Flores, Indonesia
Monroe and Wilkes had peeled off their JSLISTs and although the temperature was close to thirty degrees the slight breeze felt cool and sweet. Colonel Hank Watson and his crew had quickly confirmed the air free of VX. They’d located and secured the drums that had contained the nerve agent, and had just announced that the camp’s water supply was the culprit. How it had come to be contaminated was yet to be ascertained.
‘The whole Darwin thing is a massive assumption on our part, isn’t it?’ asked Monroe, spreading the METFOR out on the bench. ‘We don’t have intel on a positive target that I’m aware of. Kadar Al-Jahani didn’t give it up, the financier continues to say he has no idea, and we’ve yet to recover anything from the hard disks here and nothing on paper has come to light.’
‘Except for the METFOR,’ said Wilkes.
‘That’s right. So then, let’s go over it again.’ Monroe frowned as he leaned over the bench and willed the answer to leap off the printout.
‘You know, when you’re serious it makes me want to laugh,’ said Wilkes.
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I don’t know whether you’re taking the piss.’
‘And that means…?’
‘Taking the mickey, pulling my leg.’
Monroe turned his frown on Wilkes.
‘Okay, Atticus. Let’s get serious,’ said Wilkes. ‘All this fresh air’s getting to me.’
‘We assume Jakarta’s not the target. Why?’
‘Because it’s not on this METFOR, the one the terrorists checked prior to launch.’
‘A fair assumption,’ said Monroe. ‘So what is on the METFOR?’
‘Indonesia east of the island of Bali, West Papua, part of the Gulf of Carpentaria, the Northern Territory.’
‘What else?’
‘A bunch of lines, the pressure gradients and a whole lot of ocean.’
‘Okay, so why Darwin?’
‘I think it’s assumed Darwin’s the target because it’s a big population centre full of non-believers, infidels. And it’s in a different country to the one the terrorists live in.’
‘But it’s not the only population centre on the map. There are plenty of others. And, for that matter, why does the target have to be a population centre?’
‘What are you getting at, Atticus?’ Wilkes asked. ‘I think you know where you’re going here, but you’re losing me.’
‘I was at the embassy in Jakarta just after the bombing,’ said Monroe.
‘Yeah, I remember, but what’s that got to do wi—’
‘They weren’t after people in that attack. The explosives used were specifically formulated to take out the structure. The terrorists — these same people — wanted to make a statement,’ he said, emphasising the word. ‘They were hitting out at a symbol.’
‘Okay,’ said Wilkes. ‘I’m with you so far.’
‘So apply the same logic to Darwin and ask yourself what their point is. Where’s the symbolism, the statement?’ said Monroe, smoothing the map down on the bench, ironing it flat with his hands. ‘You want another example, look at 9/11. Bin Laden struck at a symbol of American power. Killing a bunch of people wasn’t the main game. From their point of view, they struck at the very heart of the monster, and made it reel. The civilian deaths were just a bonus. So let’s take another look at this map from that perspective and find the statement.’
Wilkes and Monroe stared at the weather map and saw nothing but what was on the METFOR — outlines of countries, fronts and weather systems.
‘The effective deployment of something like VX depends on the weather,’ said Wilkes.
Monroe gave Wilkes a strange look as if to say, ‘Yeah, Einstein, which is why we’re looking at this thing.’
‘The experts on this stuff say the conditions in Darwin right now are ideal.’
‘Yep,’ said Monroe.
‘Then the answer is in the isobars, these lines here. Isobars join areas of equal pressure.’
Monroe nodded.
‘So as long as they remain equidistant from each other, those ideal weather conditions in Darwin exist wherever the lines go.’
‘Shit, Tom, you’re right,’ said Monroe, suddenly paying more attention to the lines that curved gently into the Timor Sea. ‘Then what’s under this area here?’
‘Oil and gas,’ said Wilkes, a fierce glare in his eyes. ‘You said it yourself, Atticus. Why does it have to be a population centre?’
Australian Defence Force HQ, Russell Offices, Canberra, Australia
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Niven, when the Internet connection closed and the frame on the screen turned black. ‘What do you blokes think?’
‘I think Monroe and Wilkes have got it dead right,’ said Felix Mortimer, eating his favourite sandwich of white bread, chips and butter liberally soused with tomato sauce.
Griffin looked at the unconscious doodle on the notepad on his knee. The word ‘shit’ was written, and it was surrounded by stars and exclamation marks. Wilkes and Monroe had followed a path of logic no one else had pursued. Darwin and Jakarta just seemed the natural targets, and the truth was, no one had looked much further than that. Except for Mortimer. He’d also thought Darwin wasn’t the target, but was too polite to say, ‘I told you so.’ As for Wilkes, he was obviously no ordinary grunt, and the CIA spoke highly of their man, Atticus Monroe. Just because they weren’t defence experts or strategists didn’t mean they had to be wrong, did it?
‘Let’s assume these boys are on to something — and I think we have to,’ Niven said. ‘What’s up there?’
‘Around twenty trillion cubic feet of gas reserves, for one thing. Oil, too. We did a paper on it six months ago,’ said Mortimer, his face sweating. A vague pain in his chest had suddenly intensified as if an invisible hand had pushed a hot knife through his breast. Is this normal? Am I okay? ‘There are thirty or forty rigs up there. The VX front could be tens of kilometres wide. If it rolls over three or four of them and maybe a research ship, we could be looking at up to a thousand deaths.’
‘Jesus…’ Niven was at a loss. What could be done to stop the drone in the time left? If Wilkes and Monroe were right, the assets were deployed in all the wrong places.
‘And once the VX settles, it’ll get into every crack,’ said Mortimer, unconsciously rubbing his chest, a dull pain in his left arm. ‘The rigs will be unusable for a very long time afterwards.’
Griffin looked at Mortimer and saw that the man was in some kind of distress. ‘You okay, Felix?’
Mortimer nodded. ‘Forget the casualties for a minute. That’s not what these terrorists are about. If the hit on the Timor Gap succeeds, it could start an oil crisis like the one back in the seventies. It could mean that terrorists are getting smart, targeting the West where it really hurts. Oil prices will skyrocket, especially if this and other groups follow up with a statement about this being the first of many strikes on oil installations, pipelines and refineries, tankers and such.’ Mortimer glanced around the room, looking for some water, wanting more than anything to splash some on his face.
‘Okay, so what have we got in the area?’ Griffin asked, certain the news wouldn’t be good.
A quick review of the vast whiteboard covering one entire wall confirmed the worst. ‘One frigate, two F/A-18s and thirty-six thousand square kilometres of goddam ocean,’ Niven said, grinding his jaws.