Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent (42 page)

Wylie exhaled, grabbed at a glass of water. ‘Then he put that sheet on one side of the table, and the photo of my wife on the other, said,
Here’s how it works
. And we’ve been up here ever since, broadcasting this rubbish.’ He slapped the song sheet against his thigh.

Jeremy sniffed. Paul eyeballed him, said, ‘Come on, mate.’

Mac wanted more. ‘They tell you they’d be watching on TV?’

‘Yes, sir. Told us that this was a tailored CNN incident.’

Mac’s ears pricked up. Didn’t know why. ‘The American. He said
incident
?’

‘Sure did. Said it several times. Said he’d be watching it on CNN

and if we got stormed before the set time on the sheet, he’d blow the place up and kill his hostages.’

‘You know which one is the VX?’ asked Mac.

‘The what?’ said Wylie.

‘It’s nerve agent. They stole it, got it on this ship.’

‘Oh that. Is that what they call it? Yeah, they hauled these big black bags down to twelve -‘

‘Twelve?’

‘Bay Twelve. It’s the twelfth container from the stern. About halfway between the bridge and bow.’

‘Then what?’

‘We worked out it was twelve eleven eight-six.’

‘What was?’

‘The container they were working on. They knew all about the bridge gantries and ladders and lashing. They seemed to know their stuff.’

‘What’s twelve eleven eighty-six?’

‘It’s the container position,’ said Wylie. ‘It’s bay twelve, row eleven, tier eighty-six.’

Paul frowned. ‘In English that would be?’

‘It would be halfway to the bow, on the outside - starboard - side of the stacks, and high up. About second or third from the top of the stack.’

Mac mulled it. Twelve eleven eighty-six, exactly where the offi cers on
Hokkaido Spirit
said you’d have to put a container if you wanted to open it en route.

Mac beckoned Paul to another table, whispered, ‘We can’t pull the cops and the Yanks in here to do the bomb or these guys are going to lose family, right?’

Paul nodded.

‘So we have to get the TV cameras shut down. Make it look like the Singaporeans have moved to a new Em-Con level.

‘Once we can get those helos and cameras out of here, then Sabaya and Garrison are blind. They can hear those demands going out every thirty minutes, and they think it’s all going on. But they don’t know the Twentieth is crawling all over
Golden Serpent
trying to disarm their bomb.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

Mac went back to Wylie and Jeremy. ‘Mate, think we might have an idea,’ Mac said to Wylie.

Paul wanted to know how they’d been speaking with the Americans, and Wylie said, ‘The ship-to-shore phone.’

‘Where is it?’ asked Mac.

Wylie pointed at a table next to the starboard window. There was a heavy white handset face down on a white plastic cradle.

‘Got a number?’ asked Paul.

Wylie pulled a folded piece of white paper from his shorts.

Mac and Paul swapped a look. With the ship-to-shore phone not jammed it might be possible to get through to Sawtell or the Port Master or Hatfi eld. Mac wasn’t hopeful on that score. Once the EOC

starts its business - especially a US military one for a terrorist threat -

the lines of communication go so high that outside calls are not taken.

Hatfi eld would be sit-repping as high as CINCPAC, Joint Chiefs and maybe the Oval Offi ce. There wouldn’t be too many rubber-neckers getting through.

Still, it was worth a shot.

Mac checked his G-Shock: 1.25. He looked at Wylie, whose face fell off him like a fl esh waterfall. ‘Guys, you’re up again. Do what they tell you, all right? Don’t talk about us. We’re trying to get this sorted.

Do it by the book, right?’

The two offi cers nodded, gulped down some water and walked back upstairs, dragging their feet. Mac sat back. According to the Sabaya sheet, the whole thing timed out at six that evening. It gave them about four and a half hours to come up with something. If they couldn’t alert the Singaporeans and the Yanks within the next half-hour, Mac was going to slip back into the water and stealth round there himself. Or even better, get Paul to do it. He got out of Hasanuddin, piece of piss. He could try getting
into
a US Army EOC.

Mac walked to the starboard window, looked out. He could make out the fl ash of a rotor or a truck at intervals where you could see through the mountain of container stacks. There were black-clad Singaporean SWAT teams lurking between the containers. Mac wondered what they thought they were going to do: storm the VX

consignment? Intimidate the CL-20?

The EOC had been mounted back from the apron. Tucked among the container stacks.

