Asylum

By Paddy Devine

Australia’s region comes to the brink of conflict

Regional tensions are fed by political instability, neo-fundamentalism and an increasing trade in the tragic commodity of refugees.

From the Indonesian archipelago to Papua New Guinea and homeland Australia, the Australian government of Prime Minister Edward Darcy m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Echo Books
• Release date: Jun 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994624635

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

As the vehicle convoy made its way through the steamy, busy streets of Madang, Lieutenant Colonel Sean Costello, made a mental note to include in his written report to Brigadier General Benny Lindstrom, the Swedish head of the International Security Force Office of Security Development. His fact finding visit to the training base at Wewak had been informative. Back from his brief trip, Costello intended to report personally to Lindstrom and eventually get a decent night’s sleep.

The schedule to train the additional Papua New Guinea Defence Force units was, to say the least, optimistic. The program had been developed on the assumption that training would be undertaken in a relatively benign threat environment. This was now far from the case; Free Papua Movement activity was gaining momentum with each passing week and the entire process of recruiting, training and supporting the PNG Defence Force was at risk from insurgent activity and cross border tensions with the Indonesian province of Irian Jaya. Ominously, continued social media rhetoric clearly identified members of the PNG Defence Force as legitimate targets in the view of extreme elements within both the Free Papua Movement and anti-independence factions aligned with the Sunallamin government in Jakarta. Furthermore, the combination of these pressures, coupled with longstanding and endemic internal dysfunction, had simply overwhelmed the old PNG Defence Force. Significant change would be required to ensure recruitment and training were conducted as securely as possible while still achieving the ultimate goal—creation of a larger, more stable force capable of maintaining the integrity of its troubled nation.

_____

Emma Johnston gulped down the last of her plunger coffee, fastened the buttons on her service dress jacket and thumbed closed the brief-case locks. She picked up the case and walked quickly down the hallway of her rented house in suburban Dickson.

Canberra’s icy morning air stung her cheeks as she closed the front door behind her and bounced down the few steps to her already idling car. Johnston tossed her case on the passenger’s seat and slipped in behind the wheel of the Saab Turbo. Although the heater was circulating warm air, Johnston instinctively blew hot breath through her hands as she rubbed her palms together. She fastened the seat belt across her slim torso, checked the rear vision mirror and reversed onto the street.

The traffic was reasonably light as she turned south onto Northbourne Avenue. Nearing the city centre the volume increased as the nation's capital kick started itself out of another cold but clear winter's night. Johnston followed the flow of vehicles around Vernon Circle and across Commonwealth Avenue Bridge. She took the Capital Circle off ramp and eventually turned into one of the reserved underground car parks beneath Parliament House. An armed Federal policemen waved her down in front of the boom gate. He lightly trailed a leather-gloved hand across the bonnet as he walked to the driver's door, bent down and looked in.

‘Good morning, ma’am. Could I see your identification and pass, please?’

Johnston reached into the jacket side pocket and retrieved both cards.

‘Lieutenant Colonel Johnston, Defence Intelligence Organisation.’

The policeman’s eyes roamed over her body, pausing to admire the curve of breasts hinted by the uniform’s tailored fit. Johnston read his thoughts. She had contended with varying degrees of chauvinism for her entire fifteen years military service and, mostly, did not spare it a second thought. Unless confronted by plain misogyny.

‘And the purpose of your visit?’ he enquired patronisingly.

The softness of Johnston’s large brown eyes contradicted her icy response.

‘To attend a briefing.’

He seemed bemused by her measured response, and Johnston recalled a joke she had recently heard.

What’s a "Snag"?

A Sensitive New Age Guy.

What’s a "Chop"?

A Chauvinistic Homophobic Opinionated Prick.

What’s the difference between a "Snag" and a "Chop" at an Aussie bbq?

About three beers.

Uncomfortably realising no further information would be forthcoming, the policeman returned the cards, retreated to the comfort of the security booth and raised the electrically operated boom gate. Johnston drove through.

‘Bitch,’ he muttered.

‘Dildo,’ she told her windscreen.

