Paradise Warrior

by Jack Dey

  He nervously pushed the door open, produced his rifle and yelled.

  "GET DOWN!"

  As screams came from all over the office, Brandon ordered, "Stay calm, don't make any moves and you will be safe," then he turned around and locked the front door.

  "I didn't want to do it this way," he mumbled to himself, "but now I have no choice."

  He picked out a group of five women and ordered them into the elevator. Brandon pushed the elevator button for the service floor, an open area on top of the building. Ching. The elevator door opened and Brandon locked it, preventing anyone from sneaking up on him, then he ordered the group out; the frightened expression on the women's faces making him feel like a monster.

  "Do what I say and you will be fine. I have no desire to hurt you."

  *~*~*~*

  At Blair's request, Dulcet began filling him in with the details. "His name is Peter Brandon, sir, and he is held up on the roof of the Citibank House complex, holding five hostages. It is also believed he has a Thales F90 assault rifle. That is an Australian made..."

  "I know what an F90 is, Dulcet!" Blair retorted.

  "Sorry, sir," Dulcet said sheepishly.

  "What's this got to do with us? Surely this is a job for the Tactical Response Group of the civilian police, not special forces."

  "He wants media coverage; General Bastion; and you to meet him on the roof of the Citibank building."

  "ME...?!" Blair blurted. "General Bastion is an important man. He won't come at the beckoning of a nutter," Blair added. "What have we got on him?"

  "You don't recognise the name?" Dulcet questioned, giving Blair time to think.

  Blair’s gaze burnt into Dulcet, then he exploded with a fiery, "WHY SHOULD I?!"

  Dulcet quickly spilled the information in an attempt to pacify Blair’s rage. "I believe you knew him as Remo, sir."

  Blair lowered his muscle bulked frame down into his chair; his sandy red hair almost as fiery as the colour of his face, as the memory of the explosion that killed Remo and Cookie played again in his mind.

  "Someone's trying to play with my head," Blair whispered, as anger began to smoulder at Dulcet’s revelation. "I watched, with my own eyes, Remo and Cookie die in an explosion in Vietnam over thirty years ago."

  Dulcet carefully continued, watching Blair’s reaction and ready to duck another explosive outburst, "The TRG have the building surrounded and have sealed off the area. They are trying to negotiate for the release of the hostages, but they haven't got anywhere. No shots have been fired yet and the TRG snipers are positioned all over the place."

  "What about the media?" Blair interrupted.

  "They are crawling all over it." Dulcet’s tone revealed his disdain for the media.

  "Make sure the air space around the building is sealed off, too. I don't want any news helicopters spooking this guy," Blair demanded.

  "Already done, sir," Dulcet affirmed proudly. "We also have Third Division Sniper Squad on standby, and ready to deploy to assist the TRG."

  "Who's leading up the TRG side of things?"

  "Captain Moose Reed," Dulcet replied matter-of-factly.

  "Oh great...!" Blair sighed, obviously annoyed. "This could end really badly. What's your backup plan, Dulcet?"

  "I have a composite map of the complex on your computer screen, sir. I can show you with more detail," Dulcet urged.

  "Show me," Blair demanded, pointing towards his computer.

  Dulcet outlined his plan. "Two special forces operators would access the roof from the taller, adjoining building, abseiling down onto the Citibank roof. Once upon the Citibank roof, they would steal up behind Brandon. Two further operators will act as snipers from the roof of the same building, keeping Brandon in their sights, ready to take the shot if anything goes wrong. Two more operators and a Tactical Response negotiator will be used as decoys, to draw any fire from a position below on the ground, in front of Brandon, keeping him busy. Obviously, they will not be able to return fire directly, because of the hostages."

  Just then, Blair's office phone rang and Blair answered, listened for a minute and replied, "We're on our way."

