Kelvin banks the Galaxy over Moreton Bay. Through the windscreen the main runway at Brisbane International Airport slides into view.
To Kelvin the word ‘international’ conjures images of a bustling metro hub like O’Hare or Heathrow. But this place looks like a hopped-up country-town aerodrome. The runway is empty and all the lights are off. Henri’s man on the ground has monitored the airport’s aircraft movements for the last three months. From this Kelvin knows the next flight is not due until six-fifteen a.m., almost three hours from now. Until then they’ll have the place to themselves.
Kelvin drops the Galaxy towards the runway. ‘Make it short’ is Henri’s sole command. It’s a smooth landing, as smooth as an aircraft that weighs 181500 kilograms empty can be. Kelvin quickly pulls the jet up.
Henri points. ‘Left taxiway.’ Kelvin makes the turn, the Galaxy moving at a fair clip, shuddering as it rolls across the imperfect tarmac.
‘There.’ Henri points at a large hangar to the far left. The Frenchman’s brusque economy with words is starting to annoy Kelvin but he angles the jet towards it. He has no idea what’s inside the hangar but he’s certain it won’t be good. He resolves to extricate himself from this situation as soon as possible but appreciates he must pick his moment wisely. He’s sure he’ll only get one chance at an escape.
A howl and rumble cuts across the airport’s empty car park. Owen glances at his watch, confused. The first jet to land each morning is the FedEx DC-10 out of Honolulu and that’s not due for three hours. He listens. This jet sounds different to the DC-10, its engine note deeper, harsher somehow. He’s no expert but it doesn’t sound like any jet he’s heard before. He decides to hoof it over to the passenger terminal, which overlooks the runway, and take a peek.
Kelvin eases the Galaxy to a stop 30 metres from the hangar. Henri turns to Dirk, Nico and Cobbin behind him. ‘You know what to do.’ They nod, stand and move out. Henri’s eyes move to Kelvin. ‘Raise the visor and kneel.’ He nods and works the controls.
The sharp whine of hydraulics pierces the night as the visor, the Galaxy’s nose section, unlocks from the fuselage and rises, like a ghoul peeling off its face to reveal an empty skull behind.
Dirk Popanken, a towering, blond German in his late forties, stands at the mouth of the aircraft’s cargo bay. Beside him is Nico Trulli, same age but a short, dark-haired Italian.
They stare down at the lean figure of Claude Pascal, who stands inside the open hangar as its roller door trundles open. The Frenchman grins at the sight of his old friends.
Within seconds the Galaxy’s visor is fully open and the aircraft’s nose gear retracts into the wheel well with a low moan. The front of the aircraft kneels, tipping its gaping maw towards the tarmac. It looks like the jet is curtsying. Nico works a hand controller and the ramp in front of him extends, its servos complaining all the way. The ramp gently touches the tarmac and locks in position, creates a direct roadway into the belly of the aircraft.
Dirk and Nico trot down the ramp and the German greets Claude with a clap on the shoulder. ‘Good to see you, Claude. How are you?’
‘Well. Very well. So we’re speaking English?’
Dirk nods. ‘The commander prefers it.’ The multinational composition of Henri’s crew means English is the only language everyone fully understands.
Nico loops an arm around the Frenchman. ‘Is everything set?’
‘Absolutely. This way.’ He turns, leads them towards the open hangar. ‘How is the commander? Is he pleased with preparations?’
Nico smiles. ‘You worry about the old man too much. You only have to remember one thing: if you’re alive then he’s happy with your work.’
The anxious Claude doesn’t find it funny. ‘So, what’s the job? Has he told you anything?’
‘All will become apparent in the fullness of time.’
Henri appears behind Claude, dressed in jeans and a black crew-neck. He looks younger out of the flight suit.
‘Of course, Commander. I didn’t mean to —’
‘It’s fine, Claude. Where are they?’
‘This way.’ Claude turns, leads them into the brightly lit hangar, where they see them, sitting on the cement floor.
Two Tigers.
The Tiger MBH is a state-of-the-art, two-crew, multi-role battlefield helicopter. Its stealthy design incorporates a composite airframe to minimise radar cross-section and its integrated suite of sensors includes the Top Hawk target identification and acquisition system. Its weapon package combines 30-millimetre Giat guns and missiles capable of defeating all current and projected armoured vehicles. And they’re black, Henri’s favourite colour.
After being built on this site by Pacificspatiale, a division of the French-owned Aerospatiale, both Tigers were packed, racked and stacked, ready to be shipped on pallets to the Australian Army’s Aviation Centre in Oakey later that week. Once there, they would undergo final assembly before entering service. At least that was the plan. These choppers will never make it to Oakey.
Henri turns and smiles his half-smile at Claude. ‘Well done.’
Claude grins. Henri’s content, so that justifies the twelve months he spent employed at Pacificspatiale as a member of the flight test team, and the two security guards he’d terminated earlier this evening to gain access to the Tigers.
Henri nods at the Volvo tractor parked by the far wall. ‘Okay, let’s get them into the Galaxy.’
Owen sprints across the wide, unlit passenger terminal and pulls up at the main window. He scans the runway with his mini Nikon binoculars and searches for the aircraft that just landed. It doesn’t take long to find. It’s a C-5 Galaxy, one of the largest jets to ever fly, parked near a hangar at the far end of the airfield.
‘Christ.’ He knows immediately that it’s the one stolen from that air-force base in America a few days ago. He’d seen the FAA bulletin alerting airports worldwide to the big jet the Yanks had misplaced and would kindly like returned. The tail number matches the one quoted in the email.
Owen’s chest tightens, not because he’s scared but because he’s excited. He realises that if he plays it right this can be the point of difference that sets him apart from all the other applicants to the detective training program.
His right hand moves to the holstered Glock pistol on his hip. He touches its handle, mustering the courage to do what he must do next. He turns and runs.
Cobbin stands under the Galaxy’s tail and surveys the airport, an RPG-7 in the open canvas bag at his feet. The thirty-year-old Brit is itching to use the grenade launcher. There’s just one problem. There’s nothing to fire it at, no sign of anyone, anywhere. He was expecting a security force of some type, but no. He waits with interest to see if any turns up.
It’s quick and painless. They’re a tight fit but within five minutes all three pallets, two containing the choppers and one their armaments, are secured within the Galaxy’s hold.
Kelvin works on the pallet closest to the open nose of the Galaxy. He throws a strap over the chopper’s tail section then shifts position to tie it down on the opposite side. He squeezes between the fuselage and the pallet, grabs the strap to thread it through the ring in the floor and stops.