by Ann Massey
“I’ll get her a pillow and a blanket.”
“Thank you,” I mouthed.
“I don’t want to miss out on meeting the...”
When the steward returned Annie was out for the count. She didn’t respond when I slipped a pillow under her head. I asked him how long before we landed. He said fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes to think. Fifteen minutes to feel guilty about standing by while Annie drank— heaven knows what. Fifteen gut wrenching minutes to wonder if the assassin would detonate the bomb before we reached the safe zone, and fifteen minutes to feel ashamed for ranting at a soldier who was putting his life on the line for a total stranger. As were the rest of the courageous crew.
The sky was a mix of purple and indigo when we landed on the abandoned runway. An ambulance with its blue and red lights flashing raced towards us. After first checking Annie’s vital signs, two medics transferred her to a stretcher and wheeled her into the ambulance. I got in the back with her.
A corrugated iron hangar stood across sparsely grassed ground, a hundred yards to our right. Apart from bulk storage tanks the dilapidated hangar was the only other structure. We reached it in thirty or forty seconds. Inside, air force medics had already set up a makeshift field hospital. In no time, they had Annie connected to a number of machines, tubes and drips. I thought it was overkill as physically there was nothing wrong with her. “Do you think all this is necessary?” I asked the senior medic.
“We’ve been instructed to keep her sedated until the surgical team arrives. We’re giving her fluids to keep her hydrated and monitoring her temperature, blood pressure pulse and respiration rates.” He looked puzzled. It was obvious from the data that Annie was in the best of health.
I ignored the question in his eyes. “When will the surgeon get here?”
“We’ve no way of knowing. Once the security field is in place, we can’t be contacted by the outside world.”
Once it was in place — I’d assumed it already was. “Will the technicians notify you when the field is operational?”
“How? Don’t you understand ... once it’s erected, we’re incommunicado? That means no one can call us and we can’t call out.”
My mouth dropped open. My hands shook and for a few minutes. I thought I was going to faint. I looked around for a chair. There wasn’t one so I simply stood by the stretcher and hung on to Annie’s small hand, fearful that any moment we would all be blown to kingdom come.
Thirty-four
At this time of the year, the sun set at five thirty. It was a couple of minutes short of five and night was already devouring chunks of light. It looked like rain and the heavy cloud cover was changing from a silvery-grey blue to deepest black. Even though the Detention Centre’s lights weren’t on, the pilot had no trouble locating the target — on account of the flames soaring above one of the larger buildings. As we approached, we saw an S-64 Air-Crane, a type of helicopter used to combat bush fires, hovering over the complex. The commandos cheered as it emptied its tanks over the prison and then headed off to refill them at a nearby dam.
Our chopper was engulfed in a cloud of black smoke when we flew over the twelve-foot high perimeter fence. As the pilot began the descent, Tarrant pushed the door open and the commandos jumped to the ground, storming across the sand firing their rifles, volley after volley over the heads of a mob pelting rocks at the riot police guarding the fence.
“Get down! Get down!” the rioters screamed as the rat-a-tat of gunfire thundered off rows upon rows of corrugated iron huts inside the prison grounds. Most dropped where they stood with their hands in the air, others fled down the lanes between the rows. They were quickly overtaken and dragged back. Kid gloves didn’t figure in the commandos’ training manual. Individually they may have loved their girlfriends and been kind to their dogs, but collectively they were a hard, brutal bunch.
“Kneel down and put your hands on your heads,” Sergeant Wilson roared.
One stood his ground, staring back with pure hatred.
“Get down when you’re told,” responded Wilson and swung the stock of his rifle at him. It landed heavily on the rebel’s shoulder. He stumbled and fell. “Put your effing hands on your effing head.”
I kept out of the action, feeling distinctly uneasy. The barrage of bullets the commandos had let off was reckless considering the rioters were unharmed civilian refugees. I paid no heed to my so-called finer feelings. My priority was saving Beth’s kid sister and time was running out. As per the time displayed on my cell’s screen, we had forty-five minutes to identify the bomber.