  *~*~*~*

  From his position on top of an air conditioning cooling tower, Brandon’s unflinching gaze kept track of an army troop carrier below, as it rolled up behind a camouflage-green, army Land Rover. Six SASR operators, covered completely in black fatigues and brandishing assault rifles, disappeared stealthily in all directions from the back of the troop carrier, while Brandon’s concern remained riveted on the big redhead, sheltering behind a bus stop with the TRG commander.

  "G'day Moose."

  "Blair!"

  "What's going on?"

  "I figure it's one of your old comrades gone off the deep end. Do you know him?"

  "He's claiming to be an old operator that I witnessed being blown to pieces in Vietnam, thirty years ago."

  Moose just stared at Blair, incredulous.

  "Has he made any more demands?" Blair quizzed.

  "No, just seems awfully anxious to talk to you and that General in front of the media."

  "Okay, well, General Bastion won't be showing and it looks like the media are here in droves, so it's time to see what he wants. Is your team in position?"

  "Yes," Moose replied and then went through the positions of the snipers with Blair.

  "No one is to take a shot unless I give the order... okay, Moose!"

  "He's your man and he's asking for you. The shot is all yours."

  Blair fitted an earpiece to his ear and concealed a microphone in his pocket.

  "Black Hawk Commander to operators, call it in."

  "Black Hawk One, clear."

  "Black Hawk Two, clear."

  "Black Hawk Three, clear."

  "Black Hawk Four, clear."

  "Black Hawk Five, clear."

  "Black Hawk Six, clear."

  "No one is to take a shot, unless I give the order," Blair demanded, then he moved out from under cover, raised his hands to show he was unarmed and stared towards the roof of the building.

  Blair raised his voice, "BRANDON! THIS IS MITCHELL BLAIR. AS SOON AS YOU RELEASE THE HOSTAGES, I WILL COME UP AND YOU CAN TELL ME WHAT'S ON YOUR MIND."

  "Black Hawk Six to Black Hawk Commander," Blair's earpiece crackled. "All five hostages have been released and are safe in the stairwell. No injuries and they seem to be unharmed."

  "Black Hawk Commander, understood."

  "OKAY, BRANDON, I'M ON MY WAY UP!"

  As he walked towards the Citibank building, a cacophony of noise reverberated off the high rise office structures forming a long tunnel-like street, and assaulted Blair's ears. The noise stopped him in his tracks, demanding his unwavering attention with its unusual presence, while Blair spun around on his feet to watch the machine’s flight path. The stealthy shaped black helicopter weaved its way up the street, flying just above the ground, easily manoeuvring over obstacles in its path and at great speed. The sleek machine slowed and then gracefully hovered at roof height, directly above Blair, while disturbing dust and litter in the downdraft of the rotor blades, and stinging his skin.

  Through the turmoil, Blair could see Brandon staring at the imposing machine and then a light beam, similar to a lightning bolt, shot from a small stalk attached to the helicopter cockpit, hitting Brandon squarely in the chest. Blair watched in disbelief as Brandon fell backwards. The TRG snipers turned their weapons on the machine, but the bullets just bounced off the craft, making a tink tink tink noise, as it lifted above the building and disappeared out of sight into unobstructed airspace.

  Blair gave the order, "Black Hawks move in."

  In seconds, the roof area of the Citibank building was crawling with special forces, but it was too late.

  Brandon was dead.

  The five hostages were taken down into a room and a trauma counsellor from the WA Police Department began to gently counsel them and let the women talk through their ordeal.

 
A debrief was carried out between Blair and Moose, putting together all that they knew about the situation and piecing together evidence collected from witnesses.

  “Was that chopper one of your new military secrets?" Moose enquired, appearing suitably impressed.

  "I haven't seen anything like that before. If it is, I sure don't know about it," Blair responded.

  "So you have no idea who was behind that stunt?" Moose prodded.

  "No, none whatsoever," Blair puzzled.

  "I’ll check with the airport people. Maybe we can get a lead from them. What about the alleged Brandon? Do you recognise him?" Moose prodded.

