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  Rhonda fixes her gaze on the Frenchman. ‘So this is about stealing a satellite?’

  ‘It’s not just any satellite.’

  ‘What is it then —?’ Then she understands. ‘Kosmos 1900.’

  Henri nods, impressed. ‘Exactly.’

  Kosmos 1900. Rhonda realises that’s what the Frenchman was talking about earlier. He said ‘Kosmos’, not ‘cosmos’. Obscure information about the satellite floods back to her, details she hasn’t thought about since she was at MIT.

  Many satellites use radioactive material to produce their power, primarily non-weapons-grade plutonium-238. The power is generated by the natural decay of the nuclear material. For safety’s sake, the radioactive material is fabricated in a hardened ceramic form that is all but impervious to shock. If the satellite explodes or burns up on re-entry the ceramic breaks into large chunks that can’t spread into the atmosphere.

  Not so the Kosmos 1900. That RORSAT satellite is powered by a BES-5 nuclear reactor, one of the few that use such a power plant. The reactor’s core consists of 30 kilograms of highly enriched weapons-grade uranium-235, a fissile material with a half-life of 703800000 years. That raw nuclear material is not fabricated in hardened ceramic form but packed into a comparably fragile metal casing.

  Rhonda remembers this because, in 1978, a RORSAT satellite identical to Kosmos 1900 crashed in Canada and spread its uranium cargo across a 600-kilometre path from Great Slave Lake to Baker Lake. Luckily for the Canadians the area was unpopulated. The clean-up took four months yet only one per cent of the nuclear fuel was recovered.

  Rhonda knows human exposure to weapons-grade uranium-235 radiation will cause health problems, but it becomes really dangerous when it’s inhaled. One lungful means a litany of ongoing medical issues, cancer and kidney failure being the tip of the iceberg. More concentrated exposure will kill an adult within a week. That’s the reason it’s one of the rarest and most heavily protected materials on the planet. Governments built fortresses to safeguard it on Earth, but not in orbit. In orbit the Russians had discarded a graveyard of satellites brimming with the stuff - at least 1300 kilograms at last count.

  ‘What do you want that satellite for?’

  ‘So the nuclear material within it can be dispersed at a designated target.’

  His comment is so matter-of-fact that it takes a moment for Rhonda to register its gravity. The Frenchman is planning some kind of attack and that old Russian satellite is his weapon of mass destruction. She shudders to contemplate the damage it could inflict. The RORSAT’s radioactive cargo had the potential to kill thousands of people and make a large area uninhabitable, like Chernobyl or Fukushima Daiichi, for generations to come, with disastrous, long-term health consequences for any survivors.

  Involuntarily her jaw clenches. As far as Rhonda is concerned she is responsible. Atlantis is her ship and all of this happened on her watch so it is her duty to put it right.

  ‘So what’s the designated target?’

  The Frenchman doesn’t look at her. ‘All will become apparent in the fullness of time.’

  **

  24

  The black Tiger streaks across the orange horizon.

  ‘Where in hell is it?’ Dirk can’t locate the Loach and it’s pissing him off. After removing its rear hatch from the handgrip on the Tiger’s windscreen, a job that had taken the better part of fifteen minutes, they hadn’t been able to find the yellow chopper again.

  Dirk checks the scope in the Tiger’s instrument panel but nothing shows up. ‘How did we miss it?’

  In front of him Big Bird tries to remain upbeat: ‘It’s not a surprise. This state is six times bigger than Great Britain —’

  ‘It’s not a state, it’s the Northern Territory.’

  ‘State, territory. English is my third language, give me a break.’

  Dirk knows they should speak German but he doesn’t want to because, apart from Henri’s directive for the multinational crew to use English, he had long ago realised that if he spoke English with a mid-Atlantic accent people were less likely to recognise him than if he spoke German. Of course he doesn’t tell Big Bird this. He’d never told anyone the truth about his past, not even Henri, and he wants to keep it that way. The German feels that in their business, anonymity is essential. The less people know about you and your previous lives, the less that could be used against you down the track.

  That’s why he must find Judd Bell. Not only is Dirk sure the astronaut has worked out that the shuttle is going to land out here and will relay that information to the wider world, he’s also sure he will tell that world he is one of the Atlantis hijackers when he does. Dirk treasures the life he has built since he cut down the oak and will not give it up without a fight.

  Big Bird’s voice rattles in his headset. ‘We’re low on fuel, need to head back.’

  Dirk knows he should have dealt with Judd Bell when they first met on the launch pad but he hesitated in the low light, didn’t want to accidentally put a bullet through the Jacolby woman. So the astronaut escaped into the elevator and lived. Then Dirk missed him a further, what, how many times? Christ, it didn’t bear thinking about. The problem is, he wants to eliminate the astronaut personally, without involving the crew, but now he has no choice but to enlist help.

  ‘All right, take us back.’

