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The Taliban, what remained of them, broke and fled. They fled back

to

the

border,

crossing

a

man

made

line

that

gave

them

protection from the death that rained from above. They loaded onto trucks and drove a few hundred yards over the border, past the oblivious

guard

and

into

the

safety

and

sanctuary

of

Pakistan.

Hundreds of Taliban, and Al-Qaeda or ACM fighters, slipped away to refit, rearm, and plan for more attacks unmolested in the lawless western border region of Pakistan. But they left behind an almost equal number. As far as they were concerned this was a victory. The two Special Forces soldiers were dead and at least two jets were shot down. It was indeed a great day. As the enemy slipped away and the sound of the gunfire faded, the smoke of the battlefield still lingered, drifting through the valley carrying with it the fresh smell of death, the smell of burned bodies, cordite and the rich after taste of high explosive you could taste on your lips. Hamilton propped up Fulham, they were getting out of here. That was his last thought. Moments later Lizard landed. Lizard was a Marine tilt rotor Osprey with a full section of marines. After touching down, the Marines exited the rear ramp and sprinted to Nightmares position. When they found the Nightmare team they all stopped. Both of the men they

were

supposed

to

be

rescuing

looked

dead.

There

was

blood

everywhere. The Lizard team leader called it in, Pirelli would not be happy. But that wasn’t the least of their problems. Somehow, despite the massive aerial bombardment, there was still a lot of incoming fire. Carried on litters the two SF men were quickly loaded onto the aircraft, Hamilton thinking for a moment it was all over. As the Osprey lifted off she was raked from stem to stern, smoke pouring from one of her engines. The marines tried to occupy the smallest

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piece

of

space

they

could

as

holes

rapidly

appeared

along

the

fuselage, several were hit. Five minutes out from base the Osprey lost the port engine. The remaining

engine

groaning

under

full

power

took

the

load.

A

transmission interconnect shaft coupled the two huge propellers for just this emergency and was able to keep both massive props spinning and the Osprey airborne. But she was crippled badly and the pilots had a whole bunch of control problems.

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US Marine Tilt Rotor Osprey

FOB Tillman – Crash and Burn

FORWARD OPERATING BASE TILLMAN, AFGHANISTAN. Standing on a rocky dirt track, ringed by 6,000-foot, snow-dappled ridges, Natasha Braithwaite looked anxiously up the valley in the direction she expected the aircraft to return from. Braithwaite was posting cameras on the small height to capture the dramatic return of the Combat Search and Rescue everyone had been talking about. The rumour mill had been cranking all morning underscored by an unusual amount of air movements. Something big was going on. From her position three miles away, she could see the LZ was already looking very busy. It was time to get back to the main stage. She motioned the

driver

and

rest

of

the

crew

to

start

up

and

get

moving.

Braithwaite unzipped her hood thankful to be out of the freezing weather.

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The atmosphere on the LZ was different than she had expected. People were looking at each other all the time, but not much said. What the hell was this all about? Obviously everyone was waiting, but there

was

a

collective

breath

held

for

something

clearly

very

important. The scene was almost mesmerising. Thirty seconds out of Tillman’s landing pattern the Ospreys remaining engine spat the dummy. The pilot of the Osprey wrestled with

the

controls.

He

called

in

the

latest

emergency.

His

once

beloved bird was flying like a wingless chicken with lead weights. Worse still, there was no prescribed method to land safely. No one ever got to practice an auto-rotate or emergency landing all the way to the ground in one of these things. The simple reason was it was too dangerous. So the training objective had been to ‘minimize the possibility of such disastrous occurrences’ which was now too late. Speed is your friend the pilot thought. He needed to build the kinetic energy in the props and at the last second he would autorotate hoping to flare the aircraft into a controlled crash - that was the theory anyway. He pushed the nose down, kept the gear up and rotated the engine nacelles down to build up the energy in the big props. He crossed the threshold at over 150 knots, pulling the nose up slightly and rotating the nacelles into the vertical. The Osprey rapidly

slowed

before

hitting

the

dirt

at

a

little

over

50kph

skidding along the side of the main runway. It was all going real well until they hit the mine and the aircraft exploded. Braithwaite watched the skidding fireball in horror, eyes wide, hand over her mouth. “Shit.” Someone said. She looked quickly sideways to see if the camera was recording the

action.

It

was

and

she

immediately

felt

guilty,

they

were

watching people die, two of them her own countrymen. That was when

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she she heard some one say Hammer. She felt her stomach lurch, this was the man she had met only a few days ago, Captain Brian Hamilton. Within 24 hours of her witnessing the incident, the images were being played all around the world via Fox News, CNN and every other major news media.

SIKIRAM

MOUNTAIN,

AFGHANISTAN.

While

the

western

media

eagerly

consumed the latest bad news from the war, from high up on the slopes of

Sikiram,

al-Haqq

scrutinised

the

scene

of

the

previous

days

battle. His head still throbbed. Far below he could see coalition troops still combing through the aftermath of the fighting. It had been a great victory. But there were many more battles to be fought before they removed these invaders. But his time here had come to an end. He was needed for the fight back home. He took one last look over the majestic landscape, committing it to memory. As he turned to leave he noticed a metal rod protruding from the snow.

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CHAPTER TWO The Convergence Several Years Later

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The Shame of Sitti Hawa

RAYHAN ON THE ISLAND OF SUMATRA, INDONESIA. It had been several years since his return to the Island but still the dreams persisted. Emir bin Mohammed bin wali al-Haqq closed his eyes and the image of the coalition trooper immediately assaulted his mind, the man’s face and defiant expression etched in his memory. Blue eyes stared back at him from both distance and time with an intensity he could not escape from. Why did he think of this one man so often? He rested the strange metal rod on his lap, somehow all this was entwined, such was God’s will. If it had not been for the pursuit of this infidel he would not have found the rod. This was all part of Allah’s great design; otherwise he would not have been chosen to receive this gift. While he didn’t know what the gifts purpose was, one thing was clear; it was not something made by man. Twenty eight centimetres long it was metal like in appearance and instantly alien to touch. At times it was almost luminescent and its weight seemed to vary as did its temperature. To the Cleric’s followers

his

discovery

and

possession

of

an

object

with

such

mystical attributes was surely a sign from God. This and the Clerics heroic

past

in

the

defence

of

Islam

afforded

him

a

reverence

exceeding that of any religious leader before him with the exception of the prophet. To the cleric the path to the creation of the caliphate was now no longer a dream; they had been delivered a sign. His possession of this gift had delivered the self proclaimed Lion of Islam a sacred position amongst more than two hundred million Muslims populating the archipelago of Indonesia. The time had arrived; the convergence was upon them and the Tajdid was being readied. The road ahead was one of jihad musallah and the resurrection of faith bringing truth and justice to all his people. The seeds of Pondok Ngruki had spread far

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and wide and were taking root. Each harvest saw even more seeds being sewn and still greater harvests and bounties to come. Very soon, all of Indonesia would abide by the one true and just law and he would be their great leader. The excited sound of villagers’ voices broke into his thoughts. He opened his eyes and looking up the street could see that the villagers had assembled to witness the administration of the law. At the centre of this gathering a young girl struggled to stay on her feet. Sitti Hawa, barely fifteen, fell to her knees. Her legs were bruised and bleeding and her body trembled uncontrollably.

Her

stomach convulsed and cramped, she felt the heat of the blood stream down from between her legs. home.

Naked she crawled slowly back to her

The villagers lined the path witnessing her humiliation. She

had been gang raped. The rape was mandated by the village council, which made the ruling to punish her brother who was accused of having an affair with another woman in the village. Sitti’s body was wracked in pain, but no one came to help her, not even her own family. The edics of bin Mohammed bin wali al-Haqq were

very

clear,

the

teaching

of

the

strict

Muslim

faith

unassailable. After all, she was just a woman. Al-Haqq, seated a short distance away sipped hot coffee in the shadows of the village mosque watching the scene unfold. He folded his

arms

and

grunted

in

satisfaction.

Justice

was

done;

his

experience of pure Islam in Afghanistan had steeled his resolve. The people needed faith in Allah and his disciples to lead them. The whole world did. Why did they not understand? And these women! They must learn their place. He turned to his companion, a unique visitor to his home. “The boy is dead?” He asked. “Yes.” The Iranian replied.

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“Then you have taken what you needed?” “Yes, the area has been completely sanitised.” Excellent he thought, that meant all the others were dead also, along with the secret. The fact that nearly a hundred dead included small children and babies meant little to the cleric. Instead he felt blessed. “How?” The cleric asked curiously. “Gas” The Iranian said, he paused as the cleric nodded, “and then the entire area was torched.” The cleric looked into his coffee. the ever-persistent forest fires, one looked

much

the

same

as

another.

They were thorough. With

burnt out piece of forest

Imagine,

all

this

just

for

a

chicken? He was however sure his friends in Tehran knew what they were doing. They would deliver the Tajdid and with it the means to achieve the caliphate they all wanted. Across the other side of the road a small dog scavenged in the rubbish. al-Haqq motioned to his men. Dogs are hated by Muslims, alHaqq’s men called the dog, it was a poodle crossed with something else. The dog’s hair was matted and it was clearly starving. It came to the men who called her, its tail between her legs. The men took turns beating the dog with sticks, god had no time for such animals, the book said they were unclean. The cries and pain of the small dog as it died meant nothing to the men. Such was the will of Allah, blessed be his name. With Allah, they were capable of anything. The Cleric turned his attention back to the young man. They were about to receive visitors and needed to prepare.

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Khamenei’s Caliphate

THE OFFICE OF AYATOLLAH SAYYID ALI KHAMENEI, TEHRAN, IRAN. The Supreme Leader Sayyid Ali Khamenei looked relaxed, his hands resting on the end of the wooden arm rests of his chair. He sat in stark contrast to the other men who faced him, all sharing a long single seat and sitting stiffly as if they all had carrots stuck

up

their

ass.

Ayatollah

Ali

Khamenei

was

dressed

in

the

standard white shirt with gray vest and black robes. His appearance seemed benign, a seemingly harmless old face with a grey beard, glasses and a black turban. He was anything but benign, the innocuous appearance disguising a ruthless and deadly man beneath.

The other

men opposite were all dressed in business suits with white shirts tied at the neck and no tie. They sat side by side like small school boys,

hands

politely

clasped

on

their

laps.

Khamenei

had

a

notoriously thin skin and any perceived impropriety was taken as an extreme insult. Apart from Khamenei’s chair, the long visitor’s seat and a small coffee table in front of him, the room was bare. The floor was covered with a thin wool pile and there was an Iranian flag parked next to the grand leader. The green and red of the flag was the only colour in sight. One by one Khamenei’s guests had filed into the room. General Yahya Rahim Safavi was the last to enter the room; he stood politely in front of the Ayatollah who extended his hand. Safavi bent down, kissed it twice and put it to his forehead as a sign of respect. Once Safavi was seated the IR leader spoke. “Our nation holds dear

the

memories

demonstrations

on

of

the

February

Revolution. 11,

marking

We the

are

awaiting

victory

of

the

Islamic

Revolution. You will see that our dear nation will in a similar

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fashion as the previous years or even in a more enthusiastic mood as our nation has always been more enthusiastic than before will be globally witnessed. “Compare the anniversaries of revolutions and national days of other countries to this great movement by the people in our dear country. The anniversary of our Revolution is not a dull and formal occasion. It is a hundred percent populist celebration. Our people take part in such occasions in cold winter, in burning heat, and under all conditions when they have to be on the scene. On the February 11 every year, our nation appreciates the occasion and enters the scene, and demonstrates its presence in the eye of all its enemies and opposes. This could be observed in the whole world. There is some time left and I will give speeches to our dear nation before then. “We have witnessed the American people flee Iraq as we have prevailed and liberated the oppressed. They have acknowledged our power and have shrunk from our presence in this region. They failed in their quest to prevent us from mastering the nuclear process and now we must suggest to them how powerful we really are. “General Safavi, what of the project?” The General cleared his throat; the IR leader was referring to project 2500. “Twenty five warheads.” He stated, “Our group in Shahid Karimi have successfully mated twenty five warheads to our Shahab Six…all multiple re-rentry types.” “This is good. What are you proposing as our next demonstration?” “We will launch a Shahab Six with a dummy payload into the Indian Ocean, a range of over 3000 kilometres.” The General replied. Safavi was the commander of the Revolutionary Guards which owned a

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good part of the defence industrial complex working on the nuclear weapons program and the missiles. Next

to

him

Iran’s

chief

nuclear

negotiator,

the

hardline

deputy Foreign Minister Saeed Jalili nodded. “I will hint in a vague manner to El Barade that we have accomplished our objective.” Mohamed El Barade was the head of the IAEA and still hoping the Iranians

had

stopped

opposite

was

true,

the the

development latest

Shahab

of

a

nuclear

warhead.

intercontinental

The

ballistic

missile now carried nuclear warheads; no small thanks to the material provided by Dr. Abdul Qadeer Khan, the father of Pakistan's nuclear program and the Russians. “In the mean time I will keep the IAEA out of the way.” Saeed Jalili continued, “We have kept them

talking for nearly fifteen

years, another two or three months shouldn’t be difficult. The

head

Aghazadeh

of

agreed.

Iran's “The

Atomic

Energy

inspector’s

Organization,

attitudes

have

Gholamreza

changed

from

wanting us to cease refinement to working together and providing transparency to our efforts.” Aghazadeh’s job was to make sure the continued refinement program was as transparent as a lead window. What the IAEA inspected was a fraction of the refinement capacity Aghazadeh managed. What he let them see kept them busy and out of the way. “Mahmoud?” Khamenei said quickly changing track for a moment. “The

chicken,

you

retrieved

the

chicken

I

understand.

Is

this

project, what do you call it...the Tajdid?...is this as good as you say it is?” The Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad smiled. “Yes and much more, we have many samples. We are confident we can produce the Tajdid.” “And our brother al-Haqq?” “He is ready.”

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For just a moment, the grand Ayatollah looked like a light bulb had gone off in his head. “I guess this just leaves one question then.” He said. They all looked at him questioningly. “Which

comes

first,

the

chicken

or

the

bomb?”

He

said,

immediately laughing. The others laughed with him, even though some of them didn’t get it. The meeting went for another fifty minutes; most of it answering the Ayatollah’s many questions. After they finished they each kissed the old mans hand and exited.

Following the meeting with Khamenei, the men gathered again discarding the formalities. This time they sat down

with

the

head

of

Ministry

of

Intelligence

and

Security [MOIS - Vezarat-e Ettela'at va Amniat-e Keshvar VEVAK. With a

large

budget

and

extensive

organization,

the

Ministry

of

Intelligence and Security was the most powerful ministry in the Iranian government operating under the guidance and blessing of the Velayat-e Faqih apparatus of Ali Khamenei. Ministry of Security and Intelligence personnel were either attached as diplomats in Iranian embassies and consulate offices or as Ministry of Guidance and Propaganda representatives. Non-official covers

included

Iran

Air,

Aid

organizations

or

as

students,

merchants, mechanics, shopkeepers, bank clerks. The tentacles spread far and wide. They got down to the business of how they could use the WMD to best effect. Joining them were Muqtada Al-Sadr and Nasrallah, they had much to prepare for; the time for the new caliphate was upon them.

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Operation Schism Hunting al-Haqq and the Laskar Jundullah

ACEH PROVINCE, INDONESIA. The increased activity and chatter amongst the jihadists was reaching a frenzied pitch. Monitored by numerous intelligence agencies they all knew something was happening but not what. At the same time intelligence and cooperation from Indonesian authorities

was

not

only

becoming

less

reliable

but

exceedingly

questionable. The only away around this veil of confusion was to develop reliable sources and if you wanted something done well, the best way was to do it yourself. Gary Fulham breathed in deeply through his nose, taking in the rich and familiar smell of the jungle. It had been too long between gigs and he had almost forgotten the feeling. It was better than sex, it lasted longer and your life depended on it. Warrant Officer First Class Malcolm Fulham knew he should not be in the woods at his age, neither should his boss. But they were there because they were both really good at this stuff. Just ahead of him his boss silently signalled a stop, he went to ground. They were both panting from heat and exhaustion, salty tasting sweat mixed with camo grease trickled into the corner of his mouth. The boss pointed through the trees. Fulham nodded silently in acknowledgment; they were right on top of the bad guy’s camp. Below them a small group of men and women moved around looking completely harmless. He hated that part; it was much easier to shoot guys dressed up in the bad ass gear. These guys looked normal. But he had no doubt if they had the chance they would kill his mother, without so much as blinking. Inside the camp was the man the two SASR men had come to observe; bin Mohammed bin wali al-Haqq. They could see him. Bin

Mohammed

engraved

with

bin

wali

Arabic

al-Haqq, blessings,

served the

hot

drink

coffee strongly

in

small

cups

perfumed.

