By Peter Corris
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C |
layton Harrison was someone I’d known in the army. He was a fairly gung-ho type who stayed in longer than me. But we’d got along. We hadn’t exactly saved each other’s lives, but when you’ve been together in mutual support in some of those dangerous spots, there’s a bond. Now he was the editor of a couple of magazines of the outdoor persuasion—shooting, fishing, climbing. His office was in Newtown where I’d recently moved my modest operation and we ran into each other, had an occasional drink, yarned. Then he phoned, sounding serious, and asked me to come and see him.
His office was something of a macho shout of defiance, but there were two or three women working there who didn’t seem to mind. One showed me into Clayton’s bunker. No preliminaries. Clayton slid a glossy magazine across the desk. The cover showed a young man in semi-combat gear with backpack, slogging up a bush track. The name of the publication was Dare to Survive.
‘Don’t bother to open it,’ Clayton said. ‘You can imagine the contents—fitness instruction, equipment, weapons, medication, plenty of advertising. Plus articles on the psychology of readiness and ways of identifying enemies. Quizzes about paramilitary and terrorist matters. A rich brew.’
I flipped it open anyway. Classy photography, plenty of detachable coupons for advertised products.
‘What’s the problem, Clay—competition?’
‘No, not the same market. The problem is that I’ve got this son. He’s into all this stuff in a big way. Now this mob,’ he tapped the magazine, ‘run a sort of camp in the bush— survival stuff, toughen-you-up crap, orienteering, paint-gun exercises, that sort of thing.’
I nodded. ‘Like Outward Bound—used to be sponsored by Phil the Greek. Probably still is.’
‘Don’t take the piss, Cliff. This is paramilitary stuff. It worries me that Gary’s getting into it. His mother tells me he’s all set to go on the next bivouac—they use the term— and she can’t talk him out of it.’
‘How old is he? Is he a big bloke like you?’
‘He’s eighteen—no—nineteen. Yeah he’s about the size I was at that age, before I put on the flab.’
‘He’s an adult. What harm can it do?’
‘There’s more to it. Shit, I wish I was allowed to smoke in my own bloody office. The Nanny state is here, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I couldn’t care less. Get to the point, Clay.’
‘I split up with Gary’s mother years ago. Harriet, a bit of a ball-breaker. Okay, I wasn’t husband material. Anyway, give her her due, she didn’t stop me seeing Gary through all the important years—school, sports teams and that. I wasn’t very reliable though. We never got close. He’s at uni now. Just, started, part time. I offered to pay upfront but he didn’t want to know. He works as a motorcycle courier— cunt of a job.’
‘Shows independence.’
‘Yeah. But Harriet took up with this Arab bloke a couple of years ago. Sirdar something or other. I think he helped push Gary in the direction we’re talking about and I’m. worried that ...’
‘Dare to Survive is a cover for a Muslim terrorist training camp? Come on, Clay.’
‘I know, I know, I’m overreacting. But you know how things are just now. The least smell of anything like that can bugger the prospects of anyone associated with it. I want my boy to have a decent career, a decent life.’
‘Spotted him reading the Koran?’
‘You can laugh, but I’m serious and I’ve got a serious job for you. That’s if you want to work and not just make jokes.’
I wanted to work, and I needed to. Business had been slow and the bills still came in quickly. I’d had to take out costly levels of protective professional insurance and cover for the people I occasionally recruit as helpers. I had a bit of a tax problem and the house needed repairs. I couldn’t afford to turn down work from someone who was in a position to meet my fees. I nodded and picked up the magazine to indicate that I was paying attention.
‘I’ve done a deal with the DTS people to send a journalist along on their next camp to write about it for one of my magazines. That’s you, if you’re up for it, Cliff.’
‘Hold on. Won’t your kid know you’re spying on him?’
‘Shit, you’ve got a great way of putting things. No.’ He struggled to keep the disappointment out of his voice. ‘Gary’s bored by my business. I’ll concoct a false name for the magazine, but he wouldn’t show any interest anyway. Like I say, we’re not close but I still care about him. I hope we can get on better terms one of these days.’
