Rogue Element Read online

  ‘The ambassador has been on at the Yanks about the satellite but they haven’t budged.’

  ‘Okay, we’ve already taken that on the chin. What else?’ said Niven, impatience creeping into his tone.

  ‘Mills had a talk with the people down at DIGO.’

  Niven raised his eyebrows. The Defence Imagery and Geospatial Organisation was the department charged with, amongst other things, photo intelligence. They were the obvious experts to talk to when it came to spy satellites.

  ‘No specifics, Spike, don’t worry,’ said Greenway, reading the CDF’s frown. They’d all agreed that it would be best not to bring anyone else into the loop, at least until something concrete turned up. ‘They had a couple of ideas. He followed up on them and found us a private spy satellite. A company called SpaceEye.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of them,’ said Niven, his interest surging.

  ‘Launched their first satellite in ’99, then ran into problems with the US Congress. Issues about privacy, mainly. There was some attempt to have their technology limited.’

  ‘Did Congress succeed?’ Griffin asked.

  ‘Publicly yes, privately no. The sats were built by Rockwell and Kodak, with pretty much the same technology available to the US military – keyhole imaging, infrared, x-ray . . .’

  ‘How’d they manage that?’ asked Griffin.

  ‘Money, basically. Defence Intelligence prepared a circular on it last year. The satellite program was being funded by Mitsubishi, Hyundai and a few others, and they didn’t want their investment compromised.’

  ‘Look, guys, with respect, the investment strategy’s secondary. Can the satellite do the job for us?’ Niven said impatiently. The game of twenty questions was starting to annoy him. No one had rung to announce that the plane had been found. That meant the nightmare was continuing.

  ‘It’s being positioned as we speak,’ said Greenway virtually without moving his lips, in a broad, flat Australian accent that reminded Niven of vast, dusty cattle stations. ‘A mining company surveying the jungles of New Guinea has just finished using it. So the sat’s pretty close, which is fortunate. It’ll be in place over Sulawesi within three hours. Should be getting pictures by . . .’ he checked his Seiko, ‘. . . by lunch.’ Greenway stood.

  ‘Hugh, thanks. That is good news,’ said Niven, meaning it, his foul mood turned around.

  Griffin also stood to go as the minister smiled and left.

  ‘Actually, Graeme, if you wouldn’t mind, could you stay for a bit? There are a few thoughts I want to run by you.’

  ‘Sure.’ Griffin sat back down and poured himself some water from the glass pitcher on the low table in front of him.

  ‘What’s up?’ Griffin knew the CDF well. When he’d left him last night, the man had had that look in his eye, a certain intensity that gripped Niven whenever there was danger in the air.

  After some hesitation Niven said, ‘What do you know about Flight 007?’

  Here it is, thought Griffin. He resisted the temptation to say something trite about James Bond. Niven was obviously not in any mood for banter. ‘Absolutely nothing,’ he said instead.

  ‘Then how about if I add Sakhalin Island?’ Niven was leaning forward on his desk, fingers forming a triangle in front of his face, forehead creased.

  ‘Okay, yes, as a matter of fact. The Korean Airlines 747 shot down by a Soviet rocket in . . .’85, I think, over Sakhalin Island. Soviet territory.’

  ‘September 1, 1983. And it was an SU-15 tactical fighter that fired the missile, an Anab air-to-air.’

  ‘Been doing some research have we?’ The question was rhetorical.

  ‘You remember before you left last night I mentioned that there were –’

  ‘– three hundred and forty-seven sites dedicated to aeroplane crashes? Yes, I remember.’

  ‘I was bullshitting you. There are far more than that. I was looking into the survivability of the Boeing 747.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘And I found out that they are one very difficult mother to bring down. Unless you plough into something, or have a mid-air, or knock a wing off, they’ll keep flying until the pilots, or the on-board computers, are good and ready to land it.’

  ‘You forgot blowing it out of the sky with missiles,’ added Griffin, interested in seeing where this would go. He knew Niven rarely went on wild goose chases.

  ‘I’ll get to that.’ Niven consulted his notes. ‘On May 2, 1988, a United Airlines Boeing 747 with 258 people on board landed safely at New Tokyo International Airport after three of its four engines failed. There were no deaths or injuries.’

