground level would be vast. It could have a front anywhere between ten and fifty miles wide. It was truly an awesome weapon. Hendra synchronised the Gameboy/ GPS with the laptop, transferring the information. He then verified it and, satisfied, disconnected the PC. He then reinserted the guidance system into the drone and changed all the on-board batteries for new ones. Hendra also checked the engine’s oil level, the alternator belt for wear, and drained a measure of fuel from the drone’s tanks. Satisfied that there was no water contamination, he moved around the aircraft and examined its control surfaces and checked that the towrope was properly attached. Finally, he turned on the remote pilot station and moved the miniature joysticks in their wells. The drone’s ailerons, elevator and rudder responded appropriately.

  Duat watched, interested, and realised how lucky Babu Islam was to have had this man walk into the encampment.

  Hendra moved around the plane for a final inspection and made sure the wheels were chocked. He stopped at the engine in the rear and slowly turned over the propeller, passing each blade from hand to hand. Then, with one circular motion, he gave the propeller a downward flick. The engine caught immediately and settled into a smooth burble that ricocheted off the walls. The drone appeared to hunker down on its chocks briefly, eager to move. The sound of a loud smash behind him made Hendra turn. He watched Duat pick up the laptop and again throw it down on the paved floor, the second blow shattering the plastic case and the components within. Hendra turned back to the drone. He’d finished with the laptop, anyway.

  ‘Emir, it is time,’ he said, shouting over the noise of the engine. ‘Help me move it forward.’

  Hendra positioned Duat to hold one wingtip before removing the chocks. He then walked around the front of the drone, across to the other wingtip, and they wheeled the plane forward slowly until it cleared the shed. Hendra disappeared briefly back inside. He flicked a switch and, suddenly, a row of lights on either side of the short strip winked on.

  ‘Emir,’ he said in Duat’s ear when he returned, breathing hard, ‘you must hold the drone secure here while I ready the catapult. Just keep hold of this one wingtip. I will rev the engine once, briefly. That will be your signal to let go.’

  Duat nodded at the instructions as Hendra turned and walked down the strip between the ground lights, the remote piloting box under his arm.

  Just fifty metres later, Hendra felt like he was about to pass out. He was weak from exposure to the VX, from the lack of food and sleep, and he hadn’t been able to keep down any water. He was exhausted, undernourished and dehydrated. Duat had found them cans of fruit to eat – the only food in the camp that could be guaranteed safe from VX contamination. The fruit and the juice had helped enormously, but both men were still weak.

  Hendra tried to walk faster but his legs wouldn’t obey. By the time he reached the catapult motor two hundred metres down the runway, he was struggling not to collapse. He leaned on the catapult drum, sweating profusely, and tried to catch his breath. The launch would be difficult and he would need his wits about him. Hendra placed the remote box on the ground and readied the catapult. His palms, also, were greasy and slick. The launch was the drone’s most critical moment. If he got it wrong, the plane would crash and now, loaded with explosives, full fuel tanks and VX…Hendra put the consequences of a failed launch out of his mind and tried to focus on getting it right. The trouble was, there were still unknowns. Test launches when fully loaded had never been conducted for fear of crashing the drone and disabling it permanently.

  Hendra licked the sweat off his lips and wiped his arm across his eyes. There was no right or wrong, just life or death. His fate was in the hands of God. Hendra picked up the remote pilot box and goosed the throttle briefly, the signal for Duat to let go and stand clear. He then wound the throttle that controlled the catapult’s outboard motor to the stops. The cable sprang taut as the drum quickly gathered speed. Hendra set the throttle on the remote box to half speed. As he fed in some elevator the cable rose off the ground and began to po
int at the sky, increasing its angle. Hendra put the elevator to the neutral position.

  When Hendra estimated that the drone was overhead, he snicked the gearshift lever to the neutral position. The sudden elimination of drag caused the motor to race quickly to its rev limit, whereupon it cut out as it was supposed to do, stalling with a coughing, spluttering sound like that of a man drowning. The cable dropped to the ground.

  And then Hendra was rewarded by the sound of the drone’s Rotax humming sweetly in the still night air as it passed seventy metres above him. The light from several stars was briefly extinguished as the plane, settling into its pre-programmed flight, flew directly overhead. He switched off the remote control box and the Sword of Allah’s pre-programmed guidance system, his guidance system, took over. If Hendra had had the energy, he would have jumped for joy. Instead, he collapsed on the ground, panting.