Mac could see broadcast trucks along the raised Ayer Rajah Expressway. There were at least thirty of them and there seemed to be a roadblock of more trucks and vans trying to get the circle seats.

Even without binos Mac could see their satellite dishes on the roofs, uplinking with a continuous feed. They were getting used to the thirty-minute spacing of the demands, perhaps. The AIS broadcasts meant CNN and Fox News could be getting their feeds from any one of the ships. Could even be getting it from a hobbyist with a VHF

receiver who could hook into the maritime bands.

There seemed to be a fl urry of activity, then
voomph
, along the rows of OB trucks the klieg lights and refl ector brollies lit up and the row looked like something out of a sci-fi movie.

Mac wondered why the lights had gone on now, in the middle of the afternoon, then looked at his watch: 1.29.
Golden Serpent
had become the news cycle. Bottom of the hour live feeds to the anchors.

Lots of reports starting sentences with things like ‘We’re hearing’, and

‘There’s a real sense’, in lieu of having any information.

The next thing to arrive was going to be the anchors. They’d be coming in from Honkers, Sydney, KL, Manila, Jakarta and Bangers.

They’d want their own trailers. They’d want higher platforms than the others, better lighting, better synergies with the EOC. They’d need bigger OB trucks so the anchors could broadcast their shows out of Ayer Rajah, with
Golden Serpent
in the background. They’d need more producers, more lights, more make-up. They might even bring the weather girl and the sports guy.

They’d be clamouring for the Twentieth or the Singapore cops or the MPA to appoint a PR fl ak to manage the media. The PR fl ak would be so inundated with requests and demands from the producers and reporters that she’d have to requisition time, real estate and resources to create constant cycles of press conferences. People like Hatfi eld and the Port Master would tire of saying no. They’d fi nally drag themselves into the press conference, become annoyed, mumble something like, ‘Who ordered this gaggle-fuck?’ Which would become the next news cycle.

Mac wanted to short-circuit that process.

Standing back from the window, he looked up at the wall, saw a TV.

He found a remote beside it on the wall-mounted platform. Switched it on, found CNN, kept the volume low. There were panning shots of
Golden Serpent
with American voices narrating, bringing audiences up to date.
A large container ship has been hijacked by terrorists and is currently berthed
at Port of Singapore with what is believed to be a large amount of nerve agent rigged to
a very large bomb.

The voices went on, talking about demands and Moro prisoners, had experts talking about what nerve gas does to people. The nerve gas guy kept trying to make a point, but he got talked over so they could seg to the OB. Mac thought he heard the nerve gas guy trying to say, ‘Are your people suited up?’

CNN cut to the OB. The reporter had a helmet of hair, a Banana Republic photo-journalist uniform and a beautiful delivery. But she wasn’t suited up and would have a major problem if she was still standing on Ayer Rajah when the VX blew.

The fi nal demand was at six o’clock. It was going to be a prime time nerve gas attack.

Paul dialled the number and handed over to Mac, who was now watching Fox. ‘You want to do this?’ he said.

Mac nodded, put the phone to his jaw. When the phone picked up, it immediately auto-switched to a recorded message telling Singaporeans to make for the causeways, get into Malaysia. It gave bus pick-up points and told foreigners to get out of Dodge, phone their embassies …

Fuck! The Americans had outsmarted themselves. To open a clean line between the ship and the EOC they’d diverted everything else, including all other ship-to-shore phones on
Golden Serpent
.

Mac had an idea.

‘Mate, what’s Weenie’s sat-phone number?’

Paul called it out and Mac dialled the handset. Weenie answered in two rings and Mac told him what he needed. Weenie’s laptop connected to the sat-phone and made him a travelling PABX switchboard through which Mac could be connected anywhere in the world.

‘Don’t worry about MPA,’ said Mac. ‘They’ll be off their feet. Get me Camp Enduring Freedom in Zamboanga.’

Mac waited for Weenie to go to the US Department of Defense directory and dial.

‘Through now, Mac,’ said Weenie.

The line rang and rang. Finally someone picked up. Mac recognised the voice. His old mate.

‘Alan McQueen, Australian Embassy. In a jam down here in Singers, mate. Could you get me through to Captain Sawtell quick-smart?’

There was a long sigh. ‘Captain Sawtell is operational, Mr McQueen.’

‘Yeah but - ‘

‘I would have thought you’d be quite aware of that if you’re in Singapore.’

