Sword of Allah

by David Rollins

  Sirius 3, Bayu-Unadan field, Timor Gap, Timor Sea

  ‘What the hell’s that all about?’ said the engineer overseeing the attachment of another thirty-foot length of drill string.

  ‘Fucked if I know, but I’m sure not hanging about to find out,’ said the rigger closer to him.

  ‘Hey, you can’t just leave.’

  ‘That siren says I can, mate,’ he said.

  ‘What about the blowout preventers?’ asked the engineer. He looked about him, confused. The day was bright and sunny for a change. The monsoon had finally ended. The drilling was progressing nicely…So what the hell was the panic about? He knew the evacuation procedure as well as anyone and the price that could be paid for dawdling. But there’d been no explosion and, up until the siren started screaming, no hint of any trouble.

  ‘Mate, if you want any help from me, make a decision – fast,’ said the rigger, anxious to get to his lifeboat station.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ said the engineer, annoyed. Snipping the drill string was the quickest way to secure the well, but it wasn’t exactly the most elegant.

  The siren had been blaring for five minutes and the rig manager was starting to feel the panic rising in his chest. Time was nearly up. The weapon could burst over them at any minute and only two lifeboats had been launched into the sea that was still rolling with a heavy monsoonal swell. Two men had broken their arms in the second boat away when it dropped heavily into the trough of a wave.

  Rumours were starting to circulate amongst the cooks, crane operators, IT communications, riggers, medics, technicians and others gathered on the evacuation deck. They knew what was in the sky, heading their way, yet they were quiet, orderly. The rig manager put the calm down to a mixture of disbelief and shock.

  ‘Let’s go! Hurry! C’mon,’ said someone as the lifeboats filled. Several rolls of plastic sheeting were thrown inside each boat to help keep the nerve agent out. There were sudden yells of concern as another lifeboat swung precariously out over the heaving rollers.

  Burns turned back in on the drone and placed the circle floating on his HUD directly on the UAV. He was just outside the missile’s minimum range and the missile heads were uncaged. ‘Pick up the fucker, for Christ’s sake,’ he said aloud as the distance to the drone closed. The circle danced around the UAV, framing it, nailing it, but there was no tone in his headphones to indicate that the missile would guide itself to the target. A Fox one – guided ordnance – was not an option. Damn! And those oil fields were getting close. With its current speed of 70 knots over the water, the VX-laden craft would be within range of the Bayu-Unadan field in less than ten minutes.

  Burns toggled the weapons select switch and selected guns. He saw that the armourers had had the good sense to give him a full store of ammunition for the M16A1 twenty millimetre Vulcan cannon located in the Hornet’s nose. He had 578 rounds to play with, or just over five and a half seconds worth. A half-second burst would toast the fucker. He swept over the UAV and it passed briefly under his wing. He turned to look at it, then back at his altimeter to ensure he wasn’t losing altitude. And then he saw his fuel load. Jesus! One point nine! He had fuel for three passes at the thing – max.

  The nose of the F/A-18 came around sharply and the g forces accentuated the pounding in Burns’s head. He felt like vomiting. He unclipped the oxygen mask from his face and let it hang from his helmet, and then dived down at the Prowler. It shimmied in his HUD, buffeted by the prevailing breeze as it climbed and then descended. Burns kept the gun-aiming circle projected on his HUD on the UAV as best he could and then, when he was a thousand metres out, his index finger squeezed the trigger mounted on the control stick and kept it there. The Hornet vibrated and shook. Puffs of smoke exhausted from the plane’s nose as the rounds spewed from the gun’s revolving barrels. He tried to walk the tracer into the drone, leading it. But the perpendicular vectors of each aircraft combined to make Burns’ aim miss by metres. The flying officer pulled back on the stick at the last possible instant. The Hornet shot past the drone’s nose, pulling out of the dive merely ten feet above the water. Burns suddenly realised the crests of the waves were breaking above him and that he was flying inside a trough. He jammed the throttle forward, rotating it past the detent stop. The afterburners lit, punching Burns back into his seat. The Hornet rocketed skywards as a wave rolled into the space the fighter had occupied barely a spit second earlier.

  Burns gagged for air. The headache at his temples was now like a vice squeezing his head and the pain was almost blinding. He swung his head round as the F/A-18 climbed and picked up the UAV tracking beneath and behind him. It was also staggering out of a wave trough. Something had happened to it. His wake turbulence had nearly knocked the UAV into the drink. Shit, of course! Wake turbulence. The pressure waves streaming off the back of the Hornet’s wings combined with the thrust of those GEs in full afterburner could flip a twin-engine Cessna on its back and send it spiralling out of control. The lightweight UAV would never be able to survive that kind of onslaught. And he could come in low and slow, line the fucker up and then, at the last instant, when the Hornet was above the drone, bang the throttle to its stops.

