by Leo Nix
“Just do it, Lana!” yelled ex-SAS corporal, Paul 'Hooky' Pan. “Just grab him and run! Come on!” Hooky grabbed his cuffed prisoner by the arm. Pushing Lana and her prisoner, Colonel McIntosh, in front of him, they ran for the door.
As the tactical team burst through the front door they were met by an eruption of noise that disoriented them for a few seconds. They heard Senior Constable Nancy Haurenier in their earpiece, “Get into the Bearcat! Now!”
Nancy had manoeuvred the armoured Bearcat up as close to the front door as it would go. Bullets whined and smacked against its armoured sides and windows but none penetrated. She sensibly put the Bearcat between the terrorists and the police standing outside. All-the-same there were four bodies lying in awkward positions on the front lawn. One of them was her lover, Constable Chad Chopah, a giant of a man with a gigantic heart.
Despite the tears that streaked down her cheeks her mind was cold, frozen. No one was prepared for an arrest warrant to go down like it had. She knew this was evidence of a well-established spy ring with military connections.
In their haste to engage the police the terrorists forgot to cover the other side of the house. It was here that the police had gathered, protected behind the Bearcat. The incoming fire was ferocious and counter-fire almost impossible.
Senior Sergeant, WAPOL, Brad Hopkins looked at his team, only three were still standing, two had gone down in the first burst of gunfire.
“Into the Bearcat!” he screamed above the din of rounds smacking against the Bearcat's armoured sides. “Danielle, help me with the wounded.” Both Constable Danielle Ahmet and Constable Cindy Briggs bent to help Brad drag their mates into the cramped interior of the armoured Tactical Response Group vehicle.
Inside they negotiated for space with the tactical team and Senior Sergeant Frenchy's federal police. Nancy pushed the revs up and reversed out of the driveway. The Bearcat roared down the road towards their spy base, Australian Defense Satellite Communications Station, Kollarena, only a few blocks away.
As the Bearcat pulled away from the house three grenades exploded beneath it, one after the other. Although designed to protect its occupants from incoming fire and explosives the massive vehicle had taken a terrific beating. Not a dozen metres down the road it began to misfire.
An exasperated Senior Sergeant Wayne Dyson cried out, “I don't fucking believe it!” He was almost in tears at the horrific battering his team had taken. He crawled over sweating and bloodied bodies to sit beside his driver, Nancy, he didn't notice she was crying.
Dyson grabbed at the radio and connected with his superior in the Kollarena base as their brave Bearcat slowly died beneath him. Every few metres it shuddered, misfiring badly. He finally finished speaking and turned to his driver beside him.
“Nan, get us to the wharf, we'll never make it back to base.” Dyson looked down and shook his head, coming back to the moment he called loudly to his team behind him, “Kollarena base is under fire, it seems they've been infiltrated from the inside. All communication with the satellites was cut hours ago. They've just been hit by a massed force of terrorists and they're about to be overrun. Super said we need to get to the wharf and try to escape by boat - he has no back-up for us.”
He saw a few heads drop with the terrible news. “Super said they're preparing to blow the base up. He's in the process of holding off the invaders long enough to arm the self-destruct charges and try to get a message to Pine Gap. If we can, we've got to get ourselves and these prisoners to Pine Gap, Perth or Darwin. He said the Revelationist Church have done what they've threatened to do for years, they've set the world on fire.”
As he spoke the wharf appeared in front of them. He could make out the base motor launch, several civilian fishing boats, and yachts. Hopefully the launch was fuelled up and ready to go.
In the Bearcat's rear monitor he saw they were being pursued by several cars filled with terrorists. The Bearcat moaned as it approached its death rattle. Nancy kept her mind focused so she could bring it as close to the wharf as possible before it died completely.
“Frenchy, can you and Brad set up a defense when we stop? I need to get the wounded and prisoners on the launch - help yourselves to the automatics in the locker here. I'll only need a minute to get the launch manned and started,” said Dyson as he crawled back over the bodies and into the interior. He checked the prisoners and his team. As he checked Lana's bloodied hand she told him, in a rushed explosion of words, that it wasn't serious.
