Don't Tell The Public

By Maurice Pratt

Australia has always been a strong supporter of America’s fight against terrorism, particularly when it is in a far off country. But when al Qaeda decides to mount an attack on Australian soil, the reality of terrorism has suddenly become much more personal.

Paul Wilcox, working with the London Metropolitan Police, takes on a job in Australia as a consultant to ASIO, Australia’s Security Intelligence Organisation. He is teamed up with the beautiful but fiercely independent Diane Martins and despite the tension between them, together they have to convince the Australian authorities that Australia is wide open to terrorist attacks.

Meanwhile an al Qaeda terrorist, with the help of a local sleeper cell, already has his plans well underway.

It very quickly becomes a race between the terrorist and ASIO to see who can out think each other – one to fulfill his lifelong mission, the others to stop a disaster that would affect thousands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maurice Pratt
• Release date: Nov 25, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452325514

Book preview

Chapter 1

The dim light inside the small cargo plane barely illuminated the parachute jumper as he stood near the open door, waiting for the moment he was to leap into the darkness. Dressed in black, he double and triple checked the status of his equipment. The straps of the parachute harness that ran down his chest and between his legs were a bit too firm and he did his best to make himself comfortable. A small daypack hung down between his legs from a short strap attached to the front of his belt, causing him to stand with his knees slightly bent and legs apart. Beginning his pre-jump routine, his hands went to the various pieces of equipment as he mentally ticked off the list. Goggles firm against his face, altitude meter was on his left wrist, GPS on his right, emergency chute on his chest and gun on his hip. Satisfied that everything was in order, he studied the GPS on his wrist, waiting patiently for the right coordinates to appear. Moments later he turned, waved farewell to the pilots and threw himself out of the cargo door. Waiting a moment to clear the plane, he spread his arms and legs and arched his back to slow and stabilise his fall. Slowly he moved his arm across in front of him, using the rest of his body to compensate for the movement. Checking his altitude reading he saw that he was just under 18000 feet and falling at 400 feet a second. He knew from his preflight briefing that he would need to free fall for another 35 seconds before he had to open his chute at around 4000 feet. He didn’t want to open it too close to the ground as the crack of the canopy opening increased the chance of being heard. For the twenty seconds or so he tried to relax and enjoy the sensation of being able to fly. He had always envied the freedom that birds have, soaring through the sky at will, seemingly unbounded by the forces of gravity. Despite the roar of the wind in his ears and the chill from the cold night air against his skin, he felt at peace. While the sky above was sprinkled with thousands of stars, the ground below was an unending blackness. Checking his altimeter, he watched as it wound down towards his target height. Reaching for his ripcord, he braced himself for the jolt of the sudden deceleration. Taking a deep breath, he gave the line a firm tug and he felt the drogue release, pulling out the main chute out of his pack. A second later he heard a sharp crack as the chute filled with air and his body was pulled sharply upright. The straps around his legs dug in as the harness enveloping his body took the load. Despite the darkness, he automatically looked up, checking to see if the chute had deployed correctly. Even though he couldn’t see the black canopy over him, his other senses told him that it was working correctly. Relieved, he turned his focus downward, scanning the ground below with his eyes and ears, trying to detect if there was anyone waiting for him below. Instinctively he moved his hand to the gun even though it would be useless at this range. After a minute of seeing nothing, he was satisfied that all was well and he reached for the toggles hanging above each shoulder. Normally he would have enjoyed the peacefulness of this part of the descent however tonight there were too many unknowns. His mission was to photograph and report on a suspected terrorist camp that had been picked up by a spy satellite. He was here for just a couple of days, to get the information and get out. This mission was not without its risks. Even though he had done this before, he was in a foreign country on a covert operation, a long way from the good old US of A. Out here he was on his own, with almost no chance of backup if things went wrong. While he was armed, he had been given explicit instructions not to engage, just observe, which was perfectly fine by him.

Checking the altimeter, he saw that he had less than five hundred feet before landing. Using the toggles, he steered into the wind to sow his forward motion and bent his legs, bracing for the impact. Even though he was landing on sand, one could never tell if it was going to be hard and compact or soft flowing sand. When he was just thirty feet above the ground, his eyes could just make out the ripples in the sand that had been caused by the wind. Immediately he pulled down hard on the toggles. The lines connected to the toggles changed the shape of the canopy to allow more air to be trapped causing the parachute to slow its descent and reduce its forward motion. The impact was soft as his feet sunk into the side of a large sand dune. Hitting the quick release button in the middle of his harness, he wrapped his arm around the lines and collapsed the chute before a gust of wind could drag him along the ground. Gathering it up, he tucked it into its bag. Unstrapping his gun from his hip, he lay in the sand for a couple of minutes, watching and listening for any signs that his arrival had been discovered. After hearing nothing but the sound of the soft wind shifting the sand, he checked his GPS for his current location and the distance to the desert camp. He had just five hours to walk nine kilometres through drifting sands, avoid any sentries and find a suitable observation point. After burying the parachute in the hollow of a sand dune, he set off in the direction of the camp. While he was fresh, the going felt relatively easy, however as the hours ticked by, his pace slowed as the soft sand took their toll on his legs. There were times he could swear that he was walking in circles as all the sand dunes seemed to look the same. If it wasn’t for the GPS he was wearing, he knew he probably would have been. After a very long four and a half hours, he finally found the camp. Not wanting to get too close in case his footprints showed in the morning, he kept at a distance, scouting the surrounding hills until he found what he thought was a suitable hideout. Scooping out some sand, he settled himself down into the hollow to await the dawn.

