Within minutes the two-boat fl otilla was ready to move out. The boats’ confi guration meant the soldiers sat back to back down the centre, with a skipper at the rear.
The SWAGs glistened in the southern Philippine heat. It didn’t matter how advanced the materials, full battle kit in the tropics was a walking sauna. The Berets wore kevlar helmets and matt-black jumpsuits. Their fl ashings were boot-blacked along with their M4 assault rifl es. Men went through their rituals – rubbing crucifi xes, checking their weapons for load, playing with neckerchiefs worn since Kandahar, play-punching each other. Some closed their eyes, others sang to themselves. Several vomited quietly over the gunwale.
The only thing that wasn’t happening was movement. As Sawtell and Arroy went through a mission brief, the Americans’ radio system came in with a direct patch through to Colonel Henson, who was in Jakarta.
Sawtell took the call, unable to believe what he was hearing.
Henson wanted the mission put on hold till some intelligence guy could be fl own into Zamboanga.
‘I hate to do this to you, John,’ came the high nasal sound of Henson’s voice, ‘but my hands are tied on this one – you know how it is.’
‘Sir,’ said Sawtell, doing his best to conceal his frustration in front of his men, ‘we’ve already got intel on board…’
‘I know, John.’
A drop of sweat trickled down Sawtell’s upper lip, onto his teeth.
‘We’ve got eyes and we’re good to go, sir.’
‘Jesus, Johnny,’ said Henson, using the name only Sawtell’s football buddies dared call him. ‘You think I didn’t tell them that?’
Sawtell knew Henson hadn’t told the brass anything like that.
‘Thing is, CINCPAC wants this intelligence guy in the boat, so he’s in the boat. Got that, Captain?’
Sawtell stamped his leg, and sweat dripped into his right boot. He looked over to see Arroy staring at him.
‘I got him timed for ten minutes,’ said Henson. ‘And Johnny – he’s one of the good guys, okay? He’s Australian.’
The Australian arrived early – but he might as well have been seven hours late by the time the Black Hawk had blasted in over the harbour, dropped its human cargo on the two-hundred-year-old quay and taken off into the night.
Sandy-blond and pale-eyed, the Australian was about six foot and built but not worked on. He was all arms and legs but a smooth mover. He wore dark blue overalls, special forces boots and a black Adidas baseball cap pulled low. A black Cordura sports bag was slung over his shoulder.
The Aussie didn’t offer a name or his hand when Sawtell and Arroy greeted him. Sawtell pointed to the back of his boat and the Australian simply moved to his seat next to Pencil Neck.
The outboard engines fi red up and Sawtell watched the CIA honky offer a handshake. The Australian ignored it.
The troop boats cast off, the revs came up from the triple Yamahas. Sawtell landed in the back of the boat with a thump and they moved into Zamboanga Harbour. Sawtell saw an airborne plug of tobacco come dangerously close to their visitor and he gave his men a look. He fi shed a kevlar helmet from the kit box under the transom and offered it to the Australian, who shook his head dismissively.
‘Chief, stop the boat,’ said Sawtell.
The sergeant at the helm looked back in disbelief, and then cut the revs. The boat lost way, fumes washed across the humidity. All eyes turned to the back of the boat. Sawtell looked into the Australian’s pale blue eyes, then threw the helmet into the spook’s lap. The Australian put the helmet on.
Sawtell gave the ‘go’ sign.
The revs came up and the boat lurched into the darkness.
At nine pm the two troop boats exited Zamboanga at fi fty-one knots and turned hard right – north towards Sibuco and the most dangerous man in South-East Asia.
CHAPTER 1
Western Queensland, November 2006
There were seven of them. Six Australian SAS and one Aussie spook on a line of Honda trail bikes slipping through the outback night.
The lime-green GPS instrument on Mac’s bike read 2.49 am, putting the posse ten clicks from the target.
A voice crackled through the headset in Mac’s military helmet. ‘Keep with your mark, Mac.’ The voice belonged to Warrant Offi cer Ward, the troop leader who was right behind him. ‘You’re doing fi ne, mate.’
Alan McQueen was doing far from fi ne. Other special forces had hangars fi lled with military toys that whisked people like Mac all over the world. In, out and back in time for a cold beer. The Aussie SAS used motorbikes, which did the job but were hard on the arse and thighs.
Mac still wasn’t used to riding with lights killed and no night vision.
And even with a full moon and clear night, the terrain of western Queensland was not suited to amateur riders.
Mac stayed in third, focused on the guy in front through the spray of dust. He eyed the digital compass beside the GPS and spoke through his throat mic. ‘Wardie, time to go west.’
The SAS man acknowledged, and the posse swung out of the channel.
Thirty minutes later a sand dune loomed two hundred feet above them. They idled to the foot of the black giant.
Mac came to a halt, fl ipped the stand and almost fell off the bike.
Ward walked up. ‘Well, we got you here, mate. Your mission now,’ he said, dispatching a trooper called Foxy up the dune.
Mac squinted at Ward through pale eyes. He never knew when some of these blokes were taking the piss. At six foot, Mac was the bigger man but he wouldn’t want to get in a blue with the soldier.
Ward had the classic special forces build: heavily muscled and athletic.
Mac had seen what the SAS boys could do when they got annoyed and he was glad to be playing on the same team.
Stretching his fi ngers under black leather gloves, Mac dusted off his blue overalls and replaced his helmet with an old black cap. The tops of his thighs felt like he’d gone three rounds of kickboxing.
He unzipped his black backpack and checked the contents with eyes and fi ngers. No one used a fl ashlight. In the pack was a silenced Heckler amp; Koch P9S handgun, an M16 A2 assault rifl e and two devices the size of casino poker chips – ‘tags’ that guided an air-mounted missile. Nothing fancy, but it all worked.
The SAS troopers were dressed in black urban fatigues, with variations of scarfi ng. It was ten degrees Celsius in the desert and a couple of the soldiers wore fi eld jackets. They cammed their faces, checked weapons.
Ward brought the boys in close and Mac knelt in front of them.
Their headsets crackled: Foxy giving the all-clear from the top of the dune.
The bike engines pinged as they cooled, troopers pulling in closer as Mac outlined the turkey shoot.
Mac lay on the cold sand at the top of the dune. He thought about how his original idea of intelligence work – debonair chat at cocktail parties – had been stymied by someone’s decision that he’d be useful in a paramilitary role. That was history, and so was his intel career.
He’d done his bit, taken his shot. This would be his last assignment before getting out for good. Tomorrow was the next step; tomorrow meant Sydney and a step closer to having a fi ancee rather than just a girlfriend.
He looked out over the endless outback. Thirty miles further west and it turned into the Simpson Desert. Here, below them, there were still channels and clumps of spinifex punctuating the ground.
Ward lay beside him, binos to his eyes. They did a traditional sweep.
‘What are we looking for, Macca?’ asked Ward.
‘Stand-by for a cammo tarp, some sort of covering.’
‘You kidding?’ muttered Ward. ‘Not exactly using spotties here, mate.’
‘Plan B – fi nd the perimeter,’ said Mac. ‘They’d have at least two blokes on the wall.’
The group scanned the desert darkness for the next ten minutes.
It was boring, mentally draining work.