Sword of Allah

Townsville, Queensland, Australia

Wilkes had to admit to himself that he was afraid. The ridiculousness of that fear made him angry with himself. The fact was, he would rather storm a machine gun emplacement than face Annabelle’s displeasure. She had real power over his state of mind, he realised. That, and the fact that he was fearful of the way things seemed to have changed between them.

A homecoming was once a relatively simple moment when they were overwhelmed with the emotion of being together again and went straight off to the sack. But now, since the simplicity of their relationship had been changed by their engagement, a homecoming seemed to be more about something he was denying her. He shrugged. Perhaps he was mistaken and was just feeling uncertain because they’d parted on such a bum note. Maybe he was getting worked up over nothing and they would embrace, kiss and one thing would lead to another and…Well, he warmed at the remembrance of Annabelle’s touch.

The C-130’s ramp cracked open, the struts wheezing. Wilkes’s ears rang from the assault of the Hercules’s propeller noise, despite the earplugs he’d been given. The heat of Townsville hit his face as he hopped down onto the tarmac, the heavy kitbag swung over his shoulder. The C-5 Galaxy had earlier delivered him and Atticus to Fairbairn AFB in Canberra, where they’d gone straight to a debrief with Air Marshal Ted Niven, Graeme Griffin, Gia Ferallo and Felix Mortimer, the DIO man. Wilkes and Monroe had already forwarded home a report detailing Kadar Al-Jahani’s capture. Canberra just wanted an initial verbal debrief on the terrorist’s delivery to Guantanamo Bay. That was all pretty straightforward, but both he and Atticus were surprised when they’d heard that Kadar Al-Jahani had been reported killed in a capture gone horribly wrong. Wilkes was sure ASIS, or more likely the CIA, had its reasons for the lie, and that more than likely those reasons wouldn’t be happy ones for Kadar Al-Jahani.

Wilkes breathed in the hot, clean air of home. It smelled of concrete and grass and imminent rain. Towering white and grey cumulonimbus clouds portended a storm and they reared up in the sky like knights in a joust. Wilkes walked across the tarmac to the terminal and felt a genuine relief to be back in Australia. He knew he wasn’t alone in that. What Aussie didn’t feel the same way when returning from a long stint overseas, relieved to be back in a country that made sense, where people didn’t shoot at each other for having a contrary point of view or a different skin colour. Wilkes thought about Kadar Al-Jahani and the land he’d come from, eternally torn with anger and blood.

Wilkes had seen enough misery to last several lifetimes and three things he knew to be true: that human beings bled the same, that they all had feelings, and that a sense of shared humanity was the most important belief system there was. Wilkes realised it was a strange philosophy for a bloke who was trained to kill, but it made a lot more sense than two people prepared to slaughter one another because each believed the other worshipped the same god in the wrong way. He knew the Israel — Palestine mess was more complicated than that, but surely, if people realised how much they were the same rather than how much they differed, the situation there would improve, wouldn’t it?

Wilkes walked across the tarmac and through the terminal deep in a jumble of thoughts and emotions. He looked up and suddenly realised he was at the taxi rank.

‘Where to, digger?’ asked the driver as Wilkes opened the door and tossed his kit in the back seat, then sat in the front passenger seat. It was a new taxi — air-conditioned — and it smelled cool and fresh inside with a hint of pine.

Wilkes knew he had to go back to barracks, at least to report in, but first there was something more important to do — tell Annabelle how much he loved her and missed her. ‘You know where NQTV is, mate?’

‘One of my best customers,’ said the driver, accelerating slowly away. ‘So, been protecting Australia lately?’

‘Sure, if you call devising field menus for the combat troops protecting Australia,’ Wilkes said.

‘Oh well, I guess a hungry soldier can’t fight,’ the driver agreed.

‘Ever heard the expression “An army marches on its stomach”? Well, it’s very important getting the diet right. Too many legumes and the boys fart. It’s noisy, smelly, and it’s dangerous, too. No point setting an ambush if the enemy can smell you a mile away,’ Wilkes said, straight-faced.

