Officers Cozens and Ryman caught up with the Cherokee five kilometres out of Scone. They followed the big vehicle as it wobbled around before it slowed down and finally pulled over.
‘They’re stopping.’ Officer Cozens brought the Commodore to a stop a short distance behind the Cherokee. ‘I think one’s dead,’ he told Kerrie. ‘I’m certain the other two are both wounded.’
‘I hit one for sure,’ said Officer Ryman.
‘Okay. Let’s prop here for a minute and see what they do.’ Officer Cozens left the motor running and they waited. ‘There’s no movement,’ he said eventually.
Officer Ryman took her gun out. ‘Okay. Let’s go have a look, Craig. But be careful. I still don’t trust these ratbags.’
‘No.’ Leaving the lights on, Officer Cozens switched the motor off and took out his Glock. ‘Come on, Kerrie. Nice and slow.’
With the headlights behind them and their weapons cupped, the two ASIO officers cautiously
approached the Jeep Cherokee. Officer Cozens gave his partner the nod to go round the passenger side as he stepped up to Agent Moharic, slumped against the steering wheel.
‘Throw out your weapons and exit the vehicle,’ he ordered. ‘Do it now. And do it very slowly.’
‘All right, Vincent,’ gasped Agent Moharic. ‘We’re getting out. I suppose you’re gonna shoot us in cold blood. Well, do it you sonofabitch. I don’t give a damn.’
Agent Moharic’s .45 came out the window and a few seconds later the door opened. One hand in the air and the other holding his throat, he dragged himself out from behind the wheel and leant against the side of the Cherokee. Agent Coleborne’s .45 sailed out the other window then the door opened and he came out clutching his ribs.
‘You’re lucky, Vincent,’ sneered Agent Moharic, looking down the barrel of Officer Cozens’ levelled Glock. ‘You got the jump on us.’
‘Vincent?’ said Officer Cozens.
‘Yeah. We know who you are. And your girlfriend.’
‘I’m Officer Craig Cozens and that’s Officer Kerrie Ryman. We’re with ASIO.’
‘ASIO?’
‘Yeah. We know who you blokes are. Who’s bloody Vincent?’
Agent Moharic’s pain-racked face dropped. ‘You’re not Vincent?’
‘No. I just told you that, you dopey Yank prick.’
‘Oh shit!’ The crestfallen NSA agent coughed up a little spray of blood. ‘I got nothing more to say,’ he gasped. ‘Get me a doctor.’
‘Hey Kerrie,’ Officer Cozens called out over the top of the car. ‘How’s the other one?’
Still holding her weapon rock steady, Officer Ryman looked at Agent Coleborne clutching his shattered ribs. ‘Pretty rooted, by the looks of things. The one in the back’s dead.’
‘Okay, watch them. I’m going to ring Blessing.’ Officer Cozens left his partner to guard the NSA agents and took out his cellphone. It didn’t take him long to dial. ‘Boss. It’s Craig.’
‘You’re ringing late,’ replied Officer Blessing.
‘Boss. We’ve got a situation here. A bad one. We’re going to need a medivac. Doctors. And a cleaner.’
‘Keep talking, Craig. I’ll grab the other phone.’
Back inside the heat and smoke of The Greater Scone, Mick lasted another three bourbons and four more dances before his head started
spinning again. Jesse had stopped drinking and when they left the dancefloor, she guided him back to where they’d been standing near the poker machines.
‘Here, Tiger,’ she said. ‘Finish my glass of soda water. Then I’m taking you home.’
Mick nodded slowly. ‘I think that’s a very…very good idea.’
‘You’re an absolute disgrace. You know that don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ smiled Mick. ‘But shit, I’ve had a good time.’
‘Hey,’ said Jesse. ‘Did I stop you?’
‘No. You never do. Never do.’
‘Of course not. Because you’d beat me cruelly if I ever tried.’
‘That’s exactly right,’ said Mick.
‘Yeah. Pig’s arse. Come on, light of my life. We’re out of here.’
‘Exactly.’
Rather than go back into the car park, Jesse steered Mick through the crowd and out towards the beer garden. As they went past the bar, Rhedyn called out.
‘Did you have a good time?’
‘It was great,’ said Jesse. ‘Thanks. We’ll see you again.’
‘I’ll tell you what, your boyfriend can dance.’
