Chapter 17

Brent stood solemnly, hands clasped, as the plywood crate descended slowly from the hold of the plane onto the flat deck truck which would take it to the NH90 waiting to fly northwards.

The tines of the forklift withdrew and Brent draped the national flag over the simple wooden box. It had been identical to all the other wooden crates secured in the hold of the plane. The flag suddenly distinguished it, unmistakeably, as Maaka’s coffin. Brent stepped back, bowing his head. “Welcome home, Brother.”

Brent knew according to custom, the tupapaku of the deceased shouldn’t be left alone at any stage. The nature of Maaka Tehane’s untimely death and the fact that it occurred on the other side of the world, made this difficult.

His family were informed he‘d died down south in a vehicle accident. It was vital to get his body back home as quickly as possible. Delay in releasing it to the family would not only raise suspicion but also be deeply disrespectful to their beliefs. Brent consoled himself with the thought that on his final return to New Zealand, Maaka had been under the guardianship of both the national airline and the four hundred people seated above him, many of whom were also returning home.

* * *

The mournful cries from Maaka’s female relatives were broken by a shriek as his youngest nephew pointed excitedly upwards. The faint speck of a helicopter had appeared in the sky to the south of the Marae. “Look, Uncle Mak’s coming!”

Immediately the women moved as one down the steps of the meeting house, across the manicured lawn and out through the ornate carved archway marking the entrance.

Once the down-draft had subsided, Brent beckoned them forward. Gently lifting the coffin, the procession slowly made its way back up the slope to the marae. They began to call out a plaintive Karanga, summoning others onto the marae. Brent followed at a respectful distance, aware that for now at least his part in this extended funeral ceremony had been played. The mournful lament of the pall bearers was answered as other family members gathered on the steps awaiting their brother’s final return.

Brent looked on, tears welling at these reminders of his cultural heritage. He was an officer in a classified unit of the New Zealand military, delivering the body of his fallen comrade back to his family in a multi- million dollar state of the art helicopter. Yet, as soon as he had stepped on to the lush grass beneath his feet, it was as if he had stepped back five hundred years; back into the comfort of the rituals and protocols of his forbears.

The last few days; the surveillance of David Turner, the imminent risk to national security, none of that mattered at this moment. This time belonged to Maaka Tahene and his whanau,. Brent understood that. As he followed through the archway, he felt as if he too had come home.

Maaka’s body was inside the meeting house. The formalities of his welcome had been completed. Brent couldn’t help counting fifty-five people excluding small children and recognised Maaka’s Uncle Peter. The pair greeted each other warmly with a hongi. “Kia Ora, how are you, Brent?”

“I’m good, Peter, yourself?”

“Same. We’re happy it was you who brought Mack home to us. Tell me, are you staying for the next couple of days? I’d like for you to say a few words at some point.”

Brent expected to be asked, had even hoped that he would be invited to speak during the funeral. The fact that a close family member had made the request was a signal that he was not being held responsible for Maaka’s death, or at least the version the family had been given.

Behind him, beyond the marae, beyond the realm of his own culture, there was a large grey helicopter waiting to fly him south once more to continue something he’d promised Maaka he would finish. “I need to get back to work, Peter, but I promise I’ll try and make it back in a few days' time. I’d be honoured say something then.”

He mixed brief greetings with goodbyes and excuses of work. He would be back.

The powerful engines screamed at full power. The helicopter rose up slightly, the wheels dangling momentarily in mid-air. Then, confident it could support its own weight, the machine moved swiftly up, banked left and headed south once more. The small crowd gathered to watch and protect their fearless youngsters, instinctively turned away as dust and loose grass blew over their heads and back towards the marae. By the time they felt safe to turn back, Brent was half a kilometre away.

The helicopter headed out to sea. Commander Dalton had given Brent permission to use the chopper for the duration of the mission on the understanding he didn’t advertise its presence any more than was absolutely necessary. It was, after all, only on loan from the manufacturer and, officially at least, only in New Zealand for evaluation. It wasn’t supposed to be on active service. If American Intelligence picked up on the fact it was flying regular missions, they might pay closer attention to it.

