by Patrick Ford
“Make a note,” Jack said.
They examined the office building, checked the power and the hot water system, gave the doors and windows the once over. Everything was fine. “That back area could double as a RAP,” said Andy.
“Make a note,” Jack said.
Next was the hangar. “Shit,” Andy said, “it’s big enough to hold a parade in!”
“With our full establishment we will have the two Land Rovers and trailers of the weapons platoon, another Land Rover and trailer for Battalion HQ, and two three ton trucks. We should have plenty of room for them,” Jack said. “What do you think?”
“Easy,” said Andy.
“Make a note.” said Jack.
“That corner could be partitioned off for a Q-store,” said Andy, “and there will have to be a secure room for an armoury.” The battalion had around 700 rifles, 20 M60s, mortars and RPGs, grenades and ammunition.
Jack said, “We will have to have a secure brick building, built to army standards, good locks, and good ventilation. What do you think?”
“Make a note,” Andy said.
After lunch, they headed for home. Susan stretched like a cat and went to sleep, tired out by their lovemaking and feeling like a honeymooner. And why not, she thought, every day is a honeymoon with my little bush kid.
They arrived home in the late afternoon. Ollie was there to meet them. “We will have to start early tomorrow to brand and tag those steers,” Jack said.
“It’s all done, Boss,” said Ollie, “We did them this morning.”
Jack gave thanks to the Gods that had given him such good men.
Jacqui smothered her parents with kisses and hugs. Even baby Patrick seemed to recognise Susan. He held out his little arms and she swept him up, hugged and kissed him. “How is my even littler bush kid?” she said. “Mommy has missed you.”
“He has been a good little boy, thanks to Jacqui who mothered him all the time.” Helen said.
“Well,” said Jacqui, “I want him to grow up really fast so I can play with him.”
“Susan,” said Helen, “while you were away there was some mail for you. It looks like all your family wants to know what you have been doing.” Susan looked at the mail. There were letters from her mother, from Jimbo, and from Sarah. She looked at the US stamps, and experienced a twinge of nostalgia. She remembered her childhood, all those essential American things, hot dogs and hamburgers, baseball, school proms, high school football, and huge Chevrolets, Fords, and Chryslers. It would be nice to go back, even for a little while to visit.
Jimbo’s letter was short and to the point. Promoted to Staff Sergeant, his work at Fort Benning was going well. He was exempted from further combat duty; the ligaments in his shoulder would always give him trouble. Susan was glad. A sore shoulder was better than KIA.
Sarah enjoyed her work. She had a social life again and a romantic interest in her life. Who knows where this would lead, but she was happy to live in the moment. She reported good progress in her mother’s treatment.
Marci’s letter was poignant, recalling all the good times in Susan’s youth, remembering her father, with whom she had shared a special bond. Marci was so sorry at how her actions had hurt her daughter, and she wanted nothing more than to go back to the beginning and start over. Could Susan ever forgive her? Later that night, sleepy, warm, and snuggled into Jack’s shoulder, she brought up the subject of a return to America. Jack said, “Darling, you must reconcile with your family. How about we make plans to see them next year. I would like to see something of American farming methods. September would be good, before it gets too cold there. Your family needs to see how happy you are. They will want to see young Patrick.”
Susan felt so happy about this. She had known it was time to reconcile and she was so happy Jack wanted it too.
Chapter 10
Best Eaten Cold
The man once known only as Rashid sat in the shade in the Madan in Kuala Lumpur and watched the frenetic traffic. Hundreds of apparently suicidal motorbike riders hurtled past, swerving and dodging amongst the multitude of cars and multi-coloured taxis. He was about to embark on a new stage in his life. The ultimate goals: revenge and absolution. It had been a long journey to reach this place. He had headed north in Abdul’s boat, through some of the more than seven thousand islands in the Indonesian archipelago. He travelled at night and lay up during the day. He did not know if he was the subject of a search, but he did not take the chance.
