Redback

by Lindy Cameron

  Brody meanwhile, during a leisurely taxi pursuit of Ashraf and Kali, had updated the CO of his Aussie Recon Unit, Captain Carter, via a scrambled mobile call to the same HQ. His question, given that their prey had literally strolled away from capture without even knowing it was imminent, had been: ‘now what?’

  Carter said he’d get back to him asap, no doubt after he’d nipped across the hallway to consult with his US counterpart and the local CIA boss. Will Carter was commander of Brody’s five-member Special Air Service Regiment patrol. He was a good bloke but his hands were tied by playing support fiddle to Captain Nolan, who in turn was orchestrated by Agent O’Leary.

  The SASR troopers were secretly deployed up here in Woop Woop, alongside a 12-strong US Special Forces detachment. Together, with only the CIA knew how many spooks, they were part of the ongoing, never-ending fight against militants, insurgents, terrorists and Taliban in the region. ‘Operation Northern Arrow’ was, however, an unofficial Coalition counterinsurgency mission.

  Brody lit a smoke, a sweet change from exhaust fumes, and wondered what kind of cell they’d be chucked in if the Pakistani Intel organisation discovered what the Aussies and Americans were doing here. The ISI didn’t have the best rep when it came to their treatment of spying foreigners, even those ostensibly on their side. Then he remembered: if the shit started flying, the presence of the Special Forces guys was covered by the concurrent official US-Pakistani military exercises going on north-east of town. That would leave only the Aussies with some explaining to do.

  That’d be bloody right. Brody took a swig from his water bottle. How the hell do we always end up like shags on a rock?

  By the time Captain Carter had rung back with his answer, the two ‘known terrorists’ had led him all the way out to Karkhanai Bazaar, at the edge of the Tribal Areas, on the road to the Khyber Pass. There they bought what looked like a Playstation before heading back to town. By 19.00 hours they were ensconced in the Hotel Marhaba where Ashraf had been staying for, at least, the last three days. How long he’d actually been in town, or rather not in Morocco, was anybody’s guess.

  Carter’s answer had been, ‘keep up the surveillance’ followed by an emphatic, ‘under no circumstance engage the enemy’.

  So Brody rang Mudge who joined him outside the Hotel Marhaba, where they remained until the boys began their three-hour sightseeing tour at 21.30. And here they were. Still.

  ‘Are we keeping going with the round and round?’ asked the auto-rickshaw driver, their third for the night, as he pulled up behind an old GAZ, a seriously-abused Russian car with no roof, and four goats on the back seat.

  ‘Maybe once or twice more,’ Brody shrugged, glancing at this watch. Their relief team was due any minute.

  ‘Yeah,’ Mudge said. ‘But only because we’ve got nothing better to do. It’s not like we can go to the pub.’

  The driver rolled his eyes but took off after the GAZ and the goats until Brody noticed that their targets had turned into Qasim Road, again, and asked him to take the next left.

  Mudge burped. ‘Okay, now I’ve had enough to eat.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Brody said, and then waved at the street. ‘So, what’s the common denominator do you think?’

  ‘Well, I’d put my money on it being the American Consulate on the corner back there.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Brody agreed. ‘We’d better go wake Bamm-Bamm.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Killeen, Texas

  Tuesday 3 pm

  ‘During the Cold War, you know before the Russian commies fell flat on their red faces, this here was the biggest base in the free world. During peacetime it’s open to the public.’

  ‘Oh, well shit Micah, how we going to get in?’

  ‘Easy as, Jesse-Jay; because these morons apparently don’t know we are at war. It seems they’ve been paying no mind to their own government which keeps telling us we’re fighting a war - somewhere.

  ‘But it sure as hell ain’t here,’ Micah tapped his clipboard, ‘because here, there’s like free access to the park, the lake and even the museums on the base. Oh, okay, apparently some bits are off-limits, you know, since 9/11 and all. But there’s even an airport that we could’ve flown right into if we’d wanted.’

  ‘Ha, that would’ve been an ironical way to get in there,’ Jesse-Jay grinned. He offered Micah some more of his fries, before sitting the container on the dashboard. They were in a shady spot of the MacDonald’s carpark killing time after the drive from Dallas. Rendezvous with the others was still 15 minutes off.

