Sword of Allah (37 page)

Duat rolled out of bed and vomited into the bucket on the floor. He hadn’t been able to keep anything down, but then neither had anyone else in the encampment. His eyes were hot and dry, and his joints ached as if they’d been pinned together with rusty screws. Sleep brought terrors he had never thought possible, full of his own blood and dismemberment and decay.

‘Duat, we have been poisoned.’

Duat looked up from the bucket. Hendra leaned against the door, the skin on his face a pale green colour, his eyes red coals deep within black sockets.

‘Come,’ he said, breathing hard, his reserves of energy severely taxed by the thirty-metre walk from his own hut.

Duat climbed to his feet, swaying, fighting the feeling that he would black out at any moment. He followed Hendra to his quarters, stopping once to vomit a mixture of bile and blood onto the well-worn dirt path. Duat again steadied himself on a post that supported a wide veranda the carpenters had built for Hendra under which to house the group’s extensive communications suite, and plan the development and flight of the
Sword of Allah
. Cooling fans hummed incessantly within a wide array of high-powered PCs, printers and decoders. Daily meteorological forecasts hung limp in the moist tropical air charting the progress of weather systems across the Indian Ocean, and Timor and Arafura seas. Several television monitors permanently tuned to various news services, their volume controls set to mute, featured presenters mouthing silently on screen. ‘Look,’ said Hendra, pointing to a computer screen. Duat found it difficult to focus on the small writing, translating the English in his head into more intelligible Bahasa, the language of Indonesia. He realised after digesting several lines that his own condition was being described. He scrolled the page to the top of the screen and read aloud, ‘Symptoms of VX poisoning. How?’

‘I don’t know how it has happened. We must search Rahim’s house,’ Hendra said. ‘There is an antidote.’

Duat and Hendra supported each other on the walk to
Rahim’s abode. It had been set furthest away for safety reasons. The distance was only a hundred metres but Duat wondered whether he would have the strength to make it.

Rahim and his assistant had been amongst the first to die, at a time when there were still enough people to see to their cremation. Hendra staggered to Rahim’s workbench. The implements of addiction lay here and there and, for a brief moment, Duat envied him his painless death. Hendra pulled the drawers out one by one, looking for something. He then went to the fridge. Its motor thrummed softly – it still worked – but a padlock secured the door closed.

Hendra went back to the benchtop and took the pistol lying there. He checked that it was loaded and off safety and, turning his head away, fired at the lock. The deafening sound of it discharging in the confined space had a physical quality that nearly made Duat pass out. Hendra swung the door open and found what he was looking for, a clear plastic bag containing two hypodermic syringes. Clearly written in red lettering on each was the word ‘Atropine’
.

Hendra had no idea where the hypodermic should be administered. The Internet sites he’d trawled had not provided that level of detail. He passed one of the hypodermics to Duat and then drove the needle through the fabric of his pants, deep into his thigh muscle, then pressed down on the plunger. Duat followed his example. Both men collapsed on the floor, exhausted by their exertions.

Getting a seat on a plane to Darwin was relatively easy. There weren’t a lot of tourists heading that way. Qantas was being used to ferry support troops north and the television network pulled in favours. Leaving might prove difficult, however, if the scenes at Darwin airport were anything to go by. Half a dozen soldiers dressed in full combat gear, toting submachine guns and assault rifles, escorted Annabelle Gilbert and her crew through arrivals. The reason for the security was obvious, because the airport was crammed with thousands of people shouting and screaming and pushing each other, on the knife edge of a riot that could turn nasty at any moment.

Gilbert and company were rushed to a bus outside the building inside a tortoise of armed soldiers with bayonets fixed. Three light armoured vehicles guarded the bus itself, soldiers behind their machine guns.

‘You must be the television people,’ said a man with major’s pips embroidered in black on his epaulettes at the top of the bus’s steps. He knew the answer to the question, because he didn’t wait for confirmation. ‘Step forward into the bus.’ No ‘please’. All business.

