Startled, the steer instantly pivots and gallops back from where it came. Corey grins. ‘Nothing gets past Barry Manilow.’ He works the controls and the Loach climbs, follows the steer as it navigates the rock formation then slots through a break in the fence and trots back to a large herd of cattle. Corey kills the song and unhappily studies the broken fence. ‘Gonna have to fix that today.’
He swings the Loach around and notices a glint on the horizon. The dawn sun blinks off something distant, deep in the arid, uninhabited no-man’s-land of the Northern Territory.
Spike barks.
‘I’m not blind, mate, I can see it.’ Corey sets the Loach in a hover, slides his Randolphs to the top of his head, pulls a tarnished telescope from the leather pouch attached to the side of his seat which also houses his field knife, then pushes the telescope to his eye and focuses. The glint is closer but no clearer.
‘Whatever it is, it’s miles out. Should we go have a look-see?’
Spike growls.
The dog’s right. Corey knows they don’t have time for it, there’s too much to do today. Incredibly, after the mortifying scene at Les Whittle’s the other day, Les felt bad and hired him for a job. It was a one-off that wasn’t booked through the usual tourist operators so Les could offer it without concern.
Corey decides to forget about the glint on the horizon. He replaces the telescope in the pouch, slides his sunnies back on, works the controls and guides the Loach towards a collection of large hay bales. There’s a dozen and they need to be distributed across Clem Alpine’s sprawling cattle station. The drought has bitten hard over the last six months and the hay kept the cattle fed. Some of the rocky terrain was impassable for wheeled vehicles so Corey moved the feed with the Loach.
He glances at the horizon again. The glint is still there.
A bark.
Corey drags his eyes from the glint. ‘Yep, I’m on it.’
A five-centimetre-wide hole has been cut into the floor between the Loach’s two front seats. Above the hole is mounted a large electric winch with a fat, sky-blue Dynamica rope wrapped around it. At the end of the rope is a carabiner attached to a big hook. Corey flicks a switch on the winch and the hook drops towards a hay bale, wrapped in wire cord with a large loop at the top.
Corey’s eyes move to the glint on the horizon. It twinkles and glistens. Curiosity gets the better of the pilot. He works the winch and retracts the hook.
Spike growls.
‘But they might need our help.’ Corey knows that Spike knows this is nothing but a lame excuse. Of course if someone needs help they’ll assist in any way they can, but the real reason Corey wants to fly out to no-man’s-land is that when he sees something shiny in the distance he always thinks it’s treasure.
It’s been that way for as long as he can remember. He was the kid who would traverse 50 metres of thorny thicket to discover if what glittered was gold. It never was, of course. It was a discarded piece of tin or a shard of glass reflecting the sun. Never the diamond he hoped for, never the gold. Even so, he can’t help but think there will come a day when it
is
a diamond or it
is
gold or something equally valuable.
This
glinting object might be an abandoned car he can salvage. He’s always wanted a ‘67 Mustang. Or something that fell off an aircraft that he can sell, like an engine of something. Or maybe it’s a UFO. He always thought he’d make an excellent ambassador for planet Earth.
His head swimming with the possibilities, Corey swings the Loach around, throttles up and sets sail for that glint on the horizon.
**
17
Seven marines dressed for combat stride across the airfield at the naval air station in Pensacola, Florida. Bringing up the rear is Severson Burke. He tugs at his collar, tight against his neck, and grimly studies the Greyhound. It’s not a member of the canine family but a stubby, twin-engined aircraft built by Northrop Grumman. Its turboprops splutter to life.
Severson’s not happy and it’s that 24 carat prick Thompkins’ fault. He’d always considered Severson a rival so his first order of business as head of the
Atlantis
recovery mission was to dispatch him far from Houston, to be his ‘eyes in the Pacific’ as a ‘liaison’ officer attached to a marine unit. Severson would be miles from the action and any chance of contributing to
Atlantis’s
recovery, or at least being
seen
to contribute, before the investigation into the hijacking began. The only job that was worse was the one Judd had been given in Central Australia.
