Suryei looked on helplessly. There was no justice in it. The man was an easy victim, held down by straps in the stretcher so that death couldn’t miss. She looked up at the flapping fabric around the holes in the aircraft’s ceiling and tempered her criticism of the fates. Most, if not all of them, had been bloody lucky. They could easily have been blown out of the sky, or a shell could have found her. Joe opened his eyes and forced a smile. ‘The feature over yet?’ he asked, sweat sheening his forehead.
Joe was always ready with a quip, thought Suryei. She liked that. Mostly, she reminded herself. ‘How you feeling?’
‘Only hurts when I breathe.’ Joe shifted slightly in his seat, the pain disfiguring his face.
‘You want another shot?’ she asked.
‘No thanks. Gives you bad dreams. Been in a plane crash, shot at . . . Bloody scary.’ The aircraft hit a pocket of turbulence jolting Joe in an awkward way. The pain almost made him pass out. ‘Well, maybe a bit later,’ he said, grunting with the effort needed to keep the pain under control.
Wilkes returned to his seat, sliding in beside Suryei. He was angry about losing Curry. Angry at himself, although he knew that wasn’t very logical. What could he have done? It was just bad luck. At least Curry would have died instantly.
Wilkes reflected on the mission. It had already taken on the perspective of a dream half remembered. The whole thing seemed surreal, vicious.
Suryei was frowning, examining the blood and dirt crusted on Wilkes’s face. He felt her eyes on him. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, before she could ask. He’d completely forgotten about his own wound. His nerve endings were still numb from the shock. ‘Cut myself shaving.’ Wilkes looked across at the bodies of Curry and Gibson, rocking gently with the motion of the aircraft. He recalled their faces. Gibbo and Curry. They’d been mates. All the men in his section were mates. They risked their lives together, drank together, lived and died together. It was difficult losing people you were close to, but he’d lost them before and, no doubt, he’d lose more in the future. But that knowledge did nothing to ease the regret.
More than a few men had died on this day, and not just Australians. The Indonesian soldiers and airmen – they were just doing their job. It was their territory and they were just defending it against uninvited intruders.
McBride appeared beside Wilkes. Neither of the men had their headphones on. There was now a lot of noise in the cabin caused by the airflow ripping through the holes in the fuselage. The cacophony gave them privacy. ‘Everyone else okay, mate?’ shouted the captain.
There’s that word . . . ‘mai-yt’. Jesus, the Yanks sure knew how to murder the English language. There was something about this captain that didn’t fit, things he’d said. McBride had known his identity when they’d arrived at the carrier – so right from the first, something had been wrong about this bloke. Also, he seemed more informed about the mission and what had led up to it than a captain in the Marines had a right to be. We’ve got a proper military sat on this for you now . . . Wilkes was not even aware that the satellite intelligence he had in his possession was anything other than military. And then there was that comment as they’d come aboard just now: Joe Light, alive! Amazing! What was so special about Joe? Wilkes decided to go fishing. ‘What have you got to do with all this, McBride? You’re not a Marines captain, are you?’
McBride’s smile disappeared, as if a cloud had passed over his face. He held Wilkes’s stare. ‘Yes. And no.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Bullshit! What can it hurt, Charles – Chuck – if that’s your real name?’ Wilkes knew he was right. The captain, if he was a captain, was more than likely some kind of agency spook. But whose? ‘Look,’ he said, holding his temper in check, ‘there are more than four hundred dead people back there. I’ve lost two men. I want to know why they had to die. I’ve got a feeling you have the answer to that. So tell me! What the hell’s going on here?’ It wasn’t often that Wilkes got angry, but he was working himself up to it.
What would it hurt? thought the captain. There wasn’t much he could or would divulge about the NSA, but there was nothing really preventing him from giving up his cover. And the sergeant had a point. He’d certainly earned the right to know more than he did. ‘Look, Sarge, there ain’t nothin’ sinister goin’ on here. The name really is Charles McBride. Once upon a time I was a Marine looey working in special ops. Now I’m National Security Agency.’
