Golden Serpent am-1 Read online

  Golden Serpent

  ( Alan McQueen - 1 )

  Mark Abernethy

  Golden Serpent

  Mark Abernethy

  PROLOGUE

  Zamboanga City, southern Philippines, June 2002

  John Sawtell sopped gravy with a bread roll and kept one eye on the Cubs-Yankees game. Catering grunts cleared out bain-maries and wet-mopped the service area while the late eaters dragged it out in the demountable cafeteria, avoiding the thirty-six degree heat of early evening. The offi cers’ mess was almost empty except for two white guys in clean woodland-cam fatigues sitting three tables away.

  Sawtell kept his eyes on the pitcher’s wind-up and away from the white guys – secondees dropped in from Langley with bullshit ranks. Sawtell’s US Army rank of captain was real. Yet here he was, spending whole days in meetings with these blue-eyed boys. He’d now heard enough about paradigm shifts and ‘the big picture’ to last him a lifetime.

  Most of Sawtell’s Special Forces Green Berets were working-class men who needed solid leadership, not weasel words. Sawtell heard what his men had to say about some of the intelligence briefi ngs, especially from the guy they called ‘Pencil Neck’. He glanced across the mess and chuckled: everyone on an army base got a name, whether they liked it or not, and Pencil Neck’s was a good fi t.

  Pencil Neck had lectured the men on the cultural sensitivities of the Muslim Filipinos. But Sawtell’s men were fresh from Kandahar, and they didn’t much care about which way to point a Muslim’s ass when you buried him.

  Sawtell wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, took a draw of iced water, kept his eyes on the game.

  The analogue clock above the chow line said it was 8.43 pm local. He threw the napkin on his plate and walked into the blistering evening heat.

  The black carpet of the Sulu Sea sparkled through palm trees as Sawtell came off the concrete parade ground and entered the Command Centre.

  The air-con was like a wall coming out of the windless humidity.

  He ran a hand over his stubbly head, felt the damp of perspiration.

  An MP looked up briefl y, but didn’t react. The real anti-terror work was done on the perimeter, from bullet-proof glass cages, pop-up bollards and a mean-as-hell MP detail trained at Fort Bragg.

  He moved down the narrow hallway, the fl oor fl imsy beneath his size 13s. From this demountable, perched in an old schoolyard above the city of Zamboanga, the United States controlled the South-East Asian end of its War on Terror, codename: Operation Enduring Freedom.

  For six months US military advisers had supported the Philippine Army Scouts and their Navy commandos, the SWAGs. It was a joint operation, so the locals clung to their own name, Balikatan 02-1, but the result was the same: hunt tangos, catch tangos, put tangos out of business.

  Sawtell’s Alpha company had already been involved in two full-blown battles in their fi rst four months in Zamboanga. He’d lost two men. He didn’t feel like an adviser – he felt like a commander in a war zone.

  As Sawtell made his way down the trailer towards his offi ce, a Signals corporal called Davis emerged from a room fi lled with computer screens.

  ‘Something just in, sir,’ said Davis, then turned back into his room. Sawtell followed, stooping his footballer’s frame to look at Davis’s screen.

  Davis pointed to a secure memo from CINCPAC in Hawaii, dated two minutes earlier. The header on the memo was a bar of letters and numerals. They gave Sawtell the order to chase and catch or kill

  ‘Number One’.

  Sawtell read it again. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Number One’ was code for the most dangerous man in South-East Asia, Abu Sabaya, the senior terrorist in the Abu Sayyaf organisation.

  Sabaya – born Aldam Tilao – was responsible for hundreds of kidnappings, bombings, assassinations, executions, massacres and extortion rackets around the southern Philippines and Malaysia.

  One attempt to free eleven foreign hostages from Sabaya’s stronghold on Basilan Island had led to a forty-two-hour gunfi ght between Sawtell’s Alpha company and the rebels. Two weeks earlier, Sawtell’s Berets and Philippine Army Scouts had stormed the terrorists in the jungle boonies behind Sibuco. Sabaya got away, but not before killing most of his hostages.

  Sawtell rubbed his jaw as he stared at the screen. Sabaya looked like a movie star and enjoyed enormous loyalty from the local villagers.

  He was almost impossible to track, and if he’d been pinpointed, they’d got incredibly lucky. Either way, Sawtell’s boys would want a shot at this.