* * *

Three hundred kilometres above the Cook Strait, a sensor on a KH13 surveillance satellite passing overhead had already picked up the distinctive heat signature of the NH90 idling on the perimeter of Auckland International Airport, a commercial, not a military, facility. Its high resolution digital camera had also recorded the distinctive image of a New Zealand flag on the back of a nearby truck. The flag was missing its edges.

The National Reconnaissance Office quickly interpreted the image. Within ten minutes, the CIA had hacked into Auckland Airport’s CCTV system to get a better look at the helicopter from the ground. They concluded the aircraft was being used to transport a member of the New Zealand military, hence the image of the flag draped over a coffin. A cursory internet search found the story of the vehicle crash in the Canterbury high country a few days earlier.

By the time the KH13 satellite had encircled the earth, the helicopter was in the air, flying low fifteen kilometres out over the Tasman Sea. It seemed to be practising an evasive, anti detection manoeuvre, following the coastline of one of the least populated countries in the world. The duty officer at the NRO watched intently as the feed from the satellite showed the helicopter darting left to right as it made its way south.

The American and Chinese intelligence services regularly positioned their surveillance satellites over New Zealand and Australia to test and calibrate their electro-optical digital imaging systems. The clarity of the atmosphere over this part of the globe throughout the year allowed engineers to achieve stunningly sharp images.

New Zealand didn’t possess the technology to detect the spies stationed hundreds of kilometres above.

Neither superpower protested to the other. The outer atmosphere above a country’s designated airspace isn’t within its territorial borders. Protesting too loudly would have aroused China’s suspicions. America’s true reason for focusing its celestial gaze on the Islands below remained secret.

New Zealand had no idea it was being watched with the same intense fascination a small boy gazes at a crane fly moments before he starts to pull its legs off one by one.

Twenty-two minutes flying time from Waioru, Brent radioed ahead for Phillips and Omaki to be ready and waiting to board. They climbed in, the door slid shut, and the helicopter was airborne once more. “Can we track the Subaru? We need to get about fifty ks ahead of them and then try and find a logging operation.”

Lieutenant Bridges banked due east, locking onto the signal from the car. Brent gave instructions. “Hone, I need you to eliminate this blue Ford that’s been tailing the target. My idea is maybe for you to create some kind of road accident using whatever we can find down there. You up for it?”

“Hell yeah, Bro’!”

“Good, then I need you to bring them back to Waioru where we can debrief them. Have you got the cards?”

Moana had swiped David Turner’s credit card through the machine at the car rental office. The details on the magnetic strip had been sent to the Ops Room where technicians had deciphered the information and recreated it onto two copies, one of which Hone was now waving about in the back of the helicopter.

Lieutenant Bridges interrupted. “Excuse me, Captain. Just thought you’d like to know we’re being tracked.”

“How? Who the hell knows we’re up here?”

‘Actually, sir, it looks like we are not up here, but down there.”

“What do you mean, down there?”

“I switched on the tracking software and set it to trace the security device attached to the car. It’s the first time it’s been used on this aircraft, so it carried out an initial security scan. There are no other aircraft in the air within a seventy kilometre radius. The signature looks like its coming from a satellite directly overhead. I can run another check if you like, but I’d say in this part of the world it’s pretty accurate. The external skin is absorbing the faint trace of a laser tag from a US military satellite approximately three hundred kilometres above us.”

The three KMP officers sat in silence for a moment. “It’s OK, they can’t actually hear you. The onboard comms are shielded.”

Up until that point, they’d simply been involved in the airborne pursuit of two cars, across open country. Now there could be international implications for what they were about to undertake.

“Lieutenant, I need you to patch me through to Commander Dalton at Waioru.”

