The Haha Man

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  By the time Russ Dengler landed in Nhill the operational planning was well advanced. At a local school, requisitioned as a forward command post, a group of men were busily setting up computers and phone lines. A couple of local Telstra engineers were observing the activities with increasing concern. This was a Sunday and they had serious questions about who was going to authorise their overtime. From time to time they offered advice about the carrying capabilities of the local lines and looked perplexed at the ever increasing list of demands. Eventually they hunkered down in the corner with a tangled spaghetti of wires and kept to themselves. The school principal, sidelined from his own establishment, was standing in the car park, fretting.

  A temporary mess had been established in the home economics classroom and Dengler, feeling out of place and with nothing to occupy him, squatted awkwardly on one of the child-size seats and waited with the first of several cups of industrial-strength tea.

  At four in the afternoon a young officer tapped him on the shoulder, introduced himself as Douglas and politely asked Dengler to follow him to the briefing room. Dengler wasn’t sure if ‘Douglas’ was the man’s first or last name, but he was pleased that at last something was happening. As they stepped outside, he heard the familiar thump-thump of a chopper and then not one but three Black Hawks came in low and fast, banking and circling before landing on the playing field. Over in the car park the principal was looking aghast at the dust rising from his cricket pitch.

  ‘The TAG team,’ Douglas shouted. ‘Tactical Assault Group.’

  Dengler decided against informing him that he knew what TAG stood for.

  Douglas waited until the chopper had settled and the roar of the rotors had reduced to a painful whine. ‘We’d better go, sir. They have the first of the high-altitude surveillance photos.’

  ‘We’ve found them?’

  ‘We most certainly have, sir, and they’re sitting ducks.’

  Dengler and Douglas were followed back across the school grounds by a group of men from the choppers. When they entered the staff room, conversation came to a stop and heads turned to greet them. Several of the newcomers exchanged greetings or nods with the twenty or so men already seated, but there was no such reception for Dengler. A major and a lieutenant were supervising the erection of a projection screen and powering up a laptop computer. Noticing Dengler, the major came over and ushered him to a seat at the end of the front row. Security, it appeared, was paramount: the man was wearing no corp insignia and when he opened the briefing he introduced Dengler only by saying he was from ‘another organisation’. Nobody batted an eyelid. From outside there came the sound of another Black Hawk landing.

  The officer began his summary of the situation with the background information about the escape from Woomera. A map of the location came up on the screen. ‘As of 14.00 hours this afternoon, all civilians have been prohibited entry to a ten-kilometre exclusion zone.’

  Couldn’t have been hard, Dengler thought, there’s bugger all people in the area to begin with. The map showed vast tracts of emptiness and a few straggling scrub tracks. The Nhill–Murrayville Road was the only possible entry and could easily be blocked.

  ‘We have inserted a team on the ground at Wagon Flat, here … ‘ — the major indicated with his hand — ‘and currently have a second team coming in from the north. Both have been deployed by ground-based vehicles. Any use of the choppers in such still conditions would have only served to advertise our presence.’ He smiled at the chopper pilots leaning against the side wall. ‘Mind you, we shall be making good use of your expertise later in the operation.’

  The suspects were considered dangerous. Possibly they were supplied with arms, and initial reconnaissance reports suggested they were undertaking some kind of rudimentary military training. He didn’t elaborate on how the reconnaissance had been carried out. ‘The teams on the ground are splitting into two-man units and taking up positions north, south, east and west of the camp. They will observe the type of training taking place and will also provide a diversion during the insertion of our major force.’

  From the floor came a considered question. ‘How credible is it that these people are armed?’

  The major delivered an extremely terse executive summary of the history of terrorists in Australia from the White Guard and the New Guard to the Croat Ustacia in North Queensland. Then he turned to Dengler. ‘Maybe you would like to comment on the risk assessment.’

