Chapter 9.
Antipodean Dreams.

Iona decided to fly south in easy daylight stages. The tropical islands of the East Indies were notorious for their violent storm clouds where Cumulonimbus clouds often towered up to twenty thousand metres. Her little plane was equipped with radar but it was still risky to travel at night when fatigue and poor visibility would contribute to the dangers. GPS only told you where you were, it did not forecast what lay in one’s meteorological path. To break up the monotony of long island hops, she decided to stop over in Bali for a few nights because of its exotic reputation.

After her experiences with bumpy landings in some of the more remote settlements, it was a positive relief to set down on the excellent Balinese facilities at the international airport.

Iona had never been to Bali before so after booking her hotel through an agency that specialised in serving private pilots, she was grateful to find herself amongst the handful of other private flyers and some military pilots in a specialist hotel close to the airport. Compared with other Indonesian facilities, Bali proved to be a positive luxury. She had arrived late in the afternoon so she had no time to join the tourist trail and instead chose to clean up and spend an hour down in the local flying-club bar. Her pilot’s license plus her landing documentation attached to her aircraft registration certificate and passport, immediately gained her entry to the select private facility.

Other members were intrigued to see an attractive, lone, lady pilot with a Bahamian Air registration on her plane. The fact that the plane had been directed to park right opposite the flying club apron seemed to indicate that the lady had some pull with the airport authorities. Almost before she had settled in her chair with a jug of cold juice several pilots sidled hopefully towards her. The high-ranking Indonesian air-force officer pulled rank on the others and they dropped away as he approached Iona

“Good evening miss. Had a good flight?”

“So-so,” Iona replied as she glanced up with briefest of smiles; just enough to be courteous without appearing confrontational, “bit bumpy in parts but that’s the tropics for you.”

“Yes indeed miss, tropical ‘cu-nims’ can prove very dangerous and this is the season for it. Where’ve you come from?”

“Jakarta.”

“Delivering the plane are you?”

“No.” Iona replied monosyllabically to dissuade any further questions.”

The hopeful paramour did not yet take the hint and tried to press his suit.

“Would you like a drink?”

She tapped the large and obvious jug of iced fruit-juice with the large solitaire on her finger as she replied without looking up again.

“I’ve got one thank you. Besides; I don’t drink alcohol.”

He still did not take the hint.

“Where are you bound?”

“Australia.”

Her vague answer left him at a loss as to how to push his luck so he boldly asked.

“Are you doing anything tonight?”

“Sleeping.”

“Would you not prefer to look around the city?”

“No.”

“It’s got some very beautiful temples.”

“I know.”

She looked up with an obvious frown to indicate she did not want to be bothered but he still didn’t take the hint. As a high-ranking military officer in the Indonesian air-force he thought he almost had a right to expect any woman to submit to his advances.

“Well then how about a meal perhaps.”

Iona was losing patience but she did not raise her voice while remaining courteous to a fault.

“Please sir. I came in here to relax after a six-hundred-mile flight from Jakarta. All I want to do is fill in my log-book, mug-up on the next leg then finish my juice and go to bed – alone! Now, if you don’t mind sir, I’m very tired so please –. “

To emphasis her point she deliberately yawned then returned to filling her flight logbook before consulting her flight-plan preparations for the next leg to Timor. The officer glared at her then sensed the derisive smirks of his associates at the bar who had witnessed the whole incident. Furious at his perceived humiliation he stalked out of the bar and decided to use his rank to bully the hotel receptionist to reveal her room number. This being Indonesia and close to being an Islamic dictatorship, he naturally deemed; being that he was a high-ranking air-force officer, that he had every right to invade an unaccompanied woman’s privacy.

At the desk he demanded to check the guest list and decided to try a different approach later that night.

At nine pm, Iona paid her respects to the other pilots frequenting the bar and made her excuses.

“Well good night gentlemen, see you at breakfast.”

All heads smiled as they turned to follow her out of the bar but Iona had briefly checked out their thoughts with her telepathy and determined that there were no threats. In her room, she quickly disrobed and slumped gratefully onto the large bed.

“Mmmm,” she sighed as she savoured the crisp cool sheets and spread-eagled her tired body. “Nothing to beat clean sheets and a comfy bed.” She murmured before falling asleep.

It was during the small hours that the potential rapist returned slightly the worse for drinking (despite his muslim beliefs) and puffed up with his own arrogance.