Johnston parked in one of the visitor spaces, got out of her car, locked it and walked over to the Cabinet Offices. A pale, bespectacled, Italian-suited young man waited for her at the entrance. As she reached him, he habitually pushed back with an index finger the John Lennon glasses perched on his nose. His voice was youthful but confident as he thrust out his right hand.

‘How do you do, Colonel Johnston? I’m Andrew Tolhurst, Mr Cardwell’s executive assistant. He asked me to escort you to his office.’

‘A pleasure, I’m sure.’ Her inflection changed, ‘er - Andrew?’

‘Only if I may call you Emma,’ he bargained with a smile.

She laughed aloud, thankfully relieving some of her growing nervousness. ‘By all means.’

He gently placed a hand in the small of her back and directed her to a nearby automatic door. ‘This way.’

As they entered, Tolhurst waved off the foyer security guard approaching to quiz the visitor and showed Johnston to the elevator. Inside, they turned to face the closing doors. Johnston spoke first as the lift descended to the recently upgraded subterranean complex.

‘Should I feel honoured to be summoned to the presence of the National Security Advisor, Andrew?’ she enquired light-heartedly.

Tolhurst looked at her with only a hint of a smile. ‘Yes, actually … I suppose.’

‘He obviously doesn’t mind treading on a few toes - to cut through the bureaucracy for information, I mean.’

‘Well, the PM has given him the mandate. He applies it as situations require. Certainly makes for exciting and challenging work.’

‘And not a little entertaining at times, I imagine,’ Johnston offered.

Tolhurst laughed gently. ‘Yes, we see more than our fair share of beetroot faces and puffed up egos here. But, in this case, he has already cleared it with your Director, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

The lift doors opened and Tolhurst stepped out, flashed his pass at the waiting guard and turned down a short, austere corridor. Johnston followed closely. Soon they arrived outside Cardwell’s office. While Johnston waited Tolhurst knocked on the open door and stuck his head in.

‘Lieutenant Colonel Johnston is here, sir.’

‘Show the colonel in, Andrew,’ a surprisingly quiet voice responded.

Johnston entered as Tolhurst stepped back against the door frame, revealing a modestly appointed office, even lacking the obligatory Australian landscape print or indigenous art reproduction.

Nathan Cardwell closed a file cover and rose from behind a sparsely ornamented desk. As they shook hands Johnston noted that his handsome, youthful appearance was not just television flattery.

Cardwell smiled gently. ‘Let me begin by apologising for any flak you may have caught over this audience - for want of a better term. Andrew has probably already told you it occurs more often than some of the resident bureaucrats would prefer. But these are critical times, requiring extraordinary methods and I am led to believe you are more than able to cope with the friction.’

‘We all have our yokes to bear, sir,’ she replied half-seriously.

‘Too true. Well, enough of the niceties. Please, take a seat. One of the reasons I called you here is to seek your informed opinion on the situation in PNG and its impact on Indonesia. You’ve had a recent posting to the attache staff in Jakarta and are considered one of the few genuine experts on the machinations of the Sunallamin government. How do you believe this will pan out, Colonel?’

Cardwell leaned to one side, rested an elbow on the chair arm and half-framed his face with a thumb and forefinger. Johnston took a little time before answering, not least because she had immediately sensed her predicament. The National Security Advisor was widely renowned for his working knowledge of an incredible span of international political matters and, in all likelihood, he was asking her to either reinforce or challenge his own opinion. Johnston shifted slightly in her chair. In military circles, she was well known for her unrequited candour, and did not feel disposed to change her approach.

‘I must admit that I haven’t been sleeping well lately.’ She looked directly through his lenses. ‘Then again, paranoia and complacency aren’t complementary.’

Although Cardwell did not move, the almost imperceptible change in his expression was as good as a gesture.

‘Meaning?’

‘Indonesian tolerance for the caning they have received from the media is extremely limited. The fact that most of the negative press they have received over the last year or so has come from right wing western media networks has not been lost on them. And they consider it the height of hypocrisy that Indonesia has been roundly criticised for actions in Irian Jaya that, when taken by Israel in Gaza, the West Bank and southern Lebanon, are condoned by the west. The Sunallamin government is under increasing internal pressure to remain strong in the face of the OPM insurgency regardless of international sentiment.’

‘So Sunallamin’s repeated public calls for calm over the tensions with PNG are just rhetoric for UN consumption while he decides how to appease his domestic power brokers.’

