Fox Hunt Read online

  Fox was now facing the last two standing, the leader being one of them. His look of fright and disbelief turned to rage and he gestured his remaining henchman forward.

  Fox let him approach. When the man produced a long curved blade, the two women—until now stunned into silence—let out shrill cries.

  The two men mirrored each other’s movements in a circular motion, much like a battle of wits between a matador and a near-defeated bull. The thug made his blunder when he got tired of sending jabs at Fox, which were expertly parried, and made an angry slash at his opponent. Fox jumped back a little to let the swipe go by, then caught the beam-like arm of the man and broke it like a twig across his upcoming knee, following with an elbow in the man’s face.

  Fox turned to where the leader stood, but was a second too late. Another cry came from the women, this time in warning, as Fox moved around, but a blow to the side of his head, accompanied by the shattering of glass, ended all motion.

  Fox’s eyes were still open when he hit the ground in a heap. The last thing he remembered passing through his blurred vision was a pair of feet moving towards him.

  2

  Bill McCorkell, National Security Advisor to the President of the United States, had just finished his morning run. He shook his running partner’s hand and the pair went their separate ways. McCorkell turned and strolled back towards the White House. As he ambled along in the light snow covering the ground of the Constitution Gardens, he looked about at the few early morning joggers game enough to brave the elements. Some ten paces away, his Secret Service agent jogged on the spot to keep warm. Bet he wishes he’d been assigned to one of the fat cabinet members, McCorkell thought.

  A young family, southern tourists by the sound of their accents, were preparing to take a photo with the White House as the backdrop. McCorkell considered the scene—the white snow like a blanket of cottonwool hiding the city grime with a layer of freshness, and the young nuclear family proudly admiring the seat of their government and capturing it for posterity. The white snow was the purest thing in Washington, but even it would eventually succumb to the dirt beneath.

  On reaching the Reflecting Pool, whose long expanse ran between the Washington and Lincoln monuments, McCorkell selected a position near the middle to pause and gaze in. The face of a weary man who’d had too little good sleep looked back at him, but he stared past the image into the dark stone. He enjoyed a full minute of nothingness before turning back to the House.

  With the winter just past being one of the coldest on record, the temperature in the Oval Office at 8 a.m. seemed little above that outside to the six men gathered there.

  A large TV screen on a portable stand was set up against a wall, showing file footage. McCorkell sped up the film to a point that showed tens of thousands of jubilant Chechens rugged up against the cold of last December’s National Day, cheering President Ivanovich as he waved from the back of an army truck. After UN arbitration, the former Russian state had successfully achieved independence, promising peace in the region for the first time in decades.

  “Mr President.” McCorkell began the daily Intel Meeting. On the early side of his fifties, McCorkell bore an uncanny resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte—who was indeed a relative far removed. There was an edge in his voice as he spoke that the President rarely heard and doubted anyone else in the room detected. The pair went back many years, through many a crisis and many more bottles of scotch. What no one in the room knew was that this was the second such discussion McCorkell had conducted that morning.

  “Last night at 11 p.m. our time, there was a huge explosion in Iran’s portside city of Bandar-e Anzali.” McCorkell flicked the TV remote to show footage from an Iranian news station. “Bandar-e Anzali is Iran’s only military naval yard and main oil repository on the Caspian Sea. The Iranian government is selling this as an earthquake, but our sources are indicating otherwise. What caused the devastation is still unknown, but forty minutes ago the intent of this action was made clear. Chechnya are claiming responsibility.”

  McCorkell reached into his attaché case and retrieved five folders, which were passed around the room to the members of the Security Council present: the President, CIA Director Robert Boxcell, Secretary of State Adam Baker, Secretary of Defence Peter Larter, and Tom Fullop, the White House Chief of Staff.

  “Still fresh in our minds are the breakaway Caucasus oblasts—”

  “Oblasts?” Fullop said.