Because of his position as commanding officer at the local airbase, he had a long association with the flying club hotel and he knew that the concierge and receptionist often took a brief nap when things had quietened down.

Any late-night and early-morning arrivals had to alert the concierge with the door-bell and that woke the staff up. This meant the reception desk was often unmanned and this was the case when the officer sneaked into the lobby and lifted the spare key to Iona’s room from the pidgeon holes behind the desk.

At three am, Iona was shocked to feel a body sliding onto the bed besides her. It took her a few moments to come around while unwelcome hands reached around her body to abuse her breasts. By the time she was fully aware of things, his hands were squeezing her breasts painfully and starting to pinch her nipples.

Realising that his next moves would discover her innermost secret she spoke forcefully.

“Get out now you bastard, or I’ll scream the house down!”

He reached around to cover her mouth so she bit down hard on his fingers and he grunted with fury.

“You’ll pay for that you bitch!” He snarled.

“No. You will, you fucking animal!” She cursed loudly. “I’ll give you one more chance to get out!”

He let out a contemptuous snort of derision before replying.

“And what?”

Furious at his arrogant, superior attitude, she let go with a telepathic punch that easily disabled her attacker and he slumped silent upon the bed. Having knocked him out, her next step was to hit him with the bedside lamp base hard enough to leave a deep cut and heavy bruise on the back of his head. Next, while the blood dripped onto her bed sheets and pillow from his wound, she dragged him out into the hall and dropped him onto the hall carpet. There he lay until his groaning alerted the night watchman who raised the alarm. Within minutes, the local police were hammering on her door.

“Miss Evans! Miss Evans! Please open this door immediately!”

She wrapped her peignoir around her and answered while keeping the security chain secure.

“What d’ you want?”

“What do you know of this incident?”

Having ascertained that they really were the police she opened the door and invited them in. Then she decided attack was the best form of defence.

“You took your time, why didn’t you or anybody come when I screamed?”

The police inspector stared at the bloodstained pillow and frowned uncertainly.

“What happened?”

“You tell me.” She demanded. “I woke up to find that animal trying to rape me and nobody answered my screams!”

“Did he rape you?” The inspector asked insensitively.

“Not bloody likely, I grabbed bedside lamp and hit him on the head to defend myself.”

With the bloody evidence seemingly all over the bed and carpet, the inspector was forced to accept her version.

“How did he end up in the hall?”

“I dragged him there, he was almost unconscious.”

“Why didn’t you call the police then?”

“Why didn’t someone come when I first screamed? Seeing that he was some sort of high-ranking military officer I concluded he was deemed above the law and nobody would come to my assistance. I had no reason to believe there would be any help from the police or any quarter so I had no cause to trust anybody. My solution was to dump him in the hall and barricade my door. He must have had a key or something because the door isn’t broken.”

“Yes, we found the spare concierge key in his pocket, we’re investigating that. Have you got your key?”

She stepped over to her dressing table drawer and located it inside her purse. To reinforce her action she tested it in the door.

“Yes! This my key. Now try that one.”

He did as asked and frowned again as it worked. Iona threw her dressing gown over her peignoir before speaking

“Right. Let’s go and see if the spare key is where it should be behind the reception desk.”

The inspector accompanied her to the foyer and they confirmed that the spare key was missing. The receptionist who had just arrived for work confirmed that the inspector’s key was the spare key and she pointed out the identifying marks. Iona’s key was unmarked. Still holding the initiative, Iona demanded to know how the air-force officer had acquired it.

“He must have distracted the night porter and stolen it from the rack.” The receptionist offered.

“I think he might have,” Iona concurred as she held the inspector in her gaze.

Then she added.

“Was he staying here last night?”

The receptionist checked the register and wagged her head as she rotated the book for the Police inspector’s appraisal. Iona also checked and confirmed.

“No, seemingly he wasn’t; so how did he bypass the concierge and the night porter? This business stinks!” Iona declared. “I expect an explanation when I come back this evening.”

“I need a statement from you first.” The inspector requested respectfully.

“We can do it up in my room, unless you’re treating it as a crime scene.”

“We can wait down here until forensics have finished.”

“I’d like to be present when forensics go in.” Iona replied with insinuation hardening her voice.

‘There was no knowing what cover-up attempts might be tried.’ She told herself; though her telepathy told her that the inspector was essentially an honest but nervous man..

