by Steve Lewis
The White House Situation Room would be full. The Pentagon and State Department would have their Sino specialists crawling over every word of this speech; weapons analysts would be magnifying every frame of the final images.
In one sense it wasn’t a surprise. The progress of the runway had been part of his intelligence briefings for the past two years. The US had been calling on China to stop terraforming islands in the South China Sea for at least that long and had routinely tested the Beijing-imposed twelve-nautical-mile limits. Even Australia had conducted fly-overs.
But the J-11D show of force proved the Chinese believed the American threat was empty. The once mighty Stars and Stripes had been lowered in the Pacific by a pathetic president who had cut and run in the Taiwan Strait. Now, as the US struggled to come to grips with Earle Jackson’s death, China was militarising its artificial islands.
This was Meng’s one-finger salute to the West.
Webster grabbed his briefcase and called for his aide de camp. He had a short drive across the lake for a 10am meeting of Cabinet’s National Security Committee, one he had advised the prime minister to convene just moments after the Chinese president had begun his Mischief Reef declaration.
Australia’s defence chief wanted a robust response from the committee, but was expecting some resistance. That should be manageable, though; with the PM’s backing, he was confident of carrying the day.
‘As you know we have long feared this moment.’
Webster’s deep voice was calm, but his tone was grave as the group charged with defending the nation listened in respectful silence.
The long, narrow Situation Room was full: Cabinet ministers sat on one side, defence, intelligence and police officials on the other. A microphone rose in front of each committee member and there was a note-taker at each end of the table. Staff sat in dutiful silence, lining the walls behind their bosses.
Two huge video screens ran the length of the room, controlled by technicians in an adjoining suite. As Webster spoke, a still picture of the Chinese president flashed on both.
‘Meng Tao has just radically changed the rules in the South China Sea. Until now his country’s declarations about exclusion zones around reclaimed islands have been meaningless. The US has routinely breached the twelve-nautical-mile zone and we have flown over the air-defence bubble. It’s been a game: they shout at us, we ignore them.’
Webster paused as he studied the attentive and anxious faces in the room. He was determined to exact every ounce of drama from this presentation.
‘Today the game has become hard reality. We have the president’s own words as evidence.’
Webster nodded and the image of Meng stirred, his words translated into English as he spoke.
‘All this is being built to defend our core interests . . .’
Webster put up his hand, pausing the president’s speech.
‘When a Chinese leader uses the words “core interests” he is speaking of something he’s prepared to wage war over. Once the term was restricted to Taiwan. Several years ago it was expanded to include Tibet and Xinjiang, two provinces with indigenous autonomy movements. From today it includes the South China Sea.’
Webster nodded again and the image pulled back from the podium to show the president’s jet and the two warplanes flanking it.
‘The president isn’t making empty threats. Take a long, hard look at those fighters. They are next generation warplanes: the Shenyang J-11D. It’s a Chinese super weapon and, ladies and gentlemen, this is the first time we have seen an officially sanctioned image. They have been flown in as the show stopper.’
The camera moved in slowly on the menacing wasp-like jet, its undercarriage bristling with advanced weaponry.
‘Our intelligence reveals this plane has state-of-the-art stealth capabilities and vastly improved performance and electronic warfare systems. In short, it is the first Chinese fighter capable of taking on the US-made Raptor and Super Hornet.’
The image pulled out again to show an aerial view of the arrow-shaped island, with an airstrip that ran its entire length.
‘Until today Beijing couldn’t contemplate using this kind of jet outside the mainland because it can’t be launched from China’s sole aircraft carrier. The Liaoning is essentially a training ship and its planes wouldn’t stand a chance in a shooting war with the US. Building a fleet of carriers that can compete will take a generation. But China has taken an audacious short-cut. Now advanced fighters, and missiles, can be launched from this unsinkable tarmac.’
The image pulled back further, to one taken from space by a spy satellite. It highlighted a series of dots that formed a ring enclosing most of the South China Sea.
‘This runway is just the first of many. Soon there will be similar bases on all these sites. When they are finished, Chinese warplanes will rule the skies over all the sea lanes to our north.’
Webster studied the now grim figures around him: his words were having the desired effect, but he needed to hammer home the importance of swift action.
‘There is some good news.’
The image zoomed back down to the Mischief Reef airstrip and onto the warplanes.
‘The J-11D is still experimental and an expert analysis of the weapons systems concludes they aren’t yet operational. Right now this is just a high-stakes bluff. We still have some time on our side. But it’s rapidly running out.’
The image switched to a close-up of President Meng’s face as Webster built up to his pitch.
‘Beijing just set us a test. Based on how the world responds it will push harder or, perhaps, retreat. The next move belongs to the US. I understand that President Asta will soon be calling for an alliance of regional nations to send a flotilla into those waters to test China’s resolve.’
Webster looked at the line of ministers, slowly engaging each in turn.
‘We need to decide our course of action. Do we stand with our closest ally? Or do we step back, again, and allow China to bully its way across the entire South China Sea?’
The defence chief clasped his hands together as he rested his elbows on the table and leaned towards the microphone.