He

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recounted his Afghan war experience and about how a man smells just before he dies. "It was the strangest thing," he said, recalling a bloody fire fight at Charikar, a town north of Kabul. "If a Muslim brother was about to be martyred he would smell wonderful, even before he was killed, like dupa, then we knew death was close." Dupa was an Indonesian incense. "And after he was killed?" The young man in front of him asked. "The smell only grew stronger." bin Mohammed, was dressed in robes

and

turban,

his

beard

flecked

with

a

commanding

grey

and

looking very much like the wise man he perceived himself to be. Jihad,

he

tells

the

young

man,

"Is

patient.” He gestured around him.

in

my

veins.

We

have

been

The training camp thrived with

activity. “We now have an opportunity to bring true Shia justice and peace to our nation.” The older man drew strongly on his Kretek, but he really preferred smoking Marlborough. He unconsciously ran his hand over the gift.

He knew he was being watched.

A thousand meters away, the Australian SASR Officer focused his field glasses on the two men sipping their hot drinks and talking in the kebun [garden]. So far the mission had gone without a hitch, the field glasses and several other devices recording everything they saw. He had already recaptured the tiny recon UAV and was watching the two men in front of a small pondok, or hut, the scene seemed peaceful

and

casual.

Rasputin

he

thought,

he

recognised

him

instantly, the scar on the side of his temple seemed to tighten. On the table in front of Rasputin he a metal looking object, a rod. What brought Hammers attention to this was the fact that Rasputin would repeatedly rest his hand on it, as if to check it was still there. He wondered what it was, and then curiously the old man looked his way, almost as if he could see him, but that wasn’t possible.

This was

the same man that had almost killed him many years before. The old

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man smiled and then stroked his beard. That was when everything turned to shit. Lieutenant

Colonel

Brian

Hamilton,

Australian

Special

Air

Services Regiment, remembered the words straight away. “Whatever you do, do NOT get into a fire fight with the Indonesians or the Laskar Jundullah.”

The words were still rolling through his head when the

first bullet smacked into the tree behind him. Shit! “So much for afternoon tea!’ He said quietly between his teeth as green foliage exploded

across

the

small

space

that

separated

himself

and

WO1

Fulham, high velocity rounds cutting through the jungle around them. Fulham could only look at his boss in surprise. talking so quietly?

Why was he

The friggen machine guns were making enough

noise to hide a dance party. Hamilton crouched low, his heavily camouflaged face showing no emotion. They had been betrayed; the Laskar Jundullah knew they were coming and what to look for. Someone at home had talked out of school. Gary Fulham wasn’t thinking anything like that; he was more alarmed by the fact the boss didn’t look like moving, he seemed deep in thought. But like all of his team, he trusted him. He bit back the fear, this was hardly the first time and besides, he knew Hammer didn’t like getting shot at. “What have we got?” Hamilton asked suddenly. Fulham queried the perimeter sensors they had set up earlier. “Looks like thirty plus moving up the hill line abreast.” The Colonel just nodded calmly, bullets still sprayed through the air at random. The Laskar Jundullah fighters were getting closer. He then picked up the Minimi and pointed to the glasses he had put on. Fulham nodded and lay flat on the ground. They both lay perfectly still.

Fulham could now hear the Laskar

fighters shouting at each other, firing indiscriminately.

He then

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heard them crashing through the undergrowth towards them.

Hamilton

lay on his back, the Minimi on his chest, long belts beside him.

He

was looking through ultrasonic glasses. The Laskar Jundullah were almost on top of them. The glasses reflected the sound and movement of close by objects into a coherent image, seeing through the heavy foliage. As the first man was about to appear, Hamilton rolled into a crouch and squeezed the trigger of the minimi.

The Laskar Jundullah

fighters were in a rough but convenient line up, in fusillade.

The

gun was like a scythe as it chopped through the jungle and the line of men. The tropical paradise exploding into red green and brown as bodies were torn apart mixed with pulverised plants. In fifteen seconds it was over. The gun stopped.

Hamilton looked at Fulham.

“Now it’s time to go!” He said loudly, he was already off and running.

Fulham climbed quickly to his feet grabbed his gear and

followed, he didn’t need telling twice. The two men were exceptionally fit.

While the remnants and backup

to the initial Laskar Jundullah assault pursued, there was no way they came close to the physical capability of the two Australian SAS soldiers.

Very

quickly,

the

two

Australians

disappeared

in

the

jungle. After evading the Laskar Jundullah they made their way to the exfil site and waited. Hurry up and wait, the first thing you learn in the military.

EXTRACTION POINT DELTA. The Aceh sun dropped on the horizon. It became dark.

Twenty kilometres away, the pilot of an RAAF Caribou

checked that all his lights were out again and pondered the approach. Any one of these landings could be a death trap, he looked through his IR goggles, he had to trust the men on the ground. goggles he picked up the infrared beacons.

Through the

The LZ was well marked.

Whoever he was picking up had taken time out to add some outside infrared markers to give him better depth perception.

Nice touch.

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He felt a little better. He pulled back on the throttle levers, dropped the flaps and gear and pushed the yoke forwards. The entire trailing edge of the Caribou’s wing was part of the flap system. With these fully extended; there was only one way to get the bird on the ground, point the nose down hard. The pilot came in tight over the trees and dove for the ground.

As soon as the main gear touched the

two mighty Pratt & Whitney R2000’s roared as the props went into full reverse pitch, the nose of the twin-engine transport bouncing hard as the pilot experimented with the brakes.

They were down, good so far.

Not quite stopped the pilot gunned the engines to spin the aircraft to face back the way it had landed. The rear ramp was already down before the aircraft had finished the turn, two people ran up the stern. The Caribou crew all hoped they were Australians, it was hard to tell. The aircraft came back up to full throttle and with brute horsepower its two big bore radial-engines clawed her back into the night sky.

Hamilton fell into the canvass-webbing seat; the vibration of the aircrafts big radials rattled the aluminium deck plates beneath his

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boots. He patted the aluminium framework and canvass webbing; it was a good and familiar touch.

The aircraft was older than him, he

remembered as an officer cadet in his first few weeks of training climbing into these things. They were old then, but they always smelt great, the smell of excitement going into a mission and the same smell getting out with your ass intact.

Despite all the great

technology developed over the years there was still nothing better to meet that small niche requirement of distance and extreme STOL than the Caribou.

There was a special place in his heart for this flying

museum piece. The RAAF had been trying to replace it for over two decades,

he

knew

this

was

the

specifically for special operations.

last

one

flying,

kept

aside

There just wasn’t anything out

there that could beat it, especially not today. Bin Mohammed bin wali al-Haqq could hear the sound of the aircrafts radial engines retreat in the distance. The Australians had escaped. Tomorrow he would move his operation back to his main camp in Aceh away from any possible interference from the Australians. He would send the young man Usman El Muhammady in advance to make ready his own arrival.

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Operation Tripod Friday, May 8. 2018

CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA. The Intelligence report as a result of Hamilton and Fulham’s efforts took less than twenty-four hours to get through Defence analysis

and

onto

that

the

was

Ministers

ringing

desk.

alarm

bells

It

was

through

part the

of

a

newly

growing formed

government of Dennis Gordon and would generate a new task order designated TRIPOD. It was in the wee small hours of the morning and the Australian Defence Minister, Brian Reid and the Prime Minister Dennis Gordon were meeting to discuss the Indonesian problem. Again, Reid thought. Reid had placed his personal notebook on the desk to project onto the electronic whiteboard in his office. Sitting on a black leather couch next to the PM’s chair he used a small remote control to navigate through

the

briefing

provided

by

his

department

as

they

talked

through the problem. “The current situation has roots that go a long way back. When the Tsunami struck Aceh in 2004 there were some 35,000 orphans left behind.

We believe at least 20,000 of those ended up in hard line

Islamic schools” “Pesantren’s.” The Prime Minister said. The video showed some of the pupils of the Islamic schools training, and it wasn’t for sports. “Yes and that all began ten years ago.” He flicked to the next slide. “That’s him.” “Who?” “Bin

Mohammed

bin

wali

al-Haqq,

the

chief

of

the

radical

Islamic Defenders Front, the FPI for short. Better known for smashing up bars and nightclubs in Jakarta and elsewhere deemed to be unIslamic.

They have teamed up with Darul Islam, Jamaah Islamiyah, and

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his resurrected group called Laskar Jundullah, or Army of Allah. Between them they now have well over 20,000 dedicated and welltrained Jihadi’s.

Not to mention what they have and can pull out of

the main population of nearly 200 million Muslims.” Australia’s nextdoor neighbour is the world’s largest Muslim country. “What makes it worse is where they got their finance to help train and arm all those people.” “Don’t tell me.” “Yes, a portion of the billions of dollars we gave them in direct aid for the tsunami wound up with these fellows.” “They took our money and trained these people to hate us?” “In a nut shell, that’s bang on. Bin Mohammed looks like the centrepiece;

he

claims

direct

descent

from

the

Prophet

Muhammad

himself by way of a Yemeni missionary who settled in Indonesia 13 generations ago. One of this guy’s 17th century ancestors raised a 9,000-strong

army

of

holy

warriors

to

avenge

Dutch

colonial

atrocities in the Maluku Islands. They view westernisation as an attack on their culture. They view non-Muslims as infidels who must be converted, conquered or killed. “Sounds like the Christian crusades.” “Yep, except that was a few centuries ago.” “So what are we doing to follow up on this?” Reid played the excerpts of Hamilton’s foray from two days before. “This is less than forty eaight hours old. The guys who took this were lucky to get out alive. The Laskar Jundullah were tipped off, none of our Indonesian contacts, especially government, can be relied

on.

We

believe

the

Indonesian

government

may

have

been

directly involved in the Bali bombing and at the very least complicit in the planting of the Sari Club bomb. According to our sources, there isn’t a single Islamic group either terrorist or political that

123 | P a g e

is not controlled by (Indonesian) intelligence," This means if we want to find out what’s going on we have to do it ourselves.” “And?” “And

that

means

more

men

on

the

ground,

more

often

and

covertly.” “Given what you have just said, where is all this going?” “Indonesia’s been in a slide towards a more radical style of Islam for years. Shariah law now dominates most provinces and the secular

government

is

hanging

by

a

thread,

itself

dominated

by

hardline Islamists.” “Regime change?” “Regime change or evolution of the regime, one of the two will happen. If it doesn’t happen naturally the jihadists will make sure it does forcefully. But it all amounts to the same thing; a country of two hundred and thirty million mostly Muslims who after pretending for many years otherwise, will finally officially not like us. “Within twenty-four months from now Indonesia will also have six nuclear reactors online with help from both Iran and Pakistan.” “Yes, where do the Chinese fit into all this?” “Indonesia’s the world's largest exporter of liquefied natural gas with huge reserves of that and coal and has the sixteenth largest proven oil reserves, estimates go up with the recent discoveries in the southern Celebes Sea. “The Chinese want the gas and oil and in return are helping them to rapidly expand and modernise their defence force. At the same time the Chinese are getting access to a number of plum military bases.

124 | P a g e

“They helped the Indonesians build the big naval base in Ratai Bay and as part of the deal they got to use that and set up their own operational base at Belawan,” He pointed to the north east part of the Archipeligo “as well Tanjungpinang, near Singapore. From both

Aceh

Palau Atauro Malacca Strait Tandjung Arousu

bases they can sortie directly into the strait with both subs and surface ships. “Forty percent of the world’s shipping passes through that strait and over fifty percent of Japans oil. Aceh is staunchly Muslim and

terrorists

can

easily

disrupt

shipping

traffic

here.

Using

Belawan and Tanjungpinang the Chinese will virtually control the Strait. “However, the bases that we are really worried about, that have immediate impact on our security, are the naval bases on the island of Palau Atauro and here at Tandjung Arousu.” He pointed to them on the map. “These are respectively less than fifty kilometres from East Timor and one fifty from our own sea border north of Darwin. The

125 | P a g e

Chinese have sold the TNI an unknown number of Grumble SAMs which have been deployed near Tandjung Arousu. The Chinese might also have deployed a Gargoyle SAM battery as protection for their facilities, but we haven’t been able to prove that yet and hope that’s not the case. The only system capable of defeating the Gargoyle is the F/A-22 Raptor. If the TKI’s Grumble is an upgrade version, that’s a real problem for us as well. “What about our F35’s?” The Defence Minister shook his head. “For starters we only have a handful delivered; neither it nor the Super Hornet contests this system. We have no jamming capability nor anti radiation missiles. Outside of the Raptor the most survivable aircraft available are those with good TFRs – the Tornado and F-15E if fitted with the LANTIRN TFR pod – and the recently retired F-111, all requiring a high performance EW suite. Unless you have the radar signature of a gnat, the best place to be is low and fast. “The system can detect and track us even before we leave the Australian mainland and can cover nearly all of East Timor. It can track

over

100

targets

simultaneously.

Americans, the Indonesians have us boxed in.

Without

help

from

the

But there’s more…

“Not only do they now have us boxed in, they also have the ability

to

strike

us

with

almost

complete

impunity.

With

the

acquisition two years ago of the Su-34 they have the ability to fly all the way to Alice Springs and back on their internal fuel tanks. If the Chinese were to float one of their air defence destroyers in the Arafura Sea, they could illuminate anything coming out of Tindal or Darwin. “So what do we do about it?” “In the short term……..nothing. When we purchased the Hornet then the F35 we reduced our capability. Now we have to live with it. The only other solution is to buy F22’s and F15’s.”

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“Yeah, I can see the headlines already. ‘Defence bungles it again’. The media will tear us to pieces. “Unfortunately they would be right. But that isn’t all the bad news; we have observed an unusual amount of Chinese Naval traffic transiting through Indonesian waters into the Indian Ocean. For what purpose we have no idea. They also appear to be beefing up their units in Indonesia.” As Reid continued, Gordon tried to correlate the latest Intel with

what

he

knew.

On

top

of

the

Defence

Ministers

brief,

the

contents of which the Prime Minister was not entirely unaware of, there

were

a

thousand

other

strands

of

seemingly

unrelated

intelligence, which at the moment looked as transparent as a jar of Yangtze River water. Too many small pieces of information suspended in

space,

most

of

which

didn’t

make

sense.

Continually

walking

through it helped him to organise the chaos of information. There was a sense of something going on, the Chinese were up to something and the Indonesians were either active or unwitting allies. It was more than strategic chess and the securing of trade routes and suppliers against U.S. and western imperialism. There was something else going on here, a hidden purpose. “Antarctica.” The Prime Minister suddenly said. The sudden change of geography caught the Defence Minister by surprise. “de Vivies?” Reid said anticipating the chain of thought. “Yes,

that’s

what

I

was

thinking,

de

Vivies.

Why

are

the

Chinese interested in de Vivies?” “We have no idea.” Reid shook his head. “That has us baffled. Perhaps like the Russians in the Arctic this is an attempt to impose themselfs into the region.” “Maybe, Antarctica,

de

but

what

Vivies

does

and

the

Indonesia

combination mean?”

of

Gordon

the

Chinese,

said

more

to

127 | P a g e

himself than to Reid. “The Chinese have built bases in Indonesia and now de Vivies, the end game being in Antarctica.” “Nothing wrong with leasing some land if it’s for the right price, not to mention the fact the Chinese are large trading partners you might want to keep happy.” “True, but it’s not so much what the frogs want, it’s what the Chinese

and

Russians

want

in

Antarctica

that’s

pushing

them

to

greater effort. That’s what we have to find out. I have a feeling it’s

a

lot

more

than

just

influence.”

