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0500hrs Thursday December 20, 2012 Somewhere between Perth and Margaret River, Western Australia |
With the sun-baked land heating up, Mackay knew he had to get moving. There was no shelter, no farms or houses of any description in any direction. There was literally nowhere to hide unless he dug himself a bunker and ate off the land’s provision. Which he had no idea how to do. He may have been a qualified corporal back in the day, but the British military didn’t teach how to survive in outback landscapes. On the crest of that blind hill, it was all trees and shrubbery, red earth and fence lines. Three hundred and sixty degrees all around. And important people with badges and uniforms were certainly looking for him, considering what he’d left in his wake. Local law enforcement, if not the federal police would already be working on tracking him down. Even the paramedics might have called a secondary crew to try and triangulate his position based on the direction he left the winery. After all, it was their own local backyard. How far could a foreigner in an ambulance really go? To keep from getting caught he would need to take his chances in the bush. Completely off-road away from all forms of vehicles and transport. Anything with a fast-moving set of tyres was a potential witness. If the law requested an aerial search, he would deal with that bridge if and when he heard it coming. Which he gathered would only happen in about two or three hours once the road searches lucked out.
The temperature was rising by the second and Mackay’s biggest concern wasn’t Lincoln at that point. It was himself. He was thirsty, and somewhere inside, a strange sense of fatigue was emerging. A feeling he’d felt before, back in Aldershot. After chasing down the two thieves, then later waking up kicking and screaming in hospital. He was down to one bottle of water in his backpack, which at half a litre wasn’t going to be enough for the both of them. Not for a full day under the sun. A native ant would need more. If he couldn’t look after himself, Lincoln wouldn’t survive either. Which meant things were down to a very fine point.
Mackay checked his front breast pocket. He still had the GPS tracker, a military-grade tool which should give him bearings to his location. He took it out. The screen had a single crack, etched like a hairline fracture across the top third of the screen. Most likely from the tumble dryer treatment he endured through the vineyard with the horse. But it was working. His saving grace, and another credit to Andy. It put him at an inland position from the coastline. Thirty-three degrees latitude, one hundred and sixteen degrees longitude. As a geographical reference it put him two hundred and five kilometres south of RAAF Base Pearce, which made it one hundred and eighty kilometres south of Perth.
Fair judgment combined with his newly acquired thermoplastic capabilities, Mackay figured he could reasonably aim for the city. On foot. At running speed. If he could hold out that is. In any case he had no other choice. They were both dead or caught if they stayed in the bushland or took the road. Then, once they got close enough to civilisation, they could hopefully hitchhike the last fifty or so kilometres to the airbase. Managing Lincoln for the journey was going to be Mackay’s greatest physical test. Even greater than taking on the horse, which, at the thought of it, sent a few shots of panic spasming through his head. If he was going on foot with Lincoln on his back, he needed to figure out a way to secure him. And fast. The sunbeams flaring off the earth were intensifying by the second.
*
Mackay removed his backpack, the Kevlar vest and ballistic plate. He gulped down half his last bottle of water and handed the rest to Lincoln. He pulled his belt from around his waist and removed the bayonet and seal pup knife. He left the vest in the dirt, pocketed the seal knife, then skewed the bayonet through the first waist-loop at the front of his pants – using it as a makeshift belt. A replacement for his actual belt which would need to be used to secure Lincoln. He worked the blade and the cross-guard through the buttonhole to stop his pants from falling down, which was tight, but unless he wanted to run with his pants down it was his best option. He then took his field shirt off and tore it in two, wrapping one half around his head and the other around Lincoln’s, like a bandana. For sun protection. Lincoln, who sat half asleep on the ground, looked a little more hydrated than when Mackay first saw him inside the hearth, but his expression was still nowhere near normal. Mackay dropped a knee and faced him.
‘We need to get moving,’ said Mackay. ‘I’m going to carry you on my back using this belt to strap your legs tight around my stomach. It’ll stop you from falling off.’
