Spike leaps over the reception desk in one muscular bound, flies past Les and lands in front of the card table where Harry and Roy sit. Teeth bared, a sinister growl emerges from deep within the animal.
Harry and Roy leap from their chairs and take refuge behind the table. ‘Get that mongrel out of here!’ Over the course of the sentence Harry’s panicked voice rises an octave.
‘Spike!’
The dog turns, barks at Corey.
‘Get behind!’
Spike turns back to Harry and Roy and growls again.
‘Now!’
The blue heeler pivots, leaps the counter and takes up a position behind his master. Suddenly it’s very quiet. Corey looks at Les, mortified by the turn of events. ‘Sorry about that - I - please don’t let it affect —’
‘You should probably leave, mate.’
Corey nods resignedly. ‘Yep. Probably should.’ He doesn’t want to. He wants to stay and persuade Les to hire him. Unfortunately, the pinched and unhappy expression tells him it’s not going to happen.
Corey turns and heads for the exit. Spike growls at Harry and Roy one last time then follows him through the door and outside into the vivid afternoon light. They crunch across the red earth to the day-glo-yellow Loach.
Spike barks.
‘Yes, I’m pissed off. I had it under control. I was guaranteeing it would never happen again and then you turn up and it happened again!’
He climbs into the chopper and Spike jumps in beside him. Corey begins the process of firing up the turbine then stops, slumps back in the seat and runs a hand through his short, mouse-blonde hair. ‘Man.’
A bark.
‘Because I’m too pissed off to fly right now, is why.’ Corey watches the sun as it gently slips behind the horizon, astonished he’s reached this low point. ‘These are meant to be the best years of my life.’
But they aren’t and the reason is panting on the seat beside him. Soon after buying Spike as a pup three years before, for the not inconsiderable sum of $215, Corey realised he could speak to the animal. Now ordinarily, speaking to dogs was no big deal, people did it all the time. What set Spike apart was that he answered back.
At first Corey wasn’t sure what to make of it. No one else seemed to know what the dog was saying, yet Corey understood him perfectly. Corey thought he might have some kind of ‘brain issue’ so he went to see his doctor on Bath Street, who ran all manner of tests and took X-rays and scans, all of which came up negative. The first doctor referred him to a second, who asked him all sorts of weird and quite frankly inappropriate questions, some about his long-dead parents. After five visits the second doctor was still unable to come up with an explanation, so Corey stopped worrying about it and quit going.
He liked the dog and enjoyed the conversations. Then Cameron, one of his oldest mates, noticed what was going on and asked him about it. Corey, who always believed truth to be the best policy, explained the situation. Bad idea. Perhaps his worst ever and he’d had some shockers. His life was never the same again.
Alice Springs is a small town and Corey quickly became known as ‘that crazy dog guy’. Suddenly everyone was giving him a wide berth. He was shunned, and it was both upsetting and depressing. Then things took a turn for the worse.
Corey’s bread and butter was flying tourists around the Northern Territory. He was a safe, reliable pilot who was frequently hired by Les, who in turn was contracted by the small group of tourist operators who worked out of Alice Springs Airport. On a flight to Uluru, the big red boulder that used to be called Ayers Rock, Corey was carrying a group of four elderly Rotary Club members from Illinois. Spike wanted to see the rock so Corey decided to bring him along, for the first time on a work flight. He’d have to sit in the front and keep quiet, but it wasn’t a long trip so Corey was sure it would be fine.
Another bad idea. The Jet Ranger Corey was flying developed turbine trouble halfway to the rock and during the emergency Corey held a quick conversation with Spike about procedures if they crash landed, which they did. One of the Rotarians broke a hand and the other three were a little bruised and scratched up, though it would have been much worse if not for Corey’s expert handling of the situation. Unfortunately the injured Rotarians linked his conversation with the dog to the accident, even though shoddy maintenance work performed by one tub-o-lard Harry Kelsy was to blame.
Disaster didn’t strike until the Rotarians arrived back in Illinois. Instead of thanking his lucky stars it hadn’t been worse, the Rotarian with the broken hand tapped out a stern letter about the ‘crazy dog guy’ pilot and sent it to the travel agent who had booked their outback tour. It probably would have ended there except the travel agent was the largest operator in the Midwest and its CEO was a dyed-in-the-wool Rotarian.
Subsequently, Les Whittle and the other flight contractors were warned to keep ‘that crazy dog guy’ away from tourists in the future or they wouldn’t be hired again. The operators readily complied as they couldn’t afford to alienate the Americans who sent them over half their business.
So, just like that, Corey’s career flying tourists was done and dusted. Since then he’s had to scrounge for work wherever he could find it. At the moment that meant occasionally mustering livestock or moving hay bales for Clem Alpine on his cattle station, and he only had that job because no one else wanted to work for the cranky old coot.
Corey knows he could have made his life easier if he had lied when first asked about Spike. He could have kept quiet and hid it from view. The problem with that is that he didn’t like to lie, so on the rare occasion when he did it didn’t come naturally. He could never keep track of who he’d told what to and was inevitably caught out.
Spike barks.
Corey drags his eyes from the burning horizon and looks at the dog. ‘I know, mate. Apology accepted.’
The dog barks again.