He

turned

from

his

contemplation to look at Reid directly. “Why don’t you get some of your

people

to

nosey

around

down

there,

maybe

the

Chinese

and

Russians know something we don’t.” “I will. While we are in the spy game we may as well get onto them into Indonesia at the same time.” Gordon inwardly flinched. It would have been better if he knew nothing about this sort of activity, but it was too late, he had asked too many questions and pulled himself into the loop. So be it. The Prime Minister considered the options for a moment. The political implications if such an action were to become public or worse still if the Indonesians captured or killed any of their guys would be disastrous.

The least people involved in the process the better. The

Prime Minister would take responsibility. Plausible denial wasn’t an option as far as he was concerned. “You have read about the Sitti Hawa case?” Reid asked. The PM nodded, it had been all over the news. “As you know she recently escaped and found her way here. She has

been

very

co-operative

in

helping

us

identify

the

Laskar

Jundullah leadership, confirming this cleric I showed you before, bin Mohammed bin wali al-Haqq, as the top knob. We have tracked him for years, code name Rasputin. It was this sadistic son of bitch that

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ordered her to be raped.” The Defence Minister ran through a bunch of slides quickly before finding the one he wanted. “She also fingered the guy that planned and ran the Sydney bombing

in

2010,

al-Haqq’s

number

two.

This

is

him,

Usman

El

Muhammady. We want to grab him.” “I guess its pointless asking the Indonesians to help.” Gordon asked, knowing the answer.

RAAF F-111

Walla-Warr 220 kilometers southwest of Katherine

NORTHERN Katherine.

TERRITORY, Walla-warr,

AUSTRALIA that

is

-

220

what

the

kilometers local

southwest

aboriginal

of

elders

called her; she was a particularly large Wedge-tailed Eagle. Wedgetailed Eagles are one of the biggest raptors in the world and this particular bird boasted a wing span of over nine feet. Highly aerial,

129 | P a g e

she could soar for hours on end, reaching 6000 feet or higher. Her keen

eyesight

extended

into

the

infrared

and

ultraviolet

bands

helping her spot prey and to see rising thermals. She used the latter to gain altitude without so much as a flap of her massive wings. At exactly 1301HRS on November 11 she was killed by an F-111 flying at over 600 knots just 200 feet from the ground. Flying through craggy rock gorges that were part of the Delamere Air Weapons Range in the Northern Territory, the

F-111 using terrain-masking

techniques was just switching to manual flight. On impact the front windshield canopy had crashed in, severing the head-up display and spraying chunks of inner laminate into the right hand seat and the man sitting in it, he was killed instantly. The F-111 airframe was A8-272 and had in fact been retired several years previously. She had been kept in flying condition by a private organisation and had been loaned back to the air force for use in commemorative fly bys. When

the

accident

happened

the

pilot

in

command

had

instinctively pulled back on the stick and retarded the throttles, his gut telling him they had suffered a bird strike. The jet seemed to be flying okay but his forward visibility was zero and his head was pinned to the backrest. As the jet slowed and the several hundred-knot windblast abated he was able to check his companion. His worst fear was realized; his mate was gone, replaced by a bloody

pulp made up of windscreen

pieces, bird and unrecognisable fleshy parts. The head was missing. He snapped his eyes back to the front and called in the emergency to ATC wiping the blood from his visor. RAAF

Squadron

Leader

Lance

Hamilton

couldn’t

remember

the

flight back. He landed back at Tindal Air Base without incidence stopping

centre

runway

surrounded

by

emergency

vehicles.

The

emergency crews leaped onto the wings to a sight most of them would

130 | P a g e

never forget. Hamilton had alerted them to the situation but even that did not prepare them for this. The cockpit was smashed in and the interior saturated in blood and guts. Squadron Leader Richard ‘Horde’ Alston sitting in the left hand seat was a mess, obviously dead. Hamilton on the right was covered in blood but alive, he flicked open his smeared helmet visor and looked at them. The rescue crew talked about that afterwards, because while the rest of him was alive, his eyes were dead. They helped him from the cockpit and during the entire process he never said a word. Neither did anyone else, it was eerie, a deathly silence had settled on the whole rescue procedure if you could all it that. Hamilton had sat in the back of the ambulance and let the medics check him over. The rescue crew watched the ambulance drive off, time seemed to stand still. All of them knew Horde and Buckshot. This was Hordes home, most of them knew his kids, and this was a small tight knit community.

For

a

few

moments

they

all

stood

still

watching

the

vehicle disappear down the tarmac, at first no one turned around. But the F111 and their good friend still strapped into the right hand seat wasn’t about to disappear like a bad dream. So one by one they began to move, the sick reality of what had happened weighing them down and the grim task of recovering their boss and their friend challenging their senses. The remaining ambulance waited. There was no hurry. No one said, but the question was on all their minds; dignity, how do we do this with dignity because that is what the man deserved.

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Tripod Operation - The Usman El Muhammady Snatch

ACEH, INDONESIA. Brian had heard about the accident in transit. There was no way he could contact Lance to talk to him. Unfortunately it would have to wait till he got back. He had met Horde, he was a nice guy. The accident had sounded pretty ugly and he wondered how his brother was taking it. He put those thoughts aside, once again he was in deep in hostile territory where losing your focus could mean losing your life. It had taken call sign ‘Tripod’ two days to get into position. After a close look at the Belawan Naval base, Tripod had travelled south to meet up with the civilian guide for the next phase of the mission. “De ja vu?” Warrant Officer Class Two (WO2) Gary Fulham said. They were back. Lieutenant Colonel Brian Hamilton looked at Fulham, but he wasn’t smiling. Last time he was he was here he remembered being shot at. He hated being shot at. Gary echoed his thoughts. “Last time I remember being here I was scared shitless.” Fulham said. He paused for a while. “Hasn’t changed, still scared.” But it didn’t show in his face. “Well it’s better than the bloody freezing cold.” After a recent trip to Antarctica, Hamilton had literally gone from one climatic extreme to another, from the coldest place on earth to the steaming tropics. “If you stop being scared, you become dangerous. It’s our black dog, our companion; it’s what drives our systems to perform at peak.” “Churchill.” Fulham said. Hamilton looked at Gazza. “Yes, Churchill’s black dog.

But his

was depression.” “Knew that.”

SAS training was all about understanding the

physiological process, drawing every drop of potential that lay in

132 | P a g e

the combination of mind and body. There was a lot of science in the guts of getting a tough job done. The extremist training camp they had visited weeks earlier was situated on the outskirts of a large Desa or village. The old pondok Raputin had sat in front lay below them, occupied they hoped by Usman El Muhammady. The surrounding Kampung, (neighbourhood) thrived with activity. The woman beside Hamilton looked at the scene below showing no emotion. She used to live here, a place of unspeakable evil. Her purpose here was one of revenge, to stop the same thing happenning to others as had happned to her. Helping the Australian’s got her closer to that objective. Hamilton

understood

the

womans

motives,

she

had

said

very

little, but he knew of her history. Through Sitti Hawa’s contacts they had learned Usman El Muhammady was visiting; Sitti was here to help guide them. “Would you remember the faces?” Hamilton asked. She looked at him in surprise. “Yes.” For the first time in years she felt her pulse quicken to her emotions. Sitti instinctively knew what the Australian officer was implying. “Point them out to me.” He said to her, he then looked at Fulham. “Mark them Gaz.” Fulham nodded. The SASR officer launched a miniature UAV that flew like, and was the size of a small dragonfly. The two SAS soldiers placed their field

goggles

on

to

monitor

the

dragonfly’s

cameras.

Hamilton

flipped the lid of his TACTERM (Tough field laptop) so that Sitti could see the same thing. The process of scouting the village took two hours.

The targets were marked and Sitti was able to identify

five of the twelve men that had gang raped her. Hamilton knew this had nothing to do with the mission, but Sitti had been pivotal in

133 | P a g e

intelligence support, if he could bring her a little peace, he would. Besides, the world would be a much better place without those crazed gang raping assholes he thought. “So how do we do this?” Hamilton sat back looking at the completed picture of all the targets on the TACTERM. “If we hit these guys before the snatch we might stuff it up.

But if we don’t, there is a possibility some will

get away. “Do it the old way?” Fulham looked at his boss. “This isn’t part of the game plan.” “I know.” Gary looked at Sitti. Hamilton nodded. It took an hour for Fulham to get in position. “This one?” Hamilton asked the girl, pointing to the screen. Sitti nodded. “Do it.” He said into his mike. Fulham acknowledged and crouched low in the undergrowth, as the target moved past him he stepped out quietly seizing the man’s neck in the vice of his powerful grip.

The man’s legs kicked in futility.

Fulham dragged him into the jungle.

After a hundred meters he

dropped the almost unconscious man on the ground.

Gary looked at the

pathetic individual who was supposedly religious but could somehow justify rape against an innocent woman. The man’s face was crowded by a sparse and patchy beard. Clamping his hand over his mouth Fulham waited until the Indonesian stopped wriggling, then he knelt on his chest and placed his face close to that of his victim. The other mans breath was fetid, Gary ignored it. “Sitti? You remember Sitti, the woman you condemned and raped?” The Indonesian was terrified, he did remember,

he

could

not

understand

the

uproar

over

such

a

minor

incident when news of it spread to the west. These things happened all the time. He nodded.

134 | P a g e

“Good.” Gary drew the knife from its ankle sheath and held it in front of the rapists face.

He could hear and smell the man’s

sphincter give way to complete fear. He placed the blade on his neck and

slowly

drew

it

across

cutting

deep

into

his

throat

almost

severing the head, all the while looking into his eyes. While Fulham was squaring the account, Hamilton was searching for Usman El Muhammady. It took the better part of thirty minutes to locate him. He found Usman lecturing a group of Laskar fighters seated on the ground on the far side of the village.

Two things

caught his attention; the first was that all the terrorists were carrying Type 097 assault rifles. They could only get those from the Chinese. The second was Usman’s repeated reference to Tajdid, He couldn’t really make out the rest of what he was saying, but the Tajdid thing sounded important. Scouting the perimeter it was clear there was no way they could snatch Usman from here.

They would have

to wait till dark; he would have to wait to find out what the Tajdid was. As night fell Hamilton kept tabs on Usman. Launching another MAV he following him back to his quarters. There were no sentries and no guards. Obviously the Laskar Jundullah had no fear of the military here.

Usman

didn’t

reappear,

the

lights

inside

his

pondok

were

extinguished which meant he was probably hitting the sack. They waited till after midnight and then moved into the village. The Tripod team used a specialized hypodermic dart on their target. Usman never even woke up. When the terrorist camp arose in the morning they found dead bodies everywhere. The possibility of Usman being abducted never even crossed any of their minds. They assumed that he too was killed, perhaps his body dragged away by wild animals. Who did this was a mystery.

135 | P a g e

On his return from operation Tripod Brian finally caught up with his brother. The F111 accident had affected him more than he had thought, Lance had quit the airforce.

Diagaram: Shahab 3. A later version the Shahab 6 has been developed in conjunction with North Korea and boasts a range of up to 6,200 kilometers with a 500-1,000 kilogram warhead.

Mobile missile exercise being condicted the Iranian Revolutionary Guard

136 | P a g e

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Delivering the Nuclear Promise

THE

PRESIDENCY

OFFICE

PASTEUR

AVENUE,

TEHRAN.

President

Mahmoud

Ahmadinejad dropped the report on his desk. “The Venezuelen and Cuban reactors will be online within days.” He said to the other three men in the office. “Our missile tests yesterday also went well” He added. The other three men nodded. The Shahab Six missiles they tested had dropped multiple practice warheads into the Indian Ocean bang on their targets. Without announcing so much, the west now knew that Iran not only had nukes, but also a reliable and highly capable ballistic delivery system. The nukes, as they had anticipated, had changed everything. Just one of these multiple re-re-entry warheads could devastate Israel and any target within 6500 kilometres with up to a 1000 kilogram warhead. The Iranians were now able to freely supply money and weapons to whoever they wanted, immune from attack. The Iranians could also easily prolifarate them. The west, especially the Americans, would now have no idea who had them; the Cubans, Venezuela? This didn’t just cripple foreign policy, it paralysed their security apparatus. With the help of other friendly Islamic states Ahmadinejad knew he could now support Islamic revolutionary and martyrdom missions in the US and other infidel states without fear. The other three men in the office would be instrumental in helping him make that happen. The other men were Muqtada Al-Sadr, General Yahya Rahim Safavi and Hassan Nasrallah. Their intent as had always been, was the destruction of the Zionist state, the hated Satan America and the establishment of the new caliphate, with Ahmadinejad as its leader. Hassan Nasrallah would organise the revolutionary networks, Muqtada who was now in the better part of controlling Iraq would help him pinch off oil supplies to

the

west.

Safavi

would

supply

and

deliver

the

weapons

and

137 | P a g e

expertise to their brothers on all four corners of the planet through the elite Revolutionary Guard. Ahmadinejad smiled again; there was a lot to smile about now days. Through their Muslim brothers in Indonesia and with a little help from the Chinese, Iran had been able to fashion another weapon, something

that

would

strike

unseen

at

the

very

heart

of

their

enemies. The Chinese were desperate for oil; they had been most helpful.

They

had

unwittingly

provided

the

critical

technical

expertise that had helped Iranian scientists develop the new weapon; a weapon which if desired could kill just a few people in one shot, or thousands. There would be a lot of collateral damage in route to any intended target, but that was just an added bonus. It had been a cunning plan, and better still, it was working. Mahmoud admired his own cunning. Very soon, he would be leader of an Islamic Alliance that controlled billions of people worldwide. Countries that would have established pure Suriah law where there was only one belief, a global Islamic nation that controlled the world’s energy resources. His bold plan would change the face of the planet. But there was still work to be done, another year to prepare the ground and the people. Shortly he would meet his Indonesian friends; Salim Emil and bin Mohammed bin wali al-Haqq.

Two men that would

help cement and implement the plan and bring the southern apostate nations to their knees.

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The Russian Bear Trap - March 5 2018

THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW – RUSSIA, Кремль, Москва – Россия. The Russian leader, President Vladimir Ivanovich Petrov, tapped the rubber end of a yellow HB pencil on the neatly printed report that sat on his desk. Petrov was aware of the caliphate ambitions of the Iranians. His security focus however was fixated on the west, specifically the Americans and the UK. He figured anything the Iranians did at this point could only be a positive in the quest to weaken them, which is why they had provided assistance to help the Iranians build the bomb in the first place. Unlike the Americans who had become faltering, bewildered and unable to act decisively, Petrov would not hesitate to completely annihilate the goat herders in a first strike if they became

annoying.

While

numerically

similar,

Russia’s

nuclear

capability now exceeded that of the Americans who had failed to upgrade their systems. The Russians could destroy the Iranians before they could react and the Iranians knew it. Right now however there were other larger considerations. "How long have you known about this

Bing Qing operation?"

Petrov asked. The Chinese term 'Bing Qing' meant 'ice clear' in English. Colonel

General,

Sergey

Nikolayevich

Lebedev,

Director

of

Agentstvo Voyennykh Novostey, Russia's Foreign Intelligence Service, looked

around

at

the

opulence

of

the

President's

office.

It

contrasted strongly to his own, which was Spartan but functional. "I was approached by the director of the Guoanbu personally a few months ago." Guoanbu was the Chinese intelligence arm. "Initially we didn't

139 | P a g e

know what to think, so it wasn't so much keeping it under wraps but waiting and watching. to

see

what

So we put Durnovo in charge of the project …

substance

existed."

He

paused,

fishing

through

his

pockets for his cigarettes. "You mind?" he asked. "No, go ahead," the President said, waiting patiently while the other man lit up. The two men went back a long way. Lebedev had worked for Petrov when the President held the position of Director of Intelligence under Putin. They worked well together. "And you agree with Durnovo's findings?" The President finally asked. "Absolutely, we have crosschecked the data many times. It's all very

real.

operation."

This He

is was

why

we

committed

referring

to

the

to air

the

first

force

part

base

of

they

the were

constructing on land recently leased from the Argentineans at Grande de Tierra del Fuego, paid for with Russian oil. Lebedev continued. "The Chinese seem to be living up to their part of the deal. We now have to make sure we look after our end of the bargain." He looked at the President. Petrov sat quietly. He had spent most of the morning reading the report and conferring on the phone with his Chiefs of Staff. He had personally rung Professor Durnovo.