Lincoln said nothing. Mackay couldn’t tell if he understood, his doughy eyes were too red and glazed to gauge any acuity or feedback. After a moment, Lincoln stood, then walked behind Mackay and started climbing onto his back. Mackay curled over, allowing Lincoln to step and straddle, then adjusted the boy’s slender arms over his shoulders.
‘I need you to clasp tight around me,’ said Mackay, standing upright. I’m going to start running. Fast. I can’t have you bouncing off.’
Mackay rocked on his toes to get Lincoln shimmied into the best position. With his belt, he hooked the strap behind Lincoln’s left leg, then the right, then threaded the tip through the buckle. Keeping Lincoln’s knees just below Mackay’s chest. Snug enough to keep them from rubbing or bouncing while he ran. He checked and adjusted one last time. Everything felt taut. Good enough to run, but not too restrictive to cut off the breathing capacity of his diaphragm.
‘That okay for you? Not too tight?’
‘Okay,’ said Lincoln.
‘I want you to fold your arms around my neck, just don’t choke my throat.’
‘No choke. Run and breathe.’
Regardless of the water he’d just had, Mackay’s thirst continued to swell. Like the heat of the morning. His body wanted more. And worse, that deep-set uneasy fatigue felt like it was growing. Numbing his insides. He had no immunosuppressants and no synthetic marrow medication to settle his condition. How long he would last was now down to luck and determination. All big negatives. And he had no real idea where he was going either, just that he had to head north towards the city. On the positive side, at least his footwear was good, and he and Lincoln were together. The two things that counted the most right now. Though whatever gel technology was inside his shoes was about to take a beating. The pounding under the extra weight of Lincoln, at Mackay’s pace, would start to wear inside an hour. The situation was all sides awful. On one hand he could give up, hand himself to the authorities, in turn putting Lincoln into institutional care, or he could take his chances in the scrub. Which he did, stepping away from the road and into the arid landscape. Lincoln pinned to his back.
‘We’re good to go,’ said Mackay.
Mackay shot off. He didn’t know how long he had, he just knew he had to get going with as much pace as his body could handle. No heat, nor thirst, nor fatigue was going to get in his way if he could help it. The back of his legs flexed like rods of thickened bamboo – the bulky strands of fibre picking up speed, then more speed again, generating a human motor Mackay didn’t yet know the limits of. Even with Lincoln’s slight, thirty-five kilograms strapped in like a jockey, Mackay moved with agility. Light and completely fluid, his muscles rippling like a bag of walnuts.
His feet moved across the land with soft levity like they were barely touching the earth. Once his breathing increased and his body temperature rose, his circulatory system engaged to maximal capacity. The Phragazom compound doing its job to allow copious amounts of air in and efficiently remove toxins and carbon dioxide. His oxygen debt was cleared in seconds. The normal build-up of lactic acid and shortened breath didn’t even surface. His adrenalin and noradrenalin increased only minimally compared to any Olympic-level runner. His increased lung capacity from his wider chest cavity allowed him the space to push on with ease. His pace kicked up in gears stride after stride, bounding, dodging and hurtling in one direction. North. Creating a whistling wind tunnel and pressing the hair over his head like an invisible cap.
In 1996 in Atlanta, US Olympian Michael Johnson was clocked running his record-breaking two-hundred metre sprint at an average speed of thirty-seven kilometres per hour. Taking just a smidge over nineteen seconds. One of the fittest men to have ever lived. For a seriously trained athlete, that time could only be kept up for short bursts. At thirty-seven kilometres per hour, Mackay was working hard, but he was only just warming up. His body was even more capable. His legs and arms increasing in rhythm and tempo, enabling him to peak at a little under Australia’s suburban road limit: forty-nine kilometres per hour. Thirty miles an hour in the old British imperial system. Three miles an hour faster than what he’d reached back in Aldershot. Mathematically, if Mackay maintained his current pace, with distance equal to speed multiplied by time, it predicted just over a three-hour journey to Perth. Whether Mackay’s body could take that kind of abuse was a different story.
