by Chris Ryan
‘No,’ snarled Timi. ‘We’re going to do the interview ourselves. Bo, get out your phone.’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Tim,’ said Amy. ‘We should go.’
Bo was looking at the display on her phone, lining up the shot. ‘Ready. Timi, you get in there next to the major.’
Timi looked the major full in the eye. ‘Your listening station in Coober Pedy. What’s really going on there?’
Major Kurtis kept his face impassive. He spoke patiently and calmly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Wez tightened his grip on the major’s other arm. ‘You’re lying.’
Timi kicked the major in the shin. He winced at the pain.
‘So why is the population out there getting so ill? What are you messing with? Is it biological warfare? Radioactive fallout?’
The major let out a long, slow breath, composing himself. He looked away from Timi, directly into the camera. ‘This is a free country. If you have a reasonable objection you can make it democratically. You don’t have to do it with violence.’
Timi had had enough. ‘You lying bastard.’ He pulled something out of his pocket. A long blade glinted in his hand. A flick knife.
Amy, Wez, Joseph and Bo gasped in horror. The major stiffened with shock. Wez momentarily loosened his grip on the major’s arms, but the man was surrounded so he wasn’t going anywhere.
Timi grabbed the major’s lapel and pressed the blade against the skin of his throat. ‘You think you can keep a thing like this covered up, you arrogant bastard? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do; I’m going to make you talk.’
Bo looked at Amy. Her eyes were fearful and brimming with tears. Amy reached her hand towards Timi’s arm, but didn’t dare touch him. Wez tightened his grip on the major again. Joseph looked as though he wanted to run away.
The major swallowed. His Adam’s apple went up and down his throat, making the gleaming blade rise and fall. ‘I will offer no resistance,’ he said. The words sounded like a standard phrase learned on some military course.
‘You’re damn right,’ snarled Timi. ‘Now, tell the camera – what’s going on in Coober Pedy?’
The major looked at his captor. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that.’
Bo gave a sob and buried her face in Amy’s shoulder. Amy put an arm around her and looked at the major, pleading: ‘Just tell him, for pity’s sake!’
The janitor’s room was small and windowless – it was really just a large cupboard. The only light came from a row of glass bricks in the top of the wall and there was no ventilation.
Bel rattled the door handle, but there was something against the door stopping the handle from turning all the way.
Then she realized that she could smell smoke – it was drifting in under the door.
So it wasn’t a fire drill. Bel felt herself starting to panic, but her iron will took control just in time. After a minute of shouting at the top of her voice she slumped against the door, exhausted.
The fire alarm continued to ring and she could hear sirens. A lot of sirens.
Were all those fire engines for this one building? What on earth had happened?
A sturdy broom was propped up inside the door. She pulled the head off it so that she was left with a long wooden pole. She slipped the pole under the door and wiggled it around. She felt it hit something but she couldn’t tell what it was. Bashing it a couple of times failed to dislodge it.
Pulling the broom handle back in, she looked around the room for inspiration. Was there anything else she could use? The room contained a table with a kettle, some mugs and a portable CD player.
Bel picked up the CD player and snapped it open. Inside was a disc. She hurried back to the door and slipped her hand underneath, angling the shiny side of the disc. The image wasn’t as clear as a mirror but it was just enough to show her why the door wouldn’t open. The Oz Protectors had wedged a chair under the handle.
Bel felt a flash of anger. They’d locked her in and left her to burn. When she got out somebody was going to pay.
She pulled the CD back in, pushed the pole out against one of the chair legs and levered the chair out of the way. There was a clattering noise, then she found she could turn the handle and the door opened.
The corridor was hazy with smoke.
‘Hello?’ called Bel. Smoke caught her throat and she started coughing. She couldn’t hear anything over the screaming alarm.
She had to get out, but which way? This backstage part of the building was a warren of narrow corridors and staircases and she didn’t know the layout.