‘Yeah,’ smiled Jesse. ‘Now I’ve got to hope he can walk.’
With the band still blazing away through its last set, Jesse steered a smiling Mick through all his new-found friends and out into the beer garden, then down the corridor into the street. The night air hit Mick in the face, he took in several deep breaths and regained some of his composure. Past the old picture theatre he started singing, and on the other side of the roundabout he turned to Jesse and grinned broadly.
‘I love you, Jesse Osbourne. I hope you realise that,’ he said.
‘And I love you too, Mick Vincent,’ replied Jesse. She held Mick’s arm tightly. ‘You’re handsome. You’re a fantastic lover. And you’re dynamite on the dancefloor.’
Mick stopped. ‘Am I really a fantastic lover?’ he asked.
Jesse looked stolidly at Mick. ‘You are a good dancer.’
Mick had stopped singing and was just mumbling happily and incoherently when Jesse opened the motel door and eased him inside. She switched on the lights then sat Mick on the bed and got him a glass of water and two Panadeine.
‘Here, Mick. Take these and drink this. It’ll make you feel better.’
‘Thanks, Oz,’ said Mick. ‘Shit! I love you.’
‘Good. Get it tattooed on your chest.’
‘I will. And that’s a promise.’
‘Can you get undressed?’
‘What?’ Mick drew away. ‘Keep your hands off me, woman,’ he said. ‘How do I know where you’ve been?’
Mick swallowed the tablets and drank the water while Jesse got undressed and put on a clean T-shirt. With Jesse keeping an eye on him, Mick slowly but surely stripped down to his T-shirt and jox, then went to the bathroom. While he was in there, Jesse got herself a glass of water then took the phone she’d found in the car park out of her bag and examined it. It was bigger and thicker than a normal mobile phone, with different buttons and no brand name or numbers. There was a moulded aerial on the left and two buttons under the aerial. Mick came out of the bathroom and looked balefully at Jesse.
‘Jesse, my sweet love,’ he mumbled. ‘I am going straight to bed. I’m pissed. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Jesse. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’ Mick got under the blankets as Jesse
continued to examine the phone. ‘Hey, Mick,’ she said.
‘Ummrrrhh.’
‘This isn’t a phone. You know what it is? It’s a GPS transceiver. A global positioning satellite device.’
‘Ummrrhh.’
‘They were probably using it to fly in dope.’ Jesse examined the GPS transceiver for a short while and thought about switching it on. She changed her mind and put it back in her bag.
Jesse finished her glass of water, cleaned her teeth then turned the lights off and climbed into bed next to Mick. She pushed her head into the pillows then smiled and put her arm around him. He was an awful drunk. But he was a happy drunk and people liked him wherever he went. And he only got drunk when he was with her. Plus he genuinely loved her. Jesse Osbourne knew she was a lucky woman.
Jesse closed her eyes and started thinking about the night. It had been a lot of fun. But the gunfight? That was terrifying. She’d imagined Scone would be a quiet town, with nothing much going on except breeding and racing horses. And of course the odd doomsday machine buried in the hills.
Jesse’s eyes suddenly widened in the darkness. ‘Doomsday machine!’ she said out loud.
Jesse sat bolt upright, then got out of bed and switched the light on next to the table. She took the old diary out of her travel bag, opened it and started flicking through the pages till she found the ones she was looking for. She examined them closely and her face spread into a broad grin.
‘Klaus Slate, you sneaky, cunning old bastard.’ Jesse closed the diary and turned towards the window. ‘Nice try old fellah,’ she smiled, ‘but you got to get up early in the morning to fool little Ossie.’
Jesse put the diary back in her bag, turned off the light and got back into bed. Mick was snoring softly. Nevertheless, Jesse gave him a nudge in the back.
‘Hey, Mick. Are you asleep?’ This time, there was absolutely no reply. ‘Good,’ smiled Jesse. ‘Get all the sleep you can. And try not to wake up with too much of a hangover. Because tomorrow we’re going back up Burning Mountain.’
J
esse woke up around seven-thirty the next morning.
Mick was still sleeping blissfully, so she
left him while she had a shower before changing into her jeans and a brown Goodies T-shirt. She rang room service and ordered toasted ham sandwiches and a large pot of coffee. And could they make the coffee strong? Not a problem, madam. Jesse poured herself a glass of cold water then drew back the window curtain and checked out the day. It was delightful: sunny and warm with a light breeze smearing a few stringy clouds across an electric blue sky. A perfect day for a brisk walk in the bush. Jesse smiled. She finished her glass of water then knelt on the bed and gave Mick a shake.