“Not a problem, sir. Just trying the connection for you now. By the way, ETA three minutes to the target. I’ll stand off two kilometres north, below the horizon. We’ll still be able to track them but they can’t see us. The Commander’s on the line now, sir.”

“Something’s come up. Bridges has activated some of the new equipment on board and we’re being tracked by an American military satellite. As far as I’m concerned that’s confirmation of US Government involvement in all this. I need your formal authorisation to eliminate any perceived threat to national security, sir.”

“You have my authorisation, Piri. I’ll get on to the Prime Minister’s office right away. There’s going to be diplomatic fallout that’ll need dealing with in the next few hours.”

The helicopter flew parallel to the road, skimming the vast swathe of pine forest. Bridges signalled the location of a logging camp, and flew over it checking for any sign of activity before moving out and hovering just above the main highway. Dropping momentarily to ground level, Hone leapt out and ran to the side of the road.

“Has he got any money?” shouted Brent

“Yep, we’re both carrying a thousand dollars cash for, you know, any expenses.”

“Good, that’ll get him the loan of a decent truck.”

The helicopter lifted above the trees, rapidly gaining altitude. Brent could see a small town in the distance. He didn’t want to risk the unique aircraft being spotted near such a populated area, and instructed Bridges to land. There was no point just flying around burning up fuel for the sake of it.

Hone made his way through the dense forest to a clearing where pine logs were being loaded onto the back of a truck and trailer unit. From the safety of the trees he counted five men in total, absorbed in their work and oblivious to his presence. The truck driver sat reading his newspaper. Behind him pre-cut tree trunks were being loaded up. This scene was familiar to Hone; his father and uncles were all loggers.

He moved quickly around the perimeter of the clearing until he was upwind, beside an old ute. As he expected, it was unlocked, the inside a mess of screwed-up paperwork, old newspapers and discarded food wrappings. The men were too engrossed in their work to notice as he carefully pulled open the passenger door, piled as much of the rubbish as he could onto the passenger seat then, taking a knife from his belt, slashed at the seat, exposing the foam padding beneath.

He had anticipated using his own lighter, but in the foot well, amongst the paper, he noticed a box of matches.

He lit one.

Keeping watch through the driver’s-side window on the activity beyond, he held it against the contents of the passenger seat until, still focusing through the window, his eyes began to sting, misting over as thickening black smoke filled the interior of the vehicle. Winding down the window just enough for the smoke to be able to escape, he closed the car door, moved back twenty metres and continued circling the perimeter, towards the labourers. He could already smell the smoke in his own nostrils.

Three minutes later, and still they worked on. The car interior was now completely obscured by thick black plumes of acrid smoke generated by burning foam-filled seats. Hone hoped they might have noticed his diversion by now. He was getting concerned it would start burning out of control. Suddenly, there was a flash, followed by a muted thud. A dark mushroom cloud billowed out from the space left by the exploding windscreen, unfolding upwards through the trees.

Two loggers ran to grab extinguishers. The pair already in the cabs of their trucks leapt out, extinguishers already in hand. The owner of the flaming truck ran towards it, yelling at it as if it had caught fire on purpose.

The door of the logging truck was open. Hone sprinted the short distance across the open ground, jumped in, started the engine, wrenched it into gear, and headed for the gap in the trees in front of him. The group now tentatively encircling the blazing ute glanced up as the truck gathered speed down the forest track.

“Thieving bastards!”

They wanted to extinguish the fire and outrun the stolen logging truck. One threw down his extinguisher, ran back to his own vehicle, turned the key and pushed the pedal hard to the floor. A pall of choking grey smoke belched from the exhaust as he put it in gear and attempted to accelerate. The rear wheels slipped on the forest litter beneath them. The front wheels slithered wildly. It was like driving on ice, snaking from side to side at slow speed, completely out of the control as the driver maintained pressure on the throttle in the hope that acceleration alone would somehow carry him out from amongst the trees.