Johnston leaned forward, her growing enthusiasm for this discussion tempering her nerves. ‘Oh no, sir. To the contrary, despite his formidable reputation, President Sunallamin remains the strongest peace advocate in his government. What concerns me is the pressure he’ll be under to do something extreme in order to placate the radical elements within Indonesia – both in and outside the government.‘

Cardwell’s expression remained essentially neutral. ‘That’s what I’m worried about, and why you’re here. It seems that our consensus differs from the most recent CIA and Australian Secret Intelligence Service assessments. But I believe they will reassess their predictions when our active sources provide confirmation. We have a more vested interest in this than some of the foreign agencies.’

Johnston’s directness once again got the better of her.

‘Excuse me, sir, but you have analysts shoved into every nook and cranny of this place. I don’t understand what more I can offer.’

Nathan Cardwell allowed a hint of a smile to dance in his eyes.

‘Distanced objectivity, Colonel Johnston. That’s what you bring, and what is needed during a looming crisis. Of course the agency has plenty of smart, highly capable staff, and I absolutely respect their work. But I want to be sure that any advice I give to the Government is based upon the most rigorously assessed intelligence, without a hint of establishment bias.’

Johnston’s growing confidence took a sharp drop, like an aircraft in turbulence.

‘Looks like I’ll be as popular as the red-headed step child.’

Cardwell grinned more broadly. ‘That will pass,’ he reassured. ‘What are you like at National Security Committee of Cabinet briefings?’

‘Pardon?’ Johnston faltered.

‘Be ready to accompany me to the National Security Committee of Cabinet meeting at 3pm and field a few curly questions.’

‘But …’

‘Rear Admiral Watts has already agreed to your assignment.’

‘The cagey bastard,’ she murmured.

‘He speaks highly of you too, Colonel.’

_____

The sliding screen door slammed behind Rebecca, leaving Danny Summers with little Tegan smearing soggy Weetbix across the kitchen bench while Alex gulped down the last of his chocolate milk.

Danny knew he deserved the treatment. Last night he had returned home primed for an argument by the slew of rum and cokes consumed in the Sergeants’ Mess bar, again. He also knew that Rebecca did not begrudge him his frequent visits to the mess. But, while she was accustomed to the ritual, progressively she had grown to resent the way Danny arrived home on a short fuse that seemed to be ignited by the faintest spark or hint of friction. Most frustrating and disheartening of all, instead of resolving the matter Danny would stew for hours, often distant and indifferent in bed. Or, rather than take his frustration out on Rebecca, Danny would vent emotionally on the kids. This confused her because she knew that he was not a bully or a coward taking an opportunity to restore his self-esteem by disciplining the children, but she could not fathom why he chose not to confront her.

For his part, Danny suspected Rebecca still did not understand how much of himself was committed to his platoon. As a soldier, Summers repeatedly found himself forced to choose between meeting his professional and family responsibilities. For Danny, service in the Army was a vocation, with all the demands on personal life that entailed. He was expected to be available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week to respond to the operational demands of his high readiness unit and the welfare needs of his men. As much as he loved Rebecca and the kids, he could not abrogate his duty, whenever called upon. He often said to himself, and his best mate, Des Bronson, that the kids had two parents but the platoon had only one sergeant.

Danny gently reached forward, lifted Tegan from the high chair, kissed her cereal-encrusted cheek and lowered her down to the tiled kitchen floor.

‘Keep an eye on her, Alex,’ he instructed, patting his son on the head. ‘Mum is outside if you need her. I’ve got to go to work.’

Danny strode into the hallway and picked up his slouch hat from the foyer table. He knew Rebecca would be within earshot. ‘I’ll see you this evening, love.’

There was no response other than Tegan’s infectious chuckle as Alex chased her through the house.

_____

The three men arrived at the spot they had innocently reconnoitred a week earlier and calmly assembled their weapon. Although only about one hundred metres from quiet Northcott Drive, they were concealed by gum trees covering the slopes of Mount Pleasant. A gap in the foliage provided a suitable view of their target.

