Rogue Element (16 page)

Joe and Suryei ran through the jungle as quickly as they dared, making just enough disturbance to alert any wildlife in their path and give it time to move out of the way but, hopefully, not enough noise to telegraph their whereabouts to the murderers somewhere behind them.

‘Stop . . . stop,’ she said eventually, exhausted, collapsing on a rotten, moss-covered log.

Joe fell beside her, shaking. He vomited onto the ground, panting as his stomach heaved uncontrollably. This was not his world. He didn’t belong here. ‘Shit,’ he said when the convulsions stopped, a string of yellow bile hanging from his lips. ‘What are we doing? What the fuck is going on?’ His mind replayed the severing of the soldier’s fingers and the back of his throat constricted, preparing itself for the arrival of more digestive juices.

‘Come on,’ said Suryei, dragging Joe to his feet. ‘We have to keep moving.’

‘I’m okay,’ he said, knowing that he didn’t feel okay at all.

Suryei turned and stepped through a hole in a low bush and let out a scream. She disappeared down a steep mud-slide, plunging beneath the surface of a rivulet. She yelled in shock and took a mouthful of water, spluttering, choking.
The water could be brackish, stagnant, and a serious danger to her health. As it slid down her throat, she realised that it was sweet. Relieved, she put her health concerns away and gulped mouthfuls.

Joe appeared at the edge of the bank, anxious until he saw Suryei come to the surface. She waved at him to join her, but quietly. Joe ditched his rucksack and axe and eased himself into the water, careful not to splash. He sank into the cool depths, feeling the water sluice through his clothes. It soothed him, took away some of the tension. He drank deeply, not caring that the water invaded his nostrils. He shook his head beneath the water, running his fingers through his hair and rubbing his face, invigorated. He then quietly surfaced, again making as little noise as possible, aware that sound would travel far in the cooler, denser air above the water. He turned and caught a glimpse of Suryei climbing up the opposite bank. Her clothes clung to her skin like wet tissue paper. Her breasts were not large but they were firm and her shirt hung suspended from her nipples. Joe stopped himself from staring, but not before Suryei caught him at it.

He climbed out of the water soundlessly and sat on the bank. Joe felt better, still numb, but at least he felt back in his body again rather than remote from it in shock.

‘You okay, Joe?’ Suryei asked.

He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

He took the empty water bottles from his rucksack. Filling one, Joe held it up to examine the contents. The water was clear and clean. He filled the other bottles, stuffed them back in his rucksack and reshouldered the load. Joe then picked his way carefully up the slippery mud, grabbing tufts of foliage to keep his balance as he
went. He glanced up as Suryei looked around. He took another quick glimpse of the woman squeezing water out of her hair.

He’d half expected that she would sprain her ankle or something, and that he’d then have to carry her through the jungle. That old cliché, the helpless female. But it hadn’t taken him long to realise that she was tough and that if anyone would be doing the carrying, it would probably be Suryei.

The bush did not appear to be quite so dense here. It seemed cooler too. Enormous trees, giant columns, appeared to support the massive green roof overhead. At their base was a carpet of lime-green ferns. Families of monkeys chattered high overhead.

And then something occurred to him. ‘Hang on, Suryei,’ he said quietly. He went back to the rivulet, crossed it, and found a broken branch. He scrubbed at his footprints and at the skid Suryei had made in the bank where she’d slipped into the water, until they ceased to look man-made. He then crossed the stream and did the same to their tracks on the other side.

He considered whether they should have travelled down or upstream a distance before leaving the water, so as to throw off their pursuers. But, he reasoned, providing they were careful and left no entry or exit footprints along the bank, their pursuers wouldn’t have a clue whether they’d even been in the stream, let alone where they’d left it.

Joe wondered where they would end up. Certainly he had not the slightest idea where they were going. Neither did Suryei. They were just trying to stay ahead of the killers. Maybe they’d just step out of the jungle and into a
dirty great car park with a Pizza Hut. He wondered whether he was getting delirious.

Their eyes and brains were growing accustomed to their environment now. The foliage wasn’t scratching and tearing at them quite as often. Indeed, it was much easier going in this forest of giants. That had a downside, he realised. The soldiers would also move more quickly through it, and there were significantly fewer places in which to hide. Their world had been a misery of crawling in and around thickets of greens and browns through air so dense and heavy with water that it almost seemed to physically impede their progress. And always behind them, or beside them, or in front of them, the ever-present threat of death.