Mackay held that pace for an hour, his synthetic system working effortlessly. Then, the dry desiccant wind picked up behind him. Assisting his rolling stride. Adding a few extra kilometres per hour to his cadence, helping him range somewhere between fifty and sixty kilometres an hour. Mackay oscillated over stone and earth, shrubs and logs, passing through hordes of humming insects and scurrying animals like an automaton. Kilometres disappeared under long, ground-gaining strides, the gravel and dirt rattling and pluming on every step.
Running with Lincoln on his back was a feeling of being alive like no other. The morning sun beat down on his head and shoulders like a hammer, but Mackay took no notice. His mind was on autopilot. A trance-like state wired to his physical systems on a loop – extending, compressing, springing forward. Cutting through the air like a hot knife. His long, gapped footprints the only sign he was ever there. Time and energy lapsed on that lonesome terrain while Mackay made good ground. And Lincoln loved every minute – tucked in tight behind his uncle, eyes closed from the teary wind. He began to hum effusively. Keeping his little world occupied while the human train created enough G-force to alter Lincoln’s spatial awareness. Mackay’s speed against the earth’s gravitational acceleration stimulating his senses with exhilaration.
Then the wind died, and Mackay started feeling awful. Physically, everything started to hurt. Rough as guts. All forms of atomical matter inside felt doughy and hot. There was no water at hand, no creek or waterhole, but there was no way he was going to stop. He pressed on, still the master of his body. As focused as the first day he marched onto the desert battlefield.
Mackay, however, was still a mortal man. And deep, disgusting exhaustion eventually showed its dirty face. His strength began to wane. His incredible pace dampening to an illusion, enticing him to quit. Even the shadows among the trees were tempting. Calling him to cool off in their shade. Despite gritting it through, Mackay’s tortured body slowed. After two and a half hours of working overtime, he was bordering on useless. Any normal man would have hit a wall over a hundred kilometres ago. Exhaustion was an understatement. Something was wrong. His thirst was insatiable and there was nothing cooling his engine. He dropped down to twenty kilometres per hour. To fifteen, ten, then finally to a slow walk. Stiff and rigid like a drunkard. Inside his skin, things quickly became unbearable. With only fifty kilometres left, the real-world pain had started shouting murderously in his face. Screaming from every facet and fibre, bone and joint. His insides were cooking him alive, overheating way past red line. The taste of bile and blood flushed his mouth. His bones wished for death.
Mackay stumbled, then stopped. Though quivering like an ocean, he still managed to raise his eyes and look ahead, but there was nothing to see. It was all the same reddish, steampunk landscape he’d been travelling since he started. Now it was even more hazy. Unsure what was real and what wasn’t. He dropped vertically to his knees like an anchor, then fell like a tree. Biting the dirt and throwing Lincoln off to his side. Summoning any amount of energy felt like pushing grass through concrete. All he could manage was to undo the belt buckle and loosen Lincoln from his waist. Before he passed out, he thought of his parched throat and the endless terrain – concluding his mission was futile and that he and Lincoln were going to die. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Lincoln shuffled himself off Mackay’s back then watched his uncle struggle for breath in strained, wheezy rasps. Before his eyes glazed over, Mackay looked into his nephew’s face as he slipped away. He had no words. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t tell him things were going to be okay, because they weren’t. He couldn’t reach up and give him a hug or shelter him from the sun. His eyes blurred in and out as he searched Lincoln’s face, trying to apologise. Desperately wanting to tell him how sorry he was. How hard he tried. His vision petered out beyond the trees where the hot air shimmered like vapour. In his final seconds, he noticed something beyond the leaves and branches. Some hundred metres away his faltering state was still able to pick out a man-made object. Dull and faint, raised high off the ground. A contrasting difference from the surrounding colours of dry crimson. An old, rusted signpost poked through the trees like an imaginary oasis. Weathered white, yellow and red. A symbol in the shape of a clam. An abandoned fuel station. Before oblivion took over, Mackay raised a finger and pointed to it.