“That was damn good shooting, subduing that mob without a single casualty,” I said to Tarrant.
“Blanks,” he said softly and winked.
I glanced anxiously at Karim in case he’d heard but the bastard was trudging along beside me like a spaced-out druggie. “I want you to walk along the rows,” I said to him when we were standing in front of the kneeling refugees. “You’re looking for Selwa Amin and Abdul Fayed. Point them out to me. Do you understand?”
Karim nodded his head.
“Get going. I’ll be two steps behind you.”
Way ahead of me Tarrant said to Wilson, “Take a couple of men and search the buildings for strays. If you come across the guards, tell them it’s safe to come out of hiding.”
“Benson, Wardle you’re with me.”
As they moved off, I yelled, “When you locate the mains, turn on the blasted flood lights.”
* * *
Karim had eyeballed three rows when I heard the unmistakable chuff-chuff of swirling rotor blades. I groaned, unable to contain my shattering dismay. Elvis, a chopper used to fight bush fires, was once more heading towards the Centre with a full tank of water. “Son of a bitch,” said Tarrant.
I looked around for our pilot and saw him shooting the breeze with a couple of commandoes. I yelled out to him, “Request the pilot to turn around.” He sprinted off. I thought he didn’t have a hope in hell of making radio contact in time.
“Do you think he’s got a shot,” said Tarrant.
“Buckley’s,” I said staring numbly at the back of the heads of the abject detainees and wondering what chance we’d have of keeping them in one spot once 2500 gallons of ice-cold water bucketed down on them.
Up above in the cockpit, the pilot completed a slow downhill turn, levelled off and reduced power. I was praying the tank door would jam when a swimming pool of water was dumped on us. The detainees screamed as the freezing water poured down. They hesitated; then they turned and ran.
Tarrant and I looked at each other. Both of us were soaked, the detainees had scattered and it was twenty-nine minutes to detonation. “Do you think we can get them back in time?”
He shook his dripping head. “We’ll sure as hell try.”
Thirty-five
Major Tarrant sent six of his men to bring back the hotheads. The rest of his troop stood guard over around forty of the detainees, a soggy, subdued lot; their teeth were chattering in sopping clothing, too cold and miserable to cause trouble. I left the commandos to it and jogged over to the chopper. I was worried about a repeat performance should Elvis return. The pilot who’d remained in the cockpit suppressed a smile when he saw the state I was in and tossed me a towel.
“Radio the goddamn tower and ask air control to turn back Elvis,” I said as I rubbed my hair. Immediately, he reached for the radio. I was jogging back when I heard a helicopter returning. I grimaced. You can’t beat bad luck,” I thought, I was just about to tell the prisoners to head for cover when the powerful camp lights finally came on and I saw POLICE painted in large block capitals on the chopper’s undercarriage.
It’ll be Charlie. General Lee will have sent him to check up on me, I thought, feeling relief and humiliation in equal measure, as the chopper hovering over the complex began its descent. I had no chance of winning the general’s respect on present outcomes. Telling myself to focus on the situation, I glanced over to where Karim sho
uld be and couldn’t see him. I’d become accustomed to him mindlessly following every instruction like a robot and had grown careless. I felt like spewing.
Major Tarrant was watching the chopper bump down on a grassed area on the far side of the huts. I sprinted up to him, “Have you seen Karim?”
He frowned. “Isn’t he with you?”
“He was a couple of minutes ago.”
“Fucking hell, I bet the stinking swine was shamming all along.”
“Seems like it ... he can’t have got far.”
Tarrant nodded. When we get him, I’ll make him bloody sorry he was...” he broke off. “That’s him, over there. Wright, Newton get after him.”
Tarrant was pointing at rows of prefabricated huts illuminated by industrial lights mounted on tall poles of the type usually seen flanking highways. Karim, recognizable in his white doctor’s coat was running hell for leather between the rows in the direction of the grassed area, a sort of soccer pitch. Suddenly two men dressed in dark clothing burst out of the shadows and sprinted across the grass towards the chopper. Its idling motor was running and the rotor whirling. My bewilderment lasted for all of one second.