‘Gee, I never thought of that,’ said the driver. ‘Makes sense, though.’ He fiddled with the radio receiver. ‘Didn’t realise it was all so scientific. What do you want to listen to? Music? News?’

‘Bit of music would be fine, thanks,’ said Wilkes. Cook or sanitation officer were the two occupations he usually drew on to throw off idle conversation about his work. Wilkes felt a bit rude employing the tactic, but anything he could offer would be a lie. At least this one was a little less impolite than telling the man he didn’t want to talk.

Ten minutes later, Wilkes stood outside the TV station, heart pounding. He was sweating. Was this anxiety because of Annabelle, or weather induced? he wondered. Wilkes put his nose inside his fatigues, took a sniff, and detected a vague trace of deodorant. Good enough. He walked into reception and said hello to the woman behind the desk. She was around fifty and a fixture at the station. ‘Hi, Janet,’ he said. ‘Annabelle around?’

‘Hi, Tom. Yeah, just go on in. You know where she lives.’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’ Wilkes made his way through the open-plan office. Things were pretty quiet. It was mid afternoon on a Friday and most of the staff were probably off having a late lunch. He rounded the corner and walked up to Annabelle’s door. She was at her desk and Saunders was leaning over her, laughing softly about something.

A sliver of ice ran through Tom’s heart and he struggled to keep the jealousy out of his voice and face. ‘Belle,’ he said. Both Annabelle and Saunders looked up. Saunders stood a little too abruptly for Wilkes’s liking, as if he’d been caught with his dick in the steak and kidney pie.

Annabelle’s smile flashed when she looked up and saw him. ‘Tom!’

Tom walked up to Annabelle, who stood as he approached. They kissed, but something wasn’t right and Tom could feel it instantly — a certain reserve. ‘Can you get out of here?’ he asked.

‘For a little while, I guess. Steve?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Saunders, waving her off. ‘You go. We’re finished here for now.’

‘Tom. Let’s get a coffee. We need to talk.’

The cafe a few doors down from the station was a known hangout for NQTV employees. Annabelle avoided it, and led the way around the block. Soon they were sitting in a booth, coffees ordered.

Annabelle’s ‘we need to talk’ line had Tom worried. He was expecting the worst, and he got it. There was no small talk.

‘Tom, you don’t want to take up the network offer in Sydney. Let me finish,’ she said when he opened his mouth to speak. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to say what’s on my mind if you interrupt. I don’t want to go to Sydney, but I don’t want to stay here either, waiting to get a call from your regiment, or a visit, or whatever it is they do when there’s bad news…’

‘Annabelle, I —’

She held up her hand for him to stop. ‘You have no idea what it’s like for me when you go. And when you come back, you won’t/can’t tell me where you’ve been. And you won’t/can’t tell me where you’re going. What sort of a life is that for me? You were in Ramallah to kill that terrorist, weren’t you? We got the feed here. I saw you.’

Tom now didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could say that could take away Annabelle’s fears. So he didn’t say anything.

As they sat in the moment of silence, Annabelle’s chin quivered and her blue eyes filled with water, like the sea ruffled by a cold wind. She pulled the ring from her finger, and left it on the table as she stood. And this time, there were no goodbyes.

Just like that, the engagement was over. Wilkes sat in the coffee shop, stunned like a flash-bang had gone off too close for comfort. He looked at the engagement ring on the formica table, sitting amongst grains of spilled sugar, not knowing what to think or even whether to move.

Annabelle arrived back at her desk somewhat in shock. What had she done? She’d rehearsed what she was going to say over and over again, and knew it had to be short and to the point so she wouldn’t be tempted to changed her mind. They were heading in different directions. In time, she told herself, Tom would realise that too.

‘You okay, honey?’ asked Saunders popping his head through the door, when he saw her shoulders heaving, head on her forearms.