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0800hrs Thursday December 20, 2012 Somewhere between Perth and Margaret River, Western Australia |
Caged with a surrounding barrier of fencing, the fuel station looked set to be demolished. At one point. A job long forgotten. Left in an ignored landscape that would never see completion. The decayed walls were clapboard with only the thinnest hint of its original paint. The scorched construction was now a grotty piece of battered history, as if erected only a few days after the colonial years ended. The roof had fallen in, its windowpanes were shattered, crispy insect shells and cobwebs clung to the walls along with animal nests and their excrement. Most of the rest of the insides were covered in ash and soot, as if a fire had licked it up long before the crew arrived.
Lincoln clambered through the fencing barrier which was easy enough. There were no cutting barbs or sharp points to deal with. He slid between two barrier posts and walked inside the compound, moving beneath the rusted overhang which covered three old bowsers. Prehistoric fuel pumps. One diesel, and two 91 unleaded. He stepped up the concrete platform in front of reception and walked through what used to be the front door. Inside, he was greeted by a collection of grimy gas cylinders, all empty and useless. Next to them in the corner was a melted Coca-Cola refrigerator, and next to that was the burnt-out counter crumpled in a heap. Adjacent to that was an ashen walkway to a back room, likely the rear entrance. There were no taps, sinks or signs of water anywhere. Lincoln walked on through to the back and pried open a charcoal door.
A hundred metres beyond the petrol station nestled below a rise of olive-green hills was what looked to be an abandoned shed. Perhaps a garage or barn. Possibly belonging to the old owners of the very fuel station he’d just exited. Lincoln walked towards it. After a number of monumental ant mounds and a series of trees sprouting needle-like fronds, he arrived. It was not a shed, garage or barn. It was a home. At least once upon a time. Half corrugated iron and half brick. Scoured, but not decaying. Made to stand the test of time. A stripped-out tractor with flat tyres stood guard out front of a waist-high fence circling its front yard. Full of dead weeds and wild spreads of wheat and chaff. The metal gate at the front groaned in protest as Lincoln pushed and entered. Its front porch was a dirty concrete slab leading to a narrow, flaking yellow door. Two grimy windows were set in the wall on the left, and the collapsing remains of a barbecue from the First World War stood on the right. Clearly the kind of place where you’d only ever use the back door. The rear of the building stretched back at least twenty metres, opening into a massive backyard where the fencing turned into star-pickets and wiring with no visual end. It just expanded backwards into the landscape. Into farming property hundreds and hundreds of metres up into the hills. Possibly used as an old cattle farm or sheep station. Whether it worked for livestock or horticultural purposes was anyone’s guess.
Lincoln stood at the peeling front door, knocked, then waited. A common neighbourly courtesy. He listened for movement, heard nothing, waited a few seconds more, then repeated. Knock and wait. A social politeness he’d learned. The decent thing to do, rather than walking up to the door and opening it, which he tried next, but the door was locked. Or jammed from hard weathering. Or both. Lincoln stepped off and walked around the side of the house. There were no windows, just a path lined with more weeds, broken pallets and old paint buckets filled with dirt. He continued to the rear of the building where the backyard opened like the parting of the red sea. Where the mountains in the distance grew out to an expanding property large enough to house a city.
At the rear of the building, a large, corroded water tank as old as the land behind it stood against the back wall. A hundred metres further was a lonely windmill, its rusted fans still grinding over its pyramid assembly. The water tank had a single piece of rope attached between the tank’s flow pipe and the gutter jutting from the roof of the house. A makeshift clothesline. One pair of faded dark jeans was pegged on it – a possible sign of life. Next to the flow pipe near the bottom of the tank was a tap. Even at six years of age with diagnosed autism, Lincoln could run the numbers: a tap, a water tank, a dying uncle. He twisted the tap. On his first attempt he managed a quarter turn. With two hands buckled over the handle he managed half a turn more. The tap squealed and the pipe shuddered. A single drop of water emerged. He tried again. More squealing and shuddering, then a trickle. Lincoln ran back to the side of the house, tipped over one of the paint buckets filled with dirt and ran back to the tap. Which was when a door flung open behind him. A thin, dark-skinned man in a navy-blue singlet ran out holding a shotgun aimed head high. Lincoln turned.
‘Water,’ said Lincoln, hoarse and soft. ‘Uncle. Water.’ Lincoln raised a hand and pointed back beyond the house.
