Rogue Element (34 page)

Jesus! The V22 had indeed taken hits
.
‘Roger that, Ferret Rotor,’ Toad responded. This sortie was going to hell, just as things were starting to look up.

‘Ferret Handler. Bandits. Bandits. Bandits. Seven. Repeat seven. West. Eighty-five miles. Angels ten. Heading zeroniner-zero.’

Toad wished he hadn’t tempted the Big Feller Upstairs by blaspheming. Things were about to get really fucking hot.

The call from Ferret Handler, the AWACS, sounded mighty familiar. It was almost identical to the call that had announced the arrival of the previous flight of F-16s. Only this time there were more bandits, and he had only one missile left, and merely a heater at that.

They really had to get the hell out of Dodge now. Toad’s eyeballs stood out on stalks when he checked his fuel pressure. It was touch and go whether he’d even make it
back to the tanker, let alone a friendly carrier deck. He looked across at his wingman and got a hand signal for low fuel from him. Fuck-all ordnance, fuck-all fuel. They wouldn’t last another round of air-to-air combat.

‘Ferret Rotor. Are you airworthy?’ Toad enquired.

‘Affirmative, Ferret Leader. Some damage. One engine gone. She’s flying well but losing fuel.’

‘Ferret Rotor. Time to go. Do you have a maximum estimated cruise speed?’

‘Estimate cruise two-fife-zero . . .’

Toad was impressed. The V22 had taken hits, lost an engine, and had who knows what other damage, yet it was still capable of flying at 250 knots, only a handful of knots shy of the maximum cruise speed available when both engines were turning. Toad had that clammy feeling on the back of his neck. The fresh Indon fighters could jump them at any time, and probably would. There was nothing they could do about it, except fly as low and as fast as they could, hugging the ground where radar was least effective. And keep their fingers crossed.

Toad saw on his screen the seven bandits approaching from the west at 3000 metres. About three minutes remained to interception. Toad guessed that they would be able to survive the first pass – maybe – but the V22’s goose was cooked. Their options had run out. It was goodnight.

Then six new idents appeared on the screen, closing on the group of fighters from the east at frightening speed. The Indonesian planes scattered like chaff before them. Toad looked up and saw six missiles cross the sky 1000 metres above him from right to left: AMRAAMs. Jesus – a beautiful sight.

‘Finger-lickin’, this is Hound dog inbound from the east. Apologies for the dee-lay,’ drawled the thick Louisiana accent.

Major Toad Sanders was up for Colonel and the word was out. Colonel Sanders. He smiled. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard jokes about changing his call sign from Toad to Finger-lickin’, or even Secret Herbs and Spices, for Christ’s sake!

Three new idents appeared on Toad’s screen, inbound at phenomenal speed. Super Hornets. The navy’s new all-purpose attack fighter. A beautiful plane. In fact, Toad had to admit that he would have welcomed even a few determined Cessnas.

The Indonesian fighters were dispersing, the fate of the last flight of F-16s having stolen their bravado. They departed as quickly as full afterburner could take them. Two AMRAAMs found their marks. The other four timed out, but their job was done.

Three F/A-18Es lined up beside the AV-8s and saluted Toad and his wingman. Toad acknowledged the salute from the naval aviators with a wave. Navy dweebs. At that moment, he loved every damn one of the sons of bitches. They would take over the duty of sweeping for the V22. The Super Hornets peeled away from the formation. Toad radioed the tanker to stand by. It was unlikely he’d make it unless the tanker could meet him inside Indonesian airspace. As it was, he’d be flying on fumes, and his wingman was in the same shit.

As the Indonesian coastline slid behind the V22, its passing was acknowledged by the Australians with relief. But the news wasn’t all good. Curry was dead. Beck had been
out of his seat as soon as the plane had stopped bouncing through the sky. He’d worked feverishly by Curry’s side for a minute but couldn’t do anything for him. Shrapnel from one of the exploding shells had entered his skull behind the ear, severing the spinal cord before exiting.

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 down, 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?

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?’

‘Yes.’

‘That is absolutely fucking crazy. Why?’ continued the PM, experiencing a kind of sensory overload.

‘For the effect it would have on our own people. As I said, it would re-establish the military’s strength.’

The Australians sat back in their seats, their minds clouded with outrage. It was true – had to be true. Here was one of the conspirators laying it all out for them. Indonesia planned to invade Australia! That was bad enough, but the reason for it? Nothing more than a bit of a show for their countrymen. The irony was that, if not for the crashed Qantas plane and the deaths of all those innocent people, they never would have found out about it until it was too late.

