by Justin D'Ath
They had found the tracks I’d made when I left the Land Cruiser. Luckily the sand was soft and they couldn’t see that the footprints were actually coming towards them, not going away.
‘Follow me,’ the man said.
As the four terrorists went creeping off into the darkness, I jumped up and headed in the opposite direction. I ducked across a low dune and started running. I wanted to put as much distance as possible between me and the terrorists. In five minutes they would reach the Land Cruiser and realise they had gone the wrong way. In another five minutes they would be back, going the right way this time.
I had a ten-minute head start, but that doesn’t seem like much when there are men with guns coming after you. I ran blindly at first, concentrating on speed, not on where I was going. Big mistake. After a short time I had no idea which direction I was heading. It was even possible I was running in circles. I forced myself to stop and try to work out where I was. There were no other footprints in the moonlit sand around me. At least I wasn’t back where I started. I looked up at the moon. Had it been on my left when I started running? Or on my right? I couldn’t remember.
You idiot! I thought. My life hung in the balance, and I wasn’t using my head.
Nathan’s life hung in the balance as well. Nathan, who had been taking me out into the bush since I was about six years old and teaching me survival skills. Now, when it really mattered, I had forgotten everything he’d told me. I had let him down.
His voice back came to me now. First rule in a tight situation, bro: keep a cool head.
Okay. Now I was calm. Relatively calm, anyway, considering there were four armed terrorists coming after me and no help for hundreds of kilometres. I remembered Nathan’s advice again.
Second rule: work out your options and how likely they are to succeed.
I had two options: run away, or hide. Hiding was too risky – my tracks would lead the terrorists straight to me. So I had to keep running.
Third rule: take the most likely option, and remember to keep a cool head.
It all came back to rule one. Keep calm, use your head, think before you act. Running away from the terrorists wouldn’t work if I went in circles. First, I had to find out where they were, then I could use the moon as a guide to help me outrun them.
I climbed cautiously to the top of a low ridge and crouched between two clumps of spinifex. Although I kept telling myself to remain calm, my heart was galloping like the hooves of a racehorse. I scanned the moonlit desert in all directions, waiting for the terrorists to appear. It was agonising. Where were they? With every passing second, I knew they were getting closer. But I couldn’t run, because I didn’t know which way to go. I might choose the wrong direction and run straight into them.
And then it would be all over red rover.
Finally I saw a movement. First it was just the black silhouette of a man’s head and shoulders rising over the crest of a nearby dune, then the winking yellow eye of a torch appeared. The torch was shining on the ground, not at me, but I froze like a possum caught in headlights. The terrorists were only a hundred metres away, coming straight towards me. They’d see me if I moved. Cradling Joey through my shirt front, I forced myself to wait while the four stealthy figures filed down the dune into a slight dip. As soon as they were out of sight, I leapt to my feet and charged across the ridge.
For half a minute I ran flat out. Then I remembered Nathan’s advice about keeping a cool head and made myself slow down. Running in sand is very tiring; I had to conserve my energy. I kept the moon on my left and tried to stay in the dips between sand dunes. When I absolutely had to cross ridges, I ducked down and made myself as small as possible, scooting over the skyline on all fours like a chimpanzee.
It was tough going, especially on the uphill bits, but at least I was travelling light. I only had Joey to carry and he weighed hardly anything. My pursuers had heavy guns. It would slow them down. I tried not to think about their guns. Each time I did, a strange prickly feeling ran up and down my spine. I kept imagining a wobbly pink dot of light on the back of my shirt. I kept expecting to hear the terrifying crack-crack-crack of automatic gunfire.
Instead, I heard the sound of a motorbike.
I stopped in my tracks. The motorbike was directly ahead, just over the next sand dune. Its headlight lit up the spinifex on the skyline. I had no illusions about it being someone coming to my rescue. It was another terrorist, for sure. I was trapped. Four terrorists on foot behind, one on a motorbike in front. I had two choices: I could go left, or right.