  Griffin nodded and tilted his head. Landing on just one engine! He had to admit that was impressive.

  Niven continued reading aloud. ‘The 747 has four separate hydraulic systems. Knock three of them out and the plane will keep flying.’

  ‘And if you take all of them out?’

  ‘Yeah, it’ll crash, but get this.’ Niven wagged his finger, almost in triumph, and rifled through a sheaf of notes. Eventually he found the scrap of paper he was searching for. ‘August 12, 1985: a Japan Air Lines 747 suffered massive structural failure destroying all of its hydraulics systems. For more than thirty minutes, the pilots controlled the plane’s stability with engine power alone!’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Well, it eventually flew into a mountain killing 520 out of 524 passengers and crew – the worst single plane accident in history.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Do you mind if I ask a question?’ Griffin interjected.

  ‘Go right ahead.’

  ‘Where’s this leading?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet, but it scares the hell out of me.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Griffin, who now had his professional hat well and truly on.

  ‘From what I can discover, backed up by what the people at Boeing say, it takes a hell of a lot to knock down a 747. They just want to keep flying. So, conclusion one – there was a bomb on board QF-1. Conclusion two – the plane was shot down.’

  Griffin scoffed. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Spike, who would want to do that? Don’t you think that’s a bit of a massive leap into the unknown?’

  ‘Who do you think the prime suspect would be, Griff?’ said Niven, ignoring the questions.

  ‘Now let’s stop right there. What possible reason, what motive, would Indonesia have for doing that? Relations have been, well, a bit jumpy for a while, but . . . shooting down a 747? They’re not exactly the Soviets, you know. For that matter not even the Soviets are the Soviets any more.’

  The Commander in Chief leaned back in his chair with a vaguely triumphant smile. ‘It’s interesting, and telling, don’t you think, that the Indonesians spring so quickly to your mind?’

  Griffin was flustered. ‘Look, Spikey, we have a plane that’s gone missing for twenty-four hours. No doubt in my mind – or anyone else’s in this building, for that matter – it has crashed somewhere on the island of Sulawesi, in Indonesia. That explains why Indonesia is my natural context for speculation. I think the hypothesis you’re pushing is just a bit off the wall.’

  ‘I agree it’s a chilling thought, but the facts, what facts we have, do lead in a certain direction.’

  ‘Yeah, and my problem is, we don’t have any facts and therefore any direction, just a lot of unanswered questions,’ said Griffin.

  ‘Okay, but we also have history. A 747 is a very large object. It weighs over a quarter of a million kilos or half a million pounds. If it did blow up at 35 000 feet, how large an area do you think the wreckage would be scattered over?’

  ‘Very,’ Griffin was drawn in despite himself.

  Niven sifted through his notes again. ‘On November 27, 1987, a South African Airways 747 crashed in the Indian Ocean near the island of Mauritius. Debris was scattered over 230 square kilometres! If that Qantas plane blew apart at altitude over Sulawesi, it would be raining aeroplane from one end of the island to the other. Indonesia would know about it.�
��

  ‘Hang on. Now you’re arguing that the plane wasn’t shot down?’

  ‘No, I’m arguing that the Indonesians are playing dumb.’

  ‘Okay, I see your point . . . I think,’ Griffin added, cautiously piecing together the logic. ‘You think QF-1 met with violence over Indonesia, because violence is the only thing that’ll stop a 747 short of a mid-air or a mountain.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You think the plane didn’t blow up, but nevertheless eventually crashed.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You also think that the Indonesians have found the wreckage already, but aren’t admitting to that for some sinister reason.’

  ‘Correct again.’

  ‘It’s the whole sinister bit I just can’t buy. Sorry, Spike.’

  Niven began shuffling papers, obviously annoyed at his friend’s reluctance to see what he believed was readily apparent.

  ‘Look,’ said Griffin, ‘there’s another alternative, the one no one’s taking seriously, that the plane flew on crippled by some massive systems malfunction and has crashed well outside the search area, which is why they haven’t found it.’

  ‘The line the Indons are pushing.’

  ‘Is it really that ridiculous?’

