A dull white square of projected light appeared on the bulkhead that doubled as a screen. Static scrambled across it. The soldiers all looked up, expectantly. A few floaters drifted lazily down the screen. The audio channel came to life with a bottomless atmosphere. The air in the V22 was charged with electricity. The men craned their necks from side to side to get a better view over the heads in front. After a pause, a violin hummed a single high note and held it for several seconds. A chord of music from an electric guitar crashed through the headphones and the speaker boxes hidden throughout the aircraft. Then the vocals came, screamed by a man who sounded as if he was in agony.
Take my life on the point of your knife,
Show me a war, the World Bank’s whore,
Where you come from, man, is full of sin.
Who do you thank,
when you’re shot point blank?
Blood soaked earth, yeah, blood soaked earth . . .
whoa, blood soaked . . .
The music fell abruptly to silence, the wall of sound seeming to echo through the aircraft. The soldiers, who had, until a moment ago, been drifting in and out of their own thoughts, were sitting forward in their seats, puzzled, their senses assaulted by the thrash coming through their headphones and the speakers. McBride put his head round the corner and apologised for the one hundred decibels of heavy-metal rock and roll. ‘Sorry, guys,’ he said almost comically.
The American made his way back to Wilkes, Suryei and Joe. He handed the disk to Wilkes. ‘Just a bit of audio streaming. Nothing else on it.’
Joe held his hand out for the disk. Wilkes intercepted it and turned it over, examining it again.
‘I was listening to that track in the plane before . . . you know . . .’ Joe stumbled over his words. He tried to remember the hour before the 747 began its dive. Where had he saved those files to? It was possible that they were indeed captured on the disk in his hand, but saved as background, a little trick he’d learned from the games fraternity for concealing cheat codes. A battle raged in his conscience. The side of certainty ultimately won. Joe had to know.
‘Paper and a pen . . .’ he grunted.
McBride provided him with a notebook and pencil. With obvious discomfort, Joe scribbled a DOS command on it and handed it back. ‘Try that.’
Joe stared at the empty square of projected white space on the bulkhead and hoped it would stay that way.
Something flashed up and then disappeared, a ghost image. Floaters again drifted slowly from top to bottom. And then, suddenly, there it was. The map.
It depicted South-East Asia and northern Australia. Rough arrows drawn in black squeaker pen flashed dramatically here and there. Darwin and Townsville were obvious areas of interest, for that’s where many of the arrows ended. Notes were hurriedly scribbled in the margin in Indonesian, none of which Joe understood. Australia was called Selatan Irian Jaya, Southern High Victory. He knew that much. Joe swallowed, drily. Suryei was transfixed. Wilkes, McBride and the rest found it hard to believe their eyes.
Ellis caught Wilkes’s attention, gesturing at him to put his headphones on. Wilkes briefly put his ear in one of the cups.
‘Suryei,’ he said, tapping her gently on the shoulder, breaking into her amazement, ‘I’ve just been told we’re out of Indonesian airspace. But I’m afraid I can’t allow you to call anyone.’
Suryei nodded. There was no point arguing. She had the biggest story of her life, but it wasn’t hers to tell. There was plainly much at stake for both Australia and Indonesia. The implications of spreading her knowledge vicariously through the media would profoundly affect events in ways she did not want to be responsible for. Truth, black and white. Grey. How would the papers deal with the astonishing revelations? Besides, she had done her bit. She had survived against impossible odds, and so had Joe. They had somehow managed to escape death many times; perhaps, the fates had ruled, just so they could bring the facts out of the jungle.
Now Wilkes and McBride had those facts. She was absolved of further responsibility. They could be the messengers now.
The realisation that she was no longer responsible for protecting the truth had a profound effect on Suryei. Suddenly, she felt bone-weary. She understood that expression for the first time in her life, because she was exhausted right to her core. It was almost impossible to move. The chair was warm and comfortable and she felt safe. Joe was next to her, eyes squeezed tightly shut, a grimace distorting his mouth. She wanted to put her arm around him and comfort him, only she knew doing so would probably make him scream. Every muscle in her body ached. Her eyes were hot and dry. She allowed herself to close them and was instantly asleep.
