It’s the second thing that’s gone wrong tonight. Half an hour earlier his mobile phone battery up and died on him. That’s no great disaster. There’s only one person who’d be calling him. Deirdre. Wanting to chat. Recently his fiancée’s calls have ended with a verbal prod for him to work on his application to the Federal Police detective training program whenever he has a spare moment. It needs to be lodged in two weeks. She’s right, of course, he should work on it, but the application worries him. He’s better than he appears on paper but he doesn’t know how to show it. The training program is highly selective so he needs to find a point of difference, something that will really make him stand out. He just doesn’t know what it is.
**
Kelvin banks the Galaxy over Moreton Bay. Through the windscreen the main runway at Brisbane International Airport slides into view.
To Kelvin the word ‘international’ conjures images of a bustling metro hub like O’Hare or Heathrow. But this place looks like a hopped-up country-town aerodrome. The runway is empty and all the lights are off. Henri’s man on the ground has monitored the airport’s aircraft movements for the last three months. From this Kelvin knows the next flight is not due until six-fifteen a.m., almost three hours from now. Until then they’ll have the place to themselves.
Kelvin drops the Galaxy towards the runway. ‘Make it short’ is Henri’s sole command. It’s a smooth landing, as smooth as an aircraft that weighs 181500 kilograms empty can be. Kelvin quickly pulls the jet up.
Henri points. ‘Left taxiway.’ Kelvin makes the turn, the Galaxy moving at a fair clip, shuddering as it rolls across the imperfect tarmac.
‘There.’ Henri points at a large hangar to the far left. The Frenchman’s brusque economy with words is starting to annoy Kelvin but he angles the jet towards it. He has no idea what’s inside the hangar but he’s certain it won’t be good. He resolves to extricate himself from this situation as soon as possible but appreciates he must pick his moment wisely. He’s sure he’ll only get one chance at an escape.
**
A howl and rumble cuts across the airport’s empty car park. Owen glances at his watch, confused. The first jet to land each morning is the FedEx DC-10 out of Honolulu and that’s not due for three hours. He listens. This jet sounds different to the DC-10, its engine note deeper, harsher somehow. He’s no expert but it doesn’t sound like any jet he’s heard before. He decides to hoof it over to the passenger terminal, which overlooks the runway, and take a peek.
**
Kelvin eases the Galaxy to a stop 30 metres from the hangar. Henri turns to Dirk, Nico and Cobbin behind him. ‘You know what to do.’ They nod, stand and move out. Henri’s eyes move to Kelvin. ‘Raise the visor and kneel.’ He nods and works the controls.
The sharp whine of hydraulics pierces the night as the visor, the Galaxy’s nose section, unlocks from the fuselage and rises, like a ghoul peeling off its face to reveal an empty skull behind.
Dirk Popanken, a towering, blond German in his late forties, stands at the mouth of the aircraft’s cargo bay. Beside him is Nico Trulli, same age but a short, dark-haired Italian.
They stare down at the lean figure of Claude Pascal, who stands inside the open hangar as its roller door trundles open. The Frenchman grins at the sight of his old friends.
Within seconds the Galaxy’s visor is fully open and the aircraft’s nose gear retracts into the wheel well with a low moan. The front of the aircraft kneels, tipping its gaping maw towards the tarmac. It looks like the jet is curtsying. Nico works a hand controller and the ramp in front of him extends, its servos complaining all the way. The ramp gently touches the tarmac and locks in position, creates a direct roadway into the belly of the aircraft.
Dirk and Nico trot down the ramp and the German greets Claude with a clap on the shoulder. ‘Good to see you, Claude. How are you?’
‘Well. Very well. So we’re speaking English?’
Dirk nods. ‘The commander prefers it.’ The multinational composition of Henri’s crew means English is the only language everyone fully understands.
Nico loops an arm around the Frenchman. ‘Is everything set?’
‘Absolutely. This way.’ He turns, leads them towards the open hangar. ‘How is the commander? Is he pleased with preparations?’