  Niven twirled a pencil around his thumb. ‘In my view, yes. The 747-400 has two transponders. As I said, a transponder is something that belts out an aircraft’s sign to air traffic radars. The controller at Bali central said both transponders went out at the same time. I believe that means disaster struck the plane. It came to earth somewhere near that point on Sulawesi.’

  Griffin stood up and stretched. ‘Call me when you get some hard evidence, mate,’ he said.

  ‘Would you settle for circumstantial corroboration?’ asked Niven, smiling.

  ‘No,’ said Griffin, smiling back. ‘But tell me anyway.’

  ‘Okay, that report you gave me last night about the Super Pumas . . .’ Niven sifted through the pile of books and notes on the table and pulled out the WAC of Sulawesi on which he’d marked the track of QF-1. He passed it to the ASIS Director-General.

  ‘I’ve seen this, haven’t I?’ asked Griffin, frowning, concentrating.

  ‘The report says the Pumas went somewhere with a load of Kopassus and came back three hours later, empty,’ said Niven.

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Those helos cruise between a hundred and twenty and a hundred and thirty knots. So, assuming nil wind, it could have flown a maximum distance outbound from Hasanuddin of around a hundred and eighty nautical miles before returning.’

  Griffin was still frowning. ‘You’re grasping,’ he said.

  ‘The red grease pencil is QF-1. The black line is a possible track for those Pumas.’

  Griffin saw that the black line ended with an X almost on top of the spot Niven had marked for the crash site of the Qantas plane. ‘You really want to believe the worst, don’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Griff, I know this is not something we want to face as a possibility, particularly as there’s no supporting evidence yet, but the fact that the Indonesian air force wants to stop looking in Sulawesi and start looking somewhere else entirely . . . well, that is highly suspicious to my mind.’

  ‘And I’d rather believe the tooth fairy spirited the plane away. Sulawesi is not Sakhalin Island. Those Pumas could just as easily have flown their load of Kopassus troops to a piss-up on some deserted beach twenty klicks down the coast and partied for a few hours before flying home.’

  ‘Look, I know that. As I said, circumstantial corroboration.’ Niven stretched his aching back and rolled his head a couple of times. There was a tickle in the back of his throat. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. Not now. ‘You think I’m just being a bloody hawk and, because we’ve known each other so long, I think you should know better. There’s something smelly about this and while I hope I’m wrong . . .’

  ‘Sorry, Spike. I don’t want you to be right because, if you are, well, we’d all be in one big fucking mess. Also, I can’t believe you’re right because we have absolutely no information to go on. And I’ll remind you, I’m in the intelligence business, not the speculation business.’ Griffin rose to leave.

  ‘Before you go . . .’

  Griffin raised his eyebrows, pausing at the door.

  ‘There’s a twist to the Sakhalin Island story.’

  ‘Which is?’ Griffin was drawn in despite himself.

  ‘You’d expect that the Soviets would have denied shooting the plane down, but they didn’t. They actually released the voice tapes from the fighter pilot’s cockpit. The tapes from the air traffic controller in Japan were also released. You can hear the Korean pilots informing ATC that the plane had suffered rapid decompression and that they were descending to one-zero thousand feet – 10 000 feet. Then, nothing. Gone. The Russians said it crashed. The Americans hurried to agree. But strangely, out of 258 PAX on board, and over half a million pounds of weight, only two bodies and a few small bits and pieces of KAL Flight 007 were ever found. Those statistics were completely at odds with what the experts would expect from a plane supposedly blown out of the sky – there should have been bodies and wreckage everywhere.’

  ‘So . . . what are you saying? The Soviets spirited the plane away somehow, in collusion with the US?’

  ‘Strange that there was no Mayday call, nothing. Why? Because the plane was obviously still under control and still flying, despite the missile hit. I believe it landed on Russian soil.’

  ‘The Americans do love a conspiracy,’ said Griffin as he crossed to the door.

  ‘And sometimes the facts shouldn’t be ignored, no matter where they take you.’

  Griffin shook his head.

  ‘Griff, a bit of paranoia in these uncertain days is good for the health. Just keep an open mind. I think we’re in for some turbulence on this one.’