Then there was the rain. They heard it before they felt it, a hammering that battered the leaves in the treetops far overhead. Eventually, the weight of the water would make the leaves sag and it would then fall through the next layer of trees and bushes and so on, until it eventually hit the spongy ground as enormous bloated gobs. There was a lot of mud too, thick molasses mud that sucked at their shoes. Joe started walking on the smaller ferns to avoid it, which kept his legs wet and covered with fiery bites from caterpillars, insects and small spiders.

The ground began to rise and with it, a new dimension of misery was brought to their efforts. The incline steepened quickly and became slick with water and their legs burned with the extra exertion. The higher ground, however, soon afforded them a view of the valley below and occasional patches of sky above, a welcome change from the dark canopy overhead.

Joe could barely remember having another life before
the one he was now forced to endure. He was losing track of time. How many days, weeks, years ago since the plane crash? Was it a week ago that the cobra had helped them escape from certain capture and death? How long ago had they run into the logging camp? Joe trudged on behind Suryei as she climbed slowly, one heavy step at a time.

At first they didn’t know whether the sound was behind them or in front of them. But it was man-made, an engine, and it was getting close. Then Suryei saw it and risked giving away their location to the soldiers. ‘There,’ she yelled, pointing and looking down as it circled low and slow over the trees in the valley, banking into figure eights. It was bright purple with a yellow and red striped propeller. An ultralight. It was discovery, rescue, a hot bath. So many wonderful things flashed through Joe’s mind that he shouted for joy, like a fan at a grand final whose team has just scored the winning points.

But then the little aircraft shifted its pattern to a new part of the sky, gaining altitude, and Joe and Suryei were overcome by an enormous sense of loss. They jumped up and down and screamed, desperately waving their arms. The little aircraft gave no acknowledgement of their existence. They heard the clatter of a long burst of machine-gun fire. Suryei and Joe watched, horrified, as the ultralight flew into the dotted line of tracer reaching up from the jungle.

The pilot appeared to jump about in his seat and there was a puff of black smoke from the small rear engine. The propeller stopped and the aircraft’s wing dipped steeply. They watched it spiral one and a half times before the craft vanished silently into the trees 500 metres away. Suryei was first to start walking, continuing her way up a
steep incline. She had a grim expression on her face, one that didn’t invite conversation or comfort.

Joe ignored that and caught up with her anyway. ‘That’s good,’ he said, gasping for air.

‘Yeah, right. Soldiers, ten. Suryei and Joe, zero.’

‘There’ll be more ultralights,’ said Joe, trying to convince himself that rescue was nearer.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘It had to have been from another logging camp, or maybe a bigger base camp somewhere. Maybe they were checking things out, to see what had happened to their mates.’

Suryei nodded but kept walking. Whether Joe was right or not, there was nothing else they could do.

The little plane was soon forgotten. Before long, Joe and Suryei were back in their own spaces, together but apart, heading uncertainly to an unknown destination.

They climbed on for what seemed an eternity. Just when they thought they’d put the last hill behind them, another would rise out of a valley. And then there was food, or lack of it. It had been twenty-four hours since they’d eaten anything. Coconut trees abounded but, so far, they hadn’t managed to find any coconuts on the ground. And climbing the trees was out of the question.

Suryei caught Joe picking at some fruit hanging from a low branch. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ she said. ‘They’re brightly coloured. Nature’s way of saying, “I’m poisonous”.’

Joe let the berries fall to the ground. Things were bad enough already. He didn’t want to make them worse by getting violent stomach cramps.

Lack of food was starting to slow them down, and so were the hills, again. They were getting steeper. Both Joe
and Suryei now had legs of clay. Every step was an effort. Joe stopped to get his breath. The scree shifted under his feet and he slipped back a couple of metres. He bent forward and let the axe, propped on the ground, take his weight. Ants scurried over the scree looking for food. He wondered if they were as hungry as he was, and doubted it. He panted. The muscles in the front of his legs, his quads, were pulsing, twitching, like the flanks of a horse that had run a hard race. He didn’t think he could go on, but at the same time he knew he had to.

He wondered how high they’d climbed. The trail behind disappeared after a hundred metres into the dark green melange of the bush beyond. The vegetation was not as dense here at the higher altitude. Above was blue sky. The sky! Joe hadn’t seen that for a while. It had been obliterated by a continuous canopy, which had also thinned considerably.

Joe caught a movement from the corner of his eye. It was Suryei, further up the trail, standing on what appeared to be the summit, the crest of the ridge, but Joe wasn’t being fooled by that mirage again. A couple of times he thought they’d reached the top but it was only the angle of the scree lessening briefly before steepening again maddeningly. Suryei gestured urgently. Her hand movements said, ‘Haul your arse up here, quick. There’s something you should see.’ At least, he guessed that was what she meant. They hadn’t actually talked for a good few hours. Talking took too much effort, and made the climb that much harder.