The Kornet is a tripod-mounted, laser beam-guided missile. Two warheads are available for the weapon. The first is for use against armoured vehicles while the second, an explosive blast warhead, is designed for employment against softer targets or structures such as buildings. The three men were about to use the latter. The missile is housed in a sealed container mounted over the main sight unit on the tripod. When launched, it is boosted from the housing and four fins are deployed prior to initiation of the main flight motor. The operator controls the missile in flight simply by maintaining his optical sight on the target. The sophisticated guidance system does the rest. The Kornet has a range of 5,500 metres by day and 3,500 at night.

Taking only minutes to set up, the operator lay behind the sight unit and focused his aiming graticule. He adjusted his position, removing an annoying rock from beneath his ribcage so that he remained comfortable and was not distracted during the engagement. Another team member, the observer, squatted beside him with a pair of binoculars. The third man, having assisted with the set-up, now kept a wary eye for any unexpected visitors.

The operator confirmed his readiness with the observer, took a deep breath and launched the Kornet.

On this bitterly crisp, clear morning, the climbing sun was still flaring the windscreens of commuter traffic snaking towards the city centre and burning through the misty veil over Lake Burley Griffin as the missile appeared from the shadows of Mount Pleasant and passed over Parkes Way. A puzzled early morning jogger glanced up at the low, throaty noise overhead.

Braving the national capital’s chill, an interstate school tour party gathered for a photograph outside the public entrance to Parliament House under the casual watch of two security guards. There was the usual jostling for position and horseplay by excited teenagers revelling in this release from classroom tedium. Their teachers, equally enjoying the occasion, were light-heartedly chivvying the students into place when the Kornet’s warhead impacted.

One of the guards, a retired air force warrant officer, was killed immediately in the explosion, his head raggedly severed by a lump of masonry fractured from the entranceway columns. His young female partner fell, horribly mutilated by tumbling shards of marble. Fortunately, the full force of the detonation was directed into the still empty foyer of the building. However, many of the students were wounded by fragments buzzing on the edge of the blast area. Others, rapidly succumbing to shock, would subsequently recall images of their history teacher collapsing at their feet, blood pooling in his eyeless sockets.

_____

The copse of trees and scrub was an ideal, lonely site. There was easy access from a nearby dirt road running between the disused rubbish tip and the new housing development. Neither saw any activity, save the occasional vandal or scavenger. Arriving the previous night, the team had taken its time setting up for the strike.

Thanks to her employment as a bar person for one of the soldiers’ clubs in nearby Lavarack Barracks, Stella had been able to fulfil her initial responsibilities by providing a list of priority targets for the team’s final selection and then guiding them to this location. She was certain that any one of the targets would amply contribute to the fear and chaos that would be generated by similar teams operating against designated points up and down the eastern seaboard.

Tremendously excited by the prospects of the next day’s activities, sleep had been out of the question for Stella. Instead, settling down in the back seat of the car, she grappled with the various possibilities the future might hold for her. Would she remain in Australia, continuing the life she had started so many years ago? Or was she to be ordered back home? Regardless, Stella was proud of her achievements to date and confident her part in the impending operation would be rewarded.

Stella had been woken early by one of the team as he unloaded gear from the back of the car. Now, an hour later and with the sun climbing toward another warm winter’s day, she began to feel increasingly nervous. She didn’t understand the delay. It was after 8 am. Her extensive knowledge of the barracks daily routine had confirmed that there would certainly be enough activity by now to maximise the impact of the strike. Even though this location was not likely to be compromised surely it was in all their interests to get the job done and get out. She walked over to where the team leader, whom she knew only as Saeed, was squatted confirming the compass and map bearings and weapon settings.

‘Excuse me, Saeed,’ she said deferentially, ‘but will you be starting soon?’

He rubbed his palms on the thighs of his faded denims. ‘Yes, soon,’ he replied impassively.

Encouraged, Stella returned and sat in the front seat of one of the cars.

Less than fifteen minutes later, ‘Saeed’ dropped the first 82 millimetre mortar bomb down the tube. Another five rounds followed in rapid succession. Then the team slightly adjusted the angle and direction of the weapon and fired a further six rounds to increase the chance of hitting the target through a spread of impact. Their task complete, the group quickly dismantled the mortar and efficiently stowed its various components between the two vehicles. In less than ten minutes from the initial round, the only noticeable trace of the team’s visit to the spot was two sets of worn tyre marks.

