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Suluang had risen early from a fitful sleep, the demons of failure destroying any chance of genuine rest. So he’d been awake for hours, his mind parrying and counter thrusting through the range of options and issues that threatened to overwhelm the scheme. An empty bed was not a particularly inviting place to be when action was required. Only, what was the right action? The unknowns were building and soon, Suluang knew, they would burst forth into the public domain. And for that reason alone he regretted the act of shooting down the aircraft. The moral issues didn’t trouble him. In retrospect and with a favourable spin, it would be seen in the right context: that of the rebirth of a nation rather than a desperate attempt to maintain secrecy. Suluang’s mobile phone rang. He glanced at the number on screen before deciding whether to answer it. ‘Lanti.’

‘General,’ said Lanti Rajsa. ‘We cannot forestall the meeting any longer. The plane. Our partners are asking questions.’

‘We need more time, Lanti. Even half a day.’ Suluang had not had an update from the men in the field.

‘We don’t have half a day, General.’

* * *

Diesel and grease fumes hung heavily in the vast workshop. The garage was clear of men, unusual given that it was ten-thirty in the morning, but being able to command privacy was one of the privileges of being a general. APCs stood stiffly in rows, massive slab-sided guardians, muscles fashioned in drab green steel.

Suluang felt comfortable here. He wore simple battle fatigues with the weight of his rank plainly embroidered in black on the wings of his shirt collar. This was his real home, his regimental barracks, and here he was king. He ruled his kingdom with strength and his subjects loved him. They were prepared to die for him and, one day, they would probably have to. This was how the world should be, thought the general. Here, life was simple and straightforward. You followed orders. If you followed orders well, you would ultimately be given the responsibility of giving orders for others to follow. It was only outside the regiment that life became complicated.

The officers, his partners in the enterprise, sat nervously at the table. In the centre was a large pitcher of water and an equally large bucket of rapidly melting ice. There was also an impressive, oversized bottle of Remy Martin XO brandy, the sort usually reserved for display purposes in duty-free stores. Each man had a glass. Some sort of toast or celebration was on the agenda. The men wondered what the occasion could possibly be. Morning was not the best time to drink brandy, notwithstanding the fact that they had all been summoned well before sunrise and had therefore been up for hours. Unusually for a gathering of senior officers, there were no adjutants hovering about, and no pads of paper were supplied on which the men could scribble notes. There was tension in the air.

The general watched a droplet of oil slowly grow on the bottom edge of an enormous engine hanging from a greasy chain. The black pearl grew until its weight overcame its viscosity and it dropped with a gentle ‘boing’ into a large tray, filled almost to the brim with the motor’s inky blood.

General Suluang had just finished debriefing the officers on the 747, and for most the news was a bombshell. A stunned silence charged the air with electricity. And he was yet to inform them that there were survivors of the crash, potential witnesses, who were running around on Indonesian soil.

Lanti Rajasa watched the men carefully to gauge their individual reactions. The future of the enterprise depended on the next few minutes.

‘I don’t know where to begin, General. I think shooting down the 747 was regrettable,’ said General Kukuh ‘Mao’ Masri, resisting the desire to say ‘stupid’, and trying hard not to reveal on his face the doubt seeping into every cell of his being. ‘Whether you had a choice in the matter or not is debatable, but what is done is done. Insha’ Allah. Have you heard from your Kopassus?’

‘Yes, Mao. Twice,’ replied Suluang. ‘There were two survivors from the crash. The sergeant commanding the section says there will be no survivors by…’ he glanced up at a clock on the wall and lied, ‘… around now in fact.’

There it was, the other bombshell, delivered in a most casual way. Both Lanti Rajasa and Suluang braced themselves for the reaction.

‘Have these survivors been pursued by our men?’ Colonel Javid Jayakatong enquired in a remarkably even tone.

That was promising, thought Rajasa, relaxing slightly. Jayakatong had said ‘our men’, which could mean that he was unconsciously taking some ownership of the situation.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Suluang. ‘But they have evaded our men since the morning of the crash.’ That was not something he knew as a fact, but had deduced. Somehow the survivors had managed to slip away from the ill-fated 747, but they would surely not be able to avoid a reckoning with the Kopassus for long.

Jayakatong frowned while he massaged his cheeks.