He turned to the team's head medic, Sergeant 'Oddie' Danse, already flat-out tending to the wounded. “Bandage Lana's hand, Oddie, I need her.” His mind was now focused like a laser beam as he readied to exit the Bearcat.
In his minds-eye, Dyson stepped out of his body to observe his team and the other survivors. They looked staunch, and despite the horror of the firefight he knew he could depend on them. He came back to the present and spoke one more time.
“People, we've got to set a defensive perimeter against these pricks. I'm counting on Frenchy and Brad's teams to give us time to board the base launch and start the engines. I'll call you in when we're ready. I'll need about sixty seconds.”
He called loudly to Nancy, “Nan, set the self-destruction of the Bearcat to three minutes.”
Looking once more at his team Dyson said, “When we stop we've got three minutes to push them back. Make sure you get to the boat before it goes up.” He paused, “any questions?” There were none, all knew what was required. “OK. Tactical! We're up first.”
The Bearcat gave it's last choking cough and stopped right at the edge of the wharf, it had served them well. The tactical response team leapt from the side door and ran dragging their prisoners and wounded to the motor launch. Neither prisoner tried to hinder them, they were just as afraid of being hit by their own as the police were.
Brad and Frenchy handed out tactical's Heckler and Koch G36 automatics, there were only a couple of grenades. Each able officer had an automatic rifle, Ray armed himself with a Blasser sniper rifle. There were just six active officers left, they had two dead and two seriously wounded. Ray was sectioned-off to have the two wounded ready for extraction while the rest held the terrorists back.
“Fire!” cried Frenchy as the four terrorist cars came within effective range. He felt damn good being able to fight back at last. The automatics stopped the enemy in their tracks and the cars swerved off the road and into the sparse, wind-swept scrub. In the darkness they could see the enemy rifle-flashes - it revealed that there were about twenty terrorists out there in the dark.
Senior Sergeant Brad Hopkins had one of the tactical team earpieces and heard Dyson call them in. Nancy had already tapped his shoulder as she left the safety of the Bearcat.
“We've got two minutes to get to the wharf before the Bearcat explodes,” called Brad to the team beside him.
“Brad, I'll stay back while you get everyone to the boat.” Frenchy didn't bother to wait for an answer. He was ex-French Foreign Legion and he loved the wild Australian desert sands. It was better than the jungles of central Africa, his deployment before he retired. Right now, as one of the most experienced heads of the AFP team at the joint US and Australian spy base, it was his responsibility to look after everyone.
“Good luck, Frenchy, we'll cover you once we get to the boat.” Brad knew his friend wouldn't budge, he never did once he'd made up his mind. They were in a bad situation but blessed with a comrade who stuck by his mates.
Sergeant 'Oddie' Danse and Constable Ray Bidder firmly slapped Frenchy's shoulder and wished him good luck. They then prepared to race towards the motor launch.
“Ray, you and I'll leap-frog back, we provide covering fire for each other, got it?” yelled Oddie. Ray grunted in reply as he made sure his rifle safety was off, now he was ready. The short, barrel-chested AFP officer hadn't noticed the cigarette sticking out of his mouth, let alone that it wasn't lit.
The last of the police officers made a dash to the boat. By now th
e terrorists had started to encircle the dead Bearcat - there was just one minute before it detonated. The last two policemen now raced back, leap-frogging each other, firing at the muzzle flashes now appearing on both flanks.
Frenchy laughed, he knew he was going to die, he'd been in situations like this a hundred times before. Not once was he worried about his own life, back then he always knew he would survive. But today, right now, he knew this was no longer so. Tonight he sang his death-song and he shared it with the blood of the terrorists trying to kill his team-mates.
“Come on you arse-wipes! I've killed the likes of you swine a million times over,” he yelled, his voice slipping into his native French, “viens et rencontrer ta mort!” - “come and meet your death!”
A bullet creased his arm burning like a hot iron. He didn't care, it just fired his determination. The ex-Legionnaire felt bullet-proof as he continued to fire his G36. He heard Oddie and Ray firing from behind him. He knew they were steady types, not given to running from a fight themselves.
