by Gary Gregor
14
It was the nightmare once again that woke Craig Garrett. At first, they came two, maybe three times a week. Now they were occurring every night and had become so much a part of his life that he couldn’t remember when he last enjoyed a full night’s sleep without the terrible images invading his nights. The scenes, vivid and disjointed, flashed behind his eyes in quick succession with very little continuity about them. Sometimes they started from the middle, jumped to the beginning, and then to the end. Other times the whole scene played in reverse.
The sequence was never the same. The only consistency about the dreams was in their reality. They were so real he could feel the hot desert sand through the soles of his heavy combat boots and smell the acrid scent of cordite hanging thick in the air. He could hear the yells of his comrades interspersed among the cacophony of deafening gunfire. Behind his fluttering eyelids he saw himself sheltered behind a low, compacted mud-brick wall. Large chunks of sun-dried mud flew through the air around him as enemy gunfire peppered his location. In the fog of restless sleep, he felt it strange that he should see himself in the images unfurling before him like he was watching uncoordinated scenes from a violent war movie in which he played a starring role.
Always, he saw the woman. She was there every time the dreams ravaged his sleep. She ran from the ramshackle, bullet riddled and badly damaged structure that was ostensibly a home for someone but had now become a hopelessly inadequate refuge for the enemy. Above the thunder of gunfire, he could hear the words the woman screamed as she ran from the ragged hole in the wall that served as a door. “Allah Akbar!” she screamed. “Allah Akbar!” He saw himself edge around the corner of the wall behind which he sheltered and watch as the woman, dressed from head-to-toe in the traditional full-length abaya, complete with hijab covering her head and niqab covering her mouth and nose, leaving just her eyes exposed, ran directly at the wall.
What he could not see in his dream was any of his comrades. He knew they were there; he could hear them yelling. One of his comrades screamed in pain while another called for a medic. He should have been able to see his fellow soldiers around him, even if only in his peripheral vision, but there seemed to be just himself, the running, screaming woman and the blistering, deafening sound of gunfire. In his mind, he was an onlooker from a place of relative safety somewhere outside his own body. His focus was fixed on the woman as she ran towards his location and he saw himself raise the M4 carbine and send a short, fully automatic burst of gunfire at the woman. He saw the filthy swaddle of rags fly from her arms and he saw the woman fall as her body absorbed the deadly hail of 5.56 millimetre caliber rounds. And then, there was silence. No yelling, no gunfire, only silence. The lingering, acrid smell of cordite, and an eerie silence.
From that point on, in his mind’s eye, Garrett saw only the aftermath. He saw the baby sprawled haphazardly in the hot sand a short distance from its dead mother, its body so badly mutilated by the impact of bullets it was barely recognisable as a human form. Of all the images that flashed through his sleeping mind, the dead baby was the most prominent. In full, graphic colour, it came several times every night. It would, out of sequence, interrupt a scene for just a few seconds and then disappear only to pop up unexpectedly a short time later. The awful, staccato images, blinding in their brightness, pounding the inside of his eyes until it hurt, and then, finally, the dead baby, right there in all its Cinemascope glory. And, it was always the very last image he saw before the sudden waking; like it was reminding him that he had to carry that particular mental image with him throughout the day, and perhaps for the rest of his life.
He sat up with a start. In the silence of the dark room, the camp stretcher creaked loudly under his weight. The singlet-top he wore to bed clung to his body, wet from perspiration which ran unchecked down his torso. He clasped the garment, pulled it over his head, and cast it away in the darkness, hearing it land somewhere across the room with a soft, damp splat. Outside, he knew the temperature would be below freezing yet he perspired heavily. Bloody nightmares! They were fucking up an already fucked-up life!
He wiped at the sweat in his eyes with a corner of the thin blanket he slept under and collapsed back on the stretcher, wondering as he did every morning, if the dreams would ever leave him.
