Sword of Allah

Darwin, Northern Territory, Australia

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.

‘Armed escort, miss.’

‘Yeah, so what do we need one of those for, again? I mean, we only have to beat off one other network and we don’t need guns for that.’

‘Looters mainly, sir. There were quite a few gangs on the streets before the army moved in.’

‘And now?’ asked Annabelle.

‘Mostly under control now.’

Weaver had been around long enough to know that ‘mostly’ meant mostly not. He shrugged, letting it pass. Maybe they’d get a good story from Darwin after all.

A burst of noise came through the radio speakers. It sounded only vaguely reminiscent of English. ‘What are they saying?’ Annabelle asked.

‘ARCOM wants all PUBCOMs to present at DARCON asap.’

‘Right,’ said Annabelle.

‘I think the lady means can we hear the translation,’ Weaver said from the back seat.

‘Pardon, miss. We hear the acronyms so much, they sound kinda normal after a while. Army Command wants all public communications — you guys, basically — to come to Darwin Control now, if not sooner.’

‘So DARCON is the Novotel?’ Annabelle asked.

‘That’s right. You know, the Seventh Day Adventist retreat?’ said Weaver, keeping himself entertained.

‘Yes, miss.’ The soldier addressed himself to Annabelle, ignoring Weaver.

The two-car convoy crawled cautiously along the highway, which had become a barely moving snarl of trucks, utes and four-by-fours heading south beneath a pall of black diesel smoke. Here and there, brawls had broken out involving sometimes up to a dozen people, due to perceived slights induced by alcohol. There were police cars amongst the confusion, but they were clearly overwhelmed by the task at hand. The cameraman had a micro digital recorder in his hand, committing the exodus to hard disk.

‘Annabelle, I prepared these notes for you on the plane up. A bit on the history of Darwin, background, that sort of thing,’ said Weaver, with his producer’s hat back on. Annabelle Gilbert had to be properly briefed before she stood in front of the camera. ‘Might be worth skimming before we meet DARCON the ARCON, great warrior from the outer galaxy of somewhere or other. We’ll file straight after, when we know what they’ll let us say.’

‘Okay,’ said Annabelle, flicking through the five-page summary.

‘Also, I reckon a good backdrop might be the deck gun of the USS Peary, with Port Darwin behind it. It’s all in there,’ he said, motioning at the report. ‘The Peary sank when Darwin was bombed in the last war.’

Annabelle Gilbert put the brief down. It was good and thorough. The background it contained would form the basis of all her reports.

‘And, as chance would have it, the USS Peary monument is virtually across the road from our Adventist friends at the Novotel.’

Annabelle knew Tom didn’t like Barry Weaver. He’d called the producer a pain in the butt. And indeed, he wasn’t well liked by the staff around the office. She suddenly realised that the only people Weaver got on with were the people he’d worked with out in the field, where it really counted. The longer she spent with him on this assignment, the more she could see why. He was still a sleaze, albeit one with a blunt charm. Barry Weaver would be something — another thing — she and Tom would have to agree to disagree on. The thought of Tom swung her mood from tough reporter to pathetic glob of wet tissue paper. Wherever you are, Tom, I hope you’re okay…