Home Grown Enemy (Team Blake Pt 2)

By Doug E Diamond

Amidst a backdrop of exotic locations, LOGAN BLAKE and his team of Special Forces Operators must embark on a world-wide terrorist hunt. They are tasked with capturing the perpetrator alive. The situation intensifies when crooked CIA agents, rogue Mossad officers, and a rapidly expanding extremist organisation, all with separate agendas, begin searching for the same man.

Dry witted one-liners and good old Aussie humour are never too far away, as love, lies and acts of treason abound.

When everyone’s favourite Irishman, Sean Macnally, decides to host a New Year’s Eve party, little does he realise the romantic effect it will have on two people’s lives. Cupid’s arrows aren’t the only things falling from the sky though.

Evil has manifested itself in a different form this time round. A natural born genius is creating havoc with his ability to hack into supposedly impenetrable Military Security Systems. A traitor is on the loose... a traitor with a gripe against his own family’s adopted country... a traitor who has some serious financial backing from an unexpected source.

BLAKE and his men must overcome physical obstacles and mental demons, as the global hunt for a HOME GROWN ENEMY reaches its suspense-filled, thrilling conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Mar 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781925447422

Doug E Diamond

I left school at the age of fifteen and commenced my trade as a panel beater. Nine years later I joined the Australian Army where I enjoyed many magnificent years. I’ve had a short foray into life as a quarantine inspector, tried my hand at running a couple of small businesses, and worked for a major energy supplier. I’m a rugby league fan and support the North Queensland Cowboys. I love to play golf and I don’t mind a beer on any day that ends in ‘Y’. Back in the day, I certainly found my fair share of strife; mostly just ‘boys being boys’ type stuff. I am happily married with two grown up children and I currently reside in North Queensland. Some people have asked how I pieced this story together. If I had to give a rough estimate, I would say it’s one third life experience and personal knowledge, one third research, and one third vivid imagination. At this stage, HOME SOIL (Team Blake pt1) is intended to be the first book in a five part series. Happy Reading Doug

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

NO ONE EATS AT MIDNIGHT

LISBON – PORTUGAL

Bright yellow street lights and a vast array of neon signs lit up the mildly crowded city centre. Two BMW 4x4s turned onto the main thoroughfare; their headlight beams adding to the multitude of colours reflecting off the road’s wet surface. Multi-storey office buildings and motels were in abundance as they towered above the street. Below them, a variety of restaurants, bars and cafes were still open. Specialty stores and other business premises were now closed.

Considering the not so favourable weather, as well as the time of night, plenty of local citizens were still out and about. Occasionally, a small group of late night diners or club goers would dart across the street through the light traffic. Some had jackets pulled up over their heads; stretching them so as to shield themselves from the light rain. Others were too busy enjoying their evening to care.

Both vehicles were a dark blue, almost violet colour. Australia’s former Assistant to the Defence Minister, Donovan Fardel, was comfortably seated in one. Another man, the British equivalent to Fardel’s new appointment, occupied a seat in the other. Both men were accompanied by two armed security officers as well as their highly trained drivers. Section 9, a special arm of Britain’s 22 SAS Regiment, had provided security for their own man as well as Fardel. These were men who spent more time working in conjunction with MI6 than they did carrying out traditional soldiering tasks.

It hadn’t taken very long for Donovan Fardel’s clothing to become untidy and dishevelled. It never did. His tie was already loose. It annoyed him, and he constantly tugged at his collar with his fingers. His shirt tended to always appear as though it was on the verge of hanging out, but only on one side. If ever there was a politician who didn’t look like a politician, he was it. The VIP in the rear vehicle was quite the opposite. He was very prim and proper. Both men’s speech and manners tended to reflect their appearance.