‘Come on, dreamboat. Time to rise and shine.’
‘Urrrhnnnhh?’
‘Come on,’ said Jesse, shaking Mick some more. ‘Upsa daisy. That’s the boy.’
‘Ohhhh. Ohh shit!’ Mick rolled over and blinked at Jesse through bloodshot eyes.
‘How are you feeling this morning, darling?’
‘Horrible,’ Mick replied thickly.
‘You got a hangover?’
‘Ohh. What do you reckon?’
‘I’ve ordered some toasted sandwiches and coffee.’
‘The coffee sounds all right.’ Mick stared mournfully at Jesse. ‘How was I last night? Did I behave myself?’
‘You were fine,’ smiled Jesse. ‘We had a great time.’
Mick thought for a moment. ‘Did we make love afterwards?’
‘Reckon,’ said Jesse. ‘You were like a tiger. I could hardly walk when I got up this morning.’
‘Yeah. Well, you only got yourself to blame. Evil seductress.’
‘Why don’t you go and have a swim?’ suggested Jesse. ‘That’ll help clear your head.’
‘Yeah I might.’ Mick swung his legs over the bed and rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Where’s my cossies?’
‘In the bathroom. Hanging on the shower.’
‘Shit! Are there any more Panadeine?’
‘Above the sink.’
Mick mumbled and muttered his way to the bathroom and closed the door. A short while later, Jesse heard the toilet flush and Mick came out with a towel draped round his shoulders and wearing his Speedos.
‘I wouldn’t go in there for a while if I were you, Oz,’ he said. ‘It’s worse than Chernobyl.’
‘That’s all right, thank you Mick,’ replied Jesse. ‘I’ve had a shower.’
Mick stared blankly at her. ‘I’m going for a swim.’
‘Terrific. Can you find your way to the pool? Or would you like a seeing eye dog?’
Mick gave Jesse a tired once-up-and-down. ‘Oz. The last thing I need this morning is your oliv…olig. Whatever it is. Sarcasm.’
Mick disappeared, closing the door quietly behind him. Jesse got the diary from her bag and sat down, turning to the pages she’d been reading the night before. She was writing on the motel stationery when there was a knock on the door and a young red-headed girl in black was standing there with a tray. Jesse got the girl to put the tray on the table and, when she left, poured herself a cup of coffee and continued writing. Jesse was sitting back finishing a toasted sandwich when the door opened and Mick walked in.
‘How are you feeling now, Mick?’ Jesse asked him.
‘Still pretty ordinary,’ muttered Mick. ‘But the swim helped. Christ! It’d want to,’ he shivered. ‘The water was like bloody ice.’
‘Good. Have a cup of coffee.’
‘Righto. Wait till I get changed.’ Mick looked around him. ‘Where’s my jeans?’
‘On the floor next to the bed.’
While Mick and Jesse had been sleeping, for others it had been a very busy night. After informing his superiors, Officer Blessing had rung Major McKell and organised a medivac helicopter complete with two Army doctors and a specialist cleaner. Officers Cozens and Ryman had patched up the two wounded NSA agents with a first-aid kit they had in their car and stemmed most of the bleeding. The helicopter arrived within the hour and a uniformed police officer attracted by all the commotion had pulled up to investigate. Badges were flashed, another phone call was made and the young officer was sent on his way with a warning to forget everything he’d just seen if he wanted to further his career.
Along with the body of Agent Niland, the two NSA agents were put on board the helicopter and taken to a private hospital in Newcastle where they were debriefed by Agent Sierota, who refused to make a statement on the grounds of United States’ National Security. Agent Niland was left in his body bag to be flown back to the United States with Agents Moharic and Coleborne on the NSA jet as soon as the doctors had finished with them.
