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About the author Arn Winter is a retired
civil engineer and university lecturer now living at Redcliffe. A qualified
theologian, he has a passionate interest in the natural spirituality of
Australia and of links between unexplained phenomena and modern science. Bodyguard Duty
is the third of a series of crime stories he has written around the
psychically-sensitive Senior Constable Alan Dodd. The first and second stories
in the series, Fire Line and
Carnival Karma are also published by Zeus
Publications.
1. Wednesday Senior Constable Alan Dodd
eased his foot off the accelerator.
In the passenger seat beside him, Detective Senior Constable Phillip Van Nguyen
glanced sideways from the road ahead. “What’s up?” “I’m not sure.” Alan allowed
the maroon Calais to slow to 100 kph before holding that speed. They were on a long,
slightly curved section of bitumen. Black wattle scrub lined both sides of the
road almost to the shoulders. Five hundred metres ahead the lead vehicle in the
convoy, a grey Mitsubishi 380, began to draw away slightly. Alan glanced in the
mirror at the white Commodore pursuit vehicle acting as his rear guard. The VIP
in the back seat, who had been gazing quietly out of a side window, turned his
bald head so his eyes fleetingly met Alan’s in the mirror. All three officers in the
rear car would have heard the interchange coming through their earpieces.
Nevertheless, the Commodore closed up slightly before dropping back to the
standard two car lengths as its speed was adjusted to that of the Calais. Alan returned his attention
to the road ahead, he closely watched the scrub on either side behind the lead
vehicle for signs of movement. If they were going to be ambushed, he reasoned,
the attackers would almost certainly allow the lead vehicle to pass. “On the right!” Phill
shouted, his left hand diving into the bumbag on the front of his belt to emerge
with a 9mm Glock 17L handgun. Alan had seen the movement
in the same instant Phill’s shout began. The rustling in the roadside foliage
rapidly became a distinct shape as a camouflaged Nissan twin-cab four-wheel
drive accelerated out from the bushes. Fresh-cut branches and bushes adorned the
bullbar and bonnet. The vehicle jerked to a stop across the middle of the road,
200 metres ahead of the Calais. As Alan saw the vehicle emerge and judged its
length, he instantly decided he wouldn’t be able to go around it and he slammed
on the brakes. “We go back!” he shouted. But the driver behind had
already made the same decision. The Commodore accelerated past on the right of
the Calais. Blue smoke rose from the four tyres of the braking vehicle. As soon
as the Commodore was in front, it too braked hard as a dozen camouflage-clad
troops wearing gas masks poured from the scrub on either side. Alan slammed the Calais into
reverse and began to accelerate backwards. Several of the soldiers were behind
him now, rifles raised and firing. Smoking canisters of gas were rolled under
the Commodore ahead. Alan could see and smell similar gas rising around the
Calais. His eyes watered and he began to cough and dry retch as a splash of
blood-red covered the windscreen before him. He flicked the wipers to full speed
and continued to accelerate backwards, fighting the need to vomit. Twisted in his seat to peer
backwards as he reversed, he saw through his tears that the VIP was covering his
nose and mouth with a large, checked handkerchief. Alan concentrated on the
road. He passed the last of the troops and swung the car around in a squealing
reverse turn. A wailing siren sounded from
a marked police Falcon approaching from the front. Alan braked the Calais to a
stop before tumbling out of the driver’s door, tears streaming from his eyes. He
bent forward to gulp in fresh air and continued to fight the urge to vomit as
his stomach muscles contracted involuntarily. “Okay.” The harsh,
disembodied voice came from a handheld loudspeaker. “Everyone back to the Calais
for debriefing.” Alan pulled out his earpiece
and turned off the microphone. He straightened and looked back at the car. The
windscreen, rear and side windows and the door panels were splattered with
bursts of colour from the paint balls fired by the weapons of the army
commandos. Standing behind the vehicle, the teary-eyed VIP was drinking from a
one-litre plastic container of bottled water and wiping his eyes with a wetted
handkerchief. He saw Alan looking at him and held out the bottle. Alan walked
across and accepted it with a murmur of thanks, avoiding meeting the small eyes.