Mac didn’t have the time. ‘Look -‘

‘So I’ll just have to take a message.’

Mac breathed long. ‘Look, Craig is it?’

‘Corporal Craig, yessir.’

‘Watching Fox News?’

‘Mr McQueen, I can’t -‘

‘Have a look at the deckhouse,’ snapped Mac. ‘Can you see it? Big white thing rising above the containers. Got it?’

‘Mr McQueen, I don’t see -‘

‘Count two windows below the bridge. The starboard bridge, the one you’re watching. See the window? Big square number?’

‘Yes sir, Mr McQueen, I see it. I’m sorry, I have to go -‘

‘Keep your eyes on that window, Corporal.’

Then Mac did what he had to do, before a worldwide audience.

‘See it, Corporal?’

There was a silence, then, ‘Oh my God!’

Mac composed himself. Tried to keep the anger down. ‘Now listen, Corporal Craig. Don’t make me say this again, okay? I’ve been on the go for six days chasing the people who are doing this. I’m working on secondment with the British government and I was previously on secondment to General Hatfi eld’s Twentieth Support Command.

At this very moment I’m on
Golden Serpent
, which means I’m sitting on top of a nerve gas bomb that could go up at any second. I’m tired, I’m emotional and I’m scared, mate. I need to talk with John. I need to talk with him now! So. Patch. Me. Through.
Now!
‘

‘Through now, Mr McQueen. By the way, it’s a party line.’

The line buzzed and whined, then clicked.

‘Sawtell.’

‘
Darling
! You don’t phone, you don’t write!’

‘That your lily-white, McQueen? Damn, that thing’s whiter than a Republican Christmas.’

It was always the way, using humour to defuse things, kid yourself that your life wasn’t on the line. They got to the business. Mac gabbled, Sawtell wanted lots of sit-rep but Mac didn’t have the time to go over everything. ‘Look, most of the crew’s dead except for two offi cers.

They’re reading off a sheet Sabaya gave them …’

‘McQueen, this is Hatfi eld. Twentieth. I’ve been listening to your account.’

‘Sir, I need you to promise me that when I fi nish the briefi ng, no one comes aboard until we can shut down the media. Please, these guys are beside themselves. You know what Sabaya’s like with hostages.’

‘I can’t promise that, McQueen. VX is at a level that takes us to algorithms. You understand what I’m saying, right, son?’

Mac understood. When you got to the higher echelons of CBNRE

you had a set of algorithms that you had to work to. The lives of the three people related to
Golden Serpent
‘s offi cers would be netted off against the potential harm of a mass VX device being detonated to aerosol over the city-state of Singapore.

So Hatfi eld wasn’t about to promise anything to anyone.

Mac felt sick but he had no choice. If Hatfi eld was mentioning algorithms, at some point they were all going to have to confront the old argument known as Greater Good.

‘General, there’s no tangos on this ship. And the list of demands these guys are reading from runs through to eighteen hundred hours.

We’ve got till chow to fi nd it, disarm it.’

Mac had barely got it out before the yelling started up and down the US Army party line. It was like a room full of dead clocks had started ticking. He heard Hatfi eld muttering a list of orders at his people. He was going so fast that Mac could only pick up snippets of information.

Mac cut into the din. ‘General, please shut down the media fi rst.

I mean, before you bring the bomb teams on board. These guys have family being held hostage.’

Hatfi eld couldn’t disguise his relief. He had roughly four hours to dismantle a nerve gas threat - and he had a tango-free environment in which to do it.

Hatfi eld had taken the information and done what good generals do. He’d made a decision.

Paul came down from the bridge having asked Wylie to open the gangway doors. Mac didn’t want to go up there and look at those blokes after he’d promised them the kids and wife would be fi ne.

Paul sat, gave Mac a look. Mac knew what he wanted. ‘What?’

‘What?’ said Paul, cocking an eyebrow.

Paul wanted to rescue the hostages, Mac just knew it.

‘Fuck’s sake, mate, I’m not Rambo,’ said Mac, looking away. He was so tired.

Paul laughed. ‘Come on, Tiger. Let’s give it one last roll. See if we can’t bag these cunts.’

Outside Mac saw the gangways being dragged by tractors to the side of
Golden Serpent
. SWAT teams, fi re fi ghters and lots of US Army were milling on the dock clad in either white, yellow or green bio-hazard suits. There were helos in the air, the clanking sound of Black Hawks, the throb of Apaches.