Читать книгу Fox - Bill Robertson - Страница 18

Motionless, breathing controlled, Fox stood moulded to an ant hill. In the cold black July night, eyes closed, he focussed upon his stalkers. The three of them approached cautiously. Mentally, Fox acknowledged their stealth but as usual, he felt that someone or something was always looking out for him. These blokes had no chance.

Strung out with three to five metres between them, they were moving in a trailing formation, about thirty metres between first and last. Fox decided to let them pass, kill the last man, move up to the second and then on to the leader. Three kills would be good work. His mate, Scotty Neal, a skinny red-head from Waikowhai near Auckland, lay in wait about 500 metres ahead. If Fox didn’t get them, Neal would.

Softly, the three men passed. Fox moved. Clamping a steely hand over the last man’s mouth he hissed, ‘You’re dead mate. Don’t make a sound.’ He marked the man’s back with a yellow slash then slipped after the other two. The “dead” soldier, an Indonesian, was dumbfounded. He had heard nothing until his jaw was gripped in a painful vice and a voice whispered in the darkness. Later, he reflected that his attacker had melted into the night like smoke – without noise, without substance. ‘Mengancuk,’ he thought, ‘bahwa manusia itu creepy!’

Over the next twenty minutes Fox stalked their pursuers, “killed” them and joined Neal. All were participants in the regular Top End military exercise which, this year, involved 1800 personnel and eighty aircraft from four countries. Operation Tar Pot, occurring over six weeks between July and August, involved the USA, New Zealand, Indonesia and Australia. In this part of the operation, Indonesia and USA were paired against Australia and New Zealand; the former defending Tindal RAAF Base, the latter charged with taking it. Rules of engagement were strictly enforced and any person declared dead was, to all intents and purposes, dead — unable to communicate with colleagues or participate further in the contest.

In their team of two Aussies and two Kiwis, Fox and Neal had hit it off immediately. Ten days earlier with six other teams, they had been dropped 360 kilometres east of Tindal at Port Roper in the Gulf of Carpentaria. Their journey south lay through country weathered by millions of years into hungry yellow, grey and red soils interrupted by tracts of sediment stitched with lacy tributaries padded by mangroves. These formations traversed the fat, green Roper River creating illusions of lushness. Inland, less than a kilometre from the coast, sandy beaches, mudflats and coastal she-oak changed rapidly to open eucalypt forests of woollybutt, ironwood and Darwin stringy-bark. Still further inland, the river country was replaced by undulating ranges, low rocky rises, unexpected gorges, stunted eucalypts and ancient she-oaks. This country, threaded by tussock and hummock grasses, extended all the way to Tindal broken only by occasional billabongs, freshwater mangroves, screw palms and paper barks. It was a landscape familiar to Fox, and one through which the attacking Australians and Kiwis ghosted to penetrate “enemy” lines.

Two days earlier, and fifty kilometres from target, Fox’s team had been cleverly ambushed by six Kopassus fighters from Indonesia. One Kiwi and one Australian had been “killed” along with three Kopassus troops. Since then, Neal and Fox had pressed on, pursued by the Indonesians. Now wanting a clear run at Tindal, the pair had decoyed their opponents into territory where Fox held the advantage.

After dispatching the Indonesians, they held a whispered conversation.

‘We’ve got the rest of tonight plus two clear nights to get back. Got any ideas about a final assault?’ murmured Fox.

‘Too bloody right,’ said Neal through a broad grin, ‘but we’ll need to go like cut cats to get to the Katherine side of the base – about sixty to sixty-five ks. Can do?’

‘Shit yeah,’ retorted Fox, ‘it’s only a marathon and a bit. Lead on McDuff.’

They recovered their packs and weapons from a depression near Fox’s anthill and set off at a steady lope. An hour before winter’s sunrise, they were adjacent to, and roughly five kilometres east of the air base. Untroubled by “enemy invaders,” they had travelled around fifty kilometres. Their plan was to watch traffic to and from the air base from their camp at the start of the Katherine–Tindal straight.

Shortly after eight, Neal handed Fox the binoculars. ‘I think this guy could be our target.’ Fox studied the two people in the car.

‘Yep. If these characters return to Katherine this afternoon, I’d say you’re right. See any other possibilities?’

‘Yeah,’ drawled Neal, ‘one. He’d do at a pinch but wouldn’t be as convincing.’

‘What time did he go through?’

‘Just before eight,’ said Neal, ‘but if we take him, we are going to have to be bloody slick. Let’s get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.’

‘One more question,’ said Fox scouring the road with the binoculars. ‘How many vehicles between our primary and secondary targets?’

‘None. But that’s the risk. We don’t have enough time left to assess patterns …’ He left the sentence unfinished and grinned.

Fox nodded, made himself comfortable and straight away faded into a deep sleep.

Late in the afternoon, Fox gently nudged Neal awake. Both had snatched four and half hours sleep.