I turned right. Head down, I raced along the gully between the two sand dunes. But I wasn’t fast enough. With a loud roar, the motorbike burst over the ridge only fifty metres away. It veered sharply in my direction. As its headlight came sweeping across the sand behind me, I fled like a hunted rabbit out the end of the gully.
And ran straight into the wall of a tent.
12
A MATTER OF NATIONAL SECURITY
The big army-style tent was draped in camouflage netting to prevent it being seen from the air. The netting was like a huge, soft spider’s web. It stopped Joey from being crushed by my body, but it caught me like a fly in a web. The motorbike’s bright beam swung towards me. At the very last second, I struggled free. It was too late to run. I threw myself to the ground, accidentally dragging a large section of the camouflage down on top of me.
I lay completely still, partially covered by netting. The motorbike came roaring out of the darkness. Its headlight was trained right on me. The edges of its light revealed other camouflaged tents all around me and a helicopter forty metres away. Behind the helicopter, and also covered in netting, was a row of military vehicles, including a huge, evil-looking tank. My blood ran cold at the sight of it. Whoever these terrorists were, they were planning something big.
For a moment I considered wriggling out from under the netting and making a dash for it, but I abandoned the idea just as quickly. I had blundered right into the terrorists’ secret stronghold. There was no escape. I would let them take me prisoner and try to talk my way out of it.
But I was fooling myself. The terrorists wouldn’t let me go – I had seen too much. No amount of talking would save me.
The motorbike slowed as it approached. All I could see was its headlight. It blinded me. I heard the rider change gears. There was a squeal of dusty brake pads, then the machine came to a standstill only a few metres away. The kickstand clunked down. I closed my eyes and tensed my whole body, waiting to be dragged out of my hiding place.
It didn’t happen. The terrorist walked right past me, so close that I heard the swish of his boots through the sand above the soft putter-putter of his motorbike in the background. He had left its engine idling. A zipper rasped and he went into the tent.
I opened my eyes and cautiously lifted my head. I couldn’t believe my good luck. The motorcyclist hadn’t seen me. He had come to the tent for some other reason. I listened to him rummaging around inside. Obviously he wasn’t planning on staying long, because he’d left his motorbike running and its headlight on. As soon as he rode away, I would climb out from under the netting and creep out of the terrorists’ camp by the same route I’d come in.
Good plan. Except that I’d forgotten to take into account one thing. I remembered it when I saw a flash of light fifty metres away. It was a torch beam trained on the ground. Four shadowy figures carrying guns came creeping along the gully towards me. They were following a line of footprints that led all the way to the pile of fallen netting where I lay hiding.
There wasn’t time to consider the probability of being shot. I had to act now or I’d be captured. Heaving the camouflage netting to one side, I sprang to my feet and raced over to the idling motorbike. There was a shout from the direction of the four terrorists, and a stifled exclamation from the doorway of the tent. I took no notice. In one fluid motion, I swung myself onto the bike, squeezed the clutch, stamped on the gearshift and gave it a fistful of throttle.
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The most powerful motorbike I’d ridden before that night was Nathan’s clapped-out Yamaha 250 bush basher. This was the latest-model Kawasaki KLR650. In the power department, it would have left Nathan’s heap of junk for dead.
It nearly left me for dead, too.
When I poured on the juice, the rear wheel dug in and the front wheel jerked off the ground in a massive mono. Shishkebab! I hung on for my life as the out-of-control Kawasaki roared between the tents on its rear wheel. I had done heaps of monos on my BMX, but this was totally different. Totally scary. I backed off the throttle and the front wheel hit the deck with a jarring thump. Not a moment too soon. Ducking my head, I shot beneath the cannon barrel of the tank. A gun-waving terrorist wearing just a singlet and camouflage trousers came running out of a tent. He dropped his gun and dived back into his tent as I nearly mowed him down.
A prickly sensation ran up and down my spine. I kept expecting to hear shots – I kept expecting to get shot – but all I heard above the roar of the Kawasaki’s engine was a series of confused and angry shouts.
