The six men were sitting around a small campfire about thirty metres away, about five metres down with the river just a few metres the other side of their camp. In the light of the campfire and a Tilley lamp sitting on a table, Les could see the Land Rover, their neatly stacked weapons and the tents. The six men were sitting on two logs, spread out a little, laughing, talking and drinking coffee. There was a small radio sitting on the table tuned to some station, softly playing pop music. It was a friendly, cosy little scene. Murray studied them for a few moments then pulled down the bi-pod on the Mini-14, settled it in front of him and studied them through the night scope for a moment or two more.
‘Okay, Les,’ he finally whispered. ‘You take the three on the left, I’ll do the others. I’ll give you a tap, switch on the laser sight and as soon as you pick your target, start firing.’
‘Okay,’ whispered Les.
Les too pulled down the bi-pod and set the Mini-14 on top of the ridge. He switched on the night-sight and zeroed in on the six men, swivelling across to the three on the left as Murray directed. With the heat and light from the lamp and the campfire it was as clear as a bell. Les could make out the patterns on their uniforms, the flashes on their sleeves, the expressions on their faces; he could even see the wisps of steam coming from their mugs of coffee. It almost looked as if you could reach out and touch them.
Les picked his three men and waited for Murray’s signal. The six terrorists seemed happy enough, throwing back their heads every now and again to laugh out loud. Les almost — almost — felt a little sorry for them. Then Murray tapped him on his right shoulder. Les switched on the laser and a dot appeared where the cross-hairs were focused on the first one’s forehead; he decided to work from right to left. Murray looked at him curiously for a second and was about to say something when Les gently squeezed the trigger; and this time with the bi-pod down, there was hardly any shock at all.
The only thing Les could compare to what he saw through the night scope was old black-and-white TV footage of President Kennedy getting shot in Dallas, Texas. The whole top of the terrorist’s head lifted off in a thick puff of black and grey as he tumbled back over the log, tossing his mug of coffee up in the air. His mate next to him seemed too shocked or too taken by surprise to move. Les swivelled the cross-hairs to just near his heart and squeezed the trigger twice. It looked as if some invisible giant punched him in the chest. The front of his shirt tore open, he flew backwards over the log, hitting the ground on his back and landed with his feet draped over the log he’d been sitting on. Les could hear shouts now as the third man leapt to his feet spilling his coffee. He hesitated for a second, not knowing whether to grab for the machine-gun or make a break into the bush. That was all the time Les needed to move the cross-hairs and the laser dot onto his stomach and put three rounds straight through his ribcage. Les heard the man scream as he toppled down on his side. He moved the dot to just above his nose and blew nearly all his head off.
While this was going on, Murray was doing pretty much the same thing. He took the first terrorist out with a round straight in the face, which smacked into his mouth, then went up slightly and blew the whole of his head away. He put a couple of rounds in the throat of the one alongside and another at the base of his neck, almost decapitating him. The last one, though, he shot twice in both legs as he stood up, then once in the shoulder as he fell down between his two mates, landing against the log they’d been sitting on.
Les swivelled the night scope across all six bodies. There’d been surprisingly little noise; just the pop-popping of the silencers, the whack of the bullets hitting the men and a few quick screams. Les could see the one Murray had shot in the legs desperately trying to move, and faintly hear him moaning and coughing with pain. He was about to put one into his head when he felt Murray’s hand on his arm.
‘Not bad shooting, old mate, eh.’ Murray had a grin from ear to ear. ‘I told you it’d be all sweet.’
‘One’s still alive.’
‘Yeah, I know. That’s their leader. I want to have a bit of a yarn to him. Come on, let’s go down and see what we got.’
With the Mini-14 still at the ready, Les followed his brother down the ridge to the camp site.
If it had all looked good in a kind of hazy black and white through the night scope, in glorious, living techni-colour it was a different thing altogether. Even in the flickering light of the campfire and the Tilley lamp, Les could scarcely believe the carnage; there was blood and pieces of bodies everywhere. The first bloke Les had shot was laying on the ground, the back of his head looked like a boiled egg with a big piece missing. The one next to him, with his feet over the log, had one eye closed, the other rolled back and his mouth gaping, the front of his shirt was torn open and all his chest had been blown out his back. The third one’s insides were all over the place, his neck was still attached with a bit of jaw bone, an ear, a few teeth and that was about it. Around the log on the other side of the campfire was the same grisly, awful scene. One terrorist had no head at all, just a stump pumping blood. Another was sprawled against the log, his head still joined to his neck by a few shreds of flesh and sinew, but it was sitting in a puddle of blood forming at his waist. The third one lay between them like a broken puppet, his back against the log. Blood was pumping out of his shoulder and legs, spreading around him like a crimson rubber bathmat. There was no sound. Just the radio softly playing on the table and the terrible moaning of the terrorist still barely alive.