‘Tucker time,’ said Fox. ‘It’s about an hour till sunset and we might as well use the light. We can kip again tonight ready for tomorrow.’

‘Agreed,’ said Neal sitting up. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Lots of civilians and a sprinkling of service personnel travelling towards Katherine between 1615 and 1700 hours. From then on, just a few service personnel. Not much in the opposite direction. Our primary target passed at 1725. I reckon it’s a safe bet that most of the service folk get to work before or around eight. What do you reckon?’

Neal yawned and stretched. ‘Well, there was bugger all going to Tindal after 0830; only what you’d call regulars, you know, tradies and deliveries.’

‘In that case,’ said Fox with a smile, ‘let’s finalise it.’

The following morning, after the bulk of traffic had passed, Fox and Neal watched their secondary target drive by. They moved into position. And then, in the cool crisp air where pale sunlight slashed the roadway with long shadows from short eucalypts, they waited.

Soon after, Colonel Winston S Holmes Jnr of the United States Marines and his driver approached the low bridge over the creek beneath the Katherine-Tindal straight.

‘Slow down Roy. What’s that on the road?’

‘Looks like a body sir,’ drawled Sergeant Roy Carmody as he braked.

They stopped about six metres from the body of a man, obviously a soldier, lying on his back. His raised right knee was gilded by a shaft of sunlight, his left arm outflung away from the car, head resting on his left shoulder, blurred by jagged shadow. From the car the man’s face appeared battered and covered in blood.

‘Looks to me sir as if this guy has been hit by a ve-hickle and dragged along the road a bit. His clothes seem shredded.’

Holmes nodded and said nothing. He eyed the scene before him, wound his window down and slowly scrutinised both sides of the road.

‘I’m callin’ this in. This is the final day of the joint exercise and I don’t trust these Aussie bastards.’

‘That’s a real good call Colonel,’ said Neal, sliding up from below the sill of the stationary car. He had been lying beside the crash rail ten metres west of Fox, rolled beneath it as soon as the car passed then, in a crouch, doubled to its rear.

‘Git out Sergeant and put your hands in the air.’ Neal put his M.4 Carbine to the side of Colonel Winston S Holmes’s head to emphasise his point. As Sergeant Roy Carmody stepped from the car, Fox rose and advanced. Holmes and Carmody saw that Fox had been “made-up” to look injured: his clothes, sliced in many places, carried a liberal coating of dust and smeared rabbit guts.

Neal opened Holmes’s door, drew his knife and held it to the Colonel’s throat. He threw his carbine to Fox who deftly caught it and trained it on both men.

‘Righto Sergeant,’ said Neal, ‘git your shirt and tie off and be bloody quick about it. Anything goes here. I’m in no mood to piss around. Your fuckwit Senators want to punish my country over your crap nuclear ships.’ Neal’s demeanour was savage – he meant what he said. Holmes was silent and inwardly seething. He could not believe he’d been caught by such a simple ruse.

‘Put your gear on top of the car and step away,’ said Fox to Carmody. As Carmody complied, Fox reached into the car and took the keys.

‘Move back.’ He motioned to Carmody with his weapon. As they moved to the rear of the car Fox opened the boot. ‘Get in.’ Carmody squeezed himself into the space and before slamming the lid Fox said, ‘For the purpose of this exercise, you’re wasted, dead as a maggot.’ Joining Neal, he opened the back door and sat behind the Colonel placing the M4 at the back of his neck.

‘Right sir,’ said Fox softly, ‘you are now an official hostage and under the rules of engagement, you are a pawn of some value. Just remember, I am here with this gun and need only say bang and you are dead. You dead, or alive, is of no consequence to us – we’ll use you either way. Shut the door and put the window up.’

As soon as the door closed Neal raced to the driver’s side, whipped his jacket off and donned Carmody’s shirt and tie. Fox passed him the keys as he got into the car and a moment later they were underway. From start to finish, the abduction had lasted six risky minutes.

Ten minutes later, when the security gate at the RAAF Base came into view, Fox slid to the floor of the car.

‘Colonel sir, my carbine is up your arse. Don’t do anything stupid.’ About ten metres from the guard house Holmes suddenly leaned towards Neal, chopped his left arm and grabbed him by the throat. The car lurched as Neal fought for control.

‘Bang!’ hissed Fox from the floor as the car came to a stop.

‘What’s going on?’ said the guard peering at the two men in the front seat.

‘The Colonel was demonstrating a yarn,’ drawled Neal, ‘only I didn’t think it was funny.’ Holmes remained mute: he was now dead.

‘Where’s Carmody today? And what’s your name? I haven’t seen you before.’

‘Carmody’s indisposed and my name’s Cassidy.’

‘What’s wrong with the Colonel?’ asked the guard, ever inquisitive.

