in other countries. That’s what they do! Dangerous stuff. And Fox just qualified for it.’
Fox responded with a quiet smile. ‘You’re both right but I have no idea what the future holds. If you have read up on these things Jason, you’ll remember the SAS hostage rescue from Iran’s Embassy in London last year. Five terrorists were killed, all hostages rescued. I understand it was that first shot from the SAS which saved the lives of fifteen people trapped in one room. So yes, it is a possibility. Believe me though, decisions like that are not lightly taken.’
Caroline winced; the nature of the conversation was depressing. She vividly recalled how willing Fox had been to hurt the men who attempted to rape her ten years earlier. Changing the subject, she said, ‘Is there any likelihood you could be posted overseas for exchange purposes? You know, professional development?’
‘As a matter of fact there is. At the debriefing they told us about postings in New Zealand, the UK and USA. I said I hoped to get to the UK. But look, that’s years away. In the meantime, let’s toast successful futures and maybe, even Judy could have a tiny glass of champagne. What do you think Mum and Dad?’
‘Oh Foxy, that’s a great idea,’ bubbled Judy. ‘And while you’re here, could you please make me another grass wristlet? My last one wore out.’
Softly lit by fat mosquito candles, they sat well into the night, a temperate breeze stirring the peppermint gums, the moon, a jigsaw of silvery shards on the nearby Swan River. They laughed, joked and talked about school and politics, policing and movies, army life and good books. Caroline Connors watched them all, her heart swelling – these were the most special people in her life.
CHAPTER 10
Motionless, breathing controlled, Fox stood moulded to an ant hill. In the cold black July night, eyes closed, he focussed upon his stalkers. The three of them approached cautiously. Mentally, Fox acknowledged their stealth but as usual, he felt that someone or something was always looking out for him. These blokes had no chance.
Strung out with three to five metres between them, they were moving in a trailing formation, about thirty metres between first and last. Fox decided to let them pass, kill the last man, move up to the second and then on to the leader. Three kills would be good work. His mate, Scotty Neal, a skinny red-head from Waikowhai near Auckland, lay in wait about 500 metres ahead. If Fox didn’t get them, Neal would.
Softly, the three men passed. Fox moved. Clamping a steely hand over the last man’s mouth he hissed, ‘You’re dead mate. Don’t make a sound.’ He marked the man’s back with a yellow slash then slipped after the other two. The “dead” soldier, an Indonesian, was dumbfounded. He had heard nothing until his jaw was gripped in a painful vice and a voice whispered in the darkness. Later, he reflected that his attacker had melted into the night like smoke – without noise, without substance. ‘Mengancuk,’ he thought, ‘bahwa manusia itu creepy!’
Over the next twenty minutes Fox stalked their pursuers, “killed” them and joined Neal. All were participants in the regular Top End military exercise which, this year, involved 1800 personnel and eighty aircraft from four countries. Operation Tar Pot, occurring over six weeks between July and August, involved the USA, New Zealand, Indonesia and Australia. In this part of the operation, Indonesia and USA were paired against Australia and New Zealand; the former defending Tindal RAAF Base, the latter charged with taking it. Rules of engagement were strictly enforced and any person declared dead was, to all intents and purposes, dead — unable to communicate with colleagues or participate further in the contest.
In their team of two Aussies and two Kiwis, Fox and Neal had hit it off immediately. Ten days earlier with six other teams, they had been dropped 360 kilometres east of Tindal at Port Roper in the Gulf of Carpentaria. Their journey south lay through country weathered by millions of years into hungry yellow, grey and red soils interrupted by tracts of sediment stitched with lacy tributaries padded by mangroves. These formations traversed the fat, green Roper River creating illusions of lushness. Inland, less than a kilometre from the coast, sandy beaches, mudflats and coastal she-oak changed rapidly to open eucalypt forests of woollybutt, ironwood and Darwin stringy-bark. Still further inland, the river country was replaced by undulating ranges, low rocky rises, unexpected gorges, stunted eucalypts and ancient she-oaks. This country, threaded by tussock and hummock grasses, extended all the way to Tindal broken only by occasional billabongs, freshwater mangroves, screw palms and paper barks. It was a landscape familiar to Fox, and one through which the attacking Australians and Kiwis ghosted to penetrate “enemy” lines.
Two days earlier, and fifty kilometres from target, Fox’s team had been cleverly ambushed by six Kopassus fighters from Indonesia. One Kiwi and one Australian had been “killed” along with three Kopassus troops. Since then, Neal and Fox had pressed on, pursued by the Indonesians. Now wanting a clear run at Tindal, the pair had decoyed their opponents into territory where Fox held the advantage.
After dispatching the Indonesians, they held a whispered conversation.
‘We’ve got the rest of tonight plus two clear nights to get back. Got any ideas about a final assault?’ murmured Fox.
‘Too bloody right,’ said Neal through a broad grin, ‘but we’ll need to go like cut cats to get to the Katherine side of the base – about sixty to sixty-five ks. Can do?’
‘Shit yeah,’ retorted Fox, ‘it’s only a marathon and a bit. Lead on McDuff.’
They recovered their packs and weapons from a depression near Fox’s anthill and set off at a steady lope. An hour before winter’s sunrise, they were adjacent to, and roughly five kilometres east of the air base. Untroubled by “enemy invaders,” they had travelled around fifty kilometres. Their plan was to watch traffic to and from the air base from their camp at the start of the Katherine–Tindal straight.
Shortly after eight, Neal handed Fox the binoculars. ‘I think this guy could be our target.’ Fox studied the two people in the car.
‘Yep. If these characters return to Katherine this afternoon, I’d say you’re right. See any other possibilities?’
‘Yeah,’ drawled Neal, ‘one. He’d do at a pinch but wouldn’t be as convincing.’
‘What time did he go through?’
‘Just before eight,’ said Neal, ‘but if we take him, we are going to have to be bloody slick. Let’s get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.’
‘One more question,’ said Fox scouring the road with the binoculars. ‘How many vehicles between our primary and secondary targets?’
‘None. But that’s the risk. We don’t have enough time left to assess patterns …’ He left the sentence unfinished and grinned.
Fox nodded, made himself comfortable and straight away faded into a deep sleep.
Late in the afternoon, Fox gently nudged Neal awake. Both had snatched four and half hours sleep.
‘Tucker time,’ said Fox. ‘It’s about an hour till sunset and we might as well use the light. We can kip again tonight ready for tomorrow.’
‘Agreed,’ said Neal sitting up. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Lots of civilians and a sprinkling of service personnel travelling towards Katherine between 1615 and 1700 hours. From then on, just a few service personnel. Not much in the opposite direction. Our primary target passed at 1725. I