‘Shit!’ Les was finding it hard to believe the bloodbath in front of his eyes. He looked from the bodies to the rifle in his hands. ‘Jesus, Murray! What have we done with these things?’
‘I dunno,’ shrugged his brother. ‘But I think we won.’
Les shook his head and spat on the ground. He almost felt like being sick.
Murray moved over and stood in front of the terrorist still bleeding against the log. He was pretty much as Murray had described. Bushy black hair, thick moustache, a stubbly beard. His dark features were now pale with shock and pain; sweat was dripping down his face.
‘G’day, mate,’ said Murray cordially, almost friendly. ‘How are you feelin’?’ The terrorist spat something out in a foreign language and glared defiantly at Murray. ‘Not very bloody friendly, are you?’ Murray rested his rifle against the Land Rover then turned back to the terrorist. ‘So what are you doin’ in Dirranbandi?’ Again the same look of defiance. Again the terrorist spat and cursed something at Murray. Murray nodded his head sagely. ‘Yeah, I didn’t think you’d tell me.’ He stepped back from the terrorist and took the pistol out of its holster. In the light from the Tilley lamp it looked more like an old Derringer with one thick, short barrel. Murray broke the weapon like a revolver, took a shotgun cartridge from his overalls, slipped it in, snapped it shut, cocked it, then stepped back a little further.
The terrorist knew what was coming. Again he spat at Murray, his eyes still glaring defiantly through his pain. ‘If I am to die,’ he said, ‘it is the will of Allah.’
‘Fair enough,’ agreed Murray. ‘But I don’t think it was Allah’s will you comin’ out here and tryin’ to kill me and shootin’ up my old mate Brumby Bracken. If you ask me, mate, that’s makin’ it a bit willin’ all round.’ Murray held the pistol up and aimed it at the terrorist.
The terrorist continued to glare at Murray through his pain, then took a deep breath. ‘Allah o akbar,’ he cried.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Murray. ‘You’re right again. He is great. So give him my love when you see him. You arsehole.’
Murray squeezed the trigger. There was a roar and a flash as his hand kicked up and the terrorist took the full charge straight in the chest. Then right before Les’s eyes, the front of the terrorist burst into about twenty blinding pin-points of bright green flame that momentarily lit up the faces of Les and Murray. The terrorist gave one dreadful scream, writhed up as the front of his shirt caught on fire, then slumped back dead against the log. There was an awful sp
luttering, sizzling sound for a second or two then it all went out. Les stared at the wisps of black smoke rising from the terrorist as the smell of barbecued flesh and something like burning urine, only stronger, caught in his nose, then slowly turned to his brother.
‘What the…?’
‘SSSS,’ grinned Murray. ‘Single Shot Street Sweeper. Kondor Arms, Durban, South Africa.’ Murray held the shotgun-revolver up for a moment before slipping it back in its holster. ‘The shell? That’s called Dragon’s Breath. The Yanks again of course. It’s twelve gauge, but it fires pellets of burning phosphorous at 4000 degrees Fahrenheit. Anything it hits, it sets on fire. I’ve been dying to see how it works.’ Murray turned to the terrorist a la shis-kabob then back to Les. ‘Seems to. What do you reckon?’
‘What do I reckon?’ After the rest of it, this was all Les needed. ‘I reckon you’re putting him in the back of the truck. This is bloody horrible.’
Still grinning, Murray slapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘Get out, it ain’t that bad. We’ve seen worse fights down the pub.’ Murray glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, let’s get it all loaded up and see if we can figure out what we got here.’
Les was shocked, sickened and disgusted. But his adrenalin was still pumping noticeably and deep down he was curious as to what six Arab terrorists were doing in Dirranbandi. Besides, his night was stuffed and he wasn’t going anywhere anyway. ‘Yeah, why not,’ he answered.