He knew what it was. In the old days, the days following the First and Second World Wars, they called it Shell-Shock. Now, the medicos, those who saw the very same symptoms in veterans of all wars that followed those early days, gave it a far more sophisticated name: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder – PTSD. That’s what the shrink his lawyer sent him to in the weeks leading up to his Court-Martial called it. But Garrett didn’t care what it was called. He didn’t believe he suffered from it, whatever name they gave it. The condition was as a direct result of his war service and he could have very easily applied for, and been granted, a military disability pension through the Department of Veterans’ Affairs but he refused to apply. It is always hard for a young, fit, healthy combat soldier to accept that he, or she, might suffer from a mental health disorder. Acceptance may even have saved him from being drummed unceremoniously out of the Army. But, if nothing else, Craig Garrett was resolute in his determination to not be seen as ‘damaged goods’. All he knew, all he was concerned about, was that the dreams still came. Even though his military career was behind him, the dreams still came, every night, and someone had to pay for that.
He swung his legs over the side of his bed and pushed himself to his feet. In the darkness of the compact room, he stood, clad only in a pair of briefs, and waited until a short bout of dizziness passed. That was happening more often now too; the dizziness. The sensation of mild vertigo was not frequent but it happened often enough to concern him. It had to be associated with the dreams, he guessed: Something else the government had to atone for.
In his bare feet he padded silently across to the locked door leading to the third room and leaned in close, listening for any sounds from within. Satisfied that everybody on the other side of the door was still asleep, he moved back across the room, lit a small, one-burner gas stove on which sat a saucepan of water and roughly tossed the makings for coffee into a tin mug. While he waited for the water to boil, he dressed in yesterday’s trousers and laced his feet into a pair of tough, hard-wearing work boots.
With the steaming hot coffee, sweetened with three generous spoons of sugar made, Garrett moved out into the adjacent first room and then outside into the day. He walked up the sloping entrance-way and stood at the top, facing the dark, pre-dawn sky on the horizon far away to the west.
Desert nights often dropped below freezing; a pre-cursor to days so hot it was difficult for many people to grasp the vast contrast between night and day. Dressed only in trousers and boots, the icy-cold desert air, encouraged by a gentle breeze, hit his naked torso like he stepped from a sauna into a freezer. The incongruency between the clammy, uncomfortable heat and perspiration of a few moments ago and the cold, pre-dawn air did not escape him.
The breeze, wafting gently against his bare chest and face, was bracing; reviving. Where some might rush to cover themselves in warm clothing, Garrett welcomed it. The icy breeze seemed to wash away the residue of fogginess of a night filled with recurring dreams.
He pulled his mobile phone from a side-leg pocket of his trousers, and switched it on. The use of mobile phones had to be brief. That was the plan. Technology had few limits these days and apparently, as long as there was a signal, it was not difficult to trace the location of a mobile phone. Out here, this far away from civilisation, the signal was weak but it was strong enough to receive a message from his two colleagues.
By pre-arrangement, the message was short – ‘Message sent’. Garrett replied with a ‘Thumbs Up’ icon and immediately shut the phone off and put it back in his pocket. He would not use it again until it was time to receive the second message.
Thomas and Frayne would have left Tilmouth Well Roadhouse and returned to Alice Springs where
they stayed overnight before traveling south on the Stuart Highway to Erldunda, a roadhouse, tourist stop-over point, at the junction with the Lasseter Highway, two hundred kilometres south of Alice Springs.
From Erldunda, they would send the ransom drop details in a text message to the incumbent government’s Education Department. They would stay at Erldunda just long enough to send the message and then return to Alice Springs. Somewhere along the highway on their return journey, the mobile phone would be smashed and the pieces distributed at intervals along the road.
Garrett sipped cautiously at the steaming coffee and watched the sky slowly lighten as the dawn encroached upon the desert from the east, beyond the hill behind him. There was something about the desert that fascinated Garrett; something about the peace and tranquility that seemed to embrace the isolated remoteness. It was hard to define exactly because there was so much about it that reminded him of Afghanistan, and he hated that place with a vengeance.
