‘Ever since the threat of the VX-laden drone became known, the local television station has been running programs on how to turn a house into a chemical shelter, sealing the doors with plastic sheeting and tape. As expected, most hardware and department stores have run out of these materials, as well as plastic garbage bags and stocks of bleach, said to be an effective VX neutralising agent.
‘The early riots and looting touched off by the news of the impending terrorist strike have stopped, largely due to a significant army presence on the streets here…’
Two RAAF F/A-18 fighters suddenly ripped through the air overhead, cutting a low arc over the city, heading out towards the sea. As the thunder from their turbines rolling around the harbour receded, Annabelle went on with her report, departing from the script to make the flypast appear part of the show.
‘And as you might expect, the RAAF has every available plane in the sky searching for the terrorists’ drone, hoping to shoot it down before it arrives.’
Weaver appreciated the adlib with a thumbs up.
‘So now Darwin waits, holding its breath, while the ghosts of that fateful day in nineteen forty-two judge our present. For this is a conflict Australia will fight on its own, as this departing US warship symbolises, on its way to defend Indonesia’s shores against the shared threat.
‘It’s perhaps not the end of ANZUS, our strategic alliance with the US, but without doubt the treaty has been severely wounded. Those wounds could well become mortal if a small pilotless plane airbursts upwind of this northern capital.’
At this point Annabelle reached behind her and pulled the hood and mask over her head so that her final words were muffled.
‘This is Annabelle Gilbert for ANTV Network News, Darwin.’
Annabelle stood in front of the camera for five seconds in her chemical warfare suit, looking like a camouflaged two-legged insect, and waited for Weaver’s signal.
‘…and cut,’ he said. ‘Now let’s go find a bar and some loose women.’
‘How was that?’ asked Annabelle.
‘All bullshit aside, I think you’re too good to sit behind a desk,’ he said. ‘Saunders did you a favour, whether you realise it or not, kiddo. The funny thing is, Saunders doesn’t realise it.’
‘Thanks, Barry.’
‘No worries,’ said Weaver. ‘So, can we go and have sex now?’
‘Will you settle for something to eat?’ Annabelle was starving. She hadn’t eaten dinner or breakfast and she was starting to feel faint.
‘You know I could hit that for six, don’t you?’
Annabelle smiled. ‘Come on. Everything in this town can’t be khaki.’
Five minutes later, Billy the Kid was back behind the wheel of the army Land Rover, and they were slowly cruising the back streets of Darwin but, of course, everything was shut. It was like the place was in a coma, thought Annabelle. It was alive in one sense but as good as dead in another.
‘The lights are on, but ain’t nobody home,’ commented Weaver, looking at the vacant shops. A lone dog padded along the footpath, tongue lolling in the wet heat.
‘You took the words right out of my brain,’ said Annabelle.
She heard Billy the Kid say, ‘What’s this guy do —’ and she had time to look out the window, but there wasn’t even enough time to be afraid.
The brown steel bucket of a large agricultural earthmoving machine filled the side windows. It slammed into the Land Rover, T-boning it. The force of the impact threw the vehicle’s occupants sideways. Billy the Kid’s head smashed into the b-pillar by his shoulder, knocking him senseless. His blood splattered across Annabelle as his head rolled from side to side. She screamed with the shock of the impact. The Land Rover’s tyres protested as the machine pushed it broadside across the road. The bucket then lifted them up and over the kerb and drove them viciously into the side of a building. The machine’s massive diesel roared. It was as if the thing was determined to push them through the wall they were pinned against. The machine shunted and strained as it jammed them repeatedly against the brickwork. Annabelle yelled at them to stop. The windscreen of the Land Rover suddenly shattered into tiny crystals that fell into the laps of the cameraman and Billy the Kid, both of whom were unconscious. And then, all was quiet for a few seconds.
‘Reach for a radio or your mobiles and you are all dead,’ yelled a man in front of them. He wasn’t joking. He had a large machine gun pointed at them. Bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossed his chest. There were two men with him who were also armed. One had a small rocket launcher and the other carried a can Annabelle assumed was full of petrol. All three were dressed in dirty T-shirts, shorts and thongs, the uniform for males in the Australian far north.
Her vision was blurred from the impact with the earthmover. She shook her head to try to clear it. The palm trees that dotted the footpath and the mall just in front of them had been sawn off at their base. The trees themselves had been dragged away and lay helter-skelter further down the mall. Another large tractor was having a tug of war with an automatic teller machine set into the partly demolished wall of a bank. The ATM was losing. It suddenly came free and half a dozen men gave a cheer.
‘It’s a fucking bank robbery!’ said Weaver groggily.
The earthmover wrestling with the ATM swung it onto the tray of a flatbed truck. The men jumped on and slapped each other on the back as they ripped into tins of beer. They drove off leaving the Land Rover pinned against the wall by the steel bucket.
Billy the Kid came around in time to watch the crooks jump into their truck. ‘So now we know who stole the guns from the museum,’ he said, holding his head in his hands.
The sudden blast of a diesel motor again filled the Land Rover causing Annabelle and Weaver to flinch. An armoured personnel carrier sped past blowing clouds of blue-black smoke, followed by three more Land Rovers, these ones carrying mounted machine guns. They roared down the road in hot pursuit of the bank robbers.
‘Are you people all right?’ A face popped into view, framed by the empty windshield. Annabelle recognised him as the major they’d met at the airport when they first arrived.
‘I thought you buggers said you had the looters under control,’ said Weaver, pissed off, rubbing a very large bump on his head.
Arafura Sea, 15 000 feet
Seventy-fifth Squadron’s Flight Lieutenant Andrew Corbet and Flying Officer Robert Burns had taken off from RAAF Tindal base after sunrise and covered the three hundred odd kilometres tracking north-west to Darwin in around fifteen minutes — easy with a little application of afterburner at thirty thousand feet. They’d then been vectored low over the city, the third flight to do so, a bit of flag waving to reassure the city that the air force was on the job. Corbet glanced down as they skimmed the rooftops; it was more of a town really, small and vulnerable. His mind wandered to the drone. Finding it would be an almost impossible task — everyone at the squadron knew that — especially with F/A-18s. They climbed quickly to twenty-five thousand feet and accelerated to five hundred knots. They’d been given a patch of sky to search way out in the middle of nowhere — east of Ashmore Reef and the Cartier Islands where the Timor Sea met the Indian Ocean. During transit, they were given a complete sit-rep. The clock was definitely ticking.
‘Shogun one, Darwin control.’
‘Shogun one,’ Corbet replied.
‘Shogun one, squawk code 2907.’
‘Shogun one, squawking code 2907.’ Corbet keyed the numbers into the transponder.
‘Shogun one. Radar contact. Strategic Command confirms UAV launched and inbound Darwin. Repeat UAV inbound Darwin. Good luck, guys. Keep your eyes peeled,’ said the voice over the radio, becoming human all of a sudden.