Old habits died hard. He had

already made a decision. He looked at his watch. "I have convened another meeting with the Chiefs of Staff in two hours. We have already talked." Lebedev didn't look surprised. "A

preliminary

operational

plan

based

on

your

report

has

already been drafted," Petrov said. Lebedev smiled. "Excellent." "But it means we have to ready our Pacific Fleet, and you have to have your forces in position as soon as possible. Georgia Aviatsion'nyi Baza be ready by?" "June."

When will the

140 | P a g e

"Good, and the Chinese will have the Martin De Vivies base operational by then as well?" "Da." "Then your plan calls for us to move into phase two?" the President asked, tapping the report again. Lebedev nodded. "Yes, now it becomes interesting." "The Americans, do they have any idea at all?" "Nyet. It appears not" Were they ever going to get a surprise Petrov thought?

Finn

must have had them all sleeping at the wheel and now they had a leadership crisis to manage. Too bad for them, that lapse would cost them dearly. After this, the USA would be a spent power, third in line if lucky after China and Russia.

141 | P a g e

The Hamilton Hit. Станция Востока, Антарктида

VOSTOK STATION, ANTARCTICA. Hong Liu, now a senior officer in the PRC’s Ministry for State Security, scraped his boots on the thresh hold leading into a Russian mobile. It was the office of Professor Nelomai Ostaf'ev syn Olfer'eva Durnovo, head of the Russian Vostok science and drilling team. “It’s the Australian again.” Hong already knew. He had seen him. “Hamilton.” “Yes. I thought you were going to do something about him?” Durnovo, so close to the prize after so many years of painstaking effort

labouring

under

choking

security

conditions,

was

understandably nervous. “We are that close.” He held his thumb and forefinger together to illustrate the point; it reminded Hong of Maxwell Smart. Durnovo continued, “I think he suspects something.” “So do I, but I don’t think he has any idea what ‘IT’ is.” Hong replied. “I don’t think we can take the risk. The question is; are you going to do something about it, or should I ask my people.” “I will handle it.” Hong said. If he had taken offence he didn’t show it. “Personally.” He looked the Professor in the eyes. Durnovo looked away. Hongs dark emotionless eyes were every bit those of a killer. He didn’t ask Hong how he would ‘handle it’. As Hong left the office he looked back at the professor behind his desk. He even looks a little like Maxwell Smart he thought. He walked back to the Chinese camp. The next flight out was still a few days away. There were more flights than usual, ostensibly Chinese and Russian supplies to support the drilling operation. This was mostly true, but there was more than just food and drilling equipment on the aircraft. He would fly via Martin de Vivies to Indonesia and then back to Perth, Australia. It was time to pay the prying Australian a

142 | P a g e

visit. His solution to the problem was crude. But in the past he had found the method effective and permanent. The Russians had been knocking

off

journalists

and

anyone

else

that

asked

too

many

questions for years. It seemed to work for them as well, why fix something that works?

143 | P a g e

The Amanab Emergency

PORT MORESBY, PAPUA NEW GUINEA. Natasha Braithwaite drew in a deep breath and adjusted her dress. No cameras hung from her neck and the ever ready note book and recorder no longer evident, her days as a journalist were over. The experience however had served her well. She was now a popular figure in the Australian Human Rights Party. The press liked her and not just because she used to be one of them.

She

was slim and featured large well-rounded breasts that seemed to defy gravity. She was natural camera fodder. But that popularity wasn’t the reason she was selected to lead the Papua New Guinea (PNG) Senate Investigations Committee. Senator Braithwaite was also particularly smart, often devouring others with a became

lost

and

shipwrecked

in

the

sharp intellect while they depths

of

her

cleavage.

In

Braithwaite, the marriage of beauty and brains made for a great politician. It was the smarts that landed her the job of leading a Senate Enquiry team to PNG.

144 | P a g e

Papua New Guinea, situated less than one hundred and twenty five miles north of Australia, was roughly the size of California and populated by more than six million people. The country existed as a strange mixture of modern costal towns and remote tribal villages led by a government that had become a hive of corruption. The result was anarchy.

Tribal fighting was common, strongly fuelled by something

called 'raskolism' another term for gang-based crime and the reason for Colonel Brian Hamilton being in PNG. The guy he had snatched in Aceh, Usman El Muhammady, had come up with some interesting names and dates, one of them being Trevor Somare. Somare was nothing less than a bandit, but what was interesting was whether the TNI were feeding weapons to him and why. While Hamilton searched in the heavy jungle of the Papua New Guinea highlands, the subject of his and Braithwaite's attention was much further west. The Raskol's self-elected leader took a long pull from the SP Lager can.

It was warm.

But he and his men had got used to that.

It was midday at the edge of Amanab, a small Wahgi village just east of

the

475

mile

border

between

PNG

and

Indonesia's

Irian

Jaya

Province. Most of his men were avoiding the heat, seeking shelter on the shady side of an old whitewashed church, but they could do little to escape the steaming humidity. His meeting with the Kopassus unit of the Indonesian military (Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia or ABRI, reverted back from the TNI in 2010) on the border had gone well. Now, instead of being armed with machetes and shotguns, his men, after quick instructions from the Indonesian Special Forces, were equipped with the latest Russian

assault rifles. They were

clearly itching to use their new toys. The local Wahgi villagers had been rounded up and forced into the

church.

Their

neat

little

village

that

was

decorated

with

145 | P a g e

flowered paths was now a convenient garden bar for his men. The Raskols

were

mostly

made

up

of

Huli

Wigmen

from

the

Southern

Highlands - tribesman with a reputation as some of the fiercest fighters in Papua New Guinea.

They were now getting drunk, shouting

and sweeping the surrounding area with the barrels of their weapons. After urinating heavily, carelessly splashing his boots and trousers, he sauntered drunkenly down towards the church, his shirt open

and

belly

bulging

over

his

military

styled

trousers.

He

disappeared through the front door of the building bumping past the two

guards

he

had

posted.

He

emerged

amid

yells

and

screams

clutching a terrified boy, no more than 10, who struggled to get free from his tight grip. The Raskol's commander threw the boy into the center of the circle of men that had gathered. "Run!" he yelled. The small child stood petrified "I said RUN!" he screamed, stumbling as he pulled a sidearm from his holster. He shot at the child's feet. "Run, RUN, RUN!" The boy stumbled backwards; his eyes glued to the gun, and then stood

still,

his

small

body

wracked

by

shakes.

The

Raskol's

Commander was becoming frustrated. "Give me!" he yelled to one of his men, holding out an arm. The Raskol reluctantly handed his new rifle to the Commander. It was a 5.56mm AK-104, a modernized export version of the Russian AK-74. The Commander, swaying a little, fumbled with the mechanism. Finally cocking it, he aimed it at the boy. The weapon jumped in his hands, most of the rounds missed, but one struck the boy in the thigh spinning him around and another exploded into the back of his skull spraying blood and gristle over the ground. anything.

For a moment no one said

Then the Raskol's leader smiled and laughed loudly.

whooped and held the rifle high.

He

They all cheered. The Raskol's

146 | P a g e

leader, Trevor Somare, looked back to the Church, there was more fun to be had back there.

They would save the women to last.

Somare was little different than the men he led, just meaner and smarter.

He was devoid of feeling other than the satisfaction of

his own desires.

Trying to organize the anarchy of the Raskols, as

annoying as it was, got him closer to where he wanted to go - money and power, the same as most politicians. After he and his men had finished with the women and left the village, they hiked for many miles, eventually meeting with their transports.

From

there

they

headed

back

to

the

permanent

base

situated in an abandoned mining camp. There, in a small hut, the Raskol's

Commander

spread

his

flowing

overblown

body

across

his

favorite chair, the front bench seat from an old Plymouth. "You mean they actually bought that piece of crap?" Trevor Somare said, cracking another can. "Hook, line and sinker it appears," Somare's second in command replied. "And she is actually coming up here to meet with us?" Somare exclaimed, even more incredulous. "Yes, her and three others." He held up the printout of the email.

Despite the crudity of their operation they had set up a

satellite-fed network system. This was quite incredible. Trevor Somare wasn't interested in politics; he and his men had just found an easy way to make money -looting,

killing,

stealing,

selling

drugs,

in

fact

any

illegal

business they could think of that made money. Which is exactly what the TNI wanted them to do, create chaos. Now the Indonesians AND some very dirty PNG politicians were giving him money to keep up the good work.

It truly was wonderful,

he thought. He had just thrown the political stuff in for fun. It looked like the foolish Australians had taken him seriously.

147 | P a g e

"Fuckin A!" he laughed, a plan already forming in his head. He would have to talk to the Russian. The Russian would know what to do and how; if it were not for him they wouldn't have the guns. What the Russians were getting out of all this he wasn’t sure, but who cared anyway?

THE

AUSTRALIAN

EMBASSY,

PORT

MORESBY,

PAPUA

NEW

GUINEA.

The

Australian Defense Attaché was caught between listening and looking. The woman in front of him was better looking in the flesh than on TV. Combined

with

her

good

looks

and

intelligence,

she

was

very

disarming. If Natasha Braithwaite was aware of her looks, she did not show it. She was characteristically straight to the point.

"The question

is," she said, her hazel colored eyes fixing the Attaché's attention. "Have we been getting involved in local politics here? good

authority

that

Australian

military

We have it on

personnel

have

used

unnecessary force against the political group led by Trevor Somare." The Australian Defense attaché very nearly rolled his eyes. "Can I ask who the 'authority' is?" "Trevor Somare," she said. "We are here to test the validity of the accusation." The Attaché stifled a laugh. "We don't even know who this guy really is Senator.

From what we can gather he's nothing but a common

hoodlum. Why we would even give him any credibility I don't know." Braithwaite fumed inside. "That's what I am here to find out. We will speak to the local force commander and then Somare himself. Hopefully, we can get to the bottom of this unpleasantness as quickly as possible." The Defense Attaché was incredulous. "Speak to Somare! Are you kidding?"

148 | P a g e

The woman's eyes didn't flinch. He pressed the issue, but despite arguing till he was blue in the face he finally gave up. The woman was as stubborn as a mule.

"I have to insist that at the very

least you use our driver and an armed escort from the RPNGC," the Attaché said out of despair. She agreed to that. Less than an hour later, Braithwaite stood outside the main compound building that housed the small contingent of Australian forces. She had tracked down the most senior officer there but was still not learning anything new. The Australian army major was no more helpful than the Attaché'.

In fact he showed no signs of having

a clue as to what she was talking about. The

Australian

major

wasn’t

familiar

with

Somare,

but

the

woman’s increasingly agitated voice meant she thought he was being evasive. While she talked he couldn't help notice the woman's ample cleavage and was fascinated by the small trickles of sweat that ran down her skin and the sides of her breasts. With great reluctance he dragged his eyes away before crossing the bridge to lechery. Natasha checked the personnel sheet and looked around her in annoyance.

Somebody

must

know

something.

"Where's

Hamilton?"

she

suddenly asked. "I see according to this sheet he is the most senior officer here." "Who?" the Major asked, this time actually playing the dumb part as best as he could. "The Colonel!" she said loudly. "Oh! Hammer" The Major said the last

part quietly kicking

himself. He shrugged. Where had she heard that? "Did you say Hammer?" She asked. The Major seemed to ponder that for a moment, wondering how to answer – perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned Hammer, she seemed to recognise that.

"To be honest I don't know.” He said quickly “He

149 | P a g e

doesn't really tell us his schedule.

He comes and goes." He suddenly

brightened. "I can leave a message if you like?" Hammer she thought. Of course, Hammer Hamilton, the guy in the airplane crash in Afghanistan, why hadn’t she put those two pieces together before? This just made her more frustrated. "Can I order you to get him for me?" The Major laughed and then stopped; who the fuck did she think she was?

"No disrespect Senator, but while I may have to talk to

you, and answer your questions, there is about as much chance of you ordering me around as your pet cat, no disrespect," he added again, remembering to wipe the smile off his face and thanking God he didn't say pussy. Braithwaite's something,

suddenly

cheeks

reddened.

feeling

bad.

The Natasha

Major held

embarrassed. "You don't need to apologize, Major.

went up

to

her

I do.

say hand,

I was out

of line." Her face softened. Maybe

she

wasn't

the

uptight

bitch

she

seemed,

the

Major

thought. "This was a surprise visit," she conceded.

"Can you please

advise the Colonel I will be back in two days and would like to meet with him when I return?

Could you do that?"

"Yes ma'am." The ma'am part was beginning to annoy her. "I will be meeting Somare first." A cloud suddenly covered the Major's face. He had been warned about this part. Natasha

continued.

"Whether

we

talk

again

depends

on

what

Somare has to say. There are still a lot of questions." The Major's jaw clenched. "Yes, ma'am. Before the Colonel left ma'am he asked me to give you this."

150 | P a g e

She looked up in surprise. "He knew I was coming!" She was annoyed again. How did he know that? If he knew why didn't he wait? She didn't like being played for a fool. The Major was still talking. "Before he left he was specific about you getting this," He held up what looked like a phone. "Normal phones are pretty useless out here, if you get into trouble, you can use this." The Major handed her the small cell phone device. "This is a SAT phone. You can call from anywhere. There's only one button and one number it calls." "Who's that?" "The Colonel ma'am." He looked at her, reading her thoughts. "And don't use it to just have a chat with him. He won't talk to you. Unless you are really in trouble, leave it alone, but carry it with you always." Natasha looked back at the major. He was very serious. first thought of course had been to ring Hamilton.

Her

Now she would

wait, at least until she returned to Port Moresby. The following day the Senate Investigation Committee flew to Daru where they met two guides kindly provided by Somare. From there they

travelled

overland

by

4WD

towards

Sibidiro.

But

Senator

Braithwaite and her Investigation Committee never arrived.

At the same time, several hundred miles north in the jungles of the Enge province, Lieutenant Colonel Brian William Hamilton from the Australian Special Air Services Regiment stopped and checked his GPS readout. His team was now just 2500 yards to the east of their designated target. Hamilton, like the rest of his team, was silently threading his way through dense undergrowth, hoping that their brief sojourn to verify a report of bloody violence would prove false. Just moments later that hope was dashed; Hamilton had stopped in mid stride. They were still several hundred yards from the village when

151 | P a g e

the smell hit him. Hamilton's small team all recognized it. As they moved forwards, the distinctive odour of burnt flesh, blood, and decomposition became almost unbearable.

Without being told, several

of them separated to secure the perimeter while Brian and Sergeant Gary Fulham entered the town. The small village was littered with fly blown corpses. The bodies looking like life size raggedy dolls discarded by a spoiled giant, many of them horribly twisted, torn and mutilated - men, women, children…even babies.

From the state of the Wahgi village

women, it was obvious they had been brutally abused. been over sixty dead in the immediate area. everywhere. It was unspeakable horror.

There must have

There was dried blood

Even the battle hardened

Special Forces troops were shocked to their core. "Tribal?" Fulham asked. "Nope," Hamilton replied. He looked at the beer cans and other rubbish littered among the bodies. "Raskols," he said. There was a sudden flash of gold amongst the rubbish. The Colonel squatted and picked up some brass shell cases.

"Looks like our Indonesian friends

have given them some new toys as well." He placed the two shell casings

in

his

upper

left

pocket

and

turned

to

his

imaging

specialist. "Pat, get Tony to take some pictures and call it in will you." The other soldier nodded. As Hamilton spoke those words a radio message crackled through his small earpiece. "Sierra One, this is Sierra Bravo copy over?" Sierra One was Hamilton. "Sierra Bravo this is Sierra One, read you loud and clear," Hamilton replied. "Sierra One HOTSIT, Papa India Alpha is missing." A HOTSIT was a hot situation message. They had given the young Green Senator the call sign of PIA - pain in the ass. Brian swore under his breath. Damn that woman. "Sierra Bravo, roger that." He gave a hand signal to the others as he replied to

152 | P a g e

Sierra One, the lead chopper. "Exfil on my smoke now," he said. They would have to leave the clean up and investigation to someone else for the moment. He flipped the smoke grenade into the middle of the village clearing.

Somehow the choppers would have to land between

the bodies. "Roger Sierra One, exfil now on your smoke, Sierra Bravo out." The chopper pilot replied, rolling in for the pickup. Minutes later the Colonel watched the village disappear beneath the chopper's belly followed by an endless sea of blurred green jungle as they sped south. Somewhere along the line it had all stopped being fun. No, that was a bad word--these things were never funny.

