Rogue Element (24 page)

One of the V22’s enormous propellers whirled overhead, hot gases exhausting onto the baking steel deck from the 6100 horsepower Allison turboshafts. Its identical partner on the opposite wingtip began to turn slowly. The AV-8 pilots were back in the saddle, helmets on and heads down, going through their pre-flight checks.

The operation now had an audience. The unusual sight of what were patently foreign special ops troops milling about on deck, fully camouflaged and bristling with firepower, had attracted spectators. The fact that they were about to leave in the United States Marines’ newest toy to an exotic and obviously troubled place fired the collective imagination. The attention made Wilkes uncomfortable. The SAS preferred anonymity.

The LM appeared on the ramp at the back of the V22 and waved the troops in. The Australians shouldered their heavy packs and weapons and, bending forward under the load, walked out of the tropical sun and into the shade of the aircraft’s belly.

Captain McBride put his mouth close to Wilkes’s ear and shouted above the jet whine, ‘We’re set up to fast-rope you in.’ Wilkes nodded his understanding. Where they were going, there were no open grassy hills for the V22 to land on. Most likely they would put down over the treetops. They would have to abseil off the back of the aircraft’s loading ramp, which could be lowered in flight, down into the canopy and the unscouted terrain below it. It was a dangerous way to deploy, but the SAS trained for it. All in a day’s work. It was best, however, to get all the
ropes organised now, beforehand. There might, for example, be a firefight going on in the drop zone that required their immediate attention and it would not do to fiddle around in the confined space of the aircraft’s interior at the last minute, organising ropes with bullets flying about.

Inside the V22 there was significantly more room than in the Black Hawk. The LM showed them where to stow and secure their packs and weapons and directed them to the rows of surprisingly comfortable seats, which reminded Wilkes more of a commercial aeroplane than a military one. Now this is luxury. By comparison, the seats in a Herc, their usual mode of transport, were crude benches running down both sides of the aircraft’s fuselage.

There was room for thirty or more soldiers in the cavernous space. The aircraft had been well thought out. It could airlift a platoon-size force plus gear. And it didn’t require a landing strip at its destination because it could land and take off vertically. Wilkes saw the sense in such an aircraft immediately. With its range and speed, the V22 also gave the US marine and navy ships the ability to stand off a troubled coastline further than ever before, way out of the destructive reach of the enemy’s missile envelope. And, with its obvious cargo-carrying ability, the V22 would make an ideal resupply vehicle. It allowed the marines to get in and out quick, and hit harder and more effectively when and where it counted.

The LM handed Wilkes and his men abseil harnesses. Wilkes climbed into the webbing, fastened the straps comfortably, and then checked the assembly for error. He identified the rope on which he would exit the rear of the V22. It was colour-coded to the wrap-rack on the harness and already fastened to a hard point over the rear door.

Wilkes was directed towards a seat. Ellis sat on his right with a place for McBride on his left. McBride handed out headphones with boom mikes to the soldiers. Low-powered interior lights winked on as the tail ramp closed shut on heavy hydraulic struts.

Wilkes and Ellis glanced around. ‘Do you think they’ll be serving snacks?’ enquired someone through the phones. The seats were almost luxurious. And it was relatively quiet. The Black Hawk was god-awful noisy and, with the sliding doors opened, windy. Being inside a Herc was like someone putting a metal garbage can over your head and beating it with a stick. The V22, however, felt almost like travelling first-class. It was even air-conditioned!

The vibration through the seat coupled with the change in sound pitch that he could feel rather than hear told Wilkes that the giant propellers whirling overhead were synchronised. There were only a couple of small porthole-style windows in the side of the fuselage so there wasn’t much of a view. Wilkes felt the aircraft rock gently from side to side on its undercarriage, settling back on the deck of the carrier before it lifted clear.

The feeling in the pit of his stomach and the pressure popping in his ears told him the aircraft was going straight up. On the flight deck, the pilot took the Osprey from helicopter to aircraft mode with the flick of a switch. The wingtip nacelles rotated through ninety degrees until they were aligned with the plane’s longitudinal axis. Wilkes felt the change of direction in the muscles of his neck as the aircraft accelerated briskly towards its cruising speed. One moment it was a helo, the next a fast transport aircraft. Bloody Yanks had all the good shit, thought Wilkes. A few babies like this would give the SAS real kick-arseability.