He tipped up the bottle to allow water to run over his face before taking a long
drink. “Save some for Phill,” the
VIP ordered, nodding beyond the car. “And check he’s okay.” The marked Falcon drew to a
stop ten metres away. Both rear doors opened, but Alan could see only the female
driver and a cameraman filming the scene from the front passenger seat. Beyond
the Falcon, the Nissan twin-cab had moved to the side of the road where the
grinning commandos were regrouping under the instructions of their sergeant. Alan turned his attention to
Phill. The short detective was on the verge of some roadside scrub, bent forward
as he vomited into the undergrowth, the Glock still clasped in his left hand.
Alan hurried over and offered him the water bottle. Phill turned, wiping his
mouth with a soiled handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Phill,” Alan
handed him the clean, white handkerchief he carried in his left pocket. “I
didn’t realise they were going to use gas.” Phill took a gulp of the
water and smiled wanly. He turned off his microphone and returned the Glock to
the bumbag on his stomach. He upended the bottle above his head to pour water
into his hair and allow it to run over his face. He mopped at the water with the
white handkerchief and wiped his face and neck. “Finish up the bottle.” Phill tilted back his head
and drank the last half glass or so as Alan turned to face the advancing
officers. “What the fuck’s wrong with
your team, Dodd?” A burly, crew-cut man wearing blue jeans, police T-shirt and
baseball cap was striding towards them. He stopped by the open passenger door of
the Calais to glance over the stained windows and side panels. He leaned inside
and scanned the dashboard. He straightened and sneered towards Alan as the video
cameraman, now standing in front of the Falcon, focused on his face, “Forgot to
change the air inlet button to recirculation, hey?” “Sorry, Senior Sergeant,”
Alan blurted, standing to attention by the front wheel of the vehicle. “I was
only assigned the car ten minutes ago. I was too rushed to do a proper check.” The tail Commodore, also
liberally spattered with burst paint balls, had reversed up to be behind the
Calais. Its three young detectives, two men from fraud squad and a woman from
the casino squad, stood rigidly to attention in front of the senior sergeant’s
Falcon. The lead vehicle, containing a sergeant and two constables, returned to
stop on the road shoulder beyond the Calais. Three uniformed officers clambered
out and stood near the detectives. Senior Sergeant Cameron
turned to survey the six officers as Phill, still looking pale and ill, came to
stand beside Alan, who glanced at his shorter partner with concern. Phil nodded
he was okay, and the two took a couple of steps to be at the end of the larger
group. The VIP was joined by a thin man in an assistant commissioner’s uniform,
probably from the Falcon. They stood by the edge of the road watching the scene. “What a bunch of fucking
dickheads,” the senior-sergeant instructor roared at the assembled officers,
“Three blind mice in the lead car, five dead officers, and a dead dignitary. Not
to mention an incompetent driver in the VIP car.” “There was no side track,”
the uniformed sergeant said defensively, “and the Nissan was covered with bushes
and camouflage nets.” “For Christ’s sake!” the
senior sergeant roared. “What the fuck do you think you’re supposed to be
looking for? Two local marked cars would already have swept the route fifteen
minutes in front of you. They would have checked out any parked cars or side
tracks. You blokes are the ones with the special training. You’re meant to see
things they don’t see. How many of you are accredited VIP drivers?” The uniformed sergeant and
the woman detective raised their hands. Alan self-consciously raised his to his
waist. “When transporting VIPs,”
the senior sergeant shouted, glaring around the group before fixing his stare on
Alan, “no matter how rushed you are, or how much other people are pushing you,
you do a full check of the vehicle. Your own life, as well as that of the VIP
depends on it. You have no outside air. The air-con is on, all windows closed
and locked, and you recirculate the air.” He glared at Alan. “Almost every
attack on VIPs will involve gas, so you don’t want outside air coming in. If you
are held up in traffic, the tail vehicle closes to within a couple of
centimetres of the VIP car so no one can get between them. If danger threatens
ahead on the open road, the tail vehicle goes to the front to give the VIP
vehicle a chance to get away.” His eyes focused on the woman detective who had
been driving the tail car. “You did a good job there, Emery. Too bad you died in
vain because the VIP car was filled with Sargon gas, so they all died too.” “I’ll never forget to check
the air circ again, sir.” Alan promised fervently. “Maybe you and Detective
Senior Constable Emery should exchange jobs,” the senior sergeant said
sarcastically. “I suppose you country coppers are so used to your big four-wheel
drives you think you’re invincible without taking any special precautions.” “I’m only at Cambooya,” Alan
replied flatly. “Twenty klicks from Toowoomba. We don’t rate a Toorak tractor
that far east.” Growing tired of the instructor’s bullying and knowing the
senior sergeant’s personal vehicle was a Nissan Pathfinder four-wheel drive, he
added insolently, “When I was stationed at St George, we used to say anyone who
needed a four-wheel drive east of the Warrego River was a wanker.” The group sniggered and the
instructor’s eyes narrowed. He focused on Phill, still pale, but grinning with
the others. “You don’t like gas, do you,
Nguyen?” the senior sergeant sneered. “I suppose you had enough of it in your
home country. You still want to partner this cowboy?” “I was born in Australia.”