  And then the Master Caution warning sounded – DEEDLE! DEEDLE! Trailerpark Tammy added ‘Bingo, bingo, bingo, bi–’ He punched the Master Caution to shut her up. For once, fuel was not his biggest priority. From here on, he was flying inside the Hornet’s fuel safety margin. Running dry was now a real possibility because not all the F/A-18’s fuel load was usable. He glared at the fuel numbers as if they were traitors. The KC-130 was near, but it might as well have been circling Tierra del Fuego for all the good it could do him. The UAV would be delivering its cargo to the intended target any minute and there was no time to refuel. He had to splash this thing or die trying. Burns decided against using his wake turbulence. He would use up too much of the precious fuel with nothing left if he failed. And besides, he reasoned, he’d have to take his eyes off the bandit. It would be obscured by the Hornet’s nose for too long while he lined up on it.

  And then, like the cruel punchline of some sick joke, the drone began to climb. Burns knew what that meant. The bloody drone was on short final, setting itself up for the delivery of its cargo. When the UAV exploded at altitude, the VX would spread and the Prowler’s job would be done.

  Burns continued to circle the UAV while it climbed, and reviewed what he and Corbet had been told about the aircraft at the briefing, hoping that another answer to its destruction might present itself. The VX would more than likely be loaded into a fuselage bay on the aircraft’s centre of gravity, or a little forward of it. As observed already, it would fly nap of the earth to avoid detection until a pre-programmed point was reached, whereupon it would climb several thousand feet and then the cargo would be atomised for maximum dispersion, most likely through an explosion. He watched the UAV clamber for height. The experts had been right about its flight plan, which meant they were also probably right about the presence of explosives on board. He checked his altimeter: 2500 feet and climbing. They were still upwind enough from the Bayu-Unadan for the VX, once atomised, to descend harmlessly to the sea. But that margin was shrinking with every foot of altitude climbed.

  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 f
orearm, 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?’

  Tadzic turned to the D-G. The man was happy. For him, this operation was evidence of industry, proof of effectiveness, but for Tadzic and the woman in the wheelchair in front of her, it meant much more. She said, ‘With respect, sir, it’s everything.’

  Meyer nodded and cleared his throat. It wasn’t every day that he was made aware of his own insensitivity, but he was aware of it now. He hadn’t seen the wheelchair

  Angie Noonan, AFP forensics expert, former prisoner of General Trip and, until recently, heroin junkie, had a blanket over her knees despite the blazing sun. An ambulance waited to transport her back to hospital. The government had picked up the tab, as it should, providing the very best care to help her beat the addiction and return her to health. Noonan had been lucky. Clean needles had been used. She and her boyfriend were free from hepatitis, HIV and other nasties. The DEA agent had been less fortunate. He was still fighting for his life, battling hep B and malaria.

  Tadzic thought back to Myanmar, and savoured the memory. When the general had dropped his gun, it had been easy to pick it up with the incoming missiles providing such an absorbing distraction. Had she known then why she’d picked it up, what her intentions were? Perhaps, yes, she had known, but not consciously. The decision would have been made way down deep, somewhere in her brain uncomplicated by the notion of a fair trial and due process that thought an eye for an eye was fit punishment for a monster like General Trip.

  Tadzic breathed in the warm Sydney breeze coming off the harbour, and watched a flock of seagulls diving and wheeling above a shoal of taylor churning the water silver. Angie Noonan’s shoulder shivered lightly under her fingertips. The young woman was still very sick, but this bust would mean a lot to her. And then the devil on Tadzic’s shoulder whispered in her ear not to get her hopes up because life often disappoints. ‘Not always,’ she said out loud. Not now, not today. Today, she had a good feeling.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Noonan, turning uncomfortably in her wheelchair.

  ‘I said, it’s a good day.’ Tadzic watched the combined AFP–ASIO–
New South Wales police force swarm through the rows of containers on the dock around them.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Angie Noonan, pulling the rug up around her shoulders.

  Tadzic had aimed for the face and missed, shooting the general instead in the throat. He died slowly, knowing he was dying, afraid and alone. The look in his eyes said it all. Tadzic breathed deeply again and smiled. It had been the most satisfying moment in her long career on the force. And the two men with her, Tom and Atticus, had both patted her on the back for it. They understood. They also understood that her action would have to remain a secret between the three of them. They were fine with that. They lived in a world full of secrets.

  The two Australian Customs officers and their dog led the police wedge descending on container 2209LK. The animal seemed excited, but that had more to do with the testosterone in the air than the presence of illegal drugs. Container 2209LK had already been inspected, apparently by the very customs officers in the process of opening it for a second going-over. The container had been sitting on the docks for some time, waiting for its owners to claim the contents. No one had turned up. For the past two days, the container had been staked out, but it was obvious to all that the word had gotten out that retrieving the goods would be a bust. Tadzic believed that the terrorists’ distribution network had been General Trip’s. When he’d died, when I shot him, that distribution network would have been tipped off. That was an unfortunate consequence, she admitted to herself.

  Various TV outside broadcast units pulled up and bunches of people jumped out of accompanying vehicles as the trucks’ antenna dishes rose on their hydraulic telescopes. A drug bust was good news for everyone: good for ratings, good for the police and especially good for the politicians. It was reassuring for the community. It said everyone was doing their job. A hundred other containers sat on the docks, and Tadzic wondered how many kilos of death and unhappiness hidden within would pass under their radar on this day. What the hell, she shrugged, she was doing her best.