Joe got his legs moving again. He was surprised they agreed to cooperate. One foot in front of the other, that’s all I ask, he assured them. Twenty or so agonising steps
later, Joe pulled up beside Suryei. He was gratified to see that her chest was also heaving. She was out of breath too. He had been starting to think this girl was some kind of goddam superwoman.

Suryei said, ‘Look,’ gesturing with a slight nod of her head. Joe turned and saw, away in the distance, the massive, perfectly conical shape of a volcano. Like something from a prehistoric landscape. It was blue-grey with a fluffy white bib of cloud around the summit. Ridge lines rolled away from the base of the volcano like ripples in beach sand. He realised that they had spent several exhausting hours climbing one of those ripples and he suddenly felt small and insignificant.

The view made him forget his legs, his lungs, his stomach, and the fact that a bullet could whistle out of the bush at any minute and take the view, and everything else, away from him. And from Suryei.

‘Come on,’ said Suryei softly, breaking the spell. She turned away from the volcano and renewed the climb up the ridge’s spine.

The President’s National Security Advisor’s face was etched with concern. He had nothing further to add to the bleak news and the videoconference was at an end. The picture on the television monitor flickered briefly before fading to a silent, implacable grey.

Prime Minister Blight swallowed dryly, his Adams
apple moving painfully in his throat. ‘Christ all-bloody-mighty . . .’ he said, the words coming out in a hoarse whisper, exhaled on the breath he’d been holding. His eyes were round and large. He’d just been told the single most horrifying thing of his entire life.

Herschel Zubinski, the US ambassador to Australia, stood. ‘Yes, as the National Security Advisor has just said, these are our gravest
suspicions
. But while our intelligence sources have not fully confirmed much of this information, privately Washington just doesn’t know what else it can all mean. If the worst comes to the worst, you know the American people do not tolerate state-sponsored terrorism.’ He walked to the Prime Minister and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. ‘Bill . . . gentlemen . . .’ The short dark man with the heavy New York accent bowed slightly to the room and left.

Griffin and Niven exchanged an anxious glance. The Commander in Chief’s fears had been proved right, but this was one occasion Niven wished he’d been wrong.

Phil Sharpe, the Foreign Minister, was strident. ‘Where’s the proof?’ he said. ‘The hard, concrete evidence. As the Americans have said, these are
suspicions
only. We don’t know for sure that the Indonesians shot the plane down. It’s just some analyst’s assessment on the other side of the world – circumstantial bollocks.’

Every time Sharpe opened his mouth to speak, Niven felt uneasy. No, it was more basic than that. The CDF just plain didn’t like the man. He was a true politician, always working the angles for what appeared to be personal advantage. And Niven found him an odd choice for the portfolio of Foreign Minister, where an open mind was essential. Blight and Sharpe had been unionists together
and were obviously friends. But what, other than a shared history, did Blight see in him? The dislike between Niven and Sharpe was mutual and Niven had to exercise considerable control to stop his feelings bubbling to the surface.

The reality was that the US, using the world’s most sophisticated listening network, had intercepted enough ‘circumstantial bollocks’ that no jury would have trouble convicting the suspect. The US uncertainty boiled down to the fact that the crashed plane hadn’t been found, so experts were unable to physically confirm missile damage. But everyone knew the remains of the plane would turn up, and soon. In a sense, finding the plane was almost a mere formality. And then a thought formed in his brain that found its way out of his mouth before he’d had time to stop it. ‘We’ll have to go in and get that proof then, won’t we?’ he said.

Sharpe was stunned. ‘What, invade Indonesia? That’s what you’re suggesting, isn’t it?’ he scoffed, looking for support.

Niven knew instantly that he’d been hasty, but he pursued the thought anyway. The situation required cool calculation, not testosterone. Certainly, the remains of the aircraft were on foreign soil and the evidence was therefore Indonesia’s to manipulate if it chose to, but the consequences of going in uninvited to relieve them of that evidence was unthinkable. At best it would be a suicide mission and at worst touch off a deadly broader conflict.

‘Sorry, Spike, I’m not with you. What are you suggesting exactly?’ asked Blight, agreeing with Sharpe but finding a more diplomatic way of expressing his doubts.

‘Prime Minister, we’ve just been told the plane was shot down and, despite what the Indonesian authorities are
telling us, I’m pretty certain I know where it came down. I’m talking about a limited, covert operation to secure the site for an international inspection team, and retrieve the aircraft’s black boxes.’

‘And what – the Indonesians would just put out the welcome mat, I suppose?’ said Sharpe smugly, certain the CDF had just hung himself.

