The 747 was no F/A-18 but flying one was still better than just about any other job he could think of in civvy street. Luke checked the altimeter. He was not surprised to see that it was reading exactly 35 000 feet. All engine gauges were synchronised and reading normal. It occurred to him that the 747 was like a big factory, and that the factory’s product was lift. He was merely a foreman who monitored gauges and ensured that enough of that product was rolling off the production line to keep the factory in the black: flying.

They were tracking down the FIR loaded before takeoff into the Flight Management Computer. The aircraft’s track was checked automatically and constantly by three Inertial Reference Systems, backed up by two Global Positioning Systems. And if some slight error arose, the IRS would update itself against any and all ground-based radio navigation aids.

The concatenating technological wizardry meant that wandering off track was impossible. Getting from one place to another by the shortest possible route was what commercial flying was all about: minimising the burn of precious fuel. It was flying by the balance sheet. There was no need to double-check their heading but he did so anyway. Spot on. What do you expect? Granger asked himself.

He contemplated the moon just risen above the horizon. It was a dirty yellow dinner plate against a black curtain. The moon’s light had dimmed the surrounding stars but it was a beautiful clear sky. Being up here was something he never tired of, even though there was really nothing to do on these long-haul flights except to concentrate on staying awake. You took in the view, kept checking the instruments you checked fifteen minutes ago, and counted the dollars accumulating in your bank account.

Money, or lack of it. That was the reason he’d left the RAAF. He wasn’t sure it had been such a good decision. He’d been poor in uniform — enough money for beers with the boys and little else — but, shit, he was flying. Really flying. Punching military jets through the blue in vertical climbs that took him from sea level to the blurry edge of space in a couple of minutes. Being paid to dogfight in a multi-million dollar aircraft? Christ, he’d have done it for free.

His wife used to say that he did do it for free. That was her problem. There was never enough money for her. Five years he’d been out of the RAAF now, divorced for three of them. His wife ran off with a stockbroker who earned over a quarter of a million dollars a year, not including bonuses. Karma had burst her little bubble, though. The Internet and the rise of on-line investing had put hundreds of brokers on the street, and his wife’s second husband with them.

He’d heard they’d recently had to sell the Beemer. Luke was not a vengeful person, but he had to admit he was pleased. He’d loved the RAAF, and the fighter with his name stencilled on the fuselage. The woman deserved everything fate dealt her. His eyes unconsciously swept the panel for troublesome numbers but failed to find any.

NSA Pacific HQ, Helemanu, Oahu, Hawaii, 1843 Zulu, Tuesday, 28 April

Ruth Styles was a clerk but, as she often told herself, not just any clerk. She was an important cog in the machine of the United States’ most powerful and secret intelligence arm, the National Security Agency. Indeed, the NSA registered her important contribution to the nation’s defence with the grandiose title Intelligence Assimilation Executive. At fifty-four, Ruth was one of the most senior IAEs in the agency. Her stern, bloodshot eyes even made some of the section heads, beings ostensibly far above her on the public service treadmill, tremble.

Ruth had an imposing barrel chest and legs like tree trunks to support it. She had a penchant for severe suits and heavy powder that accentuated the pores on her face. She had joined the NSA as a secretary. Thirty years later, she was still hooked on the thrill her work gave her, because that was her life.

The contained underground complex Ruth Styles had joined as a young woman in 1970 had its entrance in the middle of a pineapple plantation. But it had grown like a living thing over time, adding appendages as the world became ever more complicated. There were now several towering wings above ground but, iceberg-like, that was nothing compared to the sprawling mass hidden below. It was certainly different from the old days. Now the pineapple plantation was gone, replaced by the ubiquitous car park.

The once ultra top-secret NSA had well and truly come in from the cold. It now even had its own website. The extent of the agency, the reach and impact of its power, astonishing even in the old days, was truly mind-blowing now.