has a better ring to it than first officer,’ he bantered.
‘Maybe,’ Anwar countered, ‘but Garuda pays us better than you air force pilots.’
Imam laughed. ‘True – and you get to pick and choose from the cabin crew as well.’
‘How much time do we have?’
Imam checked his watch. ‘I have to get back to Halim by 1300.’
Anwar steered his brother towards a coffee stall. ‘How are you handling the Hercs?’
Imam shrugged. ‘Surprised we manage to keep them operational. They’re old, and spare parts continue to be a major issue.’
‘How’s that transfer request coming along?’
Imam cast a wistful look at an elegant tourist when she legged her way past and smiled. ‘Haven’t heard anything yet. If all else fails I’m going to take a shot at transferring to one of the outer squadrons, perhaps even get some time on those Broncos.’
Anwar sympathized with Imam. Neither had achieved their ambition to fly their aircraft of choice. Imam had yearned to fly the F16A fighters but fate had placed him in the cockpit of an ageing C-130 Hercules whilst Anwar was driving Garuda F-28s around the archipelago. His brother’s suggestion that he might go down scale and spend some time flying the OV-10s did not come as a surprise.
Raised on the Madiun-Iswahjudi base within site of the grounded ‘Badger’ Soviet TU-16 bomber tactical strike wing, the Javanese brothers were destined to fly. Their father had piloted these long range bombers until they were grounded by British threats to destroy Jakarta and Surabaya with atomic warheads. As children they had listened, mesmerized, whilst their father had recounted his version of the brinkmanship displayed by the founding President, Sukarno in his quest for domination of the Malay and Singapore states. Even today both the Suprapto men could recall, verbatim, their father’s revelations of how the Soviets had armed Indonesia to the hilt with the most sophisticated weaponry during the early Sixties which, in turn, emboldened Sukarno into declaring a war of ‘Confrontation’ against the Commonwealth states of Malaysia and Singapore. When their father had explained that his aircraft could carry 3,000 kilos of nuclear weapons a distance of 8,000 kilometers, the youngsters were treated to a regional geography lesson pinpointing the Australian and Asian cities that lay within the TU-16s strike capacity – the twins’ vivid recollection of Colonel Suprapto’s rendition of how his flying career had ended and the confusion that had ensued, a constant reminder of the capricious world of aviation both had grown to embrace.
Anwar and Imam had often debated how the former President had folded to the British ultimatum and grounded the TU-16 squadron. They had not understood why the country’s leadership had permitted the emasculation of their Indonesian Forces and, adding to the military’s chagrin, why the Royal Air Force was not prevented from flying missions over Java’s airfields. It would be decades before the pair would read Australian and British Cabinet papers released under the Thirty Year Rule revealing how British Vulcan bombers flew from Singapore to Darwin, the RAF crews carrying their deadly cargo low across Indonesian airstrips with bomb bay doors open, the threat significant as the Vulcan’s were armed with atomic warheads. Anwar had scoffed at the reports of how ABRI, the Indonesian Armed Forces were then secretly subjected to an Australian-British blockade, the West alarmed when Moscow attempted to ship ballistic missiles to Jakarta. The Suprapto twins elected to believe their father’s version of how the failed flow of spare parts had precipitated the squadron’s demise, Colonel Suprapto amongst the many Indonesian pilots grounded in the absence of serviceable aircraft.
Imam again checked his wristwatch. ‘Have to go.’
‘We’ll catch up again during Hari Raya?’ Anwar asked. They had never missed returning home to celebrate the end of the Ramadan fasting month and the ensuing celebrations of Idul Fitri. Even though fasting would commence within that week neither would comply with the Islamic tradition as the strict restraints placed on their daily lives would impinge on their capacity to execute their flying duties effectively.
‘You can count on it,’ Imam assured.
‘Keep me posted on that transfer,’ Anwar insisted.
‘Hopefully, I’ll have some news regarding the OV-10s,’ Imam responded, optimistically. Anwar punched his brother playfully on the shoulder, shook hands then went to join his Garuda crew to prepare for their shuttle flight to Medan, in the oil and gas-rich province of North Sumatra.
An hour passed since Anwar had farewelled Imam. Airborne, he stared out across the haze that covered Sumatra, the product of forest burn-off and the failure of corrupt officials to oversee the implementation of regulatory controls designed to prevent such environmental disasters. He looked out the star-board window across the Malacca Straits, his view impeded by the drifting smoke as far as the eye could see. The Javanese pilot slipped into sombre mood reminded that he might never be selected to crew international flights – the competition so fierce. An impatient sigh passed his lips.
With his mind revisiting what the future might hold Anwar Suprapto remained deep in thought, oblivious to events unfolding across the South China Sea and the machinations of the one solitary figure whose treachery would impact so disastrously on the Suprapto twins’ lives.
Chapter Two
The Philippines – Manila
The Doña Josefa Apartments
Ramzi Yousef gazed introspectively through a drawn lace curtain from suite 603’s only window overlooking the well-lit path the Papal motorcade would take on 15th January – the day John Paul II would die. ‘You are coming and we are ready for you,’ he whispered, eyes narrowing as he envisaged the assassination scene and the carnage his team would wreak upon this predominantly Catholic nation.
Located in Manila’s Malate district not 200 metres from the Embassy of the Vatican City in the Philippines, the Doña Josefa Apartments were perfectly positioned for the al-Qaeda terrorist cel ’s covert activities. Ramzi Yousef, aka Najy Awaita Haddad and his associates could come and go virtually unnoticed as locals had become accustomed to Middle Easterners residing in the nightclub district, satisfying their fantasies, drinking and whoring far from puritanical, condemnatory eyes. The Baluchistani-born Pakistani, Yousef, had rented the apartment in December as the headquarters for the implementation of ‘Operation Bojinka’, bra-zenly walking the capital’s streets, thumbing his nose at the United States and the two-million-dollar bounty placed on his head for his role in the 1993 World Trade Center bombing.
A diabolical explosives and bomb technician, Yousef had attended college in England where he studied electrical engineering. But it was in the al-Qaeda training camps that he had learned to prepare explosives. Yousef turned to fellow accomplices.
‘I want you to listen to the statement I have prepared for public dissemination once the first phase of Bojinka has been realized.’
Ahmed Saeed, aka Abdul Hakim Murad ceased what he was doing and glanced over at Wali Khan Amin Shah, the third conspirator in Yousef ’s terrorist cell, a stocky Afghani who was responsible for the financing of the operation. Shah had successfully established a network amongst bar girls whom he paid to launder funds from their indirect financier in Malaysia.
‘We’re all ears,’ Saeed grinned. He had also
