Second Strike am-2

by Mark Abernethy

  But the part of the story Mac fi xed on was the photo. Dr Hamish Gough was pictured standing beside a green-grey alloy cylinder which stood upright on a table beside him. It was about twenty inches tall and fi ve inches across. It was one of those things that could pass for something else.

  What had Ted said? Tell them that it’s actually something else.

  Calling directory assistance, Mac asked to be put through to the Skycity casino and hotel in Darwin. Reception answered and Mac asked for Dr Gough.

  The call went through to a room and a small singsong voice answered on six. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dr Gough, Richard Davis here, from the Department of Foreign Affairs in Canberra. Welcome to Australia. It’s a pleasure to have you, sir.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr Davis,’ said Dr Gough. ‘Perhaps you could help me?’

  ‘Certainly, sir, what can I help you with?’

  ‘My water purifi er. I brought it to the hotel this morning from the airport and now it’s gone.’

  ‘You’ve told the hotel?’ asked Mac, alert.

  ‘Oh yes, and the police are here too,’ replied the Canadian.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Mac, pretty sure he knew the whole scenario.

  ‘The Development Fund person came to my room and said he was setting up the conference for my speech, and wanted to pick up the canister. When I got down to the conference centre half an hour ago, the canister was not there,’ said Dr Gough, exasperated. ‘I only brought one from Kuala Lumpur – now what am I going to show the delegates?’

  Mac breathed out, rubbed his temples and asked a question he already knew the answer to. ‘The Asia Development Fund guy, why did you trust him?’

  ‘He was assigned to me in Kuala Lumpur,’ said Dr Gough, annoyed.

  ‘He even packed the water purifi er. He was a nice young Indian fellow, very helpful.’

  ‘What was the purifi er packed in, sir?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Oh, it’s a big plastic carry case. Like a really big power-drill case, and it’s green.’

  As Mac rang off he was ninety-nine per cent sure that Australia’s fi rst nuclear terror incident had started with a mini-nuke coming through Darwin Customs as a water purifi er.

  CHAPTER 55

  As soon as Scotty answered the phone in Canberra, Mac asked him to get Tobin.

  ‘What’s it about, Macca? Tobin’s in a meeting.’

  ‘I think the device is already here,’ said Mac.

  ‘Shit,’ said Scotty. ‘I’ll see if I can get him out, but it may be beyond him now.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘We took it up to the PM’s offi ce, sold it, and they gave it to the AFP. They’re coordinating. We’re not starters.’

  ‘Fuck!’ said Mac. ‘Can I talk with Tobin for thirty seconds? Swear to God, Scotty.’

  Mac’s brain raced with the possibilities as the line went into muzak limbo: Hassan, Lempo and Gorilla, loose with a mini-nuke, in Australia. Three men, one bomb and an entire continent to hide in until they handed over to Mantiqi Four.

  ‘McQueen?’ whispered Greg Tobin, and Mac guessed he was still in the meeting.

  ‘Greg, I need a tasking in Darwin.’

  ‘Economic?’

  ‘Yep. Water technologies.’

  ‘Can’t this wait?’ snapped Tobin.

  ‘It’s starting this arvo.’

  ‘Okay. Do it.’

  ‘Another thing, Greg.’

  ‘Thirty seconds, mate.’

  ‘I need the Falcon.’

  There was a pause as Mac heard Tobin tell the meeting that he’d have to take this in his offi ce, but he’d be back in one minute.

  Tobin started talking before his mouth was anywhere near his offi ce phone. ‘The Falcon? Fuck’s sake, McQueen – come clean right now or the answer to everything is no.’

  ‘Greg, I don’t take corporate jet rides for fun, okay?’

  ‘There’re no fl ights to Darwin? Qantas hasn’t discovered this place yet?’

  ‘I think the device we discussed came into Darwin this morning on a fl ight out of KL, for the conference on water.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about, McQueen?’ gasped Tobin.

  ‘It came through in a case that would normally hold a desalination canister, a portable water purifi er. It went missing this morning from the hotel.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just got off the phone with the engineer who brought it in. He was used as a mule. They switched his water purifi er for the mini-nuke. They’d be about the same size and weight.’

