The Shadow Game (21 page)

Jack Webster gazed across the lush lawns of Duntroon like an emperor surveying his realm. The morning's newspapers were neatly laid out beside his usual spartan breakfast.

There was nothing austere about his heritage-listed home. He sat on the verandah of the 114-year-old Bridges House, the official residence of the Chief of the General Staff since 1992. Doric columns pushed up to the second floor and a stylised image of them was reproduced in the Art Nouveau stained glass on either side of the front door. The polished wooden floors of the entrance hall opened onto the drawing and dining rooms and a majestic staircase led to the upstairs bedrooms.

The verandah looked south-east, and the early sun cast a weak light across the golf course, illuminating a small mob of eastern grey kangaroos grazing on a fairway. The defence chief smiled.
Last night, he'd grazed on a fine meal of their distant cousins, washed down with a respectable red.

Despite the early hour, Webster had already absorbed the daily media clippings. Nearly a week after the event, commentators were still writing about his speech at the National Press Club and his calm leadership during the bomb hoax. The coverage was glowing.

He sipped his tea as he scanned a particularly flattering editorial before checking the time: 0655. His driver would be arriving any minute to whisk him the short distance across Kings Avenue Bridge to federal parliament. Prime Minister Elizabeth Scott had convened a meeting of Cabinet's National Security Committee and Webster would go well armed as the government wrestled with how to respond to China's militarisation of islands in the South China Sea.

This was no time for a limp riposte and Webster was prepared to take on the ‘pandas' in the NSC, including the prime minister, if he had to.

‘Sir.'

His car was ready and Webster brushed several imaginary crumbs from his uniform before picking up his briefcase to join his driver in ADF 1.

‘Lovely morning, sir.'

‘That it is, Warren, that it is.'

Webster settled back in the plush leather and gazed out at the Royal Military College as it sprang to life. He owed it to these budding warriors to make sure the NSC did right by those who were willing to die for their country.

He glanced up from his briefing notes as Parliament House came into view. He was early and hoped for a brief discussion with some of the agency heads before the committee met.

He marched through the ministerial entrance, nodding to the attendants as his briefcase went through the security conveyor.

Two of his colleagues were already waiting in the Cabinet anteroom. He nodded briskly as he joined them. They were the cream of Australia's defence and intelligence establishment. It was critical – now more than ever – that they speak with a unified voice.

Webster was confident of their support. ‘So gentlemen, here's the plan . . .'

Elizabeth Scott swept into the Situation Room with graceful self-assurance, her chief of staff in tow. It was 7.28am and the prime minister had spent the past hour locked in meetings trying to resolve a raft of domestic woes. For once, though, there was even bigger trouble abroad.

‘Good morning all. Let's get down to business. CDF, I might ask you to speak first on the defence options.'

‘Prime Minister, thank you. If anything our view has hardened since we last met. Then, we were debating our response to China's outrageous sinking of a defenceless Filipino fishing vessel in an unprovoked attack. And recall, five people drowned.'

Webster reviewed his notes.

‘Our only decisions then were to deliver a lecture to the Chinese ambassador and to back the US in raising the attack
at the United Nations Security Council. What did China do? It used its veto power to block any multilateral condemnation. Russia supported it.'

Webster's stern face matched the gravity of his tone.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the time for talking has ended. China isn't listening. We must act. We must act in tandem with our closest allies. Yes, there are risks – they are in our brief – but the biggest risk is indecision.'

The CDF tapped the table with his forefinger to underscore this point.

‘Defence, and I do believe the intelligence chiefs agree, recommends that Australia join a US-led response.

‘Yesterday, I spoke with the US Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. America is building a coalition of the willing to support an international flotilla that will patrol the South China Sea. This won't be a single exercise. It will be a permanent fleet stationed in those waters.

‘The Philippines and Malaysia are on board. Indonesia and even communist Vietnam are giving it serious consideration.'

Webster reached for a glass of water, maintaining eye contact with the prime minister as he took a sip. He replaced the glass in the precise centre of a green coaster before continuing.

