Hardcastle realised he’d touched a nerve. It was a place he’d personally been to many times over the years. ‘Well, Tom, with so many imposts on the regiment these days, I spend most of my time at meetings or pushing paper around a desk. But I do get the odd reward and one of them is informing people they’ve been promoted before anyone else steals my thunder…Warrant Officer Class Two Wilkes.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Wilkes, unable to stop the smile that spread across his face. He’d just joined a very exclusive group within Australia’s elite fighting force. And then the smile disappeared.
‘Is there a problem, Warrant Officer?’
‘This means I loose my troop, doesn’t it, boss?’
‘You’ve done everything and more that’s been asked of you, Tom.’
‘I’m not ready to wave the boys goodbye from the docks, sir.’
‘The promotion’s a done deal, Tom.’
‘What if I don’t accept it, sir?’
‘That’s not an option. But look…’ Wilkes’s reluctance to cease active duty as a troop sergeant could prove difficult. With higher rank came different responsibilities. And opportunities. ‘Okay, Tom, how’s this? You get your choice of ops. Something interesting comes up, I’ll give you first crack at it. If you think you need your troop along for the ride, if they’re not deployed elsewhere, they’re yours. Can’t be fairer than that.’
Hardcastle had a reputation for being a straightshooter. ‘Okay, sir. Call me Warrant Officer.’
Hardcastle put out his hand and the two men shook on it. ‘You should get the official confirmation within the week. Also, there’s talk of a Distinguished Service Medal for you, and various service medals for your men. The reasons for these awards will, of course, be kept from the public record, but the nation is nevertheless keen to show its gratitude for a job well done.’
‘Thanks, sir, I’m honoured,’ said Wilkes.
‘Now, I guess you want to know why we’ve dragged you all the way down here, away from the R & R you so richly deserve —’
At that instant, the double doors beside them opened and Wilkes was surprised to see them held wide by the Chief of the Australian Defence Force, Air Marshal Ted ‘Spike’ Niven. Both special forces men braced up.
‘Relax, lads. Andrew…?’ said the CDF, a smile on his face, eyebrows raised with a slight question.
‘We’re done, boss,’ said Hardcastle. He then turned to Wilkes. ‘I won’t be joining you, Tom. Just wanted to meet you and give you the news personally.’ He turned to the CDF. ‘He’s all yours, sir.’
‘Thanks, Andrew. We’ll talk later,’ said Niven.
Wilkes was still unwittingly braced up as Hardcastle walked off. ‘Good to see you again, Tom,’ said Niven. ‘And congratulations on your promotion.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Wilkes. Air Marshal Niven had personally debriefed Wilkes after Sulawesi. Wilkes liked the gruff CDF, a former F/A-18 pilot, because he was ruthlessly honest. The top job in the forces was as much about politics as it was about soldiering and Wilkes realised that it must be tricky reconciling personal views with those of the national interest, especially as politicians perceived it. A couple of years shy of fifty, Niven was a young man to be holding such a lofty position. As to how he earned the nickname ‘Spike’, it was his callsign back in his fighter pilot days. He also looked uncannily like a bulldog. Stocky frame, big jowls and an underbite. He’d never win a beauty contest, unless his mum happened to be the judge.
‘Okay, let’s go. After you…’ Niven ushered Wilkes through the doorway ahead of him. The room was a lecture theatre capable of seating fifty people in rows that climbed steeply from the centre stage. A number of people Wilkes didn’t recognise were seated in the front rows.
‘Everyone, this is Warrant Officer Tom Wilkes, SAS Regiment. He’s the man responsible for taking some of the photos you’ve seen here this morning,’ said Niven.
The newly promoted warrant officer felt vaguely uncomfortable in the presence of so much brass.
‘Take a seat, Tom,’ said Niven. ‘We’ve all read your report on your recent trip to PNG with great interest. The reasons why will become obvious in a moment. No one expects you to remember names and titles, but just so you know who you’re talking to, this is the Honourable Hugh Greenway, Minister for Defence; Graeme Griffin, Director-General of the Australian Secret Intelligence Service; Peter Meyer, Director-General, Australian Security Intelligence Organisation; Federal Agent Jennifer Tadzic from the AFP’s Transnational Crime Coordination Centre; Hamish Cameron, Assistant Director, Australian Customs; Gia Ferallo, Assistant Deputy Director CIA Station Chief, Canberra; Field Officer Atticus Monroe, Central Intelligence Agency; and Felix Mortimer from the Defence Intelligence Organisation.’
Wilkes directed a nod to each in turn. This must be serious! Most of these people spearheaded the intelligence and police services that Australia was relying on to come to grips with the eternal War on Terror, now so tragically a part of the nation’s daily life. Wilkes realised he’d never heard most of the names before, but then these individuals were steering organisations that worked effectively out of the public consciousness, so their anonymity wasn’t necessarily surprising.
The mix of expertise gathered in the room told Wilkes something big was in the offing, and he was instantly curious to know what that was and how he personally fitted into it. The CIA field officer stood out from the crowd, but only because he had a pair of bruised black eyes and looked like he’d gone a few rounds with a prizefighter and lost. The CIA woman, Gia Someone-or-other, wore a dark power suit, bright red lipstick and a string of pearls around her neck. The ambitious corporate executive. Pretty, and no doubt she knew it. Not his type.
‘What we have here, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Niven, ‘is a think tank of interested parties. You each have your own departmental concerns. The object of this session is to put those concerns, and what information all of us have, on the table. So, without further ado. Lights, please,’ said Niven.
Wilkes sat the end of the front row and tried to look inconspicuous. What the hell am I doing here? The lights dimmed and an image filled the screen on the wall. Wilkes recognised the picture instantly, because he’d taken it: the cargo ship ringed by the distinctive volcanic formations, dugout canoes on the green waters around it.
‘I have to say you’ve got bloody good instincts, Warrant Officer,’ said the bloke from the DIO as he stood and approached the screen at the front of the room, a bunch of notes in his hands. ‘The serial number of the Kalashnikov you sent back threw us into a bit of a panic, especially when we got your photos, and the ones taken by Field Officer Monroe here.’
The DIO analyst, Felix Mortimer, looked every inch the public servant, with his ragged beard, brown slacks and cardigan. His brown hair was a little too long and greasy and he had a round, flaccid face. Too much red wine and fried food. Wilkes found himself wondering if the man also had dandruff and coffee breath. But there was something about him that didn’t fit the picture of the disinterested career public servant. He was sharp and talked quickly. The guy knew his shit. He said, ‘The 7.62mm AK-47 assault rife designed by Mikhail Kalashnikov in nineteen forty-six. Over seventy million made. Weapon of choice for third-world armies, terrorists and thugs.’
An image of the weapon Wilkes had recovered from Papua New Guinea flashed up on the screen, a cardboard ident tag hanging from its trigger guard.
‘Serial number KL43389187UN. Manufactured in the Czech city of Mosnov, August eighth, nineteen sixty-seven. Despatched to Syria via the port of Odessa two months later. Over thirty years on, the weapon turns up in New Guinea.’