Nico smiles. ‘You worry about the old man too much. You only have to remember one thing: if you’re alive then he’s happy with your work.’
The anxious Claude doesn’t find it funny. ‘So, what’s the job? Has he told you anything?’
‘All will become apparent in the fullness of time.’
Henri appears behind Claude, dressed in jeans and a black crew-neck. He looks younger out of the flight suit.
‘Of course, Commander. I didn’t mean to —’
‘It’s fine, Claude. Where are they?’
‘This way.’ Claude turns, leads them into the brightly lit hangar, where they see them, sitting on the cement floor.
Two Tigers.
The Tiger MBH is a state-of-the-art, two-crew, multi-role battlefield helicopter. Its stealthy design incorporates a composite airframe to minimise radar cross-section and its integrated suite of sensors includes the Top Hawk target identification and acquisition system. Its weapon package combines 30-millimetre Giat guns and missiles capable of defeating all current and projected armoured vehicles. And they’re black, Henri’s favourite colour.
After being built on this site by Pacificspatiale, a division of the French-owned Aerospatiale, both Tigers were packed, racked and stacked, ready to be shipped on pallets to the Australian Army’s Aviation Centre in Oakey later that week. Once there, they would undergo final assembly before entering service. At least that was the plan. These choppers will never make it to Oakey.
Henri turns and smiles his half-smile at Claude. ‘Well done.’
Claude grins. Henri’s content, so that justifies the twelve months he spent employed at Pacificspatiale as a member of the flight test team, and the two security guards he’d terminated earlier this evening to gain access to the Tigers.
Henri nods at the Volvo tractor parked by the far wall. ‘Okay, let’s get them into the Galaxy.’
**
Owen sprints across the wide, unlit passenger terminal and pulls up at the main window. He scans the runway with his mini Nikon binoculars and searches for the aircraft that just landed. It doesn’t take long to find. It’s a C-5 Galaxy, one of the largest jets to ever fly, parked near a hangar at the far end of the airfield.
‘Christ.’ He knows immediately that it’s the one stolen from that air-force base in America a few days ago. He’d seen the FAA bulletin alerting airports worldwide to the big jet the Yanks had misplaced and would kindly like returned. The tail number matches the one quoted in the email.
Owen’s chest tightens, not because he’s scared but because he’s excited. He realises that if he plays it right
this
can be the point of difference that sets him apart from all the other applicants to the detective training program.
His right hand moves to the holstered Glock pistol on his hip. He touches its handle, mustering the courage to do what he must do next. He turns and runs.
**
Cobbin stands under the Galaxy’s tail and surveys the airport, an RPG-7 in the open canvas bag at his feet. The thirty-year-old Brit is itching to use the grenade launcher. There’s just one problem. There’s nothing to fire it at, no sign of anyone, anywhere. He was expecting a security force of some type, but no. He waits with interest to see if any turns up.
**
It’s quick and painless. They’re a tight fit but within five minutes all three pallets, two containing the choppers and one their armaments, are secured within the Galaxy’s hold.
Kelvin works on the pallet closest to the open nose of the Galaxy. He throws a strap over the chopper’s tail section then shifts position to tie it down on the opposite side. He squeezes between the fuselage and the pallet, grabs the strap to thread it through the ring in the floor and stops.
He’s alone. No one can see him. He turns, looks out the open visor. This is his chance. Five steps and he’s out of the aircraft, another forty and he’s in the hangar. He can then pass through the building, make it to the road beyond and steal a car.
Except he doesn’t know the way through the building, or if there’s a road beyond, or how to steal a car. He’ll be dead before he reaches the hanger. A bullet in the back from Henri or Cobbin or Dirk is not how he wants his life to end. He puts the plan out of his mind and ties off the strap.
He finishes and looks up. There’s still no one around. He glances out the open visor again. The hangar is just there. So close. Even though the plan is half-arsed he’s going for it! Tingling with excitement he takes three steps —
Henri steps from behind the pallet and blocks his path. Kelvin tries not to appear surprised. He fails.