The detective asserted in annoyance. “I’ve only been to Vietnam once, to visit
my grandmother. Senior Constable Dodd sensed the situation a good half-minute
before the enemy vehicle appeared. I’d rather put my life in his hands than in
yours, sir. If this had been fair dinkum, we would have got clean away and I
would have killed at least three of the enemy.” Out of the corner of his
eye, Alan saw the listening VIP smile slightly. “You were dead from Sargon
gas.” “Because the outside air was
still on. As Alan told you, he won’t make that mistake again.” He grinned
sardonically, “If he bloody does, I certainly won’t.” The others in the protection
detail grinned nervously. Alan heard a shouted order
and glanced along the road. The army vehicle was already receding into the
distance around the curve, and the personnel were marching after it. The police
instructor, Senior Sergeant Ian Cameron, who had come to the Queensland Police
Service from an army SAS unit, glanced after them, his expression wistful. He
looked over his eight police officers, contemplating their slovenly assembly for
a few seconds before dismissing them to return their vehicles to the command
area for a further debriefing and a lecture on recent security procedures. As Alan and Phill moved
across to the Calais, Alan said, “Thanks, mate.” “I must be bloody mad.”
Phill grinned after him as Alan separated to walk around the back of the Calais
to the driver’s side. “Passing up the opportunity to work with a groovy chick
like Maxine.” “Yeah!” Alan called across
the boot to his friend. “Well, how do you think I feel working with a
left-hander? Having some over-sensitive Chinaman with a weak stomach sitting on
my left with a loaded Glock pointing at my guts from his bumbag?” Phill laughed as he drew out
his soiled handkerchief and began wiping the worst of the paint off the
passenger side of the windscreen. Alan began to do the same on the driver’s
side. A dark blue Commodore drew
to a stop nearby. Alan looked across the Calais’s bonnet and recognised the
driver as Detective Senior Constable Susan Choi, a young detective of Chinese
descent who was stationed at Toowoomba. He exchanged a discreet wave with her as
the instructor’s marked Falcon made a U-turn and drove away, this time with the
senior sergeant in the front passenger seat and the cameraman in the rear. The
assistant commissioner was still talking on the roadside to the VIP, presumably
intending to return in the blue Commodore. As the assistant
commissioner walked around to get into the rear of the Commodore, the VIP came
across to Phill. He spoke to Alan across the Calais. “My office, senior
constable,” he said brusquely. “Friday morning at ten. I’ll clear it with
Inspector Vicary.” He strode off to join his ride. “Who was our dig?” Phill
asked. “He seems to know you, and I’m sure I’ve seen the bugger around
somewhere.” “That’s Inspector Julian
Crase, from Toowoomba CIB.” “That’s Crazy Crase?” Phill replied, watching the Commodore do a U-turn around the Calais. He added fervently, “What rotten bloody luck, having him in the car when you forgot to change the air circ.” Click on the cart below to purchase this book:
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