Niven ignored him. ‘What I’m suggesting here is that we take the initiative.’ Blight and Griffin appeared doubtful. ‘Look, Indonesia is unwilling to let us help locate QF-1. The question is, why? More planes in the air, more eyes searching, we’d find it quicker. And a little of the spirit of cooperation between our two countries wouldn’t be a bad thing.’

The PM nodded slowly, tentatively buying the logic.

‘Obviously because they don’t want us picking over it. We’d know pretty much instantly that it was shot down. But what if there’s another reason? They must know we’re going to find out what happened to QF-1. What if they’re just stalling for time? What if it’s the
motive
for shooting down the plane that they’re so reluctant to let us see? Could
that
be found in the wreckage?’ This thought occurred to Niven while he spoke, yet the force of it hit him like a revelation.

‘What about this Cee Squared/Joe Light bloke?’ asked the Prime Minister, hoping to find another answer somewhere. Niven was suggesting an aggressive course of action that made him feel downright uncomfortable. ‘He’s obviously the key to this.’

‘I’ll get on that immediately, Bill,’ said Griffin.

Blight felt queasy. He took a sip of water to calm his stomach. As much as he would have liked it otherwise, the
air vice marshal’s head-on approach was perhaps the only way through. ‘I think I see your point, Spike,’ said Blight. ‘You’re saying they shot the plane down for a reason, and that that’s more important to keep secret than the crime itself.’

‘Exactly,’ said Niven.

‘Jesus, what the hell could it be?’ said Blight, rapidly finding himself infected with Niven’s suspicions.

‘With respect, Spike,’ said Griffin cautiously, ‘simple pride could have a lot to do with their reluctance to let us help. In accepting our assistance, it could be seen that they don’t have adequate resources to do the job themselves.’

‘C’mon, Griff. Wake up and smell the roses,’ said Niven impatiently. ‘The Americans have just finished telling us that they believe the Indonesians have shot down a civilian jetliner. A Qantas 747 with a full load of passengers.
They shot it down
, for Christ’s sake.
Why?
It’s the “why” that’s important here. As tragic as the actual crime is, we have to forget about that now and concentrate on the motive.’ Niven knew he’d hit on something fundamental.

‘Okay, I get the picture,’ said Griffin, wishing he hadn’t got it at all. He didn’t want the CDF to be right about this because of the horrendous consequences. If they shot the plane down on purpose, it could be a prelude to war.

Blight wondered what that motive could possibly be. Revenge over East Timor was the only one that came to mind, and a deep sense of foreboding filled him. The Australian actions in East Timor were not his administration’s, but he’d read the departmental papers. While the press had largely presented it as a triumph of Australian foreign policy, in truth it wasn’t a shining chapter. DIO’s brief to the Department of Defence had concluded that
there could be a bloodbath if the TNI were pushed off the island before peacekeepers arrived. That advice had been ignored and, as a direct result, an unknown number of East Timorese had paid the price with their lives. The rapid deployment of Australian troops to the island had at least prevented prolonged and more widespread carnage, but it had been touch and go for a while. Could the events they were now facing have their roots in decisions made years ago? These thoughts circulated in his mind together with the image of hundreds of people falling like rag dolls through the sky to their deaths. He shuddered and forced his attention back into the room.

‘The Indonesians won’t be able to hide the crash site for long,’ continued Niven. ‘Experts tell us that if the plane exploded at high altitude, the wreckage could be spread over hundreds of square kilometres.’

‘So you think the Indonesians have already found the plane?’ said Greenway.

‘Bet on it,’ said Niven.

There was silence in the room, the calm in the centre of a cyclone.

‘So let me get this straight,’ said Sharpe with a sarcastic edge to his tone and a vague sneer on his face, ‘you think we should just march into the biggest Muslim nation in the world, a country with hundreds of thousands of men at arms, and ask them to stand aside and let us through because we don’t trust them?’

Niven smiled back sweetly. ‘Actually, yes. And all this time I thought you were slow.’

‘Fuck you, Niven.’

‘Jesus, keep your bloody shirts on!’ said Blight, the veins in his neck pulsing angrily. ‘We don’t need that crap
here. We need teamwork.’ Blight turned to Griffin. ‘What do you think, Graeme?’ The PM had been hoping that some kind of political solution might present itself, but so far none had.

‘About going in to Sulawesi with troops?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t think so. Spike says he’s sure where the crash site is. But what if it’s not there? Well, it’s a recipe for disaster. As we all know, there are many people in Indonesia angry about our last invasion of their soil: East Timor. We need to be mindful of the consequences of doing it again.’