  The ASIS chief smiled, shook his head and closed the door.

  The phone rang. Niven answered it. ‘Okay,’ he said, and hung up. Greenway had said to turn on the news. He tapped the button on the remote and the screen warmed, the picture resolving rapidly into focus. Virtually a full-blown riot was in progress at Sydney Airport. Terrified Indonesian staff from Garuda Airlines were being evacuated by security staff. One of the women had blood streaming from her nose.

  Then the police began breaking up the crowd, dragging people away kicking and screaming. A repugnant scene.

  ‘Shit,’ Niven said aloud.

  Hasanuddin Air Force Base, Sulawesi, 2305 Zulu, Wednesday, 29 April

  Captain Radit ‘Raptor’ Jatawaman lit the afterburner and the F5 Tiger 11 sprang forward. The acceleration pushed the pilot back into his seat, taking some of the pressure off the tightly adjusted five-point harness. His eyes focused on a point at the end of the long runway as the world shooting past his peripheral vision became increasingly blurred. There were only a couple of knots of headwind floating down the airfield into the aircraft’s nose, and the sky above was a cloudless blue; a beautiful day to fly. The sweep hand on the airspeed indicator hit the right number. Raptor fed some gentle back pressure on the stick and the F5 rotated off the strip.

  His eyes scanned the dials that monitored the turbine’s health. Everything was as it should be. The old fighter responded well to his input. It climbed away easily from the suck of gravity without any weapons or external fuel tanks attached to underwing hard points. Raptor cycled up the undercarriage quickly before the aircraft’s airspeed exceeded the manufacturer’s maximum limit for leaving those bits exposed to the airflow. He went through the checks listed on a thigh-pad on his g-suit. He deselected the afterburner. Without the additional savage thrust it provided, the F5 settled into its best rate of climb. Raptor called the tower to inform the controller that he was climbing to his cleared altitude before initiating the standard crosswind turn. The tower then cleared him out of controlled airspace and into restricted military airspace.

  It had not been long since
Raptor had flown the Tiger. He’d departed the squadron less than two months ago after getting the call to fly Falcons. F-16s. The Tiger was a good little fighter but it was starting to show its age, especially in its avionics suite, which had to be three or four generations behind the state-of-the-art. Although it was still one of his country’s primary front-line fighters, Raptor, and everyone else in the air force, knew the Tigers would be merely target practice against the more advanced fighters of the region. The transfer to an F-16 squadron was like a gift from God. It was every Indonesian fighter pilot’s dream to pilot the legendary Falcon. And he, Raptor, had been chosen.

  The F5 he was flying had been in the workshop having some minor problems in its avionics package debugged, and was now ready to come back on the flight line. Surely one of the regular F5 pilots could have taken it for a test flight? It seemed odd to him that they’d asked him to do it. No one else available, they said. Still, he didn’t really mind, and he was still current on the type. The F5 was a sweet aircraft and he was happy to take one out for a spin for old times’ sake. He thought he’d probably pack in a few loops and rolls too. He applied pressure to the stick and felt the aircraft respond. Yes, it was light and nimble; a nice little package.

  He lit the afterburner for the thrill of it. Fuel was instantly dumped in the turbine’s tail pipe and ignited. The gas from the ensuing controlled explosion exited furiously in an orange cone, forcing Raptor back in his seat as the fighter leapt forward.

  A little back pressure on the stick and the F-5 climbed vertically to 15 000 feet. Raptor deselected the burner and levelled out. He aileron-rolled the aircraft first, deflecting the stick slightly to the left. The Tiger’s roll rate was so fast that the aircraft’s nose was still slightly above the horizon, where it should be, when the wings returned to the level position. Next, he pulled back on the stick until four gs registered on the accelerometer. The aircraft’s nose came up steadily, and then continued over until it was flying wings level with the horizon, inverted. Raptor kept the stick position constant and the Tiger continued to scribe a giant vertical circle in the air. The gs started building again as it dived back to its starting position at the base of the circle. The aircraft buffeted slightly, which brought a smile to Raptor’s lips – he’d just flown through his own turbulence created at the loop’s beginning, indicating a perfectly symmetrical manoeuvre.