A female soldier in a camouflage chemical warfare suit, the hood and mask flapping around between her shoulderblades, held out a green package and motioned to Annabelle to accept it. On top of the package was a pair of heavy rubberised gloves and boots.

‘One size fits all. Your condition of entry into Darwin is predicated on each of you wearing this suit at all times.’

‘Even in bed?’ asked the producer, Barry Weaver.

‘At all times, sir.’

‘Think of it as a big condom, Baz,’ said the cameraman as he received his suit.

‘And while we’re on the subject of sleeping arrangements, I’m not sure what you’ve planned, but I will tell you what’s happening.’ The major was in the habit of giving the orders, and of having them obeyed.

‘Five/7 Battalion is in control of the city. We have set up a forward command centre at the Novotel on the Esplanade.’

‘That’s okay,’ said Weaver in an aside. ‘It’s five stars.’

‘Put your suits on now,’ said the major.

Outside, the sky was black and low, and raindrops began to hammer on the roof of the bus as if they’d been shot from a gun. Annabelle stepped into the NBC suit and pulled the hood over her head. ‘That’s not going to do much for your hair and make-up,’ said Weaver. ‘But hey, I’m a lights-off guy anyway.’

‘You know, Barry, somehow that doesn’t surprise me.’ Any assertions Saunders had made about this assignment being good for her career had dissolved when Annabelle found out Weaver would be her producer, as ANTV was utilising NQTV resources. Rumour had it that he was given the most dangerous assignments not so much because he was good, but because everyone disliked him and hoped he might meet with an accident.

The confines in the bus were close. The floor was slick with water as soldiers squeezed in and around them, the air thick, sludgy with moisture. Annabelle wanted to be a long way away from Darwin and this assignment. The
NBC suit made her sweat and soon she was as drenched as if she was standing outside in the rain. She thought about Tom, wondered where he was and hoped he was all right. Before leaving Sydney, Annabelle had used all her contacts at the squadron to try to find out where he was. As expected, she’d met with the army’s silence. All they’d been prepared to say was that he was ‘on the job’. Her intuition told her that Tom was involved somehow in the current situation with the terrorist VX threat. That frightened her but also gave her a feeling of reassurance. If anyone could ruin the bastards’ party, it was Tom. Annabelle wondered whether she was starting to see things from a different perspective – Tom’s. The world had changed forever and no one was truly safe anymore. Being a civilian was no guarantee of security. Indeed, it probably placed you more squarely in the crosshairs of those prepared to make their point at any cost. This, after all, was war, twenty-first century style.

The only difference between her and Tom was that Tom faced these people down. Didn’t that increase his safety rather than lessen it? Not turning his back on the beast? Knowing the direction the bullet would come from?
Hang on a second, do I want to be married to someone who wears a target?
Annabelle Gilbert wondered whether her unresolved feelings about Tom were making her hormonal. The mood swings were playing havoc with her usual equilibrium. The fact was, she’d given Tom an ultimatum: to stay in the army or be with her. She realised that if the positions had been reversed and he’d said as much to her, she’d have told him to stuff off.

The major handed around sealed plastic bags and
instructed Annabelle and the crew on their contents and the use thereof.

‘The pack I’ve given you contains a hypodermic syringe containing an antidote to VX contamination.’ He opened a bag and pulled out a large hypodermic. ‘Depending on the level of contact, you will have enough time to administer it. Inject it into the muscle on your arm, thigh or buttock.’ He placed the tip of the protected needle on the relevant parts of his own body to reinforce the demonstration.

‘The wipes in the bag should be used if you come in direct contact with VX. Just wipe it off, seal the used towels in the bag, then administer the antidote and get to the nearest decontamination centre.’ He put the bag down.

‘Now, you cannot pass freely around the city. It’s dangerous. You need an escort. The army is providing you with a driver and liaison officer – me – plus an armed escort. My presence will make things as easy as possible for you. My name is Major Short.’