  Dengler cleared his throat and got to his feet. ‘Gentlemen, the manner of this escape shows us beyond question that these people are professional. The planning and execution relied on a great deal of understanding of Woomera’s security and its unfortunate weak points. We believe that the entire episode was planned and executed by people whose background is in just such a terrorist organisation. For security reasons I can’t say more, other than that we are dealing with people who will go to extreme means to achieve their goals. To assume that those who carried out this escape are not also capable of providing arms to the escapees would be naive. I should add that the request for your services in this matter comes from the highest authority and that there is every confidence in your ability to prosecute this matter efficiently.’

  ‘Have these bastards got this bloody virus?’ came a voice from the floor.

  Dengler nodded sagely. ‘It’s an important question, gentlemen. Fortunately I can report that all the escapees have recently been given a medical check and, according to the authorities at Woomera, none are carrying the virus.’

  He sat down amidst a murmur of appreciation.

  An intelligence captain took the floor and prepared to project the latest surveillance photographs onto a slightly torn screen. He apologised for its condition, explaining that it had been borrowed from the school library.

  ‘Any idea you might have had that this was going to be a cakewalk should be shelved.’ He brought up the first picture. ‘Courtesy of our friends,’ he murmured obliquely. He took a small pointer and indicated the area of interest. ‘Here we have the vehicle.’ Even from the back of the room there was no mistaking the bus. ‘And here …’ — he moved the pointer to the right and indicated a grainy-looking shadow — ‘this is a figure of concern.’ He flicked his remote control and the picture changed. This time it was a lot clearer. ‘This is from our own reconnaissance flight. You’ll notice that it is taken from a slight angle and not so directly overhead. Well, gentlemen, any guesses as to what our man on the ground is carrying?’

  To Dengler it looked like a longish length of pipe.

  ‘Too small for a Javelin or Starstreak. How about an M-72?’ came a voice from one side.

  ‘No.’ A soldier in the front row leaned forward and squinted at the photograph. ‘I’d say it was an RPG launcher or an M136. Jesus! Where did these creeps get this stuff?’

  There was an outburst of conversation until the intelligence officer held his hand up for silence. ‘Our best guess is that this is a Starburst, the shoulder-launch version. These are manufactured by Shorts in Ireland, but there has been some intelligence lately that up to one hundred may be circulating in … um … let me say, unreliable hands.’ He paused, looked at the photo again then clicked to the next. It was clearer still and showed four individuals carrying long rectangular boxes, two men to a box. ‘And this?’

  ‘Looks like boxes of rounds, sir.’

  ‘Yes, exactly. The point is that these are not the sort of people we can expect to roll over easily. Remember, there are at least fifty of them and at this stage we have no idea how heavily armed they are, but it is a sure bet that for every Starburst or grenade launcher they have they will have dozens of light arms. They also have the small advantage of having camped in a slightly elevated position. We must assume they know what they are doing and that they will be expecting us. It may not be true, but if we work on that assumption then anything to the contrary will be in our favour. I remind you again, gentlemen, of that old adage: no plan survives past the moment of first con
tact.’

  He concluded his briefing with a couple more photos in which the target group appeared to have spread out and posted sentries in a wide circle around the vehicle. ‘We still have a few logistical problems to solve and we’ll reconvene in a couple of hours. Tentatively we are aiming for a strike just on dawn tomorrow.’

  Kate listened carefully to what the man was saying then thanked him and walked quickly back along the track towards the bus. She had enjoyed the walk, strolling through the scrub, delivering tea from the large thermos. Until one of them had told her that they were being observed. That there were people out there watching and waiting.

  Waiting for what? Surely, if it was the police, they would come in and question them? Maybe the man was mistaken.

  Kate had walked on to the next man and he had said the same. He’d sworn that he could smell them. She found it hard to believe. But then the doubts crept in. After all, he had been brought up in a desert environment and —

  She froze, spooked by a noise in the scrub. Oh shit! Her mind raced and she knew she had to avoid detection. If she didn’t get back and warn the others …

  She dropped to her haunches and, praying there were no snakes, moved slowly back and sideways until she felt the prickly foliage of a shrub pressing against her. She slithered to the ground and lay as still as she could.