The smoke was blowing in from the right. To the left was a glowing FIRE EXIT sign over a door. Bel hurried over to it and seized the handle. It was hot but she pulled it open anyway.
The other side was a thick veil of smoke and a red glow, like burning coals. Air rushed in from the open door and in moments bright orange flames were leaping out at her.
Bel turned and raced back down the corridor, nearly falling over in her strappy sandals. ‘Doc Martens next time,’ she told herself.
Flames roared out of the room and pursued her, travelling fast as they took hold of the polystyrene ceiling tiles.
Seeing another door ahead of her, she peered through the glass and spotted a staircase leading up. Should she go upwards? Wouldn’t it be better to find a way out on the ground floor?
Then she noticed fumes curling in wisps from the ceiling tiles further along. She wasn’t a materials scientist, but she guessed the fumes were toxic. And they seemed heavier than air. Going up was probably the only option if she wanted to avoid being poisoned.
She took the stairs two at a time and came out in another corridor. She ran down to the end and emerged on the upstairs gallery, where big windows looked out onto a paved area and shops beyond.
For a moment she thought she was seeing things. The street outside was shrouded in a thick fog of smoke. Shapes moved around in it. Some were people, some were emergency vehicles. She could see pockets of orange flame and flashes of blue light. Several other buildings in the street seemed to be on fire. It looked more like War of the Worlds than the Adelaide business district.
She ran over to a window and hammered on the glass. Surely someone would look up from the street and see her. No one did. She examined the window frames, but they were solid and could not be opened. Bel whirled round, looking desperately for another way out, and saw a fire exit sign by the refreshment bar. She ran across and seized the handle. It burned her palm.
She backed away. She knew now what that meant: fire on the other side of the door.
There must be another fire exit, she thought. Then she saw the sign for the ladies’ toilet. That was bound to have an outside window for ventilation. The handle wasn’t hot so she pushed through the two sets of swing doors—
Only to find that there were no windows. Just an electric extractor fan.
She came back out again and saw another fire exit sign pointing to the stock room behind the refreshment bar. As she made her way through, the first thing that hit her was a smell of roasting. Along one wall boxes of crisps smouldered: they had set fire to the curtain at the end, but beyond that was a long window with a door leading out to a balcony.
Bel was about to make a dash for it when she realized that the carpet tiles were smoking. Her shoes were too flimsy to protect her if she ran across.
She grabbed a blue fire extinguisher off the wall and showered the carpet tiles with white powder. But the fat in the crisps had melted the plastic wrappers and soaked into the cardboard and the carpet tiles and was keeping them burning. She emptied the entire extinguisher over the floor but the heat was still too intense. The carpet tiles were starting to bubble as the rubber underneath melted. Bel threw down the extinguisher in despair.
Then she realized that she could still reach the other end of the window. Maybe there was another opening there.
But she found only a big expan
se of glass. The only exit door was behind the burning curtain.
Bel ran back and retrieved the extinguisher. Even empty, it was as heavy as a dumb-bell. She held it like a baseball bat and whacked the glass nearest to her with all her strength. The window turned frosty and shattered, and she stumbled out, her feet skidding on nuggets of glass.
She ran along the balcony and down a fire escape to the street. She was out.
But maybe not safe yet. The street was full of smoke and teeming with firefighters and emergency vehicles. All the buildings she could see were on fire. Flames ringed the whole area, sending a tunnel of smoke up into the sky.
As she emerged, a firefighter approached her – a young woman with oriental features and smudged stripes on her face. She looked astonished to see Bel. ‘Where did you come from?’
Bel indicated the broken window. ‘In case of emergency, break the glass.’ She looked around. The only people she could see were firefighters. She felt disorientated and alone. ‘Where are all the delegates from the conference?’
Wanasri pointed down the road. ‘They were evacuated to the green.’
‘Maybe not all of them,’ said Bel. ‘I was with an American army officer and some protestors. We were right at the back of the building.’