‘Suppose someone notices the names—yours and his being the same—and works out what’s going on?’
Clay shook his head. ‘We weren’t married when he was born. She insisted that he took her name—Pearson. I tried to get it changed later but we were finished by then, so…’
He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a photograph and handed it to me. There was something sad about that—keeping your kid’s picture in a drawer. Gary Pearson was Clay’s son all right, the way James Packer is Kerry’s. In fact there was a resemblance—the same big, strong features, thrusting jaw, aggressive hairline. He wasn’t handsome in the same way Clay wasn’t, but he caught your attention. Looked to have the same solid neck and shoulders.
‘He’s a lump of a lad,’ I said. ‘I doubt I could keep up with him in a cross-country run.’
Clay must have been confident I’d do it. He opened another drawer and took out a set of keys and a wallet.
‘There’s a Pajero standing waiting. It’s got all the gear you’ll need—camping equipment, camera, tape recorder, clothing, medical stuff, mobile, laptop, the works. Your authorisation as a journalist is here and some cash. I’ll sign a contract and pay your retainer. This is a legitimate job, Cliff. More so than some you’ve taken on, I bet.’
I let that pass. People like to think the worst of us and I like to let them and then give them a pleasant surprise. He told me that the DTS bivouac party was to set off from a meeting point to be named in two days’ time. Six vehicles, plus mine—twenty-four survivalists, plus me.
‘To be named?’ I said.
‘They’ll advise me and I’ll advise you.’
I scooped the keys and the wallet towards me. The wallet felt comfortably filled. ‘Destination?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Dunno. To be revealed at the time of departure. You can bet they’ve got a bush camp out there somewhere.’
‘It’s a big “out there”. Any names?’
‘Just one—Hilary St James, would you believe. He’s the editor of their magazine and the head of the organisation. Whether he’s going on safari I don’t know.’
‘Did you check on him?’
Clay smiled in the winning way he had that redeemed that almost brutal face. ‘I thought I’d leave that to you.’
* * * *
Clay got someone to drive my car home while I piloted the newish, slightly travel-stained Pajero. It handled well, but still felt like driving a truck, lending a false sense of superiority. The fuel tank was full and the service sticker indicated that it had been tuned up recently.
Clay’s driver took off and I went through the gear in the 4WD. The clothes and boots and other usefuls were newish but showed a bit of wear. Obviously I was to present as someone who’d been off the tarmac in his time—partly true, but it had been a while. I took the technical bits inside and made myself familiar with them. As well as the things Clay had mentioned, there was a folder of maps covering a good part of the state, and a compass I hoped I’d never need. The gas stove and cylinder were a potential comfort, like the medical chest and, especially, the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. Luckily, the laptop was user-friendly for me—a Mac with Word installed, so I’d be able to make a show of entering notes and impressions. The digital camera was in advance of anything I’d used but simple enough.
Clay phoned me the following day. ‘0630 hours,’ he said. ‘Muster at Wentworth Park.’
‘You sound like you wish you were going.’
‘In a way I do. Take care of yourself, Cliff, and keep an eye on my boy. First sign of anything dodgy along the lines we talked about and you pull him out.’
‘You didn’t mention that—might not be easy.’
‘Probably won’t be necessary but you’ll manage if it is. I have confidence in you. And this St James character is going apparently. Wants to meet you and he says you’ll have no trouble spotting him.’
‘Wonder what that means.’
‘No idea.’
‘Nothing on where we’re going or for how long?’
‘No.’
‘How does Gary take off like this if he’s at university?’
‘He just does. Get a good night’s sleep. Stay in touch, Cliff.’
Despite myself, I was close to excited. I was never in the Scouts or anything like that, but with some teenage mates I went out west at weekends: we took old .303s, .22s and beer, ostensibly to shoot kangaroos and feral pigs, but really just to go bush and rough it. Then came the army. Training in Queensland was okay, fighting in the jungles wasn’t, but this felt more like a harking back to the good old days— with a professional edge.