Finally, he reached the island of Sulawesi. In the main town, Makassar, he was able to access his account in the Cayman Islands and refuel the boat for the rest of his journey to the Malaysian coast. He followed the coast north up the Gulf of Thailand to the island of Ko Samui, where, late at night, he opened the scuttling cocks, launched the rubber dingy, and made his way ashore. Early in the morning, he boarded a ferry to the mainland.
By now, his long beard and hair and his tattered clothing rendered him almost invisible among the locals. Soon he was on a crowded bus to Bangkok. There are a thousand places in the poor areas of Bangkok to hide. Here among the rusting shanties of the poor, he lived for many months as a homeless derelict, changing his location frequently. Finally, he judged it safe to emerge from oblivion. Near the Bangkok Port in the Khlong Toei District, it was easy to obtain a false passport. He moved from supplier to supplier, obtaining Italian and Spanish identification, and finally a Canadian passport. Canada was an easy country to enter. Once there, it would be a simple task to cross into the United States at any of a thousand places on the long border from the Great Lakes to the Rocky Mountains.
He did not go near a Mosque or give any sign of his Muslim faith, but he prayed to Allah daily. He must do something spectacular, something against the infidels. If the act was significant, he might be released from his fatwa and enter Paradise. He had used his Spanish passport and, dressed in the casual attire of a tourist, took a train from Bangkok to Kuala Lumpur. No questions arose at the border crossing; his dark Mediterranean features passed him off easily as a Spaniard. This evening he would board another train for Singapore, where he would emerge as the well-dressed Italian, Pietro Massimo.
During his long sojourn, he had found a number of English language newspapers. The affair of the Sunbird III had received wide coverage. He learned of his failure to destroy the ship, and the fate of Abdul Amir Mahomet and his fellows. Two names stood out in these reports, the Australian soldiers who had frustrated his plan, Major Riordan and Sergeant Pennini. They would pay with their lives for their temerity. Tomorrow, he would board a Qantas flight to Sydney. He would find these infidels and eliminate them. Abdul was in jail in Australia. He could wait. A quick death was too good for him.
* * * *
Pietro Massimo telephoned the army public relations number he had found in the hotel phone book. He had taken a room in a small hotel in the suburb of Bondi. From his window, he had a nice view of the beach and the blue Pacific. He looked down on the inhabitants who thronged both the beach and the numerous cafes and bars along the street. Barbarians, he thought, guzzling food and drinking large glasses of beer. How they will pay when the world finally belongs to Islam. Allah will see to that.
A crisp voice answered him. “How can I help you, sir?”
“Si, I am a reporter for an Italian news magazine, ‘la Vita’. I am writing a series of articles about your country, articles that are off the beaten track, as you might say. I am writing about the ship taken by pirates last year. I wish to interview the officer and sergeant who saved the ship. Can you give me a number for them?”
“I am sorry, sir, we cannot give out private details of our personnel. If you want such information, you will have to apply in writing to army headquarters”
Curses, he thought. “Grazie,” he said. He would have to try some other method. He found a number for the Sydney Morning Herald. Could he research their back numbers? Yes, he could. He wrote down the address.
He searched around about the date
of the rescue. There he found what he was looking for. Both men were not regular soldiers, but reservists. The Major lived in a place with a strange name—Goondiwindi. The Sergeant had many entries. He had received a decoration for his part in the affair. He lived in Townsville. He bought a road map in a bookstore. Both towns were in the State of Queensland, but separated by more than a thousand miles. He did not know where to start. The Sergeant would be easier, he thought. He was a mere minion, not an officer. He would belong to the beer swilling working class, brainless and easy to fool. He purchased a one-way airfare to Townsville.
* * * *
Pietro Massimo arrived in Townsville in the middle of the morning. He was dressed as a tourist, slightly disheveled, looking for the cheaper accommodation. He found a run-down motel. There he settled in to make his plans. Italian names are common in North Queensland. Italian immigrants founded the sugar cane industry many generations ago. He would not stand out here. He hired a car and paid with one of his false credit cards. It was a risk, but he did not want to go through the lengthy discussion paying with cash would entail. Despite his appearance, Pietro’s English left a lot to be desired, particularly with this strange Australian dialect.