The man, older than sixty, younger than eighty, squinted at the boy in disbelief. Not that he’d never met a small boy before, but standing there alone looking for water in his backyard was a first. Not what he was expecting. The man lowered the gun and walked over. ‘You need water?’
Lincoln shook his head. ‘My uncle. He looks bad.’
‘He’s out there?’
Lincoln nodded.
‘You know where to find him?’
Lincoln nodded again.
‘Come along,’ said the man, and grabbed Lincoln by the hand. He discarded the paint bucket and walked him inside the house. He collected a large water bottle from a cupboard, filled it from the kitchen tap then ran back outside with Lincoln leading the way.
Mackay was still there. Deteriorating in a clearing of rubble. Cooking in the sun and breathing dirt, but at least he was breathing. A group of crows – a murder – as well as two wedge-tailed eagles had gathered around to watch, staring at his body. Waiting for his chest to stop rising and falling. Patiently killing time before their next meal. They even stayed put when Lincoln and the man arrived. Staunch and stoic. Unflinching to the strangers on their turf; our soil, our backyard. Optimistic they’d still get a chance to feast on him later.
The man grabbed a fistful of Mackay’s shirt and dragged his body to a shady patch under a hulking eucalyptus tree. He sat down, pulled Mackay into his lap and opened his lips – trickling droplets of water into his mouth from the bottle. There was no response. The man repeated the process. Minutes passed. Mackay remained unconscious.
Suddenly, a merciless roar pierced the sky above them. Like a choir of dinosaurs gargling hand grenades. A shadow the size of an island covered their position, blocking the sun for three whole seconds before opening the world again. The man ducked instinctively, scrambled over to Lincoln and pulled him close. A colossal chunk of flying metal passed over. The span of its body almost low enough to jump up and grab hold. The ground shook as the behemoth dipped low and adjusted its arrival in the old man’s backyard. A C-17 Globemaster had just touched down in the field behind the crumbling iron-brick home.
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0830hrs Thursday December 20, 2012 Somewhere between Perth and Margaret River, Western Australia |
The man noted Mackay’s tactical dress then looked back towards his home.
‘Somebody’s special,’ he said. ‘Looks like you got friends in high places, son. If that bird’s for me, either I’ve done something really bad, or really good.’ He turned to Lincoln, sitting next to him with one hand on Mackay’s chest, willing it to keep rising and falling.
‘Suppose you’re a bit young and small to give me a hand carrying him?’
Lincoln said nothing.
The man stood and hauled Mackay over his shoulder, which, for a man his age was impressive. Obviously, a farmer or rancher of some description. Decades of experience working the land and grappling livestock. Wrangling and tossing them on the backs of trucks and pickups.
‘But you can carry the water bottle,’ he said. ‘Maybe we’ll meet them halfway.’
Lincoln grabbed the bottle and followed his uncle’s lifeless body hanging over the dark farmer’s shoulder, moving back towards the abandoned fuel station. At the same time, a unit of six soldiers were moving their way towards their position from the other side. From where the Globemaster had landed. All wore a uniform of colours. Multi-terrain field patterns: khaki, brown, olive drab. Military garb. Australian Army. Of the six, only one soldier was armed: the one out front. The scout. A tough, Asian-looking guy with the face of an assassin. He held an F88 Austeyr rifle, standard Australian issue. His name badge wasn’t visible, but from appearance alone he was of either Korean or Japanese origin.
A scout position with a rifle in front of a moving team was a standard manoeuvre, namely for precautionary reasons. The enemy situation amid an outback environment was low, but when you don’t know your terrain, be prepared. The four soldiers behind him worked together carrying a stretcher, while the soldier at the rear moved without restrictions. Freely mobile. A familiar face, if only Mackay was conscious enough to see it. A Special Forces operator. A friend of a friend. Corporal Nuttal.
Once they met up and the stretcher was grounded, Mackay’s body was lowered and secured. Nutty hauled Lincoln into his arms and ordered everyone to double back to the aircraft – including the old man. The team, working quickly and efficiently, hustled Mackay’s body up the lowered cargo ramp and into the idling monolith.