But there had been excitement. He couldn't quite put his

finger on the exact moment.

But somewhere, sometime, that excitement

and the thrill of adventure had bled away from all the things that used to drive him. Maybe it was just age. At 42 it was probably time to retire and leave this stuff to younger blood.

The SASR Colonel

shook his head to clear it and focused on the job at hand. The two old

Hueys

which

should

have

stopped

flying

years

ago

vibrated

faithfully through the hot tropic afternoon. He should have been sitting in a C130 heading to Cairns contemplating a cold beer.

That

arrogant woman Braithwaite had now got herself kidnapped, and the very men she seemed to loathe so much, had to risk their lives to save her. His mind wandered for a moment. It was a long time ago, he still remembered it like yesterday, the desert, the red sand and inescapable heat – the back of Burke. An endless flat landscape covered by shimmering heat waves. But there was life there and for such a long time he had been part of it.

153 | P a g e

100 Miles West of Burke, 32 Years Previously

BURKE, AUSTRALIA. The young boy was confused.

His left arm was

bleeding badly and his right hand had been punctured through in several places.

Afraid to death, he had stood his ground, trying to

make sense of what was happening.

The dingo bitch was all teeth and

saliva, blood dripping from her mouth, his blood. The boy at just ten was no heavier than the Dingo. But the native Australian Dingo had more teeth. Three times the bitch had rushed him.

Three times he had punched and kicked to keep her off

him, not making the mistake of falling to the ground.

But the loss

of blood was making him a little woozy. He knew she was a bitch because of her teats. That's what gave him the clue. As he thought of this he heard a rifle being cocked behind him. "Stand back!" It was the strident and urgent voice of the boy’s father. He had to kill the dog before it attacked his son again. Instead of backing away, the young boy had stood between the growling dingo and his father's gun. The boy was covered in blood, his eyes wide with fear, but there something else, he was still thinking. "Move back Dad…but slowly." The boy had said. The father looked at the son.

There was rationale there.

He

didn't know what, but he did know his boy. Despite the desire to kill the animal that threatened his son, he lowered the rifle and stepped back.

Brian did the same thing.

The appearance of another large

predator had cooled the Dingos passion.

But she stuck to her guns.

As they both backed off quietly there was a small whimper from some undergrowth near Brian.

They kept moving.

Once they were

twenty yards away, the bitch rushed into the small brush, picking up a tiny pup, she looked once more at the two humans before trotting away.

154 | P a g e

"I knew it," the boy said, "she had a pup!" He yelled in delight, his hunch correct. George Hamilton looked at his son. a prize.

It was like the boy had won

Despite his wounds, some of which looked quite severe, the

kid was smiling, almost laughing. George Hamilton picked the boy up in his arms. There was going to be hell to pay back at the house. "She's a good mum." He said simply, watching as the Dingo bitch slid into the swimming haze. Brian remembered his father's strong arms. He was a big strong man. He would also never forget the day his father died.

He had felt

the last breath rushing from his lungs. Right then, he had never felt so hopeless. Miles from anywhere, he and his younger brother had buried their father. Life had never seemed so unfair. Lance had been stoic; he was a tough son of a bitch.

Their father hadn't pushed him

to be that way, he just was. Lance was so young; he barely had the honour of knowing the man. The memory was never far away, neither many others which quickly followed. Brian tried to switch them off. SAS Sergeant Gary Fulham watched his CO give the jungle the 10,000-yard stare.

There must be a lot of memories in that head, he

thought. Some pretty bloody bad ones too.

Gary's wife had described

the boss as having rugged good looks; he was just shy of six foot, and even in his forties, was a match for any of his SF team.

The man

could walk faster, further and carry more weight than any of them, and still operate and make decisions. He carried no fat; the poor bastard, Gary knew Hamilton never had a chance to accumulate any. He was broad shouldered, muscular with sandy coloured hair.

He was

unique. As far as Fulham was concerned, if Australia wanted a secret weapon, Hamilton was it. He watched his boss snap out of his thoughts and begin to carefully check his gear. The

field

kit

Hamilton

was

checking

was

a

combination

of

traditional soldiering with the latest technology that was a seamless

155 | P a g e

and

integral

Tactical

part

Terminal

of

their

combat

(TACTERM),

a

dress.

portable

Hamilton

was

Battlefield

using

a

Intelligence

System designed to help plan and execute the mission. Put simply, it was a real tough, thin laptop specially designed for field operations and

was

plugged

via

satellite

into

an

international

battlefield

network called the GIG. The Global Information Grid was an Allied network, a super turbo version of the Internet that linked almost every allied unit in the world into one big information system. Hamilton looked up from the TACTERM. "Gary, you got the TAI?" Meaning the Target of Interest. "Right here!" Fulham unfolded the map. "What

about

the

T&G

on

the

Senator?"

the

Colonel

asked,

examining the map. He was talking about the tracking and guidance device they had given Braithwaite. "On your screen." The Colonel referred back to his portable terminal screen. The readout provided GPS data on the tracker device embedded in the mobile phone they had provided Braithwaite.

While the screen was

great, the good old-fashioned paper map was bigger and easier to read.

Once Hamilton had the location isolated on the monitor, he

poured over the map.

Hamilton wasn't happy going into a rushed

unplanned mission. That was exactly how you got killed. But after what he had seen in the village, he knew time was of the essence. These

Raskols

were

unpredictable, undisciplined

and

uncontrolled,

which made them very dangerous. They took innocent life just for the fun of it.

And although the Special Forces officer knew his team had

superior training, eight guns against eighty were lousy odds.

As Hamilton and his team flew over the jungle towards the rebel camp, Somare was scrutinizing his new guests.

They were all bound and

gagged. The three men had begged and pleaded, one was crying. They

156 | P a g e

had become really annoying. He looked at the woman, her face and eyes had been defiant to the last moment as they had tied and blindfolded her.

He had pulled her jeans off to expose beautiful white legs and

dainty under pants. Her breasts were magnificent he thought. He had fondled them, her nipples hardened by fear.

They were as firm as

they looked. He felt himself stiffen as he remembered the feeling of her

ass

in

his

hands

and

running

his

fingers

down

the

muscled

stomach, then beneath the lace panties and between her legs. That was good. He had to force his mind to return to the question in hand, dragging his eyes away from the top of her thighs and panties. "How much?" he asked the only other white man in the room that wasn't tied up. The Russian Spetznaz (SPETSialnoje NAZnachenie) officer Mikolai Nabialok, shrugged. "Two million at least; ask too much and it gets harder for the government to hide the transaction.

Remember they

don't negotiate with terrorists." Good point, Somare thought. "Also," Nabialok added, "Keep them in the open." He pointed skywards. "Satellites, so they can be seen." That was good advice too. The Russian, Somare had learned, was both smart and ruthless.

He had seen what the man was capable of

with the small boys and girls of the village, pointless cruelty that exceeded his own. The Russian was impressive and very dangerous. Somare ordered the Australians to be dragged out to his personal fire. The woman's breasts danced tantalizingly beneath the thin white cotton. Despite her defiant attitude, her body shook with fear. He liked that, quickly becoming aroused again. He desperately wanted to be between her legs.

The two choppers with the SF team had taken a wide berth of the target, travelling 7000 yards south before turning into the selected

157 | P a g e

landing zone.

The pilot of the first Huey came in low over the trees

pulling the collective up hard in his left hand to arrest the rapid descent. The chopper flared to a stop, just feet from the ground. The troops were out of the Huey in seconds. The pilot then twisted the throttle to the stops, pushed the cyclic forward pitching the Huey on its nose, after a few feet of allowing energy to build in the 48-foot rotors, he pulled back on the collective again, climbing hard and expertly skimming the tree line before turning south, the old gas-turbine spinning the big blades to produce the wop-wop-wop sound so many infantry soldiers loved and feared at the same time. It took several hours for the SF team to cover the seven miles back to the target. After closing to 1,000 yards, Hamilton stopped and checked his TACTERM.

The real-time satellite image displayed a

hazy outline of the encampment. The tracking signal was coming from one of the huts.

That didn't necessarily mean Hamilton thought that

Braithwaite was there, someone else would probably have the phone, but she might be close by. Downwind of their target, they could listen, watch and wait. After nearly three hours of silent vigilance, they were rewarded. Out

of

the

same

hut

from

where

they

had

located

Braithwaite emerged, bound and gagged with three others.

the

signal,

The visuals

from the team's helmet-mounted systems were immediately relayed to an orbiting satellite and into the GIG, the allied Global Information Grid. Back in Canberra, the Crises Action Team was watching the drama unfold in real time. The Raskols had several bonfires burning brightly; a group of native women were hanging around two trucks that had arrived with what looked like critical supplies - more beer. were easier to take on.

Good, boozed up they

But on the downside they would also be more

unpredictable and could take out the hostages at any time.

After a

thorough

Colonel

reconnaissance

of

the

perimeter

security,

the

158 | P a g e

repositioned the team around the target and then re-examined the scene through high-powered digital glasses. The Raskol boys were really beginning to whoop it up. The four hostages sat beside one of the bonfires looking scared shitless. One of the men was groping Braithwaite's breasts. That must be Somare, Hamilton thought. Just then another man emerged from the hut. He was white. "Who the fuck is that?" Fulham whispered. "Don't know." Hamilton didn't like surprises either.

This guy

didn't belong to the piece of the puzzle. "Setup the directional mikes and video," he whispered. After a few minutes they had a pretty good feed from the hostage group.

They listened in.

Somare and the white guy were

talking. "Russian," Hamilton said. "Sounds like he organized the trade." They kept listening. their

village

exploits

What they heard as the two men boasted of made

them

sick.

The

Australians

waited

impatiently till it was dark. "Ready?" Gary Fulham asked. Hamilton nodded the affirmative. Fulham pulled a small capsule from his breast pocket while Hamilton plugged a control stick onto the side of his TACTERM. The capsule was less than two inches long. "Ready!" Hamilton said. Fulham opened the small canister and exactly like the insect it parodied, the Dragonfly Micro Unmanned Aerial Vehicle escaped and darted off, the small beat of its fast moving wings inaudible. It was an

advanced

version

of

the

Dragonfly

they

had

used

in

previous

missions. This version was much smaller and had no power of its own. Instead it drew its power from microwave energy. A multi-directional antenna on Hamilton’s TACTERM tracked the vehicle and provided a microwave beam to provide energy to the Dragonfly. The MUAV received it, rectified it and then used that energy to power the motor. In

159 | P a g e

moments it was in position. A small, graphite canister weighing no more than a piece of paper provided all the sensors; video camera, radiation sensors, chemical sensors, GPS and communication relay. The Dragonfly’s own body could also be used as an antenna. "Beautiful," Brian said. The infrared eye of the Dragonfly hovering above the camp clearly showed the positions of each and every Raskol in and around the camp. "Designating," He added, moving the cross hairs over tightly knotted groups of bodies, pressing a key to designate each target and its priority. Once he was completed he looked back to Fulham. "Get the mortar set up and as soon as the last round

leaves

the

tube

we

move

in."

He

signalled

the

Kiwi,

the

nickname of a New Zealand trooper, by holding three fingers up, pointing and patting the top of his head. The Kiwi nodded, he carried the rotary minimi which was capable of firing over a thousand rounds per minute. He would lay down the covering fire from the flank. Fulham

quickly

assembled

the

mortar.

The

Hirtenberger

60mm

carried a rotary self-loader on top of the barrel that took six rounds.

The rounds were laser-guided and extended a broad set of

fins after leaving the tube. This enabled the projectile to steer and extended its range. "Claymores?" Hamilton said into his mike. There was a double click in reply. Hamilton then transferred the imagery and control of the UAV to the display module in his helmet visor.

He folded the

wafer thin TACTERM and slid it into a side pocket on his pack.

He

gave the thumbs up to Fulham. Fulham pressed the trigger. There was the familiar, but quiet plop

of

the

first

mortar

followed by five others.

as

it

ejected

from

the

tube,

rapidly

The Hirtenberger was folded and packed

before the first round fell on target.

The UAV monitoring the camp

relayed the overhead imagery to everyone's helmet visors. They could alternately switch it on and off using it for reference.

The visor

160 | P a g e

displays

erupted

in

bright

flashes

as

the

mortars

struck,

most

exploding a few meters in the air, spraying a deadly jet of darts towards

the

ground

below.

The

detonation

over

the

top

of

the

hostages was a stun round. It made a very distinctive thump as it exploded. This was the signal to move in. Hamilton and Fulham were up and running low, the infrared helmet visors turning night into day. A body suddenly appeared in front of them, raising his weapon. Fulham double tapped two bullets into the body and one to the head.

The body flew backwards.

To his

left, Hamilton could now hear the roar of the Kiwi's minimi, pumping thousands of red tracer lines racing through the camp.

This was

joined by streaks of white and red lights as the other SF members took out their targets with their Heckler & Koch G3 assault rifles. Twenty five yards to go, the Head Up Display (HUD) in Hamilton's helmet showed some of the bodies in the hostage party moving; they were recovering from the stun round. his HUD and dropped to his knees.

He killed the overhead image on The sight on his FN SCAR Heavy

assault rifle was slaved to the helmet-targeting cue displayed in his visor.

Red

colored

cross

hairs

framed

whatever

the

rifle

was

pointing at. He rapidly moved the weapon across each target. Some, recovering from the stun shot were reaching for their weapons. If not hostages, they took three rounds each, two shots to the body and one to the head the heavy 7.62mm rounds tearing big holes and throwing them backwards.

With the images of the village slaughter still fresh

in his mind, he killed without remorse. There was rapid firing right across the mine pit. Some of the Raskols tried to escape into the bush.

But each firing team, via infrared imagery from the hovering

Dragonfly, was quickly able to identify, track and kill them. It took just two minutes; the entire campsite was suddenly deathly silent. color.

The only figures standing were friendly blue in

The overhead imagery showed no movement, apart from their own

161 | P a g e

and the hostages. There was the odd bone jarring shot as the SF troops applied first aid to any injured raskols.

Again it was quiet.

The Colonel, turning his back to the carnage, called in a report. He didn't see the lone surviving Raskol reach for his weapon. did anyone else.

Neither

The young man slowly pulled the weapon to his chest

as he lay on the ground, quietly checking the rifle; it was cocked. The Raskol correctly identified the attacker's leader from the way he talked and gave orders; he would kill him at least. He took several slow breaths and then exploded from the ground bringing the weapon to bear. Hamilton was talking and didn't notice the movement till too late. Fulham caught the motion in the corner of his eye, the Colonel was in the way; it would be close. Fulham, without waiting, fired just beneath Hamilton’s chin. The Colonel felt the burn of the muzzle flash on his neck and the shockwave of the bullet as it blew past him and onto its target. Fulham's round entered the Raskol's right eye and removed the back of his head; he never got to complete the trigger pull. That was close. The Colonel flipped the lid of his visor open and looked at Fulham with a surprised expression, his neck still stinging, he looked at the dead Raskol and then Fulham. "Is there really any need for that Gaz?" he said, a slight smile creasing his camouflaged features. "Can you keep the noise down for god’s sakes; I'm trying to get a call through here!" Fulham shook his head, all the while scanning the surrounding area. Fulham was the Colonel's bodyguard.

It was his job to keep the

boss alive while he focused on command and control. It was a job he enjoyed and did well. The Colonel was already legend several times over, time and again turning disasters into success.

There was not

one man among them that wouldn't have followed him to hell and back

162 | P a g e

if he asked. Hamilton always brought

everyone back. If anything

happened to the boss, Fulham knew he wouldn't be going home either. The three hostages were sitting up now and some of the troopers were

trying

to

steady

them.

Hamilton

was

talking

into

his

mouthpiece. "What's your current loc stat over?" "Inbound Sierra One, south east two clicks." "Roger that Sierra. All hostages ready for exfil, plus three ready on my pointer.” "Sierra One, pointer located, fifty seconds." "Roger that Sierra Bravo." The Colonel, Brian Hamilton, could see the familiar shape of the Huey as it crested the tree lined ridge in front of him. "Sierra One now has you visual." "Rog." Brian turned to Fulham. "What about the Russian?" he asked. "Hasn't been seen, looks like he bugged out early." That got Brian thinking. "Somare?" Fulham rolled one of the bodies over with his boot. "This him?" There was a neat little hole in the centre of his forehead. "Yep,” Brian said, “that’s him; make sure we take pictures of all of them." This was done pretty easily.

