‘Sir. I can’t give you the room number. But the signal is coming from the Tudor Motel in Kelly Street, Scone, New South Wales, Australia.’
‘Outstanding, Agent Maldon,’ said Zimmer. ‘Now I might need a helicopter piloted by American military personnel. Can you prioritise that in Australia?’
‘Sir. I’ll have to get back to you on that.’
‘Okay Agent Maldon. Do your absolute best.’
Agent Sierota clicked some keys on the monitor, flicked another two switches on the console, then picked up the remote.
Sitting in the Tudor Motel, Mick was staring at the transceiver in Jesse’s hand, amazed at what the love of his life had discovered.
‘And that’ll take us straight to Tesla’s death ray machine?’
‘Yep,’ answered Jesse. ‘A nice walk in the bush. We’ll be there before you know it. In fact, the walk will do you the world…’
Suddenly the transceiver came to life in Jesse’s hand. It squawked and scratched before a nasally voice whined out of the speaker.
‘’Ullo. Yer there?’
Without thinking, Jesse pushed the talk button on the side. ‘Hello?’ she replied.
‘Yeah. G’day,’ drawled the voice. ‘Izzadyewjezze?’
‘Who’s this?’ asked Jesse.
‘Utsbrooz.’
‘Bruce?’
‘Yeah. Brooz Menzies,’ replied the voice. ‘I’zepushinmerigupda Damworth. Zo I thawd I’d giveyeragall. I ain’tseenyerinaygiz.’
‘A call?’ said Jesse.
‘Yair. Adalk. Avamag. Yer know,’ drawled the voice.
‘Who exactly are you after?’
‘Jezze. Jezze ‘astings.’
‘Jesse Hastings? I’m Jesse Osbourne.’
‘Fair dinkum? Ohh shit, luv. My flamin blue. I got the wrong bloody bonzer little sheila.’
Jesse shook her head and gave Mick a blank look over the transciever. ‘That’s all right,’ she said.
‘Zo yernod there with yer ‘uzbandarry,’ whined the voice.
‘Husband Harry? No. I’m here with my boyfriend Mick,’ replied Jesse.
‘Ohh strewth mate. I’m barkin’ up the wrong flamin’ tree. Zorryabowthadgobber. I’ll zeeyerlayder.’
‘Don’t be in a hurry,’ said Jesse, placing the transceiver on the table.
‘Who was that?’ asked Mick.
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Jesse. ‘Some goose. But you get that with GPS transceivers. As well as finding your location, you pick up fishermen, fire fighters. Morons like him.’
‘I hope it wasn’t those people from last night,’ said Mick.
Jesse shook her head. ‘No. He was just some yobbo truck driver with only one side of his brain working.’
‘Fair enough.’ Mick stared wearily at Jesse for a moment. ‘So when do you want to leave for Burning Mountain?’ he asked her.
‘When you’re ready,’ she answered. ‘Have another cup of coffee and a toasted sandwich and get your shit together.’ Jesse looked at her watch. ‘But I don’t want to leave it too late.’ ‘Fair enough,’ replied Mick.
Back at Bible Bungalow, Zimmer Sierota could not believe his luck. Now, a quick phone call, and that should be the icing on the cake. He dialled Telstra Assistance and got the Tudor Motel’s phone number. The girl at Telstra had barely hung up when Zimmer dialled again.
‘Hello. Tudor Motel. How can I help you?’ came a woman’s voice.
‘Yes. Could I speak to Mr Vincent, please? I believe he’s in Room Ten.’
‘Mr Vincent’s in Room Five. I’ll put you through.’
‘No. That’s all right. On second thoughts, I think I’ve got the wrong motel. I might ring back. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Agent Sierota replaced the remote then jumped up and punched the air. ‘Gotcha. You mouth-breathing Aussie sonofabitch,’ he yelled. ‘You and your beaut, bonzer little sheila. Right to your beaut, bonzer goddamn motel room.’
Agent Sierota rubbed his hands together. Now, he schemed, if I can get my helicopter and Vincent and his girl go looking for Project Piggie, I can nail them out in the open. But no matter what, they’re toast.
Zimmer went to a metal cabinet and took out a BMMAT—a Briefcase Multi-Mission Advanced Technical Terminal Scanner. With an LCD map and an AST Model 1235 Multi-Channel Digital Receiving System, Agent Sierota switched the scanner on and tuned it to the search beacon transmitting from Room 90. In seconds, Scone came up on the LCD map and an orange arrow pointed to the address in Kelly Street. Agent Sierota beamed. Oh yeah, he chuckled to himself, this has got to be my lucky day.