The inspector sensed her suspicious mood and conceded her point. Because the suspected rapist was a very high-ranking air-force officer,
there was no knowing what tricks might be pulled. He decided to stay for the forensic investigation himself; if only to protect his own back.
As they turned to go up to her room, the ambulance team emerged from the lift and Iona recognised the vengeful stare from her intended rapist. She stopped to let the ambulance trolley pass and met the man’s glare with an equally hard glittering stare of pure threat. The inspector caught her expression then waited until they were entering the lift, there he gave her a knowing nod.

“You’re not even afraid of him are you?”

“Not one bit.” Iona almost whispered.

The police inspector studied the girl and noted her fearless demeanour before observing.

D’ you know. “In nearly all the rape cases I have attended – “

“It’s ended up with the female victim being charged with prostitution.”

Iona finished for him.

“That’s not fair.” He protested. “This is Bali, it’s not like Java or Sumatra; I know what you’re driving at.”

“Okay, I’ll concede your point,” Iona replied, “but it’s hard enough getting a rape conviction in the western world; out here in a primarily muslim country it’s almost – well it’s utterly impossible. So what will you be charging him with?” She pressed.

“Well he didn’t actually manage to rape you did he?” He argued lamely. “He didn’t even force an entry.”

“No but he stole a key to get in. That’s got to be grounds for conviction.”

“I’ll do my best to get a conviction, but he’s got powerful friends.”

“So have I,” Iona replied with soft menace in her voice.

The inspector fell silent. In the corrupt political and religious cauldron that was Indonesia, one had to tread carefully. He had no idea what sort of powerful connections this woman had so, after all she was a qualified pilot flying her own plane. To avoid getting into any murky situations, he decided to play it straight by the book. As they stepped out onto the landing by Iona’s room he glanced at the forensic specialists gathering blood samples and hair samples then glanced ominously at Iona.

“If forensics do their job correctly, he will have a hard time explaining this away.”

“Good.” Replied Iona. “Now let’s get down to my statement.”

The inspector beckoned to his sergeant to take down the statement but Iona also took out her camera and videoed the whole episode.

“Just in case,” she declared to the inspector and the sergeant.

The inspector grimaced then confessed.

“I don’t blame you. As I said, this guy has got connections.”

Finally the interview was finished but as they were finishing up, there was a knock on her door. The inspector glanced at his sergeant and the pair tensed but Iona had already determined telepathically what was afoot on the other side of the door. She flung the door open wide and the pair of air-force officers were surprised by her sudden appearance.

“What do you want.” She demanded.

They stuttered for a moment, surprised to see a police inspector and sergeant in her room. Iona pressed her advantage.

“Well! Go on. These are police officers and this is a police matter.”

“We, uuhm, we need to interview you.”

You can read the inspector’s notes but I warn you, I’ve got a copy of the interview and a video-taping.

“No we need to advise you that you must remain in Indonesia until the hearing.”

“Who said there’s going to be a hearing?” Asked Iona, totally throwing the pair of their stride.

“It’s been reported that there was an assault. An air-force officer was attacked.”

“Oh yes there was certainly an assault. The man tried to rape me in my own bedroom and he stole the spare bedroom key from reception to get in. I struck him on the head while he was on my bed trying to force himself upon me. That’s his blood on my pillow, and that’s the lamp I struck him with and that’s his blood on the carpet as I had to drag him out of my bedroom because nobody answered my calls for help!”

“Nevertheless, we still have to hold an inquiry.”

Iona was getting exasperated by the man’s persistent innuendo so she took the bull by the horns.

“Very well then. I have posted my flight plan for this coming Thursday so we’d better have an Inquiry today or tomorrow. Is my assailant fit to attend?”

“It will be at least a month before we hold our inquiry.”

Iona bit her tongue. Her telepathy had already told her they were planning some sort of devious cover up. The senior air-force officed loomed over the sitting Iona.

“We will want you to surrender your passport.”

Another quick mind-scan told Iona that the officer had no idea where her passport was so she lied brazenly.

“I already surrendered it to the immigration authorities when I landed yesterday. I must confess, it seemed a bit irregular but I supposed it’s because my passport says female and I arrived piloting my own plane. I think it’s somewhere in the labyrinth of those buildings over there.

You’ll have to see the people over there.”

She read his uncertainty and prepared for the next question.

“Would you recognise the immigration officer who collected it?”

Iona wagged her head and shrugged. “Good gracious no, she was wearing a burqa and niqab. I know it was somewhere in that cluster of buildings.”

‘If you’re going to tell a lie tell a good-un.’ She told herself.

