‘Got it,’ said Morris, now at AFP headquarters in Brisbane. And then, ‘Oh shit.’
Morris said he was going to send the AFP and Queensland cops straight into the Cavill Mall area. Mac thought about how on any Saturday night the area was rocking, but on the last Saturday before Christmas it would be absolutely chockers. Every teenager, every uni student and tourism worker from around the Gold Coast and Brisbane would be on the strip that started at Surfers Paradise Beach, ran west down Cavill Avenue and then hooked north into Orchid Avenue. It was wall-to-wall bars, nightclubs and restaurants, with thousands of people on the streets. If you were trying to make a point about Aussie decadence, then a bunch of drunken young men and girls in short skirts was an easy target, and the parallels between Surfers and Kuta in their high seasons were frightening.
As Mac panted his way up Northcliffe Terrace on the beachfront, the Heckler chafi ng in his waistband, he argued with Morris about clearing the place. ‘What if Hassan’s people are in visual contact, like they were for Kuta?’ gasped Mac, as he waited for traffi c on Clifford, kids parking to smoke drugs and fool around. ‘What if they say, Let’s blow it and get out of town?’
‘I can’t make that call, McQueen,’ said Morris. ‘Those lives aren’t mine to toy with. I want them out of there till we’ve swept it for devices.’
Mac sprinted on, coming onto the Esplanade where he could look along the main road on the beachfront and see all the pubs, bars and restaurants lit up like a garish parody of Gold Coast glitz. ‘Can’t we at least get the jammers in here fi rst, John?’ he panted. ‘If we can jam the signal then they can’t trigger the device, right?’
‘No time,’ said Morris. ‘The jammers we have access to are in Sydney and Darwin.’
‘Have you spoken with Don yet?’ asked Mac. ‘They’ve got jammers, they’ve got the lot.’
‘Yes, McQueen, I spoke to Don.’
‘Well? Are they on their way?’
‘They sent a Chinook and a Hawk down the coast from Amberley about half an hour ago. Don’t know who tipped them off.’
‘Why not send in the evacuation teams?’ Mac panted. ‘Have them primed but standing off and waiting for those signals to be jammed?’
‘Okay, McQueen.’
‘Mate, I need Don to call me, quick-smart,’ yelled Mac, giving Morris his number as he jogged past the Surfers Paradise Surf Club bar then hung up and stopped at the junction of Cavill Mall. It was crowded with families, youngsters, oldies and tourists from all parts of Australia, Asia and beyond. Christmas lanterns hung suspended across the mall area between buildings and the sound of Surfers – the ocean, the drinkers, the music – created a roar of the Good Life, the very thing JI wanted destroyed.
The phone trilled. Mac pushed the green button, saying, ‘Don?’
‘Okay, McQueen. So you think the device is under the road?’
‘It’s what the latent says – well, it suggests it. I think we have to jam the airwaves before we evacuate.’
‘I agree,’ snapped Don, the thromp of helo motors and rotors in the background. ‘Do we have contact with the perpetrators?’
‘No, mate. I’m about to go wandering, have a nosey-poke. I reckon there’s a radio or cellular trigger on the thing and they’ll be doing a recce before they blow it,’ said Mac.
‘Many people about?’
‘Thousands already and it’s only…’ he stopped, looked at his watch. ‘Seven-fi fteen. There’ll be double that by nine o’clock.’
The pedestrian light went green and he ran across the road to the Iluka.
‘We’re three minutes away,’ said the American spook. ‘We just fl ew over the – what’s it called – the Sea Drome?’
‘SeaWorld. You got a lock on my phone?’
‘Pope Catholic?’
Patrons and bouncers alike stared at Mac like he might be dangerous as he gesticulated at Ari and Mari. They came out, met him on the pavement.
‘Everything okay, Macca?’ Mari asked.
‘Yeah, sweet,’ he gulped, still short of breath. ‘But I need you to grab Johnny and go and see Jenny. Get James and Arti over there too, okay?’ He held her left shoulder as he spoke.
‘But -‘ she started, then changed tack as she looked into his eyes.
‘Okay – you guys be careful, okay?’ She kissed Mac on the cheek, Ari on the lips, and fl ed.
Mac raced back across the Esplanade with Ari so they were on the ocean side. Down the vast beach to the north known as Main Beach they saw the powerful landing lights of the Chinooks and the red fl ying lights of the Black Hawk out the front as the helos raced south to their position. Mac briefed Ari on his latest understanding of the mini-nuke, as he called Don. ‘Mate, can you get Morris to send in the troops before you jam the airwaves?’
‘Roger that,’ said Don. ‘We have your position. We’ll land on the beach but we’re going to shut down now, okay?’
‘Okay, mate. We’re at the top of the stairs to the beach.’
He didn’t need to hang up because the line went dead as the US
Army’s signals-jamming came on. The Twentieth Support Command’s Chinook helos – the enormous twin-rotor aircraft that had become famous in Vietnam for their lifting capacity – carried a comms and signals-defeat capability equivalent to many militaries, and all on a single helo. When the Twentieth went chasing bad guys and their bio or chemical or nuclear nasties, the fi rst thing they did was shut down all radio and cellular signals in a defi ned area around the threat. It at least prevented a remote triggering.
‘What’s the plan?’ asked Ari, dipping into his holster-bag to check on his weapon.
‘Remember that night in Kuta?’ asked Mac, his voice cracking with stress. ‘The night of the bombing?’
‘Yes, for sure.’
‘You told me that you’d been tailing Hassan and Abu Samir, and that they’d been on Legian Street an hour before the blasts?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think Gorilla and Lempo, maybe even Hassan, are in there right now,’ said Mac, pointing down through the surge of humanity in Cavill Mall. ‘I think it might be their MO.’
‘I think you are right,’ said Ari, squinting at the crowds.
Three helos laid up and dropped to the sand on Surfers Paradise Beach just as two police cars pulled up behind Mac and Ari. Next, a large police truck came to a halt and a couple of policewomen pulled roadblock equipment from the rear.
The noise was deafening, and sand and rubbish was thrown into the air, as the US Army landed. Mac noticed something strange about the second Black Hawk, realising what it was as soldiers emerged and ran up the beach towards Mac in camo fatigues, Kevlar vests and helmets.
The guys from the Hawk were Australians, 4RAR Commandos.
One of the Chinooks, distinctive with their massive rear-engine turrets, disgorged four men in various shades of overalls, black baseball caps and M4 assault rifl es. They looked like DIA and one of them was carrying a dark canvas bag in his large paw.
The joint team mounted the stairs and the fi rst to reach Mac and Ari was Robbo. They did a palm shake and the DIA operators came up behind, Don walking straight up to Mac. The rubber-neckers with their beers in their hands circled for a look and a teenage girl with braces complained that she couldn’t send a text.
Mac introduced Ari to the Aussies and the American as, behind them, another police car squealed to a stop on the Esplanade and an older man with grey hair and a dress cap got out and started yelling into a radio set. He turned, saw the DIA and Commandos, and came over.
Don introduced himself and the cop said, ‘Superintendent Bob Row, Queensland Police. We’ve got a call to evacuate the area.’
‘Can we coordinate?’ asked Don, pointing at Row’s radio. ‘We may need to talk.’
‘Who are you?’ asked the cop, looking Don up and down.
‘It’s okay. Your Minister for Foreign Affairs knows. We can call him if you like?’
‘Anyone here speak English?’ asked Bob Row, turning to Mac.
‘He’s US Department of Defense – Twentieth Support Command.’