The rudderless car was finally brought to a sickeningly abrupt halt by a large tree stump. Even as it loomed into sight, the driver, in his rage, still refused to accept he no longer had control and maintained a relentless course until the stump stopped any further passage.

Confused, angry and shocked, he leapt out, furious with his own sudden apparent inability to control his own vehicle. He inspected the damage, cursing at the ripped left tyre, and the right one. Stepping back, he noticed the rear tyres were also hanging in shreds from their rims. The thief had made sure he wouldn’t be followed by slashing the tyres on all the remaining vehicles before setting fire to the final one, creating a diversion allowing him to steal the logging truck.

Hone accelerated down the forest track, towards the main highway, deliberately snaking from one side of the narrow mud track to the other, dislodging unsecured logs that rolled haphazardly across the path behind, blocking it to any pursuers.

He reached the road, turned left and headed north. In the rear view mirror of the truck, he could clearly read the large sign beside the gate he had just driven through.

This forest is managed by Cowood Industries

Private property

Keep Out

The helicopter was in the air again. From his vantage point in the co-pilot’s seat, Brent could see the grey streak of tar seal cutting a straight line through the seemingly endless forest on either side of it. They flew higher so he could observe all three vehicles - the Turners in their Subaru and the blue Ford, both heading north, and the larger, longer logging truck, some distance behind, heading in the same direction. The two cars pulled over. Brent spoke into the mouthpiece on his helmet urgently. “Hone, they are about 2k ahead of you. They’ve pulled over. Just hang back for a second.”

Hone slowly brought the truck to a standstill. Brent watched intently. He could just make out figures moving around the cars below him. He was taking a risk. There was a possibility he was about to witness the murder of his target. Both cars made a U turn in the road and headed south once more. “Stand, by captain. They’ve altered course. They’re on their way south again. You’ll need to time this just right.”

Brent watched the two cars. He had to find some way of increasing the distance between them so Hone could get a clear run at the Ford. “Hone, I need to make sure the Brits are far enough away when you hit. I’m gonna try something.”

He took his mobile phone from his pocket, keyed accelerate hard and sent the message. Hovering like a bird of prey above its victim, Brent watched as far below he could just make out the Subaru beginning to pull ahead, increasing the distance from the car behind. Headphones muffled the sound, the artificial silence lending a sense of unreality to the scene unfolding beneath him. The logging truck slewed across both sides of the road. In a silent collision, clouds of dust and smoke softened the disintegration of the blue Ford. He shouted into the radio. “Captain, do you copy?”

There was a moment of silence, then a crackle of static. “Far out, boss. There’s a hell of a mess down here, man. We nailed those bastards good, eh? Better go and sort out these Brits now, boss. They’re on their way over here. Catch up with you later, eh?”

The chopper taxied back to the hangar. By the time Brent had jumped down from the cockpit, the blades still whooshing slowly above his head, Commander Dalton was waiting for him. “Good job, Captain Piri. I’ve had the Minister on the phone already. He took a call from the American Ambassador claiming we had taken hostile military action against US citizens. Apparently there was an Army helicopter in the vicinity of a road traffic accident north of Tokoroa less than thirty minutes ago.”

“That’s bollocks, sir. The only reason they have any idea we were there at all is because they had a bloody spy satellite scanning us. What was that doing there? Did he ask the Ambassador that?”

“We didn’t need to ask Brent. Satellite surveillance is the only possible way anyone could have known about the presence of the NH90. The Ambassador was also reminded we currently have the aircraft strictly for evaluation purposes only. International law doesn’t permit its use on any kind of active service and the pilot is not even a member of our armed forces.”

“You’re right, sir. By the way, that machine handles bloody brilliantly. When do we get our first one delivered?”

Dalton ignored him. “We have categorically denied any involvement in these tragic deaths that appear to have been caused by a logging truck crossing the centre line, correct?”

‘Yes, sir.”

“Where the hell did you manage to find one of those?”

‘Well sir, I have a very resourceful team.”