Second Strike

CHAPTER 44

The Piper Navajo hugged the Malaysian coastline as they fl ew north.

Benny had arranged to get Mac to Idi, and Mac was using the down time to think through what was going on. Ari’s revelations had made sense but they still came as a shock to Mac. It was now clear why Ari had been so adamant back in ‘02 that there was another device somewhere in Indonesia. He also now had a better understanding of why Ari – working for the most paranoid and uncooperative intelligence organisation outside of the Chinese MSS – had been so keen to work with Mac. Ari had needed to stay close to the BAIS pursuit of Hassan, but the Israelis couldn’t operate in Indonesia or Malaysia, and consequently they had no in-country intelligence cooperation agreements in those countries. ASIS did, though, and that’s where Ari had successfully tried to pitch himself, riding on Mac’s Aussie back.

Mac thought through the wider ramifi cations. The Pakistanis, led by Hassan – a former ISI spook – had heisted two Dimona mini-nukes? It was hugely audacious stuff and explained why Mossad hadn’t simply put hits on the Pakistanis. Killing Hassan and Gorilla wouldn’t lead them to the second device. It had to be a search and seizure, almost like a police action. There might have been something else at play. Was Mossad treading carefully because the Pakistanis were still being protected by US intelligence? If the CIA had any hand in this it was going to end in tears. It always did when the Yanks played God.

Ari’s admission had increased Mac’s paranoia but it had also vindicated him in front of someone like Atkins. Not only were mini-nukes real, but starting in the mid-1960s they’d seen action as

US military SADMs, or Special Atomic Demolition Munitions, all the way through till the end of the Cold War. The SADM was a seventy-two kilogram cylinder, not much different to a mid-sized fi re extinguisher bottle, and while the full yield was slightly less than one kiloton, it could be dialled down to 0.01.

Far from being the stuff of conspiracy theories, mini-nukes were actually highly practical weapons that had been developed so soldiers and frogmen could deploy them with little training. They had code-keys on them and an anti-tamper protocol called a Limited Try Lock.

But as long as you had a code, anyone who could operate a Nokia phone could deploy a mini-nuke. They were so useful that the Israeli Dimona facility had been producing plutonium ‘pits’ since the 1980s and had stockpiled about four hundred of their own mini-nukes.

One of the things playing on Mac’s mind since establishing there was defi nitely a second device was the devastation it could wreak.

A mini-nuke was so portable, so easy to deploy and so powerful that there were few places it couldn’t be used. Kuta in ‘02 may have been a proof-of-concept – the real attack could be on Jakarta, KL or Singapore.

Or a city in Australia. As Suzi had said, Australia was already on JI’s hit list, under the auspices of Mantiqi Four.

The scientists at Dimona made standard plutonium pits for their mini-nukes but used differing sizes and mixes of the booster fuel. This allowed a special forces frogman to dial up to a full three-kiloton yield, or dial down to a localised blast that would fl atten a small building. The booster fuel was a mix of tritium and deuterium which allowed a very small amount of Plutonium 239 to be rendered incredibly powerful and ‘clean’ by nuclear standards. In one round of declassifi cations, the US Department of Defense admitted to developing an MRR, or a Minimal Residual Radiation weapon, which left almost no trace of the radiation that shows up on Geiger counters.

Looking down on the Malacca Straits from the Piper, Mac saw the shadow of the plane on the green sea, and thought how a shadow was exactly what Mossad had become to BAIS. The Israelis and Indonesians both wanted to fi nd that second mini-nuke, but for very different reasons. The Indonesians just wanted the damned thing, after what happened at Kuta. And the Israelis? Mac chuckled darkly. The last thing they wanted was the world’s largest Muslim nation getting hold of a mini-nuke, especially one made in the Negev Desert.

Mac pondered how far Ari would go to stop that happening.

They fl ew north for half an hour and then the pilot, a Malay bloke in his twenties called Samson, pointed to a fl at shape sticking out into the water to their left.

‘Penang,’ he shouted over the noise of the two props.

They turned westward and were soon hugging the south coast of Penang Island, the terracotta roofs of old George Town visible in the distance. After a few minutes they veered to the north in a steep bank as they lost altitude and seemed to be aiming for the palms. Mac tensed – Penang had an international airport, and this wasn’t it.

Samson sensed his discomfort and smiled. ‘It okay – there is room!’

They dropped like a stone as the revs came on and off, and then the wing fl aps came up. As they got down to the tree tops Mac realised there was a private airfi eld in the midst of a palm-oil plantation.

The landing was surprisingly good and as they decelerated along the strip Mac was glad to have taken this option, courtesy of Benny Haskell. They turned and taxied back to a mid-size steel hangar, where a local man in red board shorts stood leaning against an old white Land Rover.