I did a web check on Hilary St James. He was CEO of something called Survival Enterprises which, in addition to publishing the magazine, had several retail outlets selling outdoor and patriotic gear. The company claimed to have offices in Jakarta and Malaysia and to be affiliated with similar organisations in Britain, New Zealand and the United States. Its motto was, ‘We will be there!’
St James was born in South Africa and had served in that country’s army in the apartheid era. According to the webpage, he moved to Australia and ran a successful import/export business before turning his ‘talents and resources to stiffening the physical and moral fibre of Australia’s youth’. He was sixty years of age and the webpage described him as being as fit as a man half his age. A slightly faded postcard-sized photograph of him in semi-combat gear backed up the claim. St James stood half a head taller than others in the picture, and his tilted-back head showed a mane of fair hair, a strong neck and a sharp jawline. Icy pale eyes. Interestingly, the photo would not blow up. He’d self-published two books—Man Alive and Fight for Your Freedom. Go, Hilary!
* * * *
I was at the rendezvous point at the stated time, wearing boots, jeans, a T-shirt and a flannie against the early morning cold. A two-day stubble. It was early July and the day was clear—hard to say how it’d develop in the city, let alone where we might be headed. The mobile had a hands-free hookup, and a quick check showed that it was fully charged. The laptops battery likewise. I’d slept well and I had a Smith & Wesson .38 pistol wrapped in a towel tucked down in a backpack under a couple of books. Be prepared.
Three off-road vehicles were there when I arrived and two sedans. A covered truck pulled up soon after. I sat tight, preferring to have St James seek me out rather than the other way around. After a bit of confab between the various drivers, a man jumped down from the truck and came towards me. No mistaking him, although he wasn’t as tall as he’d looked in the photo. As he drew nearer, I could see why he hadn’t wanted a clearer photo—hair that had looked white-blonde was actually grey and the flinty eyes were surrounded by lines and wrinkles. If his birth certificate said he was sixty I still wouldn’t have believed it—he was at least ten years older. Still, he moved well, with a long, balanced stride, and looked trim inside dark pants and shirt and a tight down vest. I got out of the car.
‘Mr Hardy, I presume,’ he said, the voice strongly accented. ‘Welcome.’
‘Thank you.’ We shook hands. His grip was strong but not aggressive. ‘Cliff’ll do it, Mr St James.’
‘Oh, no,’ he shook his head. ‘We insist on some formality in this exercise. I’m simply known as Leader and what you might call our NCOs are called numbers one to five respectively. The trainees answer to code names, which will be stencilled onto the back of their clothing.’
‘Got it,’ I said. ‘Very efficient arrangement. Where are we bound?’
‘All in good time, Mr Hardy, all in good time. If you’ll just fall in to the middle of the convoy we’ll be on our way.’
I nodded and got back behind the wheel. 0630 hours, Leader, NCOs, convoy—military stuff, but there was nothing of that about the vehicles. The 4WDs were of various makes, sizes and colours and the truck was red with a blue covering. The lettering on its side read DTS but, with the sedans positioned between the truck and the 4WDs, a casual observer would see nothing alarming about us as we pulled on to the road and took off at a modest pace. Traffic was light and a grey, overcast day was building. Before too long at least our intended direction was evident—west.
Clay had provided me with a batch of CDs not to my taste—classical and jazz instrumentals, not even an aria or two. Music needs words to my mind, but I tried a few before switching off and tuning in to Radio National at news time. A congestion tax for the CBD was being debated—okay by me. Anyone who takes a car to within a couple of clicks of the city deserves to pay.
It wasn’t a problem here where we picked up the Great Western Highway and followed it to the Bathurst Road exit. The land rose, the air cooled and I was grateful for the Pajero’s heating system. We ran into a brief but severe rainstorm and the wipers coped well: heating and effective wipers both needed urgent attention on my Falcon.
I was impressed by the discipline of my co-drivers. No macho stuff. When cowboys wanted to pass they were permitted, and when the truck laboured a bit on the hills it was allowed to fall behind and then the convoy slowed almost imperceptibly to let it catch up. Give him his due, St James apparently had no need to be at the head of his troops. I was happy to stay more or less in the middle position. I amused myself by memorising the registration plates of the truck and several of the other vehicles—for no good reason, just staying in practice.