Whatever they were

looking at was being recorded and relayed to ADFHQ in Canberra for later analysis. "Secure?" Hamilton asked over the SF network.

He got rapid

confirmations. "OK, untie them," he said to one of the troopers that had moved in, he pulled his helmet off enjoying the fresh air. Quickly the four hostages were untied and helped to their feet. Natasha Braithwaite shrugged off the

help, stood by herself and

looked coolly towards the Colonel, their eyes locked. The blue eyes she remembered so well stared back at her cold and detached just like in Afghanistan. She tried to hide from them the

uncontrollable

shakes

that

wracked

her

body.

During

those

163 | P a g e

frightening last moments of the ordeal, when there were explosions, gunfire and screams, she was sure she was going to die. It was after that she had heard his voice. Now she looked into the eyes of the man that she had once thought dead and who had come to save her, the eyes were piercing and unemotional.

She then looked around her; all she

could see was carnage. Had it been necessary to kill every one? She wondered now just how many people this man had killed. The returning choppers flared in the darkness. The hostages were rapidly loaded followed by the SF team.

It was starting to

rain, time to go. It would take several days before anyone visited the mining site. No one would miss these people. Indeed, if it had not been for Braithwaite's complaint to the Senate, it would all have been forgotten.

The ever faithful UH-1 Iroquois, known as the ‘Huey’. First flew in October 1956.

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The Perth Hamilton Hit

PERTH, WESTERN AUSTRALIA. It had taken Hong the better part of five days to make the trip, jumping from one military flight to another before catching a commercial flight out of Jakarta. Once in Perth he gathered his team together and prepared the mission. This took almost two weeks and included training exercises in the desert to rehearse as best they could. When he thought they were ready he set in motion the timetable. Finally the surveillance team told him what he wanted to hear. The target was in his apartment, there was little activity in the area and the sun would be behind them. It was time to move. Hamilton eased back into the comfort of the large sofa that dominated the small lounge of his Perth apartment. He used the unit whenever he was working out of the Campbell Barracks in Swanbourne. He had been ordered to take a few days off. Not enough time to go far, but enough to put his feet up and maybe relax a little. He had not seen or heard from the Senator or her companions since he had rescued them.

But obviously they had been busy. The

document he was reading was an official reprimand for excessive use of force in Papua. The Senate Committee had reviewed the combat footage from the SF helmet and UAV cameras.

They probably never even

looked at the massacre in the Whagi village and instead were scathing in their criticism of how the crisis was handled and whether there was any justification in the killing of the Raskols. Looking from his small apartment over the Swan River in Perth it all seemed far away and remote. He picked up the other letter, a crisp fresh A4 sheet that lay next to a freshly stamped envelope.

This was one he had written.

It

was his resignation; it looked like both he and his brother would be out of the service. He sipped his scotch. Bitch, he thought, he wasn’t

normally

prone

to

those

feelings

but

he

felt

horribly

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betrayed. Time to move on, he pulled out the RosenBridge contract from under a pile of papers. He had been sitting on this for some time and had already worked for them in the past. The RosenBridge Foundation had been an ideal cover for his previous visits to Vostok Station on request from DoD. The RosenBridge Foundation was made up of a group of scientists researching magnetic anomalies and the like; they contracted him routinely to investigate the Vostok anomaly, an authorised activity that was also in the interest of the government. His gut had been telling him for some time there was something going on between the Russki’s and Chinese at the station. It was public knowledge that the research team with their new rig had drilled down to the lake and were meters away from melt water. For the scientist’s that was all very exciting. But he had sensed something else, some of the characters he ran into didn’t give him the vibes he had expected and he was sure they were either military or Intelligence types. Why would they be down there? What made the drill program a security matter? He would have to dig a little deeper this time. It

had

RosenBridge

only

wanted

been him

a

few

back

months

there

since

again.

his

Maybe

last

trip,

another

trip

but to

Antarctica would help keep him busy and not so pissed off. At least it wasn't dangerous. He looked at the phone.

Should he call Lance? For some reason

he felt ashamed, Lance at least had a good reason. Logically he knew he had nothing to be ashamed of. But Lance was his younger brother. He didn't want to disappoint him. He bent to pick up the phone but was stopped half way through the motion; there was a crash and the scotch glass on the table in front of him exploded in his face. Hamilton

rolled

instinctively,

his

eyes

stinging

from

the

scotch and his face from the pinpricks of broken glass. There were two more thuds as high velocity rounds punched through the ranch sliders.

Brian scrambled as even more rounds came through the wall

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and smacked into the floor. Thermals! Someone was shooting at him with a thermal sight; they could see and shoot him through the wall! More rounds, big calibre, ploughed through the brick facing like it wasn't even there, the mortar, brick and dust exploding through the apartment. Christ, the rounds kept coming.

Whoever the attackers

were - he assumed more than one - they were not going to give up till they got him. From a rooftop behind Hamilton’s building, Hong Liu examined the apartment through highly specialised infrared gun sights. With the Bing Qing operation so close to completion, like Durnovo he wanted to remove any risk of exposure. The chances were Hamilton knew nothing, but it was a chance Hong wasn’t going to take, not with the stakes so high. He jerked his head with irritation motioning his small team to keep firing. Shouldering his own weapon, a KSVK 12.7mm anti-materiel sniper rifle, the Station Chief for the Second Bureau of the Chinese Ministry for State Security took aim again and fired. They had just minutes before they had to move, but in that time he was willing to destroy the entire building if that’s what it took to kill Hamilton. The KSVK was a large calibre anti-materiel sniper rifle developed in Russia for the purpose of counter sniping and penetrating thick walls, as well as lightly armoured vehicles. There was nothing between himself and Hamilton, bricks or otherwise, that would stop the sniper rifles heavy calibre rounds.

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CHAPTER THREE Enemies at the Gate

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The Mikoyan MiG-35 (Russian: Микоян МиГ-35, NATO reporting name "Fulcrum-F")

Fulcrum Flight - Russia, the Gromov Flight Research Institute Россия, Научно-исследовательский институт Громова Флайта

MOSCOW October 4 2018. The cold morning air shuddered to the noise of big jet engines, crackling and reverberating across the flight apron and into the airfield's medical facility. Inside, no one even looked out the window. "That should do it." The Russian Flight Surgeon pulled the last laces tight. The man in front of her nodded self-consciously. She slapped his shoulder. "It suits you," something she could not say about most of her customers, mostly rich fat, and out of shape Americans or Brits. She learned a lot from that slap. The mans torso barely moved, the shoulders hard with muscle. The Australian was in excellent shape and seemed at home in the 'G suit'. Fortunately since Russia became oil rich these episodes were mainly about PR and not paying the bills by sucking up to wealthy western fools. The Flight Surgeon felt a lot more pride in her job today. If she wanted to she could tell this guy to take a hike, but she knew immediately this guy was military. She looked at his sheet, Hamilton was his name.

169 | P a g e

“Mr Hamilton!” “Lance looked up in surprise.” “Let’s cut the pretenses, you are a pilot. Not just a pilot, but a fighter pilot.”

Her English was excellent. The Russian Flight

Surgeon looked at him in a scolding manner. “Don’t look surprised, you are all as obvious as hell.” She thought for a moment. “Make sure you tell Nafaniel, the Major.” She smiled, “All you guys think you are the best, Nafaniel might teach you something.” She left the room without looking back. Lance felt stripped naked and totally transparent. He looked at himself

in

the

uncomfortably.

mirror.

The

Gee

suit

did

fit,

but

a

little

The suit was laced tight, pinching a little in the

back, but that didn't really matter. In a few minutes he would forget that as the anticipation and excitement continued to build in his gut. Like many others before him, the Australian had been thoroughly briefed

and

had

just

completed

a

physical

at

the

Gromov

Flight

Research Institute prior to taking a ride in the Mig-35 (Микоян МиГ35), or Fulcrum F.

Now he would be driven out to the waiting

aircraft ready for some real fun, unaware that at the very moment his brothers flat was being ventilated by heavy calibre rounds and Brian was trying to be as small as possible to avoid them. This was a development of the MiG-29M/M2 and MiG-29K/KUB technology, classified as a 4.5 generation fighter aircraft. The Russian pilot was standing patiently on the ramp by the aircraft, and introduced himself as Major Nafaniel Logvinoch.

The

Australian shook his hand enthusiastically. "Lance Hamilton," the Australian said, shaking his hand. "I have read much about you." The Russian smiled. "You mean the promotional brochures.

They

always make you sound better than you are. But," he added, smiling

170 | P a g e

and turning to the big airplane, "I do know how to fly these….many hours you know." Lance

Hamilton

didn't

doubt.

Nafaniel

Logvinoch

was

the

recipient of the country's highest award, 'Hero of Russia,' and was one of their top test pilots. "Call me Nathan," the Major said. "Lance, please call me Lance.

Calling me mister makes me feel

like I've been pulled over by the cops or done something wrong." Lance smiled. The Russian chuckled. "Yes, very polite while they write you a ticket." He chuckled again and briefly nodded as he began his preflight. Hamilton stood back and watched the man's intensity and attention to detail as he walked around the big airframe.

This was

no bored routine of running your hand down the leading edge and kicking the tyres before lighting the fires. The Russian pilot took a lot of time looking at the hydraulics, actuators and stress marks on the metal skin, longer than normal. The man clearly knew and understood the mechanics of what he was looking at; Hamilton expected nothing less from the test pilot he had seen at air

shows

in

Avalon

conducting

the

famous

cobra-and-tail

slide

movements. The highly decorated Russian Air Force Major had booked nearly 4000 hours on 45 different aircraft. This was really going to be fun.

The MiG-35D was thirty percent heavier than her predecessor featuring large twin tails, menacing exhaust nozzles and sweeping wings and tail plane that all screamed "fly me!" This was the dual seat version - Uchebno-Boevoi - the combat trainer featuring Otklanyayemi Vektor Tyagi or deflected thrust vector exhaust nozzles. The Russian Major finally finished his long walk around tail number 304 and motioned Hamilton to the ladder, the front ladder. The

171 | P a g e

Australian was surprised. Hamilton knew it was standard procedure that all foreign pilots or ‘joy riders’ sit in the back, in the trainee or WSO (Weapons Systems Officer) seat. The front cockpit hosted controls and instruments only operated from the front seat. It was down right dangerous if the front seater did not understand them. He was still pondering that as Major Logvinoch helped him strap in and began to explain the controls, flight and engine instruments. They weren't a whole lot different than those in western aircraft. The

altimeter

was

in

meters

instead

of

feet,

the

air

speed

in

kilometers per hour and the main flight instruments were reversed. In the front seat, the Major explained, Hamilton had the control of the ejection handle. "If I say EJECT, EJECT, EJECT, this

is not a subject for

discussion Lance. I'm out first, then you."

Hamilton nodded his

head, a lot of responsibility to give someone you know little about, he thought.

The Russian pilot stepped across to the rear ladder and

climbed into the back seat where he began to start the left and then right

engines.

After

conducting

instrument

and

flight

control

checks, methodically using his kneeboard and prompter, the Russian Air Force pilot received clearance from the tower, ran some power up on the two big engines and taxied to the active runway. Stopping on the threshold, momentarily standing on the brakes, Major Logvinoch ran the throttles forward. The engines instantly spooled up to 100 percent before he selected the after burners, simultaneously releasing the brakes as

they snapped on. The two

Klimov RD-33MK ‘Morskaya Osa’ afterburning turbofans with more than 20,000 pounds thrust each gunned the MiG down the tarmac. They were airborne in less than six seconds and 1400 feet. The wheels were barely sucked into the airframe before Logvinoch pulled a 6G loop

172 | P a g e

bottoming

out

over

the

runway

at

150

feet.

Staying

low

they

thundered out over the Moscow River at 500mph. "You have the plane," the Major said suddenly. Hamilton instinctively grabbed the stick as the Major released his own grip and sat back.

Was he fucking nuts!

They were tenths of

a second from being dead at this speed and height.

Not only that but

large pylons loomed ahead and higher, long cables sagging between them.

Hamilton moved the stick slightly to see whether the Russian

Major was still guiding it. There was no resistance; there was no guiding hand of experience from the back seat. In the reflection on the plexiglass canopy he could just make out the Major leaning back in the ejector seat, his hands behind his head, idly looking out of the cockpit. And he began to whistle!

Not very well either. The

lines were closing rapidly and the Russian had still not tried to take the controls back.

So Hamilton pushed the stick forward.

Russian's whistling stopped.

The

At a little over one hundred feet, with

less than thirty feet separating them from the wires above, the big MiG thundered under the powerlines before standing on its tail and going vertical. Major Nafaniel Logvinoch, Hero of Russia, laughed.

"Very good

Lance, you almost made me crap myself, and that's hard to do." He paused and said, "You used to fly your F-111C the same way?" SOB, Hamilton laughed beneath his oxygen mask.

The bastards

would never have let him in the front seat unless they knew who he was.

Logvinoch knew damn well Hamilton would take the bait. Right

now though, heading straight up, Lance was just having too much fun to wonder about what all that meant. "She's all yours Squadron Leader. her."

See what you can do with

173 | P a g e

Selecting afterburners and pulling a lot of gees, Hamilton pushed the MiG up to 51,000 feet, both men grunting to keep from blacking out, before levelling and going supersonic. "What do you think?

Would the F-111 do that?"

"Da, pre krasna…it's beautiful and the F-111 would still be way down below! Now how about showing me that cobra and tail slide Nathan?

You allowed to do that?" RAAF Squadron Leader Lance Hamilton

asked. "With pleasure," the Major replied. "It is not often I fly with foreign fighter aces."

The aircraft snapped over onto its back into

a split S to lower altitude then a nearly 8G roll into an Immelman, followed by the famous cobra. feet from the ground. the throttles.

Normally of course, Logvinoch was just

Pulling into the vertical the Major chopped

The air speed dropped to zero and then the MiG slid

back to earth tail first.

Logvinoch spooled the engines backup,

arrested the backwards slide and, using the thrust vectoring to maintain attitude, pushed the airplane straight back up the vertical. "Ok, your turn," Logvinoch said.

"The airplane is yours."

Hamilton emulated Logvinoch's split and Immelman flawlessly. The

aircraft

manoeuvrable.

was

a

dream

to

fly,

big,

powerful

and

highly

After the tail slide, which he thought was pure joy,

Hamilton picked up speed, horsed the stick back to bring the nose of the MiG up into the vertical with enough power and momentum to push the plane horizontally forwards while in a vertical attitude - the cobra maneuver. Logvinoch,

sitting

in

the

back,

now

knew

exactly

how

Australian came to be an ace. He was a natural instinctive flyer.

the He

checked their position and gave the Australian pilot the heading to Zukovski air base for an ILSA instrument approach and low pass.

Over

the airbase the Major once again took over the controls, punching straight

into

a

hard

turn

back

to

the

runway

followed

by

some

174 | P a g e

viciously fast aileron rolls, a quick reversal, snap roll to the inverted before powering down the runway at less than twenty meters upside down. To Squadron Leader Hamilton, it was all sheer bliss.

The two men became fast friends. "Zdorovye zhelayu!" Lance said, remembering his little bit of Russian. "Da!" The Russian grinned broadly tossing the Vodka back. The Australian followed suit. "Damn." Hamilton winced. "This would melt the turbines off an F-111." The Russian laughed. "So you are retired?" Logvinoch asked. "Don’t

know

yet,

I’ve

taken

a

year

out

to

get

some

perspective." "Hmmm..good idea. We cannot do that. You were the one with the bird strike in the F-111?" Hamilton looked up and nodded quietly. The Russian pilot for a fleet moment saw the pain that still lingered behind the other man's eyes. "I'm sorry," Logvinoch said, genuinely regretting bringing the subject up. Call sign Horde he remembered. The F18 pilot, he was the one that died. "No," Hamilton said waving a hand. "Nat," he continued, having already truncated the Major's name from Nafaniel. "You now, it's what we do.

Our jobs are to push against that envelope….every now and

then

pushes

it

back,

wrong

place

wrong

time."