  ‘You just got off the phone?! Shit, McQueen, the AFP is running a code-red border-protection program and you’re sneaking around with a private investigation?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, mate,’ barked Mac, pissed off that the corporate niceties were getting in the way at such a critical time. ‘I can’t manage the Federal Police from here. Even if Morris would take my calls, which he wouldn’t, can you imagine the Feds or Customs chasing up every idea I have?’

  ‘No – they’d tell you to get rooted, and that’s what I’m doing too, right this second,’ said Tobin.

  ‘I’ll also need a ready-reaction team,’ said Mac, trying to keep his temper down. ‘Four RAR Commandos are a good bunch, worked with them in Timor.’

  Tobin made a sound that could have been dark laughter or crying.

  ‘Shit, mate, you want to take the cavalry with you? You are too much, you know that?’

  ‘Look, it’s not going to tread on any AFP toes because I’m economic, right? I’m also Schedule Two. I have the right to carry and use fi rearms.’

  ‘I don’t think fi rearm means a bunch of special forces guys.’

  ‘Well, you know, Greg, after the shootings in Jakarta we’re just taking precautions. It’s an OH and S issue, right? Your human resource is your most important asset, world’s best practice.’

  Tobin sighed. ‘For someone who hates offi ce guys, you sure know how to think like one.’

  As the Hawker Falcon sped over the outback, Mac briefed Jason Robertson on the new tasking they were heading towards, called Limelight. Robbo and the three other soldiers onboard were from 4RAR Commando, the Australian special forces unit that comprised the Tactical Assault Group (East), based out of Holsworthy barracks in outer Sydney. Their speciality was jungle warfare, demolitions and CBRNE – Chemical, Biological, Radioactive, Nuclear and enhanced Explosives. Mac had worked with the commandos in East Timor in an operation that had made his name in the intelligence community.

  It had been a long, dangerous series of engagements with a ruthless enemy and Mac had drawn close to the boys. Robbo was a veteran of that confl ict. A private during the East Timor campaigns, he was now commanding the troop.

  ‘So, Macca,’ said Robbo, eyeballing him. ‘That’s all we have?’

  Mac nodded. He’d briefed Robbo as far as he could, but it wasn’t much. ‘We’ll start in Darwin, mate, pick up the trail, take it from there.’

  Robbo was silent. Soldiers developed a sixth sense for people who didn’t entirely know what they were doing, and Mac was getting that look now. ‘Okay, Macca, your call.’

  Mac pulled several fi les from his backpack and handed them over.

  ‘Get the boys looking at those. That’s Hassan, Lempo and Shareef – a bloke they call Gorilla,’ said Mac. ‘This is who we’re dealing with. They’re very organised, very pro and they have a mini-nuclear device.’

  Robbo took the fi les and eyed Mac again, with eyes an even paler blue than Mac’s. He was about six-foot, blond hair in an army cut and strongly built in the arms, legs and back. Mac had seen him in combat and seen him in a fi st fi ght, and he was glad he was on Robbo’s side in both.

  ‘There’s only three?’ asked Robbo.

  ‘That’s the core, but there’s a local JI cell out there too. Mantiqi Four.’

  ‘The Pakistanis – are they tooled up?’ Robbo asked, passing the fi les to the three other Commandos.

  ‘T
hey came in on a commercial fl ight, but I’d assume they know how to arm themselves.’

  ‘How much head start are we giving them?’

  Mac looked at his G-Shock. It was 1.43 pm. ‘Better part of fi ve hours.’

  Robbo gazed at the outback. ‘It’s a big place, Macca,’ he said, nodding at the scenery of red dirt and spinifex. ‘We might be better served thinking where they’re heading.’

  ‘Agreed. The AFP have got the state and territory cops searching road and rail traffi c and there’s a wide alert out for these guys at the airports.’

  ‘That’s a start.’

  ‘We might get a sighting, or something strange comes up. Might even get lucky and one or all of them get detained.’