A telephone book gave him an address. He drove to it to check it out. The house sat on the outskirts of the city, on an acreage estate. He parked and went on foot to spy out the land. The house was a mid-sized bungalow, surrounded by lush tropical vegetation. Good, he thought, plenty of cover. There was a car in the garage and washing on the line. As he watched, a young woman came out of the house and began to hang out some baby clothes. Therefore, he had children to consider. He did not like it when children were involved, but he steeled himself. If necessary, they would die too. He retreated to his car. He drove around for a while until he located a telephone box, then phoned the house. A young woman answered. “Hello, this is Angela, can I help you?” “Si, I am reporter for the Italia news magazine la Vita. I wish to make the interview with Sargente Pennini. He was the hero, no?” He laid on a thick accent to embellish his credentials.
“I’m sorry. Ray is not here right now. He works long shifts in the nickel mine, ten days on, ten days off. He only went out to Lodestone the day before yesterday. It will be a week before he comes home again.”
“Grazie, I will try again later.” I now know where he is working, he thought. There I will kill him; it would also avoid complications from the children. He drove back to the city and found an outdoor equipment shop. Rifles were easy to buy in Australia, but pistols were not. Pietro purchased an evil looking hunting knife. This will be better, he thought. With this, I can kill him slowly.
Lodestone was about 100 miles from Townsville. Pietro arrived there about nine in the morning and looked about for a tourist information centre. He found one on the main street and began to ask questions about the nickel mine. Half an hour later, he had the information he wanted. He now knew the shifts changed at midday. The off-shift miners usually met in the Imperial Hotel for a drink.
The girl in the information centre had been eager to talk of Pennini. He was something of a local hero in these parts. “Gave ‘im a lovely medal, they did, ‘e was ever so brave.”
She showed him newspaper reports and photos of the medal ceremony. Now he knew what Pennini looked like. The rest would be easy. He waited outside near the hotel. He found a bakery and bought some Turkish bread and a cup of atrocious coffee. They cannot even make coffee properly, these barbarians, he thought. The girl behind the counter wore a short skirt and a figure-hugging top. Harlot, he thought, there will be no mercy for you; you will go straight to Hell.
Just after noon, the mineworkers began to trickle into town. He entered the pub and, for cover, purchased a beer, and pretended to sip at it, hidden in a corner. Soon the bar was crowded and the staff busy. Nobody noticed he was not drinking. It took half an hour before Peninni came in, accompanied by several friends. They began to drink, downing large glasses of beer and talking loudly. He looked at his quarry. He saw a stocky young man, swarthy in appearance. What he did not notice was the solid body under the baggy work clothes.
Soon, he thought, the beer will fill their bladders, and they will be easy meat. He fingered the small doorstop in his pocket and waited. From time to time he would spill a little of his beer, soaking it up with several coasters from the table.
Suddenly, he saw Pennini put down his glass. “Time for a piss,” he said to his companions. “I’ll come with you, mate,” said one of his friends. They both moved towards the back of the hotel where the toilets were located.
Pietro was frustrated. He had hoped he would have had an opportunity with Pennini alone. He sat back and waited again. Pennini’s companions gradually finished their beers and drifted out the doors. Soon only Pennini and one other remained. This man eventually took his leave. “Hooroo,” he said, “see you tomorrow.”
The barman said to Pennini, “One for the road, Ray?”
“No, mate, but I might have a leak before I go.” His chance had come. Pennini, obviously intoxicated, stumbled into the back of the pub. Like a cat, Pietro was across the floor and close behind him, following him into the toilet. Pietro was guilty of hasty planning. Ray Pennini had seen him sitting alone. Like most Bushmen, he noticed things like a stranger hanging around, hardly touching his drink. The staggering walk was just a subterfuge. He entered the toilet, headed for the urinal, and suddenly turned around. He saw Pietro in the process of wedging the doorstop under the door. “What the fuck!” he said. He looked at Pietro. There was something funny going on here. “What do you want, you dodgy bastard?”