  “No, I don't, but it has been thirty years since I last saw him. I can’t say categorically one way or the other. People change over time,” Blair admitted.

  A knock came at the door and Dulcet excused himself. "I have been talking to the trauma counsellor, sir, who debriefed the hostages. It appears that Brandon was quite agitated and kept repeating, ’they are closing in on Detanyun's baby’… does that mean anything to you, sir?"

  Blair just shrugged, confusion disturbing the features of his face. "Makes no sense to me."

  The big redhead sat silently, a pensive expression indicating the depth of his thoughts; and then he shifted in his seat as if coming to a decision to act on an impulse that may embarrass him, however, the desire for confirmation from the two men close by overrode any embarrassment.

  "Did you see the bolt of light come from the stalk on that machine?" Blair puzzled.

  Moose glanced over at Blair like he had lost his marbles. "I saw and heard a shot. I didn't see a bolt of light and there happens to be a large calibre bullet wound in Brandon's body."

  *~*~*~*

  Chapter 6

  Dulcet had gone to his barracks and everything was still and quiet in Blair’s office. The corridors were deserted; the hectic pace during duty hours had slowed to a crawl and Blair was left in the company of his thoughts. He pushed his chair out from his desk, causing the relatively small castors to complain under his substantial bulk. His tired mind was confused at the strange day’s activities and he stared at the floor, concentrating on the pattern etched into the worn linoleum. He shook his head, trying to make sense of the encounter with the man claiming to be Remo and the chopper that had silenced any chance of putting the mystery to rest. Blair doubted that the man claiming to be Remo was actually him, because the memory of the incident that had killed his two mates was still too vivid, as if it had only just happened.

  Remo couldn’t have survived... could he?!

  Blair’s thoughts were chasing each other around in a frenzy of questions; the more he thought the more questions there were.

  So, who was this man then and if he wasn’t Remo, how did he know about Remo’s connection to me? If he was Remo, why didn’t he just make contact through normal channels, instead of some foolhardy prank on top of a public building? Why did he want to talk to me and General Bastion in front of the media and what was this strange helicopter and light that had killed Brandon that apparently I alone had seen?

  And who–or what–was Detanyun's baby?!

  Blair tussled with the questions, hoping to jog some forgotten part of his memory, some hidden piece of evidence he had overlooked. But the answers were eluding him, causing only frustration instead. His mind slipped into auto play and for the millionth time, recalled the explosion that had killed Remo and Cookie. As the vivid recollection stalked across his mind’s eye and he saw again, the force at which Cookie and Remo had been subjected, he was more certain than ever… the man on the roof of Citibank was not Remo.

  Blair’s thoughts turned an abrupt corner and drifted back to Deanne and his last encounter with her, while trying to explain Cookie's demise without breaching operational confidentiality. He remembered the horrors of that day well. It was December 1975...

  Blair's tall, well muscled, seventeen year old frame reflected in the glass as he focussed through the viewing window and into the nursery. The rows of tiny cribs squirmed with hungry little newborns, crying desperately to be fed and cuddled by their adoring parents. Maternity nurses buzzed over their cots, attending to the needs of the infants, while their mothers rested from the struggles of giving birth. The scene should have been one of great rejoicing, but under the circumstances it was a scene of deep anguish. He searched each crib until his eyes rested on the nametag, Jones; while the knot in his gut pulled tighter and Cookie's face came up in front of him again. Blair sighed heavily, steeling himself for the next part of his visit and tore himself away from the scene at the window, making his way along the hospital corridor until he came to room 25C, Maternity Ward.

  He knocked on the heavy door and asked for permission to enter. Deanne recognised Blair’s inflections and her tired voice returned an invitation for him to enter. Blair met Deanne’s empty gaze as he made his way into the room. She was an attractive blonde woman in her early twenties, but the last two days hadn’t been kind to her and she looked haggard. A tear stained face, with dark lines under her eyes, indicated something more than the eighteen hour labour was at play here and that the experience had not been a memorable occasion. The nurses had attempted to bring her newborn baby to her, but she’d just burst into tears and hysterically ordered them to take the baby back to the nursery.