 Less than a block away from their destination, an unexpected delay occurred. Flashing orange lights and men in reflective vests stood out like beacons, even in the well-lit street. Along with other traffic, heading in the same direction, the BMWs slowly came to a stop. Security personnel from both vehicles started adjusting earpieces and speaking into concealed microphones; all the while scanning the surrounding area for any signs of trouble. They were now very aware of anything and everything going on around them. Was there a pedestrian making a sudden beeline in their direction? Was anybody in a surrounding building sizing them up through the sights of a high powered rifle? Fists were now gripping holstered hand guns and safety catches were being flicked off. Both drivers had to strain their eyes slightly, as they peered through the rain and slapping windscreen wipers. They needed to be aware of the traffic situation in all directions. They needed to be aware of side streets and any possible escape routes in case a sudden getaway should happen to be necessary.

What’s the hold up here? complained Donovan Fardel. We’re already running late.

Local Government contractors by the looks of it, Sir, answered his driver.

What? Bullshit; at this time of night? the man in the back seat protested further.

It appears as though they’re setting up lighting and fireworks stands for their New Year’s Eve celebrations, explained the driver, as he further elaborated on his previous statement. The Australian had to listen fairly intently in order to understand the thick Welsh accent.

That’d be right; as soon as we come along they decide to stop the traffic; bloody hell; stupid fuckin’ wogs. Fardel cursed his own luck for a few seconds longer before opening up on the whole population of Portugal. After a while he admitted out loud that he was just having a good old whinge. He was hungry; and that made him irritable.

Who the hell eats at this time of night, anyway? he quizzed in further frustration. He’d now thought of another subject worth examining. Not that he was likely to get much conversation out of his fellow passengers. Whose time zone are we on for fuck sake? he continued to ask nobody in particular. No one eats at midnight. Finally, after another minute or two of being ignored, he accepted the fact that these types of jobs needed to be carried out during off peak periods. He understood, but he wasn’t happy. The overweight, slovenly dressed man slumped back into the soft leather car seat and had a good old scratch of his crutch.

The Section 9 man next to him shook his head in disbelief. He’d never seen anyone in a position such as Fardel’s dressed in such poorly fitted clothing. To add to that, here he was; openly scratching his balls through his loose, baggy trousers; not the slightest regard for discretion. He then used his scratching hand to twist one end of his uneven, greying, handlebar moustache. Once he’d finished working on his facial growth, he gave the thick silver hair on his head a bit of a pat down and a ruffle.

What the other occupants of this vehicle didn’t realise, was that despite his obvious faults regarding appearance, manners and personal hygiene, Donovan Fardel was extremely good at his job. Good enough at least, to have earned the trust and respect of certain members of Australia’s Special Air Service Regiment. For any politician, this was high praise indeed. His faults may have even contributed to such respect. Put simply, Fardel couldn’t give a rat’s arse about political correctness; and he didn’t particularly care what people thought of his fashion sense and grooming habits.

Once a location had been decided upon and vetted, a highly classified meeting was requested and arranged by Israel’s Chief of Military Relations. It was to involve select diplomats and other high ranking officials from four countries. This was Donovan Fardel’s first official engagement since he’d accepted a new position relating to Australia’s role in International Security. He wasn’t happy about running late, but he knew deep down that whinging and whining wasn’t going to change that.

A moderately quiet restaurant had been chosen and the timing carefully calculated. It was organised so as to appear that a group of (mostly) well-dressed men were out to enjoy some late night dining. Security personnel would need to blend in. They would need to do so in such a way that they could still provide protection if required. A few experienced operators from other countries were a bit apprehensive about the Americans’ ability to do that; --- blend in. It would depend on which agency they were from. For some reason, certain US security organisations had trouble comprehending one very important aspect of their job; --- suits, ties and dark glasses don’t always cut it. The Brits all knew they were to be dressed in casual attire; jeans, tee shirts and so on; maybe a light sports jacket. They knew the Israelis would have no problems blending in. If the truth be known, the Brits themselves would probably struggle to even notice the Israelis; and it was a sure bet there’d be plenty of them. This was their idea after all. They were in possession of some recently acquired, crucial intelligence. This information related to each country represented at the meeting and it needed to be passed on quite urgently. Some minor problems had already arisen and they weren’t going to trust anything but a personal delivery. It was imperative that the right people received the knowledge they were about to share. The security plan was quite simple. Agents, officers, soldiers and the like would spread themselves around the premises; some relaxing at nearby tables and others chatting idly in the street outside. If the Americans arrived looking like suited up FBI agents out of some poorly directed movie, then they could fend for themselves.