Without stopping to explain to Tarrant, I sped after them. It’s said that desperation can move mountains. As I dashed between the huts, I glimpsed two men that I presumed were Selwa and Fayed, climb on board the helicopter. Karim, close behind, ducked to avoid losing his head. I watched in stunned shock as the chopper lifted, then I ran hell for leather for ours.
* * *
The pilot pushed the door open as I raced up to the RAAF chopper. “The terrorists are getting away, quick get after them,” I gasped. Being desk-bound had played hell with my fitness levels.
He shook his head. “I need authorisation from my commanding officer.”
“Fly the fucking thing,” I yelled.
“I can’t. Sorry, Sir ... regulations.”
“To hell with them. If you won’t fly the damn thing, I will. Get out of the fucking way.”
I outranked him and he stepped aside. “Sir, you do know flying a plane is nothing like flying a helicopter?
“I’ve got stick-time in both.” A stretch! My experience on whirly-birds consisted of what a naval pal had taught me when we were both stationed at a joint naval and air force base. I’d piloted one five or six times. But I’d never actually flown one solo and I didn’t have a licence. Those were facts the shit-scared pilot was better off not knowing.
My tense nerves relaxed as I parked my ass on the pilot’s seat and put on the harness. I might have been out of my class at the NSA. But it was a different story in the air. I could fly anything at first attempt. I smiled briefly. After just one lesson, I’d borrowed Doug’s ultra-lite and flown it through a firestorm. Back then I’d had a lot to prove. Nothing had changed since I was a reckless tearaway. Call me immature, stupid, and bigheaded ... I was all that and more. The familiar exhilaration flowed through me as I buckled the harness. I hadn’t felt this alive for months.
The enemy had five minutes lead on me. There was no time for preflight checks. I pressed the master switch in the cockpit and watched the needles swing round the fuel gauges. The tanks were three quarters full, and the instruments were laid out roughly as I remembered them. I started the engine. For a moment I was puzzled when the rotor didn’t start until I remembered that for safety reasons the engine and rotor are started separately. Praying that was all I’d forgotten, I clutched in. The rotor roared into life, vibrating furiously as it gathered speed.
“You’re really going through with it?”
In answer I switched on the lights. “If you’re coming buckle up if not leave ... now.”
He wasted no time doing just that.
I waited three impatient seconds before twisting the throttle and taking the brakes off. I didn’t want to add decapitation to my offences at the court martial, I was bound to face. And rightly so. I was unlicensed and had no business flying a helicopter at all. But needs must has always been the motto I live by.
Ham-handedly, I hauled collective pitch and forwarded the cyclic control at the same time ... an emergency manoeuvre which should only be attempted if under fire and never by an inexperienced pilot. No bird ever took off faster, or as crazily. Unlike planes that fly straight and level, even on autopilot, helicopters are essentially unstable and this one started spinning for all the world like a bug sprayed with pesticide.
With the egotistical optimism of an out-and-out risk-taker, I experimented with the controls. A chopper has five basic movements. The steering controls consist of two hand levers called ‘collective pitch’ and ‘cyclic pitch’, a throttle, and two foot-pedals. The collective pitch stick controls lift; the cyclic pitch allows the chopper to fly forward and sideways by adjusting the pitch of the rotor blades. The throttle controls the flow of fuel to the engine and the two foot-pedals change the pitch of the tail rotor. As I worked the cyclic, collective, and throttle controls with my hands and the pedals with my feet, I longed for the limbs of an octopus.
“Gently, Bentley,” I warned myself as I made minute adjustments. According to my mate, when you get into trouble the trick is to follow the British WW2 slogan: Keep calm and carry on.
By the time the super-responsive machine stabilized, the quarry’s red rear light had vanished over the horizon in a south westerly direction. Obviously, they were making for Perth where I’d bet my bottom dollar they had associates. Once they’d gone to ground, we’d have Buckley’s chance of finding them. There was only one thing to do. Force the mongrels down.
