No Man's Land - A Russell Carter Thriller (15 page)

2

Carter sat strapped into the front passenger seat of a red and black Bell 407 helicopter next to the pilot, cruising across the Indian Ocean at a hundred and forty miles an hour toward Lengkuas Atoll, nearly five hundred miles from Bali. After refueling at an island en route, they expected to arrive in forty minutes.

He checked his watch and ran through the time line in his head. It was now 2.40 p.m., twenty-two hours since Jacko’s death and just under two and a half days from when he was attacked in the surf at Lennox. If everything went according to plan, which he knew was unlikely, they’d rescue Thomas and Wayan that night from Batak Island and be back in Bali tomorrow, 28 December. They’d then set about determining the best way to deal with Samudra’s planned terrorist attack on Sydney.

Erina was in the passenger seat behind, working on her computer. They’d met the pilot, Charles Peacock, at Denpasar Airport shortly before dawn. He’d been half an hour late, his breath smelled of whisky and their scheduled 6.30 a.m. departure was delayed until nearly 8.30. Peacock claimed the short notice he was given had resulted in a tangle of unavoidable problems that had caused the hold-up.

Erina had suggested to Carter that they knock Peacock out and fly the helicopter themselves, but he’d managed to convince her that they might need him and it was best to wait and see how the operation panned out.

They were both struggling to keep it together after Jacko’s murder. There was no time for grief, no time to stop and try to make sense of his death. The violent attack had made their concern for Thomas and Wayan even more intense and the tragedy had brought them closer together. They’d slept in the same bed that night, just holding each other, silent. Though they’d barely even spoken, what they’d shared was more tender and intimate than if they’d made love.

Before going to sleep, Carter had made a promise to himself. Not only would he rescue Thomas and Wayan, but he’d take down Alex, Samudra and his mujaheddin or die trying. He hadn’t chosen to start this fight, but after Jacko’s murder he intended to finish it.

They’d woken at 5 a.m. and listened to the early-morning news on Asian CNN. It reported that the blast had killed an unnamed Australian, two Balinese cafe workers, three Swedish and two German backpackers and a man believed to have been the suicide bomber. Six others had been seriously injured and no one had yet claimed responsibility. Good luck or fate rather than good management had allowed Carter and Erina to escape unharmed.

He looked over his shoulder at her now, headphones in place. She was poring over the information from Jacko’s memory stick. Throwing herself into a task was her way of dealing with uncomfortable emotion. She lifted her head and they exchanged the weakest of smiles. Carter turned to the front and sneaked a quick glance at Peacock. The long, lanky Englishman sat in the driver’s seat staring stony-faced toward the cloudy grey horizon.

The muffled roar of the engine hummed through Carter’s headphones, somehow comforting him. If all went according to plan, he and Erina would take the jet ski stowed in the rear cargo section to Batak Island and be there in just over an hour. Peacock would remain on the atoll with the helicopter until they returned with Thomas and Wayan.

Carter ran his fingers over the waterproof daypack that lay nestled between his feet, then slipped his hand into the thigh pocket of his pants. He felt the smooth steel of three drug-tipped darts and their hard plastic covers.

Using them on Peacock would be a last resort. But, like Erina, something about the man bothered him. They would need to be sure both pilot and helicopter remained on Lengkuas Atoll until they returned from Batak Island or called him in to pick them up.

—

Twenty minutes later, what looked like the haze of an island appeared on the horizon in front of them. Carter lifted the high-powered binoculars hanging round his neck.

A crescent-shaped beach came into focus, a curve of white sand about four hundred yards long. The water was blue and clear. Half-a-dozen children played at the western end in between two run-down fishing boats pulled up onto the sand.

He switched on the headset. “I presume that’s Lengkuas Atoll ahead?”

“That’s where I was paid to take you.”

Carter refocused on the island in front of him. A couple of malibu surfboards lay in the shade of a palm tree. He made a mental note and scanned further down the beach.

A group of a dozen or so Indonesians were gathered at the eastern end. He zoomed in closer.

They were fanning out in military formation, carrying what looked like automatic weapons slung over their shoulders.

He swore under his breath.

Two things were clear. The villagers were expecting them and this was definitely not the atoll he’d seen last night on Jacko’s memory stick.

He refocused the binoculars and a shot of adrenalin pulsed through his veins.

Two villagers were mounting a surface-to-air rocket-launcher onto a wooden platform.

3

Carter turned to look at the pilot. Peacock was staring into the distance, apparently oblivious to the looming danger.

