When Hendra estimated that the drone was overhead, he snicked the gearshift lever to the neutral position. The sudden elimination of drag caused the motor to race quickly to its rev limit, whereupon it cut out as it was supposed to do, stalling with a coughing, spluttering sound like that of a man drowning. The cable dropped to the ground.
And then Hendra was rewarded by the sound of the drone’s Rotax humming sweetly in the still night air as it passed seventy metres above him. The light from several stars was briefly extinguished as the plane, settling into its pre-programmed flight, flew directly overhead. He switched off the remote control box and the Sword of Allah’s pre-programmed guidance system, his guidance system, took over. If Hendra had had the energy, he would have jumped for joy. Instead, he collapsed on the ground, panting.
Duat’s heart had been in his mouth. The plane’s motor had revved briefly and so he’d let the wingtip go as instructed. And then suddenly it appeared to have been snatched forward and swallowed by the night. He lost sight of it until it climbed into the sky, going straight up and a little to the right, its shape silhouetted against the faint echoes of light from the stars. As the hum of the drone’s engine faded into the starlight, Duat was left in the middle of the runway, a man without love, bereft of conscience and purpose, penniless, alone and haunted by hideous dreams. He walked down the strip, panting and nauseous. There was still much to do. When he reached Hendra, the man was on his knees, vomiting. ‘Allah will point the way now,’ said Duat.
Hendra answered with a heave as his stomach contracted, expelling the canned fruit. Duat’s stomach convulsed too but he managed by force of will not to join Hendra on the ground. Instead, he pulled the pistol from his pocket and placed the muzzle lightly against the back of Hendra’s skull. Hendra swayed, too weak to do anything about what would happen next. ‘Emir —’ he said, the word cut short by an explosion that removed the back of his skull and deposited it on the ground between his knees.
Jakarta, Indonesia
Wilkes, Ellis and Monroe arrived at the brightly lit hangar as a man concluded a semi-official address to the Indonesian soldiers. The first thing Wilkes noticed about those soldiers was their red berets: they were Kopassus.
‘I think that’s the Indonesian Minister of Defence,’ said Monroe.
‘Nah,’ said Ellis. ‘A politician prepared to drag his arse out of bed at sparrow’s fart, and no TV camera to witness it?’ He shook his head doubtfully.
‘Hey, boss!’ It was more of a loud whisper than a shout, and the voice was familiar. Wilkes walked inside the hangar and saw the rest of his troop standing in a group away from the Indonesians. Wilkes nodded a greeting to his men — Littlemore, Beck, Morgan, Robson, Coombs and Ferris. They’d been listening attentively, politely, to the politician, despite the fact that none of them understood Bahasa. Then the minister turned to the Australians and said in accented English, ‘I am here on behalf of our president to tell you that all Indonesia thanks you for your assistance and wishes you well. Our prayers go with you. May Allah watch over you and bring you back to your homes and loved ones safely,’ he said, bowing slightly.
Wilkes saluted the minister, and especially the man’s sentiment. He then went up to the nearest Indonesian soldier and shook his hand. If there was any tension between the two groups of men from two very different countries, it dissolved at that moment.
Captain Mahisa pushed his way through the group and clapped Wilkes on the shoulder as the minister climbed into a long black car and departed. ‘Pleased to have you with us, Tom. What do you say…? We shall kick some butt?’
‘Captain Mahisa!’ said Wilkes, happy to see a familiar face amongst the Indonesians. The captain looked in far better spirits than the last time they’d met. ‘Actually, no, we don’t say things like that. But our American friend here does. Do you remember Atticus Monroe? From our first meeting in Canberra?’ Monroe saluted the captain.
‘That’s right, yes,’ said Mahisa, brow knotted as he called on his memory. ‘CIA, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Monroe with a grin.
‘Atticus has been making the tea and running errands for us lately, Captain. We call it work experience. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll prove useful on this mission too,’ said Wilkes, laughing when he saw Monroe appeared to be lost for words. For once.
Wilkes noticed a whiteboard full of numbers and squiggles in black and red pen. ‘We missed the briefing,’ he said to Mahisa. ‘Can you fill us in?’
‘Certainly,’ said Mahisa.
‘Do we have any intel on the camp?’ asked Wilkes. ‘Aside from its position.’
‘No, unfortunately, nothing,’ answered Mahisa. ‘The terrorists could number anywhere from twenty to two hundred persons. There hasn’t been time for an overflight. Our job is to hold the ground until the navy arrives. There are three ships on the way there now, along with a US carrier battle group. The first of these vessels should arrive zero-seven-thirty this morning. We can safely assume the terrorists will be heavily armed and we know they have VX. Do they have the means to use it against us?’ Mahisa shrugged. ‘We don’t know that either. All we can do is expect the worst and take precautions.’
The ‘precautions’ Captain Mahisa referred to was the wearing of a joint service lightweight integrated suit technology or JSLIST. It was a two-piece suit designed for US forces that, together with its M40 gasmask, multipurpose overboots and rubber gloves, gave the wearer twenty-four-hour protection against liquid and vapour chemical agents. Mahisa looked uncomfortable in it, the sweat soaking his hair and running into his eyes.
‘What are our numbers?’ asked Wilkes.
‘I have thirty men.’
Jesus, is that all? Wilkes had nine, including himself and Atticus Monroe. Depending on the terrorists, their commitment and readiness, it could get ugly. He remembered the gun battle in Ramallah and his sphincter tightened involuntarily. Men like this did not capitulate readily.
‘What’s the objective?’ asked Wilkes.
Mahisa could sense Wilkes’s unease. The situation was far from ideal. ‘Secure the VX, stop the launch of the drone and, if possible, capture this man. Duat.’ The captain passed Wilkes a laser print of the terrorist, one of a stack being handed around. It was a face already burned into his memory. The eyes, the gold tooth.
‘And if we’re too late?’
‘Confirm the destination of the weapon.’
‘Prisoners?’ Monroe asked.
‘Yes, if we can. But if we can’t…’ Mahisa shrugged. Taking prisoners was not a priority. ‘You and your men are proficient with HALO drops?’
‘Yes,’ said Wilkes, who glanced at Monroe nodding confidently. He’d forgotten to ask whether Atticus was proficient on the jump when Ellis had first informed them of it. Wilkes was sceptical about his proficiency but there was no way the American would miss out on the drop. Mahisa led them across to the whiteboard covered in figures, the captain’s movement restricted by the JSLIST suit so that he appeared to walk like a robot. A HALO insertion would minimise time in the air over the target, but there was a catch. Unfortunately the bad guys might be able to hear their chutes popping open. That wasn’t so good.
‘Your men have already been briefed, Tom,’ said Mahisa as he picked up a marker pen and faced the board.
‘Okay,’ said Wilkes.
‘We’ll be exiting at eighteen thousand feet above mean sea level,’ he said, underlining the figure in red. ‘The weather people tell us that wind speed at exit altitude is twenty knots, becoming light and variable on the ground. At a hundred and twenty knots indicated air speed, we’ll have a forward throw of around three hundred metres.’