After we bypassed Bathurst my Clay-supplied mobile rang. It was St James, who’d evidently been given the number by Clay, something he hadn’t told me.
‘Any bladder pressure, Mr Hardy?’
‘I went before I came.’
He didn’t laugh. ‘Is that a no?’
‘Yes, that’s a no.’
I heard him draw in an exasperated breath, but he maintained control. ‘Good man!’
He rang off. A concerned commander, or testing my mettle? I shouldn’t have needled him but I couldn’t help it. Serious soldiering has my respect; play-actors should have a sense of humour.
We went off the paved road onto gravel and then to a dirt track winding through thick bush. Climbing and getting colder. A brief stop for a gate to be opened, and then it was over a cattle grid and onto a track that was wider than the previous one and had recently been graded. The bush was still thick, but I could see open patches through the trees. A bridge over a moderately large stream appeared to be new and solid. Then the convoy slowed, took a bend, and I came in sight of what St James probably referred to as HQ, or perhaps the operational base, with an electronically operated gate.
The farmhouse in the middle of the enclosed space was sandstone and old with a bullnose verandah running around three sides. It was long and low and three chimneys were smoking. There was a cement parking space for the vehicles to one side and four old-style Nissan huts arranged in a square around a gravel area with a flagpole in its centre. No grass, no garden except a small patch around the base of the flagpole. Nothing frivolous.
Uh-oh, I thought, square bashing and hard beds in unheated huts. Took me back and not to where I wanted to go. I determined to insist on my civilian status. I fancied being inside the house, nestled up to a fire with a drink in hand.
I parked the Pajero as far as I could from the other vehicles, got out and used Clay’s camera to take a few pictures of the scene. All of a sudden the site had assumed a military aspect despite the disparate character of the vehicles—the Australian flag, flying bravely above another carrying a DTS logo, in a light, chilly breeze, and the fatigues and berets being worn by the personnel did the trick.
St James approached me. ‘Should have asked permission, Hardy,’ he said.
He was annoyed enough to drop the Mister. ‘Sorry, Leader,’ I said. ‘I meant no harm.’
‘Hope not. Ask next time. You’ll be quartered in the house. Take your gear in and one of my chaps’ll show you to your room.’
Suited me. I almost saluted. I gathered together the stuff Clay had provided and my own equipment and organised it into a portable load. I spent longer at the task than needed, and used the time to inspect the NCOs and trainees as they got organised. I was more than fifty metres away and couldn’t be quite sure I’d spotted Gary Pearson. The code names were simply colours with a numeral, red 1, blue 2, yellow, etc. Pearson could’ve been one of three big blokes with a similar build.
As expected, the trainees looked young—early twenties or younger—and the NCOs were older. To my surprise, two of them had dark faces. Three or four of the trainees didn’t look like Anglo-Celts either, but they all seemed dead keen. They fell in smartly and were marched off towards the Nissan huts with duffel bags on their square shoulders.
I took my stuff to the house—laptop slung from one shoulder, overnight bag from the other, carrying other items. Just before I mounted the steps to the verandah, I looked around and experienced an odd sensation that stayed with me, although it meant nothing at all—I was the only man in sight not wearing headgear. Seriously undressed in military terms.
The big man who met me on the verandah wore a beret and a buttoned-up white Nehru-type jacket, with black trousers tucked into combat boots. Not quite a steward, not quite a soldier, but not far off either.
* * * *
Over the next three days I spent some time participating in the trainees’ activities. I had a comfortable bed in a warm room while they slept in bunks in the huts with kerosene heaters that didn’t do much against the cold. I ate the same nutritious food as them but served motel-style in my room. I attended without encouragement one of St James’s lectures on courage and character, and that was enough.
I went on a couple of the route marches and didn’t fall behind, although I was carrying only a light backpack while they were heavily laden. A couple of trainees who finished well behind were given mild kitchen punishment duties. I passed on fording the waist-deep stream with equipment held up high above my head. Two trainees who fell into the water were roundly abused by the NCOs.