  Big Bird pulls the Tiger into a steep bank as Dirk slides a satellite phone out his jacket pocket, flips out the antenna, dials and pushes it as close to his right ear as his helmet permits. The phone rings then is answered by a distant male voice: ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Dirk. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Just.’

  ‘Okay, listen carefully.’

  **

  25

  In a swirl of dust the Loach lands close to a long, single-storey building. Adjacent is a dish antenna that measures about 20 metres in diameter. The last of the sunset illuminates both structures, the building’s paint faded and cracked, the dish stained with bronze streaks of rust. Welcome to the Kinabara Dish Complex.

  Judd’s heart thumps with excitement as he slides out of the chopper and jog-runs to the building’s entrance. He hears something behind him and glances back. The Australian and the dog follow. Corey carries his lucky bucket.

  ‘Need water. Dog’s thirsty.’

  Judd nods, turns back to the building as a tall man in his mid-forties steps out of the entrance, torch in hand. He approaches. ‘G’day, Doug Michaels.’

  Judd extends a hand and they shake. ‘Judd Bell, NASA.’

  ‘Got word you were on the way. Thought you’d be here earlier.’

  ‘We were - waylaid. Is there a satellite phone here?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  It takes a moment before Doug realises Judd wants to use it right now. ‘Well, let’s get it for you then.’

  Judd nods, starts towards the building, gestures to Corey. ‘Also, we need some water.’

  ‘No problem.’ Doug holds out his hand for the bucket.

  Corey doesn’t want to give it to him. ‘I can get it.’

  ‘Only authorised personnel allowed inside. Sorry.’

  Corey won’t pass it over. Judd stops walking, sighs. ‘It’s his lucky - bucket. I - ummm.’ He doesn’t know how to explain it any better than that. He turns to Corey. ‘Just give it to him.’

  Corey reluctantly hands it over. Doug takes it and turns to Judd. ‘Let’s get you that phone.’

  ‘Yes.’ They move towards the building.

  Corey watches them go. ‘I’ll just wait here then.’ He turns, wanders back to the Loach, Spike in tow. ‘It was like Mandy was embarrassed by us.’

  Spike barks.

  ‘Okay, by me.’ He points at the chopper. ‘Get in. We’re not staying long.’

  **

  Doug leads Judd down the dark hallway. ‘Lucky bucket?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where’d you find
him?’

  ‘He found me.’

  Doug’s torch plays across the green linoleum floor. It looks like the stuff Judd’s father used to keep under his Alfa Romeo to stop the dripping oil from staining the cement garage floor. ‘No lights?’

  ‘Plenty of lights, not enough bulbs. Place was decommissioned in the early nineties. I should’ve thought to bring some.’ He shakes his head at the oversight. ‘We were in a bit of a rush to get here.’

  ‘Been here long?’

  ‘About six hours. Gotta say I was surprised when I heard. Didn’t think it was possible to steal a shuttle.’

  ‘Neither did I.’

  They turn a corner and Doug props at a doorway, looks into a large room. The only light inside glows from a computer screen. An old one. Green monochrome illuminates a young woman’s sharp features.

  ‘Any joy?’

  She shakes her head but her eyes don’t leave the screen. ‘This dish will not move. The track must be seized. Looks like we’ll need to go out there and help it along if we’re going to realign it. And this computer - Alzheimer’s patients have more memory.’ The woman looks up from the screen, sees Judd. ‘Oh, hey. Finally got here, huh?’

  ‘Finally. Judd Bell.’

  ‘Petra Zellick.’

  Judd turns to Doug. ‘I really need that phone.’

  ‘Of course.’ Doug looks to Petra. ‘There’s a guy outside, needs water. Take care of him?’

  ‘Sure.’ She stands. ‘Need a break anyway.’

  ‘Fill this up.’ Doug passes Petra the bucket then points Judd along the hallway. ‘We’re down here.’

  **

  From the chopper’s cockpit Corey sees a young woman exit the building carrying his lucky bucket. ‘Here’s your water.’ She reaches the Loach and puts the bucket down.

  Corey steps out of the cockpit and sees her clearly. With her blonde hair and angular features he thinks she’s particularly fetching, and when he thinks that he becomes a bit tongue-tied. ‘Hi. I’m Corny, I mean Corley - Corey! I’m Corey.’

  ‘Petra Zellick.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ He grins his crooked grin except now it’s a little goofy.

  ‘Need anything else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looks at him expectantly. He doesn’t need anything.

  Spike barks.

  ‘Excuse me one sec.’ Corey places the bucket on the pilot’s seat in front of Spike and the dog laps at the water. Corey turns back to Petra, wracks his brain for something to say. ‘So, um, where are you from?’

  ‘Canberra.’

  ‘Great. Excellent. Great. So - seen much of the Territory?’

  ‘No, but I’d like to. It’s magnificent.’

  ‘So, you need a tour guide?’

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘I’d like to formally apply for the position.’

