Terror Australis preview

book preview of Terror Australis


 


PAPERBACK
BOOKS
TERROR
AUSTRALIS 

Joe (Yousef) Malik, a Sydney-born
Muslim and Australian Federal Police Inspector, is on an end-of-season rugby
trip in Bali with his mates, October 12, 2002. He is badly burned when a
terrorist’s bomb explodes in Paddy’s bar but he gets out alive. He is physically
and emotionally scarred. When he eventually returns to work after weeks of
treatment in a Sydney burns unit, his knowledge of Islam and Arabic leads to
promotion to Inspector in charge of the newly formed AFP Counter-Terrorist Unit.

Intel from US Intelligence
Agencies warns of terrorist enclaves in Australian detention centres with links
to Sydney’s Mosques and an imminent attack on Australian soil. Aided by two US
specialists in electronic surveillance from the FBI and CIA, the
Counter-Intelligence team puts a Sydney Mosque and a detention centre under 24/7
electronic scrutiny.

Malik and an AFP female
colleague, Australia-born, Arabic speaking Nina Zeehan, go under cover as an
illegal refugee married couple into the detention centre. They are wired and
monitored around-the-clock. Eventually Malik infiltrates a terrorist enclave led
by evil Abu al-Hussein, who plans to break out with the help of local activists
and destroy an iconic Sydney target. The race is on to avert this unspeakable
act of horror and destruction…

In Store Price: $24.00 

Online Price:   $23.00

ISBN:
1-9208-8441-6


Format: Paperback

Number of pages:
248


Genre: Fiction

 

Author: Ross L. Barber 

Imprint: Poseidon

Publisher: Poseidon Books

Date Published: April 2004

Language: English

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About the author   

Ross L Barber is a
well-traveled, semi-retired South Australian high school teacher of foreign
languages. He retired from full time teaching duties at the age of 53. After
acquiring basic word processing skills, he turned his energies to writing. At
first, humorous short stories from his early days in teaching in the 60s and
70s. In 1997, he began his first novel, Chalk that was completed in late
1998. In 2000, Barber began his first work of fiction, The Enclave, and
finished it May 2001. In the first week of September that same year, he began
his second work of fiction, Internet Stalker, an in-depth look at the
Internet chat scene with all its exciting, dangerous and evil aspects, finishing
it June, 2002. He penned Jihad, the sequel to Internet Stalker later
that year. When he is not working on his current book or penning some humorous
anecdote, this former educator can be found down on the local pier fishing. His
two children are grown up. He lives with his wife of 37 years in his hometown,
Adelaide, in sunny South Australia.

Prologue

 

October 12,
2002

Bali,
Saturday night

The Kuta
district

 

           
10:00PM.

           
It was a typical Bali night: hot, humid and still. Joe (Yousef) Malik
stood on the balcony of Paddy’s Bar, gazing down at the neon strips in the main
street below.

           
Above the music and happy laughter in the nightclub, he could hear the
surf pounding onto the black sand at nearby Kuta Beach.

           
Malik’s job with the Australian Federal Police gave him time to combine
work with his beloved Rugby League. He’d been coming here for the last ten years
on end-of-season football trips. Peaceful, laid-back, friendly Balinese, and
cheap accommodation. The warm sea and surf, a tropical paradise, and every night
Saturday night. He loved this place and he always enjoyed himself here. Except
for that first time in 1993. When the boys said, “Don’t drink the bloody
water whatever you do, Joe,” he thought they were kidding him. Wrong! He
got ‘Bali belly’, and spent 48 hours sitting on the toilet shitting his brains
out.

           
Time passed…

 

           
10:30PM

           
Malik examined his watch. “I could stand here all night just
watching the street and listening to the noises of the night. But I’d better get
along down to the Sari Club. From here, it sounds like the boys are already well
oiled,” he said to himself.

           
A familiar voice yelled, “Hey, Joe, are you coming over to the Sari,
mate? I’ve got these two honeys here to look after. Need a bit of help.”

           
Malik looked down. He saw his team-mate, Bill Swanson, waving frantically
up at him. He was strolling along in the street below with a pretty girl on each
arm: one blonde, one brunette. Cupping his hands around his mouth he yelled
back, “I’ll be there in a while, mate. Keep them warm for me,
alright?”

           
He reluctantly drew his eyes away, turned and jogged down the rickety
stairs to the bar. Although quite small compared with other clubs, at this time
of night, Paddy’s was usually packed, and tonight was no exception. There were
couples galore crammed into this tiny space; some at tables but the majority
stood and jostled for a spot at the bar. He looked at his watch again.

 

           
10:35PM

           
Why not? Don’t want her to think I’m too eager so I might just have a
quick one here before rocking on over to the Sari.