Outside of those involved, only a small handful of people knew anything about the meeting. It was in Portugal, it was on a need to know basis, and it was in between Christmas and New Year. Surely there was no need for a ridiculous amount of protection. In any case, the Americans and Israelis had made their own arrangements. For some reason, they were much more on edge than Fardel and his British counterpart. Although the occupants of the dark coloured BMWs were only running a few minutes late, the other attendees had already been seated for some time. They’d had a near perfect run of traffic and arrived a good thirty minutes earlier.

A small red sports car idled away in front of the first BMW; Fardel’s vehicle. In front of that, some older looking white thing was causing quite the pollution problem. Exhaust fumes were clearly visible as they spewed out into the cool, wet night air. In front of that, it appeared as though a group of young girls were celebrating something. Two of them were taking turns chugging champagne from a bottle, as they stood in the open sunroof of a black limousine. Two more were drunkenly screaming and waving to some of the contractors as they stretched themselves to the limit through windows on either side of the vehicle. The workers found it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand, with scantily clad young women daring them to join in whatever it was they were celebrating.

Although it seemed like an eternity, particularly for the Regiment men whose job it was to keep the two civilians safe, it was only a matter of minutes before a traffic controller started waving the waiting vehicles through. A pale green Fiat, behind the second BMW, was very slow to recommence moving. Its driver had clearly let his mind wander. The girls in the Limo continued their carry on and now had the attention of pedestrian passers-by as well.

Without warning, a white van, which had been parked in between some of the work vehicles, took off at speed. It nearly collided with the front of the limousine as it accelerated into the middle of the street. The four drunken young women managed to pull their heads back in very quickly. Contractors and locals scattered in all directions. Some hit the ground where they stood.

What the fuck? blurted out Fardel’s driver in astonishment. The white van wasn’t slowing down.

 Even through the closed windows of the BMW, the sudden, distinct sound of semi-automatic fire could be heard. Single shots, as well as short bursts from some sort of sub-machine gun also rattled and echoed throughout the area.

Shit; fucking hell; get out of here, yelled the man in the front passenger seat, his weapon now well and truly drawn. He’d no sooner shouted out these words, when the van up ahead veered sharply to the left.

Get down and stay down, screamed the soldier next to Fardel, as he shoved the politician’s head into the leather seat. Donovan didn’t have to be told twice, but it was essential that the message got through. Do not fucking move until I say; just stay the fuck down. The sounds of orders being barked out in an enclosed vehicle were soon drowned out by something much louder.

The whole block seemed to tremble and shake from the force of the shockwave. The sudden crack was immediately accompanied by a thunderous blast. A huge orange fireball rose into the night sky, giving the low, grey rain clouds the appearance of having been temporarily lit up. Shattered glass, pieces of timber and jagged steel fragments flew into the street. A drawn out roar seemed to echo throughout several wind tunnels created by gaps in the tall buildings --- then suddenly; nothing.

 For a few short seconds, an eerie silence fell over the whole area. Apart from the still fading echo there wasn’t a sound. --- Then the screaming started. --- The panic --- the total mayhem --- the absolute terror.

Go, Go, Go, screamed the front passenger. He was shouting quite assertively through his coms to the men in the rear vehicle. Donovan Fardel appeared to wriggle slightly.