Hamilton

wasn't

surprised the Russian Pilot was aware of the accident. Such accidents were broadly published and examined by aviation professionals all over

the

world

in

the

pursuit

of

making

something

inherently

dangerous as safe as possible. "One bird," Hamilton said after a pause, holding his hands out wide. "One really big bird, twelve feet I think, wing tip to wing tip." As if it were yesterday, he could

175 | P a g e

still see the mess of blood, feathers and plexiglass. Not just birds' blood. There was blood everywhere. "Me too," the Russian said. "Really?" "Not a bird though, a piece of turbine. you call it? Wozo, my navigator.

Killed my … what do

We ejected, but it was too late for

him." For a moment Lance could see the Russian reflect.

The images

still all to clear for him as well. "You never forget these things. Neither should we. But we get past it to carry on and pay honor to those lost." They continued to trade shots of vodka throughout the afternoon until Hamilton pushed away from the table, stood to leave and said goodbye. As he walked away, he heard the Major call out, "Lance!" Hamilton turned.

The Russian touched the brim if his service

cap. "Good luck Buck Shot…. Z'bogm," Logvinoch said, an old Russian farewell, 'go with God.' Buck Shots call sign was hardly secret and such was the reputation it was frequently used as an adversary role in Russian flight training. "You too friend, you too." Hamilton smiled, it was kind of complimentary to know you were on the adversary list of names they used to train combat pilots.

176 | P a g e

Perth Hit - Same day

PERTH, WESTERN AUSTRALIA. As Lance walked away from trading vodka shots with Logvinoch in Moscow, Brian was doing his best to avoid being shot. Bullets seemed to be punching into every nook and cranny in the apartment.

The rooms were full of dust, plaster and brick.

The walls riddled with holes. Brian leaned against the back of the fridge, they, whoever they were, were now firing blind, oblivious to accidental casualties.

They didn't care who they killed so long as

they got him. Behind the fridge he had a hunch he was invisible. He placed his night glasses on; the apartment plunged into black and green. Shit! There were three beams searching through the rubble of his apartment.

These guys were friggen serious players he thought, you

didn't buy that technology at a department store. The shooting suddenly stopped. He waited three and then moved. They could be trying a more direct approach through the front door while he sat on his ass behind the fridge. He looked around. There were few windows left unbroken in the apartment. unbroken

one,

threw

the

microwave

through

it

He picked the and

dived

out.

Obviously they were not able to target that window for some reason. Obvious now he thought, not before. He was out, but it was several floors to the pavement below. He swung wide of the window, grabbing the piping on the side of the building with both hands as he fell. The trip down was painful, his fingers smashing against every pipe support, but it slowed the fall. He hit the pavement and rolled to his feet with his SIG P226 semi automatic pistol clasped tightly between both hands. He swung round in a crouched shooting position looking for a target. Nothing, just some very startled patrons in the local coffee shop, surprised first

177 | P a g e

by the microwave hitting the pavement and then a man with a gun. Microwaves must be getting expensive some of them thought. Then he saw her. She had a shocked expression on her face. What the hell was she doing here?

And right now! He was about to holster

his weapon when a high velocity round hit him dead centre in his back. As he pitched forwards he could hear her scream. His vision blurred, all he could see was pavement, concrete. He couldn't move, he thought he could hear sirens, but it all went black. Brian had always been sure he would die in a jungle, on the battlefield, but not at his flat.

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The de Vivies Analysis

INTELLIGENCE ANALYST CENTER (IAC), LANGLEY VIRGINIA. October 4, 2018. David

Stringer,

Directorate

of

now

head

of

Intelligence,

the CIA,

Office read

of

off

Chinese the

Analysis,

number

he

had

scribbled on his office pad. "37°55'S, 37°30'E. You got it?" The Image Analyst Officer (IA) quickly typed the co-ordinates into his IAWS computer. He could have just as easily given it voice commands, but a product of Gen Y his fingers moved as fast as his mouth

did

and

were

les

prone

to

errors.

The

instructions

were

instantly relayed to an orbiting ISR satellite. Half the world away and 130 miles above the earth, the 'War Fighter IV' satellite rotated its ultra hi-resolution optical camera to focus on a small island located in the southern extremity of the Indian Ocean. "Got

it,

French

base

called

Base

Martin

de

Vivies,

Ile

Amsterdam, isn't it?" "Right first time," Stringer said. The guy was a walking atlas. "What do you see?" "Okay…interesting, new earthworks."

He zoomed in more on the

images that were being communicated in real time. "An airfield, why the hell are the Frenchies building an airfield?" "They aren't," Stringer replied fishing for a piece of paper buried in a thickly stuffed manila folder he was carrying. "We got

179 | P a g e

this HUMINT report from DO this morning." He handed it to the Imagery Analyst

Officer.

"It

looks

interesting,

enough

for

this

guy

to

visit." The IA, Wendell Cross, quickly scanned the short report. "KwokWing

Cheung.

Head

of

the

Guojia

Anquan

Bu

isn't

he?"

he

said

referring to the Chinese Ministry of State Security (MSS). "Yep, and a vice chair of the PRC Central Military Commission, which begs the question, why such a big fish would travel to such a small pond.

They leased that property from the French just two

months ago." "The airfield could just be for resupply of their Antarctic bases you know?" "That would make sense except for the fact that all those normal activities are managed and liaised by COMNAP," referring to the Council of Managers of National Antarctic Programs, which, among other

things,

was

responsible

for

the

conduct

of

operations in support of Antarctic science efforts.

logistical "COMNAP has

received no advice from either the French or Chinese on this.

And it

still doesn't explain why it's so important that Kwok-Wing needs to visit there." "Yeah, I see what you mean. If I remember correctly he's got quite a reputation, a protégé of General Chen Jianguo." "Yes, and I see Chen's footprints all over this," Stringer replied. General Chen Jianguo was the executive vice chair of the CMC, the Chinese Central Military Commission. He only answered to the Chinese President and Chairman of the CMC. Stringer knew him to be very measured and an excellent strategist.

He didn't get involved in

something unless it was big game. He tapped the thin display screen. "Get in as close as possible and record whatever you can get," he said to Cross, "and then give me a time for when the bird is over Ushuaia and then…."

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"Grande de Tierra del Fuego," the IA interrupted. Stringer looked at him, with a little awe.

"Right again."

It was

almost annoying. "What am I looking for?" "Another airfield, give me a buzz when we have it." "Roger." Stringer walked slowly back to his office.

His mind churned

over the seemingly isolated facts like a concrete mixer, waiting for them to fall together into something solid. An hour later he read Cross's report on both the French-based airfield and the Grande de Tierra del Fuego construction.

He was in

the midst of writing an Initial Intelligence Assessment and was already bigger.

getting

the

feeling

this

was

leading

to

something

much

Why would the Chinese and Russians be building airfields

that far south? What possible strategic motivation would there be for that?

He filed the report and sent it through to the office of the

Deputy Director of Intelligence, hoping it would make the President's Daily Briefing, the PDB.

Emergency Ward, Royal Perth Hospital

PERTH WA. As David Stringer submitted the finished report into the Presidents Daily Brief (PDB), Lieutenant Colonel Brian Hamilton had been rushed to hospital emergency. "How is he?" the SAS man asked. He had just arrived driving directly from Swanbourne Barracks as soon as he had heard. "Amazingly good, case of good luck and bad luck," The doctor said. "The vest saved his life, but the 7.62mm round hit him right in the centre of the middle vertebrae.

The shock from the bullet

paralysed him, if it wasn't for the immediate CPR the young lady gave him, he would be dead."

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The other man looked stunned. "Paralysed?" he asked The doctor waved his hands. "Temporarily," he said, "Heavy bruising, but nothing permanent." "Thank God." Good thing it wasn’t one of the 12.7mm types they had found, otherwise they would have been scraping Hammer off the side walk. The SAS Sergeant shuddered at the idea, "And the woman?" "She left after we advised her he would be okay." "You have a name?" "Natasha

Braithwaite."

The

doctor

was

normally

less

forthcoming, but management had advised he answer this man's question as best as possible without breaching too many confidentialities. "Can I see the bullet?" "Has to go to police forensics I'm afraid." He handed him the plastic

bag.

"But

please,

have

a

look."

The

doctor

was

playing

protocol, but was not slow on the uptake. His patient had been wearing a vest that was restricted issue.

Not even the police had

those. "No probs." Fulham examined the round, armour piercing long nose 7.62mm. They had pulled a shovel load of these and 12.7mm antimateriel rounds out of the floor and wall already, but wanted to make sure they were dealing with one set of shooters, not two. "Thanks."

He

handed

the

bag

back,

they

would

check

with

forensics after. It was Russian of course, which meant nothing; could be anyone.

Just who the hell was trying to kill his boss? He was

going to find out, and when he did, he would do his job. He was acting out side of protocol, but bugger the AFP he thought, he wanted to make sure it got done right. "Can I see him now?" "Of course, please follow me." The doctor led him to Brian's room. As he followed the doctor he wondered what on earth Braithwaite was doing there. Perhaps he needed to pay her a visit and ask.

182 | P a g e

Doctoring the PDB National Security Advisors office . THE WHITE HOUSE. OCTOBER 5, 2018. Paul Goldschmidt, Secretary of State, sat on the forward edge of the desk in a small office adjacent to the Situation Room in the West Wing of the White House. He flicked the cover sheet of the PDB closed. "That's fine," he said flatly. The other man in the office, Hans Jacoby, the National Security Advisor,

nodded.

"There

was

some

mention

of

an

airfield

being

constructed at a place called Martin de Vivies," he said. "Stringer seemed to think it was important. "Where the hell is that?" Goldschmidt asked. "Some place in the Southern Indian Ocean I think." "Do we care?" Goldschmidt said, quickly scanning the original pages again. "In this case, I think no. It's French territory; I don't want our replacement President sticking his nose into their business at the moment." "I deleted it anyway," Jacoby said. It was the NSA's job to act as an 'honest broker' filtering the huge volumes of intelligence from the Situation Room into the PDB. He had buried the Martin de Vivies stuff in his department as well as the steady trickle of data that showed some unusual military activity among the Chinese and Russians. It didn't seem to threaten them, so he didn't see the point in passing it on yet.

183 | P a g e

"Good," Goldschmidt replied. He had also crossed pen lines through other intel he didn't think the President needed to know. Jacoby would distribute the edited version to the rest of the NSC. "What do you propose to do about Blaire then?" Jacoby asked. "I don't know yet, try to keep him under control while we figure something out. Hopefully Lachlan will recover soon and we can put this all behind us.

The important thing is to keep Blaire from

making any unwelcome decisions before he returns." "What are the doctors saying?" "He's

stable."

Meaning

Lachlan

Finn.

"A

full

recovery

is

possible," he added optimistically. "Sooner than later I hope," Jacoby added. "Amen. I don't know how long I can stand working with Blaire." He paused. "Anyway, gotta go." He held up the file. "Daily chores," he said, leaving the office.

184 | P a g e

The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, DC

President Damon Andrew Blaire

THE WHITE HOUSE OVAL OFFICE. President Damon Andrew Blaire stood up uncomfortably from the big black Gunlocke leather chair. It felt like it was designed for someone else.

A

little

over

5'9",

the

U.S.

President

appeared fit and healthy with average looks and a thick mane of short-cropped hair that was almost pure white. He looked at himself in the mirror on the opposite wall. He was sure that just a few weeks ago there had been some colour there.

But that was a few weeks ago, a lot had changed since then.

Blaire laid the flat of his palms on the big oak desk. The desk and the seat really belonged to Lachlan Finn, a President who was in the beginning of his second term in office, suddenly struck down by an embolism and unconscious for the last six weeks.

Congress had

declared him incapacitated, and for the moment at least, the Vice President was thrust into the top job.

185 | P a g e

Damon Andrew Blaire was, until further notice, President of the United States of America. He put those thoughts on the back burner. He motioned the tall slim figure of the Secretary of State into the office. Paul Goldschmidt strode quickly into the room tapping a file against his thigh. "You have the PDB?" the President asked. He was annoyed he had to ask, but didn't let it show in his voice.

There was smouldering

resentment to his presence here. He could feel it. He had not been Finn's choice of a Vice President.

In contrast to a tradition

decades old, the party leadership had made that choice, resolving bitter factional feuding that had threatened to derail the party. Finn had argued hard against the Blaire appointment, but in the end had to accept that or lose the nomination.

Finn had gone on to win,

but kept Vice President Blaire as far away from the office of power as he could. Now

Finn

lay

prostrate

in

a

hospital

bed

and

he

was

the

'accidental' President. This was a term that seemed to be taking traction inside the White House and in the press. Damon Blaire was keenly aware that Goldschmidt, like many of the others, did not believe he should be sitting in the Oval office. This wasn't his Presidency and none of them were his appointments or staff. They belonged to President Finn. He watched as Paul Goldschmidt dropped the Briefing Book and its contents onto the Resolute Desk, Finn's desk, originally presented to President Rutherford B. Hayes by Queen Victoria.

Goldschmidt

ignored

the

small

courtesy

of

turning

and

opening the folder for the President to read. Blaire pretended not to notice, sliding the folder across the desk and spinning it around before thumbing through the sheets. He first looked at the PDB, then the two-page blue paper, the INR and a whole mess of newspaper clippings and reports. "Not much going on it seems," Blaire commented.

186 | P a g e

"All quiet on the western front, Mr. President," Goldschmidt replied. "Do you need me for anything else Sir?" Blaire looked up from reading the last page. How about some real help, he thought. "Have you normally delivered the PDB Paul? I thought asked.

that

Jacoby

delivered

the

Briefing

Book,"

the

President

He could see Goldschmidt bristle a little.

"He normally does Sir, but sometimes I do it, especially if the pickings are thin, like today." He lied. Goldschmidt looked about to leave but hesitated, coming to a quick decision. "Permission to speak freely Mister President?" "I hope you always do Paul. Go ahead." "President

Finn's

condition

is

still

not

completely

known.

Because of that, I think we should conduct our duties under an assumption he will be returning to office.

I don't think it would be

requisite that we administer policy that might contradict his, and that we treat the current situation as a caretaker government." "In other words Paul, you want me to do as little as possible?" Blaire's voice was devoid of emotion. "Avoid making decisions?" "I think avoid taking any actions that might conflict with President

Finn

or

his

administration's

objectives,

might

better

characterise it, at least until he returns." If he returns, Blaire thought.

But maybe the Secretary of

State was right. Finn was the elected President, not him.

Whether he

agreed with his policies didn't matter. Who was he to go against the wishes of the voters? "Perhaps you are right," Blaire said after a moment. Goldschmidt didn't look convinced.

187 | P a g e

CHAPTER FOUR

The Pentagon, Arlington County

October 5 2018. Kipper and Stringer discuss Martin De Vivies

THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON DC. It was already late in the afternoon and cold. The shadows of the Pentagon were stretched across the inner lawn. Originally built in record time during World War II,

the

Pentagon

was

considered

to

be

the

largest office building in the world with three times the floor space of the Empire State building, housing 25,000 employees and nearly eighteen miles of corridors. In a small office located on the fourth floor, in a place known as the Office of Special Plans, General George

Pirelli,

the

nation's

highest-ranking

military

officer,

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, cringed as he watched the television re-run of President Lachlan Finn's last speech. "The question is," the reporter said, introducing the segment, "will President Damon Blaire follow the same strong policy as his running mate in the last election.

It is no secret the two were not

188 | P a g e

great friends." The scene switched to previous footage of President Lachlan Winston Finn speaking at the White House. "The U.S. government has drifted down a path of paranoia based on a threat of our own invention. Where enemies have not previously existed we have created them. The distrust with which we deal with our world partners is expressed in every daily brief and report we get from our intelligence agencies and defence.

This stuff," he

clutched the paperwork crumpled in his fist, "is Cold War fantasy!" He threw the paperwork in the bin. He stood up from his chair and walked around the table towards the camera, sitting on the edge of the table, looking relaxed and in control.

"Unless we are all blind,

and terrorism aside, we have never been further from a traditional military threat since our independence.

Despite that, the previous

Administration lavished enormous amounts of money on our conventional military, building a defence capability to fight something that does not exist.

That paranoia led them to believe that China, Russia and

other countries, which did not immediately embrace our own ideals, were our enemies."

He stopped and looked hard into the cameras.

"This is a new world.

This government is not about making enemies;

it's about making friends.