What Stella did not discover until an emotional radio newsreader announced later, was that Lavarack Barracks, the home of the 3rd Brigade, was not the only target in Townsville that morning. In hastily adjusting its fire, the team had inadvertently dropped four of the high explosive projectiles within the grounds of the nearby Brolga Nest kindergarten as it filled with busy pre-schoolers.

_____

Both hands clamped on the steering wheel, Cassie Madsen impatiently twisted her wrist to look at the watch face. Shit! Time was evaporating as she sat in the snarled traffic queuing to enter the M1 motorway. Who knew the cause of the delay? Who really cared? Cassie had long ago tired of the virtual grid lock that seized Melbourne’s arterials during daily peak hour. How many hours, if not days, did she waste each month trying to negotiate traffic congestion?

Cassie thumbed the channel select button in desperation. Perhaps the contrived humour of one of the FM radio morning crews might relieve some of her tension.

Thankfully, before too long, the traffic began to inch forward. Cassie took heart as her car finally made it to the on-ramp to the freeway. Movement, albeit slowly, was hope.

Progress was promising as she approached the Domain Tunnel and began the descent that led under the Yarra River. Here, again, traffic slowed to a crawl, each lane packed head-to-tail with traffic.

Immediately ahead, vehicle brake lights flared red in warning. Cassie changed gears and gently applied the brakes, coming to a halt beside a removal van. She looked up into the passenger side of the cab. A scruff-bearded man glanced down at her and then looked back at his driver. A serious, but controlled discussion appeared to ensue before the man looked back at Cassie. She was trying to interpret his resigned expression when the face disappeared in a searing, cataclysmic flame that engulfed Cassie, her car, and hundreds of other victims in the furnace that had been the Domain Tunnel.

_____

The slow scan of the Mahdi Brotherhood training camp and its surrounding area complete, he switched off the digital surveillance camera and returned the equipment to his small backpack. He slipped his arms through the pack harness and reached for the M4 carbine beside him. Easing onto his haunches he paused to check the jungle around his observation post for any unnatural shadows or angles in the dense foliage or variations in background noise.

Satisfied that he had not been compromised, Sergeant Neil Perret confirmed his compass bearing and made his way through the undergrowth. Even here, in the equatorial jungle, he contoured just below the crest line to avoid silhouetting himself. After travelling about fifty metres he halted to again check his bearing. He estimated the patrol hide was a further hundred metres to the northwest and set off.

Perret loved the jungle. He thrived on the mental and physical demands imposed on a warrior operating in close country and had always maintained this was the quintessence of soldiering. He had learned that the jungle was rife with hazards all its own, but the assorted venomous denizens were an insignificant element and he was inured to the claustrophobic damp. The real danger lay in the proximity of sudden and silent death at the hands of enemies who could approach to within a knife blade of the unwary. But Perret exuded the accomplished confidence of a man who had spent the bulk of his military career in the Special Air Service Regiment. He had trained and covertly operated in the most inhospitable terrain in the region - and further afield. This was tame.

In order to estimate the distance he travelled, Perret counted his paces. Through years of experience and practice he had refined rough calculations, so that his estimations were accurate to within ten metres. Now, as he approached to within thirty metres of the hide, he stopped and squatted down among the ferns. His watch indicated he was seven minutes ahead of the designated return time. Once again he confirmed the compass heading and waited.

With three minutes remaining he straightened and proceeded to the prearranged hide gate Accuracy in timing and bearing were essential because, if he strayed from the correct entry schedule, the other patrol members would shoot first and dispose of the body later. Twenty metres on he paused and peered intently through the vegetation. He was rewarded by a slight smile on the heavily camouflaged face of his patrol leader, Captain Brad Robinson, who silently motioned him forward. Perret moved past the officer and into the hide which was really nothing more than a spot in the jungle chosen for adequate concealment, accessibility to the patrol’s observation post, and workable communications. He went straight to his own large pack resting against a lantana-bound tree, unhitched the digital camera pack and sat down, gently placing the carbine at his side. Shortly Robinson dropped beside him, having been relieved at the listening post by another member of the four-man patrol.