Two terrorists ran to the side of the Bearcat and crept around to see Frenchy's legs as he was firing to the front of the vehicle.
“Come on you bastards! Is that all you've got for me!”
The terrorists could just make out his yells and laughter above the ferocious firing around them and the noise of bullets striking the armoured sides of the Bearcat. The bravest of the two stepped around to the back of the Bearcat and fired into Frenchy's back. He emptied the entire magazine into him. A moment later the other terrorist joined him. They kicked the bloodied Frenchman's limp body - just as the Bearcat's explosives detonated shredding the three of them into blood and gristle.
The sky lit up as a ball of flames and smoke rose into the black heavens. It was dwarfed by the spire of the exploding Kollarena spy base which detonated only seconds later.
The soldiers of both sides stopped firing to watch, mesmerised by both the Bearcat and then the spy base's demise. To the police men and women it was a sadness that hit them like a punch in the guts; to the terrorists it was a moment to be cherished to the day they died.
Oddie yelled at Ray to get to the boat then turned and raced as fast as he could along the timbered wharf to join him. By the light of the twin fires they were silhouetted against the darkness of the bay, the terrorists now resumed their assault.
“Damn! Look!” cried the raven-haired Constable Danielle Ahmet. She pointed to a streak of white coming at speed towards them. “I think we've got terrorists approaching by launch from the south!”
Chapter 2 – Madness in the City
It was after sunset and still many hours before midnight - the official time to launch the glorious Apocalypse. The Revelationist Church members in Geraldton, on the Western Australian coast, were busily preparing for their assault on the city.
The senior commander of the Geraldton operation, Lieutenant Colonel Brandon Newport, couldn't wait until midnight to launch the sister battalion to the 'Flaming Damnation' of Perth. His battalion was called the 'Tartarus Battalion', also known as the 'Be Damned' battalion. He wanted to be the first to execute the Apocalypse in Australia, and 'be damned' to his fellow Perth commanders. He now ordered the assault regardless of the consequences.
Lt. Colonel Newport stood outside his motel suite with his officers surrounding him. He revelled in the thought of the glory and accolades he would receive for initiating the Glorious Apocalypse of the Book of Revelations here in Australia.
“Weapons ready everyone, orders are to upscale our assault and make this city a blazing beacon to humanity's freedom a little earlier than anticipated.” Lieutenant Serri spoke softly to her platoon of crusaders. They were armed with automatic rifles, pistols, grenades and petrol bombs. Their role was to corral the city residents into the football field and detonate the explosives buried there. But this news meant they would now execute the residents as they found them, on the spot.
“Let us all pray.” The platoon went down on one knee, bowing their heads as their heavy chested officer led them in prayer.
There were sounds around them in the dark as thousands of Revelationist Crusader terrorists moved out. They all had flashlights in their hands or around their heads, all the better to see their victims. Each was armed and determined to show their fellow churchmen and women the strength of their faith. Many were stoned or drunk, the church encouraged members to indulge in what the establishment deemed illegal or improper.
As the crusaders spread through the suburbs and into the centre of the city fires sprang up everywhere. The city fire services and police were called in to assist. None of these civilian services knew that it was the end of the world. Within a half hour the electricity network was cut and communications ceased.
“Lieutenant Serri!” cried Tahni, she had a screaming teenage girl by the hair, dragging her to the roadside, “can you give me a hand here? This bitch is trying to run.”
Rather than walk over to help Lieutenant Serri simply fired her Beretta 9 mm pistol into the girls back.
“There, see how it's done! Now get back inside that hotel and just kill them, we aren't supposed to take them to the footy field anymore - weren't you listening?” yelled the lieutenant above the sounds of screaming, the blaze of multiple fires and automatic rifle fire. She fired at another teenage reveller trying to escape, he fell, joining his dead friend on the footpath.
One 'Be Damned' platoon was sectioned-off to scour the beaches adjacent the city centre. Most of the buildings they passed were now alight, the drinkers in the hotels and bars either dead, fleeing or in hiding.
