Rogue Element

Parliament House, Canberra, 0730 Zulu, Wednesday, 29 April

‘Come in, you blokes,’ the PM said to Niven, Griffin and Sharpe, who had been waiting outside. ‘I’ve just briefed Hugh Greenway and he’s up to speed.’ The tall, stooped Minister of Defence, nicknamed ‘Lurch’ by the press, nodded at his colleagues as they filed through the door and took their seats in the small auditorium.

‘I’ve booked a conference call with Byron Mills, our ambassador in Washington, and I thought it best if we all caught it, to save time and avoid the Chinese whispers.’

He picked up the handset and pressed a number. ‘Shirl, get Byron on the line, would you, mate?’

The snow on the television coalesced to become a distinguished-looking, white-haired man.

‘G’ day, Byron,’ said the PM.

‘Bill, gentlemen,’ began the ambassador in his sonorous baritone. ‘Everyone here?’

‘Yep,’ Blight said. ‘We’re it.’

‘Okay…’ He paused to look down at his notes outside the camera’s field of view. ‘I’ve put our case through the appropriate channels here and, well, we’ve got a problem.’

‘What’s that?’ said Niven.

‘The Americans won’t help us with a satellite.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because basically, they don’t have enough assets to go around. They’re keeping watch over a large part of the earth at the moment — the Middle East, the Gulf, Afghanistan, Pakistan, the Chinese, the Russians, the Korean peninsula, and there’s that unfortunate business going on in East Africa.’

‘Terrific,’ Niven said.

‘The feeling here is that the plane will turn up anyway before they can re-task a sat and get it on station. The Indonesians say they’re putting a lot of effort into locating it and the Americans believe that. So do we, right?’

Blight looked at the other men in the room. ‘Yes,’ he said unconvincingly.

‘They believe that if the plane crashed in the jungle, the chances of anyone surviving would be next to nil. So… look, they’re saying it’s a tragedy, but not one they’re happy to take their eye off other balls to investigate. I reckon they’d probably think differently if terrorists claimed responsibility, and if the prospect of finding people alive was greater, but, well…’

There’d been reluctance to state the chances of survival so emphatically — there was always hope — but there it was: reality. Christ! thought the PM. ‘So where does that leave us, Byron?’ Blight asked, plainly disappointed.

‘There is one avenue I’d like to investigate, but I’ll keep that to myself for the moment because it mightn’t go anywhere.’

‘Fair enough. If something turns up?’

‘Sure, get back to you straight away. I’m going to keep at them anyway, Bill. If the plane doesn’t turn up for a couple of days they might change their tune, especially if we’re prepared to do a little horse trading over free-trade issues. Keep you posted.’

‘Thanks, Byron.’ The PM’s deflated tone reflected everyone’s disappointment.