  Blair didn’t need to guess what was going through her mind. He saw the opened, official government letter lying across her chest and her red eyes searched his for answers.

  "What did Cookie do to earn himself a dishonourable citation?" Deanne pleaded, her hands shaking while holding Cookie's death certificate.

  "I can't..."

  "Classified...!" Deanne cut him off angrily. "He is my husband and no one will tell me what happened!" she retorted bitterly.

  Blair sighed audibly, as he grappled with protocol versus scruples. "Off the record, Cookie’s only offence was to try and help out some people who were in a dangerous situation. Another operator and good mate died alongside Cookie, too. I don't know why the army has acted this way toward him, but I was told to mind my own business when I challenged the order."

  Deanne brightened when she heard that Blair had challenged the official position. She knew any soldier confronting the directions of those in authority could lead to disciplinary action and blemish their record.

  "You challenged the order?!"

  "I’m sorry, Deanne. I have said too much already. Cookie was a good mate."

  Deanne caught a hint that Blair was going through a struggle of his own. She reached over and touched his hand. "Thank you," she whispered.

  After Blair's visit with Deanne, he made an agreement with himself: the regiment would be his life and his family. If he died in the course of his duty, serving his family, there wouldn't be a broken woman left behind, struggling to rebuild her life and forever asking why. Although Cookie was a few years older than Blair, they had cemented a friendship since the gruelling entry course for special forces. They’d encouraged each other to keep going when they were on the edge of human endurance and ready to fall over the cliff of their personal limits.

  Cookie was an extraordinary human being, always buzzing around, encouraging the weak and the exhausted to keep going and helping out wherever he could. This... and his love for people had earned him his nickname, when a friend jokingly called him Cookie, as if he was playing a mother role and the name stuck.

  A door slammed somewhere in the hallway and made Blair jump, shaking him from his memories and back into his office. He glanced around the dimly lit room, refocusing on his surrounds. It was dark, all except for a small desk lamp and it was getting late. The cleaners were in and it was time to go home and get some sleep, if his overactive mind would cooperate.

  *~*~*~*

  Chapter 7

  The auditorium was packed, while row upon row of tense faces stared up at the podium on the stage, awaiting his entry.

  Des Freeman was a final year student, sitting three rows back fr
om the front. He had learnt from bitter experience, you don't sit in the front row when Professor Dunster was preaching and particularly, when he was preaching on his favourite topics. He smiled knowingly at the first year students sitting in front of him, hoping to catch the eye of the exuberant professor and maybe gain his approval and good marks.

  Dunster was a skinny man with a bushy, white beard and long, straggly grey hair. His thick, bushy eyebrows gave him the appearance of a drainage brush. He had an opinion on everything and he was the ultimate authority on God. He was also the Dean of Gateway College, the institution that all conservative mainline West Australian churches drew their hopeful pastors from. This man was the key to a successful life in the ministry and if you crossed him, you could end up pastoring a small, out of the way church in the murky back blocks of insignificance. That’s if he didn't fail you altogether. If Dunster didn't know how to answer a student's question, he would bitterly attack the student for bringing up such a stupid enquiry, making sure they never challenged him or spoke out of turn again, while setting a clear example for other students not to probe the important man.

  Gateway College was high on personal discipline and many first year students found themselves cleaning the toilets; doing gardening around the grounds; or any other menial tasks the department heads could find. It was a fitting lesson in what to expect if you didn't do well in your studies and missed out on the few well paying positions and benefits the mega churches offered. Competition among students was stiff for these top spots.

  Des Freeman felt smug as he counted down the remaining weeks before graduation. He had carefully developed and manicured his relationship with Dunster and in so doing, had breezed through his four year course with honours. Freeman had been recommended to three of the biggest conservative churches as an upcoming superstar of the faith and the bidding was intense.