Parliament House, Canberra, 1100 Zulu, Friday, 1 May
When the news of the rescue came through, a feeling of triumph swept the room. Something positive, at last. But the handshaking and the smiling had subsided quickly. Too many people had died over the past few days for overt expressions of joy. And two more Australians had lost their lives, members of the SAS. Apparently, the butcher’s bill on the Indonesian side was far worse.
The survivors had been found and both were reasonably healthy. Remarkable, considering their ordeal. More astonishing was the twist that one of those survivors was the young man who had started this deadly snowball rolling, one Cee Squared, Joe Light. What were the chances of that? Somehow, one in around four hundred didn’t seem to do the unlikely event justice. That was a bonus. He was a fact of life the non-believers within the DPRD wouldn’t be able to deny. Not only that, there was apparently an overview of the invasion captured on disk, the very thing the 747 was shot down to keep secret. It was an incredible stroke of luck.
There was no doubt in Niven’s mind that Joe Light was a hero. If not for him, perhaps the first indication of the invasion would have been the fishing boats swamping the northern Australian coastline.
‘This isn’t a triumph, Air Vice Marshal,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s a bloody disaster.’
‘What’s on your mind, Phil?’ Niven asked, distracted.
‘What are you going to do with these survivors?’
‘Ever heard the phrase, “and they lived happily ever after’’?’
‘Don’t be naive. I’d be thinking very carefully if I were you about the wisdom of letting someone like Joe Light loose on the national media.’
‘I’m afraid he’s right, Spike.’ Blight had his arms folded – the body language said it all. ‘The details of the last three days – the reasons for the crash – have to be kept out of the public domain.’
‘Bill, I don’t think it would be possible to keep it quiet,’ said Niven, his respect for the Prime Minister on the verge of dissolving.
The CDF knew he wouldn’t win the political argument against the Prime Minister. He wondered how much Sharpe had been in the PM’s ear. If these men were thinking cover-up, survivors presented a problem. What were they going to do with them? And then the penny dropped. Jesus Christ, we’ve just lost more men to keep the poor bastards alive!
‘Sir, you’re not suggesting –’
Blight read his mind, horrified. ‘Jesus, man!’
‘Well then, what?’ asked Niven bluntly. They’d all been through a lot over the past few days and the polite formalities had been dispensed with.
‘Frankly, I don’t know, but the national interest has to be considered here.’
‘We’re not the bad guys,’ said Sharpe. ‘We just need some kind of contingency plan.’ Niven glanced at Sharpe who was behind the PM as he drew a finger across his throat, smiling. It took a supreme effort of will for Niven to ignore him.
‘Spike, what do you think the Australian people will demand if the full horror of this gets out?’ Blight asked. ‘Over four hundred people dead, a Qantas plane shot down, plans for invasion . . .’
Niven realised the PM’s fear. ‘They’d want to even the score,’ he said.
Blight nodded slowly. ‘Revenge.’
Niven surprised himself that he hadn’t considere
d what was so obvious. The very thing they’d just managed to avert might happen anyway. And what if Australia and Indonesia did slug it out? Aside from the destruction wreaked by the conflict itself, would that then make Australia a target for Islamic terrorists from all over the world? ‘Okay, I see your point, Bill.’ Blight was right, yet, in Niven’s view, he was also morally wrong. What about the truth? There was no perfect solution. There were too many possibilities and variables, no matter how things were handled, and all of them had potentially dire consequences attached. Perhaps secrecy was the right way to go. Sharpe grinned behind the PM’s back. Niven just wished he didn’t have to agree with him.
The fate of Flight 007 on Sakhalin Island flashed into his brain again. The realities of the incident had been buried somehow – that was obvious to him now. But why? There was supposedly a well-known outspoken anti-Communist congressman on the flight. At the time, both sides were seeking détente. Had he been silenced to make peace a reality?