‘Well thank you, Chuck. Nice to meet the real you,’ said Wilkes sarcastically. ‘What’s the NSA’s interest in this shite?’
‘We unravelled this puzzle – one of our guys back in Maryland. I’m out of Canberra, keeping an eye on things for SIGINT, Stateside. We don’t usually get involved at this level, on the ground so to speak but, well, call it a reward for being on the ball. Fact is, all this caught everyone napping. The US has been building up its intel infrastructure throughout Asia over the last couple of years – since all those religious crackpots came out of the woodwork – but it seems we’ve still got a few gaping holes to fill. And a few lessons to learn. We should be able to put a country like Indonesia under the microscope and prevent this kind of thing from happening, but obviously we can’t. Yet.’ The captain shrugged.
‘A stable Indonesia is important not just to the region, but to the world. A Muslim nation that’s actually friendly to the West? No one wants that boat rocked. Now, if the wrong regime gets in power . . .’ he raised his eyes to the ceiling, ‘it could do a hell of a lot of damage throughout the rest of Asia, and the Muslim world. And that interests the hell out of us.’
Wilkes looked McBride over. He wasn’t sure what answer he was expecting, but at least his hunch was proved right.
‘He can tell you more than I can,’ said the captain, nodding at Joe.
‘I need to use that radio.’ Wilkes looked around: it was Suryei. He saw the determination on her face, the grit that had kept the woman alive and out of the rifle sights of the Indonesian soldiers.
‘I’m sorry, Miss, but there are no radio broadcasts, and especially not until we’re clear of Indonesian airspace,’ said McBride, weighing in.
‘No, I’m sorry but you don’t understand.’
‘Suryei, I know I said you could use the radio, but I have no clearance for that use.’ Wilkes’s tone suggested that argument was pointless. ‘There are obviously security issues involved here that go way beyond my mission parameters.’
Suryei’s temper flared. Jesus Christ! She hadn’t survived the last three days to be patted on the head and told to run along. But then she thought that maybe these guys had their reasons for doing things. They did this stuff for a living. She calmed herself down and thought things through. Suryei wasn’t sure about the American. But the Australian sergeant? She liked him. And she trusted him. Hadn’t he just risked his life for her? Suryei wanted to pass on her knowledge, unburden herself, make someone else responsible. What she knew was too much for one person to keep secret. And who, exactly, was she going to call anyway? She didn’t know anyone in power, except maybe her former editor. Jesus! She kicked herself. Of course, the paper!
‘There’s nothing stopping you from telling us,’ Wilkes said.
Fair enough, thought Suryei. She could tell the man who’d saved her life. She owed him that much at the very least. Images from the past three days swam before her eyes. ‘The plane crash. Surviving it was just luck. Then the Indonesian soldiers arrived. I thought they were there to rescue us. I told you – they shot an old couple in cold blood, survivors like Joe and me. I ran . . . Joe . . .’ It wasn’t coming out quite as controlled as Suryei had hoped. She took a deep breath and steadied herself.
‘Joe and I, we found one of the engines from the plane in the jungle. We saw remains of a missile inside it – an Indonesian missile. Joe freaked. It suddenly all made sense to him.’
‘What made sense to him?’ asked Wilkes.
‘Why the plane was shot do
wn, the Indonesian soldiers hunting us. When Joe was back on the plane, he’d hacked into the Indonesian army’s computer and found something they obviously wanted to keep to themselves. Somehow, the Indonesians traced the call back to the Qantas plane.’
McBride didn’t know where to look. This conversation was getting dangerously close to US national security issues. He’d been briefed on COMPSTOMP. Its continued secrecy was imperative.
‘What did he find?’ Wilkes asked.
‘Plans to invade Australia.’
‘Shit!’ said Wilkes.
‘That’s why they blew us out of the sky.’