‘How is he?’ asked another familiar voice, rolling her wheelchair alongside the men as they rushed Mackay inside.
‘Alive, but barely,’ said one soldier. Another Asian. Tall and wiry. Same height as Nutty, only a quarter of the width. The name Kitano was stitched above his breast pocket. Japanese origin. He had two diamonds etched on his epaulette – a lieutenant. Obviously, the medic in charge.
‘He’s breathing, but he’s burning,’ Kitano said. ‘Never felt any soldier this hot.’
‘Holy shit, he found the boy,’ said Cross, turning to see Nutty enter from the ramp with Lincoln curled tight against his chest. Nutty nodded back. The reality of the situation was unprecedented. Lincoln’s presence alongside Mackay in the West Australian outback exposed yet another layer to Mackay’s abilities.
The soldiers – all medics – started cutting at Mackay’s shirt and stripping him down. They worked fast, like a well-oiled machine, transferring Mackay’s body onto a large operating stretcher raised on a trolley, kitted with all the bells and whistles of hospital-grade care.
‘Sir,’ shouted Cross from the cargo ramp. She wheeled herself toward the dark-skinned man walking in behind Nutty. The man seemed awkwardly out of place. Unsure where to be or what to do, only that he was there as Mackay’s first responder. Staying out of a personal respect. Seeing through his service for the casualty to full safety and care.
‘You were with my guy on the ground as we flew over,’ said Cross, upping her volume over the whining engines kicking back in.
‘Yes, miss,’ said the man. ‘The boy there turned up to my home, looking for water. Took me to the man’s body, unconscious, hot as an oven. I started giving him water but then this flew over.’
‘Was there any abandoned vehicle nearby?’ said Cross.
‘No, miss, just the boy.’
‘Any tyre tracks?’
‘Not that I could see. Didn’t do a wide enough search. Just some clumsy footprints. Nobody comes out this way unless by helicopter, camel or four-wheel-drive. It was as if the earth had spat him out.’
Cross turned back to Nutty. ‘You saw it,’ she said. ‘Tracking his GPS. Moving and winding off-road like a dune buggy. But he wasn’t driving anything. We tracked him at over fifty kilometres an hour for over two hours. Carrying the boy. What the fuck else is he capable of?’
Nutty couldn’t respond.
‘Was he wearing a backpack?’ Cross asked the man.
‘No, ma’am.’
Cross turned to Nutty. ‘Means his meds only lasted him two or so hours, or they’d emptied from his system beforehand.’
Half angry, half terrified, Cross wheeled herself next to Mackay’s perishing form as the medics began inserting half a dozen needles into his arms, neck and stomach. The nest of tubes were all connected to IV bags pegged on hangars either side of his body, transferring clear saline. Two more needles flowing from turquoise and honey-coloured bags were also jammed between the thermoplastic ridges of his enlarged ribcage.
The Japanese lieutenant took a syringe the size of a Thermos, filled the barrel from a blue vile and stabbed it down with force, just off-centre of Mackay’s sternum.
Cross shot him a hard glance.
Mackay didn’t flinch. His body contracted, stiffened for a moment, then relaxed again. Aside from the tubes in his nose and throat, he looked sound asleep.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Kitano. ‘This will settle him, not wake him. A heart reset if you will. Cools everything down and slows his vitals. I’ve never seen a temperature that high on any human in my life. I’m surprised he made it this far.’
Cross looked over at a temperature monitor on the screen behind Mackay’s head. It read fifty-four degrees Celsius. The highest core temperature ever recorded on a human body was forty-six. Willie Jones, a middle-aged guy suffering heatstroke in 1980. The human body can barely withstand anything over forty degrees before cardiac arrest starts shutting things down. Mackay was still holding on at eight degrees higher than the record limit. The only two questions were, would he wake up, and if he did, would his brain be affected? Had his brain coped with the excessive heat stress, or was it fried off like liver in a pan?
‘The more he moves, the worse he’ll become,’ said Kitano. ‘Captain Andersen’s orders are for complete sedation.’