The billions currently funnelled into

unnecessary defence projects will instead be redirected to health, education and critical social programs." The scene switched back to the reporter, the backdrop of the White House behind her. "The tragedy of course is that just hours after this speech, President Finn suffered a severe embolism, and today still lies in a coma with no one knowing whether he will recover well enough to return to his office." Pirelli pressed the remote, switching off the sound. The small room plunged into silence. The man seated opposite Pirelli looked at the General expectantly.

189 | P a g e

"Who's running the show up there Captain?" General Pirelli asked. "Goldschmidt," Captain USN Vince Kipper replied crisply. Pirelli nodded his head.

He had guessed that much. "What's

Jacoby doing?" Captain Kipper, a Situation Room Watch Officer, considered the reply. "He's not Goldschmidt's patsy, but they are most definitely on the same page." Kipper looked briefly at the TV monitor again before continuing. "There is some heavy editing of the PDB and the Blue Thing.

I would classify it as manipulation."

"So would I, I've seen them. Is that why you're here Vince?" "Sir, we are receiving information that suggests unusual and extensive force movements by the Chinese and Russians, especially naval." He referred to some notes he was carrying. "David Stringer, probably our last senior strategic analyst in the CIA, was given a tip by our Australian friends about construction sites at Il de Amsterdam and Tierra del Fuego. They appear to be large airfield facilities. We followed up and discovered the Chinese leased the land in question from the French at Martin De Vivies and the Russians did the same in Argentina. Put these things together and it all points to something

very

unusual

going

on

that

we

don't

understand.

The

problem is it has been excluded from the President's Executive Briefs and

those

going

nervously.

"The

to

the

NSC

President

members." is

being

He

looked

deliberately

around,

almost

deprived

of

information." "I know," the General said simply. "Tell me about the Martin De Vivies and Argentine bases." Kipper quickly read the unedited briefing from Stringer. "That means the Director of the CIA isn't sharing. worry."

That's a

190 | P a g e

"I'm afraid there's more Sir; Jacoby also has his sights on you General. I have overheard both Goldschmidt and the Secretary of State discussing the JCS positions." "I know, but thanks for the heads up." He gave a wry smile. "Occupational hazard," he said. One of the pre-requisites to heading up the Joint Chiefs of Staff is that they had to have served at least one term in the capacity of vice chairman.

There was currently no

other serving officer on staff with that qualification.

Goldschmidt,

Finn's answer to defence, had been gunning to fire him even before the Finn Administration was officially sworn into office. "That's not all Sir; I questioned the contents of the PDB and Blue Thing.

Jacoby wasn't amused, and in my opinion was definitely

not on the level; it's why I came over today." "Can you talk to Stringer without Jacoby or Miles getting in the way?" "I'll try, but Galen Miles is shepherding his flock. He's pretty cosy with the NSA and Goldschmidt as well." Galen Miles was currently head of CIA.

Across the other side of the city, in the opposite corner of the West Wing at the White House, Secretary of State Paul Goldschmidt relaxed back into the soft leather of the visitors lounge chair, wondering what Pirelli was up to. Outside the window he could see the street lamps coming on, dull glows in the fading light of day. "Kipper's with Pirelli right now," the Director of the CIA said from the other matching chair, almost reading his mind. "What's Kipper up to?" Goldschmidt asked. "Complaining to Pirelli I would think," Jacoby interrupted from his perch on the desk. He slipped off the desk and paced the room. "He had a problem with the total exclusion of Stringer's report from the PDB and blue file." He paused looking from one to the other. "My

191 | P a g e

guess is he's telling Pirelli all about the Martin De Vivies thing right now." "Well, they can gas bag as much as they want. As far as we are concerned it's a dead end," Goldschmidt replied. He turned to the Director of the CIA. "Galen, make sure you limit that stuff before it hits the Situation Room.

We don't want our Watch Officers raising

the alarm." "What about the rest of the West Wing staff?" Galen Miles asked. "Homeland Security is dependant on information from us, and the rest of the crew are either hoping Finn comes back to save their jobs or are keeping their heads down. The rumour mill has it that Blaire will replace most of the staff with his own people if he stays in office." Goldschmidt paused, thinking. Miles had a pretty good idea where the rumour started. "Listen,

just

had

an

idea."

Goldschmidt

cupped

his

hands

together. "Why don't we turn the intelligence faucet on some more instead,

swamp

them

in

background

noise,

and

pack

it

full

of

suspected terrorist stuff. Snow them under for a while." CIA Director Miles smiled and nodded. Goldschmidt

meant.

Keep

them

away

from

the

He knew exactly what Chinese

and

Russian

chatter that seemed to be building up. "We have a meeting of the Security Council later this week; it wouldn't hurt if Bin Ladin's old mate was to raise his head again," Goldschmidt said, getting a little more creative.

THE PENTAGON, October 6. The following morning, Pirelli received a call from Stringer. The Situation Room Watch Officer had obviously been

good

to

his

word.

Like

Kipper,

Stringer

sensed

something

192 | P a g e

happening over the horizon that they really needed to know about. Pirelli asked Stringer about the President's Daily Brief. "Cleansed and sanitised I'm afraid," Stringer answered. "Galen Miles is well and truly riding on Goldschmidt's band wagon." "That's what we figured. What do you think is happening down there on that island?" "Nothing we can put together yet.

But there is obviously some

game in play and I'm betting it's not to our benefit." "Loud and clear," Pirelli said. "What do you want me to do?" Stringer asked. Pirelli chewed that question uncomfortably. "Nothing that will put your ass on the line; you've got Miles to worry about." Stringer

thought

about

it.

"General,

channel some stuff through to Vince Kipper.

I

can

probably

back

Get it stuffed into

daily chore material. I doubt Miles has the time to read it. But Kipper will." The General smiled. "Good idea. I'll let Vince know to look for it." Playing cloak-and-dagger spy stuff was not exactly Pirelli's major at West Point. He was skirting the edges but knew that at the moment it was the only way to move forward.

"I think something

really stinks about these new airfields. Its unfortunate Goldschmidt and his boys are ignoring it and playing cheap politics. They believe the Chinese and Russians have nothing but good warm fuzzy feelings for us." For a moment there was silence on the phone.

The other man was

considering the options. "General, we will still need to increase our intelligence effort on this.

I will do what I can, but Galen Miles

will be up my ass from now on." "Understand, I'm meeting with the Chief of Defense Intelligence this morning; whatever we find I'll make sure gets to you. By the way, if Goldschmidt and his boys push this too far, it becomes a

193 | P a g e

criminal offence, and when rats are cornered they come out fighting. Make sure you log everything." Stringer throat.

felt

the

He swallowed.

cold

hand

of

dirty

politics

stroke

his

He hated that stuff.

"I will." "Good.

Speak to you soon." Pirelli closed the connection.

A little while later, the CJS, General George Pirelli, walked quickly into the VIPERS Planning Center. To any outsider the room looked like something from a Star Trek set. This was part of the command battle center.

VIPERS

was

a

Virtual

Integrated

Planning

and

Execution

Resource System. It gave U.S. Command an unprecedented real time, three-dimensional view of virtually every corner of the earth and any battle

space

Satellite information

hooking

into

Communications from

every

such (WGS)

systems

as

the

constellation.

possible sensor and

Wideband VIPERS

Global

was

fed

intelligence-gathering

source the U.S. and selected allies had in the field.

Satellites,

spy planes, submarines, combat aircraft and the men and machines on the ground, all fed into one huge network. "Can you get me Martin de Vivies now commander?" the General asked.

He

had

construction.

been

watching

the

recorded

data

of

the

As far as he could tell it looked complete.

everything seemed to go quiet.

airfield But then

Perhaps the Chinese had no intention

of making the facility active. "No sir.' The Marine officer answered. That stopped the General in his tracks. "What do you mean no Sir?" "We have repositioned two birds over the island and each time we experience interference. over it disappears." "From the ground?"

We can't pin point it and once we pass

194 | P a g e

"Not that we can tell." "From space?" "Its too hard to tell.

Nothing big enough to cause damage just

interrupts communications and operations." "Not coincidental." "No sir, definitely outside directional interference, probably an adaptation of their directed energy weapons." This was a laser beam that at close range was lethal, but at long range could cause major disruptions to systems. "Interesting. Alright, put a request into VIPERS to get a U2 over Martin de Vivies and make sure this and any other interference is logged.

Keep me posted," the General said, leaving the VIPERS

planning room. It was becoming more interesting by the minute.

He

motioned the CDI to follow him into the adjacent conference room. "What do you make of it?" "Adds

up,

with

the

intelligence

on

the

current

ship

and

aircraft movements, there is no question the Chinese and Russians are well progressed into what looks like a major operation, and somehow it involves Martin de Vivies and Tierra del Fuego. But we have no idea to what ends." "And to interfere with our satellites suggests they think it must be important enough to compromise a strategically important capability

like

being

able

to

suppress

satellites

at

their

discretion. Finn is still comatose and so is the White House. Our accidental President is having a nervous break down and the Cabinet and NSC are playing the whole thing down. What a cluster fuck," he exclaimed. "It is becoming clearer by the minute that the Russians and Chinese are running the ball down our blind side!" President Blaire would have been embarrassed, but not surprised to hear what the General was saying.

It was fair comment. At that

very moment Blaire was looking out the window over the Rose Garden.

195 | P a g e

Several months had passed and there was no change in President Finn's health. He looked at the heavy circle around the date on his desk calendar. It was October 21, that was his drop-dead date. He picked up the phone. The sound of the conference phone ringing almost made the General jump.

The caller ID flashed in red; VIPERS had directed the

call automatically. around the room.

He looked up in surprise at the CDI and then

Were they bugged? What were the chances of that?

He snapped up the handset. "Yes Mr President, General Perelli, here."

THE WHITE HOUSE OVAL OFFICE. Same day: 1100hrs. In the worldview of President

Finn,

the

military

and

intelligence

inventing enemies that no longer existed.

community

were

The Chinese or Russians

were no longer a menace; terrorism was, but not the conventional threat that the military were so used to preparing against.

Aircraft

carriers and massive spending on other defence platforms was no longer warranted.

Chinese totalitarianism would be defeated by its

own financial success. The logic of that view was enticing and understandable, Blaire thought, but also flawed.

An awful lot of people, perhaps even the

majority of citizens in the US and those of many other countries might believe this. Despite that, he wasn't about to lead the U.S. down a path with blinkers on. While it was a lofty ideal, the reality was the Chinese and Russians coveted resources as much as the U.S. did, and were getting ready to fight for them.

Unlike the U.S. they

were not democracies, but autocratic governments that could change tune in a heartbeat and attack the U.S. its friends or any other state without having to ask anyone. The Russian and Chinese economies now challenged that of the U.S. The simple fact was America was no

196 | P a g e

longer as big as it used to be and the need to be diligent stronger than ever. Blaire looked at the heavily braided uniform of his senior active officer.

"President Finn thinks the only thing the military

has been able to do in the last ten years is spend money and fuck things

up."

He

said,

standing

up

and

walking

in

front

of

the

fireplace. General George Pirelli said nothing, he didn't take the bait. He would have resigned long ago but for his sense of duty.

The shit

would hit the fan sometime, and this administration was going to be completely unprepared. He kept his mouth shut. Like his predecessor had said, someone had to stay the Watch, and it was his duty. What Pirelli didn't know, was that the seeds for a crises of historical and deadly proportions were already taking root. "Mr President," he said eventually, his voice void of emotion, "I call a spade a spade, Sir. Whether I like working for you or not is irrelevant, I'm not a politician. I will give you my honest advice. That's my job. What you do with it is your job. If you don't like what I have to say, you only have to ask for my resignation." For a long awkward moment Blaire stood in silence. Pirelli wondered what he was planning next. "Martin de Vivies?" Blaire said suddenly. Pirelli almost fell off the chair. "Tell me what you know about Martin de Vivies." He could tell the General was surprised. "Goldschmidt had his chance to do the right thing. I know about Martin de Vivies, General. I might have been quiet in the last few months.

I hadn't turned stupid."

The General looked at the President gob smacked.

197 | P a g e

Greenville Ordered to Martin de Vivies

THE PENTAGON, VIPERS PLANNING AND CONTROL CENTER - October 7 "It's

operational,"

Stringer

said,

referring

to

Martin

de

Vivies. "What can you see?" Pirelli asked. "It's no civilian airfield. We photographed and tracked heavy military

aircraft

movements

in

and

out

of

the

place

while

the

'Shotgun' satellite was overhead. It's a new satellite, so whatever is wrong with the others, hasn't affected this one yet." "Miles know about this?" "No. We put it over the island while re-tasking it to another mission; I'm emailing the pics now." "Good going. Keep your head down, Dave, but between you and me, it looks like the President is running with the ball." Pirelli hung up.

The conversation was short and to the point. It seemed insane

that they were sneaking around in their own government while trying to protect it; he now understood the dilemma of the President.

He

opened his email and examined the pictures. Minutes later he snatched the phone off its cradle and spoke to his aide.

198 | P a g e

Global Hawk, predecessor or early version of the RQ-4R Dragon Hawk

A few hours later the General returned to the VIPERS command centre in the Pentagon. "Dragon Hawks in position Sir." "Thank you." A few miles away in the White House Situation Room, the Watch Officer, Captain Vince Kipper, watched the same display on the large overhead screens. "You getting that General?" "Loud and clear," the General replied. The data, fed from a high flying RQ-4R started to flow through to the main screens.

The Dragon Hawk was at 70,000 feet, 50 nautical

miles North West of its target, Martin de Vivies, the French base on

199 | P a g e

Île Amsterdam. This was a small 34 square mile volcanic Island rising to 2674 feet at Mont de la Dives. "Good

grief,

look

at

that."

The

side

imaging

optics

were

looking at an oblique angle towards the Chinese Air force Base. "Christ sakes, it looks like they are getting ready for a war!" "Vince?" "Yes Sir." "Get

the

President

into

the

situation

room

ASAP.

Is

he

available?" There was a pause on the other end. "Done Sir, he’s on his way." A

monotone

electronic

buzzing

noise

suddenly

invaded

the

Control Centre. Pirelli immediately recognised what it was. As Blaire walked into the Situation Room in the White House, he was confronted by the same sound, his own nervous system automatically cycling into high gear. He looked at the overhead. "Martin de Vivies Sir," Kipper explained to the President over the Early Warning Radar (EWR) alarm. "These are live images from the Dragon Hawk flight." "Looks like numerous missile locks," one of the operators in the Pentagons control room announced. There was a brief pause. "Air warfare

destroyers,

the

designations

look

like

they

come

from

components of the Shi Lang Battle Group." "Turn it around.

Get it out of there," Pirelli said.

The very

fact they had locked on the Dragon Hawk with attack radars told him more than the pictures did. "Confirmed Dragon Hawk is turned around sir." "Thank you." They

waited

reconnaisance

UAV

a

few

exited

tense the

moments

area,

the

as bat

the and

sophisticated other

designating antiaircraft radars disappeared from the screen.

symbols

200 | P a g e

"Mister President?" "I'm here George," Blaire said. "You see that?" "Yes I did. I also saw they have those S-400s operational as well," Pirelli gave his Intelligence Director a quick glance; the new President didn't need any prompting to understand what he was looking at. "Now we know for sure they are there in force and ready to defend that rock. The question that begs is why?" The President said. "I agree," Pirelli said. "I think we need to get up close and personal." Pirelli explained what he wanted to do. "Do it," The President said firmly. Pirelli patched in another call. "Mike, get a hold of the CNS (Chief of Naval Staff) ASAP.

Tell him it's urgent."

A few minutes later the phone rang. "George, Ethan, whatsup?" the CNS said. "Île Amsterdam." "Oh crap, I knew that would come back," Rear Admiral Ethan Fox almost sighed.

"The Secretary of Defense cut across our bows last

time and had the Sea Wolf pulled out of the AOP (Area of Operations) before we could get anything useful." "Well

that's

all

changed

now

fortunately.

Ethan,

sorry

to

hassle you on leave, but we have to keep this tight. We have to get a look at that joint.

It's active and from the pictures I have in

front of me, very busy." "You have pictures!" "Just a few hours old; who can you put in there?" The Admiral thought a moment. "The Greeneville." Pirelli could hear the cogs still working. "LA class? I thought you would send in a Virginia Class or Seawolf?"