The marines stride up the Greyhound’s cargo ramp and enter the aircraft. Severson stops at the entrance. His collar feels even tighter than before. A prickly sweat breaks out across the back of his neck.
‘Major Burke?’
Severson turns to the approaching marine. Late twenties, blond, stolid features and a foghorn voice that somehow mashes the inflection of southern gentry with the urban rhythms of Fiddy Cent.
‘Sorry I’m late, sir; needed to collect our orders. I’m Captain Mike Disser and I couldn’t be happier that you’re joining us.’
Jesus Christ, this kid’s voice is loud. Severson nods dully. ‘Yes, yes, good.’
‘It’s an honour to work with the first marine pilot to fly the space shuttle, sir. You’re a legend in the corps.’
‘I am?’
‘I would not lie to you, sir.’
Severson’s sure of it. Disser turns to his seated squad and honks over the roar of the Greyhound’s turboprops. ‘Hey, we got ourselves a bonafide, genuine marine astronaut hero in the house. Give it up for Severson Burke! This man’s been to
space,
ladies.’
The marines erupt in hoots and hollers, their faces abeam with old-school pride. Suddenly Severson feels better. He holds up his hands like a victorious politician half-heartedly tamping down an enthusiastic crowd. ‘Please, please, you’re too kind. Really.’
The hoots and hollers morph into applause. Severson just loves applause, it’s his favourite sound in the world. It rolls on, momentarily drowning out the Greyhound’s engines. ‘Oh, come on, that’s not necessary.’ He laps it up but knows they wouldn’t be clapping if they knew the truth.
The applause slowly dies away. Disser takes a seat at the rear of the cabin but Severson doesn’t move from the entrance. Everyone stares at him. Disser points at the empty spot beside him. ‘Sir, it’d be an honour it you’d park it here.’
Severson nods, takes a breath, nods again, takes another breath then steps into the Greyhound and stiffly makes his way to the seat beside Disser. He sits down, watches the Greyhound’s rear hatch whine shut then whispers a private affirmation to himself: ‘I can do this.’
The aircraft judders, begins to taxi. Disser honks: ‘Buckle up, sir.’ Severson fits the straps over his shoulders, fastens the harness across his midsection, breathes as elegantly as he can and whispers to himself again: ‘I
can
do this.’
The Greyhound’s turboprops run up and the aircraft jolts forward. Severson’s collar feels even tighter than before, the hot prickly sweat returns to the back of his neck and, as an added bonus, his stomach turns over. He closes his eyes, grasps the side of his seat and squeezes. It’s soft and comforting and
much too soft
—
He looks down. He’s squeezing Disser’s thigh. He looks up, takes in the marine’s mortified expression, and instantly removes his hand.
The Greyhound thunders down the runway and lifts into the sky.
**
18
The glint just up and disappeared on Corey. One second it was there the next it was gone. He scans the horizon as the Loach skims across the empty red desert, 30 metres off the ground. ‘See anything?’
Spike stares out the open doorway, silent. Corey can’t blame him for being annoyed. They have a tonne of work to do and they’re wasting the morning on this wild goose chase. He decides to take it as far as the Curve then head back.
Just ahead is the large, jagged red-rock formation nicknamed ‘Dead Men’s Curve’. It is, unsurprisingly, curved, the ‘Dead Men’ portion of its name courtesy of a couple of nineteenth-century explorers who brought along a large wooden dining table and six chairs but forgot to pack enough water. Corey eases the Loach over the Curve then pulls it into a steep turn to head back.
He sees the glint. It’s not gold. Or diamonds. On the other side of the Curve hovers a black chopper, sunlight reflecting off its windscreen. It’s not just any old chopper either, it’s a serious piece of military tech. A warbird.
‘What the hell is that?’
Spike sees it and barks.
‘I think you’re right.’ Corey angles the Loach behind the Curve. Out of sight, they fly back the way they came.