‘Return to the flight deck and report to Claude.’
‘Will do.’ Kelvin turns to the crew access ladder. He can feel Henri’s eyes drill into his back. The only consolation is that it’s better than a bullet. He scales the ladder to the flight deck, settles into the pilot’s seat beside Claude and turns to him with a forced smile. ‘So, where to?’
**
Owen’s feet slip on the polished floor as he sprints past the check-in area. He overbalances, throws out an arm, stays upright, powers on.
He has no misgivings about his course of action. Terrorists could be on that plane, actual terrorists. At
his
airport. If he can single-handedly pull off something heroic today, like taking them into custody, or thwarting whatever they’re doing at the hangar on the far side of the runway, then that will make his selection to the detective training program a formality. A
formality
!
He aims at the far side of the building and lifts his pace.
**
The Galaxy’s turbofans run up as it swings around. Its right wing narrowly clears the front of the hangar, then it rolls towards the runway, its jet wash whipping up a blizzard of dust.
From the shadows beside the building, Henri, Dirk, Nico and Cobbin watch it go. Henri had entrusted Claude to deliver the Tigers and he’d succeeded admirably. It again vindicated his belief that he should never micromanage his crew. All he needed was to pick them well, train them correctly, give them a clear goal and set them on their way. ‘Okay, let’s get ready.’
From a canvas bag Cobbin draws out an RPG-7 grenade launcher and passes it Dirk. He does the same for Nico, then takes a third for himself. They raise the weapons to their shoulders. Dirk points his to the left, towards a security gate 500 metres way. Nico points his to the right, at the corner of the main terminal building, another gate concealed behind it. Cobbin’s is ready to be aimed wherever it is needed.
Henri pushes a pair of small Nikon binoculars to his eyes and focuses on the Galaxy as it trundles towards the runway.
**
Owen sprints. His lungs burn and he feels like he’s about to be sick. He hasn’t run this far in the decade since he left school. He’s suckin’ in the big ones as he leaps down a flight of stairs and lands at the bottom of a stairwell. He drags a keycard through the reader, punches a four-digit code into its keypad and pushes the door open.
The howl of the Galaxy’s turbofans echoes across the airport. Owen looks through the chain-link security gate to his left and sees the jet is on the move. It rolls towards the end of the runway, lights blinking in the dark, illuminating its hulking outline.
He has to stop it from taking off. He guesses pumping a few bullets into an engine or two will bring proceedings to a screeching halt. He’s never fired his weapon on duty but this seems like the perfect time to start. Of course, before he can fire anything he must first pass through the security gate. He races towards it.
**
‘Movement. Left gate.’
Henri sees a uniformed guard run towards the security gate. Dirk, Nico and Cobbin swing their grenade launchers towards him, take aim.
Henri flicks the binoculars right, to the Galaxy as it rumbles towards the runway’s threshold, then pulls them back to the uniformed guard.
‘If the gate opens, firing order is Dirk, Nico, Cobbin.’
They each squeeze the RPG-7s’ triggers.
‘On my mark.’
**
Owen swipes his keycard through the security gate’s reader and punches the four-digit code into its keypad. The gate has a triple-lock security system. Swipe the keycard. Enter the code. Insert the key and turn. He reaches for his keys ...
‘Oh fuck!’
He lost them earlier. He grasps the chain-link in frustration, watches the Galaxy leisurely roll away.
A moment later the whine of its turbofans twists into a high-pitched roar. Through the locked gate Owen watches the jet sweep past then lift into the black sky.
He’s in no rush to get on with the rest of the day. He knows that a member of the public, some anal plane-spotter, will call one of the local radio or television stations and report seeing the stolen Galaxy arrive or depart the airport this morning. It might take until mid-afternoon but his superiors will eventually realise that he somehow let the jet land
then take off
without, at the very least, alerting anyone. He’ll be unceremoniously fired. It’s not the point of difference he was looking for, but it’ll make damn certain his application to the detective training program is dead on arrival.