She had already experienced the unimaginably complicated rig-ma-role that confronted a private female flyer arriving singly at Jakarta airport so she knew it would take days before this poor pair could finally ascertain what had happened to her passport. She could already detect the despondency settling over the pair as they contemplated what they anticipated would be a drudge through layers and layers of bureaucracy; especially as it involved a moderately unusual arrival of a single, unmarried girl in a cockpit.

The pair left and Iona was at least free to go exploring temples and other attractions in the city.

Sadly, like many tourist traps, Bali had become so commercialised that any hopes of authenticity have been destroyed by the clamour for money and utter disregard for most things cerebral. After a couple of days becoming progressively more disappointed with the city, she decided to make plans for her escape.

Firstly, she decided to check on her operational situation concerning her liberty to depart. To her utter disbelief she discovered, though, indeed she had half expected it; there had been a typical bureaucratic foul up thanks to the oppressive culture and byzantine procedures. There seemed to be no administrative block attached to her flight plan so after some additional telepathic scans, she decided to strike while the iron was hot.

In the early afternoon of the Thursday, she legally advanced her pre-posted flight plan by a couple of hours. A final telepathic scan confirmed that so far, nobody had sought to detain her and took off with a maximum fuel load for the six-hundred-mile flight to Timor.
For the first hour her radio was silent and she maintained a maximum speed to put as much distance as possible between her and Bali. Her other tactic was to fly low and dodge around the islands en-route until or unless somebody noticed her behaviour on their radars and demanded her identity.

Because her plane had previously been fitted with superchargers to enable her to cross over the Himalayas, it could comfortably maintain three hundred knots at the low altitudes between two hundred and two thousand feet. Nevertheless, despite her rapid progress, she still feared being challenged on the radio, or worse, being intercepted by a military aircraft at any moment.
She was starting to get nervous.

Her GPS told her she was halfway across Flores when the radio finally crackled on the international calling frequency. It was a call to identify herself and to advise her that a military aircraft had been sent to escort her to the nearest airfield. She decided to play stupid and took her plane down to two hundred feet before island dodging along the northern coast of Flores, while maintaining radio silence. This tactic bought her another thirty minutes before she eventually found herself about fifty miles east of Riangkami airfield.

‘Only another hundred miles to go’ she concluded as she spotted a heavy rain squall far to the east.

Centimetric Radars detest rain and the heavier the rain, the worse the radar’s performance. Pretty soon Iona was ‘wave skimming’ below the cloud base in about four hundred metres lateral visibility. This made her virtually invisible to any plane flying above her, whether they had radar or not.

If any military jet wanted to find her, they would have to join her at wavetop height. For Iona, flying at slow speeds was safe in a small propeller aircraft but a high-performance fighter jet would have to fly at a much higher speed to avoid falling out of the sky. That speed would be lethally dangerous for both jet and pilot in such restricted visibility and at very low altitude. Iona read his frustration and fear as he was forced to circle at a higher altitude a safe distance from the cumulus column of turbulence.

All he could do was hope to catch Iona emerging from underneath the towering cumulus cloud at wave-top height. His problem was ‘where would Iona emerge’? It was a large cloud and to be certain of catching her he would have to also circle the cloud down at her level. Being
forced to operate at higher speeds, at a higher altitude and using circular sweeps caused his surveillance efforts to be intermittent. Iona read the frustration in his mind and she felt a certain satisfaction that so far, her tactics were working.

Knowing the constraints of fast jets when trying to tag a slower, smaller, more manoeuvrable plane, Iona chose to emerge from under cloud base close to Western tip of Lembata where a myriad islets and larger islands combine to make a veritable jigsaw of rocks, forests, mountains and sea cliffs. What made it worse for the fast jet was that several of the islands actually penetrated the cloud base at less than two hundred metres so the searching jet could not risk cutting across under the cloud-base for fear of hitting the sea cliffs.

After reading the pilot’s mind telepathically, Iona realised that if she dropped her speed to the slowest possible velocity commensurate with flight, she could weave between the islands and headlands at fractionally over ninety knots while the jet zoomed overhead at a minimum speed of two hundred knots if he wanted to remain manoeuvrable and safe.

All Iona could hope for was that the cloud extended further east towards Timor. By this time her GPS told her she was only one hundred miles from Timor waters and she was only twenty minutes from safety – that was, provided the Indonesian pilot respected the territorial integrity of Timor.