‘How’d it go, Neil?’ he whispered.

Perret waved the small cartridge removed from the surveillance camera. ‘Fine, boss. I got some good footage of the training and base facilities. Also got a few shots of what looks like the headquarters building.’

He smiled wryly. ‘This is some place they’ve got here.’

Robinson nodded. ‘Ain’t it just.’ He took the disk from Perret and reached across to the manpack satellite upload terminal that would relay the images via the Coastwatcher satellite to Headquarters Joint Operations Command at Bungendore near Canberra.

‘Come on, let’s get this sent.’

‘Hey, boss,’ breathed Perret, ‘this is a real Kodak Moment, isn’t it?’

_____

‘The latest run of images are coming through now, sir.’

‘Right.’ The Headquarters Joint Operations Command watch keeper stood and walked over to the current operations screen. He was joined by the duty analyst. They looked at the first of the images.

‘The enhancement is much clearer on this batch.’ He checked the location and time recorded on the bottom margin. ‘Have a look. Unless I’m mistaken, they’ve increased the training and accommodation facilities.’

‘I think you're right, sir.’

The watch keeper looked at the remaining ultra-high resolution digital images downloaded from Coastwatcher, the military satellite developed as part of the revitalised AUSSAT programme. ‘Seems like the whole operation has been ramped-up. I reckon they’ve at least doubled their training capacity.’

The analyst was bemused. ‘But they must know that we’re keeping a close eye on their activities, sir. Don’t you think they’d be a bit more secretive about what’s going on there?’

‘Maybe they don’t care what our satellites pick up,’ the watch keeper suggested. ‘Seeing what’s going on over there is one thing, doing something about it is a different matter. It is Indonesian sovereign territory, after all.’

He continued before the analyst had a chance to respond. ‘Look, I’ve got to prepare the assessment for the next National Security Adviser briefing. Include these latest shots in the package.’

_____

‘The government’s policy remains unchanged. We must protect our territorial integrity from all threats, both internal and external. This will be done through peaceful means if possible, but we must not hesitate to act decisively if diplomacy does not achieve our aims. It is God’s will that we seize this moment in history to re-establish our moral leadership in the eyes of our people and the world. But we must do so in a measured manner. I know that our diplomatic options have become limited but only by being seen to exhaust them will we retain moral ascendancy.’

President Abukar Sunallamin turned away from his office window overlooking Jakarta’s thronging streets and confronted his cabinet members with one of his trademark glares. Despite his legendary passion and calculated ruthlessness, the compact, aggressive Sunallamin was hardly surprised that the faces looking back at him did not reflect unanimous agreement.

Before speaking, the Minister for Interior Affairs, General Tula Fazli, drew himself to his full, powerful height, thereby according the traditional courtesy to his President. His words, too, were impassioned and eloquent.

‘Excellency, we must take the interests and sentiments of our people into consideration. I fear that we will experience enormous internal unrest if we do not take action soon. No one more than you understands the domestic pressures threatening our nation. I fear that, unless we can release that pressure, we will implode.’

Sunallamin nodded, but his resolve was obviously undiminished. ‘Agreed. We must find a solution. God willing, the deliberations of General Botu and his staff will provide an answer.’

General Ramh Botu stood and nodded slowly to acknowledge the opportunity to address the government’s executive committee. His highly bemedalled uniform impeccably fitted his short, trim physique. He concluded his briefing in twenty minutes.

‘In summary Black Flag will fully support the achievement of our national objectives, Your Excellency. Undoubtedly our overt activities will be monitored, however I am confident that our operational security measures will effectively mask our intentions. Of course, we must expect that the Australians and Americans will place some of their forces on alert, but this was considered and catered for in our planning. Black Flag can transition to the full operational status within 24 hours.’

‘What of the possible response by other United Nations members, General?’ interrupted Devan Linap, the Minister for Production. ‘How are they likely to react?’

General Ramh Botu acknowledged the minister’s question with a slight nod.

‘There will of course be the expected outcry from the Western Alliance and we should anticipate initial sanctions. However, we estimate it will take at least several days for a military intervention resolution to be framed, perhaps longer if our friends in the existing Security Council successfully delay the vote. If Black Flag proceeds as planned we will secure our objectives within that time. Please remember Minister, that we are not the pariah of the international community that Saddam Hussein and the Ba’athists were in 1991 and 2003. We have much more support and sympathy from our friends, both in the region and further abroad. It is not certain the Western Alliance will be able to rally others to their cause and therefore the inevitable UN debate may be even more protracted than we hope.’

