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Authors: David Rollins
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Bob translated the figure groups in his mind: A-6, an asset shared with an Australian intelligence service, with a report from Station 39, that’s Maros near Makassar (formerly Ujang Padang) in Indonesia – on the southern end of Sulawesi. A-6 made the observation on the 29th of the 4th at 0440 Zulu time, and thirteen minutes had passed before she made the report at 0453. He glanced at his watch to check the date and time. Maryland was five hours behind Greenwich Mean Time, or Universal Coordinated Time as it was now known – fourteen hours behind Sulawesi. Whatever this report was about had happened just twenty minutes ago in a small town on a forgotten island off the world’s radar screen. In other words the system was working, thanks to intel sharing and this A-6 asset who was obviously one on-the-ball individual. Gioco ignored his headache, sipped his decaf cappuccino and considered the information contained in the string of numbers and letters.
Okay, A-6 has had a TM VS-K or a troop movement confirmed visually of Kopassus units. She was UN/S or unsure of numbers but 20-30 is the estimate. They are in H2, two helos, departing on a bearing of 360 (north). ENQ/D – enquire question/destination, which means she has no idea where the helos are going. The observation, she thinks, is U – unusual.
Yes it was a bit U , but only a little. The Indonesian forces had been active for months now. And besides, there were much more interesting things going on, like that missing Qantas jumbo. The activity A-6 was reporting was in the right area, he observed again. Perhaps theIndonesians were sending in Kopassus troops to help find the thing. They were jungle-trained specialists. There was plenty of jungle on Sulawesi. It made sense. Kind of. But there was something . . .
The debate going on in Gioco’s mind was whether this had anything to do with terrorism. Planes did occasionally crash for reasons that had nothing to do with nutters prepared to die for some cause and take as many innocent civilians with them as possible. Terror was now the prime suspect whenever and wherever a plane went down. Indonesia . . . Hmm . . . Gioco distractedly chewed the end of a pencil. He knew the Australians had always been leery of the place – a big, sprawling country with porous borders, a succession of less than democratic governments, a fractious military, and a questionable human rights record. And recently, the realisation that terrorist groups linked to al Qaeda were flourishing there, hiding out in Java’s rugged mountains.
South-East Asia had been targeted by the US as a potential terrorist hotbed, but not so much Indonesia. It was more the Philippines people here were concerned about. Then Bali happened. Was this 747 thing more of the same? Gioco absently made popping sounds with his mouth while he mulled through things. He tapped the pencil on his desk, a syncopated beat. There was nothing solid here to go forward on. He decided to give this one the benefit of the doubt, unless something else turned up to change his mind, of course.
Gioco went back to his slips. He had another two hundred or so to review and analyse before his day was done. He wouldn’t get home for at least another hour. No doubt there would be other interesting and relevant slipsamongst the dross. He tapped the keystroke that fixed the slip from A-6 onto a desktop noticeboard, and attached a small flashing star to it. Bob found this system a good way to work. A lot of meaningless crap drifted into his etray. He took out the interesting or relevant slips from his pile and pinned them on the board for later review. The slip from Station 39 joined a couple of other unconnected slips forwarded by that old battleaxe in Hawaii. What was her name . . .?
Parliament House, Canberra, 0500 Zulu, Wednesday, 29 April
The PM sat at his desk with his head in his hands. Losing such a close friend made him physically ache. And Harry’s entire family had
Bob translated the figure groups in his mind: A-6, an asset shared with an Australian intelligence service, with a report from Station 39, that’s Maros near Makassar (formerly Ujang Padang) in Indonesia – on the southern end of Sulawesi. A-6 made the observation on the 29th of the 4th at 0440 Zulu time, and thirteen minutes had passed before she made the report at 0453. He glanced at his watch to check the date and time. Maryland was five hours behind Greenwich Mean Time, or Universal Coordinated Time as it was now known – fourteen hours behind Sulawesi. Whatever this report was about had happened just twenty minutes ago in a small town on a forgotten island off the world’s radar screen. In other words the system was working, thanks to intel sharing and this A-6 asset who was obviously one on-the-ball individual. Gioco ignored his headache, sipped his decaf cappuccino and considered the information contained in the string of numbers and letters.
Okay, A-6 has had a TM VS-K or a troop movement confirmed visually of Kopassus units. She was UN/S or unsure of numbers but 20-30 is the estimate. They are in H2, two helos, departing on a bearing of 360 (north). ENQ/D – enquire question/destination, which means she has no idea where the helos are going. The observation, she thinks, is U – unusual.
Yes it was a bit U , but only a little. The Indonesian forces had been active for months now. And besides, there were much more interesting things going on, like that missing Qantas jumbo. The activity A-6 was reporting was in the right area, he observed again. Perhaps theIndonesians were sending in Kopassus troops to help find the thing. They were jungle-trained specialists. There was plenty of jungle on Sulawesi. It made sense. Kind of. But there was something . . .
The debate going on in Gioco’s mind was whether this had anything to do with terrorism. Planes did occasionally crash for reasons that had nothing to do with nutters prepared to die for some cause and take as many innocent civilians with them as possible. Terror was now the prime suspect whenever and wherever a plane went down. Indonesia . . . Hmm . . . Gioco distractedly chewed the end of a pencil. He knew the Australians had always been leery of the place – a big, sprawling country with porous borders, a succession of less than democratic governments, a fractious military, and a questionable human rights record. And recently, the realisation that terrorist groups linked to al Qaeda were flourishing there, hiding out in Java’s rugged mountains.
South-East Asia had been targeted by the US as a potential terrorist hotbed, but not so much Indonesia. It was more the Philippines people here were concerned about. Then Bali happened. Was this 747 thing more of the same? Gioco absently made popping sounds with his mouth while he mulled through things. He tapped the pencil on his desk, a syncopated beat. There was nothing solid here to go forward on. He decided to give this one the benefit of the doubt, unless something else turned up to change his mind, of course.
Gioco went back to his slips. He had another two hundred or so to review and analyse before his day was done. He wouldn’t get home for at least another hour. No doubt there would be other interesting and relevant slipsamongst the dross. He tapped the keystroke that fixed the slip from A-6 onto a desktop noticeboard, and attached a small flashing star to it. Bob found this system a good way to work. A lot of meaningless crap drifted into his etray. He took out the interesting or relevant slips from his pile and pinned them on the board for later review. The slip from Station 39 joined a couple of other unconnected slips forwarded by that old battleaxe in Hawaii. What was her name . . .?
Parliament House, Canberra, 0500 Zulu, Wednesday, 29 April
The PM sat at his desk with his head in his hands. Losing such a close friend made him physically ache. And Harry’s entire family had
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