  Her heart was racing and she felt a jolt of fear as she heard another slight sound a few metres away.

  If I can just remain undetected for a little while, she thought. Dusk was falling and hopefully soon she would have the cover of darkness. Maybe whoever it was hadn’t seen her. But then there was the much louder snap of a twig being broken underfoot.

  Kate resisted a childlike urge to close her eyes and make whatever it was go away. Then she saw a movement — a shadowy figure on the path, leaning towards her — and she knew she had been seen. She raised her head slowly and found herself looking into a pair of startled eyes.

  A large emu.

  The bird’s head was tilted to one side and it observed her with no apparent concern. This should have been funny, she knew, but she was trembling from head to foot. She raised her head and taking a deep breath said quietly and firmly, ‘Go away! For an instant she had the feeling that it wasn’t going to move. But then it straightened its neck and strode off through the undergrowth.

  For almost five minutes Kate sat there, her body shaking and tears streaming down her face. It wasn’t just fright at encountering the emu, but the accumulated stress of the previous weeks. ‘Don’t be such a girl,’ she admonished herself, and smiled. ‘I don’t regret one minute of this.’ More sternly now, hoping it was true.

  Unlike the other women, Kate had confided in her husband. His immediate reaction had been anger. But later, in bed, he had said quietly, ‘Someone’s got to make a stand over the refugee issue. I’m glad it’s you, Kate.’ That was all. It was enough.

  Slowly, cautiously, Sergeant Lewis Clayton scraped away at the sand until he had dug a shallow depression. He slid into it and dragged his kit after him. The unit’s standard issue was an M4 assault rifle with its M203 grenade launcher, but as it had been decided that the only grenades to be used were XM84 stun grenades, he had reverted to his favourite weapon, the Heckler & Koch MP-5.

  Clayton dug into his backpack and pulled out his bag of scroggin and several chocolate bars. He selected a Mars Bar, demolished half of it in a single bite, and returned to sorting out his gear. Checking the batteries in his night-vision goggles, he heard a hiss of exasperation to his left and glanced over to where Lieutenant Edwards was digging. Poor bastard had struck rock … again. He paused and watched as Edwards crawled a metre or so closer and tried again.

  It looked like this was going to be a long, cold night.

  The vantage point wasn’t perfect. Their designated position here was just behind the crest of a five-metre sand dune. This afforded them a view at the same level as the bus, over a hundred metres away. But there were several patches of scrub between them and the target, and the tops of the tallest plants allowed them only a partial view. So far they’d had few sightings of individuals. Mind you, Clayton thought, they were a damn sight better off than those to the east and north. In order to take up the eastern position, Spelman and Grant had been forced to circle wide in a concentrated bush-bash through near impenetrable teatree. In the end they had to crawl to their designated location — a patch of tannin-blackened swamp, home to what Steven Grant had delicately described as ‘a million fucking mozzies so big they need undercarriages and landing lights’. Nice.

  To the north Pollock and McKim had found that their position, while it had looked good on the map, was totally exposed. Great view of the bus. Great view of them from the bus. They were forced to pull back almost two hundred metres for the night, to a sandstone gully. They’d have to crawl back over the rock in the morning.

  There was a barely audible click in his earpiece.

  ‘Onions.’

  What was Edwards on about? ‘Say again?’

  ‘Onions.’

  There was no mistaking it. Then he understood. They were downwind from the target: the aroma of fried onions was as strong as though he was standing near a barbeque. He clicked the set on. ‘Bastards.’ He fished in his bag of scroggin and sat back, chewing slowly.