If the aircraft hadn’t crashed into the sea as reported but had actually made it to the military base on Sakhalin itself, around 270 passengers and crew would have been spirited away. If that was the case, what had happened to them? Where were they now? If one passenger had turned up alive, questions would have been asked about what happened to all the rest. The fact that very little wreckage and only four bodies were found made that theory quite plausible. Images of frightened passengers swam in his mind – men, women and children being herded off to some unknown fate, their lives and dreams terminated because of some foreign policy manoeuvring.
We don’t have anything like that kind of problem here, Niven reminded himself – just two people. ‘If you don’t mind, Bill, I’d like to handle it,’ Niven said. If he took over, Niven reasoned, then at least it’d be done right. Two fine Australian soldiers had paid the ultimate price to protect the survivors. He didn’t want that sacrifice to have been for nothing.
‘Thanks, Spike,’ said Blight. ‘I was hoping you would.’
Sharpe placed a hand on Niven’s shoulder and said quietly in his ear, ‘Me too, Spike. I can think of no one better to screw over if things get fucked up.’
Niven shuddered, and not just because of the physical contact with Sharpe. Lying went against his grain even if, in this particular instance, there was a reasonable argument that doing so served the national interest. And then there was the problem of making that lie stick. Would it be possible to pass off the plane crash as some kind of bizarre accident? Alternatively, what if there was no attempt to hide the truth? Could there be advantages in that? Indonesia had to face up to the reality of its fractious military establishment once and for all. The world condemnation that would follow when the full story was known might force all kinds of changes on Jakarta. Perhaps the fate of QF-1 might be just the right catalyst. Niven wrestled with the competing voices in his head, and a small part of him was thankful that the decision about which way to jump had been taken out of his hands.
Niven glanced around the room quickly sizing up the men he’d followed the crisis through with over the past three days. Griffin and Greenway were nodding as Blight and Sharpe spoke to them, drumming up support no doubt. Griffin caught the nervousness on Niven’s face and came over. He said, ‘The PM just told us . . . I know you, and I can see this sticking in your throat. Spikey, for what it’s worth, Lurch and I think the PM’s right. Can’t see any other way.’
‘There’s always another way, Griff,’ said Niven obstinately.
‘Okay, forget about Australia and Indonesia and the geopolitical issues at stake. Try and look at it from the two survivors’ point of view. They’re going to want to return to some semblance of a normal life. Find some way to make that possible for them, because if all this ends up in the media, I guarantee they’ll be dead within the year – think what juicy targets they’d make for extremists.’
‘Yep, okay . . . that hadn’t occurred to me, Griff,’ said Niven. ‘And the PM’s reasons are valid too, I suppose. Frankly, I’m just not happy about doing another Sakhalin Island here. And y’know, no matter what we do to prevent it, it’ll all come out sooner or later.’
‘Too many loose ends?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well, let’s hope when it does we’re all retired,’ Griffin said, forcing a smile. He knew Niven was right. And when it all boiled down, the reason for the cover-up was simply to protect people’s lives. ‘Come on, Spike, let me get you a drink. Lord knows we deserve one.’
‘Thanks, Griff, but I’ll take a rain check if you don’t mind. I’ve got a bit of planning to do and once I start drinking I don’t think I’ll want to stop.’
‘Know what you mean. Care to bounce anything off me?’
‘Actually, yes.’ Niven’s mind was already racing with a plan half formed. An invasion was imminent unless something could be done about Suluang and the rest. Leaking the satellite photo of the crash to the Indonesian parliament just before releasing it to the Australian media had been a clever ploy. Blight’s idea. The impression was that the photo had come from a source within the TNI – more factional infighting? And then there was allowing Batuta to join the team at the videoconference, where General Masri gave up his story. Another Blight masterstroke. A risk, of course, because in reality the PM couldn’t have known for sure exactly what Batuta did or didn’t know. Blight had gambled that the diplomat was completely in the dark, and won. No doubt about it, the man was an excellent strategist. Now they knew exactly where the Indonesian government stood, and a counter-move could be made with some confidence. Perhaps the PM was also right about these next uncomfortable steps.