As a hint of the first rays of the sun came over the horizon, the early light revealed the American was buried in the sand from his chest down. A tan coloured kaffiyeh was now wrapped around his head, protecting his head from the sun and most of his face from the wind. The only part that was visible were his eyes, squinted in a futile attempt to stop the sand whipped up by the wind from getting in. Over his body he now wore the long flowing robe of the local Bedouins. His skin was brown, tanned by years of exposure to the sun. In his left hand he held a pair of sand coloured binoculars. In his right hand he held an Austrian made Glock-17, a hand gun popular for its reliability, light weight and 17 round magazine capacity. Both were ready for use at a moment’s notice. Buried beneath the sand was his daypack containing his food rations, bottles of water, GPS, altimeter, a camera and satellite phone.

Although there was no heat in the early morning rays, it did promise a welcome change from the cold Syrian Desert night. As he prepared himself for a long hot day ahead, he saw movement in the distance. Ever so slowly, so that his movements would avoid detection, he lifted the binoculars to his eyes. Carefully he watched the movements in the desert camp below that was concealed in a hollow between the large sand dunes on each side. First he located the guards, watching them for any change of routine. While everything remained the same, he knew that they hadn’t detected his presence. He then shifted his focus to the camp itself. From a distance of five hundred metres, the cluster of cream coloured army tents were almost invisible. The only way the satellite would have seen this camp would have been by using infrared photos he mused. Either that or some poor bugger had been minutely inspecting the photos. However it had happened, he had been called him in for a briefing, giving him their assessment of the layout of the camp. The consensus was that of the cluster of tents in the middle of the camp, the largest one would be used as a command centre, where the leaders would spend most of their time. This tent was flanked by two smaller tents on both sides of the command tent’s entrance, which would be used as both sleeping and working quarters of the unit commanders. Facing them on opposite side of the camp were a total of seven sleeping tents that would be for the fighters.

Before long, he saw movement among the tents from the first of the early risers. Watching, he saw each of them make their way towards him, entering the toilet tent in turn which was located outside the camp perimeter. It was sheer luck that his observation point happened to be on the same side. Before long, the rest of the camp had risen and a queue formed as each made their mandatory toilet stop. As each stood impatiently in line, the American realised that here was a perfect opportunity to take each of their photos. Looking up at the sun, he checked the angles to make sure that the sun would not reflect off the lens. Satisfied that it was ok, he slowly reached down to uncover his daypack. Retrieving his camera from its sealed plastic bag, he raised it to eye level. Only then did he remove the lens cap, allowing him to zoom in and take their photos. Pleased that he now had photos of most of those in the camp, he replaced the lens cap and then plugged his camera into his satellite phone. Using a cable to connect the camera to the phone, he initiated the transfer of the photos back to his CIA superiors. Knowing that it would take a few minutes, he settled back with his binoculars and continued his watch of the camp. By now he could see that a few people were now collecting their water allocation to freshen up. With water in the desert being such a valuable commodity, he saw that each person was being given just two cups of water to wash their face, armpits and groin.

A beep from the phone signalled that the transmission was complete. Back at the CIA office, the photos would now be categorised and cross referenced to other data and then stored in a database for future use. Putting his camera and phone away in their sand proof bags, he shoved them back into his daypack. A gust of wind bought with it the tantalising smell of fried sausages and eggs. Looking up, he saw the camp cook preparing breakfast. Already a group had formed a line, waiting for it to be ready. Taking a slow deep breath, he savoured the aroma as he began to uncover his own breakfast rations of dried fruits and muesli. While he didn’t mind the prepackaged army rations, he didn’t look forward to cold tuna pasta for lunch. He had once heard that the heat made one eat less. While that may be good for his waist line, it didn’t help if he didn’t have the energy to do the job properly. Knowing that he had to eat, he tore open the foil lined packaging, automatically shielding it with his hand to prevent any reflection from the sun. While he was sure that the food was nutritious, it had probably been made a couple of years ago, would be filled with preservatives and sugar and it would taste artificial. After munching his way through his rations and quenching his thirst, he stowed the empty food containers back in his daypack and buried it beneath the sand.

Repositioning himself onto his stomach, with the binoculars in hand, he prepared himself for the long day ahead. For many, lying in the same position for many hours at a time was very difficult. After a while, most people found that they experienced an almost uncontrollable need to move, just to feel alive. There was a time when he had been like that, but six years as a sniper in the Special Forces had cured him. Staying still meant the difference between finding your target or them finding you. For him, the greater challenge was the loneliness and boredom. This caused a loss of concentration which often led to carelessness. Carelessness could lead to capture which rarely had a good outcome.