‘I think he’s suffering apoplectic rosacea, the same kinda problem as Carmody. P’raps I should get him to a medic.’ Neal’s drawl was slow and sardonic.

‘Doesn’t sound good. Sooner than later I’d say by the look of him,’ said the guard. ‘Catch ya later.’

Fox and Neal breathed a collective sigh of relief and smiled as they rolled forward. ‘I warned you Colonel. Now you have the ignominy of not only being taken hostage, but also of being returned dead. Eh Scotty, what’s with the Cassidy bit?’

‘Hop-along you idiot! First thing I thought of in present company.’

‘So who the hell is Hop-along-Cassidy?’

‘Kid stuff, don’t worry about it.’

‘Hang on, hang on. What the hell is apoplectic rosacea?’

Neal slid a wicked glance up to the rear view mirror and grinned. ‘Buggered if I know – I made it up.’ A quick laugh bubbled upwards. ‘Come on, back to work. We’ve gotta manage this last bit right with these two “dead” bastards on our hands.’

Driving at the stipulated twenty kilometres per hour, they travelled inside the base for another kilometre, turned south and went to the base gymnasium.

‘Colonel,’ said Neal, ‘you can either stay in the car or wait in the gym until we’re finished. Don’t mind which. Just remember, you and Carmody are dead.’

‘Listen Sonny, you ain’t heard the last of this,’ said Holmes tersely. ‘I’ve minced bastards bigger than you. Don’t think this is the finish.’

‘All I can say sir,’ replied Neal with a crooked grin, ‘is those bastards musta been dumb bastards. This is supposed to be war, and that’s how we’re playin’ it. And you’re dead! No point gettin’ your knickers in a twist now. We’ll just tell everybody you were outsmarted. Now,’ said Neal, his voice icy, ‘what’s it to be? You and Carmody wanna go and wait in the gym?’

‘Yeah, we’ll go in,’ Holmes grated. ‘Get Carmody.’

Fox winked at Neal who threw the keys to Holmes. ‘Your man, you get him.’ They walked inside leaving Holmes to his incendiary mood.

In the change room they ratted various lockers and assembled a variety of sneakers, shorts and T-shirts for themselves then showered. As they were towelling off Carmody strolled in. He was relaxed and his eyes glittered. Without his shirt they could see he was well muscled and fit.

‘Hey Coon, you’re a piece o’ no good shit. Ah’m gunna whup yo’ ass. An when ah’m through with yo’ ah’m gunna break yo buddy’s arms.’ Carmody continued to walk cat-like towards the showers.

‘Hey, hey, here’s Lazarus. You notice how these tin-tanks are always full of crap? You know Scotty, if bullshit was electricity, this prick could almost be a power station.’

Despite his levity, Fox was sizing up his opponent and respected what he saw. He would let Carmody make the first move – there was a tenuous advantage in the American’s anger. That Carmody was ignoring contest rules bespoke his humiliation at being transported to base in a car boot. Fox tucked the towel around his naked frame and waited. This was going to have to be quick and dirty but without too much injury. Carmody stopped about a metre from Fox, his face pale and mask-like, another danger sign. Tuned in, Fox stared into Carmody’s eyes, dense with concentration. Without warning, Carmody delivered a turning kick outwards and upwards at Fox’s throat. Fox blocked and imprisoned Carmody’s boot, stepped backwards and viciously yanked him off balance. Falling to the wet, slippery floor, Carmody twisted to break the fall with his hands. Before he could recover, Fox stamped on Carmody’s other leg and gave the one he held a mighty upwards jerk. All three heard the clear snap of Carmody’s adductor muscles as they tore from the pubic bone in his groin. A deep moan of anguish followed. Carmody lay still on the wet floor, immobilised by searing pain.

‘I don’t like being called a coon and I don’t like people who can’t stick to the rules. Next time, I’ll break both your arms. Keep out of our way!’

Unhurriedly, Neal and Fox dressed in their purloined running gear and, taking three tennis balls found in one of the lockers, left the gym. Jogging at a steady pace, they headed in the opposite direction to the Command Centre, a room within the main administration block fronting the runway. Circling streets around the base, they chatted and bounced a ball back and forth between them as they ran. They drew little attention. Despite the current exercise, daily life at the base continued as usual.

Jogging past the ops centre, they drew cold, professional stares from marines guarding the three entrances. Continuing their circuit, they passed the guards a second time twenty minutes later. On their third circuit, they positioned themselves to pass within a pace of the two marines at the main entrance to the ops centre. Five paces from the marines, laughing and still bouncing the ball, Fox applied a spin that made it whizz between the heads of the marines. As they turned to see what had happened, they were savagely felled by Fox and Neal who leapt upon them. The two continued their charge at full pace through the door and left down a short corridor to the Command Centre. There, they bounced their remaining tennis balls into the midst of the Directing staff and bawled, ‘Wipeout! You’ve all been blown up.’