They could shout all they liked – no way was I going to stop. There was much more at stake now than mine and Nathan’s lives. It was a matter of national security. Someone had to warn the authorities about the terrorists.
And that person was me.
13
SHOOTING GALLERY
I raced past the last few tents. There was open ground ahead. My headlight lit up the tall pale shape of a sand dune. I crouched low over the Kawasaki’s petrol tank, aware that I was nearly squashing Joey, but desperate to present as small a target as possible to the terrorists behind me. At any moment they would start shooting.
I rode flat out up the sand dune. The Kawasaki’s engine screamed. It was still in first – I had forgotten to change gears. Actually, I was so terrified, I’d forgotten how to change gears. All I could focus on was getting to the top of the sand dune, getting over the top, and getting away.
But I wasn’t going to get away if I continued panicking. I was only halfway up the dune, still a hundred metres from safety. I would be a sitting duck if the terrorists opened fire.
Not if they open fire, said a little voice in my brain. When they open fire.
Then I heard another voice, Nathan’s. First rule in a tight situation, bro: keep a cool head.
With a flick of my thumb, I switched off the Kawasaki’s lights. It nearly caused a disaster. I couldn’t see! I was riding blind. Desperately I wound back the throttle, slowing the bike down. Even though I’d lost a lot of speed, I felt safer. If I couldn’t see, then the terrorists couldn’t see either.
I had forgotten they had infra-red gun sights.
Boom!
It sounded like a cannon. My whole body tensed like a wound-up spring, waiting for the deadly impact. Nothing happened. Missed! I thought, and a wave of relief flooded through me.
Not for long. There was a loud pop, like fireworks, high overhead, and suddenly night turned to day.
They had sent up a flare. It was so bright, I had to screw up my eyes against the glare. I screwed the Kawasaki’s throttle grip, too. And clunked the gearbox into second. I knew I was lit up like a target in a shooting gallery, and that every gun in the terrorists’ camp was probably aimed at my back, but in the light of the flare I saw something that gave me the tiniest speck of hope. The crest of the dune was only ten metres away, and coming up fast.
‘Hold on tight,’ I said to Joey.
I crouched low over the handlebars and poured on the power.
The back of the sand dune fell away much more steeply than the side facing the terrorists’ camp. I came over the top doing roughly eighty kilometres per hour and launched into space.
The Kawasaki went into free fall. Thanks to the flare, I could see the motorbike’s shadow way below me. It seemed much too small. But it was getting bigger fast – too fast, I thought – as the dune raced up to meet me.
Nathan had never let me do stunts on his Yamaha, but a few mates and I had built a series of BMX jumps near the rubbish tip at Crocodile Bridge. I knew how to land a bike without coming a cropper. You have to get the front end down so that both wheels hit the down slope at the same time. But a Kawasaki KLR650 is a lot different to a knee-high BMX. It’s much bigger and much, much heavier. I only got the front halfway down before the back wheel hit.
There was a jarring impact that rattled my backbone and buckled my legs and arms. Sand exploded over me like a bomb blast. The handlebars wrenched one way, then the other as the bike fishtailed down the steep, sandy slope. I had lost control. There was nothing I could do but hold on.
And twist the throttle.
That’s what saved me. As soon as I gave it some juice, the Kawasaki straightened up. Its rear wheel found traction in the sand and away we went. Down to the bottom of the dune and up over the next one.
It wasn’t until I had crossed three more low dunes and the flare had burned out that I dared turn the Kawasaki’s lights back on. I could scarcely believe it. I had escaped!
But I knew better than to start congratulating myself. The terrorists would come after me. At the top of the next dune, I glanced over my shoulder. Sure enough, there were headlights in the distance. I hoped it wasn’t the tank.
Sand is horrible to ride on. It’s almost as slippery as ice. The Kawasaki slewed drunkenly from side to side. It felt like a kayak in choppy water. I was constantly using my feet to stay upright. It slowed me down. My pursuers were gaining on me. Every time I looked back, the headlights were closer.