There was no way the guy was a born-again fundamentalist willing to sacrifice his life for Allah. From what Carter could tell, his only religion was alcohol, maybe drugs and probably the dollar. He might well have sold them out, but he didn’t appear to be expecting any welcoming committee that might threaten his personal safety.

Carter spoke into the headset. “Peacock, you need to cut the speed.”

He wanted to slow down rather than change course, so as not to alert the reception committee that they were onto them.

Peacock turned toward him. “What are you talking about?”

Carter put a hard edge into his voice. “Don’t fuck with me. I’m not asking. Slow down now.”

Peacock spoke without looking at him. “Back off, you Aussie dickhead. I’m flying this—”

Carter placed his hand on Peacock’s shoulder and jammed his thumb into the pressure point at the top of the neck.

Peacock winced, let go of the control stick and yelled out, “For Christ’s sake.”

The helicopter slowed dramatically and wobbled. The nose dipped.

Carter braced himself with his feet, maintaining his grip on Peacock’s shoulder. He knew exactly what was about to happen.

The helicopter lurched downward, freefalling fifty feet before levelling off.

Erina’s voice cut through the headset. “What the fuck?”

The helicopter tilted hard to starboard, the nose pointing down at an acute and dangerous angle.

They’d start to dive at any moment.

He released the pressure on Peacock’s shoulder.

Peacock snatched the controls. “You crazy bastard! You trying to kill us?”

“Just getting your attention. You lied to us.”

The helicopter levelled out and hovered above the ocean without moving forward.

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“If this is Lengkuas Atoll,” Carter said, “Erina is the Virgin Mary and the reception committee assembling on the beach are the three wise men.”

“You’re just being paranoid,” Peacock said, obviously trying to maintain the charade. “It’ll just be a couple of villagers out and about, wondering who we are.”

“Bullshit,” Carter said.

He thrust the binoculars in front of Peacock’s face. “Focus on the beach. West of the village. At eleven o’clock.”

Peacock grabbed them in his left hand and did as he was told.

Carter watched carefully to gauge his reaction and make sure the rocket-launcher came as a complete surprise.

Peacock swung the binoculars along the coastline.

Then he stopped and leaned forward.

“Sweet mother of God.”

The bravado had evaporated. He appeared to be genuinely shocked by what he saw.

“What the fuck is going on?” Erina asked.

Carter took the binoculars from Peacock, passed them to her and pointed to the beach.

She took hold of them and focused. “Holy shit. Is that Batak Island?”

“You better ask Peacock,” Carter said.

Peacock said nothing.

Carter heard Erina unbuckle her seatbelt. She leaned over Peacock and held a knife to his throat. “Well?” she said.

“Yes,” Peacock said. “That’s Batak. But don’t do anything rash. You need me.”

Carter looked through the binoculars again.

“Shit.”

The villagers were aiming the rocket-launcher directly at them and looked like they were getting ready to fire.

4

Batak Island loomed a little over a mile away.

Peacock sat rigid at the controls. Erina continued to lean over his shoulder, still holding the blade an inch from his neck.

“Watch the knife,” Peacock said.

“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat,” Erina said.

“You need me.”

“Keep talking.”

“That missile has a range of over two miles,” Peacock said, shooting the words out. “If they open fire, we can’t outrun it. I’m your best hope.”

“You got us into this shit storm.”

“And I can get you out.”

“Convince me.”

“I’m ex–Royal Air Force. I’ve trained for this. I was one of the best. But to do this, I’m going to need a drink.”

“What do you think, Carter?” Erina asked.

Carter could fly a helicopter but was far from an expert and hadn’t done so for five years. Plus, he’d never flown a chopper like this and he knew the Bell 407 was a sensitive beast.

It required deft handling, with three sets of controls. The collective control stick, positioned to the pilot’s left, changed the pitch of the rotors and forced the nose to rise or fall. The cyclical control stick, situated just in front of the pilot, between his legs, adjusted the angle of the rotor blades, turning the bird to the left or right. Finally, there were the pedals on the floor, which controlled the tail rotor, counteracting the torque of the main rotors and stabilizing the flight. They also helped turn the helicopter to the right or left.

The idea was to work all three controls together to create a smooth flight. Normally a skilled pilot used subtle pressure rather than any sudden or dramatic movement. In a situation like this the pilot needed to know his machine as if it was an extension of himself.

Peacock was their best option.

“Give the man a drink,” Carter said.

Peacock’s whole body relaxed. “There’s a bottle in the rear port-side locker.”