  ‘Get CINCPAC, tell them “confi rm”,’ said Sawtell, turning towards the door.

  Davis turned. ‘Sir, there’s more. We’ve got eyes.’

  Sawtell followed Davis’s fi nger to a larger screen. It was black with bright green lines on it. ‘Sir, we had an AWACS in the air when the memo came through,’ said Davis sheepishly. ‘I took the liberty of asking them to give us a lock.’

  ‘On his boat?’

  ‘Umm, no, sir.’

  Sawtell didn’t like coy. ‘What is this, Twenty Questions?’

  ‘Sir, the AWACS has eyes on a pizza box.’

  Sawtell gave Davis a quick look, then focused back on the screen.

  ‘Show me.’

  Davis pointed his pen at a cigar shape. ‘That’s Sibuco Bay, sir. It’s real time. And that thing moving – that’s Number One’s pizza order.’

  ‘Are they on the water?’

  ‘Roger that. Slower craft, just started moving, perhaps to Number One.’

  Sawtell stared at the screen. If Sabaya was anywhere near that boat, he’d bail pronto if he heard one hint of helo engine. They’d do this by sea.

  ‘Print it,’ said Sawtell, nodding at the memo, ‘then get it to the locals asap.’

  As Sawtell moved away he almost crashed headlong into the CIA white boys rushing in, obviously tipped off through their own channels.

  ‘Be ready in fi ve,’ said Sawtell as he passed them. ‘Only one of you though. And come loaded – this is for real.’

  Pencil Neck tried to take control.

  ‘Captain, where’s the colonel?’

  ‘Don’t know, but give him my regards when you fi nd him.’

  Colonel Dave Henson couldn’t make a decision without making seven phone calls. Which was a shame, since Colonel Henson was technically in charge of Enduring Freedom.

  Sawtell moved through the centre of the white guys and said to the staff sergeant at the desk, ‘Give me a fi ve-minute call on Alpha and Bravo. Green for Go.’

  As he pushed through the demountable’s front door and into the tropical heat Sawtell saw Davis fl y out of a side door and head to the Filipino area of the compound. The locals would get to lead the op – as politics dictated – but the Berets would be there every step of the way.

  Abu Sabaya! thought Sawtell to himself, the adrenaline now racing.

  Abu fucking Sabaya!

  The Philippine Navy SWAGs were waiting at the fenced-off military annexe of Port Zamboanga when the Green Berets’ Humvee convoy arrived. Floodlights lit the huge wharf apron and the hangars. Sawtell issued orders for the sergeants to load the boat, then he made for the fi rst Navy vessel, a forty-foot open-deck powerboat painted in matt olive. It was fi lled with camo-fl ashed Philippine special forces dressed in black fatigues – the SWAGs. Sawtell guessed there were twenty of them. They looked well-armed with their customised Colt M16 A2s and fl ash grenades on their webbings.

  One of them stood abruptly and jumped onto the dock. Lieutenant-Colonel Miguel Arroy, Sawtell’s counterpart. They greeted each other informally, as Special Forces etiquette required.

  Arroy’s eyes fl ashed. He’d lost three men in the bungled raid on Sabaya’s Sibuco camp two weeks
before and his men wanted payback.

  ‘We still live?’ he asked, pointing to Sawtell’s throat mic.

  Sawtell nodded. He’d been taking updates from the AWACS during the ride from Camp Enduring Freedom and the airborne surveillance people still had a lock on the pizza.

  ‘By the book, Mig,’ said Sawtell. ‘Your boys get fi rst chop.’

  Within minutes the two-boat fl otilla was ready to move out. The boats’ confi guration meant the soldiers sat back to back down the centre, with a skipper at the rear.

  The SWAGs glistened in the southern Philippine heat. It didn’t matter how advanced the materials, full battle kit in the tropics was a walking sauna. The Berets wore kevlar helmets and matt-black jumpsuits. Their fl ashings were boot-blacked along with their M4 assault rifl es. Men went through their rituals – rubbing crucifi xes, checking their weapons for load, playing with neckerchiefs worn since Kandahar, play-punching each other. Some closed their eyes, others sang to themselves. Several vomited quietly over the gunwale.

  The only thing that wasn’t happening was movement. As Sawtell and Arroy went through a mission brief, the Americans’ radio system came in with a direct patch through to Colonel Henson, who was in Jakarta.