  Duat’s heart had been in his mouth. The plane’s motor had revved briefly and so he’d let the wingtip go as instructed. And then suddenly it appeared to have been snatched forward and swallowed by the night. He lost sight of it until it climbed into the sky, going straight up and a little to the right, its shape silhouetted against the faint echoes of light from the stars. As the hum of the drone’s engine faded into the starlight, Duat was left in the middle of the runway, a man without love, bereft of conscience and purpose, penniless, alone and haunted by hideous dreams. He walked down the strip, panting and nauseous. There was still much to do. When he reached Hendra, the man was on his knees, vomiting. ‘Allah will point the way now,’ said Duat.

  Hendra answered with a heave as his stomach contracted, expelling the canned fruit. Duat’s stomach convulsed too but he managed by force of will not to join Hendra on the ground. Instead, he pulled the pistol from his pocket and placed the muzzle lightly against the back of Hendra’s skull. Hendra swayed, too weak to do anything about what would happen next. ‘Emir –’ he said, the word cut short by an explosion that removed the back of his skull and deposited it on the ground between his knees.

  Jakarta, Indonesia

  Wilkes, Ellis and Monroe arrived at the brightly lit hangar as a man concluded a semi-official address to the Indonesian soldiers. The first thing Wilkes noticed about those soldiers was their red berets: they were Kopassus.

  ‘I think that’s the Indonesian Minister of Defence,’ said Monroe.

  ‘Nah,’ said Ellis. ‘A politician prepared to drag his arse out of bed at sparrow’s fart, and no TV camera to witness it?’ He shook his head doubtfully.

  ‘Hey, boss!’ It was more of a loud whisper than a shout, and the voice was familiar. Wilkes walked inside the hangar and saw the rest of his troop standing in a group away from the Indonesians. Wilkes nodded a greeting to his men – Littlemore, Beck, Morgan, Robson, Coombs and Ferris. They’d been listening attentively, politely, to the politician, despite the fact that none of them understood Bahasa. Then the minister turned to the Australians and said in accented English, ‘I am here on behalf of our president to tell you that all Indonesia thanks you for your assistance and wishes you well. Our prayers go with you. May Allah watch over you and bring you back to your homes and loved ones safely,’ he said, bowing slightly.

  Wilkes saluted the minister, and especially the man’s sentiment. He then went up to the nearest Indonesian soldier and shook his hand. If there was any tension between the two groups of men from two very different countries, it dissolved at that moment.

  Captain Mahisa pushed his way through the group and clapped Wilkes on the shoulder as the minister climbed into a long black car and departed. ‘Pleased to have you with us, Tom. What do you say…? We shall kick some butt?’

  ‘Captain Mahisa!’ said Wilkes, happy to see a familiar face amongst the Indonesians. The captain looked in far better spirits than the last time they’d met. ‘Actually, no, we don’t say things like that. But our American friend here does. Do you remember Atticus Monroe? From our first meeting in Canberra?’ Monroe saluted the captain.

  ‘That’s right, yes,’ said Mahisa, brow knotted as he called on his memory. ‘CIA, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Monroe with a grin.

  ‘Atticus has been making the tea and running errands for us lately, Captain. We call it work experience. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll prove useful on this mission too,’ said Wilkes, laughing when he saw Monroe appeared to be lost for words. For once.

  Wilkes noticed a whiteboard full of numbers and squiggles in black and red pen. ‘We missed the briefing,’ he said to Mahisa. ‘Can you fill us in?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mahisa.

  ‘Do we have any intel on the camp?’ asked Wilkes. ‘Aside from its position.’

  ‘No, unfortunately, nothing,’ answered Mahisa. ‘The terrorists could number anywhere from twenty to two hundred persons. There hasn’t been time for an overflight. Our job is to hold the ground until the navy arrives. There are three ships on the way there now, along with a US carrier battle group. The first of these vessels should arrive zero-seven-thirty this morning. We can safely assume the terrorists will be heavily armed and we know they have VX. Do they have the means to use it against us?’ Mahisa shrugged. ‘We don’t know that either. All we can do is expect the worst and take precautions.’