The captain’s voice through the phones interrupted Wilkes’s train of thought. ‘We’re going to climb to 18 000 feet and hold that cruise altitude over East Timor. Then we’ll drop down to wave height under Indon radar. The AV-8s will ride shotgun for us.

‘We’re going to skirt around to the east of Sulawesi. We’ll have to RV with a KC-135 tanker out of the Philippines a couple of times – those AV-8s are thirsty mothers. When we do pop up to refuel, there’ll be an EA6B Prowler orbiting to fry any hostile radar and keep us stealthy, ’cause you can never be too careful on these kinds of ops. We’ve also got an AWACS bird to direct the whole show when we get closer to Sulawesi.

‘And if things really go to shit, we’ve got a flight of three Super Hornets on station with the tanker that we can call in on fifteen minutes notice,’ the captain added reassuringly, reading off a computer printout.

Christ, thought Wilkes. This is a covert mission? It sounded like the whole goddam United States cavalry was riding on in. But this was something the Yanks had a lot of practice doing in theatres all around the world – they called it CSAR, Combat Search and Rescue – and he wasn’t going to argue.

‘What about when we get to Sulawesi?’

‘Okay, as I said, we plan to come in from the east rather than the south. That way, we can ride the wave tops for longer and stay under their noses. Also, we want to avoid Hasanuddin AFB in the south of the island.

‘Once we get abeam of the plane crash site we’ll turn inland flying nap of the earth. It’ll get bumpy. We’re not sure exactly where we’re gonna put you down just yet. We’re hoping for more up-to-date intel. That should come
through about an hour and twenty into our flight time. We’ll go over deployments then.

‘Total flight time to insertion is updated to one hour, fifty-four minutes, plus or minus one minute.’

Jesus, that was quick, thought Wilkes. ‘Comms?’

‘I’ve talked to your radio guy already. You’ve got HF, sat phones and TACBEs?’

Wilkes nodded.

‘Okay. An AWACS will stay on station at all times to relay communications. Your call sign is Ferret, ’cause we’re stickin’ you down a dirty black hole. That okay?’

Wilkes gave the captain a thumb’s up. This was slick. Getting in unannounced and in double time was
the
major issue. ‘What about getting us out?’ he asked, another concern on a long list of them.

‘Okay, that’s a bit trickier. The only place we know of for sure where there’s enough space to put the V22 down is the area cleared by the 747. We’ll make that our RV, unless you tell us different when you call us back in. Transmit the coordinates indicated on your GPS and set off a TACBE when we’re two minutes out. We’ll track in on that. We’ll let you know when to turn it on.

‘This bird can get in and out pretty damn quick. Once we get you and your guests secured, we’ll make for the USS
Pellieu
, an MLP cruising in the Celebes. We’ll be no more than an hour away. And don’t forget you can call in those Super Hornets on fifteen minutes notice, maybe less. You need anything, just ask,’ said the captain, smiling.

Wilkes returned the good news with another thumb’s up. He let his head fall back against the padded headrest. He set his internal clock to wake him in an hour and ten, allowing time to go over the refreshed intel before arriving
at the LZ. Within two minutes he was asleep. Sleep was good for stress. Two of his men were already snoring.

Achmad Reza allowed his eyes to drift over the Dewan Perwakilan Rakjat Daerah, the People’s Assembly of Indonesia. He knew all the men and women in the giant hall by reputation. It was his business to know them. Quite a few were known to him socially, even some outside his own party. Many of the men and women in the house had chosen a career in politics because they had wanted to do some good. A significant number had lost sight of the ambitions of their youth. For these the party itself had become the focus, rather than the desire to achieve something beneficial for Indonesia. Reza had little time for them.