On the fourth day the trainees were mustered for shooting practice and I went along. I’d been permitted to take photographs up to then, but St James banned the camera for this exercise.
‘Might give your readers the wrong idea,’ he said. ‘You can write whatever you like, but pictures speak louder and sometimes more ambiguously than words.’
Nicely put. They marched, I walked, to a shooting site that had been constructed by bulldozers. A chute with sides about six metres high had been built with a solid earth wall at least twice that height fifty or sixty metres distant. Targets were arranged on the wall that sloped back slightly so that ricochets and deflections would be directed away from the shooters. There were six shooting stalls, all equipped with benches holding earmuffs, ammunition and semiautomatic rifles.
It had taken a while to identify Gary Pearson. The trainees wore their hats pulled down and seemed to delight in keeping their combat camouflage paint on, but I had him now and watched him closely. He appeared to be one of the keenest and most accomplished of the trainees— smartly turned out at all times, an early finisher in the marches, first or second man across the stream, beating a couple of the NCOs who’d had a head start. Now he was selected as one of the first batch of shooters.
St James took me aside. ‘In case you’re wondering, Hardy, DTS is registered as a gun club. In any case, this is private property.’
‘Really? I meant to ask. How many acres?’
‘About a hundred and fifty hectares.’
One for him.
A volley of shots sounded.
‘I hope you’re not a pacifist.’
‘Not me,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have the courage.’
One for me, maybe.
The shooting continued and there are few more boring things to watch and listen to—motor racing, perhaps. The targets were human silhouettes of various shapes, sizes and colours. After a while the bullets had shredded them into unrecognisable tatters. One of the dark NCOs, still known to me only as number three, announced that Pearson had scored more direct and well-placed hits than any of the others. He clapped the young man on the back and had to reach up to do it, being ten centimetres shorter.
‘Who’s that NCO?’ I asked St James, who’d watched the shooting with his head tilted back in his Viking pose.
‘Why?’
‘He stands out-—one of your best.’
‘True. Sirdar Assad. He should be. He fought in places you’ve heard of and places you haven’t heard of
‘He’s a mercenary?’
St James ignored the question. ‘Promising lad, that Pearson,’ he said.
‘What do you imagine all this fits them for especially?’
‘The future.’
I took an appraising look at the trainees being instructed in the maintenance of their weapons. ‘Kids look like suburban types to me—office workers, keyboard jockeys. How will this kind of training help?’
St James appeared to be pleased to get the question. He adjusted his beret. ‘Do you think this country’s safe, Hardy?’
‘Safe enough.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘I reckon it’s safe from all but a handful of religious maniacs who’ll go out of fashion as soon as the US elects an intelligent president and the media stops beating the terrorism drum.’
He spun on his heel. ‘There are none so blind that cannot see.’
I thought, but didn’t say, a misquote, and cliché is the last resort of the obsessive. It wasn’t much but I was beginning to get a closer focus on what St James and DTS were all about, beyond what was in the literature.
To my surprise, St James invited me to give a talk to the trainees that night on the subject of journalism as a profession. ‘You seemed to have some definite views on the matter and its relation to the present crisis when we talked earlier,’ he said. ‘We want these lads to have active minds as well as bodies, so I’d be glad if you’d give them the benefit of your experience and be willing to field whatever questions they might throw at you.’
I couldn’t refuse and I muddled through it on the basis of whatever I’d picked up from the few journalist friends I had. Two adjoining rooms in the house with the connecting doors drawn apart served as the lecture theatre. Fires were burning in both rooms and the trainees seemed happy to be there, whatever the subject, instead of in their huts. In years past I’d given talks on the private enquiry business to TAPE students doing the PEA qualifying course, and this wasn’t so different, until Gary Pearson got to his feet in question time.
‘What would you say, Mr Hardy, to the idea that journalists are liars who write whatever their bosses tell them to write no matter what the facts are?’
‘I’d say that’s bullshit.’
‘We don’t permit bad language here, Hardy,’ St James said.
‘That’s bullshit, too.’