‘How long will he stay unconscious?’ asked Nutty.
‘Hard to know. At this stage I’m not even sure he’ll wake up. Never worked on a patient with his… unique condition. Or anyone in this particular state either. His body and vitals look worse than what we’ve learned from any Holocaust survivor or Vietnam POW. He looks like he’s been tortured for weeks.’
Cross looked over Mackay’s body, at the tubes pouring out everywhere. A large part of her simply thankful his chest was still rising and falling. She wheeled in close to him and ran her fingers down his arm and knuckles, then folded them in between his.
‘His brain, it’s surely cooked,’ Cross lamented. ‘Is there nothing else we can do?’ She turned to the lieutenant.
Kitano shook his head. ‘We don’t have the right treatment for whatever’s inside him here. Realistically, nobody can survive what he put himself through. But if he’s survived this far, based on what Captain Andersen has informed me of, who knows. It’s out of my control. Pray the worst has passed and hope for the best. Keeping his body going is the priority.’
‘Captain Andersen is in Aldershot,’ said Nutty. ‘That’s over eighteen hours of flight time. Without the right treatment how can you be sure he’ll even last that long? His body is one thing, but his mind is more important in my opinion.’
‘Your rank has no opinion, Corporal,’ said Kitano firmly. ‘And we’re not going to Aldershot. Andersen’s been relocated to Tokyo, which is where we’re going. Ten hours flight time. Better than eighteen.’
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0900hrs Thursday December 20, 2012 Somewhere between Perth and Margaret River, Western Australia |
Lieutenant Kitano took a step back, as did another soldier, the lead scout from the initial rescue. Still holding the F88 Austeyr. Thirty in the clip, one in the chamber. Plenty to go around for everyone. He raised it at the group working on Mackay and lined himself up next to the lieutenant. The mood turned. The medics all made numerous sideways glances, first at each other, then at Cross, then at Nutty. Nutty, still holding Lincoln, went for his sidearm with his free right hand, but the lieutenant was ahead of him. A Browning Hi-Power 9mm appeared from under his shirt. He aimed high first, shooting Nutty in the shoulder, then dropped the barrel low and blew one through his thigh, the slugs tearing through the right deltoid and meaty flesh of the upper leg. Tearing away sections of rotator cuff, meniscus, tendons and bone. All key functional constructs of the body, eliminating any desire Nutty might have to draw again and retaliate.
Lincoln screamed in fright as Nutty dropped in a heap. His cry accentuating the initial clap of the gun, both sounds rebounding off the aircraft’s internal skeleton. The team of medics all lifted their hands and stepped away in a wide semicircle, arcing around the machines and IV stands around Mackay.
‘You stupid little cunt,’ said Cross, reeling herself forward at the officer. Her instinct to fight splitting like an atom. ‘He’s still holding the boy for fuck’s sake!’
‘Easy there, stumps,’ said Kitano, reversing his aim back at Cross, still keeping his full attention on Nutty. Cross pulled herself up just out of arm’s reach of the Browning.
‘You, Renee, I actually don’t need. So, I’ve got no issue with putting you down if it comes to it. If you feel like being reckless. A cripple without any qualified aircraft skills is of no use to me. You’re basically a waste of time here.’
The lieutenant switched aim and position, directing the barrel at Nutty’s head. He then stepped behind him and Lincoln for a better view of everyone. For a wider arc of vision across the fuselage; Mackay and the team of medics on his left, the dark-skinned man near the cargo ramp on his right.
‘As for him,’ said the lieutenant waving his gun at Nutty, ‘he is useful. And don’t worry, a bit of metal in the shoulder and leg never hurt anybody. I’m sure he’s had worse. I just needed him out of the picture. You know how it works, most competent soldier down first.’
Nobody said a word. Hands were raised and pulses were high. It was stalemate for everyone.
‘And, Corporal,’ Kitano continued, eyeing Nutty’s hand for any sudden movement, ‘I’d like that sidearm too, thanks. Slow and smooth. Two fingers.’