           
The tough little Sydney Sharks hooker stood at the rear of the bar,
dragged up a stool and perched himself on it. A 31-year-old Muslim and a Rugby
League veteran trying to maintain peak fitness, he didn’t normally drink
alcohol. But on special occasions such as this he let his hair down and drank a
stubby or two. Thinking about the good time he hoped to have later with the
pretty brunette in the Sari Club, he ordered a Fosters instead of his usual
tonic water and lemon.

           
The only respite from the heat and humidity came from a gutless
air-conditioner and a couple of ceiling fans that creaked and groaned. He sipped
his icy cold Fosters and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Geez this tastes
good,” he muttered.

           
A gravely voice from the next stool said, “Talking to yourself is
the first sign you’re losing your marbles, mate. You better go easy on the grog.
Where are you from anyway?”

           
Malik sized the guy up. He was built like a brick shithouse: muscular
shoulders, thick neck, broken nose, and thighs like an Olympic gymnast. His head
was shaved and he had cauliflower ears. He looked mean as hell, but he had
twinkling, blue eyes; friendly eyes and he looked familiar. “Sydney,”
Malik replied. Then he recognized him. It was that colourful, tough Australian
Rules player from the Kangaroos they called Mick.

           
He stretched out his hand. The guy grasped it in his huge paw and
squeezed; squeezed hard and grinned. Malik had expected a strong grip. Although
his hand was small by comparison, he looked the big guy straight in the eye but
didn’t blink or avert his gaze.

           
“Your tough-guy image precedes you here,” Malik exclaimed.
“Even in good old, one-eyed Sydney League country, everyone knows you by
reputation. By the way, my name’s Joe, Joe Malik. I’m from the Sydney Sharks
team. How are you going, mate, alright?”

           
“Bloody hell, you recognize me, hey? It’s about time you blokes up
in the Harbour City got your act together about a real man’s game, Aussie
Rules.”

           
Malik ignored the irony and beamed disarmingly. “I follow the Sydney
Swans in the AFL,” he breezed. “I’ve spoken a few times with the Swans
boys in the change rooms after the games. Good blokes. By the way, how do you
reckon your new coach will go in 2003, mate?”

           
At the mention of the word ‘coach,’ his face clouded over. “Talk
about bloody coaches,” he quipped. “I changed clubs after many years,
and so did he. That’s bloody life. But I’m really focused and 100% into my new
team. We’re a cert for the flag next year if we give it our all. Right or wrong,
it’s up to us, the players, to get us over the line come next September. We’ll
give the competition a good shake. Dead set.”

           
The mood now broken, they didn’t talk for a while. As Malik looked
aimlessly around, the clock over the bar caught his eye.

 

           
11:05PM.

           
He had to go soon. But first he wanted to buy a round. “My
shout,” he said. “What are you drinking, big guy?”

           
His drinking partner called the barman over. “Same again,” he
said. Then grinning at Malik, he continued, “The next one’s mine, okay,
little fellah?”

           
At this point, Malik felt a sudden urge to pee.

           
“Hey, keep my seat free will you, mate, I’ve got to take a leak.
I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

           
His new friend pointed towards the toilet just around the corner.

           
“The dunny’s right behind you, mate. Go for it.”

           
But before he could move, they heard a ruckus at one of the tables near
Paddy’s entrance. A guy who looked like a local Balinese with a heavy knapsack
on his back was arguing with a drunken western woman. Trying to ward her off, he
carefully laid the knapsack on a low table.

           
They looked in that direction.

           
She tugged on his arm and screeched, “Fuck you creep. First you
promise me the world if I sleep with you. Now you’ve got laid, you want to
leave, just like that, you bastard!”

           
Embarrassed by all the attention this woman’s loud voice was attracting,
the Balinese tried to placate his irate companion, tried to stop her screeching,
but he kept glancing at his watch and his eyes didn’t leave the knapsack for a
second.

           
Malik’s new drinking partner didn’t appreciate this interruption.
“If I wanted this kind of shit,” he growled, “I would’ve got
married. Nice to meet you, Joe, don’t do anything I wouldn’t enjoy. Okay?”
Then he shook Malik’s hand, grinned, slid from his stool and strode out the
door. Malik’s eyes followed him out into the hot Bali night.

 

           
11:10PM.

           
After one last glance at the arguing couple, Malik replied, “Yep,
see you, mate. Good luck in the AFL next year.” The rugby player pointed at
the pair at the table and asked the bartender, “You know him?”

           
The bartender continued polishing glasses. He eventually said without
looking up, “He big trouble. Not from Bali. He foreigner from big city on
Java.”