  “States,” McCorkell continued, “of Russia forming an independent alliance with Azerbaijan, giving them a shared border with Iran and access to the Middle East and the Caspian Sea. The catalyst for this new collaboration was the election and international recognition of an autonomous Chechnya last December.” McCorkell gestured to the TV screen, now showing a close-up of Sergei Ivanovich, president of the world’s newest nation, waving his fists at the cheering masses along the main avenue through Grozny.

  “While most of the world’s intel resources have been tied up in Afghanistan and Iraq combating global terrorism, Chechnya has just stood up to tell everybody it wants to be noticed.”

  “Hell of a way to go about it,” Larter said as he flicked through his folder.

  “We are all aware of the military might of this nation—a force augmented by passionate and war-hardened personnel, and suspected to harbour many Afghanis and Iraqis after those regimes fell. The economy is propped up by extensive oil and natural gas reserves, and the country has shown a willingness to open trading channels with its neighbours and anyone else prepared to inject hard currency.” McCorkell took a sip of water as he held everybody’s attention.

  “And the attack on this port?” the President asked.

  “The attack on Bandar-e Anzali left virtually nothing standing in the blast zone, which was almost a kilometre in diameter. Beyond that, fires and debris stretch throughout the suburban city.” McCorkell looked up from his notes.

  “What could have caused the blast?” inquired Tom Fullop, genuine curiousity written all over his pointy face.

  “Peter?” The President’s National Security Advisor palmed off the question.

  “Mr President, let’s look at two things,” Larter said. “One, the capabilities that Chechnya has. Two, what we can learn from the impact zone.” He produced a map and several A3-sized glossy photographs. “The devastation caused could not have been produced by any known weapon in the Chechens’ arsenal. From the size of the blast area, the easiest view to take would be that it was a small nuke or an incredible amount of explosives—which not only seems unlikely, but if you look at the photographs closely, there is no visible sign of a blast crater whatsoever. Even a daisy-cutter or an MOAB leaves a decent dent in the landscape.”

  McCorkell, having been briefed on all the intel prior to the meeting, watched as the rest of the room took their time scrutinising the series of high-altitude images. The various magnifications of what was left of Bandar-e Anzali were as ambiguous to the others as to him. It was mass destruction with no telltale remnants of cause.

  “Our analysts are going to need a bit more time nutting this one out,” Larter admitted.

  Even the Secretary of Defence, responsible for the world’s most formidable armed forces, has his limitations, McCorkell mused. Larter’s parted blond hair showed the beginnings of grey and had thinned out over the past year of office; bags under his eyes augmented the lines on his lean face.

  “Has this attack prompted any movement across the border?” the President asked his advisors.

  “No,” Larter said flatly. “The majority of Chechnya’s troops have amassed along the Azerbaijan southern border, but this has been mirrored in force by the Iranians. Iran is still moving assets to the scene whilst calling up substantial numbers of reservists.”

  “How’s the projected outcome looking?” McCorkell asked the Secretary of Defence.

  “The front line is going to be a tough call,” Larter said. “Assuming Chechnya wins
, how they hope to march all the way to the Gulf is beyond the Joint Chiefs and all our strategists. The Chechens barely have a quarter of the number of Iran’s forces and their supply lines could easily be cut off.” Larter shifted in his seat before adding, “Our Warfighter II satellite picked up something interesting overnight.”

  McCorkell gave the Secretary of Defence a sideways look. Withholding information? That’s interesting …

  “Chechnya has sent its small fleet of heavy-lift aircraft to a suspected insurgent camp in northern Iraq about two hundred kilometres from the Iranian border. So they could, potentially, reach into Iran and back up their forces, but it’s a damn small force—and that’s if they can get over the border.”

  “A small but important force,” McCorkell said. “Chechnya only has one battalion of airborne armour.”

  The room was silent for a moment as each man dwelled on the escalating situation.