I twisted the throttle. The heavy machine roared and vibrated as it began to speed up with what seemed painful slowness. Choppers aren’t built for speed and as the needle crept up to a top speed of 130 knots, it started to pitch. By the time I’d got it level, my shoulders felt like they were out of joint. But the risky manoeuvre paid off. It wasn’t long before the enemy’s red light was visible again, moving away at a steady 80 knots. Well, that was about to change.
Moments later I flashed past at 130, leaving the enemy chopper buffeting in a stream of turbulence like a rudderless yacht in a storm. From a long way ahead, I thundered back, ridiculously close, so close our blades were almost touching. I’m exaggerating. There was probably thirty feet between us. I’d have got closer and given them a real fright if I wasn’t an utter novice in a chopper.
I’d perfected harassment techniques and precision, flying jets during engagements in Afghanistan and Syria. The trick is to fly straight at opposing fighters, close enough for a wing-man to get off a good shot, then swerve just wide enough to avoid a collision. I grimaced. Precision and helicopter were words that shouldn’t be used in the same sentence.
Still on the plus side, I wasn’t up against a professional fighter pilot. By now the saphead would be shitting himself. I turned around and lined up for another charge. As I sped past them, closer than last time, the thought that Karim would be scared witless, in some measure made up for being taken in by the sneaky bastard. When I looked back, their red rear light was bouncing all over the place. Another close call and I figured the pilot would have had enough.
With success in sight I had to figure out what I’d do once I had the bastards on the ground. I was outnumbered but I was armed. However, I wasn’t certain Karim and his lot weren’t. Weapons and ammo could have been smuggled into the Detention Centre by prison staff on the make. But I thought it more likely that there were guns and rifles on board the chopper. I wiped the sleeve of my hoody over my face. I had no choice ... I’d have to shoot the pilot on the next fly pass.
Blocking my mind to the thought that I was about to take out four men, I turned the whirlybird around. Where the hell were they? I looked to the left and then to the right. Nothing! The get-away craft didn’t have the speed to reach vanishing point in such a short time. Though I knew it was a long shot, I increased altitude. Not even a star shone through the heavy cloud cover.
There was but one explanation ... the m
other-fucker had turned off his lights. Incredulity swamped me. Flying blind in a busy flight path was the equivalent of driving down a major highway without headlights during a blackout. Sweat broke out on my forehead. The twisted pricks could collide with a commercial passenger plane. Nightmares weren’t in it.
My mental stupor lifted. I reached for the radio to warn air traffic control. They’d pick them up on radar ... send fighters to shoot them out of the sky. I wished I was the lead pilot.
Thirty-six
I fronted up for duty at NSA headquarters four weeks later. Ironically, Otis was playing Call of Duty. The beam of his smile split his face. His welcoming grin was at odds to the frosty reception that I anticipated was waiting for me in his boss’s office. Otis stood up, holding out his hand. Disregarding the bone crushing strength of his grip I put out my own. “It’s been too long, Mo.”
“I took personal leave.”
“You earnt it.”
I pulled a face. “Not in my book. My performance as head of ASP was up to shit and I didn’t exactly cover myself with glory as a field agent.”
“Come off it. You stopped the bastards.”
I shook my head. “Sheer idiocy deserves the kudos. Their pilot took a foolhardy risk by flying blind.” The fugitives had crashed into the Darling Range, a low escarpment that runs east to west of the Detention Centre for two hundred miles. There were no survivors and that was fine by me. But Lee wasn’t pleased when I phoned him immediately after the botched operation. He wanted them caught, caged and squealing like weasels.
“Otis’s red phone rang. He picked it up, listened, and then said, “General Lee will see you now.”
My hand went to my tie. Automatically, I glanced in the wall mirror. In my grey-blue uniform I looked like the go-getter who’d left Baltimore five months before. Inside I was a different man.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” said the General, “Take a seat, Lieutenant.” He subjected me to a long judgmental scrutiny as I sat down in the leather chair. Never one for social chit-chat he came straight to the point. “I received notice from the RAAF that you are resigning your commission.”