I had no option. I switched the Kawasaki’s lights back off. It was risky riding in the dark, but less risky than showing my bright red tail-light like a beacon to the terrorists. Anyway, I wasn’t riding fast – it was impossible in the deep, soft sand. My eyes soon adjusted to the moonlit landscape. It was mostly sand, with the occasional clump of spinifex or small tree. At the bottom of a dip between two dunes, I changed direction and gunned the motorbike along the valley, hoping to throw off my pursuers. At the end of the valley, I changed direction again. I did this for several minutes, always staying in the valleys and changing direction every few hundred metres. Then I stopped the bike, switched off the engine and listened.
At first I heard nothing. My heart pumped in relief. I lifted Joey out of my shirt and softly stroked him with one fingertip between his tiny ears.
‘Sorry about the rough ride,’ I said. ‘There were some bad guys after us.’
It was a mistake to use past tense. The bad guys were still after us.
I stopped stroking Joey and carefully put him back inside my shirt. I had heard something. A faint but unmistakeable hum. It was a truck or a four-wheel drive. Or a tank, I thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I swung myself off the Kawasaki and turned in a slow circle. It was impossible to tell which direction the sound was coming from. I had to know, because I had to go in the other direction.
Leaving the motorbike, I slogged up through the heavy sand to the top of a dune. Now I could hear the sound clearly. It was closer than I’d thought. I strained my eyes across the moonlit desert landscape. Was that a light I could see? A pale glow had appeared on the side of a dune three hundred metres away. As I watched, it slowly increased in brightness until a powerful set of lights flashed into view.
It was impossible to see whether it was a truck, a four-wheel drive or (worst-case scenario) a tank. All I could see were its lights. There were three of them. The centre one, mounted higher than those on either side, was directed down at the sand just in front of the quickly moving vehicle. They were using a spotlight to follow my tyre marks.
I raced back down the dune, started the Kawasaki and ploughed off into the night. I didn’t know what to do. The terrorists were gaining on me. And there was no way I could escape them because the motorbike’s tracks were as obvious as arrows on a map.
It was only a matter of time before they caught up with me.
14
HUNTED ANIMAL
A huge pale shape loomed out of the darkness ahead. I had to swerve to miss it. Another lurched across in front of me. Kangaroos? I wondered. But they were too big for kangaroos. I flicked the headlight on. Holy guacamole! I was surrounded by knobbly knees, enormous pale bodies with dusty, frayed-carpet hides, and eyes that glowed green in the Kawasaki’s bouncing headlight. Camels. I had ridden right into the middle of a herd of them.
They had been sleeping before I came along. Now they were staggering to their feet all around me, groaning and snorting and bumping into each other in their hurry to get out of my way. I was too surprised to hit the brakes. There wasn’t time anyway. The terrorists were only a hundred metres behind, just around the last corner. I swerved to miss a camel calf and nearly had a head-on with its mother. Panicked camels were charging in all directions. A big bull swung around and roared, showering my face with a spray of evil-smelling saliva. The shaggy tail of another animal whacked me across the chest. I heaved the bike right, then left, then right again. Camels shot past me on either side. I could barely see where I was going; it was a nightmare slalom. I was riding for my life. One wrong turn, one moment’s loss of control in the loose sand, and whomp, it would be all over – either I’d break my neck, or the terrorists would get me.
It didn’t happen. Somehow I avoided the camels. Or they avoided me. Instead of running into them, I found myself riding behind a group of ten or twelve of the huge stampeding animals, like a cowboy herding cattle. I was eating their dust as they went thundering off into the night. It gave me an idea.
I switched off the headlight, waited a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, then rode right in among the herd. Two of the rear-most animals snorted in fright and peeled off to the left, but the rest continued galloping straight ahead, with me in the middle. I had the Kawasaki in third gear and its exhaust note was pretty quiet, barely as loud as the camels’ pounding hooves and their whoofing, puffing breath. In the confusion of the shadowy stampede, they must have thought I was one of them.