The sea breeze made Mac’s overalls fl ap as he got out onto the sandy soil. Mac thanked Samson and walked up to John, the Land Rover guy. He was portly, about forty and impassive – possibly annoyed at Benny for pulling him away from something important? Either that or he was a spy.

They drove for fi ve minutes down the narrow plantation tracks, palm oil trees swaying above, while Mac tried to keep his two bags steady between his ankles. Then they went over a small rise and Mac’s breath was momentarily taken away. They were in a spectacular bay on the west coast of Penang Island, a jetty sticking into the sky-blue water and fi shing boats moored against the jetty or run onto the beach. It was idyllic, but Mac had to remind himself that this area was the oldest continuously active piracy region on the planet.

John walked Mac along the jetty, stopping halfway up. On Mac’s right was a closed-deck speedboat, painted black. At least forty feet long, it had a small open cockpit near the back and a long deck to the bow. Two large inboard props stuck menacingly from the stern and Mac could see no name or ID on the vessel. In the United States they were called sports cruisers, but in Italy and Greece they were known as cigarette boats because they were the favoured transport of smugglers. Mac put this black beauty in the second category. There were two large cargo hatches on the bow decking and he just knew there weren’t any beds or gin palaces below deck. This was a stripped-down, high-speed working boat.

‘Here is Mano,’ said John nervously, keen to get off the jetty.

Mac fl icked him fi fty US and smiled. ‘Thanks, champ.’

Mano put one Cat boot on the gunwale of the black beauty and leapt up onto the jetty. Mac’s height, Mano was built in the arms, chest and legs. He had a webbing holster at forty-fi ve degrees across his chest, which contained what Mac guessed was a Browning Hi-Power. The angle told him Mano was right-handed. In all cultures and without even speaking to him, Mano was instantly identifi able as a mercenary.

‘G’day,’ said Mac.

Mano raised his chin slightly, appraising the situation through aviator shades. ‘Going to Idi?’

Mac nodded and Mano offered his hand. After doing a palm shake, Mano leapt into the boat and stood with his arms open. Mac threw his pack and then the plastic shopping bag, warning, ‘This one’s heavy.’

Mano caught it by bending at the knees and then put both bags under the rear seats. Mac noticed that he moved with complete effi ciency and certainty – reminiscent of Maori and Tongan soldiers Mac had known.

Mac landed on the cockpit decks as the engines fi red in a deep, rough growl. There were pops and splutters and an incredible vibration through the fl oorboards as the engines roared to full song.

Mano saw Mac’s reaction, and smiled. ‘V12s. Can take a while to warm up,’ he said, then bowed down, gripped his fi ngers under a handle fl ush with the decking and pulled up a trapdoor. ‘You travel with Mano, you travel with the best.’

Looking down, Mac saw two large engines with alloy-coloured manifolds leading to six pipes on either side. Along the manifolds were the BMW rondels and a sign that said M-POWER.

‘Six litres, each one,’ smiled Mano. ‘Not fucking around here.’

They cruised at around eighty knots as they headed due west for Idi on the east coast of northern Sumatra, a place Mac had hoped he’d never return to. He could have fl own in but Benny had warned him against it – Indonesian coast guard would see a private plane, put in a call and, next thing, Mac’s lack of immigration papers and the presence of the Glock handgun he’d borrowed from Benny might put him in the cells. On a good day, a simple bribe might work. On a bad day, there’d be beatings, maybe the German shepherds would have some fun.

The speed of the craft was giving Mac’s body a battering and he wondered what he’d feel like if Mano hadn’t insisted that he put on the kidney belt. The Malacca Strait was not only one of the world’s busiest waterways for container shipping, it was also the main source for the fi sh markets from Medan, Penang and KL to Singapore, Riau and Kelang. There were fi shing vessels everywhere, some of them too small to be out so far in the channel. The container ships sounded their foghorns for minutes at a time as they steamed through clusters of boats carrying on with impunity. In the Malacca, locals ruled and they weren’t going home for some dickhead in white shorts and a funny cap. Through all of this Mano kept the speed up, occasionally slowing down for a bunch of boats.

In the middle of the Straits, the size of the swell meant they had to back off to fi fty knots. Mano and Mac didn’t speak because of the noise, but as they approached a bunch of eight small vessels, a red speedboat peeled away from the bunch and headed in their direction, a big rooster-tail of spray pouring out the back. Mano wasn’t happy with the deal and stood up to face the rear.

‘Shit,’ said Mano.

Mac turned and saw a white speedboat a quarter of a mile behind them, motoring at high speed by the look of the spray and the attitude of the vessel.