‘And the Americans. Will they not intervene regardless?’

‘Their close historical ties with Australia are well understood and we cannot expect the Americans to abandon their ANZUS treaty obligations. But the speed and scale of any response will be influenced by the level of their support within the General Assembly. As you well know, the web of allegiances within the Assembly is much more complex now than ever before. The reluctance of the West to take concerted action against the Syrian government’s aggressive response to domestic protests in 2011 is evidence of this complexity.’

He opened a palm of indebtedness toward Ravi Shalan, the Foreign Minister. ‘Our diplomats have served us well.’

Detecting no obvious further questions General Botu resumed his place at the conference table. A number of the Cabinet members nodded acknowledgement then looked to the head of the table. President Sunallamin massaged his greying temples as he began.

‘Thank you, General Botu. I am sure our forces will achieve a resounding victory when the hour arrives.’ He spoke firmly, eyeing each member of the Cabinet in turn.

‘My friends, if we embark upon this enterprise at such a critical time in our history, the cost of failure is unimaginable. Our endeavour - like our troops’ loyalty and courage - must be unstinting if we are to be successful. I expect total commitment from the moment of decision until our goals are achieved. We must achieve a swift and decisive conclusion to the campaign in order to present our critics with a fait accompli and to enable us to deal decisively with the OPM terrorist threat to Irian Jaya. I do not take lightly the responsibility fate has laid at the humble feet of a mere statesman.’

_____

Although his aide, Colonel Vranath, had opened the doors leading from the Presidential briefing room, the air was still thick with tobacco smoke as General Ramh Botu closed his briefing folder. Botu was keen to step outside for some fresh air. His aide returned and extracted the encrypted flash drive containing the General’s presentation graphics from the briefing suite’s computer.

‘The briefing went well, sir?’ he offered.

Botu looked tired as he replied. ‘As well as these things go, Pilu.’ The General always used his aide's first given name in private. ‘As well as they go.’

Vranath reached to take the General’s notes. Botu handed the folder over with apparently distracted relief. But Vranath knew his chief well and appreciated that, jaded as he was from the demands of the operational planning process, Botu needed to exorcise any nagging thoughts from his mind before he could relax.

‘I did not hear any objections from the audience when you outlined the concept of operations,’ Vranath observed as the pair walked toward the open doors.

Botu stopped and wearily sat back on the arm of one of the plush chairs that faced the briefing podium. ‘Yes, I felt there would be a degree of opposition from the President.’

‘Since you had already secured the rest of the cabinet’s support, he had little option but to accept your detailed assessment.’

Botu’s dark, potent eyes betrayed nothing of his fatigue. ‘Black Flag is certainly ambitious. But I have never agreed with the concept of using terrorism and special forces strikes to achieve limited objectives, and it is tantamount to criminal folly to expect that we can achieve political gain from such actions in the international forum. They risk widespread condemnation and would give little material reward before we would be forced to the inevitable negotiation table. When that happens we need to be able to argue from a position of real strength.’

‘Well sir, the plan certainly provides the means to such an end.’

‘But not without considerable risk, Pilu.’

‘Nothing more than such high stakes deserve,’ Vranath consoled. ‘Your concept is a brilliant synthesis of our capabilities and you have the confidence of all our commanders.’

‘If courage and dedication were sufficient, Pilu, victory could never elude us. But we may well need fortune to shine upon our endeavours if we are to achieve all our objectives.’

‘Aggression, determination and early success will breed good fortune, sir.’

Botu levered himself from the chair and turned toward the doorway as he managed a feeble smile. ‘I know why I’ve put up with you for so long Pilu, you’re optimism is most addictive, my friend.’

A gap-toothed smile broadened Vranath’s full, round face as he feigned a hacking cough. ‘I wonder if our ministers would take it up instead of smoking.’

_____

Danny Summers grasped one of his pack’s straps and turned to climb onto the Unimog four-tonner for the trip to RAAF Garbutt, the Townsville airbase. A strong, tanned hand was offered to him.