  ‘Great.’ She smiles a million-dollar smile and Corey’s thrilled. A girl hasn’t smiled at him since, well, Sara Connolly two years ago and that was because she thought he was someone else.

  **

  Judd follows Doug down the corridor. ‘Just the two of you here?’

  ‘Yep, expecting a couple of others tomorrow, hopefully someone with a bit more experience with these older systems. We’ve been making it up as we go along. It was last upgraded in the mid-eighties so the blokes who know ‘em are mostly retired or, you know, dead.’ The beam of Doug’s torch hits a door. ‘It’s in there.’

  He pushes the door open. ‘It’s recharging. This room seems to have the only power outlet that works.’ They enter and Doug flicks the switch on the wall. No light. ‘Shit, keep forgetting.’

  The room has the sour smell of wet laundry left standing too long. The torch reflects off a picture window that dominates the far wall, throwing a pale glow over the large office. At one end a long desk topped with a green-shaded banker’s lamp is surrounded by half a dozen wood and vinyl chairs, circa early seventies. Everything’s covered in a film of grey-red dust.

  ‘Where is it?’ Judd turns to Doug and the torch’s beam blasts directly into his face.

  ‘Sorry!’

  Judd turns away. Bright blotches swim across his vision. He blinks to clear them then catches sight of the reflection in the picture window. Doug’s right hand rises towards him. It holds a pistol.

  ‘Shit.’ Judd twists away as the pistol fires and the flash lights up the room. The sound reverberates, shakes the picture window. Judd dives, hits the ground, rolls under the table.

  ‘Your German friend sends his regards.’ The room flashes white again and wood splinters blast into the side of Judd’s face.

  **

  ‘— so that’s the thing, I’m always thinking. It’s Wednesday and I’m already thinking about Thursday.’ Corey turns to Petra, unsure. ‘It is Wednesday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Monday.’ She jabs a nine-millimetre pistol into his ribs.

  He looks from the gun to Petra, confused. ‘Does this mean you don’t need a tour guide?’

  She pulls the trigger as he twists away and hip-checks her. She’s knocked sideways and the bullet slams into the dust. Corey dive-rolls under the Loach as she finds her balance and swings the weapon towards him.

  He’s not there. She bends, looks under the Loach. No sign of him. Pistol raised, finger tight on the trigger, she stalks around the chopper. The Loach is not very big so it doesn’t take long to circumnavigate. He’s nowhere to be seen. ‘Where the hell are you —?’

  Corey leaps from atop the chopper’s blades. She raises the gun but is too slow. He tackles her hard, drives her into the dust.

  The pistol jars from her hand, lands in the red dirt five metres away. Corey scrambles after it. Petra swings out a foot, kicks his right ankle, knocks it against his left. He stumbles, veers sideways, overbalances and slams headfirst into the chopper’s tail section. Dazed, he crumples to the ground.

  ‘Enjoy the trip?’ Petra strolls past him and picks up the weapon.

  **

  Doug crouches, points the torch and the pistol under the table. There’s no one under there. Surprised, he stands, sweeps the torch beam across the room —

  It illuminates Judd as he slides across the dusty table, feet first. He nails Doug in the gut and the Australian hits the floor hard. The pistol jolts from his hand and clatters across the green linoleum.

  They both scramble for it. Doug grabs Judd’s belt, yanks him backwards, pulls himself towards the gun. Judd recovers, shoulders him in the back, knocks him over, snags the weapon, aims it.

  It’s not the pistol, it’s the torch! ‘Shit!’ He finds the switch, turns it on, scans the floor for the weapon —

  Doug kicks him in the back and Judd slams against the table, drops the torch. Doug comes at him and Judd reaches out in the darkness, for something, anything. His hand touches cool metal. He grabs it, swings it around.

  Smash! It connects with Doug’s temple and explodes in a shower of glass. Doug flops to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Judd drops the shattered banker’s lamp and searches for the pistol.

  **

  ‘I’d like to go on record and state I’ve always considered myself to be a lover, not a fighter.’ Corey sits under the Loach’s tail as Petra aims the pistol at his chest. ‘There must be some way we can work this out without resorting to violence —’

  ‘My God, would you just shut up!’ She squeezes the trigger.

  Spike leaps from the Loach’s cockpit, clamps his jaws around Petra’s gun hand.

  ‘Christ!’ She cries out and the pistol fires. The bullet thumps into the ground between Corey’s knees.

  Spike’s incisors rip into skin and grind bones as he bites down on Petra’s hand. She screams, wrenches the pistol from her captive hand, flips it around and aims it at the dog.

  Thunk! She’s belted across the back of the head and collapses to the ground, out cold and soaking wet. Corey stands over her, the now empty bucket in his
hand. ‘Thanks for getting the water.’

  He looks down at Spike. ‘Good dog.’ The door to the building creaks open. Corey and Spike turn to the sound. A figure steps into the light. Doug’s face is covered in a maze of bruises and cuts. Corey’s not happy to see him, prepares for another battle.