‘I believe we have no choice. We have to send the strongest possible message that this act of aggression won’t be tolerated.’
Webster tapped a single A4 page in front of him that was headed AUSTEO: Australian Eyes Only.
‘I propose two steps: firstly, we send a ship to join the American-led flotilla. Then we send an unequivocal message about where our allegiance lies by permanently basing a nuclear-capable US B-1 bomber at Tindal in the Northern Territory.’
Like any good commander, Webster knew where his enemy lay and wasn’t surprised when the attorney-general cleared his throat, signalling his intention to speak.
In Webster’s view the South Australian’s spine was as weak as his mind. His fixation on holding on to his marginal seat meant he championed ship-building at Osborne in Adelaide, even though he had been forced to publicly concede that the ASC, as the Australian Submarine Corporation had been rebranded, built overpriced and under-performing ships.
‘CDF, we can’t do that.’ The attorney’s voice quavered as he spoke. Webster fixed him with a contemptuous stare to ensure his next few moments would be as uncomfortable as possible.
‘There is no possible advantage in either move and the downsides are enormous. Don’t forget that China is our major trading partner and we are trailing in the polls.’
Webster couldn’t help himself; he snorted and shook his head at the word ‘polls’. The minister’s voice became even more shrill.
‘I’m not saying that China does not pose a strategic threat but we have to be more nuanced in our approach. We need to use diplomacy, to use our influence to get China to recognise that these aggressive steps are not in her best interest.’
Webster theatrically crumpled his brief in his hand and let it roll off his upturned palm onto the conference table.
‘Mr Attorney,
you sound like an editorial in The Age. Sure, China might pretend to listen, but it will see your calls for dialogue for what they are. Weakness. More empty words. Nothing will make her baulk except the real threat of real force. There is only one power in the world that can halt China’s aggression and we can’t let America stand alone.’
The room lapsed into silence as all eyes turned to the prime minister.
Scott was studying the brief and frowning. Webster noticed she was fiddling with her wedding ring, a sign she was troubled.
After a moment the prime minister looked across the table and locked eyes with the defence chief.
‘Jack, I value the US alliance but I fear that their much-touted pivot to Asia is all talk and little action. And America is still bogged down in the Middle East – and will be for years. We are exposed here, terribly exposed,’ she said.
Webster realised the need to tread carefully.
‘Prime Minister, I don’t think this will come to blows, but I don’t believe we have a choice. China is testing how far it can push us. We have to draw a line at some point or there will be no end to it.’
Scott pushed back.
‘And where will America’s demands end? Surely China has a point when it says America and Japan want to ring-fence it. It’s not in China’s interest to stymie regional growth.’
Webster pointed to the video wall which had settled on a map of the region.
‘Not now. But we are talking about what might happen and our long-term strategic interest. Ninety per cent of our trade goes through the South China Sea. We can’t allow one country to dictate who sails through those waters.’
Webster’s pitch lifted a notch.
‘Need I remind you that Australia no longer refines its own oil. A blockade in those waters would see the bowsers run dry here in fifty days. Imagine the political consequences of that. We have to act.’
Scott shook her head and Webster tried to hide his irritation. He’d expected she would be a staunch ally.
‘Who else is in on this armada?’ she asked.
‘The Philippines for sure,’ Webster replied. ‘Of course, others like Vietnam and Indonesia will be more wary and some will be swayed by what we do. Prime Minister, if the US can’t get Australia to sign up then it will be dead in the water and they will react furiously.’
‘What if China sees it as an act of war?’ Scott was fiddling with her ring again.
‘It won’t come to that.’
Webster’s tone was stern as he held the prime minister’s gaze. The next move was hers. Eventually she cleared her throat and spoke.
‘CDF, prepare a detailed analysis on the rationale, the benefits and the risks of sending a frigate to join a US-led flotilla and on basing a B-1 bomber at Tindal. I want every contingency covered. Every last one.’
Then Scott surprised him by turning to another senior official, the Director-General of the Office of National Assessments. The ONA was packed with analysts whose job was to provide independent intelligence advice direct to the prime minister, but in Scott’s time she had rarely used it, always deferring to the defence chief.
‘I want the ONA to look at this from every possible angle,’ she said. ‘I want every risk to trade, defence and security thoroughly assessed.’
This was a significant power shift which Webster knew would be noted by everyone at the table. The ONA had been set up in 1977 by Malcolm Fraser, on the advice of the Hope Royal Commission into the intelligence services. Justice Hope had come to the conclusion that the nation’s defence and intelligence establishment was too close to its US and UK counterparts and thought the prime minister could use some independent thinkers.
‘I want you to play devil’s advocate,’ Scott said as the ONA chief nodded and took a note.
The prime minister put the palms of both her hands on the table and spoke directly to Webster, emphasising every word. He listened like a dutiful servant, seething in silence.
‘Let me make this absolutely clear: the decision of this meeting is that the committee is still considering its options. We are not saying “yes” yet. I am not going to be stampeded into action.’
She slowly gazed around the table.
‘I don’t have to remind any of you of the gravity of this. Remember, all decisions of the NSC are unanimous, no matter what disagreements we might have in this room.