After a period of free time, a leader of the camp blew his whistle, signalling them into groups. As one unit of eight left on the opposite side of the camp for explosives training, the American noted that the time was 8am. Committing the details to memory was a skill he had been taught upon joining the CIA. Taking notes was banned to prevent, or at least slow down the information falling into the wrong hands.

Shortly after, another unit made preparations for their training. As they assembled on his side of the camp, he wondered what their plans were. Warily he watched them, unsure whether he would be forced to evacuate his position if they came his way. With some relief, he saw them split into two groups of four, each going to either side of his location. Slowly he repositioned himself to try to keep both groups in view. Despite his best efforts, it wasn’t long before he lost sight of them behind the sand dunes. One of the basic principles he was taught was to keep your opposition in sight. After checking that the camp guards were not facing his direction, he grabbed a bottle of water and pulled himself out of the sand. Trying to remove the evidence that he had been there, he quickly filled in the hollow. Taking a line directly away from the camp, he scrambled up the sand dune as fast as possible. As the dune got steeper, he felt that he was taking 3 steps forward and 2 steps back. As he neared the ridge, he lay down on his stomach and wiggled forward until just his eyes peered over the top. Looking to his left and right for the two groups of fighters, he was dismayed to find that he still could not see them. Retreating back behind the ridge, he considered his options. If he continued taking a direct line between the two groups and they converged, he would either be caught in the middle or they would see his footprints. If he turned left or right and tried to go around behind them, they would see his footprints on their way back to camp. Returning to his previous position outside the camp seemed the option with the lowest risk. Turning around, he looked up to check if the camp guards had seen his movements. While they seemed as unobservant as ever, he was horrified to see a line of footprints leading right to his position. He had no doubt that as soon as one of the guards lifted his eyes, he couldn’t fail to see the deep gouge cutting across the smooth surface of the sand. His discovery seemed just moments away unless he could come up with a bright idea. Desperately he looked around for a tree to get a branch, hoping to drag it behind him, instinctively knowing that there was none. Thankful that his robe and kaffiyeh helped blend him into the sand, he lay face down on the sand and used his arms to fill in the hollows. Pulling himself along, he slowly backtracked over his original trail, sweeping his legs behind him to smooth it out as best he could. As he reached the halfway position, he looked back. While it was not perfect, it was certainly a lot better than it was. Anyone walking over it would not be fooled but at least the guards at the camp might not be able to see it from a distance. A few minutes later he arrived at his original observation point. Planning for the possibility that his trail might be found, he dug a trench into the sand, six foot long and one foot deep. After digging up his daypack, he searched the pockets, eventually finding what he was looking for. Putting the drinking straw in his mouth, he lay down in the trench on his back and covered his body up. Before long, the only part exposed was his head and one arm. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he lay his head down into the hole and used his arm to cover his face with sand. As the dry sand filled his nose, he struggled against an almost overwhelming need to try to clear it, regardless of the consequences. The feelings of being buried alive were difficult to control, even for someone such as mentally tough as him. Using his hand, he checked that the straw was not sticking out too far and that enough sand was around it enough to stop it moving each time he breathed. He then buried his arm as best he could, hoping that he had done a reasonable job at smoothing out the sand. As he lay there, trying to ignore the feelings of panic, he could feel a trickle of sand that was gradually moving into the back passages of his nose and was making him want to sneeze. Belatedly he realised that he should have plugged his nose first before burying himself. Against his will, he could feel himself getting agitated, his heart beats increasing rapidly causing him to use more oxygen than he could bring in through the straw. He should have realised that a straw would be just too small for a grown man to breathe through, particularly one in a difficult situation. What had seemed like a clever idea at the time could very well be the end of him. If he didn’t get himself under control and calm down real soon, he was going to be forced to abandon the use of the straw and his hiding place. Searching his mind for a solution, he remembered that a number of years ago he had read an article about how Harry Houdini, the famous escape artist who was able to relax enough to slow down his heart beat so that he had more time to escape from his death defying stunts. Many of those involved being underwater or buried in a coffin, each with a very limited amount of air. Forcing himself to ignore the similarities of his present situation, he tried to think of a pleasant memory that might also help calm him down. He was slightly bemused that as he thought back over his life, there wasn’t a lot of memories that seemed appropriate. Eventually he settled on a childhood memory of when he was growing up in the wilds of West Virginia. What started as a real memory grew as he let his imagination take control. He visualised himself lying on his back on a bed of lush green grass, surrounded by majestic trees whose leaves filtered the sunlight that warmed his face. He imagined closing his eyes and listened intently to the sounds of the waterfall as it cascaded gently over rounded boulders and trickled past his feet. The sounds of several different types of birds could be heard singing in the trees and it was as though the world was at peace.

After a few minutes of enjoying his happy place, he reluctantly brought himself back