Reza had absolutely no time, however, for the parliamentarians who enjoyed and sought power for its own sake from the very beginning. An outsider might think that the latter group contained all the military men who, by law, occupied thirty-five percent of the seats in the Indonesian parliament. But that was not, in fact, the case. In the course of his career, he had met many soldiers whose politics, and whose loyalty to the people of Indonesia, he had admired. But a dangerous game was being played here. He had absolutely no idea what that game was, why it was being played, or by whom, but his gut told him that when the answers to those questions were known, Indonesia would never be the same again.

Reza sat quietly in his seat. So far, proceedings had been taken up with the military’s explanation of the inter-regimental squabbling and the exchange of fire in the streets of Jakarta that morning. It was a waste of time, but unavoidable. What should have been the focus were issues like finding ways to ease the ethnic tensions in Kalimantan, or even fixing the deplorable lack of sewage treatment in southern Sumatra because it was adversely affecting the fish catch. That was what government was really about; improving the lives of the people, not wasting time putting the personalities within the military establishment under the microscope. But perhaps this time it was necessary.

He listened attentively to the claims and counterclaims. He sat with the bombshell in his lap, drummed his fingers on the plain brown A4-size envelope, and waited his turn.

He wondered who had sent him the envelope in the first place and why he had been chosen. Everything about this was a mystery to him. He knew he was being used but somehow that didn’t seem to matter so much. If anything, it had increased his interest. He was a little-known politician from the Gille Isles. He had no weight, no influence. But the envelope on his lap might well change all that.

He wondered about his own motives and was brought back to reality by a dig in his ribs. He glanced at the owner of the elbow and met an impatient gaze. His name was being called. Again. He stood and uttered the usual pleasantries. He then removed the bomb from its envelope and dropped it.

‘This morning I took possession of this, a satellite photograph of the Australian Qantas aeroplane that has been missing these past couple of days. It’s shown here crashed
on a ridge line. The time indicated on the photograph is 12.30 pm local time yesterday. The latitude and longitude are also shown, placing the crash in central Sulawesi –’ Everyone in the DPRD was now on their feet, shouting. At the top of his voice, he yelled above the chaos, ‘It is due to be released to the Australian media within the next fifteen minutes. My question to the house is why has the crash site been kept a secret from the people of Indonesia, and the people of Australia?’

Achmad Reza then sat quietly and waited for the storm raging about him to subside. It took some considerable time. He was jostled and pushed by people trying to get at him, and others trying to keep them away. Eventually, when a semblance of calm returned, he again stood. ‘How can the TNI not know of the existence of this crashed aircraft in our own country, when other sources have obviously known of it for at least a day? I do not think that possible. I suggest the TNI has been in possession of this photo all along, but has kept it a secret from this house. I would like to know why.’

Again the parliament was in uproar. Nearly all of the military officers were on their feet, outraged, pointing at Reza accusingly and shouting denials. He could not hear what they were saying above the din and so he bore on regardless. ‘A lot has been said this morning about the fighting in the streets of Jakarta, just a few hours ago, by rival regiments. We have been told it was nothing of consequence. I do not believe it. Does this photo have anything to do with the disgraceful squabbling? And what of the untimely disappearance of General Kukuh Masri? What is the real story? Tell us truthfully!’

He had received the envelope containing the photo in
the internal mail. There was no postmark, the envelope itself was unremarkable, but there was an accompanying note with one simple instruction: that the photo be released in the parliament. It further stated that the photo would be released immediately thereafter to the Australian media.

The aircraft Australia insisted was on Indonesian soil was indeed where they said it would be. A single overflight by the TNI-AU would have confirmed it. That flight had been performed, he was sure of it. Yet the military, for its own obscure reasons, had insisted that the jumbo had not been found. But here it was, plain as anything, on top of a kind of plateau and not hidden in a jungle valley.

He squinted at the photo again, lifting his glasses above his eyes to improve the focus. The picture was sickening in its detail. No one could possibly have survived such a catastrophe. He realised he was probably looking at the bodies of at least four hundred people, and the thought deeply saddened him.