‘The Americans want us to send an Anzac frigate and for us to base one of our P-3 Orion surveillance planes and an air-refueller in the Philippines. As you are aware, the Philippines has reopened the old US base at Subic Bay. Soon they will invite the Americans to station one of their ten Nimitz-class aircraft carriers there.'

Ominously, Scott was frowning and fidgeting with her wedding ring.

‘Jack, that is a significantly more aggressive response from Defence and a much bigger ask than we've had to consider before today. To be frank, I have serious reservations, but I will hold them until we've heard from the Director-General of the ONA.'

Tania Varma was the no-nonsense head of the Office of National Assessments who'd risen through the ranks of Foreign Affairs before being appointed ambassador to Indonesia. She had Indian heritage on her father's side and was proud of her elite Brahmin ancestry. She'd led the intelligence agency for just over a year and was considered a rising star.

‘Prime Minister, you asked the ONA to forensically examine the potential fallout from Australia joining a single mission to enter disputed waters in the South China Sea. I tasked my best people for this and I trust each committee member has read our exhaustive brief. I will stick to the key points.'

She glanced sideways at Webster.

‘First, there is merit in what the defence chief says. On the surface, China appears determined to change the facts on the ground to force its will on the world.'

Webster offered an encouraging nod.

‘But the risks are enormous,' Varma continued. ‘To break it down into numbers that people can digest, two-way trade with China is worth over $16,000 per Australian household annually. More than two hundred thousand jobs are sustained by direct exports there.

‘If you think the slowdown in the world's second biggest economy is a problem for us now, then try to imagine the disaster if it stopped trading with us altogether.'

Varma swept her gaze around the room until it was directed at Scott.

‘Prime Minister, there is strong reason to believe that our diplomatic efforts are having an effect. There is active debate at the highest levels in Beijing about the wisdom of China's aggressive play. A recent Five Eyes intelligence report suggests that President Meng's closest adviser, Propaganda Minister Jiang Xiu, has been urging restraint.'

The ONA head turned to her right, where Webster sat.

‘But all of that analysis was prepared before I heard just now what the US is actually planning. It was based on Beijing's possible reaction to a one-off mission by a US-led international flotilla. Unless I am mistaken, Sir Jack, what the US now proposes, and you support, is a blockade.'

Webster essayed his most charming smile, but shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I don't believe it will come to that.'

‘What if it did?' Varma shot back. ‘What if China tried to put weapons on those islands? What would your fleet do then?'

Webster responded a touch patronisingly.

‘Then yes, of course, we would have to intervene. We can't make empty threats.'

Varma weighed up his words, then spoke directly to Scott.

‘Prime Minister, I strongly advise against this course of action. It dramatically raises the threat of a conflict or a catastrophic accident. We'd be bringing the Cuban Missile Crisis to the South China Sea.'

As Varma spoke an adviser leaned over her shoulder and placed a folded note in front of her boss. Varma picked it up and read it carefully before looking back at the prime minister.

‘There is one last point. I think a vital piece of information is missing from our deliberations. When Sir Jack listed those countries that had agreed to sign up to the flotilla, I believe he omitted one. CDF?'

Webster managed to appear unruffled.

‘It will be an unprecedented alliance,' he said. ‘The Japanese will send a destroyer.'

The revelation rippled around the room as everyone recognised its historic import. For the first time since World War II, Japan would unshackle its military for action outside its own waters. It would be the biggest ‘fuck you' the region could send to Beijing.

Scott stared at Webster for an uncomfortable few seconds.

‘Something you forgot to tell us, Jack?'

Webster walked briskly along the blue carpet, nodding politely to several ministers. He left Parliament House through the ministerial entrance and strode to his waiting car, his driver holding the rear door open. The defence chief collapsed into the leather seat and briefly shut his eyes.

‘Those fucking bitches.'

The working-class nirvana was in full swing. It was Thursday night and Dickson Tradies was wall-to-wall with young men who hugged the bar and poured their wages into the pokies, their schooners perched precariously on the edges of machines hungry for cash. Lots of it.

The Construction, Forestry, Mining and Energy Union had built its empire in Canberra from gambling, using the dividends to pay for everything from workers' holiday cottages to Labor election campaigns. The union was cashed up and in this small city of intimate connections, the local secretary, Dean Hall, was its emperor.

