Rogue Element (21 page)

The Indonesian embassy guards raced from their checkpoint to the scene of the crash after a few seconds transfixed by disbelief. They hesitated again, vaguely fearful when they saw that the vehicle was a government one and there was much blood. Moments later the four Australian soldiers on extended guard duty following the previous day’s ruckus arrived and took charge of the scene. ‘This one’s alive,’ said a lance corporal, examining the man spread-eagled across the broken brickwork.

ABC radio report: ‘The streets of Jakarta turned into a battlefield a short while ago when tanks and troops loyal
to General Suluang, Indonesia’s top military man, attacked the barracks occupied by units loyal to General Kukuh Masri.

‘Observers here are surprised because Masri was regarded as one of General Suluang’s most ardent supporters. After Suluang positioned tanks at the gates of Masri’s compound, the besieged troops briefly responded with small-arms fire. Soon after, a negotiator from General Suluang’s forces convinced Masri’s troops to holster their weapons.

‘The skirmish comes as a real surprise to authorities in Jakarta. Indeed, security is tightening all over the city with helicopters patrolling the skies overhead. General Masri himself has not, so far, made an appearance and unconfirmed sources report that the officer has deserted his command. General Suluang is unavailable for comment.’

Niven hurried to the Prime Minister’s office. It was raining in Canberra and unseasonably cold. He was coming down with the flu. Perhaps it was just the stress. Flying over Baghdad at night in a non-stealthy aircraft with tracer fanning up from the blackness below searching for his arse was nothing compared to this Commander-in-Chief gig. Niven tried to shake the germs out of his head but only succeeded in having a subsequent desperate need for a tissue to stem the outpouring from his nose. A cold had finally caught up with him.

He barged through the security station at Parliament House. It was barely five minutes since he’d received a call
from Blight telling him to get to his office, pronto. Niven had nearly caused a pile-up when he’d braked in the middle of the expressway, mounting the kerb and snaking across a wet grass median strip to join the traffic heading back into the city centre.

He waved quickly to Shirley as he strode through her anteroom. ‘You’re expected, Spike. Get you anything?’

‘Thanks, Shirley. How about something for a headache? Besides a shot of single malt?’

He was through the door before she could acknowledge his request. Once inside, he noted that the team was already there – Griffin, Greenway and bloody Sharpe.

Shirley quietly entered the PM’s office and placed a tray with water, glasses and a packet of paracetamols on the sideboard. The room was dark and a videoconference call was in progress. The atmosphere was dour. She gently closed the door on her way out.

The image of Roger Bowman, the Australian Ambassador to Indonesia, filled the large rear-projected screen. Niven thought he looked tired and anxious.

‘Saw things got a bit rough for you last night,’ said the Prime Minister.

Bowman took a deep breath. ‘And it just keeps getting better, Bill. Anything come to light on QF-1 at your end?’

The men in Canberra exchanged glances. From the ambassador’s body language, it was obvious that he had news.

‘What you got there, Roger?’ asked Blight.

‘Do any of you know a General Masri? He’s often referred to as “Mao”.’

‘Yes,’ said Griffin. ‘He’s one of the TNI’s major league players.’

Bowman nodded and continued. ‘There was an attempt on his life earlier today. His wife was shot dead. The man’s car crashed through our front gates here in Jakarta a short time ago.’ The ambassador took a sip of water, his hand shaking so badly that water slopped over the brim.

Niven and Griffin exchanged worried glances.

‘When we picked him off the pavement, Masri babbled something about being part of a group led by General Suluang that shot our plane down. He also said that a Kopassus unit was at the crash scene hunting down survivors.’

The room in Canberra was suddenly in an uproar.

Niven felt like he’d been slapped. Here was confirmation of the NSA’s belief that QF-1 had been shot down. That was bad enough! But putting troops into the area to finish off any survivors?! It was unthinkable. ‘What? To kill them?!’ he said, aghast.

‘Apparently.’

‘Mother in hell!’ exclaimed Blight.

‘Do you know how many people that is?’ asked Niven.

‘Masri said there were two.’

‘Jesus!’ said Sharpe, head swimming.

‘Did he say why the plane was shot down?’ Niven asked, surprised at his own calmness. Perhaps because he’d prepared himself for the worst, he was better equipped to cope with it.

‘No. Masri wasn’t exactly coherent after the car accident. I believe he was on his way here to the embassy for protection. In the car were bags packed with essentials that included passports. The general also had his child with him who, I might add, is the only person besides the general to survive the attack.’

‘How bad is he?’ asked Greenway.

‘Bad. The neurologist is not prepared to give a prognosis,’ said Bowman. ‘He has a depressed fracture of the skull. They’re operating on him as we speak. Apparently he’s pretty fit, so you never know.’

‘Assuming he does come through okay, is there any idea when he’ll be up to questioning?’ continued the Defence Minister.

