Free Rogue Element by David Rollins Page B

that and most of them make a nasty mess of an aircraft when they go off.
    ‘There is the remotest possibility that QF-1 could have been flying out of control in a wide but decreasing downward spiral, which is why I’ve drawn in this semicircle here,’ he said, pointing to the pencilled area on the WAC. ‘Whether it blew up in the sky or crash-landed, QF-1’s somewhere here.’ He tapped the X marked on the map with his index finger.
    ‘I’m not sure what your point is, Spike,’ Sharpe said. ‘We’re in Indonesia’s hands. It’s their territory, and they do have the men and equipment needed to locate the crash site. It’s frustrating but we’ll just have to wait and see what they turn up. Also, let’s not forget that the plane only went down,’ he checked his watch, ‘maybe eight hours ago, so we can hardly accuse them of dragging the chain. Then there’s the terrain it went down in. Sulawesi is not a very hospitable place; most of it’s covered in jungle and volcanoes.’
    Griffin agreed. ‘A fair percentage of the island has been logged but there are still quite a few impenetrable pockets. It’s the proverbial haystack.’
    Sharpe nodded.
    Niven was undeterred. ‘All of which adds weight to my view. I want to ask the US to use one of their military satellites to scan the area I’ve indicated on the WAC. I can’t believe the Indonesians would object to that. If wescanned five nautical mile segments, there’d be enough resolution to see a crashed 747 and cover around one hundred square miles in only twenty passes. The satellites I’m talking about have a two-hour period, so the entire area would be covered in around forty hours.
    ‘And there was a lot of fuel on board the aircraft. Ground fires in this area would show up like searchlights on infrared film.’
    Blight winced as the picture of people burning in firestorms flashed through his mind.
    ‘Good idea. We might even find the site on the first or second pass,’ said Griffin.
    ‘Exactly,’ said Niven. ‘As I said, the Indonesians could hardly object. It would save them a hell of a lot of money and, of course, get the plane found as quickly as possible. Good for them. Good for us. Everyone wins.’ Niven’s enthusiasm was infectious.
    ‘Alright,’ said the PM. ‘If there’s one thing I hate, it’s sitting around on my arse. Our ambassador in Washington can handle the liaison.’
    ‘Okay, so what about the question of terror?’ Niven asked. It was the thought on all their minds.
    ‘What about it?’ said Sharpe.
    ‘I jumped to that conclusion too, Spike, but so far there’s not a shred of evidence to support it,’ said Griffin.
    ‘And aside from that, terror just doesn’t feel right,’ said Blight, rubbing his temples. ‘Not on this one. It’s all too quiet. Terrorists make grand media statements, don’t they? The USS Cole , the Pentagon, New York, Bali, that awful strike in London. A plane going down in the middle of the night, just disappearing like this . . . does it fit the terrorist model?’
    ‘I know, Prime Minister, I don’t want to believe the worst either, but until we hear otherwise, we can’t eliminate it completely, can we?’ Niven had national defence issues to consider and he wasn’t going to turn his back on them.
    ‘Christ,’ Blight said, frowning. ‘I guess not.’ The PM had slumped into a ball behind his desk. He was short and thickset, his body fashioned by thirty years of hard labour on the waterfront. Large hands with fingers like sausages spoke of physical power, and his skin was leathery from the sun. Until recently, a robust belly had hung over his belt, the product of years of supporting local breweries, but the minders had worked on him for the sake of his television profile, employing trainers to reduce it.
    The press called him ‘Bloody-hell Blight’, or ‘Blue Blight’, for his love of colourful language, and that was one characteristic the spin doctors had been unable to change.