Corey glances at the side-view mirror bolted to the Loach’s door frame. There’s no sign of the black chopper. ‘We’re good. They didn’t see us —’
Sunlight glints off the stealthy angles of the black chopper’s fuselage as it gracefully descends in front of the Loach, 200 metres away.
‘Damn.’
It’s another stand-off, though Corey preferred the one with the steer.
Spike stretches a paw towards the tape deck.
‘Don’t think Barry can help us with this one, mate.’
Corey flicks the comms switch, tries to sound as cheerful as possible as he speaks into his headset’s microphone: ‘G’day! How you going? Hope everything’s okay, saw you out here, thought you might be lost —’
The black chopper’s cannons blaze. Bullets scorch towards the Loach.
‘— but it seems you’re fine.’ Corey yanks the Loach into a steep turn and the bullets slide past. ‘Hold on!’
The black chopper follows with another burst of fire from its cannons. Bullets thump into the Loach’s fuselage.
‘Buckle up!’ Spike immediately wriggles into the passenger seat’s harness.
Corey glances in the side-view mirror. The black chopper fills it. He pulls on the controls and the Loach goes up. And up. It’s nearly vertical. Then actually vertical. Then more than vertical.
All the rubbish that was on the floor hits the roof. They’re upside down, pulling a loop. Spike hangs inside his seatbelt harness.
The Loach flies over the top - and the black chopper follows.
All the rubbish that was on the roof hits the floor. Corey reaches under his seat, draws out a flare gun as the Loach levels out.
‘Hold on!’ Corey rotates the Loach 180 degrees, aims the flare gun out the open doorway and pulls the trigger.
Red exhaust follows the flare as it snakes across the sky, slams into the black chopper’s left air duct. Its engine coughs and it spirals to the ground, lands hard, kicks up a wave of dust.
The dog barks.
Corey grins his crooked grin. ‘I can’t believe it either!’ He taps his temple. ‘I’m always thinking!’
The Loach’s turbine coughs. Corey glances in his side-view mirror and loses the grin. White smoke pours from the Loach’s rear hatch and the turbine sounds like rocks in a blender.
The black chopper rises off the desert. Corey sees it, dismayed. ‘Who are these people?’ He turns, scans the horizon. Dead Men’s Curve is close. He points the spluttering Loach toward it.
Spike barks.
Corey’s eyes flick to the side-view mirror. A missile blasts away from the black chopper’s underwing arsenal. ‘Oh, come on!’
It closes fast. Corey wills the chopper towards the Curve: ‘You can do it, sweetheart.’
The Loach chunters over the rock formation, disappears behind it. An instant later the missile follows.
The explosion shakes the desert. An orange fireball tumbles into the aqua sky.
The black chopper thunders over Dead Men’s Curve, cuts through the cloud of smoke and dust. Below lies a mound of smoking rubble the size of three city buses. The black chopper hovers above it, surveys the destruction.
**
Spike growls.
‘Shhh!’ Corey holds Spike’s snout closed as he listens to the thump of the black chopper’s rotor blades. They sit in the Loach’s cockpit, in a large cavern within Dead Men’s Curve. Its wide rock roof blocks any view from above.
The sound of the black chopper recedes. Corey releases the dog’s snout, points to the mouth of the cavern. ‘Keep a lookout.’
Spike hops out of the cockpit and trots to the cavern mouth. Corey slides out, moves to the Loach’s side hatch and unhappily surveys a fuselage pockmarked with bullet holes and scorch marks. ‘Man, I just painted this.’
Using its homemade twist lock, he opens the hatch’s door, which is loose on its hinges. ‘Gotta fix that.’ He peers into the engine compartment, locates a hydraulic line. There’s a hole in it the size of a thumbnail. ‘Bugger.’
He turns to the dog, unhappy. ‘This is gonna take a while to fix —’
Spike barks.
‘What? Why?’
Corey runs to him, follows the direction of his paw.
The black chopper has landed on clear ground about a hundred metres away. Two men step out of it, both holding assault rifles.
Corey studies the men unhappily. ‘Who
are
these people?’
They move briskly towards Dead Man’s Curve, then see Corey and Spike and start to run.