  ‘So this here is a 340 square mile installation, stretching 26 miles east to west, and 24 from north to south,’ Micah read out. ‘Population is around 72,000, which is more than 45,000 soldiers plus their families. They live in the 6000 houses or the 100 barracks, and for their kids they got nine schools. God almighty, I bet we don’t have that many in the whole of Panola County.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Jesse-Jay said. ‘I sure got sent to a few.’

  Micah squinted at his driver. ‘You mean kicked out of a few.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘Well, at the soldier school here they got a thing called the Close Combat Tactical Trainer where they use - ha, get this - realistic video-game scenarios to learn how to use the equipment and interact as a unit.’

  ‘You’re kidding, just like us. Except I bet theirs is like a huge million-dollar Playstation.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Micah agreed then went back to his reading. ‘Home of the III Corps, Fort Hood is the only two-division post in the United States, those divisions being the full armoured ones of the 1st Cavalry and the 4th Infantry. They also got a Signal Brigade, a Finance Group, Military Police, and, ah here’s the kicker, the 504th Military Intelligence Brigade.’

  ‘What, why is that a kicker?’

  ‘Because Jesse-Jay, where you got one lot of spooks you’re bound to have them all. Remember what the Colonel told us about the CIA training fighters in Afghanistan?’

  Jesse-Jay looked blank for a moment, wishing he was half as smart as Micah, or at least had a better memory, and then it hit him. He grinned. ‘They trained Osama and them other mujas that invented al-Qaeda.’

  ‘Yeah, them other ‘Mujahideen’,’ Micah corrected him. ‘Our CIA trained towel-heads from a heap of different countries to push the Russians out of Afghanistan, and then not 20 years later we had to go back and bomb the crap out of those same freedom fighters for sheltering the terrorists who blew up the World Trade Center.’

  ‘So they say,’ Jesse-Jay nodded sagely, to show he remembered some things.

  ‘So they say,’ Micah agreed. ‘Do you know what they call Fort Hood’s III Corps?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘America’s Hammer - that’s pretty cool isn’t it? Fort Hood also has the 13th Sustainment Command, which provides logistic support to the III Corps when they’re garrisoned here or,’ Micah raised his index finger, ‘theatre-level support while deployed. In plain American, Jesse-Jay, that means they supply the Corps when they’re at war. Like now, when America’s Hammer is designated ‘expeditionary’. That means they’re allegedly over there in the Middle East, fighting a war.’

  ‘Except they’re letting us ordinary folks into Fort Hood, so…’

  ‘So where’s the war? Exactly. That being the basis of our Colonel’s argument against our lying so-called government: either we’re at war, or we’re at peace. We can’t be both.’

  ‘Where’d you get all this information?’ Jesse-Jay asked.

  ‘From the internet. I just Googled ‘Fort Hood’ and got all these specs and even some satellite photos.’

  ‘Yeah, but they wouldn’t put the truth up on there, would they? I mean they can’t be relied on for any kind of truth-telling.’

  ‘Now that there is a good point,’ Micah stroked his goatee. ‘Okay then, this is what they say they do here at Fort Hood.‘The III Corps is the Nation’s Counteroffensive Force and, on order, condu
cts decisive full spectrum joint or combined combat operations. The Force is designed to meet current needs in a dangerous and unstable world and is offensive in nature.’ Offensive is right.’ Micah snorted, lighting a cigarette. ‘This is unbelievable, Jess. Because why, pray tell, is this unstable world so damn dangerous?’

  Good question, Jesse-Jay thought, hoping Micah was going to answer it himself.

  Micah stopped just long enough to take a drag on his smoke. ‘Because bases like this one also train them foreign World Order troops. Then our boys get sent on joint missions with them, to truly Godforsaken countries, just because our illegitimate Federal Government wants to stick its nose in other folks’ business.