A videoconference would need to be set up as soon as possible between Batuta, Blight, and the President of Indonesia and his foreign minister. It would then be up to Batuta to convince his President to side with Canberra against the common enemy. At least Canberra had something to work with now, facts they didn’t have even a few hours ago, some certainty. The Indonesian politician, Achmad Reza, the man Griffin had chosen to reveal the satellite photos of QF-1 to the Indonesian parliament, was a further asset they could harness.
Niven’s plan was chancy and violent, but there wasn’t much time up their sleeves for subtlety. Suluang had to be on the back foot. But there were a couple of major details Niven as yet had no answers for. The first was to find a reason for the 747’s crash. It couldn’t be attributed to human error. With all the press coverage the incident had received, the public was now very well informed. The fact that aircraft didn’t just disappear from ATC screens without good reason had been widely canvassed. He saw no way around bringing Boeing into the loop. The manufacturing giant would thoroughly investigate the wreckage and the chances of it agreeing to attribute the cause of the crash to mechanical or systems failure were nil. Neither Boeing nor the world’s carriers could afford a crisis of confidence in the popular aircraft. Secondly, there was Joe and the woman – what was her name . . . Suryei? How to protect their identities?
‘Griff, if I remember correctly, you said that one of our people was Suluang’s lover?’
‘Well, yes . . .’
The CDF was so caught up in his thoughts, he failed to realise his cold had disappeared.
Jakarta, 1100 Zulu, Friday, 1 May
Sketchy news had just reached Suluang by phone of several F-16s involved in some kind of crash or mid-air collision in Sulawesi, but the report was unconfirmed. Hasanuddin AFB was in a flap. All planes were up, but they hadn’t as yet located the missing aircraft or recovered the pilots. But it wasn’t unusual to lose fighters through training accidents and other mishaps – that much he did know. Suluang wondered whether he was being hopeful or delusional. Something was wrong, definitely wrong. The 747 was located, the world was watching, and yet he was blind, attempting to plan in a vacuum.
And then there was Sergeant Marturak. Static, a distant crackling on the appointed frequency – that’s all they’d received from him when they’d tried to make contact. Marturak had not
called in at the appointed time. Another missed communication meant the problems were continuing. More reasons to be anxious. Marturak had been due to report and confirm that the crash site was secured at last, meaning the two survivors had joined their fellow passengers. But that communication had not been received. What in Allah’s name was going on? There was no contingency plan because the operation had been hurriedly cobbled together and executed. Perhaps Marturak’s radios had somehow been disabled. If he heard nothing within the next hour, he would dispatch another team of Kopassus troops to the area.
The problem with that, of course, was that the net was widening. Already too many people knew too much. Sooner or later there would be a leak and that was a real danger. Masri had deserted the cause after the last get-together, lost his nerve. How many others would lose their resolve with the uncertainties building? The government’s internal security would be digging around, hunting for irregularities. Lanti Rajasa would take care of that, should it become an issue. But he wouldn’t be able to keep the dogs at bay for long. And he wouldn’t be able to help at all if their plan was revealed. Rajasa would be one of the first to be isolated, excluded from the loop. Not true, he told himself. He would be – Suluang.
General Masri still hadn’t been found. His disappearance was Suluang’s main concern. Bigger, even, than not hearing from the Kopassus, or that satellite photo. Masri could be dead, lying face down in a paddy field somewhere. Suluang hoped he was, because if he wasn’t, then he could also be somewhere talking to the wrong people. Again, he hadn’t heard anything. The hit had been ordered on Masri and the hitman had himself been killed. Masri, though, had disappeared. Vanished. And so had his driver, one of Lanti’s people. The plan, the beautiful plan, was unravelling fast. There are too many variables. Get out now! There were countries he could disappear to and live like a sultan on the money he had salted away over the years.
Rogue Element Page 36