Two of the NCOs, Assad and another, moved in efficiently. Assad blocked me off from the audience while the other one pinioned my arms and eased me out through a side door. I heard St James raise his voice slightly above the murmuring as he brought the trainees to order.
Standing in the corridor, we were joined by the man who’d met me on the verandah on day one—same beret, same jacket, same pants and boots but a different mood. ‘Go through to your room,’ he said. ‘Leader will speak to you when he’s ready.’
‘I can’t wait,’ I said.
* * * *
I’d blown it but I didn’t much care. I assumed the trainees were paying through the nose for their bivouac and the privilege of being insulted by their instructors. Looked to me as if St James had some kind of frustrated obsession about the military life and the decadence of society that he was turning into money. Let him. Gary Pearson was a big adult with certain skills and rather uncongenial ideas. I couldn’t see him coming to any physical harm, and if he chose to embrace St James’s view of the world, that was his lookout. I felt I’d fulfilled my commission for Clay Harrison and I didn’t want to hang around this overgrown schoolboy atmosphere any longer. I started packing.
St James walked in without knocking.
‘Bad manners,’ I said. ‘Tsk, tsk.’
‘You’re a disgrace. I’m going to contact your editor and withdraw permission for you to write about us.’
‘Your privilege. I was never much good at writing comedy anyway.’
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Packing. I’m leaving.’
‘You are not. The perimeter is patrolled and protected. You will remain here until you are given permission to leave.’
‘And when will that be, dear Leader?’
If he got the reference he didn’t react. ‘0800,’ he said.
‘Eight am, that’s fine. Goodnight.’
He was adept at heel-turning; he did it again and left.
I’d eaten, the room was warm, there was an ensuite and I had the scotch and a good biography of Paul Scott. No reason not to stay the night. I had the level in the bottle challenged and I was still reading a bit after one am when there was a faint knock on the door. I opened it to find Gary Pearson standing in the darkened passage in his socks, carrying his boots.
‘I have to talk to you,’ he whispered.
‘I thought the house was off limits at night for you guys.’
‘It is. They’d throw me out of the course if they knew. Let me in, Mr Hardy, please.’
I let him in and quietly closed the door behind him. Stealth, whispering and politeness were all very well, but was this one of St James’s little gambits? I pointed to a chair. ‘Want a drink, Pearson?’
‘Sure, thanks. In case you hadn’t noticed, the camp is dry.’
I poured some scotch over ice and added water. ‘I noticed. I could’ve used something to wash down those stews and pastas. So that’s another rule you’re breaking.’
He took the drink in his meaty fist. ‘Thanks. Yeah. Sorry I got up your nose tonight. I had to find out where you were coming from.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yeah, you think this is all a lot of crap.’
‘There goes another rule.’
‘Here goes another one—I have to get out tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t say, I just do. It’s important.’
‘Why tell me?’
‘I want you to help me.’
‘Why would I do that. I’m just—’
‘If you’re a journalist then I’m John Howard. I’ve seen the way you move and look at things, how you hold yourself. You’re here for some other reason. I don’t know what it is and I don’t care, but since you’re on the way out anyway, I thought you might help me. I’m going no matter what, but it’d be easier as a two-man operation.’
‘If they caught you sneaking out, what would they do?’
‘Something pretty rough, psychological as well as physical. I don’t like to think about it. I heard of this kid who finished up with a broken leg ...’
‘So you reckon with me along they wouldn’t try anything like that?’
He emptied his glass. ‘I hadn’t thought about that, but yeah, I guess so. I can pay you.’
He had me over a barrel although he didn’t know it. My brief from his father was to look after him, and if I didn’t go along with his plan and it came unstuck as a solo, it sounded as if he was in for a bad time. I didn’t mind putting a thumb in St James’s eye, but it wouldn’t do to appear too idealistic.
‘How much?’ I said.
‘Five hundred dollars.’
‘Chicken feed, but you’re on. How d’you see it working?’
He told me that he’d located the control point for the sensor lights and the electronic gate. ‘I’m okay with that stuff,’ he said. ‘I can take them out long enough for us to get clear in your vehicle.’
