Sword of Allah

by David Rollins

  ‘Tom, is that you?’

  ‘Captain?’

  The men heading down the trail stopped and the man in front lifted his weapon above his head. Wilkes, Monroe and Littlemore did the same. The moment of potential blue on blue vanished, and the men lowered their weapons and walked towards each other. When the two groups met, Captain Mahisa handed his weapon to a subordinate and began waving an instrument through the air. ‘The air is clear of VX,’ he said. He then ran his finger down the JSLIST’s front rubber seal and peeled off the top half of his suit. ‘But it smells like…’

  ‘…like death,’ said Wilkes, following Mahisa’s lead, removing his hood and sampling the air.

  Several Kopassus ran down the path to Mahisa and talked excitedly.

  ‘Nearly everyone here is dead,’ said the captain, ‘and the ones that aren’t are very sick.’

  ‘Until we find out exactly what’s going on here, we’d better keep these things on,’ said Wilkes. He felt like he was wearing a mobile sauna. Mahisa agreed and they reluctantly pulled the JSLIST hoods back over their sweat-sodden heads.

  The first rays of the sun crossed the horizon and illuminated the clear blue sky, yet a chill remained over the camp – the final breath exhaled by the dead.

  ‘Boss!’ Wilkes turned and saw three men jogging awkwardly towards them from the direction of the airstrip, encumbered by their suits. It was Ellis, Beck and Ferris. ‘The drone,’ said Ellis. ‘It’s gone – launched. And recently too, by the look of things.’ They presented Wilkes and Mahisa with a fistful of Polaroid photos showing the drone and various people standing beside it. Wilkes and Mahisa recognised Duat instantly. Something in Arabic was painted on the plane’s nose. ‘We found this in the shed at the end of the runway,’ Ellis said, holding up the remains of a laptop. ‘Battery and hard drive are still warm. We also found a man killed – a cap in the head. Been dead less than an hour by the looks of him – no rigor and only a few ants and flies. He’s one of the men in the photos.’ He selected one of the Polaroids and said, ‘This guy.’ The picture showed the drone with Duat, a man and a boy – all smiling. ‘The wound was not self-administered, unless he was a contortionist. The shed was the drone’s hangar. There’s fuel, wheel tracks and this,’ he said, handing him a sheet of paper. ‘Check out the date, boss.’

  Wilkes examined the paper. ‘Shit!’ he said. It was a METFOR. And for the following twenty-four hours. How much had they missed the bloody thing by? ‘It’s got to be Darwin then,’ he said, looking up.

  ‘Can you be sure about that?’ asked Mahisa urgently, joining them. ‘What about Jakarta?’

  Wilkes handed him the sheet. Mahisa didn’t need the significance of the data explained. He would have been familiar with METFORs, accurate meteorological forecasts that covered a given time and area. Knowing the wind speed and direction are critical when you’re about to spread chemical weapons over a particular area. And the area covered by this METFOR was the island of Flores, the islands to the west of West Papua, and the north of Australia, including Darwin. The fact that Jakarta wasn’t included eliminated it categorically. ‘That is great news,’ he said, placing a gloved hand on Wilkes’s padded shoulder. ‘Not about Darwin…’ he added quickly.

  ‘Tom, excuse me. I must get a message off. I am truly sorry but I must radio my superiors immediately.’ Mahisa turned excitedly and chatted with a subordinate, who then ran off to shout at the men handling the unit’s communications. Wilkes understood the captain’s relief. His family lived in Jakarta – wife, three children, mother, father, sisters, brothers; the whole extended family. The panic that had hit the Indonesian city in the wake of the news that a deadly nerve agent could be on its way had already caused much death and destruction there.

  The SAS soldiers followed the Kopassus back along the chemlit pathway towards the encampment.

  ‘Tom, James and I are going to join an Indon patrol and have a look around,’ said Atticus in Wilkes’s earpiece. ‘You cool with that?’

  Wilkes turned and nodded. ‘Just make sure you’re home before dark and don’t talk to strangers.’

  ‘Okay, Mom,’ said Monroe.

  Five men split from the main group and headed off in the direction of the beach.