Murray said he’d throw the bodies in the back of the Land Rover if Les wanted to pull down the tents and gather up the rest of the junk. After what he’d just seen, this suited Les admirably. Murray started pulling the camouflage netting off the Land Rover while Les started on the tents, stopping only to check out the terrorists’ weapons. They were solid, fairly heavy things, with a long barrel and a bi-pod attached. There was a short wooden stock, a drum magazine and a metal pistol-grip in front of a clumsy-looking wooden stock. Les thought he’d leave them for Murray, who would probably sell them somewhere.
The terrorists lived pretty frugally, a few mats and blankets, some towels and small overnight-bags; definitely no bottles of Monsieur Rochas or hairdryers. The small tents were no trouble to pull down; Les stacked and folded them loosely with the poles on top. He was about to check the overnight-bags when a leather satchel caught his eye. He opened it to find a sheaf of papers and folders, so he took it over by the table to study them in the light of the lamp while the still undamaged radio played some country and western song softly in the background.
The contents of the satchel were mainly in Arabic, a language Les didn’t know but he could recognise the script. However, there was one white folder in English. Across the front and on the five pages inside was the seal of the Secret Service, United States of America, marked Top Secret. ‘Classified’ was stamped across the front. It was some kind of itinerary. Les screwed his face up as he tried to sort it out. ‘Air Force One leaves Washington USA 0800 hours 3.9. Arrives Honolulu 1615 hours 3.10.’ There was some sort of reference to Buckskin and how long he’d be in Hawaii. Then it went on about Air Force One arrives Mascot, Sydney, Australia, to be met by Prime Minister of Australia. There was some jargon about Black Top Six and Red Bird Five arrives 1415 hours previous. Personnel on Air Force One to be briefed…? It was all in military jargon. Les looked into the night and thought of something. What had he seen in the papers and on TV that he didn’t take all that much notice of? The President of the United Sates was arriving in Australia for a three-day visit on his way to Japan. Les had almost forgot. Air Force One was the presidential plane. Les read on as best he could and the facts and figures began to fall into place in a jumbled kind of sense. Buckskin was the code name for the President, Black Top Six was some kind of Secret Service command centre; Air Force One leaves Sydney, arrives Eagle Farm Brisbane 1040 hours. There was more jargon about times and dates, Delta Red Six, Blue Star Five. More about Buckskin. Then on about Air Force One leaving Brisbane and arriving at Pine Gap 1120 hours. Buckskin and Australian PM to be briefed by Generals Maunsell and Schnee-berger before inspecting facilities. It went on more, but Les knew everything he needed. Slowly he walked across to his brother.
Murray had the six dead terrorists in the back of the Land Rover with their boots sticking out over the rear tray, from which blood was dripping down. Somehow he’d managed to manhandle the wooden crate out and smashed the top off with the butt of his Mini-14. He also was looking at some papers in the light of a torch he’d had in his overalls when Les walked over.
‘Hey, Murray,’said Les, ‘you’re not gonna believe what I found.’
‘Yeah,’ replied his brother absently. ‘Have a look at this.’
Les stared into the crate while Murray held the torch. It was a thick, well-built metal cylinder about two metres long, with a shoulder rest and two twin-mounted metal boxes covered in buttons and gadgets about half a metre from the front of the metal cylinder. Les didn’t have to be a member of the United States Secret Service to recognise a portable rocket-launcher when he saw one.
‘You know what this is?’ said Murray, moving the torch back to the papers he was holding.
‘Well, it’s not a fuckin’ Porta-Loo,’ answered Les.
‘It’s a Bofors RBS 70 Ray Rider surface-to-air missile. It’s a fuckin’ SAM. Here, look, it’s written here in Swedish, English and about five other languages. This is the instruction manual.’ Murray waved the papers around. ‘I don’t fuckin’ believe it.’
‘I do,’ said Les. ‘Have a look at this, Muzz.’ Murray shone the torch on the folder while Les read parts of it out to him. ‘This is the itinerary of the President and the Prime Minister flying around Australia. Have a look what it says there. Sydney to Brisbane, then on to Pine Gap.’ Les looked directly at his brother. ‘What’s between Brisbane and Pine Gap, Muzz?’
Murray thought for a second. ‘Beautiful downtown…’
‘Close-a-bloody-nough. These pricks were going to shoot down the President’s jet with that rocket launcher.’