‘There you go, Sarge.’

Summers glanced up at the beaming face of Lance Corporal Des Bronson as the latter took the strain and assisted him onto the tailgate rung. Once into the rear of the troop carrier he dropped down on the bench seat beside Bronson.

‘Thanks, Des.’

‘Not a worry. I’d do the same for a mate.’

Bronson removed the sorry remains of a roll-your-own cigarette from his bottom lip. ‘Have you heard any more about the mortar attack on 1 RAR this morning? Fucking unbelievable!’

Summers pondered briefly. ‘Nope, not really. But they reckon the casualties are pretty bad. Caught them in the middle of a battalion muster parade.’

Bronson’s response was predictable. ‘Yeah. Fucking unbelievable.’

‘That’s why we’ve had this callout. Just in case we have to respond quickly to another attack.’

In between rolling another cigarette and sealing it with a raspy lick of his tongue, Bronson managed only a grunt of resignation. The Unimog pulled away from the parade ground of 2nd Battalion, The Royal Australian Regiment, more readily known as 2 RAR. Having made this journey numerous times before, many of the men would typically fall asleep en route. Today, however, the hot topic was the surprise attack on 1 RAR and the likely impact on their own battalion. Most thought it was unlikely they would actually deploy anywhere. Rather they would probably just get to the RAAF base, line up in preparation for loading onto one of a row of parked C130 Hercules transport aircraft and then be advised that the deployment was cancelled. Then would follow the obligatory castigation of those who had lost some trivial item of equipment since the last check and, eventually, return to Lavarack Barracks.

Summers casually glanced at the group of men seated left, right and opposite him. His mind wandered through the range of possible outcomes for this journey. Eventually, he too decided the most likely destination was back to the battalion lines, so he leaned back to ponder beneath the warming sun.

About an hour after arriving at the RAAF base, the company sergeant major motioned for Summers to accompany him to a nearby administration building. The CSM stopped at the doorway.

‘The OC needs to speak with you, Danny.’

Danny nodded, slipped his pack off and strode the short distance down the corridor.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ Danny Summers asked as he saluted his company commander, Major Wayne Freeman and caught sight of the battalion padre sitting in a corner of the office. Freeman looked troubled. The padre radiated solemn acceptance. Danny became worried.

‘Yes, Sergeant Summers. Please have a seat,’ said Freeman, indicating a chair.

Knots began to form in Summers’ colon. This obviously wasn’t a career interview. He sat diagonally opposite the chaplain. Freeman made up the triangle.

‘Sarge … Danny, we have some tragic news.’

The knots tightened. His company commander continued.

‘I’m afraid your wife Rebecca and daughter Tegan, were killed in a terrorist attack on the Brolga Nest kindergarten this morning. I’m terribly sorry but …’

Danny Summers did not hear the rest. Initially, a wave of disbelief blocked out all sound as he looked quizzically at the other two men for the suggestion of a clue that they were mistaken or that this was some kind of joke in exceptionally bad taste. But then cruel, cold realisation overcame the uncertainty and the discomfort in the well of his gut became clammy nausea. Little Tegan. Rebecca. Little Tegan. Rebecca. Partial images flashed in his mind, thumped his heart like a prize fighter’s fist, wrung his soul. He tried to recall exactly how they had looked earlier this morning when he said goodbye to them, leaving things unresolved with Rebecca, but was unable. His recollection was confused, like a jumbled montage of family snapshots and surreal news footage.

Danny did not notice the tears forming in the corners of his eyes or feel them trace their salty course down his brown, weathered cheeks. He did not even notice his chest heaving as the sobs he tried to contain subsumed his manly facade. Little Tegan. Rebecca.

Later, Danny would recall how quickly he seemed to regain his composure and re-established the protective guard behind which he fulfilled his comrades’ professional expectations. He would remember as well, the vision of a rusty-headed little boy that, despite his all-consuming grief, he could not ignore; the image of his seven-year old son, Alex, playing in the primary school yard, blithely oblivious to the pall of sadness that had descended upon their lives.

‘ … we understand how terrible this is for you, Danny,’ the padre’s voice had replaced his company commander’s, ‘and we will