           
“Is that right? Interesting,” Malik said. He got off his stool
and headed for the toilets around the corner.

 

           
11:15PM

           
Deep in thought, no sooner had he begun to empty his bladder than a loud
explosion rocked the bar. The floor shook, glass shattered. The sounds of
screams snapped him out of his reverie. A few seconds later as he zipped up his
fly, a deafening bomb blast from the Sari Club hammered Paddy’s and slammed him
against the toilet wall. Then he vaguely heard the dull crump of a third
explosion much further away. He slumped to the ground unconscious. Seconds that
seemed like hours elapsed…

 

           
A thick fog. Head pounding like a sledgehammer. Gradually coming around.
Malik shook his head like a wet dog to clear it. He opened his eyes and tried to
stand up. Couldn’t. He felt a searing pain in his chest; he coughed but could
hardly breathe. Smoke everywhere. Flames licked around the edge of the door. One
of the water pipes had burst. The blasts had shattered the toilet bowl and
ripped it away from its pedestal. The floor was awash with sewage.

           
Malik patted himself over to see what injuries he’d sustained. He had an
unbearable pain in his sternum whenever he coughed or tried to move.

           
A couple of cracked ribs, I reckon.

           
Other than that, and reeking of excrement, no serious internal injuries,
it seemed. No broken bones. He eased himself gingerly onto his side, used his
right arm as leverage to get to his feet. A bolt of pain nearly made him faint.
The roar of the fire in the bar became louder as the flames came closer. He had
to get out of there before fire engulfed the small room. Summoning all his
strength, he gritted his teeth and dragged himself to his feet and leaned
against the wall. On the floor lay an effluent-soaked raffia mat. It would at
least provide some protection against the heat. Not much but better than
nothing. He draped it over his shoulders. Holding one arm against his chest, the
other up to his face, he lurched through the corona of flames around the
doorway.

           
What he saw when he groped his way through the smoke into the bar nearly
made him puke. The once colourful little tavern no longer existed. The mirrors
and all glassware were now shards of glass lying everywhere. Tables and chairs
blazed like brushwood. Bodies in flames littered the ground. The place where the
guy with the knapsack and his angry companion had argued a mere minute or so
earlier was a blackened hole in the floor. No sign of either of them. But the
sickening stench of seared flesh assailed his nostrils.

           
He heard a cry for help.

           
“You can please help me, sir?”

           
Through the smoke he saw the bartender, clothes in flames, trying to drag
himself over the bar. His hand reached out for him.

           
Malik staggered in unbearable pain towards the outstretched hand.

           
Suddenly the roof collapsed. A heavy wooden beam crashed down blocking
Malik’s path to the bartender.

           
He saw two scenarios: get out now or perish in the bar. He could hear the
barman’s pathetic cry, “You no help me, Mister, I die for sure here.”

           
Malik inched forward. A whoosh of scorching air blew him backwards.
Between him and the guy he was trying to help stood a wall of fire and
suffocating smoke. The choices now limited to saving the bartender or himself
from certain death, Malik, brave, but not that brave, reluctantly opted for the
latter.

           
The distraught young Sydneysider turned his head to the side, gulped in a
lungful of air, dragged the soiled mat over himself. He held with one hand his
aching ribs, put up his other hand, palm facing away as if expecting a slap in
the face, and then he made a dash through the opening between the fallen beam
and crackling flames. He stumbled through swirling smoke and sparks that shot
everywhere. Over broken glass, over burning bodies to the front door. The mat
protecting him smouldered. Within seconds, the flimsy raffia was ablaze. He
shrugged it off and flung himself the last few feet through the doorway that led
to the street. Seconds later, the few other survivors, mostly Balinese, tripped
out after him. They stood in a group too distraught to speak. Stared in awe at a
bright red ball in the sky with pure-white smoke in mushroom form rising from
it. It came from the place where the Sari Club had been until barely a minute
before.

           
Instead of finding safety outside, Malik and the others confronted the
searing heat from Paddy’s and the Sari club that the second giant explosion had
devastated. Along Jalan Legian, flash fires ignited hotels and bars, also
exploding into infernos. He realised they had to get away from there or risk
being incinerated. He urged the survivors to look. Pointed to the street.

           
“We must go down Jalan Legian. Safe there.” Then he nodded the
survivors in that direction.

           
Once in the protection of Jalan Legian, Malik and the Balinese with him
looked at the terrifying sight. The whole street was ablaze. The burning
carcasses of cars shattered by the Sari Club blast lay heaped haphazardly on top
of each other. A short distance away in a loading zone not far from the Sari
Club they could see a metre-deep crater.

           
Chaos reigned. Crowds fleeing the scene streamed towards them screaming
and tipping water all over each other. But when Malik asked them what had
happened, no one would answer him. Most of them moved aimlessly in shock.

