Rogue Element

‘Thank you, Prime Minister. I will ask our air force people if there’s anything Australia can do. Colonel Ari Ajirake, one of our most senior officers, is personally overseeing the search. I’m sure he would welcome your support to bring this tragedy to a speedy conclusion.’

Blight nodded. He was detached and distant. A frown deeply lined his forehead and the corners of his mouth were weighed down.

‘Mr Prime Minister, I assure you my country has no residual enmity for Australia,’ said Batuta, wringing his hands. ‘East Timor is behind us and I promise you we will do absolutely everything we can to find the Qantas plane as quickly as possible.’

Blight realised that he had been cool, even cold, and that talking to him had probably been a bit like conversing with a wall, lengthy silences punctuating the conversation. Perhaps the ambassador had translated this difficulty as a sign that he felt Indonesia was in some way responsible for the crash. That was nonsense. Blight smiled wanly, apologetically, and did his best to reassure the envoy. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ambassador, I’m sure you will. And thank you. I appreciate you coming over. I’m sure Indonesia will do everything it can to help us in this dark hour. I’m just a bit preoccupied.’

‘Not at all. Understandable,’ replied Batuta, relieved and smiling with a tilt of his head that conveyed understanding, sympathy and sadness all at once.

There was nothing more that could be said. Blight stood and Batuta followed his lead. The ambassador usually found the Prime Minister loud and physically intimidating. But here, in this situation, Blight appeared much smaller than usual, almost life-size. Batuta preferred him that way.

The Prime Minister’s PA popped her head around the door as soon as the ambassador departed. ‘Shirley, tell the Air Vice Marshal to come in,’ said the PM. Blight stood and stretched his thick arms out behind his broad back. He felt and heard a couple of bones pop and crack. ‘Bloody hell, it’s going to be a god-awful day,’ he sighed as the Commander in Chief of the Australian Defence Forces walked in. ‘Take a seat, Spike,’ said the PM.

Blight sucked in a breath. There were no pleasantries. ‘Okay, the Indonesians are doing everything they can. The question is, what can we do?’

The phone rang in the adjoining room. Shirley answered it. A moment later, there was a tap on the door as it swung quietly open. With her small, sharp-featured face and pinched mouth, Shirley could easily have passed for a disciplinary officer in a correctional facility for girls. ‘Excuse me, Bill. Line two.’

‘Yes?’ he said into the receiver impatiently. What he heard made the PM’s face blench visibly. He hung up the phone slowly. ‘Andrew Harris and his whole family — wife and four kids — were on QF-1.’ Blight knew that Harry, the Minister for Industry and Workplace Relations, was taking his family to England on holiday, but he had refused to entertain the thought that his best mate and close colleague had chosen to fly Qantas, and was therefore probably on the missing flight. But there it was, the phone call he’d been dreading. The news gutted him and he needed to sit. Alone.

‘Jesus…’ he said.

Central Sulawesi, 0130 Zulu, Wednesday, 29 April

Joe was caught in a tunnel. He knew there was an end to it but he couldn’t see it. He was falling and the tunnel was swirling. It felt like he was in the centre of a tornado. The forces in its centre were powerful, pulling the skin on his face and pushing it into rolls, as if he was an astronaut in a centrifuge.

He found it hard to breathe. The pressure was sucking the air from his lungs. And then something changed. He found himself in the very centre of the tunnel. It was calm here and he began to float. The tugging stopped, remnants of it dragging lightly at his legs then at his toes and then, gone. Above, there was light.

Joe’s eyes flickered. He was reluctant to open them. His head hurt. Every muscle in his body felt like it had been pummelled, beaten black and blue by an opponent a couple of weight divisions heavier than him. Something was pinning him down and he sensed that he should move with caution. He wondered why he should be feeling so sore, and then he remembered. Surely the crash had been a dream too? He reluctantly opened his eyes. The ground was fifteen to twenty metres below him. It hadn’t been a dream. The blood pounded behind his eyeballs. He moved his head to better take in his surroundings and he discovered that he was in a tree, still strapped into his seat, only upside down. The whole thing must have been ripped out of the plane. His mind was working, but only just. I’m alive. Jesus, I’m alive.