‘Drive,’ Mano told Mac, and went to the rear of the boat where he opened one of the white plastic seat-lockers.

The revs dropped and as Mac took the wheel he saw why: the boat had a dead-man’s brake in the footrest. Mac stepped on it and the revs came up again. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Mano heft and check an M4 assault rifl e of the kind used by special forces.

Bringing his eyes back forward of the black beauty, Mac saw the red speedboat gunwale-dancing in from their two o’clock, clearly heading straight for them.

Suddenly, a tapdance of three-shot rifl e bursts came from behind and Mac smelled cordite. Acid rose in his throat, mixing with the fuel fumes and exhaust. He felt sick. The red boat at their two o’clock was closing quickly, now just eighty metres away. Mac could see three locals crammed at the windscreen, one of them holding a rifl e.

The gunfi re continued from behind and as Mac looked back the white boat was fi fty metres away and closing. As Mac tried to steer away from the red boat’s trajectory, a star of shattered glass appeared in the windscreen in front of him, shards spinning out like gossamer in the sunlight. His fi rst instinct was to duck down, which initiated the dead-man’s brake again and the revs cut to an idle.

‘Fuck,’ said Mano as he came forward and clambered onto the bow decking. ‘When I say it, you hit the throttle, okay? Give it everything.’

Mac came to his feet in a crouch. ‘Sure.’

Mano made to kneel on the decking – diffi cult as the black beauty rode the swell – but before he could get a shot off, his right leg sagged and a puff of meat bounced out the side of his shorts. Mano took all his weight onto his left leg, tried to get his balance but the shock to his leg was too great and he collapsed sideways off the deck and into the Malacca Straits.

Swivelling around, Mac saw the speedboats were almost on him and he shut down the throttles, swore to every sea god he could think of and prepared for the boarding. He could have grabbed the Glock from his backpack under the transom seats and involved himself in a shoot-out, but he wasn’t in the hero mood. Mano was out there somewhere and Mac had to get to Idi, had to make that meeting with Freddi.

The white boat got to him fi rst and two young locals clambered on board, the taller one with a battered AK-47, the other one with what looked like a Soviet Makarov handgun. The third guy stayed at the helm of the white boat, letting the big black Mercury outboard idle.

Mac held his hands up but the pirates basically ignored him, the short one moving straight to the tiller and taking control while training his Makarov on Mac. The taller one pulled open the hatchway between the pilot’s and passenger seats, and disappeared into the boat’s long below-decks. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. A strange smell wafted up from the hatch door – sweet but musty.

‘How’s it going?’ said Mac, hands held high as he smiled at the gunman.

The red boat pulled up in what North Americans call a ‘hockey stop’ and two thugs in sarungs, plastic sandals and T-shirts leapt onto the black beauty and started yelling at Mac. One walked up and barrel-whipped him across the left side of his forehead with an AK. Mac staggered back but stayed on his feet. As the blood gushed down his face, Mac watched a small Malay man get out of his white Naugahyde seat, jump across to the black boat, and walk up to Mac.

‘G’day, how’s it going?’ said Mac, blood dripping off his left jaw and onto his overalls.

The little man smiled – full lips like a woman and beautiful but crooked teeth.

‘Ah, oop-oop!’ he said with a smile.

They all laughed. In South-East Asia, oop-oop meant an Aussie, thanks to what an Asian thought a kangaroo might sound like as it hopped.

‘Yeah, cheers,’ smiled Mac. ‘Sweet as.’

The little man looked him up and down, though thanks to the height differential it was more up than down. Then he pointed his thumb at his chest and said, ‘Anwar,’ and said it as though he might have been saying President and CEO of Ford Motor Company.

Mac exhaled and smiled. ‘Mac,’ he said, pointing his thumb at his own chest.

Anwar turned his mouth down in an attempt at dignity. ‘Anwar

– the boss.’

‘Sure, boss,’ said Mac, his blood now splashing on the wooden decking.

Anwar smiled and looked at his gang for vindication, and pretty soon they were laughing again, Anwar pointing a thumb at his chest and saying, ‘The boss!’

The tall pirate stuck his head out of the cargo hatch between the front seats and yelled something to Anwar.

The boss turned to face Mac slowly, shaking his head with theatrical sadness. ‘No ganja today, eh Mr Mac?’ He looked down at his feet, then looked Mac in the eye. ‘Which mean… you got cash, yeah?’

Mac shrugged, smiled wanly.

Anwar shook his head, pursed his lips. ‘No money – no ganja.

That no good for the boss.’

Mac cursed more sea gods. Benny had booked him on a frigging drug boat.