Three floors down at Fort Meade, Agent Maldon had scanned all the possibilities in Australia closest to Newcastle for a US military helicopter with an American pilot. By chance, the United States minesweeper USS
Tocqueville
was berthed in Sydney at Garden Island. Agent Maldon had the ship’s crew and status up on his monitor. As well as its usual ordinance, secured on the
Tocqueville
’s after-deck was a modified US Army OH–58D Kiowa Warrior reconnaissance and
intelligence-gathering helicopter. The 50-calibre heavy machine gun had been removed, along with the air-to-air Stinger missile system and the Hellfire modular missile system, plus the 70-millimetre folding fin aerial rocket. But as well as the latest Litton LR–80 inertial navigation equipment altitude and heading reference system, it was equipped with an upgraded mast-mounted sight thermal imaging sensor that automatically locked onto heat profiles and flew the helicopter straight there. The Kiowa OH–58D normally had a two-man crew. But only one man was piloting it at present: Lieutenant Commander Roy Sisti, a dark-eyed, medium-build New Yorker with knitted eyebrows and a hooked nose that gave his lean face a hawk-like appearance. Agent Maldon patched through to shaven-headed Captain Arnall Ultzhoffer on the USS
Tocqueville
and told him the NSA needed Commander Sisti for an urgent mission flying out of Newcastle, under the command of a senior agent, Zimmer Sierota. Commander Sisti was on leave. But Captain Ultzhoffer would have him back on board for a hook-up ASAP. That would be fine, assured Agent Maldon, and signed off.
At that moment, Commander Sisti was having a ripper of a time in a Rushcutters Bay motel with
a twenty-year-old Korean hooker who was dressed in a SCEGGS school uniform. He’d temporarily stopped for a beer, when his pager beeped telling him to contact the ship. Roy had another two-hundred-and-fifty-dollars worth of fun and games with the hooker, then took a shower and rang the ship. After changing back into his jeans, New York Jets T-shirt, cap and blue cotton bomber jacket, he farewelled the girl and reluctantly caught a taxi back to Garden Island.
Before he transferred to the
Tocqueville
, Commander Sisti was a member of the super-secret United States Tactical Concept Detachment, The Activity. For three years he’d been stationed in Colombia chasing narco-terrorists and drug cartels. He’d had two helicopters shot down by members of FARC, the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia. He’d been shot in the leg by the Medellin and had a car machine-gunned outside the US Embassy in the Avenue El Dorado, Bogota, by two
sicarios
, Medellin hitmen. Nevertheless, Commander Sisti considered this all part of the job. Roy’s turning point came two years previous when he was flying two surly members of the Bloque de Busqueda, the Colombian para-military police, back from Villavicencio with two Catholic nuns
and the police threw the two nuns out of the helicopter in case they could identify them. Roy shot the two Colombian police with his service .45, reported it as groundfire, then applied for a transfer to the USS
Tocqueville
patrolling the Straits of Malacca between Malaysia and Sumatra. A brave and loyal officer, Commander Sisti got his transfer and the
Tocqueville
was where he would stay until his hitch finished five years down the line.
It was only a short journey back to Garden Island. Commander Sisti strolled up the ship’s gangplank, saluted the flag at the stern, then ambled down to Captain Ultzhoffer’s cabin. When Roy got the okay to enter, the captain was seated at his desk drinking a Pepsi and reading
Time
magazine. He smiled up at Roy, returned a cursory salute and told Commander Sisti to take a seat opposite.
‘How was your leave, Roy?’ asked Captain Ultzhoffer.
‘Arnall,’ replied Commander Sisti. ‘You’re a devout church-goer with five children. Believe me, you don’t want to know how I spend my liberty.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Captain Ultzhoffer. ‘I don’t want to know how you spend your liberty.’
‘So what’s going on, Arnall?’
‘Hang on, and I’ll get you filled in.’ Captain Ultzhoffer clicked a switch on his intercom. ‘Ensign. Patch me through to Agent Sierota in Newcastle.’
‘Yessir.’
Captain Ultzhoffer smiled at Commander Sisti. ‘The NSA need you for a covert mission.’
‘In Australia?’ said Commander Sisti.
‘Yep.’
‘They got to be shittin’ me.’
‘Putting you through now, sir.’
‘Thank you, ensign.’
‘Hello. Agent Zimmer Sierota here.’
Agent Sierota. I’m Captain Ultzhoffer. I have with me Lieutenant Commander Roy Sisti. I believe you need a chopper?’
‘That’s an affirmative, Captain.’