‘That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. None, unfortunately, Hugh. And if he does come around, there are no guarantees what he’ll remember.’

Niven’s mind raced. ‘What about witnesses? Is there a guard on him?’

‘Yes, the same four-man detail out the front when Masri rearranged the fence. But we’ve got no one to relieve them. We couldn’t keep Masri at the embassy. Injuries were too serious. He’s in the top expat hospital under an assumed name. Fortunately, his facial injuries are pretty bad, and so no one has recognised him, not even the local Indonesian embassy guards who were first on the scene.’

‘What about Masri’s troops?’ Niven wasn’t at all happy with the lack of security.

‘They’re preoccupied at the moment. If you haven’t seen CNN this morning, turn it on. I can’t tell you more than the news services are reporting. Obviously it has something to do with the reasons behind Masri’s flight to our embassy, which is linked to the attack on QF-1 – none of which, I might add, is part of any news report that I’ve heard this morning. I’d be more worried about Suluang’s men, frankly.’

‘Sorry to jump back, Roger, but what’s the Indonesian media saying about the crash?’ asked Greenway.

‘Masri’s disappearance is something they’re running around trying to unearth. We’ve been lucky. Only the local guards witnessed the crash and we got Masri and his son inside and cleaned up the mess before the police showed up. The media are reporting the crash, the bullet-riddled car and the death of Masri’s wife. They’re saying it’s connected somehow with the standoff between Masri and Suluang’s troops, and there are all kinds of bizarre theories being offered. It’s all going to come out soon, though. We’ve got maybe a day – two at the most.’

‘I’ll get you Special Forces protection for Masri within two hours.’ Niven calculated the time it would take to get some men across from East Timor. ‘Can you handle the paperwork at your end?’

The ambassador nodded.

‘So how are you keeping those Indonesian guards quiet, Roger?’ asked Greenway.

‘They are . . . er . . . heavily sedated . . . at the embassy.’ Bowman was obviously distressed.

‘You did the right thing, Rog,’ said the PM, realising the ambassador had little choice. Sharpe ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Christ Almighty.’

The Prime Minister quickly briefed the ambassador on the intelligence delivered by the Americans and the connection was terminated. Both parties had things to get on with.

Someone whistled quietly.

Greenway’s forehead glistened with sweat.

No one spoke. No one knew what to say.

Griffin broke the silence. ‘The problem is, we still don’t know enough. So let’s concentrate on what we do know,’ he said. ‘We know that a passenger on the plane, one Cee
Squared, broke into General Suluang’s computer and saw something or took something or both. Shortly after that the plane was blown out of the sky. From that we can deduce Suluang, Masri and an unknown number of other high-ranking officers do, in fact, have something very big they want to hide.’

‘How does the situation in Jakarta between Masri and Suluang’s troops fit in to all this?’ asked Greenway.

Griffin’s face was blank. ‘No idea.’

‘We also now know that, despite protests to the contrary, the Indonesian military have located the plane,’ added Niven, his cold making his speech a little difficult to understand, ‘and that they’re doing their damnedest to make sure there are no survivors. No doubt the soldiers will also be searching for the aircraft’s black boxes.’

‘You still think it’s possible that the Indonesian government is ignorant of all this?’ asked Blight, fingertips at his temples.

Griffin felt like he was standing at the water’s edge, the ebb and tow of the surf undermining his footing so that he kept having to dig his toes into the sand to remain standing. ‘I know it’s hard to believe, Bill but, yes, we should continue to give them the benefit of the doubt.’

Blight wasn’t sure. The contact he’d had with the Indonesian ambassador seemed to bear up the Director-General’s view, but then, what if Batuta had been cut off by Jakarta and his ignorance was part of some deception? Jesus, so many uncertainties . . .

Niven shook his head in dismay. Two passengers on QF-1 had survived a missile attack and a crash landing, only to be hunted down by trained killers. In all likelihood, they were probably now dead. He fought back a
sneeze and just managed to get a tissue to his nose in time. ‘Anything turn up on this Cee Squared fellow, Griff?’

‘Not a lot,’ replied the ASIS chief, opening a folder on his Palm Pilot. ‘Twenty-seven years of age. A computer software engineer. A games expert. He’s well off. Not an active hacker. Lives alone in Paddington, Sydney. Father in Perth. Mother ran off when he was three. No brothers or sisters. The police are still investigating, but so far . . .’ Griffin shrugged.

‘Frankly, I think it’s time we pulled the bloody Indonesian government’s head out of its arse,’ said Blight.

Sharpe nodded. ‘But if we go charging up there with a lot of unsubstantiated accusations, we’ll get nowhere.’

‘We’ve got General Masri. He’s an ace in our hand,’ said Greenway.

‘Who’s absolutely no use to us unless he can talk.’ Niven shook his head. ‘But we also have the satellite intel, the photos, which is a hell of a lot more than anyone else seems to have at the moment.’