Carter studied him. Blotchy, pale and gaunt, the guy was a burned-out shell of a man. But he suspected a skilled pilot lay underneath the wreckage.

Erina placed an opened bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label into Peacock’s left hand. He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a long pull. He then took a deep, satisfied breath and positioned the bottle between his thighs.

There was an immediate shift in his demeanor. The color returned to his face and the set of his jaw hardened.

Carter raised the binoculars. A ball of fire was flying through the air, heading straight toward them.

Peacock had seen it too. He turned the throttle up full and adjusted the controls decisively and aggressively. The generous shot of alcohol had transformed him. Carter knew the hit was temporary. But it only needed to last long enough to get them to the island.

The helicopter’s engine roared. The vibrating body started to shake and shudder like it was about to break apart. For a long half-second the bird’s position remained unchanged.

Then the adjustments kicked in. The quivering helicopter swayed sharply to the left and the nose plunged toward the ocean.

Carter gripped the side of the smooth leather seat and concentrated on the slow inhalation and exhalation of his breath, aiming to become totally alert and yet detached, as if watching a movie.

Thomas said a man afraid to die was of no use to anyone. Panic guaranteed defeat, and in this case certain death. But if a man remained calm, regardless of circumstances, there was a chance of victory.

Carter entered an emotionally neutral zone – a place between life and death, where time slowed and everything around him became clear and still.

Peacock adjusted the controls and the helicopter hurtled to the right.

Carter thought the radical move might have averted a hit. But then Erina’s urgent voice came over the headset.

“Hard right, Peacock. It’s coming straight for the tail.”

Carter looked out the back window and saw the ball of flame heading straight for them. “Must be programmed to track heat.”

“Yeah,” Erina said, “us.”

Peacock adjusted the controls, but the warning had come too late. The missile slammed into their tail with a sickening shudder and the helicopter’s rear end swung wildly to the left.

It kept going, spinning three hundred and sixty degrees.

Once around.

Then another full circle.

Again and again.

The sky flashed by the window.

Peacock worked the controls frantically.

In less than three seconds, but what felt to Carter like a timeless eternity, the helicopter came out of the spin.

It pitched forward and swayed from side to side as if drunk.

“Rotor’s down,” Erina said, her tone urgent but calm.

Carter looked over his shoulder out the window. The back rotor had been knocked out and a trail of black smoke ballooned behind them. But though the engine whined and screamed, they were still in the air.

The helicopter only had to hold together for another minute for them to reach the island.

Then everything changed again.

The engine shut down and the helicopter stopped swaying. Carter glanced at Peacock.

He took another slug of whisky. The combination of the alcohol and this latest threat galvanized him into action. He switched the controls back and forth at a great rate in a desperate effort to restart the stalled engine.

Peacock was making all the right moves, but so far without success. They seemed suspended in time and space, hanging in midair.

Then, like someone had pressed play in a video game, the nose pointed down and the helicopter started to plummet at an alarming rate.

The ocean rushed toward them.

Carter knew if they hit the water at this speed, the impact would kill them. Peacock had just 1.2 seconds to make the appropriate response.

He adjusted the collective control stick to his left. This flattened the blades, allowing them to be driven by the wind, and slowed their rate of descent to around two thousand feet per second. A step in the right direction.

Simultaneously, he maneuvered the cyclical stick in front of him, positioning the rotors so they sustained forward momentum, and the helicopter headed in the general direction of the island.

Through the headset, Erina said, “It seems you can drink and fly.”

A hint of a smile formed on Peacock’s face.

If they continued at this speed and trajectory, they’d hit the water at a workable speed and have a good chance of surviving the crash – but Carter knew better than to make any assumptions.

The back of the helicopter began fishtailing back and forth. The nose jerked up and down in a bucking motion. Telltale signs of a giant bird in the throes of death.

Carter glanced over at Peacock again. The pilot’s concentration and breathing were steady. Good signs.

The nose dipped to the near vertical.

They began freefalling again toward the on-rushing ocean.

Peacock needed to come up with the perfect counter move.

Carter said nothing, wanting to give him the space to allow whatever skill and ingenuity he possessed to come through.

The pilot worked all three controls at once, making all the right adjustments in his effort to wrest back his dominance of the plunging beast and flatten out the near-vertical dive.

Carter glanced at Erina. She gave him one of her short nods.

He nodded back at her and braced his feet against the front of the helicopter to protect himself from the crushing force of impact.

For once in his life the prospect of entering the ocean did nothing for him.