Achmad Reza’s mouth had opened involuntarily in shock. A roaring sound filled his ears and he found it difficult to breathe. He sucked at the air, taking small, feeble breaths like someone on their deathbed, his chest constricted.

The woman casually lit a Marlboro, dragged deeply on the cigarette and blew the smoke into the sunlight. It swirled into a pattern of blue fingers. She seemed to be enjoying herself. ‘We know that two of the conspirators are the Generals Suluang and Kukuh Masri.’

Suluang and Masri. That was odd, thought Reza, struggling to find some solid ground in a world that had suddenly tilted on its edge. Weren’t theirs the units brawling in the streets of Jakarta?

‘What we don’t know is whether all this is something secretly sponsored by the Indonesian government. That’s where you come in,’ she continued, flicking the ash from her cigarette out the window.

Reza felt dizzy. ‘Are you Indonesian?’ he asked.

‘Indonesian parents. They migrated to Australia before I was born. That makes me a hundred percent Aussie.’

‘You’re a spy?’

‘If you like,’ she said, examining the end of her cigarette.

Reza had no idea why he was being chosen to be some kind of go-between. Is that what I am? Certainly there were many others more qualified, better connected. He hesitated before asking the next question. ‘What… what do you want?’

‘We want you to… we call it throw a spanner in the works.’

Reza was familiar with the expression, and he recalled the chaos he’d caused in the parliament. ‘I think I’ve already done that.’

The woman drew elegantly on her cigarette and blew the smoke into the air between them before continuing. ‘My government can’t contact yours through the usual channels because, of course, if your government has anything to do with this, then all we’ll get is denials. And if we go charging in with unsubstantiated accusations…’ She let the thought hang.

The Australians were right. ‘Do you know why the plane was shot down?’ he asked.

‘No. But that is the question, isn’t it?’

‘You said there were soldiers hunting for survivors. Do you know if there are any survivors?’

‘Yes, we believe there are two,’ she said, stubbing the cigarette out on the floor before flicking the butt out the window. ‘We are working on getting them out.’

That could only mean Australian soldiers on Indonesian sovereign territory. Uninvited. Reza felt decidedly uncomfortable.

‘Think of it as a rescue,’ she said, smiling, reading his concern and enjoying his obvious discomfort.

‘Who’s going to rescue Indonesia?’ Reza said, sweating profusely.

‘You are.’ Her eyes held his.

Somewhere east of central Sulawesi, 0745 Zulu, Friday, 1 May

The V22 pulled a two-g turn, bringing Wilkes out of a dream that left him restless and disturbed. He opened his eyes. The men were edgy, fidgeting with gear and straps and ropes, like a football team getting set to play a final. The V22 bucked through low-level turbulence. If Wilkes had peered through the small fuselage porthole, he would have seen the choppy green surface of the Banda Sea barely five metres below.

Wilkes went through a mental checklist, going over his equipment and the ROE: kill the bad guys, rescue the good guys. The fact that he would soon be snuffing out human lives didn’t concern him. He was a soldier and the enemy were soldiers. That’s what soldiers did — they killed each other. That he was up against Kopassus — the Indonesian equivalent of the SAS — gave the exercise a vaguely competitive edge. Wilkes had no doubt who would come out on top. He wasn’t over-confident — the Indons were well trained, ironically by the Australian military. But his men probably had the edge in continued training and the latest equipment. And given the circumstances of this mission, his men also had the certainty that right was on their side. But right or wrong, they would function as he knew they would — with calm, professional efficiency. If things did get nasty, Wilkes reminded himself, he couldn’t be in better company. Bring it on.

The sergeant surveyed his men. There wasn’t any talking going on — the intercom system didn’t allow them privacy. They sat in their own world, lost in their own thoughts, most likely doing what Wilkes had been doing, going through their gear and trying to visualise the mission. There was expectancy. They actually liked doing this shit.

Wilkes felt a presence beside his shoulder. He glanced up. McBride knelt beside his seat with an A3-size photo in his hand. The captain wasn’t smiling.

‘What is it?’ said Wilkes, wary.

‘A few priorities have been rearranged upstairs and we’ve got a proper military sat on this for you now,’ said the marine. That made Wilkes wonder. How did this man know the intel they’d been using up till now hadn’t been military?