  ‘And it’s all just practice for when the Government, the ATF and the FBI strike at the actual heart of America, and start stripping us of our rights. Forget them just going door to door and taking our guns, Jesse, they’ll convince the military to take over our very streets. We’d be powerless then. This military installation alone has got like 500 tanks, thousands of other armed vehicles, and 200 or more planes and helicopter gunships. Hell, there’s already scores of United Nations platoons bivouacking in our national parks and all through them hills in back of Fort Hood. They’re training, Jesse, and they’re using Hood’s 50 fucking firing ranges, just waiting the day.’

  ‘So maybe we should stop em, Micah.’

  ‘In their track, Jess, in their tracks,’ Micah grinned. ‘So let’s go meet the others.’

  US State Department’s Operations Center,

  Washington

  Tuesday 4 pm

  Secretary of Defense Nathan van Louden had been fielding calls from the President, the Vice President, the Governor of Texas, Military Liaison of Homeland Security, and three of the six Joint Chiefs of Staff. The only one who could tell him anything was Governor Bodine, and that hadn’t been a whole hell of a lot.

  So far the thinking was that either al-Qaeda or a domestic group was responsible. Although, admittedly, not a lot of thought had actually gone into that thinking; it was more like a leap to the obvious. Much as he didn’t want another run-in with an international terrorist group of any kind, van Louden had decided the alternative would actually be worse. He did not want to believe that Americans could do this to their own. Not any more. Not after 9/11.

  Because the either-or of the situation was so unpalatable, the SecDef had not seen the gallows humour in the suggestion earlier on, by one of Aiden Bonney’s analysts, that the bomb might have been left by a disgruntled parking customer. Van Louden had come very close to punching the guy in the nose.

  Calls to the phone in front of him, one of about ten in the room, had been rerouted from his office at the Pentagon. They were being screened but they hadn’t let up for nearly an hour.

  He reached for his coffee mug and stood to stretch his legs, just as the damn thing rang again. It was the DoD operator again. ‘Yes Sandra?’

  ‘Mr van Louden sir, it’s your sister calling.’

  ‘My sister? Oh no Sandra, I can’t be taking personal calls in the middle of a crisis. Abigail should know that.’

  ‘Yes sir, but I get the impression that she maybe has a crisis of her own. She sounds very upset.’

  Van Louden’s irritated sigh was suddenly overtaken by a fearful chill. Please God, don’t let any of my family have been in Dallas today. ‘Put her through, Sandra.’

  A minute later, at the sound of the telephone hitting the table, Secretary of State Bonney turned from the screen he was watching. ‘My God, Nathan, are you okay?’

  Nathan van Louden’s face was a sickly grey-white. ‘My, ah, my, ‘ he took a deep breath and shook his head.

  Bonney joined three other men in a rush to help his friend, who had collapsed back into his chair.

  ‘Abigail’s grandson,’ van Louden continued, ‘you know, my great-nephew Justin; and his stepmother Cassie, and several of their friends…’

  ‘Oh no, Nathan, they weren’t in Dallas.’

  ‘No, Aiden,’ he fixed his gaze on Bonney, ‘they were on that fucking train in Luxembourg. Officials from State, from here, who didn’t know I was with you, have been to Houston already. As far as they know, so far, they’re all dead.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  InterContinental, Wellington

  Wednesday 11.30 am

  Gideon entered the hotel’s ninth-floor Presidential Suite and did a quick head count and ID check: 19 ex-hostages, two Redbacks, one ASIS Agent. She headed for the refreshment table to grab a mug of the only legal substance that would take the edge off this tedious occasion.

  Another five hostage-delegates sauntered in, poured coffees and joined those already re-engaged in conversation after a two-hour freshen-up in their hotel rooms. Gideon noted that, with the exception of one limpet-like couple, the Laui crowd was mingling in changing groups of at least four, almost as if they never wanted to be caught in any space with only one other person ever again.

  Though she knew the situation was about to change, and not in a good way, for the time being John Brand was the only Aussie ‘official’ in sight. What’s more, the usually circumspect agent appeared to be multi-tasking: loitering with intent near the limpet couple on the far side of the room while also drinking coffee and giving Triko and Coop a tai chi lesson.

  Feeling a strong need to revitalise her mind, or stare blankly at some scenery, Gideon turned away from the people who were no longer her responsibility. The huge windows, on the far side of the suite’s reception area were bound to offer a mind-altering panorama of the local scenery.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re here considering we all signed that scroll of secrecy.’