The two brothers stared at each other in the light of the torch for a moment, then Murray spoke.
‘I also found out who the pricks are, too.’ He held up a blood spattered shirt he’d taken from one of the bodies. ‘Iraqi Republican Guard.’
Norton looked at the flash on the shoulder. There was a red triangular patch with a red, white and black flag beneath, and three green stars in the middle. Though it had that much blood all over it, it could’ve been any colour. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’
Murray threw the shirt into the back of the Land Rover. ‘They’ve camped out here to pick up that rocket launcher from the station. Then they would have either fired it from here or moved somewhere else on the day, or whatever.’ Murray spat into the bodies. ‘The dirty cunts.’
‘There’s something else in the car too,’ said Les.
‘Yeah I know. Give us hand to get it out.’
They manhandled another wooden crate out, about a metre long. Before Les got a chance to say anything, Murray grabbed his rifle again and smashed it open. It was a rocket, brightly painted in red and yellow, a little less than a metre long with two sets of three stabiliser fins front and back. Murray lifted it out, looked at it in his arms for a moment then lay it on the ground. While he was doing this, Les picked up a couple of pieces of broken wood. Les also didn’t have to be in the US Secret Service to recognise the skulls and crossbones in black with the three orange markings around them. And he didn’t need a master’s degree in French to know what Fabrique Militaire Atomique meant. Or Société Européenne de Propulsion. DARD 190. Dangereux. Radioactif.
Les handed one of the pieces of wood to his brother. ‘Shit! You know what this is, Murray. A fuckin’ atomic bomb.’
‘Not an atomic bomb, Les, it’s a low-yield nuclear-tipped missile. Look at all those markings in between the stabilisers.’ There were more words in French, more numbers in yellow and orange along the red and more symbols for radioactivity. ‘The kids have g
ot books on these things at home and they’re always farting around with war games on their computers. That’s what it is, all right.’
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Les. ‘What are we going to do with the fuckin’ thing?’
‘Dunno,’ answered Murray slowly, continuing to stare at the deadly little missile. ‘But let’s get the rest of this shit loaded up and we’ll work it out.’
They left the rocket and launcher where it was while they threw the rest of what they could find in the back of the Land Rover over the six dead terrorists. Murray hid their machine-guns in the bush with a rug over them, saying he’d come out and get them through the week and clean up anything else that might be left lying around. Their radio was a fairly good one; Murray left it on the table next to the Tilley lamp saying he’d throw it in the SPATV later. Satisfied everything was packed up, Murray told Les to wait while he went back and got the SPATV and had a think what to do with the missile and launcher. Les watched his brother walk off into the darkness, then sat down on one of the logs the terrorists had been sitting on. With the radio playing in the background, the crying of the night birds and a beautiful canopy of stars above his head, Les stared into the dying flames alone with his thoughts.
Despite the dreadful, sickening violence of the night and the gruesomeness of what was in the back of the Land Rover, plus what he’d left behind in Surfers Paradise, Les didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settled on laughing; there wasn’t much else he could do. It’s times like these you need one of those cellular phones, he mused. I could ring someone up, say how are you going, what are you up to? And they’d say, not much, Les. What are you doing? And I’d say. Ohh not much. I just helped kill six terrorists out in the middle of bloody nowhere and we’re just going to dynamite the bodies and I’m sitting here with a nuclear rocket, wondering what to do with it. Bit of a quiet night actually. Les shook his head. What would someone say if you rung them up and told them that? They’d tell you to stop playing with your dick. But shit! Wouldn’t the papers love a story like this. Especially if I’d taken some colour photos. Yeah. Then I’d probably spend the next ten years in the can and the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for some crazy Arab out after my arse for stuffing up their plans. There’s another thought. Me and bloody Murray just saved the President of the United States and the Prime Minister from getting blown to bits. Fat lot of thanks we’ll get for it. Then knowing what a couple of boofheads both of them are, people’d probably say why did you bloody bother and they’d even be more dirty on us. You can’t win either way. Les gobbed into the flickering coals and listened to the hiss. No. I think the less people know about this bloody caper the better. I know what I can do though. I can check that Land Rover, make sure it’s going all right. We didn’t even look for the keys.
White Shoes, White Lines and Blackie Page 19