Alan McQueen - 02 - Second Strike (46 page)

‘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?’

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.’

Sighing, Mac realised it was beyond that. ‘Mate, the way she’s talking, I’d prefer it if you
did
ride along. With me?’

‘No worries,’ said Johnny.

Then Mac texted the number to his wife and tried to get his focus back on Hassan and the mini-nuke.

As they rolled to the base security gate, a military guard with a German shepherd walked down the passenger side of the van, while another came out of the glass box and asked for IDs and weapons. The 4RAR

boys were cleared for their bags of guns and ammo sitting in the back but the MP with the dog took Mac’s Heckler and followed them across the steaming-hot tarmac to a large hangar, giving it back once they were handed over.

There were some USAF planes sitting around, including a huge C5 Galaxy hunched over like a drab olive monster. Inside the hangar, Mac was greeted by a bloke in a white trop shirt whom Mac knew only as Don.

After shaking hands, Don pulled Mac into an offi ce where a tech sat at a series of screens. Don was DIA, US Defense Intelligence Agency, and had once been tasked to the US Army Twentieth Support Command, the world’s policeman for illegal use and possession of CBRNE weapons. Now he was the DIA’s liaison guy for the American spy assets in northern Australia and Mac was confi dent he could help.

‘So what are we after?’ asked Don, cheery but focused.

‘See that van out there? There’s an exact same model and colour driving around the Northern Territory with at least three mercenaries in it. I need to fi nd that van.’

Don laughed. ‘The NT’s a huge place, McQueen, case you haven’t noticed.’

‘Yeah, massive,’ Mac replied. ‘That’s why I came to the best.’

‘Shit, man. Most Americans wouldn’t have the guts to come asking for this.’

‘Well?’

Don looked at the techie, who shrugged. ‘Looks like a standard Toyota HiAce,’ said the tech guy, an adult with dental braces. ‘Must be thousands on the roads up here, especially when you consider they convert them to campers.’

Calling Robbo over, Mac eyeballed Don. ‘Mate, it’s not the van, it’s what they’ve got in it.’

Robbo gave Don the radio frequencies for the mission and the American humphed, said they’d try. They’d take a top-down image of the Toyota HiAce, make a diagram model of it and feed it into the NSA’s ground systems in Maryland. Then they’d use their satellite surveillance network to take millions of photos of the Northern Territory which would be instantaneously matched or discarded by the computer banks. Within forty minutes, virtually every white Toyota HiAce on NT roads would be photographed, identifi ed and logged for exact location. And once Don and his team had a lock on all of them, Mac was going to ring the luggage label transmitter, at which point the Federal Police would be waiting and monitoring with their cellular tower intercepts. If things worked properly, they might get an ID of the van without the Hassan crew even knowing they’d been made.

‘Cheers, mate,’ said Mac, and peeled away.

‘No worries, buddy,’ said Don. ‘So what’s in the van?’

‘It’s one of the CBRNEs.’

‘Which one?’ Don shouted as Mac walked across the hangar.

‘Put it this way - if you guys’d used it on Hanoi, you wouldn’t have needed Guam.’

At a hangar further north an Australian Army Black Hawk had been wheeled onto the tarmac and a crew sat in the cockpit going over the switches. Didge parked the HiAce in the hangar and they pulled the black gear bags from the rear door of the van as an army bloke in dress greens approached with a clipboard.

Robbo handed Mac a Kevlar vest and a helmet, and an M4 assault rifl e. Mac took it, checked for safety and load then, attaching his Heckler holster, asked Robbo to give the Feds a radio update.

The call came through on Robbo’s radio once they’d been fl ying south for twenty-fi ve minutes: the Yanks were ready to go. They had seventy-one vans outside the Darwin area and ninety-six on the roads of the Northern Territory. Flying for another eight minutes, they landed at Three Ways junction just north of Tennant Creek, where travellers coming south from Darwin could choose to continue south for Alice Springs or turn east for Mt Isa in western Queensland.

Geographically, Three Ways was almost the centre of northern Australia and had the densest non-Darwin population of white Toyota HiAces, according to the NSA computers.

Mac asked for the radio and patched into the AFP command post in Darwin, telling the techie he was about to call the luggage tag number. The techie said, ‘Standing by’. The Hawk depowered, red dust settling like talc around the helo. Mac selected the number he’d input and hit the green button. There was a good chance it wouldn’t even work, since Dr Gough had been confused about whether the luggage tag transmitter was on global roam. Mac listened to the calling tone while Robbo held his radio set to his ear, shaking his head. They held on for forty seconds and the AFP wasn’t detecting a pick-up. Then Robbo suddenly gave the thumbs-up and was tracing his pen across the plastic covering on the map on his lap. Mac watched as Robbo said
yes
and
yes
and then
out-fucking-standing
, his pen circling an area on the map cover. Radioing Don in Darwin, Robbo gave the coordinates for the luggage tag and asked where the vans were in that area. His face turned into a smile a few seconds later, his pen poised on a point about fi ve miles south of Three Ways.