  The number of Indonesian troops milling about in the centre of the encampment was starting to swell as the men completed their sweeps. From the body language alone it was evident that most were bewildered by what they had seen. Wilkes, like everyone else, was in the dark about what had happened here and, not understanding Bahasa, he was not party to any intelligence gathered by Mahisa’s men. Altogether, not a particularly ideal situation. But what Wilkes and his troop did know was disturbing enough: that the drone had been launched but the cavalry had arrived too late to save the day, and that within a short period of time, an Australian city would have the dubious honour of being the first in the western world to host the arrival of a weapon of mass destruction.

  Two of Mahisa’s men pushed through the gathering knot of soldiers and presented something to their CO – a couple of empty syringes. Wilkes couldn’t hear what was being said, and nor would he have been able to understand it if he could, but the men were excited about something.

  ‘Tom, we have located the VX!’ Wilkes heard Mahisa say, his voice cracking through the static in his earpiece. ‘There are two drums, two halves of the agent probably, plus what may have been a third mixing drum. And then there are these,’ he said, the empty syringes presented on his gloved palm. The word ‘Atropine’ was stencilled in red on the syringes. ‘From these, would it be reasonable to assume one, possibly two people in the camp knew they had been poisoned by the agent?’

  ‘So then we should have a couple of comparatively healthy terrorists lurking around someplace,’ said Wilkes.

  ‘Unless one of them was the man who appears to have been whacked,’ said Ellis. ‘He’s in the photos with Duat. Do you reckon he could have been the brains behind the UAV?’

  ‘Possible.’ The same thought had occurred to Wilkes. If the terrorists believed they were about to get pounced on, silencing the man who could tip off the enemy on the drone’s flight plan made plenty of sense. ‘What about Duat? Has he turned up yet?’

  ‘Negative, boss,’ Ellis said. ‘We haven’t found him. Can’t speak for the Indons.’

  ‘Us neither,’ said Mahisa. ‘Perhaps he wasn’t here?’

  ‘Or he left in a hurry ’cause the party was turning to shit,’ said the voice of Atticus Monroe. ‘We found their armoury. You won’t believe how many explosives these people have. Enough to prosecute a small war. Something odd…a couple of heavy cases of something have been dragged down to the waterline. Recent, too. The tide hasn’t washed away any of the tracks. There’s one boat there – they probably had another.’

  ‘Looks like we got ourselves a fugitive, boss,’ Ellis said, trying and failing to imitate Tommy Lee Jones’s southern drawl.

  ‘Great,’ said Wilkes. Duat could certainly have helped them with their enquiries, but it appeared he’d given himself the antidote and scarpered, leaving them to deal with a drone loaded with VX winging its merry way to Darwin.

  ‘Boss.’ It was Littlemore’s voice in his earpiece. ‘Come have a look at this. Walk to the first intersection and take your first left. Found their comms suite.’

  Three minutes later, Wilkes, Monroe, Mahisa, several Kopassus and most of Wilkes’s troop were standing on a veranda groaning with enough technology to monitor a moon shot. Much of it, however, had been smashed. ‘Any of this junk work?’ Wilkes picked up the remains of a CPU and tossed it back onto the bench.

  ‘Give me a minute, boss,’ said Littlemore. It was impossible to tell who was who under the JSLIST suit, but the voice at least was unmistakable. Wilkes pictured Littlemore’s flame-red hair matted against his skull under the suit’s hood. Now that the sun was up, the temperature inside the chemical warfare suits had soared. ‘Most of it’s trashed, boss. I’d say someone guessed we were coming and tos
sed a few grenades in here.’

  The hope was that there’d be information lying around that would help locate the drone, but it was a faint hope.

  ‘Anyone for a game of snooker?’ It was Morgan. ‘Look what we found under the corner pocket.’ He and Robson stepped up on the veranda and one of the men tossed a brick made from epoxy resin on the bench. A corner had been knocked off and white powder crumbled from it. ‘They make the tables and sandwich these between layers of slate. I don’t reckon the stuff in the middle is lemon sherbet, either,’ he said.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Wilkes. The heroin. This was Jenny Tadzic’s big unanswered question. The encampment was an epicentre for the export of death and destruction – guns to Papua New Guinea, drugs to the streets of Sydney and Melbourne and, soon, nerve agent to Darwin. At least evacuation in the northern city was well underway.