McBride felt hot, sweat flaring on his forehead. The 747 had been shot down as an indirect result of the NSA’s desire to earn an income outside of government funding. So many people were now dead because of that. He felt the urge to apologise, but couldn’t. It was a desire and a failure he would have to live with. ‘Have you any idea how much the authorities in Australia will want to put Joe through the wringer?’ he said instead, changing the subject.
Suryei wasn’t listening. She was seeing the invasion map Joe had described to her. Strangely, she visualised it in her head as if she’d been the one who’d found it. Australia was gone. In its place was Selatan Irian Jaya, Southern High Victory. When? When would the invasion begin?
Parliament House, Canberra, 1010 Zulu, Friday, 1 May
The lights had already been lowered in the theatrette when Niven entered and his eyes were only now adjusting to the gloom. A rear projection screen television sat on the stage. A rectangle of yellow light blazed as Greenway entered. He was a couple of minutes late and mumbled an apology, but Lurch hadn’t missed anything.
The screen flashed into life. The videocamera had been positioned so that its view took in Roger Bowman, Australia’s ambassador to Indonesia, sitting beside a man propped up in a hospital bed. The patient’s head was heavily bandaged and his eyes were a rich red from burst capillaries. What skin could be seen was bruised the colour of a plum. The corners of the man’s mouth were set grimly downwards.
The men in Canberra leaned forward in their seats expectantly. This was one videoconference they hadn’t expected. But as Bowman had just finished explaining, the doctors had told him that the human brain was an unknown quantity. No one had expected the general to come out of his coma for some time but, once the anaesthetic had worn off after the operation, his eyes had miraculously popped open. The general was groggy, but even that was wearing off quickly.
He had demanded to talk to Bowman who, of course, was particularly keen to hear what the Indonesian officer had to say for himself. Fortunately, it didn’t seem that the man’s memory had been impaired in the least.
Bowman cleared his throat. ‘We got that security detail you sent over, Spike. I’ve had the general moved back to the embassy, against doctor’s orders I might add. There were too many people sniffing about for my liking and it’s difficult to explain the presence of half a dozen armed Aussie soldiers in a local hospital.’
Bowman paused and checked his notes. Satisfied that he’d completed the housekeeping, he cleared his throat again and cut to the chase. ‘General Masri has asked for asylum and protection in Australia, for himself and his boy, as quid pro quo for enlightening us on what the hell has been going on,’ said the ambassador.
The Prime Minister was angry. ‘Jesus, I damn well want to hear what the bastard has to say for himself before I start handing out any bloody bonuses.’
Masri considered that before nodding.
The Australians had hastily decided to tell the general a little of what they knew, to throw him off his guard. Blight began. ‘General, we are already aware that your air force shot down our 747,’ he said. ‘Did your government know anything about that?’
In heavily accented English, Masri replied, ‘No. The government knew only what General Suluang told them, which was nothing.’
A wave of relief surged over the PM. Niven whistled at the audacity of Indonesia’s military, but he was also relieved to have unequivocal confirmation of Griffin’s belief that Jakarta was not involved in the act.
‘The plane was not part of the plan. I did not agree with it,’ Masri said.
The men in the room in Canberra exchanged glances. The word ‘plan’ was intriguing. ‘What “plan”?’ asked the PM, getting the question in first.
Masri looked around him, shifting his red eyes left and right, as though he was about to pass something illicit in the street. ‘The plan to take back political control of Indonesia.’
‘A coup d’etat? That’s what this is all about?’ asked Niven incredulously.
Masri nodded. ‘Traditionally it has been the armed forces that have guided Indonesia. We have enjoyed a certain amount of respectful fear, which has helped to keep our country united. East Timor put an end to that. Your country put an end to that –’
‘What complete crap!’ Blight said angrily. There was no excuse for this cowardly, murderous act.
The Indonesian general ignored the Prime Minister’s outburst. ‘And that is why we planned a limited invasion of Australia.’