  ‘But while we fl y to Darwin, maybe the bombers are aiming for, I dunno, Centrepoint Tower, Sydney Opera House,’ said Robbo. ‘Christ, Macca, it’s Christmas in a few days. The bars are full, the malls are packed…’

  ‘I know, mate,’ said Mac, whose list of targets had been growing as he realised how decadent Australia must seem to jihadists. ‘But we have to start with Darwin.’

  Robbo nodded and stretched out. The other troopers included a big Aboriginal bloke called Didge, so named on account of the sounds he could make into his cupped hands when the boys had been on the drink. Mac watched him with the two others – Jacko and Bluey – as they pored over the fi les and the photos of Hassan’s team.

  One of the less-exciting aspects of special forces soldiering that you didn’t see in the movies was the amount of looking and learning a bloke had to do. Every day featured some kind of exercise when you had to memorise a phone number, a rego plate, an aircraft tail number, a bank account, hotel room, map coordinates and RV time. Then you had to learn how to memorise faces and bodies, in different disguises and with different body weights and facial hair components. The special forces guys were tough blokes, but if they couldn’t commit basic operational information to memory then they were useless to the military.

  In one of Mac’s sections in the Royal Marines Commandos they’d had a gruelling three-day fi eld session involving compass work, cross-country tabbing and RVs. Banger Jordan had challenged Mac about one of his RV points and Mac had been so exhausted he’d said, ‘Hill fi ve-fi fty at zero six-twenty hours, or whatever.’

  Banger had stopped the whole section and had a go at Mac in front of the boys. ‘Whatever? Did you say to me, McQueen, whatever?!

  Let me tell you what-fucking-ever! You get it wrong between hill six-twenty at zero fi ve-fi fty hours or hill fi ve-fi fty at zero six-twenty hours, and you are in the shit, mate. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, and your extraction team won’t know where you are and your commanding offi cers won’t know where you are and the men under your own command could be walking up a hill that the enemy is camped on. So don’t tell me whatever, you stupid fucking tit!’

  The Falcon jet started its descent thirteen minutes later and they all buckled in. A minivan was waiting on the tarmac at RAAF Base Darwin and they were at Skycity Casino within twenty minutes.

  Federal cops were obvious in the foyer of the hotel and conference section of the complex as they walked in. Mac recognised some faces and saw the code-red lanyards and the police radios. A heavyset cop in a charcoal suit and blue shirt broke from his pack and moved towards Mac as they entered.

  ‘John,’ said Mac, hoping it would be a fast conversation.

  ‘Macca,’ said John Morris, the AFP’s ranking counter-terrorism expert. ‘Wasn’t expecting you up here.’

  ‘Just the economic team, you know.’

  Morris looked over Mac’s shoulder and clocked the soldiers trying to look inconspicuous in their civvies. ‘Economic team, with a bunch of SAS?’

  ‘Commandos, John – Four RAR. SAS are the ugly ones, right? So, what have we got?’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry yourself.’

  Mac laughed. ‘Given that I called in the water purifi er theft, John, a thank you would be nice.’

  Morris chewed his gum, making his black moustache move up and down on his round face. Mac guessed the bloke was dying for a ciggie.

  ‘That was you?’ said Morris.

  ‘Sure. So what does the security footage show us?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Morris.

  ‘I might take a look,’ smiled Mac. ‘What about Dr Gough? He been debriefed?’

  Morris breathed out and looked at the fl oor. He looked beaten – these details were almost impossible. ‘He’s been interviewed, McQueen, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Which one was it?’

  Morris shook his head, irritated and confused. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘The person who collected the water canister – Lempo, Shareef or Hassan?’

  ‘I don’t think we have an ID yet,’ said Morris, looking away.

  The AFP techie ran the hotel security tape back and forward of a man in a dark blazer and chinos getting out of the elevator on the fourth fl oor – Dr Gough’s fl oor – and making for a room. The man was clearly Lempo, with that same feminine, bum-out walk Mac remembered from Sumatra and the Shangri-La. There was also good footage of Lempo walking across the Skycity car park with a large hard case in one hand and then getting into a white HiAce van. The van had been parked far enough from the security cameras that there was no rego plate evident.

  ‘That’s it?’ asked Mac.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Morris, who Mac now suspected was chewing Nicorettes.