Officers Cozens and Ryman drove the Jeep Cherokee back to Newcastle where the vehicle and
its contents, including the agents’ weapons and the briefcase, were handed over to Zimmer Sierota at Bible Bungalow and he was told the safe house was blown. Agent Sierota gloomily made an inventory and got a report ready for Washington. The specialist cleaner, a steely-haired Vietnam veteran, drove the Commodore to the Greater Scone Hotel where he washed away the blood, gathered up all the shell casings and disguised any bullet holes around the car park. He then drove the Commodore back to Officer Cozens’ unit in Sydney and left it there. Officers Cozens and Ryman were commended on a job well done and told to get a good night’s sleep at their Newcastle motel. A driver would take them back to Sydney and, when they were ready, they could hand in their reports, which would be analysed then shredded. When the away team arrived back in Washington, Agents Moharic and Coleborne would be given leave and commendations after getting wounded in a shoot-out with Libyan-backed members of the Southern Sudan Liberation Front in Ras Abu Shagara then transferred to desk jobs. Agent Niland would get a hero’s burial.
The only loose end was the two bullet holes in the passenger-side door of Scone farmhand Ray
Kelso’s old grey Holden utility. However, Ray wouldn’t notice the holes under the caked-on dirt until his boss pointed them out a day later and Ray would good-naturedly laugh it off, knowing it was one of his nutty mates playing a joke on him. As soon as Ray found out who was responsible, he’d shoot a couple of holes in their car. Ray had a pretty good idea which one of his nutty mates it was, too.
However, despite everything getting swept under the carpet in Australia, back at Room 90 in Fort Meade, Mick was still an HVT—a Highly Valued Target. So was Jesse. And a top-level covert operation still had to be carried out with the utmost expediency. This time the NSA would make sure it was carried out properly. Thanks mainly to one man, ASIO still didn’t know about Project Piggie. So that man was again designated to organise the Australian end of the operation.
The morning sun was streaming through the loungeroom window at Bible Bungalow and Zimmer Sierota was seated alone in front of the surveillance equipment, wearing a crumpled blue suit and staring thoughtfully into another cup of coffee. After debriefing his field agents at the hospital, he’d contacted Washington, where Clay Bousseal exploded when he found out what had
happened. However, he assured Agent Sierota the foul-up wasn’t his fault and a new away team would be organised ASAP. Only this time they would arrive in Sydney on a commercial flight and Agent Sierota would drive them to Newcastle where they would take out Vincent and his girlfriend as intended. Agent Sierota agreed this was a good idea, then told Clay he might have a plan to stop Mick and Jesse himself. Clay informed Zimmer that all NSA facilities were at his disposal and he had roughly twenty-four hours before the fresh away team arrived in Australia. Good luck. Agent Sierota felt twenty-four hours and luck might be enough.
Following his acrimonious meeting with Officers Ryman and Cozens, Zimmer had concluded the shooting incident was a case of mistaken identity. He had the
Weekender
magazine photo alongside him and the two ASIO officers’ resemblance to Mick and Jesse was absolutely uncanny; compounded by both parties driving similar vehicles. Agent Moharic was right in assuming Mick and Jesse would be at the hotel, and Agent Coleborne did see them sitting in the parking lot. If Agent Niland had been less hasty, things would no doubt have turned out differently. That aside, Mick and Jesse were still on the loose.
However, in Zimmer’s view, there was a small window of opportunity to take them out before they uncovered Project Piggie. Zimmer would need outside help, but if he could do it, he’d shine in the eyes of the NSA. It all depended on the remote chance either Mick or Jesse had picked up the missing transceiver while they were seated in the parking lot. If they had, it was microchipped and, provided it was switched on, could be traced almost anywhere in the world. So after organising an interactive hook-up through an Agent Skeet Maldon in Room 90, Agent Sierota was glued to the surveillance equipment at Bible Bungalow, beamed into Aquacade, the United States Geostationary Signals Intelligence Satellites System, tracking an RG4A Global Hawk UAV—Unmanned Aerial Vehicle—that was triangulating with a Crystal KH11 Keyhole Imagery Satellite. Searching for the transceiver’s radio fingerprint. That, however, was the easy part.
Even if the transceiver did get switched on, Agent Sierota still had to trawl through all the bands, then surreptitiously engage the person at the other end in nonchalant conversation and make certain it was Mick or Jesse. After Mick’s car getting blown up, he and Jesse would have to know someone was onto them. And if a
businesslike American accent suddenly came over the transceiver asking questions, there was no doubt they would get suspicious. Therefore, Agent Sierota would have to lose his American accent and sound like an Australian. And for a man of Mexican–Portuguese heritage born and raised in Kokomo, Indiana, this wasn’t going to be easy. Agent Sierota opened up a book of quotations kicking around Bible Bungalow and turned to a quote by someone called Buzz Kennedy that a previous agent had highlighted.