I didn’t fully believe him but I was willing to play along. What was the worst that could happen? The Pajero could certainly break through the fence beside the gate once we got rolling, and I hadn’t seen any guard towers around the perimeter.
Pearson explained that he’d worked out a way to disable the lights and the gate for a maximum of thirty-five seconds. ‘Then a backup power source cuts in and the place is floodlit again, a siren goes off and the gate locks. And one more thing—the dog.’
I had seen a German Shepherd around a few times. It looked friendly enough and I said so.
‘He isn’t when he’s tethered at night near the electric control panel and instructed to bark blue murder if anyone approaches. But I’ve got matey with him and I can keep him quiet.’
‘I can’t see why you need me. A man with your resourcefulness should’ve been able to pinch a car key by now.’
He nodded seriously. ‘I probably could have but the thing is, I’ve got to cover nearly two hundred metres in thirty seconds in the dark. I’ve worked out that I could just about do it, but I couldn’t get my gear into a vehicle, get it started and reach the gate in time. That’s where you come in.’
‘I still can’t see the problem. If the gate locked my Pajero’d go straight through the fence.’
‘No it wouldn’t. The fence doesn’t look much but it’s electrified at a pretty high voltage. You hit it and it’d short out your electricals.’
‘A thousand bucks,’ I said. ‘And St James said something about patrols.’
‘Seven fifty. There aren’t any patrols. He says that just to make everything sound ... you know, military.’
‘Sure you won’t tell me why you need to do this?’
‘I’ll tell you when we’ve made it. How’s that?’
‘Have to do. When do we do the Steve McQueen bit?’
He looked at me blankly.
‘A movie,’ I said. ‘The Great Escape—you’ve never seen it?’
‘I don’t think so. Yeah, well, at 0300.’
He was hard to read—a gung-ho, dead shot, spit ‘n’ polish type who’d never seen one of the iconic war movies. The military lingo slid off his tongue but he wanted out. About an hour to wait. He said he had to sneak back to collect his gear and he nominated a meeting point.
‘What if one of your mates spots you?’
‘They’re knackered from today’s exercise. I’m fitter.’
Arrogant, too, I thought. I wanted to ask him about the NCOs, and particularly Sirdar Assad, but that would’ve aroused suspicion. It was all very odd but I reflected that my two jobs were to watch him and to find out what DTS was all about, and this was a perfect chance. I offered him another drink but he refused and took off in his socks. I poured another slug for myself and packed up my belongings. I was only going to have to travel twenty metres in the dark and start an engine. Piece of cake. I felt like Errol Flynn, except that there was no blonde in sight.
* * * *
It went like clockwork. We met at the appointed time. I took his duffel bag and scooted across to my car. Pearson disappeared into the semi-darkness at the edge of the floodlit area. I heard a low growl a few seconds later and I started the motor. The lights went out. Pearson sprinted towards me and threw himself into the seat.
‘Go!’
I gunned the engine, hit the lights and headed for the gate. Pearson jumped out while the car was still moving, operated the mechanism and swung the gate open. He got back in as we passed through. In the rear vision mirror I saw the area around the house light up like a football ground at night, and I heard the siren scream over the noise of the motor and the tyres on the gravel.
‘Yes!’ Pearson yelled.
We travelled about another hundred metres and then he leaned across and turned off the ignition. The Pajero bumped to a stop. I could see activity behind us, heard a yell and a dog bark.
‘What’re you doing?’ I shouted.
‘Fooled you, Hardy. We have to do an exercise to pass the course, and I chose to persuade you to get me out of the perimeter.’
Few things upset me more than being hoodwinked. His laugh was strangled when I hit him hard with an anger-fuelled short right to the temple. He was thrown sideways, bumped his head, and slumped down in the seat. I started the motor and drove on. I stopped at the cattle grid gate long enough to open it, pass through, close it again and roll a big rock in front to block it. Headlights appeared but I was well clear and drove steadily along the track, making the turns carefully, keeping up a respectable speed. There was a straight stretch before I hit the gravel road and if there was a vehicle following, it was well behind.