Pietro looked at him. A grim smile crossed his face. “You,” he said drawing his knife. “You defused my bombs, now you die.” He lunged at Pennini, aiming the knife at his victim’s belly. One upward thrust and he would disembowel him. Then he could kill him nice and slowly.
The Australian Army trains all of its infantry soldiers in unarmed combat. Pennini stepped inside the lunging blade, grasped Pietro’s forearm, and bought it down across his knee. There was an audible ‘crack’ as the forearm broke and the knife went spinning across the tiled floor.
Pietro’s desperate eyes tried to follow it, and then his neck and shoulder were seized in an iron grip. He felt himself propelled across the floor and into the wall above the sink. Shattered glass from the mirror flew everywhere. The last thing he saw was the tiled floor coming up to meet him.
Peninni looked down at him. “You bastard,” he said. “What the fuck was that all about?” He went back to the bar. “Billy,” he said to the barman, “some prick tried to stab me. He’s out to it in the dunny. You better call the rozzers.” They hurried back to the toilet, but Pietro was gone. There was a pool of blood on the floor as well as the abandoned knife.
A hundred yards away, Pietro crouched alongside a large rock in the cover of some bushes. He was only semi-conscious. His head and neck were throbbing with pain; blood from his cuts has cascaded down his face, rendering him half blind. His forearm was badly broken, bone had pushed through the skin and it dangled uselessly. He had only one thought. Get far away from this place!
The police were about ten minutes getting to the pub. They began their questioning, took possession of the knife and obtained a good description of the assailant. “We’ll put out a warning on him,” said the Constable, "with that arm, he’ll stand out like dog’s balls.” Ray wasn’t so confident. He had had time to think. This had been no random attack. He had been targeted carefully and the man had mentioned defusing bombs. It must be about that ship. Jack might be the next on his list. He phoned his home and told Angela about the attack. “I’m okay,” he said, “but you better get the kids over to Mum’s place. Stay there until I get back.” Then he tried to phone Jack, but could not get through. He would try again tomorrow. Jack was a long way away anyway and in no immediate danger.
* * * *
Pietro found his car and drove rather shakily out of the town. He remembered that about fifty
miles down the road to Townsville the tropical rainforest reclaimed the countryside. He drifted in and out of consciousness, almost running the car off the road. Finally, the vegetation closed in around him. He found a logging track and drove in far enough to be invisible from the road. He wanted to sleep, to rest, but he knew he had no time. Pietro was no stranger to violent injury. He knew he was suffering from concussion, but the arm and head wounds needed attention first. He found the first aid kit and tipped its contents onto the car seat. One handed, he used gauze and sterile fluid to clean up his head. The cuts were superficial and the bleeding had stopped. He found aspirin and swallowed six tablets. He rested for a little while, and then gathered his strength for the hardest part.
He maneuvered his right elbow onto the central armrest so that his forearm pointed at the dashboard. Then, gritting his teeth and muttering prayers to Allah, he pulled his arm forward, twisting and bringing the bone back into alignment. He could not prevent the screams of pain, but the arm was almost straight again. He fainted. When he recovered, he looked around on the ground and found a stout stick. This he strapped to his arm with tape to act as a splint. Then he used a triangular bandage to fashion a sling. Thus treated, he set off for Townsville.
It was a nightmare drive in a sea of pain, but he got to his motel. He changed his bloody clothing and discarded it in a large industrial bin. Then he headed directly for the International Airport. He left the car in the long-term parking lot. With luck, it would remain unnoticed for a month or more. Armed with his Canadian passport, Michael Bowen, wearing a hat to cover his wounded scalp, entered the airport and purchased a ticket on the first international flight available. It took him to Fiji.
* * * *
The next day, Ray Pennini telephoned Jack. He related the events of the day before and asked Jack if he thought they might be connected to the Sunbird III.