  Sawtell took the call, unable to believe what he was hearing.

  Henson wanted the mission put on hold till some intelligence guy could be fl own into Zamboanga.

  ‘I hate to do this to you, John,’ came the high nasal sound of Henson’s voice, ‘but my hands are tied on this one – you know how it is.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Sawtell, doing his best to conceal his frustration in front of his men, ‘we’ve already got intel on board…’

  ‘I know, John.’

  A drop of sweat trickled down Sawtell’s upper lip, onto his teeth.

  ‘We’ve got eyes and we’re good to go, sir.’

  ‘Jesus, Johnny,’ said Henson, using the name only Sawtell’s football buddies dared call him. ‘You think I didn’t tell them that?’

  Sawtell knew Henson hadn’t told the brass anything like that.

  ‘Thing is, CINCPAC wants this intelligence guy in the boat, so he’s in the boat. Got that, Captain?’

  Sawtell stamped his leg, and sweat dripped into his right boot. He looked over to see Arroy staring at him.

  ‘I got him timed for ten minutes,’ said Henson. ‘And Johnny – he’s one of the good guys, okay? He’s Australian.’

  The Australian arrived early – but he might as well have been seven hours late by the time the Black Hawk had blasted in over the harbour, dropped its human cargo on the two-hundred-year-old quay and taken off into the night.

  Sandy-blond and pale-eyed, the Australian was about six foot and built but not worked on. He was all arms and legs but a smooth mover. He wore dark blue overalls, special forces boots and a black Adidas baseball cap pulled low. A black Cordura sports bag was slung over his shoulder.

  The Aussie didn’t offer a name or his hand when Sawtell and Arroy greeted him. Sawtell pointed to the back of his boat and the Australian simply moved to his seat next to Pencil Neck.

  The outboard engines fi red up and Sawtell watched the CIA honky offer a handshake. The Australian ignored it.

  The troop boats cast off, the revs came up from the triple Yamahas. Sawtell landed in the back of the boat with a thump and they moved into Zamboanga Harbour. Sawtell saw an airborne plug of tobacco come dangerously close to their visitor and he gave his men a look. He fi shed a kevlar helmet from the kit box under the transom and offered it to the Australian, who shook his head dismissively.

  ‘Chief, stop the boat,’ said Sawtell.

  The sergeant at the helm looked back in disbelief, and then cut the revs. The boat lost way, fumes washed across the humidity. All eyes turned to the back of the boat. Sawtell looked into the Australian’s pale blue eyes, then threw the helmet into the spook’s lap. The Australian put the helmet on.

  Sawtell gave the ‘go’ sign.

  The revs came up and the boat lurched into the darkness.

  At nine pm the two troop boats exited Zamboanga at fi fty-one knots and turned hard right – north towards Sibuco and the most dangerous man in South-East Asia.

  CHAPTER 1

  Western Queensland, November 2006

  There were seven of them. Six Australian SAS and one Aussie spook on a line of Honda trail bikes slipping through the outback night.

  The lime-green GPS instrument on Mac’s bike read 2.49 am, putting the posse ten clicks from the target.

  A voice crackled through the headset in Mac’s military helmet. ‘Keep with your mark, Mac.’ The voice belonged to Warrant Offi cer Ward, the troop leader who was right behind him. ‘You’re doing fi ne, mate.’

  Alan McQueen was doing far from fi ne. Other special forces had hangars fi lled with military toys that whisked people like Mac all over the world. In, out and back in time for a cold beer. The Aussie SAS used motorbikes, which did the job but were hard on the arse and thighs.

  Mac still wasn’t used to riding with lights killed and no night vision.

  And even with a full moon and clear night, the terrain of western Queensland was not suited to amateur riders.

  Mac stayed in third, focused on the guy in front through the spray of dust. He eyed the digital compass beside the GPS and spoke through his throat mic. ‘Wardie, time to go west.’

  The SAS man acknowledged, and the posse swung out of the channel.

  Thirty minutes later a sand dune loomed two hundred feet above them. They idled to the foot of the black giant.

  Mac came to a halt, fl ipped the stand and almost fell off the bike.

  Ward walked up. ‘Well, we got you here, mate. Your mission now,’ he said, dispatching a trooper called Foxy up the dune.