  “What the hell are the Chechens doing in Iraq?” asked Adam Baker, the youngest Secretary of State ever. His question was directed more to himself than anyone else, since overseas relations with and between countries fell within his realm of responsibility. He cracked his knuckles distractedly, then fidgeted his hands on his growing paunch. “That’s what we need to find out—”

  “All right,” the President cut in, looking at his watch. “By this time tomorrow I want answers. What the hell was used on Bandar-e Anzali, and what are those Chechens doing in Iraq?”

  He pointed to Larter. “Get the damn Iraqi Army ready to kick them out. And move in whatever assets we have nearby that can handle them, ready to move on my order.”

  “The 11th Armoured are on standby outside Baghdad—I’m talking with the Joint Chiefs about scenarios this morning,” Larter said.

  “Good. Bill, you mentioned that we have some idea why the Chechens targeted Bandar-e Anzali,” the President reminded his National Security Advisor.

  “Yes, Mr President, here’s the crunch.” McCorkell cleared his throat. “The President of Chechnya, Sergei Ivanovich, has given Iran an ultimatum: if they do not secede everything west of the Fiftieth Longitude down to the Gulf, Chechnya will wipe Tehran off the map.” McCorkell felt the dynamic in the room change; the tension in the air was palpable. “They have threatened a seven-day ultimatum, which started ticking at eleven o’clock last night.”

  “This Chechen alliance is barely half the size of Iran, with a respectively proportioned armed force,” Larter said. “Those Arabs will wipe them off the face of the earth within six days!” The Secretary of Defence was noticeably red in the face.

  “Calm down, Pete.”

  Larter took a sip of his black coffee in response to the President’s words.

  “Go on, Bill,” said the President, looking at the A3 photos of Bandar-e Anzali with a worried frown.

  “Despite high oil prices, Iran is in the greatest economic lull it has ever experienced, with opposing sections of the country’s Muslim populace creating havoc on the streets—particularly in the western provinces, where extremist militia have been causing hell for years.

  “Late last year Chechnya and Azerbaijan offered millions to Iran for access to the Gulf, but Iran refused the offer.

  “Now the Chechens are loading every naval and merchant vessel afloat in the Caspian Sea with military personnel and hardware. They seem intent on landing on Iranian soil. Iran hasn’t responded to the attack yet. They are still dealing with the shock of the port’s destruction, and are in the process of diverting army units from the growing northern front to evacuate the injured and recover the dead.”

  “Adam, I don’t care what you have to do to make it happen, but get an audience with the Ayatollah and President of Iran. Today.”

  “Yes, Mr President,” Baker said.

  “We’ve got just over six days to avert this mess,” the President said to his staff, all true and trusted men of sound judgement.

  Each man paused, waiting for someone else to begin the debate.

  “Well?” the President asked, his temper rising.

  McCorkell took the cue, flicking through his notes as he spoke. “Let’s have another look at what assets we have on hand …”

  3

  MARCH 2005

  Fox lay in a pool of mud, the rain cutting visibility to a few metres. To his left was Leading Seaman John Birmingham, covered in blood from a gouge across his brow.

  “They’ve got us pegged, Lieutenant,” Birmingham said as he loaded another high-explosive round into his M203 grenade launcher.

  “Looks that way, JB,” Fox said, using a small mirror to look above the rim of the trench they had taken cover in. If they didn’t move in a few minutes, they’d be fully submerged in the torrential downpour. Fox felt the mud sucking him down and shifted his weight to compensate. His fatigues were heavy with rainwater. Not that the Royal Australian Navy’s Clearance Divers minded getting wet. Especially CDT4, specialists in shore assaults and the most active unit in the Australian military.

  “Try to get the others on the blower again,” Fox said, as a spray of heavy-calibre automatic gunfire tore into the trees around them.

  “Damn if these are bloody militia!” Birmingham said, trying the satellite phone again.

  “Indonesian Army, you reckon?” Fox wiped down his Austeyr assault rifle, wishing he had one of the SAS’s new M4s—much better in the wet.