‘As in sentence structure,’ said Weaver smiling conspiratorially at Annabelle, who rolled her eyes.

‘Why do we need an armed escort?’ asked Annabelle.

‘For protection.’

Annabelle thought his answer seemed somewhat evasive but let it rest for the moment, in the spirit of cooperation.

‘Can we go back a bit?’ asked the cameraman.

‘Yes.’

‘Why can’t we just use the antidote now?’

‘Everyone asks that,’ said Short, cracking the barest of smiles. ‘Because it’s a poison, not a vaccine, is why. It
neutralises the VX and the VX neutralises it. Administer it now and it could kill you.’

‘Sorta like a yin and yang thang,’ Weaver suggested, not taking all this terribly seriously. ‘

‘How will we know if there’s VX in the air?’ asked Annabelle, giving Weaver the ‘please behave’ look.

‘Believe me, you’ll hear the sirens. Also, if you have a mobile phone, you’ll get a message sent to your screen.’

‘Are there any updates on the situation?’

‘Nothing official, Ms Gilbert. I’m told we’re pretty safe as long as the monsoon’s active.’

Annabelle had the impression Short was the type who always played it by the book. The khaki-blooded type.

Weaver took out a notepad and pencil. ‘Any places that are off limits, where we can’t shoot?’

‘Plenty, sir, starting with the airport here.’

‘What?’

‘That’s right, sir. The airport is a restricted area – no pictures.’

‘What? We can’t show people the scene here at the airport? Why the hell not?’ Annabelle didn’t like being told she couldn’t do something, especially when there didn’t appear to be a good reason.

‘Orders.’

‘But it’s just the airport,’ said Annabelle.

The major shrugged.

‘Obviously, Canberra doesn’t want the rest of the country to see the panic up here,’ said Weaver. ‘Is that true?’ Annabelle couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

‘I don’t know the reason for the restriction, miss.’

A small mountain of discarded possessions was forming in the car park. Evacuees were allowed twenty kilos each of personal items, the limit rigidly enforced on departure. Armed soldiers patrolled the mountain to discourage looters, but people were still picking over it, diving in when the troopers turned their backs. The sight of a fullsize upright piano that had somehow come to rest halfway up the mound intrigued Annabelle.

She heard Weaver say, ‘You’re kidding yourselves. Trying to censor this? Hasn’t anyone told you people about personal video cameras, phone cameras? This sort of stuff gets out, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Okay, then,’ said the major, growing impatient. ‘So what’s first on the list? Where do you want to go?’

Annabelle saw that they’d get nowhere if they wanted to stay at the airport. And in truth, this was her first paid reporting job. She’d gone straight from university to the anchor’s desk and was feeling out of her depth. ‘I’d like to drive around, get a feel for the situation.’

‘Sure. Let’s get a feel for the girlie bar situation. Are
they
restricted?’ Weaver was angry. The people in the bus looked at him as if he’d said the c-word in church during a lull in the service. Indeed, there was a sudden and eerie silence. Something had changed. It was the rain beating on the roof of the bus. It had ceased and the setting sun was throwing shafts of light clean through the cloud cover. Despite the heat and humidity, a chill turned Annabelle’s skin to gooseflesh
…we’re pretty safe as long as the monsoon’s active.

The arrival of the sunshine was accompanied by the sudden staccato bark of an automatic weapon followed by
the screams of women and children. ‘What now?’ said the major, bending to look out the heavily fogged windows and wiping a section clear with his hand. A fat young soldier with a baby face clattered heavily up the bus’s stairs, rocking the whole vehicle. ‘Major, we’ve got a problem here,’ he said, with red cheeks his grandmother would have been proud of.

‘What?’ asked the major, grabbing his Steyr.

‘The crowd’s charging the departure lounge, sir. And the military museum, sir. It’s been looted.’

‘Shit,’ the major said as he left the bus, the young soldier following.