One small group had taken up position in the Freemasons Hotel, just around the block from the white sands of Town Beach. This select group of special operatives anticipated that they would soon be in command of their own weapons, courtesy of the terrorists.
“Obi-Wan, it looks like we might have company, buddy,” whispered the tall, dark-haired, Soldier of Fortune. The scar above his right eye stood out, it was proof of the stress they were all feeling.
With the explosive start of the apocalypse most of the drinkers had fled either to their cars parked outside or to their hotel rooms. There remained the six special operatives and their group of female friends. Emily was a bright-eyed and bubbly, petite blond; Julie, a tall, intelligent and lively brunette, she was a partner in her father's law firm; Trisha, a blond who loved to party and already a little drunk, she quickly sobered once the shooting started; and dark-haired Gracie, Julie's office administrator, she had only just joined them that day.
The girls had driven up from Perth to celebrate their friend's wedding and enjoy the sunshine and holiday atmosphere of Geraldton. They'd met the special operatives one night and liked what they saw, that helped them decide to hang around for an extra few days.
The six special operatives now waited for orders from their senior NCO: US Ranger, Staff Sergeant Ben 'Obi-Wan' Kennedy. Although he tried to avoid it he was quite popular with the girls with his blond hair and solid surfer body, kept well toned by his regular work-outs. But it was his calm manner in a crisis that made him a favourite with his friends.
They'd heard the gunfire only a few minutes earlier and knew what it was, a full-on, military-style assault. The special operatives, enjoying a well-earned holiday from Joint Defense Intelligence Facility at Pine Gap in the heart of the Australian continent, had heard those sounds before, many times before. The sound of automatic rifle-fire usually meant death.
Within moments they had rounded up their friends and a few other revellers, moving them deeper into the hotel. Obi-Wan, and his buddy, Corporal Gary Fortune, a member of the U.S. Army's famed Delta Force, remained in contact with the terrorists. They wanted to gain more information and, with luck, weapons. Off-duty servicemen and women do not carry firearms, especially in Australia where the laws prohibit it - they were feeling naked without a weapong to defend themselves and their friends.
Their buddies, Petty Officer Second Class Matt Murphy, with his blond cr
ew-cut hair and solid build; and Petty Officer Third Class Peter Liner, 'Pipeline', whose skin was as black as the oil that flowed through his namesake, took the girls and a few other hotel patrons towards the exit at the back of the building. Both were the U.S. Navy's elite Sea, Air, and Land forces, known as SEALs.
The flaming red-haired and short, thick-bearded Australian, Ollie 'Skip' Stone, looked more like a Viking marauder than a SAS Corporal. Skip and the tall, good-looking Samoan, Corporal Laurence Burger, another U.S. Army Ranger, stayed back to maintain contact and provide support for Obi-Wan and Soldier of Fortune.
The special operatives of both countries knew the drill, they'd done this before and they now performed as they were trained to do. The first thing they needed was intelligence, the second was a weapon. Fortunately for them, five terrorists arrived, smashing their way through chairs and tables to get to the liquor behind the bar.
“Cheer up, Sammy, 'Milk Tits' still loves ya. She'll be as horny as a lioness on heat after this,” laughed one of the terrorists as he threw a bottle of Creme De Menthe to his mate. “Give it a few hours and she'll be begging for more of that man-meat between your legs.”
“You guys make me sick with your sex talk. That's all you do, talk about sex and tits and cocks. We're Revelationist Church members, we're the pillars of our church, you should set an example. Besides, Lieutenant Serri said she didn't like that name, it embarrasses her,” Tiny lectured. She was so petite that even her tailored uniform dwarfed her elfin figure. Her heart-shaped face was framed with a blond pixie cut, adding to the impression she could pass for being a child's doll.
Looking closer, the M1911 pistol she held in each hand destroyed the illusion. She sat in the tall bar-stool and lay the twin pistols on the bar, struggling to raise her elbows high enough to rest them on the bar's top. Eyeing the abandoned bottles left sitting on the bar, she reached over and poured herself a neat whiskey and soda, knocking it back in one gulp.