You… Stay the fuck down, ordered his closest minder, as loudly and firmly as he could. The two drivers threw their vehicles into reverse. Suddenly, it felt to Fardel as if the whole world was spinning. He lay on the seat, unable to move for a number of reasons; fear being the main one. The driver reefed the steering wheel so hard and so fast that the luxury car went into a 180 degree turn; from reverse to forwards in a squealing second. Tyres screeched loudly on the wet surface as the other vehicle did the same. It was as if the drivers were operating in tandem. Almost simultaneously, both men threw their cars into first, nearly tearing the gear boxes apart as they did so. The damage bill was not their problem. Another couple of quick gear changes and they were well on their way; speeding into the oncoming midnight traffic. Luckily, nearly every other vehicle had come to a stop. It only took around twenty seconds of high speed zigging and zagging to arrive at the first major intersection. After quickly cutting off half a dozen other astonished motorists, they were back on to the right side of the road.

Zero, this is Delta Two; there’s been an incident; a bombing; casualties unknown. Mission compromised. I say again; mission compromised. Both packages are safe and undamaged. We’re coming in hot; over. The front passenger in Fardel’s vehicle was speaking to someone rather urgently through his coms. The politician didn’t really care who it was. Wherever it was they were taking him, he just wanted to get there; and the faster the better. His life was now in the hands of six British Special Forces soldiers. He trusted them completely. He had to.

* * *

Just under an hour had passed by and the two BMWs were now safely out of Lisbon. A few police cars had passed by in the opposite direction, sirens blaring, but none of them had given the 4x4s a second glance. Donovan Fardel was finally given permission to sit up. The rain had stopped falling, at least for now. With his face pressed firmly into the soft leather of the rear car seat, he hadn’t been able to make too much of the one sided radio chatter he’d been listening to. Not that he needed to. He had only been given one job to do and he’d done it very well. --- Stay the fuck down.

Although it was pitch black outside the vehicle, he could tell with a fair degree of certainty that they were now driving through mildly undulating terrain; a rural farming area at best guess.

How come we left the city? Why didn’t we go to the British Embassy? Fardel’s questions were fair enough. --- The answers were simple.

Can’t trust it; we don’t know who we’re dealing with.

Where are we going?

Emergency pick up point; just stay quiet and do as we ask please, Sir. Fardel knew full well that this was an order, not a request. The British soldier continued. Only two types of people are going to approach us between now and when we leave this country.

 What do you mean?

Those who fly a helicopter displaying RAF markings; and those who’ll never approach anyone again, came the frank reply. It was quite obvious that these men were not very happy and they didn’t intend taking any further chances.

That was no coincidence back there, another Section 9 man added. There’s been some sort of major leak. No one fucking knew about that meeting and yet there it was; a planned suicide bombing. Until we know more, we trust no one.

The Australian contemplated the discussion he’d just been involved in. He also started mulling over the last few hours. Who carried out the attack and how did they come across the details? he wondered to himself; and who was the target?

Stopping to wait for an extraction was not an option for the men from Section 9. Two helicopters, from a Royal Navy Aircraft Carrier in the North Atlantic Ocean, were on their way. They were flying in low and fast towards the Portuguese coast. They were headed to an open field about fifty kilometres north of the capital. A pickup point had been hastily arranged and the British soldiers intended to keep moving until the choppers were close by. The BMWs would then be disposed of accordingly and no one would be any the wiser. Once they returned to merry old England, some serious questions would need to be answered. Donovan Fardel just wanted to get back to Australia. He had some questions of his own, but he would prefer to ask them once he’d returned safely home.

CHAPTER TWO

IT’S GOOD TO BE HOME

PERTH - WESTERN AUSTRALIA

Picture perfect scenery was visible in all directions as Logan Blake jogged along Scarborough Beach. Aqua coloured water extended for a few hundred metres across the Indian Ocean’s surface before contrasting sharply with a darker shade of blue. Evidence of a sudden change in depth was clearly visible even from ground level. The almost white sand, with its slight tinge of grey, felt both firm and soft at the same time under his bare feet. Blake preferred running on the damp area closer to the water’s edge. On this particular morning, that equated to a fairly narrow strip of beach.