‘Then they could still be trapped inside.’ Wanasri turned to a burly firefighter beside her. ‘Darren, we’d better get a crew into this building before the roof caves in.’
Chapter Twelve
Kelly looked over the instruments. She checked the height, the windspeed and their bearing, then sat back. ‘We’re going steadily and conditions seem to be good. I could use some first aid. You can let go of the controls.’
Cautiously, Ben let go of the stick and the throttle. ‘How long can I leave them for?’
‘Well, you wouldn’t have time for an appendectomy, but you can bandage my hands. Do it quickly though.’
‘Where’s the first-aid kit?’ said Ben.
‘It’s your water bottle and my scarf,’ said Kelly.
‘Hmm. Well, next time you might want to pack some plasters.’ Ben reached for the gold and black scarf around Kelly’s neck. He unfastened it, tore it into two long strips and poured water from his bottle over them.
Kelly managed a chuckle. ‘That scarf belongs to my mom. It’s Versace. If she saw you doing that she’d skin you alive.’ Very gingerly, she held her left hand out for Ben to bandage.
Ben was shocked at the sight of her burns. The skin was charred and weeping. He started the bandage around her fingers so that he could secure it tightly, then took it across the burned flesh. Kelly went still as a statue, trying not to pull away. He took the strip around her hand again, then fastened it at her wrist, well away from the burned area. Silently she offered him her right hand. That looked even worse but she let him bandage it without a murmur.
‘It looks nastier than it is,’ said Ben, not knowing if that was true or not. ‘This will keep the skin moist anyhow.’
He had just finished fastening the makeshift bandages when a shrill sound made him jump out of his skin.
He scanned the instruments, looking for a flashing red light or a whirling dial. ‘What the hell is it? What’s gone wrong?’
Kelly shook her head. ‘It’s just my phone.’ She nodded towards the cradle by the instrument panel.
Ben pressed answer and the display flashed up the word ‘Dad’.
It was a bad connection. In the middle of a lot of hissing and crackling, Ben could hear a male voice with an American accent.
‘Kelly … Kelly – you there? Are you all right? Tell me you’re safe.’
‘Hi, Dad, I’m here. I’m safe. No problem. But are you all right?’ Kelly reassured her dad – but clearly needed to know that he, too, was clear of any fire.
There was a hiss of static, then one phrase came through clearly. ‘Protestors grabbed me …’ More static.
‘What?’ said Kelly. ‘Dad, can you repeat that?’
‘Protestors grabbed me …’
They weren’t sure the first time what he had said, but this time there was no mistaking it.
‘Dad!’ shouted Kelly. ‘Are you all right?’
The major didn’t answer Kelly’s question; just went on talking. Maybe he couldn’t hear them. Among the waves of hiss, only a few words were audible: ‘Bel … conference centre …’
Ben was shocked. He leaned close to the phone in its cradle, as if that would help the major hear him better. ‘Bel? What about Bel? My mum – is she all right?’
Kelly leaned forward too. In fact it made no difference because the sound was going through the headset system. ‘Dad, where are you?’
‘Major Kurtis, where’s Bel?’
‘I’m on the gan …’
‘Where?’
The connection was getting worse. The major tried once more. ‘On the gan …’
Then the connection failed and they heard no more. Kelly waved her bandaged hands at the phone. ‘Quick, call him back.’
Ben had the phone in his hands, trying to navigate the menu. ‘I’m trying!’ He found the major’s number, but when he pressed call back, it wouldn’t connect.
Kelly was frantic. ‘Damn! I saw those protestors this morning. I knew they were up to no good. They just hate Americans – we’re an easy target. We lived near Sydney for a couple of years and had to have special security at home because somebody tried to fire-bomb our garden.’ Suddenly she looked sharply ahead. ‘Watch your altitude! We’ve drifted down three hundred feet!’
All at once Ben remembered the plane. He opened the throttle and climbed to fifteen hundred feet again.