Hall was old-school union muscle, a former rugby league star who played by the rules. His rules.

Bruce Paxton jostled his way to a spare table and waited, knowing that Hall would be somewhere in his realm this night.

Two beers later he turned to a familiar voice. ‘Comrade.'

Paxton rose from his chair to embrace one of the very few men who'd stuck by him when others fled. There was something about this union heavy that Paxton could relate to, a throwback to a simpler time with a simple creed: strength in numbers.

‘How've ya been, Bruce?' Hall placed a reassuring hand on Paxton's shoulder. ‘I'm sorry I haven't been in touch. Been a bit going on; you've probably read about it.'

‘I have. I don't have much to do but read the papers nowadays.'

Hall drained a beer he was holding. ‘I've been meaning to call you, Bruce, to chat about your living in that caravan. We can find you better digs, you know.'

Paxton took a long pull of his beer before answering.

‘Nah, it's more than enough for me. Watertight, easy to clean, and the rent's a breeze,' he said with a grin. ‘I'm not here looking for a handout, but mate, I do need some information about a particular building project. And Deano, there's bugger all that you don't know about what's going on in this town.'

Hall smiled. Paxton's compliment had done the trick. ‘Well then, Bruce, let's retire to the back bar and grab a quiet ale. My shout.'

The emperor was in firm command. With a single call Hall had tracked down the builder who'd overseen the Burra project and lined up a meeting.

It was mid-morning and Paxton had hailed a taxi for the short drive from the caravan park to a blue-ribbon address at the southern end of Mugga Way.

The cab pulled up at a block the size of a football field.

Paxton marvelled at the building's footprint as a small army of excavators sliced into the hard Canberra clay. A big man wearing a hard hat and a mischievous grin lumbered over.

‘You look like a former defence minister.' The builder thrust out his hand before motioning around the site. ‘Welcome to the new home of one of the biggest tossers in this city. A public service bigwig who reckons a massive house can buy you class. And mate, he's one of the most difficult clients I've had the misfortune to come across.'

Paxton shrugged. ‘Known a few of them. Always thought they were better than me.'

‘I know.' The builder yelled a quick instruction to a driver, before turning back to Paxton. ‘I understand you're after some info about another client of mine, one that makes this guy look like Snow White.'

‘Yeah, that's right, a place out at Burra. You were in charge of the build.'

He nodded. ‘I was. It was one of the toughest and most complex jobs I've ever managed. Took twice as long and cost three times as much as the original quote.'

‘Why?'

‘The owner kept changing the specs and was absurdly secretive. The place is chock-full of high-tech security. I understand you know this guy?'

Paxton nodded. ‘I do. Jack Webster.'

‘I know who he is. We had another name for him. The Big C.'

‘Hah. So how do you get into this place?'

‘You don't. Not unless you're invited. We did too good a job. It's got more security than most government departments. There are cameras on the gates and you need to swipe a security card to open them. The fence alone cost a million bucks and it has a laser alarm system mounted along the perimeter. Inside the fence there are trip systems and more CCTV.'

‘Doesn't sound like he wants visitors.'

‘No, mate – not unless you're American.'

‘What do you know about them?'

‘Well, not much. Webster had a bunch of Yanks swing by from time to time. All very cloak and dagger. Each time they arrived, we were ordered off site.'

‘What were they doing?'

‘Buggered if I know for sure, but it had to be something to do with secure comms. We set up some of the shells for that kind of stuff and they filled in the blanks.'

Paxton watched as a tipper swung into the dirt track of what would become the mansion's driveway.

‘Anything else you can tell me?'

‘Well, the most interesting bit is right in the guts of the complex. There's a conference room with TV screens on either side.'

‘Like he's built a Situation Room? How can I describe it? Like something you'd see in a thriller about the American president?'

‘Yeah, something like that. But he wasn't just interested in talking to people outside the room. He was keen to watch people in it.'

‘What do you mean?' Paxton asked.

The builder removed his hard hat and ran his hands through thinning hair.

‘He had cameras installed in every corner of the room, trained on the conference table. We even hid two in the ceiling. So he can record whoever's in there in pristine high definition. Bruce, this guy doesn't trust anyone.'