by Steve Lewis
Webster waited for the crowd to fall silent before continuing.
‘When I assumed command of the defence forces it was apparent that we needed to squarely face some serious cultural problems; in particular, the manner in which we treated our female personnel, those from ethnic minorities and those with alternative sexual preferences. There was, and still is, a recurring problem with alcohol abuse and social media which has stained our reputation.
‘I wish to lead a military force in which your daughters are as welcome and feel as much at home as your sons, and in which the path to promotion is determined by hard work and a commitment to the high ideals to which every member of the forces should aspire.’
Webster could feel the crowd rising with him: the evangelist and his obedient flock. Now it was time to turn up the heat.
‘We in the Australian Defence Force have a special constitutional role. We train to achieve mastery in military matters and are entrusted and sanctioned by the government to employ extreme violence in support of Australia’s national interests. But with these powers comes a tremendous responsibility. We must earn and maintain a high level of trust among our community, and never lose sight of the special place we hold in the hearts of so many Australians.
‘That trust is enhanced when Defence ensures equality of opportunity. We are making great strides. One of our female fast jet trainees is in the final stages of her training at Williamtown base in New South Wales. She is progressing well.’
Webster lifted his head and scanned the room before nailing the punchline.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, today I can announce that our first female fighter pilot will graduate within months.’
The room rose as one to the momentous news. Webster modestly acknowledged the rapturous reception, then sat down and sipped a glass of water as the auditorium kept up a torrent of applause, long and genuine. Elvis was in the fucking room.
Webster’s speech had lived up to the promise of being a seminal moment in the history of the military. Now he had to field questions from those who bled scepticism for a living.
The first question from The Australian’s Sarah Martin showed the media was not about to be swayed by emotion.
‘Air Chief Marshal Webster, that was an inspiring speech, but you failed to mention the one issue that is front of mind for Defence at the moment: submarines. Why should we turn our back on building the next fleet of submarines here in Australia, specifically in South Australia? Are we not potentially shooting ourselves in the foot by buying off the shelf from Japan?’
‘Sarah, that is a good question, thank you,’ Webster said, radiating sincerity. ‘My role as Chief of the Defence Force is to ensure that we as a nation are best equipped to defend our shores. We as a country have to decide where our priorities lie. We cannot hope to have the resources to match the firepower of much bigger forces, funded by much bigger streams of government revenue. All of us – including myself – must live within our means. Building submarines in Australia carries a forty per cent premium. Many say that is an unaffordable luxury. I make no comment on that. My primary responsibility is to ensure the best possible advice is given on long-term strategic interests of the ADF. Ultimately, though, this is a matter for Prime Minister Scott to decide.’
Webster parried away several other questions on submarines before the ABC’s Eliza Borrello rose.
‘Sir Jack, your speech shows leadership and vision – something missing from today’s politics. Would you consider a tilt for public office?’
There was scattered applause in the room. Webster shook his head.
‘Eliza, I was born into a military home, and I have always strived to serve the community in a military capacity. I am a humble servant of the people of Australia. I am grateful that you think of me as someone who would make the grade, but I really have not given any thought to changing my profession.’
While Webster was answering the question, the club’s chief executive noticed his iPhone had flashed a message. Maurice Reilly read the short text, shook his head then quietly made his way to the journalists’ table and intercepted the microphone. As the CDF finished speaking, Reilly’s baritone filled the venue.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please don’t panic, but there may be a bomb in the room.’
Mayhem erupted. Screams rang out as the crowd rose as one and raced for the two exits, people stumbling and falling in the crush.
The commanding voice of the defence chief cut through the pandemonium, hushing the crowd as if by magic. ‘Please be calm. Do not panic. Let’s maintain order and leave methodically. Those closest to the exits will go first. Everyone else, please be patient. We’ll all get out, swiftly and safely.’
That night the Press Club bomb hoax led every bulletin as the networks climbed all over the story.
The doyen of primetime news, the Nine Network’s Laurie Oakes, sang the praises of the hero of the hour.
‘Peter, I have been around this place for a very long time. This was an extraordinary day that highlighted the character of an extraordinary man.
‘If only one of our so-called political class showed the same leadership, then this nation would be in much better hands.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
South China Sea
The grey hull loomed like a nightmare on the water. Jay Bawani wiped his brow as he gripped the Nenita’s wheel, his gaze shifting from the instrument panel to the steel monster closing in on his stern.
The Filipino captain had tried radioing the Chinese ship but the signal was jammed. He’d turned his small fishing vessel to port, but the frigate immediately followed.
Now it was just several hundred metres away.
Bawani checked his navigational aids again. The Nenita was one hundred and fifty kilometres west of Subic Bay, doing what it did most days, putting out its nets to fish the tranquil seas off the Philippines for the crab, tuna and squid that were sold to the tourist resorts scattered around his home city of Iba.
His modest boat was in international waters. Something wasn’t right. He’d heard reports of fishing vessels being pursued, but those incidents had taken place much closer to Scarborough Shoal.