Kelly snapped out more corrections. ‘You’re not level. And slow down, we’re going to run out of fuel if you keep going like this. Have you any idea where we’re heading?’
Ben was struggling to keep up with her instructions. ‘No, I don’t know where we’re going. You were finding us somewhere to land. Just chill.’
Kelly spluttered. ‘Chill? They’ve got your mom too – aren’t you worried?’
‘Of course I’m worried but we won’t get anywhere by panicking. Is the plane OK? Can I leave it for long enough to call her?’
Kelly looked at the controls. ‘Yeah. For a minute or so.’
Ben put his phone in the cradle and tried Bel. But it wouldn’t make the connection.
‘Call nine-one-one,’ said Kelly.
‘Treble zero,’ said Ben irritably. He dialled and was put through immediately.
‘Which service do you require?’
‘Police.’
Another voice came on the line almost immediately. ‘Hello, police here.’
Kelly took over. ‘My father is Major Brad Kurtis of the US army. He’s just been kidnapped from the conference centre in Adelaide.’
‘Your father has been kidnapped?’ repeated the police controller. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, and there’s someone with him. Dr Bel Kelland. She’s British.’
‘Sorry, can you repeat that?’
Ben took over. He spelled out Bel’s name and tried to give a brief description. ‘She’s small, about five three, with red hair—’
Kelly interrupted, yelling, ‘The gan! He said he was on the gan!’
Ben wanted to strangle her. She wasn’t helping by getting so hyper, and if she kept interrupting, how would the police ever get the information they needed?
‘Can you repeat that?’ asked the police controller patiently.
‘G-H-A-N,’ spelled out Kelly. She was reading off the map on her knee. Down one side was an advert with a picture of a big red train. ‘It’s a train that runs from Adelaide to Darwin.’
‘Oh yes,’ said the police controller. ‘We know the Ghan. We’ll send officers to investigate. Thank you for your call.’
Kelly looked up at the fuel gauge and screwed up her face.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Ben. ‘Tell me what to do.’
‘I’m working out if we’ve got enough fue
l.’
‘Why? Are we going to run out?’
Kelly did some silent calculations before she answered him. ‘No. We’ve got plenty. We’re going to follow the Ghan.’
Further down the coast, in Melbourne, the weather reporting station was hosting a crisis meeting. The mayor, the police chief and the head of the Melbourne fire department were gathered in the tiny office of the chief meteorologist discussing whether they should put their city on alert.
The meteorologist was pointing to a series of satellite images of Adelaide showing how the fire had progressed. In the final one, taken a couple of minutes earlier, the entire landscape was black, blotted out by clouds of smoke.
The fire chief spoke first: ‘This fire should not be this bad. It should have been containable.’
His comment sent ripples of surprise through the cramped room.
‘I agree,’ said the meteorologist. ‘Let me show you …’ She cursored back, looking for a picture. ‘It seems to have got dramatically worse when the weather changed.’ She pointed out the features on the screen – the distinctive coastline of Adelaide. ‘This is Port Adelaide here, the Murray river – we can see by the cloud formations that it’s a hot, still day. The anemometers around the city confirm it; hardly any breeze at all.’
The fire chief pointed to some dark smudges on the picture. ‘You can see there are a few bush fires, but look at the smoke – they’re not going anywhere. They would burn out safely if they were managed properly.’
The meteorologist took up the story. ‘But now, if we look at this …’ She scrolled along to another picture. ‘This was ten minutes later.’
The audience gasped. The clouds had become black and white streaks swirling in an angry vortex. It looked like a picture of a hurricane.
‘It must be some mistake,’ said the police chief. ‘It can’t be the same day.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said the meteorologist. ‘But there’s no mistake. From nowhere we’ve got winds of up to a hundred k.p.h. When those winds blew up, that’s when the fire really took hold.’
The chief of police sighed. ‘Why didn’t the fore-casters give us any warning of this?’