‘What about the survivors?’ asked Griffin.

‘It’s our job to protect them.’ Greenway was adamant.

Niven caught the Defence Minister’s eye and nodded.
Damn right!

‘Even though they’ll be dead for sure by the time we get in there, if they aren’t already?’ countered Sharpe.

‘I don’t see how we can argue about it. There’s no choice now. We have to go in,’ said Niven, jaw set, the muscles in his face flexing.

‘And why’s that?’ Blight sat back in his chair, fingers interlocked under his chin, pondering the options.

‘For both emotional and strategic reasons, Bill,’ said Niven, the Flight 007/Sakhalin Island incident swimming
in his head. ‘Because, as Hugh said, they’re probably Australian citizens and it’s our job to protect them. Because there’s a remote chance we might find out at the crash site what these bastards are so anxious to hide. Because if General Masri never comes round, he’ll be no use to us whatsoever. And because it’s just the right bloody thing to do.’

Blight nodded. Sound reasons.

‘The risks will be enormous,’ said Sharpe. ‘If you’re to get there in time to do any good, you’ll have to send troops now, with virtually no planning whatsoever. That’s a recipe for disaster. The political fallout will rebound and –’

‘But we also can’t afford to sit around on our arses and do nothing, Phil, so, quite frankly, fuck the political fallout.’ The Prime Minister’s tone had finality about it. Blight was tired of the indecision and the inaction. It was time to Do Something. It was not likely that they would get too much more information on this situation before things – whatever they might be – got worse.

‘We’ve already lost more than four hundred people. And that’s enough bodies for one day. So tell me, Spike, what do you need? Do we have the resources to do this?’

‘Bill, I won’t lie to you – it’s risky, and there are never any guarantees of success. Our Special Forces are amongst the best in the world. And, thanks to East Timor, Afghanistan, the War against Terror, they’re razor sharp. The insertion and extraction will be tricky. Despite all the tough talk in recent years, our military is still a defensive force and we’re not in the power projection business. We’ll need help.’

‘What kind of help?’ enquired the Prime Minister, who suspected Niven knew exactly what he wanted.

The ADF chief tried to breathe through his nose but couldn’t. He eyed the pack of paracetamols on the table in front of him and considered taking the lot.

Blight again felt like a naughty schoolboy being interviewed by the headmaster. Herschel Zubinski always had that effect on him. That didn’t stop Blight from liking the man; it was the situation, coupled with the fact that the ambassador’s high, intelligent brow, deep voice and crinkled white hair made him look the part.

This was to be Zubinski’s last stop before retirement. The man had made millions on the US bond market in the mid-eighties before switching to politics. One stint in Congress where Zubinski’s integrity made things difficult for his own party was enough to convince the previous president that his own interests would be best served if Zubinski was kept far away from Washington. He had served as US envoy in France, the United Kingdom and now Australia. Zubinski liked his latest position but he missed the windy corridors of New York City. It was time to retire and spend some quality time with his grandchildren.

Herschel Zubinski drummed his fingers quietly on the tabletop. It was a habit he’d had all his life that displayed itself when he was concentrating. He listened to the Prime Minister. ‘I know, Bill, I’ve just finished reading the summary from the NSA. The President is outraged. He’s genuinely angry about this, and his anger is your best ally.’

‘We can’t do this without your help, Hersch,’ said Blight. ‘We’re impotent and they, whoever
they
are, know it.’

‘What about the Indonesian government? Forget the intel reports, what’s your gut tell you?’

‘To be frank, my gut’s arguing with itself on this. I can’t believe that a legitimate government would behave in this way, but at the same time I find it difficult to conceive that all this could be going on behind Jakarta’s back.’

‘It does seem unlikely, but Indonesia is that kind of country. And its armed forces have historically been a little on the maverick side.’

The phone rang.

‘Excuse me, Bill.’ The ambassador listened and nodded several times, saying, ‘Yes sir,’ and, ‘Thank you, sir, I’ll pass that on,’ before hanging up.

‘That was the President himself, Bill. The Joint Chiefs and the Sec Def have come round to the President’s thinking on this. They want to know what’s going on quickly. They have authorised me to let you know that our resources are to be put at your disposal during this crisis. When a Muslim nation, any Muslim nation, starts behaving erratically, it makes everyone nervous.’ Zubinski opened the sheet of writing paper on which the Prime Minister had listed his requests. ‘Are you sure this is
all
you want, Bill?’

‘Thanks, Hersch. Please pass on our gratitude to the President. Our Commander in Chief, Ted Niven, believes this can be done quietly. I have to go with his advice. So, yes, I believe what’s on the list will do nicely.’

Zubinski ran his eye down the paper again. He snorted to himself. ‘Since when was a Carrier Battle Group and an MLP, a marine landing platform, doing things quietly?’

The PM smiled and opened his hands as if to say, ‘beats me’.