Surely they were safe in these waters?
Chen Kuang-chi yelled instructions to his crew on the bridge. The captain of the Yichang had his orders and there was no room for sentiment. The Jiangwei II-class frigate was closing in fast, its twin diesel motors revving at a comfortable 450rpm, propelling it along at a shade over twenty-five knots.
The 112-metre Yichang was armed with sufficient firepower to sink a small armada, but Chen knew he’d have no reason to fire at the enemy. His plan was much simpler.
He checked his computerised screen, calculating he had another three to four minutes before drawing level. He scanned the horizon, half expecting to see another vessel, but there was none. On this bright crisp morning, this clip of the South China Sea was clear to the horizon.
His chief radio officer had done his job. The Filipino vessel would have no chance to issue a distress signal, its paltry communications system disabled by superior Chinese technology.
The Yichang had stalked its prey. Now the catch was within easy reach.
Chen calculated the fishing boat’s length to be perhaps fifteen metres. The timber deck was cluttered with large containers, while a triangular crane jutted from its stern. He could see no crew, and imagined they were huddled together in the cabin, desperately trying to radio for help.
The first deadly thud pitched the Nenita forward, the sound of splintering timber mingling with the whine of a small diesel engine labouring on overdrive. Bawani’s hands were ripped from the wheel and he was nearly knocked off his feet. He broadened his stance and dug his soles into the slippery cabin floor, bracing for the next hit.
When it came it was overpowering. He turned in horror to witness the dull grey of the attack vessel’s bow slicing through his deck with ease. He yelled to the four crew to man the lifeboat, but it was too late. The tiny ves
sel heaved to port, then it began to sink.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Canberra
The late-model BMW slowed as a pair of imposing steel gates opened to reveal the prime ministerial courtyard. A group of bronze sculptures representing some ancient rock formation rose to Tian Qichen’s right.
The driver opened the door and China’s ambassador to Australia alighted from the vehicle, fastening the top button of his dark jacket. He could sense the shifting of the seasons; Canberra would soon greet its next barren winter.
Tian smiled stiffly as he was met by the deputy chief of staff before being ushered into an anteroom near the prime minister’s suite.
‘She won’t be long,’ she said before leaving.
Tian opened his folder and flicked through his papers. He knew this would be a robust encounter, because he had been summoned like a naughty schoolboy for a dressing-down.
The previous day, the Nenita, a Filipino fishing vessel, had gone down with all hands, while in the proximity of the Chinese frigate Yichang. Beijing claimed its ship had gone to the aid of a sinking boat, but added that it was operating illegally in China’s territorial waters. The US and the Philippines disputed that version of events, believing the Chinese had targeted the fishing boat and maintaining that China had no claim over the sea where the boat was sunk.
The two countries had directed their Beijing-based ambassadors to hand-deliver protest démarches to the head of the Chinese Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Canberra had not gone that far. Instead it had summoned the Chinese ambassador to a meeting with the prime minister, but had yet to issue a formal statement.
The summons to Parliament House sent the message that Australia was taking the matter extremely seriously, as a dressing-down would usually be delivered by the Secretary of the Department of Foreign Affairs. But it also showed that Australia wanted to bargain in private, not lecture in public.
In a detailed cable to his ministry, Tian had noted that Canberra was torn because it relied so heavily on China to underwrite much of Australia’s economic prosperity. The strain of trying not to offend its major economic partner while simultaneously trying to please its key ally, the United States, was showing up as indecision.
His instructions from Beijing were clear. He was not to take a backward step. It was time to turn up the heat on Australia and force it to make a choice – for the future or the past.
Scott emerged from the Situation Room in the Cabinet suite and bustled across the hallway to her office with her chief of staff and foreign policy adviser in tow. An emergency meeting of the National Security Committee had run over time. It had heard directly from the United States Under Secretary for Political Affairs, his image beamed onto the two room-length TV screens from Washington. He had shown the group pictures from a US spy satellite that appeared to show the Filipino boat being run down by a Chinese military vessel.
The under secretary was insistent that Australia should support a ‘determined and robust response’ to show Beijing that it could not be ‘a global power of tomorrow by behaving like a regional cowboy today’.
It was a view that garnered the strong support of the defence chief, Jack Webster. He argued time was running out for the region to make a stand against China’s aggressive expansion. Inside a year the islands would be fortresses. He again pressed for Australia to join an international flotilla.
‘Seven trillion dollars’ worth of trade passes through the South China Sea every year,’ he had thundered. ‘If we lose freedom of navigation, if it is rationed or we have to bargain for access, then we will become a vassal state of China.’
Scott had her doubts. The Americans had overplayed the analysis of their intelligence before and she wanted to take a more cautious approach. She thought that China could be persuaded that what it was doing was not in its national interest. The business woman in her thought that ensuring the goodwill of the region was the best way to ensure the trade routes.
Webster had been terse.
‘This isn’t about money. It is about a much more glittering prize. What matters is power. As a politician you should understand that.’