‘What?!’ exclaimed Niven and the PM in unison. Greenway and Griffin leapt to their feet as if something had bitten them.
‘Jesus Christ, what . . . how?!’ asked Griffin, his brain going into shock.
There it was, thought Niven: the motive. The Indonesian generals had murdered the passengers of QF-1 to keep their outrageous plan hidden.
‘Invading Australia would be good politically,’ Masri continued calmly.
‘Good politically?’ said the PM apoplectically, fighting a mixture of disbelief and outrage.
‘The army has become the people’s enemy. In some areas, the army has even become afraid of the people, because the people are no longer afraid of the army. Provinces in Indonesia are threatening secession. There is much killing and lawlessness.’
‘How could invading Australia possibly help your domestic problems?’ Griffin asked, horrified, but knowing at the same time that there was a mad logic to it.
‘The army must regain face within our own country. To achieve that, we need a focus outside Indonesia. You think you are part of Asia when it suits you to think that way. But you are full of yourselves. You patronise us. You act like moral policemen. Look at East Timor. Bali too. You didn’t even trust us to root out the criminals, even suggested using your troops to hunt terrorists in Java! You think you have the right to behave this way. Why? You think you are superior, because you are white!’ Masri almost spat that final word.
‘We aren’t bloody racists. Your inferiority complex is in your own bloody heads.’ Blight was working hard to keep his temper in check.
‘See? It is always our fault.’
‘But we’re not invading your country!’ said Blight, exasperated.
Niven fought back a wry smile. As they spoke, it was the Australian armed forces that were doing the invading, on the ground in Sulawesi.
‘Then what do you call sending troops to East Timor? It was part of my country, not yours,’ said Masri, face calm, belying the anger underlining his words. Niven thought he looked positively demonic with those deeply bloodshot eyes.
Blight breathed heavily, heart pumping like an old diesel motor.
‘If we launched an attack against Australia, our people would applaud it. They would once again be proud of Indonesia. And the military. And perhaps it might also teach a lesson to the provinces that want to secede. Such an action – bold and decisive – would establish a context for our return to political as well as military pre-eminence in Indonesia. Fear and respect would be restored. And the army would no longer need to suppress its own people.’
‘Yes, but at the bloody expense of killing ours,’ said the Prime Minister in dismay. The Indonesian soldier showed no reaction. This was a mad scheme cooked up by lunatics and criminals. Australia’s actions in East Timor could not be blamed for it. East Timor should never have been part of Indonesia’s empire and
the Australian government of the day had merely righted an old wrong by supporting its desire for independence. And now East Timor had that – nationhood – those actions had been vindicated.
‘Are the plans for the invasion well advanced?’ asked Niven, getting back to military specifics.
‘Yes.’
‘Was there a firm date?’
‘No.’
‘You couldn’t take the whole country. What were the aims?’ continued the air vice marshal, morbidly fascinated.
‘It was to be a limited invasion. We planned an amphibious attack against Darwin and an airborne assault on Townsville. We would neutralise your military assets in both places, humble your arrogant Ready Reaction Force.’
Everyone witnessing this bizarre confession wanted to believe the general’s story was nothing more than that, a fantastic story, a fairy tale, but it was horrifyingly real, as the friends, family and relatives of the passengers of flight QF-1 would be able to attest.
‘Assuming the attacks were successful and you achieved these aims, what next?’ asked Griffin.
‘We would demand one thing, and one thing only, before a full withdrawal.’
‘And that would be . . . ?’ The PM cocked his head. This would be interesting. He had to admit he was intrigued.
‘A guarantee that Australia will never again become involved in the internal politics of Indonesia.’
‘What . . . ? Is . . . is that bloody all?’ asked the PM, stunned, as was everyone else in the room. When he saw on the face of the general that it was indeed ‘all’, a hot anger filled him. ‘You mean you’d invade our goddam country, kill I don’t know how many people, just to get a goddam bloody assurance we’d gladly give you anyway?’
Rogue Element Page 34