The room was silent.

‘Look, things might change . . . I just don’t think we know enough yet,’ said Griffin, walking to the water cooler to pour himself a glass. ‘As for the reasons why we should send in troops – the Commander in Chief’s fear of a broader conspiracy – I’m not convinced about that either. But I would like to make a point that hasn’t been touched on and that is, I think we can’t assume the Indonesian
government
has any top-level knowledge of this.’

‘Are you saying that all this could be happening
without
the government’s knowledge?’ asked the PM.

‘Well, yes, basically,’ said Griffin cautiously. ‘The armed forces in Indonesia have a history of operating outside government control. Look at our own experience in East Timor. We knew more about what the TNI was cooking up there than Jakarta did – the Kopassus units arming and enlisting death squads, the training of militia, the silent executions, the standover tactics. The military treated its government like proverbial mushrooms.’

Blight swallowed drily.

‘Maybe the government wanted to be kept out of the loop publicly, but was in on it privately,’ said Niven.

‘We know that’s not true. Not strictly, anyway. The trouble is, the army – the TNI – has a large number of seats in the Indonesian parliament mandated by constitution. So, in a sense, the army
is
the government. And that’s where it really gets difficult sorting out who knows what – there are factions within factions in the army guarding fiefdoms in provinces a long way from Jakarta. Indeed, there are plenty of precedents where troops within a battalion have got up to mischief without even their commander’s knowledge, let alone Jakarta’s,’ Griffin said.

‘If the Indonesian government has been kept in the dark and fed on shit, as you suggest with your mushroom theory, how does that then explain their reluctance to accept our help in the search for the plane?’ asked Niven. ‘You really believe it’s just a matter of pride?’ He didn’t agree with Griffin’s reasoning, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in the Director-General’s point of view.

Griffin considered before answering. ‘Yes. Pride, ego, face. They’ve always been sensitive about anything they might consider outside interference or intervention. Especially now after the rash of terrorist scares has put the spotlight on them. They’re keen to demonstrate to the world that Jakarta’s in control. And, as I said, the TNI has all those seats in the government. Or perhaps it’s an overreaction to once being ruled by a colonial power. Top that off with the fact that the government thinks it’s under siege . . . one, all, or a combination of these factors could explain their actions.

‘Internally, there’s plenty of dissatisfaction and frustration with the way things are going: Aceh, Ambon, Kalimantan,
West Papua, are all boiling over. They are worried about the Balkanisation of their country. East Timor has gone. There is a very strong groundswell for independence in West Papua, formerly Irian Jaya, where there are freedom fighters – the OPM – who’ve been exchanging shots with the TNI for more than twenty years. No doubt you’ve seen the DIO paper currently circulating?’

Sharpe shook his head to indicate he hadn’t. The Foreign Minister had just returned from a lengthy United Nations forum on new international standards for the management and housing of refugees.

Niven snorted. In his view, Sharpe spent too much time in front of the TV cameras and being seen at restaurant openings to be an effective minister.

‘Briefly, Phil, it looks like the Kopassus are back to their old tricks, building up local militia forces in Papua. They get trucked in wearing civvies, with crates full of weapons and money, and arm anyone with a grudge.

‘Jakarta believes East Timor’s departure has set the precedent for other disaffected provinces to follow. Throughout the archipelago there are racial, tribal and religious tensions all exacerbated by poverty. The general populace of Indonesia, considered moderate by Islamic standards, has been surprisingly tolerant of the fanatics and terrorists on the fringe of its society. You don’t have to walk far on any Indonesian street before you see someone in an “I love bin Laden” t-shirt. If I were to put my black hat on, I’d say Indonesia can only travel down one of three possible paths in the future. One, as I’ve said, the place Balkanises – fractures into smaller, bolshy states that pursue their own national interests. Two, religious fundamentalism takes hold. Three, a military dictatorship takes over the place. How long before one of these predictions
comes to pass? ’ Griffin shrugged. ‘We know all this – none of it’s new. We’ve all become involved in endless debates about our largest neighbour to the north after the disaster in Bali. What’s the most likely path? I still believe it’s the dictatorship. Lord knows there have been plenty of precedents for it in the country’s past.

‘The government is now engaged in a delicate balancing act and we know that’s making the military nervous. And while I’m on the subject of the military, they’ve taken a hammering since the glory days under Soeharto came to an end. The government’s stance towards us over this incident could be interpreted as Jakarta’s sop to the military. Y’know, look tough, talk tough. Flex those independent muscles. Basically, unless we get concrete evidence to the contrary, I believe we should give the government the benefit of the doubt.’