‘At its worst, the broad Australian accent is reminiscent of a dehydrated crow uttering its last statement on life from the bough of a dead tree in the middle of a clay pan at the peak of a seven-year drought.’
Buzz was right. To accomplish his devious plan, Agent Sierota would have to master a dry, nasally twang interspersed with colloquialisms all jumbled into some unintelligible dialect called Strine. If he could manage that, he then had to whine it at exactly the right pitch through his nose. Agent Sierota stared at the intelligence-gathering computer and crossed his fingers, hoping everything would work.
In room five at the Tudor Motel, Mick had managed to climb into his jeans and a blue Central Coast Mariners T-shirt an electrician mate from Toukley had given him. He was seated at the table and after two cups of coffee, more Panadeine and half a toasted ham sandwich, he’d regained the power of speech; sight, touch and hearing would develop later. Seated opposite him, Jesse was bubbling.
‘Honestly, Mick,’ she said. ‘You look great. I’ve never met anyone with your recuperative powers.’
‘Yeah? Well you’d better visit OPSM and get your eyes checked,’ croaked Mick. ‘Because I still feel shithouse. In fact I’ll tell you what, Oz, you’re going to have to drive back to Newcastle. I’m still over the limit.’
Jesse smiled at Mick through her teeth. ‘We’re not going to Newcastle, dear.’
‘We’re not?’
‘No. We’re going back to Burning Mountain.’
‘What?’
Jesse took the GPS transceiver from her bag and placed it on the table along with the diary. ‘You see this? It’s the phone I found last night.’
‘Phone? Ohh yeah. In the car park,’ Mick nodded.
‘Exactly. But it’s not a phone. It’s a Global Positioning Satellite transceiver.’
Mick had to think for a moment. ‘Aren’t they for finding latitude and longitude or something?’
‘Right on, baby,’ beamed Jesse. ‘Now have a look at this.’ Jesse opened the diary and pointed to the two pages of strange numbers. She then showed Mick what she’d written down on the sheet of motel stationery. ‘Can you read that?’ she asked Mick.
Mick stared at the figures through tired eyes. ‘No,’ he replied.
‘All right. Remember when I said to you in the car how Tesla had spread short rows of numbers and letters across different pages and it was driving me mad?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, finding that transceiver kicked me into gear. And I figured everything out while you were asleep.’ Jesse pointed to the diary. ‘It was the latitude and longitude of the death ray machine.’
‘It was?’
‘Yep. Back then Tesla would have used a sextant and compass. But I’ll guarantee these figures I’ve copied down show where it is to the square metre.’ Jesse picked up the transceiver.
‘All we have to do now is follow this, and bingo! We’re there.’
Mick stared blankly at the figures then at the transceiver. ‘Fair dinkum?’
‘Fair dinkum,’ nodded Jesse. ‘Look, I’ll show you how the thing works.’
Jesse pushed the On/Off switch, there was an erratic ring tone, and the dial lit up orange. The word
INITIALISING
came up beneath a large number 30. Then the words
SEARCHING FOR SATELLITE
rolled across the top of the screen.
‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ said Mick.
‘That number is one of the radio bands,’ said Jesse. ‘And we could be down a bit low. But in a minute or two I’ll push the NAV button and it should tell us where we are.’
Mick stared at the transceiver in Jesse’s hand, the figures on the sheet of paper, then at her. ‘You’re a genius,’ he said bluntly.
Jesse fluttered her eyelids. ‘I know, darling. But a modest one.’
Agent Sierota had got up to stretch his legs when the monitor on the intelligence-gathering equipment at Bible Bungalow came to life. He stared at the screen wide-eyed. ‘Jesus H. Christ! The transceiver’s been switched on.’ Zimmer sat
back down, stabbed at the keyboard, then flicked a switch next to the monitor and was immediately patched through to Room 90. ‘Agent Maldon? It’s Agent Sierota.’
‘Yes, sir, Agent Sierota?’
‘Maldon. Lock onto this signal and get back to me. Priority One. Condition Red.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m on it.’
With bursts of adrenalin swirling into his caffeine-soaked system, Agent Sierota stared anxiously at the monitor. After what seemed like hours, Agent Maldon’s voice came back.