Hardly a ripple could be seen, as what little waves there were lapped gently against the shoreline. Shiny, wet grains of sand glistened in the early morning sunlight, the receding salt water exposing them just as quickly as it had covered them.

Every half a kilometre or so Logan changed his mode of exercise. Any decent sized sand dunes could be used for some short, sharp wind sprints. What they lacked in height was certainly made up for by the extra effort required to sidestep through clumps of knee high beach grass. At other random points along the coastline he chose to alternate between push-ups and sit-ups.

Earlier on, before he’d commenced jogging, Logan had been for a swim. Lifesavers had just arrived at the beach’s flagged area, so he took himself out a hundred and fifty metres or so before turning around and heading back in. He did the same thing once he reached City Beach, a few kilometres to the south. Such calm conditions enabled Blake to power through the water quite freely.

Sunbathers, joggers and regular early morning swimmers were now beginning to converge on the popular ocean front area. Blake headed back towards Scarborough, repeating the process along the way.

He had only covered a touch over six kilometres, but he’d put in some decent work. With Sean Macnally hosting a New Year’s Eve party in less than twelve hours, some early morning training seemed like a pretty good idea. After a final splash and paddle between the flags, he decided to call it quits. He flicked some excess water from his wavy, sandy coloured hair as he made his way up the beach. Fuck I need a haircut. I’ll look like a beach bum shortly. He’d had a shave the day before, but he was starting to take on the appearance of a surfer rather than a soldier.

A couple of bikini clad sunbathers, probably in their early thirties, took more than just a quick glance as Blake headed towards the outdoor shower. His wet body shimmered in the bright sunlight, causing almost every muscle on his chiselled frame to stand out quite prominently. Although he’d only been back in Perth for a few days, he was getting in plenty of physical training; mostly either on or around the beach. With afternoon temperatures nudging forty degrees, early morning was definitely the best time of day to be out and about. The gymnasium was a far better option for later sessions.

After using some nearby change rooms to throw on some dry clothing, Logan tossed his wet towel and wattle green shorts into a carry bag. He was now dressed in blue and white board shorts, black AC/DC tee shirt, and black deck shoes. Nearly eight o’clock, he thought, as he looked at his new watch; time for some breaky. He quickly rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a pair of Maui Jim sunglasses.

 Once he’d stuffed the small red pack into a saddle bag on his Harley Davidson, Logan strolled across the road to a popular café.

* * *

Along with Colonel Brandon Peterson, Blake and his team of Special Forces operators had flown back to Perth on the 27th of December. After taking down a terror cell, and preventing a catastrophic attack on home soil, they’d been summoned to Canberra. A Boxing Day lunch, attended under protest, had ended up going a lot better than they’d thought it would. A partly overheard conversation, between Peterson and the Assistant to the Defence Minister, had given Logan cause to start wondering about a couple of things. For now though, those thoughts could wait. He and his men didn’t have to report for duty until Thursday the 22nd January and he had plenty of other things to think about.

One subject he had been able to stop worrying about was Amatt Wahid. The nightmares and unwanted mental visions had ceased, at least for now. As far as Blake was concerned, karma would take its course, and at some stage in the future he would have his chance to settle unfinished business with the murderous mullah.

* * *

Robbie Lascone was using a chamois on his lime green Ford Falcon Ute. He’d just given his car a good wash after it’d been sitting for over eight months collecting dust and bird droppings. Covered parking bays were quite limited around the live in quarters at Campbell Barracks and Lascone wasn’t lucky enough to have one. Before going overseas, he’d opted for the shade of a tree; a tree which had since become quite popular with some local pink and grey galahs.

 Once he’d completed that task, Robbie changed into shorts, tee shirt and thongs. Another member of the Regiment, who’d also been recently promoted, had given him the address of a tailor. Lascone needed to get his new rank insignia sewn on to his ceremonial and dress uniforms. He also needed to visit a bottle shop in preparation for the evening’s activities.

 A band called Silverchair had just finished playing some cool music as Robbie turned onto the West Coast Highway. Something on the following news broadcast caught the young soldier’s attention.