It had taken a supreme effort of will, but Suluang didn’t jump to his feet when the little-known minister who represented a rock in the ocean tabled the photo. Somehow, he’d also managed to keep the look of concerned serenity on his face – the one he always wore when in this place – despite the fact that his heart had immediately jammed itself into his throat. He knew this moment would come, but he was surprised at how quickly it had arrived. The 747 had been found, just as he thought it would. But by whom? The politician stated that the photo would now be released to the Australian media. Did that mean the source was Indonesian? If so, who could that be? Masri, perhaps? Before any questions could be put to him,
Suluang rose and hurriedly made his way to an exit, leaving the chaos behind.

The mayhem in the large hall had a violent edge to it. Reza suddenly realised that his life was very much at risk. He got up from his seat and hurried out, leaving the photo. A man immediately picked it up and, waving it aloft, demanded that the military come clean.

The overwhelming majority of Indonesian parliamentarians had been dismayed at the implications of the photograph. That much was obvious. The fact that an Indonesian government spokesman had been suggesting that the plane might not even have come down on their soil, despite indications to the contrary, and refused permission for an international search effort, could be misconstrued as having something to hide. That ‘something’ being the truth. And that’s what Reza found so disturbing. Once the satellite photo of the downed aircraft went out over the world’s news services and the Internet, as it no doubt would, millions of other people would reach the same conclusion. What have I done? he wondered.

Reza felt regret. And fear. He did not want to personally bring dishonour on his country but, he realised, that’s what many Indonesians would think he had done. But what option did he have? He had no idea who he could and couldn’t trust. Airing the photo in the biggest possible public forum would get things moving quickest while bringing him some form of protection. Perhaps that’s why the note with the photo had instructed him to do exactly that. The news was out – there was no point silencing him. And, of course, the truth was by now also released to the Australian media. Only time would prove his actions right. Or disastrous. At least he’d saved some national face
by revealing the scandal before outsiders did. What troubled him now was just how far the knowledge of that photo went within the TNI.

Ordinarily, Reza was not a man of action. He wondered what he should do next. The feeling that his life was at risk had subsided almost as soon as he’d left the anger of the parliament behind. Nevertheless, a soft tap on his door made him start. He had a small office near the parliament where he conducted the daily business of serving his constituency. He was not independently wealthy, and could not afford a permanent secretary. This was one of his casual secretary’s many days off. He’d removed the phone from its cradle and turned off his mobile in an attempt to clear some space to think. But interruptions, if they were determined enough, would always find a way to get through.

He eased himself up and out of the chair to answer the knock and noticed a plain brown A4-size envelope had been pushed under the door. It was the same kind of envelope that had contained the photo. He got to the door quickly and opened it wide. There were a dozen people rushing along the hallway in both directions. Any one of them could have delivered it. His annoyance at being disturbed vanished. He closed the door and picked up the envelope expectantly.

Reza examined it. It was identical to the last one. There was no stamp or postmark, not even a name on the front to confirm the intended recipient. He carefully broke the seal and examined the contents. It was a plain sheet of white A4 paper with a number laser-printed in small characters: a phone number. The number was for a digital cell-phone. He picked up his mobile, turned it on and
ignored the message bank beeping. He punched in the number.

A woman’s voice answered. No ‘hello’, no pleasantries. All business. ‘Are you calling from a digital mobile?’

Reza was aware that calls made from digital mobiles could not easily be scanned. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

She said, ‘Someone you need to see.’

‘Did you send me the photo?’ Of course it had to be her, the owner of the voice on the other end of the line, but he also felt he had to ask to be absolutely certain.

‘Yes.’

Reza thought about his next question carefully. ‘Why me?’

‘Picked your name out of a hat,’ said the woman calmly.

She gave him a map reference and told him to meet her there in an hour. As a precaution, she advised him to claim that his mobile had been stolen. The call finished. He sat back in his chair. This was without a doubt the strangest day of his life.

Reza took a street directory from his desk drawer and looked up the map reference. It was a small village. It would take him at least an hour to reach it. He wondered what he’d find there. The frosted window in his office door shattered loudly and half a roof tile clattered to the floor amongst a shower of glass. A scrum of people burst through the doorway jostling each other, shouting angrily. The notion of mortality and his tentative hold on it again overcame Reza and he hurried out unseen through an adjoining office.