Perhaps it was because there was no war raging here in the Australian desert. No bearded, turban-wearing, war-monger hell bent on killing him and as many of his friends as he could before he was killed himself. And, it seemed, if the terrorist enemy was to die in the process, he welcomed the prospect. All those beautiful virgins waiting with open arms for his arrival. What the fuck was that about, Garrett wondered? Heaven had to be running out of virgins.
He took another sip of his coffee, shivered once as the cold air began to bite at his bare chest, then turned and headed back down the ramp and into the bunker.
15
Sam Rose leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach. “That was fantastic,” he announced. “I can’t remember the last time I had such a great breakfast.” He smiled at Marian Sparrow. “Thank you, Marian. That was delicious.”
“It was only bacon and eggs,” Marian Sparrow said. “There is some left if you would like more.”
“It wasn’t only bacon and eggs,” Sam said. “It was the bacon and eggs. And, no thank you, I’ve had more than enough. After last night’s roast lamb, I don’t think I can get out of the chair.” He picked up his coffee mug and sipped the steaming brew.
Having left the kitchen a few minutes earlier, Russell Foley re-entered the room and sat back in his chair opposite Sam. “Where are Max and Spog?” he asked.
“Left for the station a couple of minutes ago,” Sam answered.
“Okay, let’s go.” Foley drained the last of his coffee and stood.
“I haven’t finished my coffee,” Sam complained.
“I just spoke to the boss,” Foley said. “We’ve had a contact.”
Sam pushed back from the table and stood. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He smiled at Marion Sparrow. “Thanks again, Marian, for dinner and breakfast.”
“You’re welcome,” Marian said. She looked at Foley. “You never had any breakfast, Russell. It won’t take long to cook some more bacon and eggs.”
“No, thank you,” Foley said. “I rarely eat breakfast.” He pointed at a bowl of fruit in the middle of the table. “Would you mind if I grab a banana?”
“Of course not. Help yourself. Are you sure I can’t get you another coffee?”
“I’m good, thank you.” Foley took a banana from the bowl. “And, thank you for your hospitality.”
“Any time,” Marian smiled warmly.
“I’ll send Sam back a little later to make the beds,” Foley joked.
“What?” Sam said.
“Come on, Sam. We need to go.” Foley turned away from the table.
Sam hurried to catch up to Foley as they made the short walk to the police station; a small building with an even smaller block of cells attached to the rear and located between the two police houses. “What’s the hurry?” Sam asked. “I left half a cup of coffee on the table.”
“You can have another one at the station,” Foley said. He peeled the banana and took a bite.
“Tell me about the contact.” Sam said
Foley chewed, swallowed, and scrunched the banana skin in his hand. “I spoke to ‘Yap Yap’. He received a ransom demand. Sent as a text message to the Education Department office early this morning.”
“How much?”
“Two million.”
“Two million? That’s a big number?”
“Yes it is,”Foley nodded. He dropped the banana skin into a bin in front of the station and, followed closely by Sam, he pushed through the front door and paused just inside the small foyer. “Twelve victims… one-hundred-and-sixty-six-thousand, six-hundred-and-sixty-six- dollars and sixty-six-cents a-piece… that’s two million dollars.”
“You really are strange, Russ,” Sam said. “But then, I’ve seen you eat cucumber sandwiches… not to mention bananas for breakfast. Strange is in your DNA.”
“Bananas, indeed any kind of fresh fruit, is very healthy for breakfast,” Foley responded. “Anyway, you’re the strange one in this partnership,” he added dismissively.
David Sparrow and Richard Smart were leaning over the office desk, closely studying the large topographical map they had taken down from the wall. Both men looked up as Foley and Rose entered the office.
“You chaps are on the job early,” Foley commented.
“Max was earlier than me,” Sparrow said. “He was here when I came in.”
“Good morning Maxwell,” Foley greeted the station second-in-command.
Sam patted Smart on the back. “Mornin’, Max. Did you shit the bed?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Smart explained. “Tossed and turned all night thinking about Tracy and the kids.”
“I have some news,” Foley announced.