  The ‘precautions’ Captain Mahisa referred to was the wearing of a joint service lightweight integrated suit technology or JSLIST. It was a two-piece suit designed for US forces that, together with its M40 gasmask, multipurpose overboots and rubber gloves, gave the wearer twenty-four-hour protection against liquid and vapour chemical agents. Mahisa looked uncomfortable in it, the sweat soaking his hair and running into his eyes.

  ‘What are our numbers?’ asked Wilkes.

  ‘I have thirty men.’

  Jesus, is that all? Wilkes had nine, including himself and Atticus Monroe. Depending on the terrorists, their commitment and readiness, it could get ugly. He remembered the gun battle in Ramallah and his sphincter tightened involuntarily. Men like this did not capitulate readily.

  ‘What’s the objective?’ asked Wilkes.

  Mahisa could sense Wilkes’s unease. The situation was far from ideal. ‘Secure the VX, stop the launch of the drone and, if possible, capture this man. Duat.’ The captain passed Wilkes a laser print of the terrorist, one of a stack being handed around. It was a face already burned into his memory. The eyes, the gold tooth.

  ‘And if we’re too late?’

  ‘Confirm the destination of the weapon.’

  ‘Prisoners?’ Monroe asked.

  ‘Yes, if we can. But if we can’t…’ Mahisa shrugged. Taking prisoners was not a priority. ‘You and your men are proficient with HALO drops?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wilkes, who glanced at Monroe nodding confidently. He’d forgotten to ask whether Atticus was proficient on the jump when Ellis had first informed them of it. Wilkes was sceptical about his proficiency but there was no way the American would miss out on the drop. Mahisa led them across to the whiteboard covered in figures, the captain’s movement restricted by the JSLIST suit so that he appeared to walk like a robot. A HALO insertion would minimise time in the air over the target, but there was a catch. Unfortunately the bad guys might be able to hear their chutes popping open. That wasn’t so good.

  ‘Your men have already been briefed, Tom,’ said Mahisa as he picked up a marker pen and faced the board.

  ‘Okay,’ said Wilkes.

  ‘We’ll be exiting at eighteen thousand feet above mean sea level,’ he said, underlining the figure in red. ‘The weather people tell us that wind speed at exit altitude is twenty knots, becoming light and variable on the ground. At a hundred and twenty knots indicated air speed, we’ll have a forward throw of around three hundred metres.’

  ‘What’s the OA?’ asked Wilkes, studying the figures.

  ‘Our opening altitude is three thousand five hundred feet. You and your men will exit last. Your OA is up to you. Your chutes have a mean descent rate of around fifteen feet per second.�
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  ‘Yeah, but with all the gear we’ll be carrying, it’ll be more like twenty feet per second.’

  ‘So you’ll be dropping slightly faster than my men,’ said Mahisa.

  Wilkes nodded.

  Mahisa considered that and then continued. ‘Give us six seconds to exit. How you get your people on the ground is your business.’

  Wilkes and his men had done this so many times before, he didn’t need to think about it too hard. He did not, however, want to be anywhere near the Indonesians. He hadn’t trained with these Kopassus and had no idea of their capabilities. ‘We’ll follow four seconds later and exit in a packet. We’ll open at four thousand five hundred. I’ve had a look at your nav boards. They’re different to the ones we use,’ Wilkes said politely. In fact, they seemed downright primitive. ‘You happy with them?’ The navigation board strapped to a man’s chest housed a variety of electrical, magnetic and pressure instruments enabling the jumper to ‘fly blind’ and still hit the target zone. Jumping out the back of a plane at night required some deft in-flight manoeuvring when under the parachute canopy, more so if it was a HAHO jump, a high altitude high opening jump, and a particular landing spot was to be reached with certainty. But in this instance, it should be a pretty simple exercise. There were no waypoints to hit on the descent and the winds were predictable. Wilkes decided not to carry a nav board, and would rely instead on the altimeter strapped to his wrist and the occasional stickybeak through his NVGs.

  ‘Compared to your system, ours is a bit old fashioned, but it works,’ Mahisa said, jealously casting his eye over the high tech Australian nav board lying on a parachute container.

  ‘What about oxygen?’