There had been a restaurant car bombing in the Portuguese capital of Lisbon. A US diplomat had been seriously injured, along with the Israeli Ambassador, his secretary, and two restaurant staff members. Two American Secret Service agents and six passers-by had been killed. The midnight meeting was supposed to have been top secret. Somehow, information regarding the time, place and names of those involved had managed to find its way on to various internet sites. Consequently, every wannabe martyr and terrorist organisation in the world had access to highly sensitive information. The casualty toll would have been much higher were it not for the two agents’ brave actions. They had stood their ground and managed to fire several shots into the fast approaching vehicle, killing the driver and preventing it from crashing directly through the front of the occupied building.

The explosive laden van had come to rest in a closed neighbouring art gallery before bursting into flames and detonating with enough force to take out another couple of buildings on either side.

Lascone shook his head in disgust and bewilderment at how such information could be leaked out into the public domain. His mind soon returned to the road as a delivery van in front of him suddenly swerved for no particular reason.

Fuckin’ idiot, he mumbled to himself.

* * *

Royal Perth Golf Club was almost impossible to get a game at unless you were either a member or you knew someone who was. Merv Davis was lucky enough to know someone who was. Well, at least he knew somebody who knew someone that was.

A soldier from the Regiment’s signals squadron, Conrad Quinn, was also a keen golfer. He and Davis also shared similar interests with regards to computers and other such things. Over the last couple of years, Conrad had befriended a couple of blokes who owned a digital technology business. They were members of the golf club. The four men were getting an early game in before the scorching, dry afternoon heat started to make its presence felt.

Dressed in long black trousers, a canary yellow polo shirt, and matching yellow Cobra Golf cap, Davis certainly looked the part. He may have possibly looked the part a bit too much. He managed to play two sensational shots in a row, unaware that he had an audience. Conrad Quinn was busy searching for his ball under some trees as Davis temporarily removed his cap. Two girls in their late teens, maybe eighteen or nineteen, were playing on a parallel fairway. They found themselves searching for a ball in amongst the same trees as Conrad. One of them spotted Merv wiping sweat from his brow.

Hey, I think that’s Geoff Ogilvy, she commented.

Now Quinn could have corrected the girls, but where would the fun be in that? A golden opportunity had just presented itself. After pondering the statement for a couple of seconds, he could see where the girls were coming from. In some ways, Davis was of a similar appearance to the champion golfer.

Are you a fan? he asked the one who’d made the comment.

He’s one of my favourite players, she answered innocently.

I’ll tell you what; if you girls are still around when we get back to the clubhouse, I’ll get him to put some time aside for you; you know, autographs, maybe a couple of photos; stuff like that.

Oh yeah; that’d be awesome. Thanks a lot.

 No worries; see you later.

It took another four and a half hours for the painfully slow round of golf to finally finish. The two business owners had managed to play reasonably well, but Davis and Quinn had each played well over a hundred strokes and managed to lose countless golf balls.

The two girls had obviously given up waiting. They were nowhere to be found. Maybe they’d mentioned to somebody that one of Australia’s most famous golfers was on the course. If that was the case, then someone would have surely set them straight. Either way, Conrad didn’t mention the conversation to Davis. He figured he could pull the same little stunt another day.

Once all the post-game pleasantries were out of the way, the two soldiers threw their golf clubs into the back of Merv’s VW Kombi Van. Davis wasn’t exactly sure about the age of his white vehicle, but he knew it was older than he was. Although some of the other blokes pulled the piss out of it from time to time, he was happy with the old beast. It had never looked like missing a beat in the five years he’d owned it. He’d also only paid fourteen hundred dollars for it. As far as Merv was concerned, cars were nothing but a rip off; an over rated financial liability.

On the way back to Quinn’s apartment block, Merv pulled up outside a walk-in bottle shop. He bought what he needed for Sean Macnally’s party and returned to his car.

As they drove off he mentioned something to Conrad. He was struggling to work out what had just occurred.