Smart and Sparrow looked expectantly at Foley.
“I just got off the phone to our boss, ‘Yap Yap’ Barker.” Foley began. “A text message came through early this morning. A ransom demand of two million dollars. ‘Yap Yap’ forwarded it on to me,” he swallowed the last of his banana and fished in his pocket for his mobile phone.
“Who was the text sent to,” Sparrow asked.
“As a matter of fact, it was sent to the manager of the Education Department office in Alice Springs,” Foley answered.
“Can they trace where the text originated?” Sparrow asked.
“The boffins at our Communications branch are working on it as we speak. Nothing yet,” Foley answered.
“What else did the text say, Russ?” Sam asked.
“Just that they would be in contact again later with further instructions.”
“‘Later’?” Sam said. “When is fuckin’ ‘later’?”
“I don’t know, Sam,” Foley answered. “I guess we wait until they contact us again. In the meantime, we keep looking.”
“How do we know if the message is genuine?” Smart asked.
Foley shrugged. “That’s where you come in, Max,” Foley said. He pushed more buttons on his phone and held it up so Smart and the others could see the screen. “They also sent this. Is this the school teacher?”
Smart leaned closer and stared at the image of the school teacher, Tracy, gagged and bound to a chair. “Oh shit!” he exclaimed. “Yes, that’s Tracy. Oh shit! We need to find these arseholes!”
“We’ll find them, Max. What I need to know from you now is, can you still work on this and remain objective?”
“I need to be there when we catch the bastards, Boss. I will do my job.”
“Thanks, Max. I’m sorry for asking, but given your relationship with the teacher, I needed to ask the question. Apart from being tied to a chair, she seems to be unhurt. I’m sure this is a staged photo, set up by the kidnappers to emphasise their point.” Foley paused momentarily. “So, let’s find the bad guys,” he continued, indicating the map on the desk and looked at Sparrow and Smart. “Have you two chaps come up with anything?”
“Unfortunately no,” Sparrow answered. “Max and I have been stationed out here for a while now and we both know the area pretty well. However, beyond the limits of Haasts Bluff and Papunya,
it is a vast, mostly featureless and uninhabited area. We haven’t seen it all because there has never been any reason for us to go out there.”
“Well,” Foley continued. “They’re out there somewhere. ‘Yap Yap’ tells me we have all roads in and out of the Alice covered. All vehicles large enough to transport that many people are being stopped and searched.”
“That’s gotta be pissing a few long-distant truckies off,” Smart commented.
“I’m sure it’s pissing a lot of people off, Max,” Foley said. “Better to piss ‘em off than let the bastards slip through the net with twelve hostages on board.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Sam said suddenly.
“I thought I smelt something burning,” Foley joked.
“You doin’ Stand-up now, Russ?” Sam asked. “Perhaps you should leave the comedy to me.”
“Yeah, right,” Foley scoffed. “You’re about as funny as a boil on the arse.”
“Ooh, that hurts!” Sam groaned.
“Why don’t you enlighten us all with whatever it is you’ve been thinking?” Foley said.
Sam moved closer to the desk-top and tapped the map. “How did the perps know there was going to be a bus load of school kids on the road on that day, at that time?” He looked at Sparrow and Smart. “Any ideas fellas?”
“Everyone in town knew,” Sparrow answered with a shrug. “There is an exchange day-trip every month. One month, Haasts Bluff goes to Papunya and the next month Papunya goes to Haasts Bluff. Notices are placed at the school and on the public notice board at the local store.”
“Everyone in town knew?” Sam asked.
“These exchange trips were not a secret, Sarge,” Sparrow answered. “They were an integral part of the school curriculum.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “Let’s consider ‘everyone in town’. Any bad eggs among them?”
“Yeah,” Sparrow confirmed. “There’s a few. Nothing particularly heavy. There are a few younger blokes who have some form. Illegal Use, Common Assault, Domestic Abuse, Traffic offences… stuff like that. There is no one here I would consider capable of snatching a bus load of kids and their teacher.”