  Littlemore had started up one of the electrical generators that powered the suite and was fiddling with various remotes. ‘About the only thing working is the telly, believe it or not.’ He turned it on. The set took a few seconds to warm up. ‘Jesus, boss,’ he said when the picture materialised. ‘I think you’d better come and have a look at this.’

  Wilkes crossed to the monitor and his heart leapt into his mouth. Standing in front of the camera on the empty streets of Darwin was the last person he expected to see there.

  Darwin, Northern Territory, Australia

  Annabelle Gilbert felt like one of the little ducks that go back and forth in a shooting gallery. There was potentially a WMD on its way and yet here she was, waiting for it to arrive. What the hell am I doing in this place? She lay in the unfamiliar bed struggling in vain for the release of sleep, and just succeeded in pulling out the sheets and making things even more uncomfortable as she tossed and turned. The heat had a lot to do with her inability to get comfortable. Something had happened to the hotel’s air-con and the mercury had begun to rise immediately thereafter. The blokes had been unable to fix it quickly and the hotel maintenance staff had long since gone south, so the technicians gave up trying, lest they do permanent damage to the system. The windows in all the rooms had been taped up and covered with plastic sheeting. A small, noisy fan pushed close, fetid air around the room, clicking noisily as it swept from left to right. ‘Five star, my arse,’ she said quietly.

  Annabelle took her mind back to the previous day – the airport, the NBC suit, the chaos and then utter stillness of Darwin itself. At the briefing downstairs in the dining room, the army had actually been pretty decent about things. The restrictions had been waived on reporting the scenes at the airport, for example. The army had taken on board Weaver’s point about personal video cameras. They’d basically been given the run of the place, except for the military establishments, which was fair enough. Lance Corporal B. Face – whose real name was Victor Kidde, though his friends called him Billy – and the armed escort had been their constant companions for the day. But the attached security was a waste of time and manpower because Darwin was a ghost town. The place was truly creepy. A city with absolutely no people in it was a depressing, spooky place. There were no cars, no sounds, no movement at all. It was just like one of those mock towns built in the fifties by the American army to destroy with its A-bombs. Woolworths had been utterly cleaned out, stripped bare. The windows were broken and the shelves had mostly been ripped down. Anything in the way of food had been taken, clothes, even the mannequins had walked, although some of these had been torn apart and were lying broken in the road, arms outstretched like people calling for help. Annabelle shook her head. Her imagination was working overtime. Sleep was going to be impossible.

  Against the rules, her NBC suit hung in the shower recess. It wasn’t against the rules to put it in the shower. Taking it off was the issue. She could see it hanging there, with the hood and gasmask looking like something ghastly and alive, and only vaguely human. She was supposed to be wearing it to bed but, fuck that, thought Annabelle. She was sweating enough as it was and wasn’t looking forward to putting it on in the morning. It’d be like climbing into a wet rubber glove.

  Congratulations, she said to herself as she got up and paced the room in the dark – you wanted to kick your career on to the next level, and instead you’ve given yourself a major kick in the guts. A bigger pay packet and a capricious boss out for revenge because she wouldn’t come across now replaced the man she loved. And she was no longer the anchor. Sure, she might recover that position but she had a fair idea what she’d have to surrender to secure it. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. She’d once been in control, but now she’d lost it. Completely. And what about Tom? She’d moved to another city. Without even telling him. What signal had that sent? She had completely fucking blown it.