‘Ambassador.’ Elizabeth Scott held out her hand, offering a firm grip and a stern expression.
She motioned for Tian to sit as she settled into a lounge chair. Scott had ordered her staff to leave the room. This meeting was just for two.
The prime minister poured a cup of tea. Just one. She sipped from the fine porcelain, slowly put the cup back in the saucer, then fixed Tian with a cold stare.
‘What exactly are you doing in the South China Sea?’
The ambassador leaned forward in his seat and motioned to the teapot.
‘I assume it is self-service.’
He slowly poured himself a cup, spooning sugar into the too-milky liquid before meeting Scott’s gaze.
‘And good morning to you, Prime Minister.’
‘This is not a time for pleasantries, Ambassador Tian. Your country has made a grave error of judgement. Your aggression threatens to destabilise the region. You cannot expect my government to allow such action to go unchecked.’
Scott picked up a folder of papers, skimming its contents before returning her unwavering gaze to Tian.
‘My government—’
‘Prime Minister, before you go on,’ Tian interjected, but Scott raised her hand before slamming it on the table.
‘You do not interrupt me, Mr Tian. Your bully-boy tactics might work at home, but they will not be tolerated in my country. Not now, not ever.’
Scott felt the blood rising in her face. One of the reasons for her anger was that she did not like being forced into this position. Nor could she make sense of Beijing’s thinking.
She had always reasoned that the mercantile interests of China and the US would find their own level in the Pacific. They might elbow each other along the way, but would in the end come to an understanding.
The PM preached diplomacy over the ‘kinetic action’ preferred by the US: the drone strikes, the weapons sales and the secretive arming of insurgent forces. But China’s barbaric behaviour in the South China Sea could not go unchallenged.
It was one thing to push your elbows out across the ‘nine-dash line’ that China claimed was the basis for its territorial sea. It was quite another to sink a small, unarmed fishing vessel that was harmlessly going about its business in international waters.
‘Mr Tian, my government joins with other nations in condemning in the strongest terms China’s actions. You cannot possibly hope to gain global respect and credibility with such behaviour, behaviour that quite frankly belongs in the Middle Ages.’
Scott spoke firmly, without missing a beat.
‘If you persist in expanding and militarising those islands and enforcing an illegal interpretation of territorial waters you will provoke a region-wide backlash.’
Tian listened attentively, his expression almost indulgent. He contemplated his tea before placing it on the table.
‘First,’ he said, ‘Beijing rejects the false accusation that we had anything to do with the sinking of that vessel. It was old and unseaworthy. It went down as so many of those fishing boats do and will. Our ship tried and failed to save those men.’
Scott rolled her eyes. ‘Please don’t treat me like a fool, Mr Ambassador. I have seen the satellite photos.’
‘Madam Prime Minister, you can choose to believe me or the Americans. But let’s not forget the many famous American intelligence slideshows that were more worthy of Disneyland than Maryland.’
He smiled at his wit.
‘But on this point let us be clear. Our rights over those waters go back thousands of years. If the boat had not sunk, its crew would have been arrested.’
Scott drummed her manicured nails on the armrest of her lounge chair.
‘I do not understand why you can’t see that this unnecessary aggression is counterproductive. Economic power is Beijing’s real might. Everything you want
can be negotiated without building a fortress in the South China Sea. All you will do is ensure the region unites against you.’
Tian sat back in his seat and rubbed his right temple with his forefinger, as if the conversation was giving him a headache.
‘Madam Prime Minister, if you really believed that economic security did not need to be backed by military might then you wouldn’t be signing agreements to buy submarines from Tokyo.’
Tian spoke the name of the Japanese capital with derision. Scott remained impassive as the diplomat continued.
‘You might decide to support America in a parade of military force, Madam Prime Minister. You might eventually purchase your next class of submarines from the Japanese. Both decisions are entirely yours to make . . . but, rest assured, they will be seen by my government as acts of aggression.’
‘Are you threatening me, Mr Ambassador?’
‘Certainly not, Prime Minister, just engaging in . . . well, what you Aussies would call “fair dinkum” talk.’
‘It sounds like a threat to me, Mr Tian, but then it seems you and your countrymen have become accustomed to issuing ultimatums. China has decided to play by its own rules, and to hell with the usual conventions.’
Tian gave a thin smile.
‘Conventions are such a moveable feast, don’t you think? They vary from country to country and are so often ignored by those who preach them.’
Tian paused as he reached for a folder, taking out an A4 sheet of paper. He examined it before he continued.
‘For instance, in your country, politicians tell the public that they play by one set of rules when they do very dark deeds in private.’
Tian put the piece of paper down on the coffee table. It was a photograph of Scott’s old Mercedes with two people sitting in it. She recognised the time and place immediately and her skin went cold. She had met with a private detective whom she had paid to clandestinely spy on Emily Brooks. The PI had installed cameras in her Liberal rival’s bedroom and captured the bondage session that entered online folklore and finished Brooks as leader.