  Just on dark, the sked from base confirmed that everything was in readiness for an attack at dawn. In the meantime they were to use their comms only in case of emergency or any significant change in their situation. Smelling smoke, Clayton clipped on his night-vision goggles and scanned the area, avoiding the flare from the fire in front of the bus. The night was clear with enough ambient light so he was able to pick out a couple of individuals ten or so metres from the bus. They were squatting, smoking cigarettes. It seemed odd that they should post sentries and yet breach security in such a flagrant way. Maybe they weren’t as professional as the briefing had suggested.

  A few minutes later he caught a glimpse of a light moving slowly into the bushes, away to his left. Someone going for a dump, he thought. The figure was carrying a torch, but as it wasn’t pointing in his direction it posed no threat. He followed their progress and watched as they stopped in a small clearing. Clayton’s view was through light scrub, but it was clear enough to get a good idea of what the person was doing. They appeared to have something in their right hand. A bucket? Yes. It looked as though the individual was going to have a wash. As they pulled the shirt over their head, they stepped to one side and Clayton’s view was unobstructed. He clicked the transmit button on his comm set.

  ‘Sir.’

  There was a grunted acknowledgment in his ear.

  ‘Check the show in the eastern gully.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Suggest you have a look, sir.’

  There was a momentary pause and then another click.

  ‘Tell me I’m dreaming, Sarge.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Clayton chuckled. ‘It’s for real.’ He blinked and refocused, but there was no denying it. The individual was now naked and washing. It was a woman.

  ‘I’ll let HQ know,’ Edwards said.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on the target while you do, sir.’

  A couple of minutes later Edwards was back. ‘HQ says it’s probably their cook.’

  Clayton wasn’t sure if it was a joke, but he acknowledged and switched off. Whoever she was, she looked good, even in green. He remembered the yarn a mate who’d been in the Israeli army had told. Their unit had been on patrol deep in the Negev, and early one evening they had come upon a nomad woman washing in a wadi. Oblivious to the men approaching, she finished bathing and began rinsing her clothes. Suddenly a noise alerted her and, acting on instinct, she grabbed a scarf and covered her face. According to the story, the image of an otherwise naked woman covering only her face gave a whole new meaning to modesty.

  Clayton smiled at the thought that now he had a story to rival his mate’s.

  Chloë towelled herself down and slippe
d back into her clothes, careful not to get sand in them. She felt a lot better. Well, cleaner at least. They were all dealing with the tension in different ways. And in the last forty-eight hours there had been no time to pull into a truck stop for a shower. She zipped up her jeans then sat to tie her runners.

  It was almost certain that a move would be made against them very soon. The consensus was that it would be either at dawn or just before.

  ‘How would anyone know that?’ she had asked.

  ‘It happens in the movies,’ Kate had said. ‘And I guess they try to make them realistic, so they probably have it right.’

  ‘Just logic,’ Wilna said.

  Chloë bit her tongue. Logic! Nothing in their expedition had come within a bull’s roar of logic.

  And as she thought about that now, Chloë concluded that it was this very lack of logic that had probably contributed most to their getting as far as they had. If anyone wanted logic and common sense, they would have stayed at home. Anyway, what would the police be able to do? Arrest them all? Get cross? She grabbed the bucket and towel, and headed back towards the camp.

  She had gone only a couple of metres when she heard a sharp cracking sound in the bushes. Chloë stopped dead still and listened. For a moment she thought that somebody had fired a shot. But then she heard a voice and realised that the men were dragging down some more wood for the fire.

  ‘Good night,’ she said quietly as she moved to the bus.

  The men just nodded and settled down again, conserving their energy. Above them the stars would soon burn out.

  As a tactical manoeuvre it was perfect. At the pre-dawn sked, Lieutenant Edwards reported that all was quiet. ‘There appears to be a group of men around the fire some ten metres to the south of the bus.’

  ‘Clarify.’ It was the major’s voice.

  Edwards glanced over at Clayton, but he shook his head.

  ‘Negative, sir. Vision obscured by low shrubs. The men appear to be asleep, or sitting by the fire.’