Sirius 3, Bayu-Unadan field, Timor Gap, Timor Sea
There was still one boat left. Everyone was accounted for, even the goddam chief engineer who took his own sweet time capping the well. The rig manager hid his anger as the man stepped onto the boat. Yes, the oil was important, but not worth anyone’s life, especially his. As the manager, he felt that he should supervise the evacuation, and that meant being the last person to leave. The drilling contractor was also on this last boat, and that raised the man considerably in the manager’s esteem. He had one last quick look about before boarding the boat, and wondered whether the cloud of nerve agent was even now settling on the rig. Perhaps they were already contaminated.
The rig manager took his seat in the crowded boat and looped a rope safety line around his forearm, bracing himself against the gunwale for the thirty-foot drop to the sea below. ‘Okay, everyone,’ he said, ‘hold on.’
In the air-conditioned cool on the bridge of the Arunta, Drummond and Briggs were sweating. They watched the radar returns of both the Hornet and the UAV, and there was now no room for error. The gas and oil platforms were within range of the VX. The Arunta had done a good job of staying out of the pilot’s face with helpful suggestions, but something had to be said.
Drummond hit the send button. ‘Shogun two. Arunta. You are getting too damn close. Smoke the son of a bitch! DO. IT. NOW!’
Burns heard the command loud and clear. Shit! He punched air-to-ground mode and a bloody oil rig showed on his radar less than five miles away. Jesus! Three thousand two hundred and fifty feet on the altimeter and fumes in the tanks. He selected the AIM-9s and shot them both into the sea. They snaked and twitched, hunting for targets that didn’t exist, before they hit the water. How much time before the drone’s on-board explosives would release the deadly cargo into the air? Burns knew there was no alternative. He would have to Fox four it.
He eased the throttle forward and bunted the stick, extending the diameter of his orbit around the bandit. He extended further and further, but all the while keeping his watering eyes glued on the UAV. Fuel check. Down to 400 pounds. Christ! Three, maybe four minutes of air time. Maybe nothing was left in those tanks. Not now, please, for God’s sake! The UAV was climbing so its underside was silhouetted against the sky, making it a little easier to see. You might only get one attempt, so don’t fuck up. Burns had to slow the geometry down between his aircraft and the UAV to get the best tactical position on it. He’d approach the UAV from its stern. There was not a lot of time to think about it. The nose of the Hornet came around on the Prowler’s six. Half a mile, dead ahead. He smiled again, a grim, tight smile at his internal voice’s poor choice of words. His speed was 150 KCAS. The drone climbed at 55 knots. Their closing speed was therefore around 95 knots. Ordinarily, his reactions could easily handle those numbers. But now…? His hand shook on the stick.
The fuel indicator sat on empty. He would not get a second chance at it. Burns took a deep breath and gripped the throttle slider tightly to stop the shakes. He was closing in on it. The drone grew in size. He eased back on the control column. The nose came up. The drone grew large. Throttle forward. Engine roar. Forced back into his seat. Three, two, one. NOW! Burns jammed the control column to its left stop then centred it. The Hornet rolled viciously to a ninety degree angle and then…BANG! Wing against wing. The Hornet yawed sickeningly with the impact. And then, miraculously, it recovered. Burns pulled lightly on the control column and throttled right back. The F/A-18 made a flat, low-g turn, a final orbit, and watched the two halves of the drone spiral towards the sea, its mission ended. The bandit’s wing was ripped off at the root. There was no explosion and a wave of relief swept through him.
LS Mark Wallage had watched it all unfold on the Vectronics display along with everyone else in the operations room. The system had a profile of the drone, so it was now easy to identify. His heart was in his mouth when he saw the two contacts converging on a collision course. That pilot was one brave son of a bitch. And then the two contacts had become one. There was a moment of silence, and then a crackle of static over the speakers.
‘Arunta, Shogun two wingman. Fox four the bandit. Repeat Fox four the bandit. Bandit splashed!’
‘Yes!’ said Wallage as whoops of delight erupted around him. The outcome of the battle must also have been known up on the bridge for the Arunta’s siren wailed loudly in salute of the young pilot’s desperate courage. Wallage marked the spot of the UAV’s crash. With VX in the water, the area would more than likely become an exclusion zone for some time to come.
Meanwhile Burns pushed the throttle slider forward and the turbo fans surged, squashing him back in his seat as the Hornet accelerated. He needed altitude. He banked the aircraft away from the approaching thicket of oil rigs. One of his engines faded then caught. He had very little time left in the aircraft. ‘Arunta, Shogun two. Ejecting from aircraft. Despatch SAR.’ With 6000 feet on the HUD, Burns pulled the striped yellow cord between his thighs. Within a fraction of a second the canopy jettisoned and a series of charges blew him and his seat safely clear of the dying plane.
The rig manager’s face was pale. A medic was in the process of splinting his broken wrist. Their lifeboat had hit the wave bow first and he’d been thrown forward. His arm, wrapped in the rope, had broken like a dry stick. Behind them, their platform stood clearly against the horizon and disappeared when they chugged into a trough. Several people were throwing up from seasickness. At least we’re all alive, thought the rig manager wanly. He looked out the window up at the sky, through the glass and the clear plastic sheeting, just as an aircraft, a fighter by the looks of it, dived through his line of sight. A wave picked the boat up in time for the manager to see the plane spear silently into the sea a kilometre away.
Port Botany, Sydney, Australia
Federal Agent Jenny Tadzic stood in the sun and felt its rays penetrate her clothes and warm her skin. It was one of those Indian summer days in Sydney when the sky was a perfect cloudless blue, painted as if by some divine hand. At thirty-seven, twice divorced and the AFP’s top transnational crime cop, Tadzic had seen enough of the world to have had most of her little girl illusions trampled on. Yet a small part of her still hoped, still believed in happy endings, particularly on days such as this when even the capricious gods themselves seemed in a benign mood.
ASIO had been brought in on the bust. The drugs were tied in with terrorists and that made it ASIO’s concern. It wasn’t usual for the boss himself to be present on these occasions, but Peter Meyer, the director-general, had wanted to be there first hand to witness whatever went down. He walked up behind Tadzic, clapped his hands together and said cheerily, ‘Well, this is something, isn’t it?’