‘I do not expect to read about this in a newspaper.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Canberra
At first glance, the townhouse’s exterior looked sleek, tidy and identical to its manicured neighbours. The only point of difference was the metal garden setting pressed into the corner of a small courtyard, while a planter box of natives offered a green contrast to the building’s neutral tones.
Up close there were hints that not all was shipshape. Cobwebs covered the outdoor chair legs and the table badly needed a clean.
Harry Dunkley pressed the doorbell and waited. Nothing. He rapped hard on the glass panel next to the security screen, straining to hear any sound from inside. Silence.
For the past hour, he’d been telephoning on a constant loop, but the mobile phone number had rung out. No message bank. Nothing.
He scanned the street for some sign of life. It was empty: a mute confirmation of the outsiders’ view that Canberra was a suburban ghost town.
Dunkley knew looks were deceptive and turned back to the townhouse. There was a slight rustle of a heavy curtain covering a window. Someone was home.
He stepped up to the front door and rapped again.
‘Trev, it’s Harry . . . Harry Dunkley. Just need to chat with you, mate.’
For a long moment nothing stirred. Then, from inside, the muffled sound of footsteps approaching the door. It opened a few centimetres, but the security screen remained shut.
Dunkley took a moment to focus. The face he could glimpse was roughened by a three-day growth and sallow cheeks, and the man’s eyes held genuine apprehension. He recognised something of himself in Harris: the sunken look of a man who’d nearly given up. He spoke in a reassuring tone.
‘Trev, how are you? Can I come in? We need to talk.’
Harris eyed him suspiciously, not moving.
‘Please mate, I just want a few minutes of your time. It’s just me; there’s no one else here.’
Harris motioned to Dunkley’s mobile, clutched in his right hand, and pointed to the car. Dunkley got the message, walked to the passenger-side door and put the phone in the glove box.
Harris said nothing as he unlatched the security door. Dunkley walked into an apartment in disarray. A stale smell hung in the darkened lounge room, where heavy drapes covered windows he guessed had not been opened for months. Papers were piled in drifts, unwashed plates sat on every flat surface.
They shook hands without conviction. Harris went to an ageing audio system and pressed play: the Bee Gees burst from the speakers in a slightly too loud rendition of ‘Nights on Broadway’.
He finally spoke.
‘Coffee?’ he asked half-heartedly. ‘I don’t have milk, though.’
‘Sure, black’s fine. Mind if I sit?’ Dunkley moved some books from a lounge chair. Engaging Harris wasn’t going to be easy, but Dunkley had nowhere else to start.
‘Go ahead.’
Harris crossed the lounge room to the open plan kitchen.
‘So how was jail?’ he called over the sound of a man making enough space in the sink to get a jug under the tap.
‘Actually, it was the most comfortable digs I’d had in a while. Better than a park bench.’
Harris turned and offered a stiff smile, the first crack of a connection.
‘I thought you might be dead until I saw that small piece online. Jesus, you cost News Corp a few grand in repairs.’
‘Petty cash for Rupert.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Harris gave up looking for clean cups, pulled two from the sink and rinsed them.
‘Harry, you shouldn’t have come back to Ca
nberra. You’re in danger. You being here puts me in danger.’
Dunkley dropped his gaze, looked at his feet then glanced around the unkempt apartment.
‘Unfinished business,’ he said. ‘I know it’s a risk but I couldn’t let it drop.’
Harris shook his head as he placed two cups on the Caesarstone bench with a clunk. His expression was a mixture of curiosity and annoyance.
‘So, what is it you really want?’
Dunkley contemplated the question for a moment. He needed Harris’s help and was worried that he would get no more than a cup of appalling instant coffee. He decided the best approach was to get straight to the point.
‘To bring down Jack Webster,’ he said. ‘To show the world what he really is.’
Harris laughed, a loud cynical rattle that unsettled Dunkley.
‘You might as well try to remove Jesus Christ from the Trinity.’ He theatrically thumped a clenched fist into his hand. ‘He’ll crush you. Again. You have no fucking idea how powerful that guy is.’
Dunkley stifled a mirthless laugh. ‘I think I have some idea, mate.’
‘You . . . that was nothing. Webster’s influence stretches all the way to Washington. And people who are a nuisance to him seem to have a nasty habit of dying.’
Dunkley shifted on the lounge chair. ‘Who?’
‘You know one. Kimberley Gordon, when she stumbled into his little war. But she was a minor player, a pawn. This guy rubs out knights and castles.’
Harris picked up the full mugs and set them down among the clutter on a coffee table. He pushed some papers off a chair, sat down and dropped his voice.
‘Something happened in Defence, something big, about the time that Martin Toohey was rolled as prime minister. My mates in DSD – they call it Australian Signals Directorate now – told me that the director, Matthew Whelan, was hauled into a meeting with Webster and the heads of ASIO and DFAT.’
Harris glanced at the windows and the doorway to the entrance hall.
‘Whelan returned from that meeting a changed man. Immediately afterwards, Defence started spending up big on IT.’