Then to her chagrin, she noticed an illuminated sea appear to the east and she realised the cloud cover was ending. It looked about ten miles away so that meant there was something approaching eighty miles to the Timor coast less about ten miles of territorial water.

‘Eighty miles or so at three hundred and fifty knots’ She calculated mentally before she made one more telepathic scan. The Indonesian jet was on the opposite side of the huge cloud column and that was about twenty miles across so he would have to travel ten-pi miles plus whatever distance she could put behind her.

‘Well, I might as well chance it’ she concluded as the visibility improved dramatically.

So saying, she dropped again to wavetop height and opened up with full throttle then sighed with relief as her air-speed climbed rapidly to three hundred and fifty knots.

‘Let’s see how alert he is?’ Iona asked herself as her knuckles tightened on the stick and her telepathy scanned his mind for clues.
The answer disappointed her for she learned her pursuer was very alert. He picked her up on his radar almost immediately upon emerging from behind the towering cumulonimbus storm cloud. There was nothing for it but to race for the oceanic air-border between Timor and Indonesia. Her maths told her she would not make it for the fighter jet was easily capable of nine hundred knots while she could only do three-fifty. Her heart sank as she wondered what sort of weapons the jet carried.

Her only hope was to keep scanning his mind as he rapidly gained upon her. She opened the throttles as wide as she dared and her plane howled urgently as she prayed for a miracle and once again scanned the pursuing pilots mind for some tactical flaw or error in his calculations. Her telepathy sensed the tension in his brain but it was several more seconds before she learned what was worrying him. He was low on fuel. Her tactics of dodging under and around the clouds had forced him to fly low and slow where jet engines are least
efficient.

His constant circling while searching for a plane that was shrouded by the heavy rain under the clouds and producing very little heat profile from her piston driven propellers, had caused him to lose her on his radar and weapon systems numerous times. As she cleared the last Indonesian Island and headed out over the Timor sea, she took her plane down to wave top level and prayed to good luck that he might run short of fuel and be forced to turn back.

Her hopes fell however when he made one last radio demand for her to turn around or he would open fire.

Mentally, she said goodbye to her children wherever they were, and braced herself for a rocket strike or a hail of gunfire. The jet pilot remained true to his threat and suddenly Iona felt a violent thump as the tip of her starboard wing disintegrated. She swerved to starboard and almost dipped the damaged wingtip into the sea as she frantically dodged the menace that swept past her with a thundering roar.
For a fraction of a second her view was filled with jet and then her plane bucked and tossed in the jets wake. She hauled back on the stick and clawed for some height because the pitching had almost dumped her in the sea. Already, the plane was turning for a second approach and Iona watched mesmerised before her brain returned to functionality. She watched fearfully while debating which tactic would best help her avoid another shooting. She concluded the best chance was to fly straight towards the jet provided it remained south of her position and she approached the territorial water border of Timor.

The jet sped around in a large arc thus forcing Iona to cancel her tactic of pointing at the jet. Her primary objective was to continue to make southing. As he continued around her in a huge arc, she debated using her telepathic punch to disable him. For the immediate moment, she decided to hold off with the telepathy, for the idea of destroying yet another human life had become abhorrent to her.

Like a pidgeon dashing to make the safety of the woods while the falcon kept stooping from above, she thrashed her engines desperately while constantly checking her GPS. Then she sensed he was preparing to make another attack. In response, she sent a mild telepathic jolt through the ether and watched with relief as the jet suddenly jinked just as the bullets erupted from its cannons. Coincidentally she pulled hard on her stick to take avoiding action causing the bullets to thump through her fuselage and tail-plane.

‘You bastard!’ She cursed to herself, ‘You really meant that you bastard!’ Try that again and I’ll kill you!”

She craned her neck to try and assess the damage and prayed again that no controls had been damaged. A rapid control check reassured her that seemingly, she still had control and she swallowed fearfully as the jet screamed past again.

It was so close she could fleetingly make out the pilot as he swept past but she had no time to contemplate his intentions. Then to her relief, her GPS sounded its alert to tell her she had crossed into Timorese air space. Now she could put out a mayday and declare she was being attacked by an Indonesian jet. She followed this up with another telepathic scan of the pilot’s mind and then sagged with relief to learn he was too low on fuel to continue the pursuit. Her last search of the sky told her that her pursuer had turned for home, he was obviously not going to invade Timorese airspace so she decided there was no need to put out a distress call. She relaxed her telepathy only to be shocked as a missile skimmed just yards from her plane and shot ahead of her before exploding into the sea. The Indonesian had risked a parting shot but it had missed her. It had not been a harmless shot, however. Debris from the missile had cracked her windscreen and punctured
her wing.