Hey Quinnie, the strangest thing just happened.

What’s that Davo? Conrad asked, not realising the extent of his recent deeds.

Remember those two girls at golf; the ones who lost a ball near one of yours?

Yeah, vaguely, Quinn lied. He thought it would be better to underplay his recollection of the incident.

"Well they were in the bottle O. They had two other friends with them. One of them said something to one of the golfers about me and I don’t know why.

What did she say?

Is that the guy you were telling us about? What a tosser, answered Davis. Why would she say that, I wonder?

Quinn was trying hard not to laugh.

Maybe the other two told her about some bad shots you played. You had a few.

 Buggered if I know, said Merv. It’s a bit fucking rude though.

* * *

It was around about midday by the time Des Baker dragged himself out of bed. After scoffing down some lunch at the mess, he decided to give his car the once over. He was nursing a decent sized hangover and didn’t really feel like doing anything. It needed to be done though. He treasured his black Mercedes Benz and looked after it accordingly.

Even though Baker was fortunate enough to have a sheltered car space, he still kept the vehicle covered with a thick canvas tarpaulin whenever he was away. He removed the tarp, opened up all four doors, and got to work on the upholstery. As he gently wiped leather protectant on the ivory coloured seats, beads of sweat starting forming on his forehead. Although the car was in the shade, the summer heat was still having an effect. Copious amounts of beer and scotch in his system may have also played a part in Baker’s discomfort.

Tuesday afternoon at a Cottesloe Beach hotel had ended up flowing into Tuesday night and then Wednesday morning. Des had gone to the pub with five other blokes from the Regiment. A few beers and a couple of games of pool seemed like an innocent enough idea at the time. As sunset colours of orange, pink and gold blended together over the ocean horizon, the lads were downing their tenth or twelfth round. A good feed was then followed by a few more beers. One thing led to another and before long some decent quality scotch became the flavour of the evening. Whenever it came around to his shout, Des only got himself a half nip. He could vaguely remember getting all the others double nips on a couple of occasions as well. He’d had some suspicions earlier in the evening that the night could possibly deteriorate into a poker game at someone’s house --- and it did.

Baker was certainly paying for it now, but when he’d arrived home in a taxi, just after 4.00am, he was up three hundred and seventy dollars.

By the time he was satisfied with his upholstery, Des was soaked in sweat. He took his tee shirt off, grabbed his bucket and sponge, and headed for a nearby tap. Holding the hose straight above his head, he turned it on.

 Ah, that’s better, he sighed out loud, as cool water ran through his slightly thinning black hair and down over his ultra-fit body. He had already had a haircut and was now sporting neatly trimmed short back and sides. Forty eight hours earlier he’d looked like a dark haired version of Logan, except for some slightly different facial features and darker coloured eyes. Baker’s muscle tone wasn’t quite as pronounced as Blake’s, but his build was very similar. He had a natural tan that didn’t seem to fade very much, even after prolonged periods without much sun.

Once he had finished washing and drying his shiny black piece of German engineering, Des stood back and admired it. The Mercedes Benz was around fifteen years old.

Baker had bought it for a steal a bit over three years ago. Some poor soul was getting divorced and didn’t want his wife getting the car. He also needed some fast cash to pay his lawyer, so he ran an ad in a newspaper. The well-kept vehicle hadn’t even clocked up a hundred thousand kilometres. Some blokes would jokingly have a go at Baker about being a wannabe high roller, but as far as he was concerned they could suck shit. Regardless of what he’d paid for it and how old it was, he had a Mercedes and they didn’t. Righto, he thought to himself, let’s take you for a spin. He raced off to his accommodation unit, changed into some clean, dry clothes, and headed off to the bottle shop. It would then be time for some paracetamol tablets and another hour’s sleep.

With the air conditioner on full blast, Baker drove out of Campbell Barracks. Soon after he’d passed through the main gate a motor bike approached from the other direction. Both drivers pulled up opposite each other as Des rolled down his window.

