Second Strike

CHAPTER 57

As they got closer to the point identifi ed on the map, the Hawk’s pilot banked outwards slightly and circled around the white HiAce parked in the scrub about six hundred metres off the Stuart Highway. It was parked on the side of a landing strip, seemingly abandoned.

They set down in front of a battered shed and hangar with the faded words WAUCHOPE AERIAL SERVICES painted in large letters on plain corrugated iron. The red dust rose as they touched down and Mac and Robbo stepped out and ran doubled over to the hangar, M4s held across the body. It was dark and hot inside, and Mac wiped his face on his shirt sleeve but only succeeded in smearing red ochre across his face. To their left were several old Cessna single engines, two of which had been cannibalised to support the third, an old ‘58 model.

The hangar turned into a dustbowl as the helo depowered and, turning to his right, Robbo acknowledged someone. Mac followed his gaze and saw an elderly man in white overalls, white hair and a can of XXXX in his hand, leaning on the mechanic’s counter staring at them.

‘How youse going?’

‘Not bad,’ said Mac. ‘Looking for some people.’

‘They come in about forty minutes ago,’ the old guy estimated,

‘and then this white Skymaster come in, bought some gas from me, paid in cash and then they all fucked off.’ He burped, looking down into his beer. ‘Bunch of fruitcakes, if you ask me.’

Mac felt the sweat making his back wet under the vest. ‘You meet the people in the van?’

‘Nah, mate,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘There were four of them, right? And they sat in that fucking van down there till the Skymaster come in.’

‘What did they look like?’

‘Asian, curry-munchers maybe.’

‘Indian, Pakistani?’ asked Mac.

‘Yeah, mate.’ He burped again. ‘All that. They run across and got in the plane, and they looked like oil and gas guys. White overalls, work boots, nice haircuts and this big case -‘

‘Case?’ asked Mac.

‘Yeah. Light green – the size of a suitcase, maybe fatter, but it didn’t look too heavy.’

‘What was the ID on the plane?’

‘Let’s see,’ he said, swirling his beer can. ‘VH-CWB? That sound right?’

‘Who was the pilot – ever seen him before?’

‘Nah. Never been around here, mate. I reckon WA, that’s what I reckoned.’

‘Why?’ asked Mac.

‘The dust on the undercarriage, mate,’ said the bloke, chucking his beer can in an overfl owing Castrol pail. ‘It was caked on, you know, lumpy an’ that? They’ve been having rain over that way, see?’

When outback dirt got wet, it set like plaster of Paris. ‘Which way did they fl y out?’ asked Mac, impatient.

The oldie pointed east. ‘By the way he was going, I’d say Winton, Longie, Hughenden – that gear. Maybe push through to Barkie?’ he said.

‘Barcaldine,’ said Robbo.

‘With the fuel and fi ve people, what’s the range?’ asked Mac.

The bloke stooped to an old bar fridge, pulled out another XXXX and cracked it with a one-hand technique. ‘With fi ve-up, and the revs they were carrying, I’d say no more than eight, nine hundred mile.

You’d feel safe with Barkie, Aramac, Blackall. See what I’m saying?’

There was nothing in the van except the smell of the new David Beckham cologne. Mac knew that smell because Johnny had got a bottle as a birthday present from his wife Arti, and Mac had ribbed him about it being a little femme for a Hukapa.

The HiAce had been rented, driven and cleaned by pros and Mac wasn’t going to fi nd anything.

Robbo phoned in their position and situation to Morris in Darwin, who said he was sending local Queensland cops out to the airfi elds in Barcaldine, Aramac and Blackall. It wasn’t entirely scientifi c – they could veer south to Charleville if they had enough gas, and there was nothing to say they didn’t. The trouble with a forty-minute head start was that it would barely give enough time for the local cops to get out to the airfi elds, let alone to stop someone. And with the amount of small aircraft traffi c in the outback, a white Cessna Skymaster – one of the most popular planes in rural Australia – was hardly going to attract attention.

The other thing was that the Hawk was a thirsty bird and they were going to have to stop in Longreach.

It was past three pm when Mac and the 4RAR boys reached Longreach airport and went into the terminal for some nosebag while the aircrew supervised the refi lling. Mac looked out over the brown grass of the world’s original long-haul terminus: in 1921 Qantas started regular fl ights around the outback from Longreach and the fi rst hangar was still in use.

Robbo wanted to know what was next.

‘Wait for an update from the Feds,’ said Mac, trying to think like Hassan. Queensland was more than twice the size of Texas and every town had its own airfi eld. Operation Limelight was a pursuit, and the pursued were in control.

The radio squelched and Robbo picked up. Shouts barked from the earpiece and Robbo looked at Mac. ‘Local police are holding a pilot at Cooladdi airfi eld, west of Charleville.’

‘We’re there,’ said Mac, as he gulped the bottled water and grabbed a pie for the run across the tarmac.

The white twin-engine Skymaster was parked in an unmown fi eld in front of a BP tender, on the side of the Cooladdi airfi eld. A police Nissan Patrol was parked beside the plane and the VH-CWB marking was clear on the tail section.

When they got to the pilot Mac felt immediately that he was straight. He was tall, thin and nerdy with a small chin and mousy hair.

While Robbo led the commandos into the Skymaster for a quick search, the police allowed Mac to take Dave – from Fremantle – for a quick stroll.

‘You know who these people were?’ asked Mac, as they got to the shade of a stand of trees behind the air club hangar.

‘It was booked as Michael Smith, a month ago, and they forwarded a money order as down payment,’ said the bloke, fi shing for a smoke from his polyester blue shorts.

‘Look like Michael Smith to you?’

Dave shrugged again, shook his head. ‘Mate, I didn’t meet them till I picked them up this morning in the Territory. Why, what’s up?’ he asked, eyes darting around under the sunnies.

‘Never mind. What happened here? Where are they?’

‘Left the money in an envelope, got out and walked straight across the airfi eld.’ He pointed, his skinny arms sticking out of his white short-sleeved pilot’s shirt. ‘They got into the trees and into a car or a LandCruiser, or something.’

‘Did you see it, Dave?’

Sucking on the smoke, Dave sneered. ‘What was your name again?’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not confused. Tell me about the car.’

Dave smiled at the sky. ‘What, you a spy or something?’

It happened so fast it even surprised Mac. Dave was suddenly on his knees in the brown grass, his right wrist bent under itself in a Korean wrist-lock. ‘Fuck, please, you’re breaking it,’ he gasped.

Mac kept the pressure on while Dave cried and tried to gulp down the pain. ‘Look at me, Dave.’

‘Yes,’ he whined, looking up.

‘The car.’

‘It was – ouch – it was white, LandCruiser. Please, mate – it was a late model, GXL.’

‘All four got in?’

Dave winced with pain. ‘No, only two.’

Mac eased up and let the bloke go. Dave collapsed in the grass, sobbing and holding his arm out like the further he could get it away from his body the less it would hurt.

‘Two?’

‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I was going to tell you -‘

‘So tell me, Dave.’

‘We dropped the other two in Betoota. It’s in my log, YBEO.’

‘What happened?’

‘They got on another plane – white Cherokee.’

‘Did they take anything with them?’ snapped Mac, at the end of his rope.

‘Yeah,’ moaned Dave. ‘They took a green plastic case.’