Adrenalin and exhilaration pushed me on until I reached the paved road, where I pulled over to take a look at Pearson. He was barely conscious—one of my better punches, aided by the hard interior parts of the car he’d bounced off. But then, many a knockout has been due as much to the head hitting the floor as the left hook. He was coming around, wasn’t bleeding from the ear—a mild concussion at worst. I strapped him firmly into his seatbelt, took a good swig of Johnnie Black and drove on with my right hand throbbing.
Pearson surfaced fully, after some muttering, about the time we met the highway.
He shook his head several times. ‘What happened?’
‘You bumped your head.’
‘You king-hit me, you bastard.’
‘You were fighting above your weight, son. I’ve been tricking people and being tricked for as long as you’ve been alive.’
‘Let me out!’
There was no traffic and I slowed. ‘Sure. Here?’
He stared out to the left and right. ‘Where are we?’
‘About fifty kilometres from Sydney. You could hop out, hitch back. Take you a while.’
‘I’d be a laughing-stock.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. You gave it a go and did pretty well, just didn’t quite wrap it up.’
‘My head hurts.’
‘Probably got a slight concussion. Want a hospital?’
‘I could sue you for assault and ... restraint or whatever they call it.’
‘You’d look pretty silly doing that.’
He went quiet but his breathing sounded normal and he seemed to be okay—physically. I reached down for the bottle of water I’d brought on the drive out and passed it to him. He unscrewed the top and swigged.
‘Where d’you want to go, Gary?’
He sounded young all of a sudden. ‘I dunno.’
‘Tell you what, why don’t we go and call on your old man.’
‘What?’ he said, sounding even younger.
I told him everything. He listened, occasionally turning his head to look at me. After I finished he stayed silent for quite a few minutes.
‘I didn’t think he gave a shit about me,’ he said.
‘He does. Probably has trouble showing it.’
‘I suppose so. It’s mutual, I guess. I used to look at a picture of him that Mum had, and I wished ... but we never ... He’s right that Sirdar got me interested in DTS, but he’s behind the times and way off-beam. Him and my mum were washed up a while back. They’re just friends now. Sirdar’s not a Muslim by the way, he’s a Christian. What do you think of DTS?’
‘How much did you pay to go on the course?’
‘Three thousand dollars. I took out a loan to pay it.’
‘I think it’s an exploitative play-acting operation. If you want to be a soldier, join the army, or the reservists.’
‘I might. What would my father think of that?’
‘I don’t know. He was a very good soldier himself, but he might have a different opinion of the army these days, the way things are.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Politics. Was it true what you said about the consequences of trying to get out of the place—the bastardisation, as it’s known?’
‘No. I made that up. Do you really mean what you said? We go and see him now, at this hour?’
‘Yes.’
I rang Clay, woke him and filled him in. ‘I’m bringing him to your place,’ I said. ‘You have things to talk about.’
I drew up outside Clay’s house in Erskineville. Clay was standing in his pyjamas and dressing gown at the front gate waiting. Gary grabbed his duffel bag, seemed to think about shaking my hand, didn’t, and got out. I waved and drove off.
* * * *
I waited a couple of days, making use of the 4WD to do a bit of carting. My daughter Megan had moved into a flat in Dee Why and I helped her to stock it with some furniture I didn’t need. Then I rang Clay and arranged to return the Pajero and the gear he’d lent me. I handed him the keys and dumped the rest on the floor of his office.
‘I drank the scotch,’ I said.
‘Of course. What do I owe you?’
‘I’ll invoice you. Your kid’s got a hard head—I bruised my knuckles. How’s it going with you two?’
‘Not bad. We’re talking. I even had lunch with Harriet the other day.’
‘Don’t tell me I’ve ...’
He laughed. ‘No, but it all feels a hell of a lot better. I have to thank you, Cliff.’
‘Any flak from St James?’
He smiled. ‘Flak, eh? Still taking the piss. No, not a squeak. Is there anything dangerous about DTS, d’you reckon?’
‘Only to the bank balances of people silly enough to get into it.’