Desperately, she eased back the throttle to an easy one hundred and fifty knots before checking the wing for any serious structural damage or
fuel tank perforations. Thankfully, she could see no further damage and her controls seemed to be working satisfactorily so she set a slow course for Dili. Then she had to ease back the starboard engine because she noticed some slight vibration in the damaged wing.
Her knuckles were white as she found herself gripping the stick in fear and for a moment she missed the call on the international distress frequency.

“Aircraft approaching Timor from the North West at low altitude, please identify yourself.”

Iona recognised an Australian accent and felt a huge lump of relief fall of her shoulders as she grabbed for the radio. She called out her call sign and reported her position. The voice replied.

“Yes, we’ve got you on radar. Are you heading for Dili?”

“Yes”, she replied. “I have filed a flight plan and it was cleared with Timor air traffic at 2100 yesterday.”

There was a long pause while the voice was obviously checking her credentials before it returned to air.

“You’re twenty-four hours early. We have just detected what appeared to be a missile strike. Are you carrying weapons?”

“No, I’m a twin Engined private propeller craft. I’ve reported my call sign and flight number.”

She repeated both for good measure then added.

“I have just been targeted by a military jet while leaving Indonesian air space.”

“D’ you want an escort?”

“That would be nice I can only do one-fifty knots, there’s damage to my wing and fuselage.”

Even as she finished, there was a roar as two Australian F16’s swooped by and checked her over.

” Can you go any faster? We’re having to circle you.”

“I don’t think so, there’s a lot of vibration though my fuel seems okay. I’m only fifteen minutes out now.”

“Okay, we’ll escort you to the coast then you’ll be okay.”

As she crossed the coastline she thanked the Australians and contacted Dili air-traffic-control. Ten minutes later she was landed and safe in a remote corner of the apron. Twenty minutes later she was being interviewed by the Timorese police and the Australian air-force.
After answering every question she could, the interviewers finally stood and nodded acceptance of her report. The air force wing commander escorted her to a small air force mess by their own military hangar where Iona’s plane had been parked.

“You’ve been a lucky lady Miss Evans,” the Immigration officer confided. “Those two Australian planes only patrol for a couple of hours every day and at irregular times. Obviously that Indonesian pilot decided it was not worth the risk invading our airspace with two F16’s hanging around.”

“I didn’t know the political situation was still that tense,” Iona confessed, “but thank your pilots for me sir, there’s no knowing what might have ensued. He was determined to shoot me down.”

“Yes indeed Miss Evans, your plane bears witness to that. Five bullet strikes and shrapnel from an exploding missile. You were seriously lucky to get out alive. You say you were going to Australia?”

“Am going to Australia. As soon as my plane’s fixed.”

“That could take some time. Spare parts and the like, plus the body work repairs.”

“The bullet holes will just need patches until I can get to a proper facility in Aus’ The main problem is the damaged wing. Though I still have not assessed any possible damage to control systems yet. She landed satisfactorily and there didn’t appear to be any fuel or hydraulic leaks. The cockpit canopy glass of course, that’s a biggie but I can ship one out from the nearest supplier. There must be one in Aus’, everybody seems to fly out there.”

“Yeah, Cessna’s are pretty common down under. Our facilities can help with the bodywork but the cockpit window is the biggie. God knows how long that’ll take. Could be a couple of weeks, could be a month. Are you going to file a protest to the Indonesians?”
Iona was keen to avoid too much publicity and draw too much attention to herself. She knew the British authorities had more-or-less given up on finding her what with her changed name and two passport subterfuge.

Her trail had gone cold and she meant to keep it cold. The less publicity, the better. She wagged her head before replying.

“No, I don’t think I will. The less fuss, the better my chances of flying back via the East Indies. Their governance is a shambles so I’ll get lost in their labyrinthine bureaucracy within a few months. Failing that, I’ll return to Asia and Europe via New Guinea, the Philippines and Japan.”

“Well, enjoy your stay in Dili, there’s not a lot to do but you’ll be welcome in the air force mess. It’s always nice to see a new face.”

They shared some mugs of coffee then Iona left to organise a hotel.

The ‘couple of weeks to a month’ stretched to two months but it enabled her to recharge her batteries and the Australian air-force proved to be good hosts.