The sergeant had no particular view about the rights or wrongs associated with the practice that was stripping parts of his country bare, despite the fact that he thought of the virgin jungle as a second home. These particular people did present him with a problem, however. The loggers were in the wrong place at the wrong time. He couldn’t allow the crash survivors access to the outside world, and these people contaminated the integrity of his mission. No survivors. No witnesses. These men had to be killed. Especially now that one of his soldiers had, in the excitement of the chase, blown one of the logger’s heads clean off.

He unhitched a grenade from his chest webbing and lobbed it twenty metres into the centre of the clearing. It detonated in a hard pulse of grey smoke, disabling at least five of the men with flying shrapnel, while the concussion wave shook dust from the tents, trestle tables and trees that crowded the clearing. Marturak’s eardrums rang with the noise. Another grenade landed to the left of the first, taking out three more loggers. Automatic fire then swept the clearing, cutting the legs out from any men left standing. None of the loggers had managed to get off a single shot, which was as it should be, thought Sergeant Marturak with satisfaction, as the violence of the exploding ordnance bellowed through the jungle.

Marturak stood and carefully walked into the clearing, safety catch off, ready to shoot. He was a good and careful soldier. Others in his command quickly went from corpse to corpse. Nine millimetre pistol rounds were pumped into the heads of men who showed the vaguest sign of life. The sergeant did a quick count of his section. All present. No deaths, no injuries amongst his own. A satisfying result. He patted a couple of his men warmly on the back.

He thought about the two people he had been chasing, and had seen at long last. Both were obviously unarmed. And frightened.

He had the main tent searched. This confirmed his first thought that this was indeed a survey party for a logging company. Several of the dead had blond hair and one was a redhead. It was a joint American — Indonesian venture apparently, according to the paperwork lying around. He shrugged mentally. What did the Americans call this? That’s right, collateral damage. Sometimes it was unavoidable. He detailed five men to pack up the campsite, bury the tents and the bodies, and burn the trestle tables, chairs and papers.

The sergeant asked them to take particular notice of all communications equipment, instructing his men to smash them before placing them on the growing bonfire. It was important to keep the area cut off from the outside world.

He’d seen his quarry exit the clearing so he knew which way they were headed. And one of them was wounded, leaving a blood trail that could easily be picked up. They were mortal, after all. It was just a matter of time before he caught and killed them. Marturak allowed himself the hint of a smile. They’d be dead before lunch.

Sydney Airport, 2200 Zulu, Wednesday, 29 April

The crowd had not diminished overnight, rather it had swelled, supported now by friends of friends and relatives. Pillows and blankets, provided by Qantas and other airlines, were strewn everywhere together with fast food packaging and empty coffee cups, many stuffed with cigarette butts.

The news went round like wildfire and soon the newsstand was cleaned out. The morning paper carried the headline ‘Terror in the skies’. The accompanying story, based on hearsay and speculation rather than fact, suggested that Indonesian terrorists had blown QF-1 out of the sky with a bomb secreted in Sydney.

Mothers became frantic, sobbing and crying for their lost children. The men were angry. A Garuda flight to Denpasar was loading. Several people hyped up on coffee and lack of sleep started abusing the ticketing staff, accusing them of crimes they had nothing to do with and no knowledge of. It was something the crowd could focus on, and perhaps gain some obtuse meaning from. More people joined in. They began to tear down the airline’s signage and throw what came to hand at the innocent staff: garbage cans, barricades, food scraps.

A television crew setting up to interview people for human interest fillers caught it all on camera and did a live cross to the morning news.

Security arrived again, this time less inclined to be understanding.

Parliament House, Canberra, 2200 Zulu, Wednesday, 29 April

Niven woke with a start. Six am. Jesus, must have dozed off. The phone was ringing beside him. He picked up the handset groggily.

‘Morning, Griff. Yeah, went home and slept like a baby,’ he lied. ‘Sure, gimme five.’ He hung up.

The air vice marshal almost did look as if he’d been home, had a good night’s sleep and a hot shower when the ASIS director stepped in to his office trailing the Minister of Defence, Hugh Greenway.