  Damn! Gideon looked left and found one of the Australian hostages smiling at her. If memory served - correction, if it was awake - this was Sally Tan: 42, divorced, independently wealthy, and co-founder of EcOceania the Australian travel industry’s largest Pacific ecotourism organisation.

  Right behind her, cheerfully pouring coffee for two was Jana Rossi, still bright-eyed and humming on all cylinders. She’s gotta be on drugs.

  Gideon shrugged at Sally. ‘Our ability to do what we do, what we did for you, does rely on us not being publicly outed. That said, I am here to demonstrate that while we’ve asked for your cooperation we are not some government black-ops outfit.’

  ‘With ways of keeping us silent,’ Jana said, handing a mug to Sally.

  Gideon gave a half smile.

  ‘But you’re heroes - our heroes,’ Sally insisted. ‘You deserve credit for rescuing us.’

  ‘Your safety and thanks are all we need,’ Gideon said, wishing that hadn’t sounded quite so trite; especially as it looked like the Doc was thinking pretty much the same thing.

  Jana, in fact, was noting how Gideon obviously hated presenting as anything other than aloof and commanding.

  ‘Well it’s not nearly enough,’ Sally declared.

  ‘But it does means we prevailed,’ Gideon said. ‘Besides we can’t sneak up on the next bad guys if everyone knows what we look like.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Sally agreed.

  ‘So your team mates over there aren’t poised to drag us out the back for a good talking to, if it looks like we’re going to give you up to Sixty Minutes?’

  ‘Of course not, Jana,’ Gideon frowned. ‘It’d be more efficient just to shoot you where you stand.’

  Sally laughed heartily. ‘Well you needn’t worry Ms Smith-and-Jones, your secret identity is safe. We’re all so amazed to be alive and off that bloody island that we are forever in your debt, signed thing or not.’

  Yeah right. Gideon smiled politely. Until someone offers you real money for your story.

  ‘A few tunes might change when the current affairs shows start lining up with cheque books,’ Jana said, as if she’d read Gideon’s mind.

  ‘Well, I can tell you even an iron-clad contract of non-disclosure won’t protect you from that fool,’ Sally nodded towards her personal nightmare, Shirley Moore. ‘I mean
, she wouldn’t know Sixty Minutes from an ab-shaping infomercial, but if Ralph magazine approached her for a Survivor-type centrefold then you and your team could be headlines in no time. I therefore suggest a complete brainwash just to be sure, although you’d have to find it first. Damn, I think I need more sleep.’

  Gideon just stood there. Damn indeed. The woman talks even more than Jana Rossi.

  ‘Yeah well,’ Jana began.

  Okay, maybe not.

  ‘He’s the one I wouldn’t trust,’ Jana said, wondering at the same time if Alan was handcuffed to Shirley. ‘He’ll find some way to get around that contract. The man’s a complete wanker. Can you believe he’s looking for an angle on our misadventure, like it’s not already the biggest story of his life.’

  ‘Hence the watchful eye of my colleagues.’

  Jana glanced at Gideon to see if she was joking, but who could tell? ‘He won’t do anything now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ Sally said. ‘Isn’t he walking proof that blonde jokes are unisexual?’ She glanced apologetically at her colleague. ‘No offence, Jana.’

  ‘None taken,’ Jana smiled.

  Gideon looked away. Yakkety-yakkety-yak.

  Sally returned to scowling. ‘Shirley’s a Kiwi for crap’s sake. She’s home, she should go there. Why is she still here?’

  ‘You mean besides us not letting any of you go yet?’

  ‘Yeah, besides that.’

  Gideon cocked her head. ‘I believe your ex-roommates have been having sex - for the last two hours - with each other.’

  ‘Oh, too much info,’ Jana pulled a face. ‘But please, tell me you got photos.’

  Gideon raised an eyebrow.

  ‘For blackmail purposes,’ Jana insisted.

  ‘How can you tell?’ Sally asked.

  ‘It’s bloody obvious,’ Gideon said.

  ‘I thought Alan was just wearing her,’ Jana said.