far as Ellsworth was concerned, every boat, plane, or raft that came through the back door carried drugs, smugglers, or terrorists. According to ARRO's research, just over 65 percent of those craft did. The other 35 percent transported people who were poor, terrified, and searching for a less oppressed life. The 'Australia first' MIC had a great deal of influence in parliament. By law, illegal immigrants were typically returned to their point of origin within twenty-four hours. ARRO and the MIC were constantly fighting one another for a way to make the process more equitable.
As Penny spoke, her cell phone beeped. The young woman excused herself and answered it.
'It could be the baby-sitter,' she said apologetically. She punched the hands-free phone that was bracketed to the dashboard. 'Hello?'
'Mrs. Masterson?' asked a man's voice.
'This is she.'
'Mrs. Masterson, is Mr. Lowell Coffey with you?'
'I'm Lowell Coffey,' the attorney said. 'Who is this?'
'Sir, this is Junior Seaman Brendan Murphy in the command of Warrant Officer George Jelbart, MIC,' the young man replied. 'I have your name from Mr. Brian Ellsworth. Sir, Warrant Officer Jelbart was wondering if you might have some free time today.'
'I'm here for a conference,' Coffey replied.
'Yes, sir, we know.'
'What did Mr. Jelbart have in mind?' Coffey asked.
'A flight to Darwin,' Murphy replied.
'That's clear across the continent!' Coffey declared. 'Why does he need to see me?'
'We have a situation, sir,' the officer replied. 'One that he needs to discuss with you face-to-face.'
'What kind of situation?' Coffey asked.
'A
The way the MIC officer emphasized
'There are some people I should talk to before I agree to anything,' Coffey said, glancing at Penny.
'We are a little squeezed for time,' Murphy said. 'You are the first and hopefully only call I'm making about this.'
'If I decide to come, when can you arrange for transportation?'
'A P-3C patrol craft has been dispatched to Sydney Airport, Mr. Coffey,' the caller replied. 'It will arrive within the hour. As I said, sir, the warrant officer would like to talk to you in person.'
Penny and Coffey exchanged looks. She tapped the Mute button.
'That doesn't sound like an invitation,' she said.
'No,' Coffey agreed. It sounded like an order.
'What do you want to do?' she asked.
'That doesn't seem to matter, does it?' he asked.
'Why not?' she asked. 'You're a civilian and an American. You can tell the junior seaman, 'No thanks,' and hang up.'
'Then I wouldn't find out why Ellsworth recommended they call,' Coffey said. 'I have a feeling the MIC is interested in talking to Op-Center, not just to Lowell Coffey.'
'What makes you say that?' Penny asked.
'I'd rather not say until I'm sure,' Coffey replied. It was not that he did not trust Penny. But he was an attorney. A cautious one. He did not like to say anything he did not believe or know to be true.
Coffey disengaged the Mute button.
'Where will the plane be waiting?' Coffey asked.
'If you go to the domestic cargo terminal, someone will meet you,' the caller said.
'All right,' Coffey said. 'I'll be there.'
'Thank you, sir,' the junior seaman said. 'I'll inform the warrant officer.'
And Coffey would inform Hood.
He apologized to Penny. She said that she understood completely. He said that he hoped he would be back soon.
In his heart, though, he sensed that would not be the case. Especially if 'hot' meant what he thought it did.
Chapter Five
Fifty-two-year-old Warrant Officer George Wellington Jelbart had seen and experienced many extraordinary things in his thirty-two years of service in the Royal Australian Navy.
Jelbart spent his first twelve years of military service with the Hydrographic Force. Based in Wollongong, just south of Sydney, he and his team constantly updated charts of the 30,000 kilometers of Australia's coastline as well as adjoining waters. He loved being out in ships and planes, producing maps that covered nearly one sixth of the world's surface. Even when his team was caught in a tropical cyclone, a category five hurricane, or a tsunami, he relished the work he was doing. As his naval officer father once described it, 'The Navy puts muscle in your back. Danger keeps it strong.'
The next nine years were radically different and much less muscular. Because Jelbart was so familiar with the geography surrounding Australia, Deputy Chief of Navy Jonathan Smith moved him to the Directorate of Naval Intelligence. That was during the 1980s, when the influx of Japanese businessmen and investors brought an influx of Japanese criminals. There, in a windowless office, Jelbart helped signal personnel pinpoint the direction and location of broadcasts coming from local waters and surrounding nations. He did that out of duty, not love. Finally, on his fortieth birthday, Jelbart requested a transfer. He needed to be back on the sea or at least in the sunlight. Smith agreed to a compromise. He gave Jelbart a promotion and shifted him to the Maritime Intelligence Centre. There, the newly minted warrant officer would be out-of-doors and dealing with a wider range of illegal activities than he had in his previous posts.
That was where Jelbart encountered the unexpected on a weekly basis. Some of it was heartbreaking. There were the Malaysian slavers who abducted Aborigine children via cargo plane. There were refugees from war- ravaged East Timor who were dropped offshore using World War II-surplus parachutes. Most of them were young. All of them were inexperienced jumpers. Fifty of the sixty-seven of them drowned. There were the Australian drug traffickers who used surfboards with high-tech listening devices to spy on MIC aircraft. Jelbart had even investigated sea-monster sightings in the Gulf of Carpentaria. Those turned out to be Chinese submarines conducting maneuvers.
But in all his years in the Royal Australian Navy, the sandy-haired, six-foot-four-inch Brisbane native had never heard anything like this. The implications were chilling.
Jelbart had arrived at his office in the Australian Central Credit Union Building, 36 Mitchell Street, at seven A.M. Throughout the early 1990s he had arrived early to hear phone messages and go through the mail. Since the late 1990s he had to come to the office early to slog through E-mails. If he could eliminate the E-mails from fellow officers who were compelled to forward bad jokes, he could do the job in an hour. Unfortunately, he had to open every correspondence on the off chance it had something to do with naval matters.
Shortly after Jelbart arrived, the phone beeped. His aide, Junior Seaman Brendan Murphy, answered. Murphy forwarded the call. It was from Captain Ronald Trainor of the Freemantle-class patrol boat
'The fellow was barely conscious and clinging to a section of waterlogged pine,' Trainor reported. 'He's dehydrated and lost a lot of blood. He had been shot twice in the lower legs and managed to rig some crude bandages from his shirt. We assume he's a pirate whose mission ended badly.'
'That's a possibility,' Jelbart said.