‘Yeah, let’s go home.’ Corey works the controls and the Loach’s turbine screams to life. With a blast of red dust the little chopper rises off the desert and thumps towards that blazing horizon.
Corey glances at the dog. He’d lost his friends and his job and had been an outcast for three years because of this animal and yet he would never think of getting rid of him, the irony being that Spike was now the only one he could talk to who didn’t think he was crazy.
**
4
Henri is flying by ear. Before departure Kelvin had disconnected a series of circuits so the Galaxy would be invisible to commercial and military air-traffic controllers and couldn’t be tracked. Unfortunately that also means the jet is invisible to other aircraft. So, as it’s the middle of the night and pitch black outside, the Frenchman listens for the Galaxy’s Traffic Alert and Collision Avoidance System alarm.
The TACAS is set to its maximum range of 50 kilometres but even that will give Henri little time to react if the alarm sounds. The combined closing speed between the Galaxy and another jet will be approximately 1800 kilometres an hour and he’ll have less than a minute to disengage the autopilot and change course.
To minimise the chance of a midair collision the Galaxy is on a track 3000 feet higher than the regular commuter corridors. It’s not the commercial airliners that concern Henri, though. It’s the rich guys in their Lears and Grummans, flying their own routes. Slamming into Greg Norman’s G-V or John Travolta’s 707 as they tool around the Pacific is not how Henri wants this night to end. So he waits and listens for the alarm.
The Frenchman has the flight deck to himself as the others catch some shut-eye in the troop compartment behind him. They deserve the rest as they’ve had a busy few days. The Galaxy’s fifty-five-minute hop from Davis-Monthan Air Force Base across the border to Mexico was uneventful. With Davis-Monthan out of action and the Galaxy out of US airspace within forty minutes, the authorities had scant time to locate the jet, let alone attempt a shoot-down. Henri was happy to confirm that over a decade after 9/11, America’s air defences
were as thin and porous as they’d ever been.
It was just past one a.m. when the Galaxy touched down in a remote area north-east of Nuevo Casas Grandes, the Sierra Madre Occidental looming to the west. The dusty, makeshift runway had been prepped perfectly and Kelvin parked the Galaxy near the fuel tankers Dirk and Nico had brought with them. For its next trip the big jet would be filled to the brim. As the Galaxy was juiced up Henri’s crew covered it with three enormous beige tarpaulins, camouflaging the shape of the aircraft to match the arid landscape as a precaution against a spy satellite identifying it from above. Fuelling the aircraft took almost three times as long as the flight from Davis-Monthan, but by sun-up it was done.
Henri then connected his MacBook to the internet via a satellite phone. If he’d been surprised by the non-existent air defences in the American south-west and the ease of their escape, he was stunned by the lack of media interest in the Galaxy’s theft. The story barely registered, and was greeted with an almost universal shrug of indifference. That the aircraft could be used as an instrument of mass destruction was raised on a handful of news websites, but it seemed to Henri that America had become complacent about the threat of another terrorist attack in the decade since 9/11. It didn’t help that the air force, to save their blushes, played down the explosion at Davis-Monthan, describing it as a fuel truck that had caught fire then exploded during the theft. In the name of base security all photography of the site was banned.
The story may have gained greater traction in the news cycle if Lady Gaga hadn’t crashed her Mercedes AMG into Rihanna’s Aston Martin while leaving the Viper Room that morning. Cameraphone footage of the fender bender dominated news websites. In comparison, the Galaxy’s theft just didn’t cut it. There were no photographs or videos of the plane being taken, or of the damage at Davis-Monthan. Without images, the story became just another military screw-up in a long line of screw-ups that would be investigated in due course by the relevant authorities. That was just how Henri wanted it.
After sundown they removed the tarpaulins and the Galaxy took wing with enough avgas in its tanks for the sixteen-hour journey across the Pacific. Now, through the windscreen, Henri sees flecks of light on the horizon that tell him the journey is drawing to an end. It’s the first time he’s visited this country. He’d always planned to take a holiday here with his wife, but, inevitably, something prevented it. Then she was murdered.
He speaks into his headset’s microphone. ‘Okay, everybody up. We’re here.’
**
Brisbane International Airport Security Officer Owen Solness has lost his keys. And they’re not just any keys, they’re the keys to the airport. He has no idea where he left them. He thought he may have locked them in his Hyundai, but no, they’re not there.
He retraces his steps from the car, every scrap of rubbish in the car park giving him hope they are about to be found, but, ultimately, no joy. At least he has plenty of opportunity to look for them. At this time of night Brisbane International Airport is a ghost town.
It’s the second thing that’s gone wrong tonight. Half an hour earlier his mobile phone battery up and died on him. That’s no great disaster. There’s only one person who’d be calling him. Deirdre. Wanting to chat. Recently his fiancée’s calls have ended with a verbal prod for him to work on his application to the Federal Police detective training program whenever he has a spare moment. It needs to be lodged in two weeks. She’s right, of course, he should work on it, but the application worries him. He’s better than he appears on paper but he doesn’t know how to show it. The training program is highly selective so he needs to find a point of difference, something that will really make him stand out. He just doesn’t know what it is.
**
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, sittin
g 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.’
Velocity Page 4
