Mark Abernethy - Second Strike

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

‘They 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?’

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?’