  Several more shots rang out, splinters of wood showering them, before Birmingham answered.

  “They’re M16s, boss—and they’re gettin’ closer. No answer on the sattel.”

  Fox looked across at the confident face of Birmingham and was glad he had chosen him for this recon. There was supposed to be a prison camp of East Timorese refugees nearby, and the man next to him had seen more combat than anyone else in CDT4. Birmingham’s cool head under live fire was invaluable, especially since they were well outside the mandated security zone and no one knew where they were.

  “Ideas, JB?” Fox asked.

  Birmingham looked about him; the visibility was unchanged. “Fire a couple of HE rounds and bolt, or wait here for a full company of bad guys to show up.” He took a couple of jelly babies from his top pocket and passed one over.

  “Hmmm, tough call,” Fox said.

  “That’s why you’re paid the big bucks, sir,” Birmingham said, cocking his M203 ready for fire.

  “Okay, let’s do it. We’ll hump it north, exactly a kay from here, if we get separated,” Fox said, inserting a round into his grenade launcher.

  “On three,” Fox said, getting ready to move.

  “One,” Birmingham said, moving into position.

  “Two,” Fox said, doing the same.

  “Three!” In unison the pair raised to one knee, brought their grenade launchers up …

  … and came face to face with thirty rifle barrels, topped by the camouflaged faces of Indonesian Special Forces and the unpainted faces of the local militia.

  4

  Fox awoke slowly, opening one eye first, groggily followed by the other. The smell of coffee immediately aroused his senses. He certainly wasn’t in Timor—he’d managed to separate those dreams now. He sat up in bed, but went instantly back down as a searing pain shot through his head. He let out a groan and fingered the egg-sized lump on the back of his skull.

  “Good morning.” A woman wearing one of his cotton shirts entered the room carrying a tray. Fox closed his eyes tightly, trying to remember exactly what had happened the previous night.

  “How did I get—wait, who are you?”

  Fox looked at the tray she placed next to him, picked up the glass of aspirin and downed it in two gulps. Slowly, fragments of the night before and the five guys came back. He also realised that the howling sound he could hear wasn’t inside his head, but was the promised cyclone belting down on his little house.

  “My name’s Sarah. My friend and I took your dive course last week. And then you saved us last nigh
t,” the woman said with a grin. “And it seems you have a guardian angel.”

  Fox sat up again and pulled a strip of bacon off the full plate of breakfast Sarah had prepared for him. Things were starting to fall into place, but he still couldn’t work out how he’d ended up in his own bed.

  “Morning, Jackie Chan, how’s the noggin?” Alister Gammaldi entered, Fox’s best friend since high school. “I’ve always been more of a Rocky myself,” he added with a grin that his friend had not seen in months.

  “Al!” This time Fox ignored the throb of his head and jumped out of bed to give his mate a huge bear hug. He realised who Sarah had meant by his guardian angel—not that Al looked like one. At five four, with more muscles and hair than a silverback gorilla, Gammaldi had held up his end in many a bar-room brawl during their navy days.

  “So you came to the rescue last night?” Fox said.

  “Aw, it was nothing. After all, there was only one left standing. Still looking for trouble outside bars, I see. I thought you moved out here to relax for a while.” Al gave his best friend a sly grin and a poke in the ribs.

  “Yeah, yeah. But what the hell are you doing here?”

  Fox put on a bathrobe over his shorts and they moved downstairs to the living area where Sarah’s friend was lying on one of the soft leather couches intently reading a copy of The Islander.

  Fox glanced outside at the blustery conditions and was thankful he’d put storm shutters on most of the windows. The mercury had fallen rapidly within the past day and the extreme low-pressure system was battering the island.

  “If you ever bothered to open your mail,” Gammaldi said with a nod towards the pile on the table, “you’d have known I was coming. I’ve taken my long service leave from the navy—something you were close to being able to do.”