  But it wasn’t all her fault, was it? Hadn’t he been just plain stubborn? Hadn’t he always placed the regiment above her? The more she thought along these lines, the more indignant she became, the mood pendulum swinging to the other extreme. Was it fair of him to expect her to wait at home while he dodged bullets in some unknown hellhole? No, it wasn’t. What if they had kids? The selfish bastard! Before Annabelle became too indignant, the competing voice in her head reminded her that he hadn’t asked her to give up anything, that the person making all the demands had been her. And what did she expect? That Tom would just chuck in his career and follow her to Sydney because she was…Annabelle Gilbert, anchorwoman? She knew she didn’t want a lap-dog. Tom had strength, he was his own person. She had always loved that about him, so what had changed? Why had the appearance of a ring on her finger so radically altered her outlook? Tom would make adjustments to his life as they were needed, wouldn’t he? Maybe it was just ego – her ego – that had been the wedge driving them apart. Admit it. When it comes right down to it, girlfriend, you just don’t want to marry a soldier, even if that soldier is Tom. Before she’d met him, Annabelle had always seen herself ending up partnered to a professional, someone like a lawyer or a doctor, whose life dovetailed neatly with her own aspirations. Maybe you’re doing Tom a favour. Time will just amplify our differences, our disappointments. Finally, Annabelle gave up the struggle and fell into the arms of a fitful sleep, but an instant later, the alarm clock beside her bed buzzed telling her that it was time to wake up. She lay in bed, trying very hard to think about absolutely nothing, but failed. They had to file after breakfast and she still hadn’t written the piece. ‘Dammit,’ she said to the darkness. She got up, switched on the sidetable light, and sat down on the bed with her laptop.

  Weaver and the cameraman met Annabelle in the hotel lobby, its windows and doors taped and sealed with plastic sheeting like those in the rooms. Army types rushed through on unknown errands. The level of anxiety had reduced a little from the previous day so Annabelle guessed that nothing noteworthy had happened overnight. Weaver confirmed that. He’d been up for an hour and looked fresh, for once. ‘All the hookers have left town,’ he said unashamedly. ‘So I went to bed early. What was I going to do, knock on Vicky Virgin’s door?’

  Annabelle shrugged. She was in no mood for banter.

  Weaver handed her an aluminium foil tray. ‘Breakfast,’ he said, ‘courtesy of the army. I’ve had mine, and if I was you I’d save myself for lunch.’

  Annabelle took a peek inside and smelled the contents, and decided to take the producer’s advice.

  ‘Yeah, I think our union would have something to say about that,’ he said when he saw the look on her face. ‘The army has decided the city is secure so they’re moving most of the men onto the highway and the airport to help the police. That means we’ve lost our armed shadow, but Billy the Kid is going to stay with us.’ On cue, the large boy in a chemical suit with the hood and mask hanging down his back walked through the door.

  Greetings were exchanged and Weaver said, ‘Are you familiar with a cartoon character called Baby Huey?’

  ‘No,’ said Billy the Kid, looking puzzled.

  Annabelle wasn’t either and so had no idea what Weaver f
ound so amusing.

  ‘Okay, let’s go to work,’ Weaver said. ‘Annabelle? Have you written anything for me to look over?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, handing him a couple of sheets of printout.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said as he read. ‘Some nice touches. We’d better hurry if we want to do this.’ He fluttered the paper in his hand.

  Twenty minutes later, Annabelle Gilbert was framed in the camera lens so that the gun of the USS Peary was in the near background, the emerald waters of Port Darwin beyond. The network wanted the piece live. No second chances to get it right. Annabelle finished the rehearsal as the grey bow of an American frigate, the last remaining ship of the USS Constellation’s battle group that had begun leaving the port several days before, came into view.

  Weaver gave her the countdown and, on a silent ‘one’, Annabelle Gilbert went live into the homes of millions.

  ‘It’s a beautiful tropical morning in Darwin, just like it was almost sixty-two years ago to the day when, at five minutes past ten in the morning, one hundred and eightyeight aircraft of the Imperial Japanese Navy brought the Second World War to this spot, dropping more bombs on Port Darwin than they did on Pearl Harbor, sinking nine ships and killing more than one hundred and seventy people. The gun behind me is all that remains of the USS Peary, a destroyer sunk on that fateful morning killing ninety-one seamen.

  ‘Back then, Australia was taken by surprise, but not today as we await the arrival of a different kind of war in our skies, a war in some ways even more brutal than that global conflict of the last century.

  ‘A spokesman for the Australian Army confirmed the estimate late yesterday that more than ten thousand people remain in the city, refusing to evacuate. Many are local Aborigines. Few of those remaining have the protection provided by one of these, a nuclear biological chemical or NBC suit, supplies of which are scarce.’