‘What’s the problem?’ said one of the soldiers in the bus to another, loud enough to be overheard. ‘The war museum – it’s just old Second World War stuff, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ replied his comrade, ‘plus a whole heap of weapons from the old government weapons buy-back program are held there – AR-10s, shotguns, MP-5s, Rugers, Armalite AR-50s…’

‘You’re kidding. Civilians had that stuff?’

‘Yeah, they were at war with the crocodiles.’

Someone chuckled.

The bus rocked again as Baby Face made a return appearance. ‘Excuse me, miss?’ Annabelle turned. ‘If you TV people would follow me? I’ll take you into town. To the Novotel. Something’s come up and the major’s asked me to step in. Grab your gear and we’ll go now.’

‘Novotel. I’ve never stayed at a Novotel. They have a bar there, don’t they?’ Weaver asked no one in particular. With the restrictions in place, he sensed Darwin was a dead end, a nothing story, and he was already putting it down as
another dopey assignment dreamed up by some network nancy. ‘Novotel, Novotel. It sounds like some Seventh Day Adventist hotel concept.’ He knew that wasn’t the case, but if he couldn’t do his job, at least he could keep himself amused by giving the authorities a dose of the shits.

Baby Face, Annabelle, Weaver and the cameraman stepped out into the humid sunshine, between two of the light armoured vehicles, and onto the asphalt of the airport parking lot. The sun was rapidly burning a very big and dangerous hole in the cloudbank. Beyond the concrete barricades ringing the bus, a mass of humanity swirled, trying to get into the airport terminal. A steady stream of Qantas jets and Hercules C-130s were taking off and landing, and the air smelled of body odour, steamed bitumen and kerosene.

‘What was the shooting about, General?’ asked Weaver, now doing his best to get up as many noses as possible.

The big kid didn’t bite. ‘I’m a lance corporal, sir,’ he said politely.

‘Sorry.’

‘It sounded like a couple of Steyrs, sir – our rifles. A few shots were fired in the air earlier today when the crowd got nasty. The volley got their attention all right but the slugs came back to earth. Killed one person, wounded another. We’re under strict orders not to let that happen again.’

‘Can we report that?’ asked Annabelle.

‘Anything you want to report will have to be written up first and submitted for approval,’ said Baby Face, his cheeks wobbling as he spoke, his words overwhelmed by the noise of a 747 flying low overhead. Annabelle looked up as it passed and wondered how much damage a few
randomly fired bullets could do to a 747, and instantly purged the thought from her brain lest thinking it actually made it happen.

‘So, who’s doing the crowd control?’ Weaver asked.

‘Mostly 5/7 Battalion, part of the regular army brigade posted hereabouts. And we’ve got a company of Army Reserves. Weekend warriors, and some of them aren’t as disciplined as they should be.’

The army had a compound within the airport parking lot for its vehicles, the space kept free of the citizenry by more concrete bollards and armed troopers. Baby Face walked up to one of the Land Rovers and opened the rear hatch. The cameraman and Weaver hoisted the battered aluminium boxes that carried their laptops, two satellite vones and a satellite fax and colour printer into the available space, and threw their backpacks plus Annabelle’s on top.

Only two news crews were permitted inside the restricted area in and around Darwin, ANTV and the national broadcaster, the ABC. The ABC had the full outside broadcast truck, but the satellite vone and peripherals could do everything the truck could do, only the vone pictures were degraded somewhat. Weaver, as producer, the Man in Charge, was fine with that because it gave their reports a more dangerous, in-the-war-zone look. Annabelle took the front passenger seat beside the lance corporal while Weaver and the cameraman sat behind. ‘Do you want the air-con on, miss?’ said the soldier.

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Got any Billy Joel?’ said Weaver.

Annabelle turned to look behind her and give Weaver a smile. She didn’t think much of his taste in music but she
was warming to his fuck-you attitude, if only because he spread it around with equal and unfettered favour. She also noticed the Land Rover on their tail, on account of the truck’s grille was almost in the back seat. ‘I think we’re being followed,’ she said.