G’day Blakey; what’s doing?

Nothing much mate, answered Blake, over the clattering idle of his Harley. I’ve just been nosing around some shops. Where are you off to? Logan was wearing a matt black skull helmet with a small, red, fire breathing dragon painted on each side.

Just heading out to find a bottle O, replied Baker.

 Bugger that; I was just going to get the cabbie to stop off on the way over. Blake figured he wouldn’t be the only one thinking along those lines.

Yeah, I thought about that as well, said Des. There’s going to be seven of us in a minibus. If the bottle shop’s already crowded and then we all waltz in, it could take forever. You can bet the driver will keep his meter ticking over too.

 Logan couldn’t help smirking to himself. This sounded a bit too familiar.

Fuck me, Dessy; you’re starting to sound like Davo. You’re not going to turn all tight arse on me are you?

Nah mate; just thinking about everyone’s welfare, that’s all. No one could be that bad. Did you know he tried to hit me up for interest over that rental car we used in North Queensland?

He did what? Bloody hell; I hope you told him to fuck off? Blake asked, as he gave the throttle a slight rev.

Yeah, you could say that. I’ve got an idea about a little stunt we could pull on him actually. I’ll tell you about it tonight. Do you want me to grab you a carton or what?

Ok; thanks Dessy, replied Logan. Hey, you’ve got someone coming up behind you mate; I’ll see you later on.

The two soldiers headed off. Baker pressed a button on his arm rest and up rolled the tinted window. Ah shit; now there’s a bloody fly in the car. He dug his sunglasses out of the centre console and proceeded along Alfred Road. He was pretty sure his breath must have been off, because the small, sticky fly wouldn’t stay away from his face. He took a couple of unsuccessful swipes at it. Orhh, just fuck off will ya’; you little prick. This was the last thing his pounding head needed. At one stage, the annoying little insect even crawled in under his sunnies.

* * *

Next to the administration building at Campbell Barracks stood a rather large gum tree. Under that gum tree stood seven single soldiers, each in possession of a carton of beer. Some were dressed in jeans and lace up shoes. Some wore various types of cargo shorts with either slip on shoes or thongs. A few of the men wore collared polo shirts and there was also an assortment of different coloured tee shirts on display.

It was approaching 6.00pm, and as they waited for a minibus, Freddy Abercrombie, a sergeant from Charlie Troop, had a question.

Hey Blakey, I was going to take a bottle of rum, but I ran into young Lascone at the bottle shop and he told me that spirits were all sorted. What’s the go there, do you know?

Yeah Freddy; I thought everyone knew about it, replied Blake, looking slightly puzzled. Irish knows a couple of blokes who own a pub in Northbridge. Apparently, they’ve acquired some extra stock and they need to get rid of it.

No, I hadn’t heard. I’m the only one of my crew here at the moment. No one tells me any fuckin’ thing.

Where’s everyone else? asked Merv Davis.

 Freddy elaborated.

Well I’m the only single one around, is more to the point. Any others, who didn’t go home for Christmas, headed over to Switzerland for a couple of weeks. They scored a pretty good stay and play package in the Alps too.

Shit hey, how come you didn’t go? queried Des Baker. Abercrombie had a straight forward answer to that question. Too old; too cold… Can’t fucking ski.

Logan had known his fellow sergeant for a number of years. He knew there was a bit more to it than that.

Freddy was thirty nine years of age and he’d been through a couple of failed marriages. He pretty much lived on base because he couldn’t afford to live out. Half his pay disappeared before he even got to see it. His two ex-wives saw to that. He didn’t mind too much though. He loved his job and he loved the Regiment. There was no other place he’d rather be. He was fairly tall, about the same height as Merv Davis, but much broader. His frame was a bit like that of a seasoned swimmer. Freddy had been a boxer of some note back in his younger days. No one knew how many times his nose had been broken, but it was angled like the scar on a famous young fictitious wizard’s forehead. He had a kind of dark, gingery brown hair and