Nutty eased Lincoln to the floor beside him, Lincoln however, didn’t release his grip. He kept clawing his fingers into Nutty’s jacket, burying his head into his torso for security and comfort.
With two fingers, Nutty slowly removed his own Browning attached to the holster on his leg. He tossed it over to the lieutenant who picked it up with his spare hand, then swung its aim across the fuselage – locating their guest standing at the rear of the bay. With a gun in each fist, one steady at Nutty’s head, the other at the old man’s chest, the lieutenant had a strong case as the man in charge.
‘You’re in this too,’ said Kitano, directing his attention to the visitor. ‘What you’ve seen and been part of here, is unfortunately highly classified and very, very expensive. Can’t have you running around out there telling any of your clansmen, which means you’re staying. I need you over there with the cripple.’
The lieutenant waved his gun, ushering the man to move towards Cross and the rest of the group.
‘Hear no evil see no evil,’ said the man. ‘All my people moved off long ago. It’s just me, the trees and the wildlife. I’ll tell nobody. Be gone like a breeze.’
‘Wrong place and wrong time for you,’ said Kitano, raising his aim at the man’s head. ‘You’re in a difficult, unfair position, and I’m sorry. Nothing personal. We appreciate your help, but the situation on that stretcher is of bigger concern and interest than any of us here. With all things considered, if you don’t play by the rules, it’s your life, so move.’
The man didn’t budge. He eyed the ramp’s edge and angle, his thought processes considering whether to chance a bullet or run back and jump out. His lack of response was too long for Kitano, so the lieutenant made his decision for him, letting off two rounds near his head. Warning shots. Hitting air, or a tree or a giant ant hill beyond the rear of the craft. Enough to scare the man to take three steps forward and join the rest of the group.
The soldier with the rifle, the one without a name and obviously second in command, pulled a two-way transceiver radio from his pocket. ‘Raise the ramp, we’re good to go,’ he said. And they did. Whoever was in the cockpit was on the same team.
‘Let’s just say the man on the stretcher is the cat we let out of the bag,’ said Kitano. ‘Deliberately let loose but constantly monitored. Curious to see how he’d perform. A test of new technology if you will.’
‘A test?’ said Cross. ‘For the fucking Japanese military?’
The aircraft started to move.
‘We’re working to a different scale now,’ Kitano went on. ‘He’s worth a lot of money to some very important people. There’s a turning point coming for the Japanese soldier. For our new military machine. The bureaucratic powers want to get back to their pre-World War Two roots. Back to being a dominant force.’
‘They want super-soldiers,’ said Nutty sitting down holding Lincoln, his left hand pressed hard into his right shoulder.
‘Correct,’ said Kitano. ‘If this gets out it would be an international circus. A nightmare for both military and civilian sectors the world over. We can’t let that happen. Your boy needs to be locked down without any leaks. He’s a prized subject for one country alone. For decades we have lost our pride and given away our honour. All for materialism and commercialism. Cowering from the likes of America, China and Russia. Our strength and ability to perform on a global scale is weak. We must return Japan to its former strength, then exceed it.’
The lieutenant pointed his weapon at Mackay as the aircraft aligned itself on the flat strip of land.
‘With what that man has demonstrated, we can provide a new capability for our forces. Outperform any other military power and bring Japan back to being a real, prevailing world leader.’
‘The leaks are already out,’ said Cross. ‘He was witnessed by dozens running at suburban road speeds back in England.’
The air flowing through the engines hit another gear. The whine intensifying like a thousand musicians playing the same note. The mechanical thrusters from the engine pulled in tonnes of litres of air and pushed the colossal structure across the outback at increasing speed.
‘That’s been taken care of,’ said Kitano. ‘All eyewitnesses to that incident have already been brought in for questioning and silenced. Now go take a seat, we’re about to take off.’
‘Relocated or abducted?’ said Cross, studying him indignantly.
‘What’s that?’ said Kitano.
‘Captain Andersen, you fucking retard. You said he’s been relocated to Tokyo. Or was he taken by force?’
Kitano smiled, lingering on Cross’s hungry silence for answers.
‘Neither,’ he said. ‘He’s running this show.’