           
A couple of western men and women came out of the dark covered in blood.
“It is terrorists,” somebody shouted. “Nobody’s safe here. You
better get out of this town.”

           
The electricity was out. Other than the buildings in flames, the only
light they had to see with came from the headlights of the dozens of motorcycles
racing to get to the scene.

           
“Got to get back to my hotel ASAP. See how many of our boys got out
or didn’t,” he blabbered to the goggle-eyed Balinese.

           
He felt a firm grip on his shoulder. It squeezed. He spun around. Uneven
white teeth gleamed out of a blackened and sweaty face. A familiar gravely voice
asked, “Are you okay, lad?” Then it quipped, “Bloody hell, what a
pong.” It continued, “You stink like you’ve been rolling in dogshit or
something, Joe. Where the hell have you been?”

           
Despite Malik’s aches and distress he couldn’t repress a grin.

           
“More like Bali shit mate. I got caught in the dunny taking a piss
when the bomb blew Paddy’s Bar to smithereens. Actually, I used a raffia mat
soaked in effluent from the dunny floor to cover my head when I escaped. Maybe
it stinks like shit, but it saved me from third degree burns.”

           
He laughed out loud at that. “We better have a medic check you out.
You look totally fucked mate. Where are you staying?” he asked.

           
“About 600 metres down the road at the Buna Beach Hotel; and the
Kangaroos?”

           
“We’re there too.”

           
“How come you missed out on all the fun, man? Didn’t you go to the
Sari Club to join your mates when you left Paddy’s?” Malik said.

           
He looked perplexed.

           
“Was going to but thought I’d jog down to Kuta Beach for a quick dip
to cool off and sweat out some of the booze first. Was about a K away when I
heard the first explosion. Was already on my way back when the Sari went kaboom!”

           
Standing in the street, they heard cop cars and the wail of ambulance
sirens. “We better get you back to your hotel for a check up,” the big
man said. “Do you reckon you can make it on foot, Joe? Judging by the lack
of colour in your face, mate, chances are you’d pass out before we got more than
50 metres.”

           
At that point, a couple of young local Balinese boys on motorcycles
pulled up alongside them. They smiled shyly and motioned the two Australians to
get on behind them.

           
“Which hotel you are staying at sirs? You not get taxi at this time.
We take you there. Okay?”

           
“How much, boys?” he asked taking a wad of Australian dollars
from his wallet and fanning them before the young motorcyclists’ eyes.

           
Adrenalin pumped through the boys’ veins and their eyes gleamed with
anger at the catastrophe that had befallen their beloved Bali.

           
“No, no, sirs,” they cried pushing the money away, “we
take you now. It cost you nothing. Okay?”

           
He grinned at them, helped Malik onto one of the bikes then got on the
other one. “You better hang on tight, mate,” the Kangaroo player
laughed, “when it comes to getting somewhere real quick, these kids don’t
fuck around.”

           
Although groggy and wracked with pain, Malik leaned forward and clasped
the kid tightly around his waist. Then the kid gunned his motorcycle into a
wheel stand and burned rubber down Legian to the Buna Beach Hotel. The other
rider did the same. Within seconds, they arrived shaken but safe in front of
their hotel.

           
The young Balinese helped Malik to the hotel entrance, then without
waiting for thanks, were gone: back to the chaos of the bombsites to help out
some more.

 

           
Inside the hotel, the sight that met their eyes was surreal. The foyer
was filled with tourists, in the main Rugby League and AFL players. They stood
around hugging each other with relief or looked inquiringly at their coaches for
an explanation for these bizarre events. Others too weak or injured lay on the
floor and silently awaited medical attention. Emergency power had been restored.
An Australian doctor with his wife, a qualified ER nurse, on a short stopover
from a medical conference in Japan, dispensed whatever help he could. A handful
of Balinese staff was overwrought and apologised pathetically for a catastrophe
that wasn’t their fault. In tears, they assisted the doctor and his spouse as
best they could.

           
Malik’s new AFL friend alerted the doctor to his plight then joined his
Kangaroo mates.

           
“Hey, where have you been, mate?” the Kangaroo boys asked as
one. “Paul’s gone missing but everyone else has been accounted for.”

           
Paul was his best friend on and off the field. The big tough man’s former
good humour vanished, he looked pale and his voice trembled, as he asked,
“No sign of him anywhere? Have you checked out Sanglah Hospital?
Maybe he’s there?”

           
From Malik’s team, five were missing. Three, including his pal, Bill
McCarthy, were already declared dead in the Sari Club explosion. Suddenly, Malik
slumped unconscious to the ground.

                 

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