  Mac squinted at Ward through pale eyes. He never knew when some of these blokes were taking the piss. At six foot, Mac was the bigger man but he wouldn’t want to get in a blue with the soldier.

  Ward had the classic special forces build: heavily muscled and athletic.

  Mac had seen what the SAS boys could do when they got annoyed and he was glad to be playing on the same team.

  Stretching his fi ngers under black leather gloves, Mac dusted off his blue overalls and replaced his helmet with an old black cap. The tops of his thighs felt like he’d gone three rounds of kickboxing.

  He unzipped his black backpack and checked the contents with eyes and fi ngers. No one used a fl ashlight. In the pack was a silenced Heckler amp; Koch P9S handgun, an M16 A2 assault rifl e and two devices the size of casino poker chips – ‘tags’ that guided an air-mounted missile. Nothing fancy, but it all worked.

  The SAS troopers were dressed in black urban fatigues, with variations of scarfi ng. It was ten degrees Celsius in the desert and a couple of the soldiers wore fi eld jackets. They cammed their faces, checked weapons.

  Ward brought the boys in close and Mac knelt in front of them.

  Their headsets crackled: Foxy giving the all-clear from the top of the dune.

  The bike engines pinged as they cooled, troopers pulling in closer as Mac outlined the turkey shoot.

  Mac lay on the cold sand at the top of the dune. He thought about how his original idea of intelligence work – debonair chat at cocktail parties – had been stymied by someone’s decision that he’d be useful in a paramilitary role. That was history, and so was his intel career.

  He’d done his bit, taken his shot. This would be his last assignment before getting out for good. Tomorrow was the next step; tomorrow meant Sydney and a step closer to having a fi ancee rather than just a girlfriend.

  He looked out over the endless outback. Thirty miles further west and it turned into the Simpson Desert. Here, below them, there were still channels and clumps of spinifex punctuating the ground.

  Ward lay beside him, binos to his eyes. They did a traditional sweep.

  ‘What are we looking for, Macca?’ asked Ward.

  ‘Stand-by for a cammo tarp, some sort o
f covering.’

  ‘You kidding?’ muttered Ward. ‘Not exactly using spotties here, mate.’

  ‘Plan B – fi nd the perimeter,’ said Mac. ‘They’d have at least two blokes on the wall.’

  The group scanned the desert darkness for the next ten minutes.

  It was boring, mentally draining work.

  Then one of the troopers saw something.

  Ward moved down, followed by Mac. They lay on either side of the SAS trooper, who kept his head still and talked softly. ‘My eleven o’clock. Two fi ngers below the horizon. I saw a puff of smoke. Could be a ciggie.’

  Mac peered through his Leicas. Found the sentry. ‘Out-fucking-standing,’ he muttered.

  The sentry was well-hidden in a hollow one hundred and fi fty metres from the dune, sitting against a rock in a dark pea jacket and khaki pants. On his lap was what looked like a Heckler amp; Koch MP5 machine pistol, the kind used by counter-terrorism forces. One hell of a thing. Mac had once seen a demo of what an MP5 on full auto could do to a cow carcass. He didn’t eat a hamburger for three whole days.

  The guard dragged on a cigarette and let out another plume of smoke. A light breeze carried it south.

  ‘Got him?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Roger that,’ said Ward. ‘See that round his neck?’

  Mac looked again. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Night vision,’ said Ward. ‘They’ve got some toys.’

  The camp was fi fty metres behind the sentry, built in a channel with tarps running for about eighty metres north-south, and cammo webbing over the tarps. No way to see it from the air, unless someone was looking for it. It was a terrorist training camp, the kind of structure usually found in Libya or Afghanistan.

  It appeared that food and power were at one end of the camp, sleeping at the other, operations and stores in the centre. There were a couple of rough timber latrines to the east of the camp, not far from where the sentry was sitting.

  Mac reckoned the camp would hold up to thirty men, and if his snitch in Jakarta wasn’t telling him pork pies, one of them was Ali Samrazi – an Indonesian double agent who had dropped from the radar eigtheen months ago and had reappeared with a mob called Moro Jihad. Moro Jihad was a middle-class outfi t that focused its activities on economic and maritime terror. If you could drive up the price of shipping through the Malacca Straits and South China Sea by even fi ve per cent, you were eating into the Western world’s profi t margins. The modern tangos could read spreadsheets as well as al-Qaeda propaganda.