The men let the incredible tale sink in, and struggled with their own thoughts.

‘Who else was in your merry band, general? Who were the other co-conspirators?’ Niven wanted to know. Something would have to be done about neutralising them, and damn quickly.

Masri swallowed and appeared nervous. No matter what the circumstances, giving up comrades was painful. ‘Besides myself and General Suluang, there was Lanti
Rajasa, Colonel Javid Jayakatong, Admiral Sampurno Siwalette, and air force Colonel Ari Ajirake.’

Niven pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He knew nearly all these men by reputation. They were good soldiers, members of the Indonesian parliament, and commanded a considerable chunk of Indonesia’s armed forces between them. The exception was Lanti Rajasa. He was a policeman and not a soldier.

‘How would you deploy your invasion forces? You don’t have the assets for a major amphibious landing,’ said Niven, curious about how the Indonesians intended to pull off that aspect of their plan.

‘Ah . . . you are talking about conventional assets.’ There was the barest hint of a smile on the Indonesian general’s lips. ‘In World War 1, the French delivered its troops to the Western Front in the cabs of Paris. Japan invaded Indo-China on bicycles in the Second World War. And Indonesia, as you know, has fishing boats. Many thousands of fishing boats.’

Suddenly, Niven knew exactly how they’d pull it off. And it was so bloody obvious, all the musings by defence academics and strategists had failed to consider it. ‘Jesus . . .’ he swallowed. The navy could barely cope with half a dozen slow, leaking refugee vessels at any one time. A flotilla of such boats – they would only need a few hundred or so – would swamp Australia’s coastal warning systems. It would be impossible to determine which boats held troops and which did not; many would obviously be decoys. The new, over-the-horizon Jindalee radar would certainly provide information about the closing flotilla to Australia’s armed forces, but there simply wouldn’t be enough defence to go round. In a sense, there’d almost be
too much information. The navy and air force would be overwhelmed.

The diverted Australian forces would be thrown into confusion, allowing the TNI-AU to drop paratroopers into Townsville. The aircraft would come in low, then pop up near the coastline, disgorging their soldiers. Divers could easily mine the navy ships bobbing unknowingly in Darwin harbour. It would probably all happen at night, or in the early morning, when reaction times were at their slowest. The Indonesian plan would probably succeed at the cost of possibly thousands of Australian lives. But they wouldn’t be able to hold those positions for long. Their supply lines would be way too long and Australia would have the home-soil advantage and, hopefully, assistance from the US. But for a couple of days, maybe three or four until the home defences could rally with the help of a US Carrier Battle Group . . . yes, the TNI could do it.

‘The border of East and West Timor would be very active too. Another diversion,’ the general added.

‘Of course,’ said Niven distantly, his mind seeing clouds of parachutes in the skies over Townsville.

‘Did you consider that the sort of action you’re talking about would make your bloody country a pariah in the civilised world?’ asked the PM, having difficulty believing educated men could formulate such an outlaw strategy. ‘What do you think would happen to your trade links with other countries after you’ve invaded us?’ The more the PM thought about it, the more indignant he became. ‘The whole thing’s bloody absurd . . .’

The general visibly stiffened. ‘We’ve bounced back from the crash of ’97. And we don’t need direct links with the West for prosperity. We have trade through organisations
and groups like ASEAN. We are Asian
and
Muslim. We have our own networks. We don’t need Europeans to get on our feet.’

Masri appeared to sigh. ‘I do not think much of your understanding of the situation, Mr Blight,’ he said. ‘Your country is too full of its own self-importance to see the world as it really is. You think America would rush to your aid?’ From his tone, the general obviously believed that it wouldn’t.

Blight felt uncomfortable, but he didn’t take the general’s bait.

‘The US wants a stable Indonesia. That’s its first priority. It talks democracy, but it wants stability more. Indonesia is a democracy at the moment, but this so-called freedom threatens our very existence. There are forces within that want the nation torn apart. And the government won’t do anything about it, because it doesn’t have the required strength. Religious fundamentalism is growing in voice and action. You have felt the effects of that yourselves. And, as you know, many provinces now openly demand secession. A strong military hand is the only answer. Indeed, it is in your interest. We would stop this disintegration. We see no other way. You might not like having a strong military government in the region, but what is the alternative?’ Masri let the thought hang in the air before continuing. ‘America would realise this, and do nothing.’