Sensitive New Age Spy Read Online Free PDF

Yank Navy inflatable with Lonergan and the American officers. The coxswain had the engines screaming and the nose up as soon as we left the dock, and we bounced off every damn wave between the island and the cruiser, the bitter salt spray soaking everyone on board. No one spoke a word on the three-minute journey. Looking back at Fort Denison, I could see the assault teams rappelling down onto the tanker from the hovering choppers.
    Sturdee, Lonergan and I clambered awkwardly onto the dock near the stern of the Altoona . Julie and the officers were a lot more graceful about it. As we ran towards the cruiser, a bunch of nervous-looking American sailors in helmets and flak vests, members of the ship’s Security Alert Team, pointed combat shotguns and M16s in our direction. They lowered their weapons when they saw the US officers. There was a neat row of plastic body bags, or what the Americans now like to call human remains pouches, near the gangway. So we had three dead already.
    On the dockside, Navy medics and local ambulance officers were working frantically on the injured. A motorcycle paramedic with his helmet still on was doing vigorous chest compressions on a sailor who had a hole in his thigh you could drive a bus through. He was desperately chanting, ‘Breathe, you bastard, breathe, you bastard,’ as he pushed down. More ambulances were speeding onto the dock with lights and sirens going full tilt, and I could see a TV news crew setting up out in the street just past Harry’s Café de Wheels. A bunch of press photographers were milling about the dock gate, held back by a couple of cops and some Naval Police. Diego Vega, a new member of the WorldPix team, was elbowing his way to the front of the pack.
    I was keeping well back, trying to stay out of everybody’s way. Lonergan joined me after a brief conversation with a group of American officers. He was confused and angry, which he had every right to be since, as local CIA chief, thefallout from all this would land at his feet.
    ‘Maybe we should go talk to the captain,’ I said.
    Lonergan thought about it for a moment, then nodded. ‘He’s on the helicopter deck with some medics. Got a bullet through the shoulder.’
    Lonergan led Julie and me up the gangway to the helicopter deck. Deep gouges from close-range bullet hits scored the sides of the empty hangar. The usual post-gunfight stink of cordite hung in the air, and the deck was spattered with blood and littered with empty cartridge cases.
    A medical officer was bandaging the captain’s right shoulder. The captain waved the medic away when he saw Lonergan and they had a brief conversation, most of which involved the captain shaking his head. Finally he relented, and Lonergan called Julie and me over and did the introductions. The captain glanced warily at Julie, then at Lonergan.
    ‘Ms Danko knows more about my job than I do,’ I said, ‘and she’s cleared to hear everything I am.’
    ‘You know I can’t tell you much,’ the captain said.
    ‘Maybe I should just guess, then. Had a bit of trouble and lost a helicopter?’
    He looked at Lonergan again, who nodded. ‘We have three men dead,’ the captain said after a long pause, ‘God knows how many wounded, eight men AWOL, and a missing Seahawk.’
    ‘Lose anything else, Captain?’ I said. There aren’t too many things that can make a career CIA operative likeCarter Lonergan turn white, so I took a punt. ‘Like a nuclear warhead, for instance?’
    The captain’s jaw was clenched so tight I expected to hear the sound of exploding molars. ‘You know that I can neither confirm nor deny the presence of nuclear weapons on my vessel.’
    The way he said ‘my vessel’ told me he understood it wasn’t going to be his ship for very much longer. If there’s a constant in navies worldwide – besides the predilection for grey paint, buggery and bell-bottom trousers – it’s that no one gets away with a major screw-up. This poor bastard’s next