Agent Maldon had given Agent Sierota a routine briefing about Commander Sisti. After the introductions, Zimmer got straight down to business. It was a brief but clandestine mission. Commander Sisti was to wear civilian clothes, they would fly to a small country town called Scone, where Zimmer would take out two security risks. To avoid suspicion, there was a joy-riders’ heliport at Nelson Bay, not far from Newcastle.
Commander Sisti was to collect him there, and return him there after the mission. Commander Sisti said the chopper needed refuelling and there were other protocols to be adhered to, but it was all can do and he’d be there at the requested time. Agent Sierota said he’d meet Commander Sisti at the rendezvous point and hung up.
Captain Ultzhoffer gestured. ‘Sounds like a walk in the park if you ask me, Roy.’
‘Yeah,’ shrugged Commander Sisti. ‘I don’t even have to get changed.’
Jesse knew Mick was improving. Sitting on the edge of the bed, it only took him two attempts to get his socks on and lace up his Colorados. Jesse put the leftover toasted sandwiches in a plastic bag and placed them in her backpack, along with her camera, the diary and anything else she thought she’d need on the day. Mick put the Allen keys in his backpack, one or two other things and the rest of the Panadeine. Satisfied they had everything, they walked out to the car. Mick got in the passenger side and waited while Jesse went to the office and told the manager they’d be staying another night. That was no problem. She then drove out of the motel, stopping at Subway to get two six-inch ham and two six-inch roast
chicken on parmesan and oregano, plus two large bottles of water.
Jesse was cruising along just outside of Scone with the GPS transceiver next to her and Mick still wasn’t saying much. ‘I’m A Believer’ by Smash Mouth was playing on the radio when the transceiver started to ping.
‘Hello. Who’s this?’ said Mick. ‘It better not be Bruce the goose again.’
A little further on, Jesse pointed to a metal pole at the side of the road. ‘Look. It warns you if there’s any speed cameras.’
‘Unreal,’ said Mick. ‘I’ll use it in the Buick.’
‘In the Buick?’ said Jesse. ‘Mick, you’ve never driven the Buick over sixty kilometres an hour since I’ve known you.’
They motored on, the sign indicating the turn-off to Burning Mountain appeared, and Jesse took it. A little further on she pulled up in the parking area, not far from a solitary white campervan.
‘Well, here we are,’ said Jesse, switching off the engine. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Still not the hairy chest,’ replied Mick.
‘Before we get out of the car, I’ll show you something.’ Jesse held the transceiver’s screen up to Mick. ‘Can you read that?’ she asked him.
‘Not really,’ grunted Mick.
‘It says, S 31. 51. 383. E 150. 54. 017. That’s our latitude and longitude. And our altitude is 776 metres. Grouse or what, homeboy?’
‘Terrific,’ said Mick.
Jesse put the transceiver down and started tapping out a rap beat on the dashboard.
‘
Oh yeah, my boyfriend’s got attitude
.
Cause he can’t handle my longitude and latitude
.
But that don’t worry Jesse, cause she’s really keen To go and find Nikola Tesla’s death ray machine. Yeah, yeah. Uh, huh, huh, huh.
’
Mick shielded his eyes. ‘Oz. Please. My brain’s hurting enough as it is.’
‘Come on, you big blouse,’ said Jesse. ‘Let’s get going.’ She wiggled her eyebrows at Mick. ‘And if you behave yourself, I might let you have your filthy way with me when we find the doomsday machine, to celebrate the occasion.’
Mick looked at Jesse aghast. ‘My God, woman,’ he said. ‘After all the sex we had last night? You’re insatiable.’
‘I know,’ said Jesse. ‘But it’s your fault, Mick. You’ve turned me into a mad raving case.’
‘Ohh yeah. Blame me,’ said Mick.
After making sure they had everything, Mick and Jesse got out of the Commodore and Jesse
locked the doors. They slung their backpacks on, adjusted their caps and sunglasses and set off.
Mick started doing it tough on the other side of the small metal bridge. By the time they reached the tree line he was sweating 40% proof and when they saw their first kangaroo, Mick wished it would put him in its pouch and hop back to the motel with him.
Halfway up the mountain, they encountered a florid-faced man and his wife and young son coming down. Their snow-white skins were smothered in blockout and they were all wearing big straw hats and thick leather sandals. Jesse smiled them a big hello and the man and his wife grunted something back in Scandinavian. Mick grunted something unintelligible back in Strine as they passed him on the trail.
‘Well, at least that’s the weekend crowd out of the road,’ said Jesse as they continued climbing.
‘Yeah. Bloody tourists,’ sweated Mick. ‘There must be millions of them.’
After a couple of pit stops so Mick could gulp down some water, they finally made it to the top. Jesse led the way straight to the rest area and they stopped to take in the fabulous view.
‘Well. Here we are,’ she smiled.