  ‘So what now? We wait for the wide-area alert?’ asked Mac, impatient for action.

  ‘Shit, McQueen,’ said Morris, looking pale. ‘Give me a break?

  I have ten tons of brass breathing down my neck on this, okay? The next level after code red is civilian evacuations, and that’s the last thing the politicians want. So believe me, we’re doing everything we can.’

  Mac walked out and saw the 4RAR boys lounging in the lobby chairs. Moving through into the ballroom where the conference was set up, he recognised the man he’d seen on the website. Dr Gough was sitting alone near the stage while a bunch of AFP men and women talked among themselves, ignoring the engineer.

  ‘G’day, Hamish,’ said Mac, holding out his hand. ‘Richard, Richard Davis – we spoke this morning?’

  ‘Ah, yes. I remember,’ he said, standing and shaking Mac’s hand.

  ‘First things fi rst. Are you okay, mate? Not hurt?’

  ‘No, no. I’m fi ne, but my pride took a beating.’

  ‘Happens to all of us, mate,’ laughed Mac. ‘These people are professionals.’

  ‘Well, hopefully not too professional, Mr Davis,’ said Dr Gough.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Mac.

  ‘I was just thinking about the case.’

  ‘That you carry the water purifi er canister in?’

  ‘Yes. A few years ago I was playing around with security labels, you know for travellers and what have you?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I invented a luggage name-tag that has a GSM transmitter in it,’ he shrugged.

  Mac smiled. ‘A transmitter?’

  ‘It never caught on – but it might be useful now?’

  CHAPTER 56

  Walking from the private mail centre on Daly Street, Mac felt reassured by the weight of the Heckler he’d just grabbed from his stash box. He jumped back into the HiAce as his phone sounded.

  ‘Yep,’ he answered.

  ‘Hi, Mr Macca. Won’t hold you up.’

  ‘Jen.’

  ‘I’ve lost Johnny Hukapa’s mobile number and he’s not at home.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll text it to you,’ said Mac, as the van lurched into the traffi c, bound for RAAF Base Darwin. ‘So what’s the deal? Why do you need Johnny?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Just thought I’d check out a few leads for getting Ke back. Routine stuff.’

  Covering his mouth with his hand, Mac tried to stay cool. ‘You’re not back in for a few weeks, Jen. We talked about this, remember?

 
I wanted to make sure I can schedule it so I’m on the Gold Coast while you’re rostered on.’

  ‘I just want to have a bit of a chinwag,’ said Jenny, too casual.

  ‘You need an SAS guy for a cuppa and a chat? What’s up?’

  ‘Ke’s started talking, and -‘

  ‘Shit, Jen! Can’t the Feds or Immigration handle this?’

  ‘Sure, but, you know, they’re overworked and… it may be nothing.’

  ‘ Mate,’ he said, exasperated. ‘If you’ve put Benny and Ke together and come up with KR, then forget it, okay? I want you out of that.’

  It had occurred to Mac not to pass on Benny’s information precisely because of the likelihood of this happening.

  And then it clicked: ‘Jen, did that AFP bloke, Doug, tell you about George Bartolo’s friend? Is that it?’

  ‘He might have said something…’ said Jenny, after a pause.

  ‘Shit, Jen! This is the Khmer Rouge, they’re slavers and killers.

  They don’t give a shit and this is not a good time for both of us to be -‘

  But Jenny wasn’t backing down and he couldn’t argue this long-distance, over the phone. They signed off and as the HiAce swung onto the freeway out of Darwin, Mac phoned Johnny on his mobile.

  ‘Yep,’ said Johnny Hukapa.

  ‘Mate, it’s Mac. Jen’s going to call you, she wants to check out something to do with that boy Ke.’

  ‘Yeah, sweet as,’ said Johnny.

  ‘No, mate. It’s not sweet. She’s getting into stuff with Khmer Rouge gangsters and the Bartolos, and I’m not happy about it.’

  ‘She’s been doing this stuff for a long time, bro. Jen knows what she’s doing.’

  ‘ Johnny! ‘

  ‘Okay, okay. So I’ll tell her I won’t ride along.’