Rogue Element

Parliament House, Canberra, 2155 Zulu, Tuesday, 28 April

Another uncomfortable silence filled the room. The Prime Minister of Australia, The Right Honourable William (Bill) Blight, glanced at the window and allowed his eyes to focus beyond the raindrops spattering the glass pane. The trees in the grounds of Parliament House had lost most of their leaves, letting them go in a circle of gold on the emerald couch below. Autumn. It occurred to Blight that he didn’t much care for the view. It was sentimental, almost soppy. He preferred the iron trunks of heavy lift cranes that had formed part of the vista of most of his working life, and the ordered ranks of rusting containers that clanged like giant bells when dropped. What the hell am I doing here in this place? he wondered, vaguely aware that the Indonesian ambassador, Parno Batuta, had begun to speak again. Blight blinked, waking from a daydream edged by the oily rainbows that filled the puddles on the docks.

‘Once again, Mr Prime Minister, let me say how sorry I am,’ said Batuta, eyes lowered.

‘I appreciate your authorities informing us so quickly of this disaster. Do your people know yet exactly where the plane came down?’ asked Blight.

‘No. Our military and civil aviation authorities hold different opinions, but no one has had the time to review all the facts. The natural assumption is that the aircraft has come down where it disappeared from radar on the island of Sulawesi. But our military believes the plane could also have flown on outside Indonesian airspace. We are testing both theories. Our air force has pledged every available aircraft for the search and I have been assured that we will find it quickly.’

‘Can we provide any assistance?’

‘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.