by Peter Ralph
‘Hold me,’ she sniffled. ‘I nearly got bashed by a mob of angry truckies tonight. We got called out to a disturbance at one of those motel dives on the outskirts of Tura and, when we got there, two guys, surrounded by their mates egging them on, were belting the hell out of each other.’ She paused. ‘You can’t print any of this.’
‘I won’t.’
‘When we got out of the van, the truckies turned ugly and called us pigs and to piss off back to Paisley and for a minute it got scary. Even when Josh pulled his pistol out, they kept pushing closer. It was only when he fired a shot into the air that they backed off. He told me later that in all the years he’s been in the force that was the closest he’d ever been to losing control and the first time he’d used his pistol.’
‘No wonder you’re shaking.’ Steve held her even tighter.
‘We tossed the two brawlers in the back of the divvy van and Josh told the mob to clear out or he’d call for backup. When we got back to the station, they’d calmed down and said they’d been sharing one of those tiny, dirty rooms for four days, and a fight broke out over what to watch on television.’
‘Truckies waiting for a load. It’s a tough way to make a dollar.’
‘That’s what we thought, but it turns out that they parked their rigs fully loaded. They’ve been on stand-by, waiting for a call telling them that they’re about to be bussed to their trucks.’
‘What? That’s not how trucking companies operate.’
‘Maybe not, but there are two truckies in every one of the thirty rooms at that dive.’
‘What? That’s crazy. Did you ask them what they were carrying?’
‘Of course. The two guys we hauled in were driving tippers carrying gravel, but they said there were other trucks loaded with light poles, generators, huts and mechanical equipment.’
‘Oh shit, so that’s what they’re doing. Where are these trucks? I need to know.’ He dived for his mobile phone.
‘You promised you wouldn’t print anything. You promised you wouldn’t use anything I told you.’
‘Honey, listen to me,’ he pleaded. ‘This is different. Those trucks are being hidden by the gas companies so that when the time is right they’ll be driven onto some poor sap’s land in the middle of the night without his knowledge. If you tell me where they are and where they’re going, I can stop them. Please, I’m begging you.’
‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘No, no, that’s not right; I promise I won’t publish one word of what you tell me. Think of the poor landowner, his wife, his kids and their gates being smashed off their hinges in the dark of the night. You can’t let it happen.’
‘They’re at your old girlfriend’s father’s place and the drivers haven’t been told where the destination is. I hope I won’t live to regret this.’
‘You won’t,’ he said, giving her a cuddle before punching Jack Thomas’s number into his mobile.
The Tura Hotel stayed open to midnight on Fridays and, after Dean Prezky knocked off, he stood on the verandah, pulling his jacket up around his neck to ward off the biting wind. Two buses, carrying shiftworkers out to one of the drill sites, trundled past him but he paid little attention to them. When his mobile buzzed, he wondered who could be phoning him at this late hour. Jack Thomas took less than a minute to tell him what was going on at the Scott-Tempy property and Dean cursed himself for not twigging to it when he’d tracked those convoys earlier in the week.
‘I’m about to alert the troops to blockade that prick’s property. I’ll make sure those trucks never get out,’ Thomas said.
As Dean was about to respond, another three buses loaded with men drove past him. ‘It’s too late Jack, the drivers are already on the way to the property. The trucks will be gone before you can get enough strength out there to stop ’em.’
The phone went quiet and all Dean could here was laboured breathing. ‘Jack are you there?’
‘I’m about to text everyone to blockade the Old Farm Road T-intersection; you know, the junction with Matlock Row. God, I pray I’ve chosen the right location. Dean, I’m staying here and the others from Paisley probably won’t make it in time, so you and your neighbours in Tura are going to have to hold them off. Good luck.’
Dean made two phone calls. The first was to the General, who already had the text message and had assumed control and the second to tell Vicki what had occurred and not to expect him home anytime soon.
Tom Morgan buzzed his manager’s residence and a sleepy Andrew Brown answered, only to be told to throw a pair of jeans and a jacket on and be at the helipad in ten minutes. This was Morgan’s way of helping Andrew gain redemption with the good folk of the valley, but he didn’t say so. Charles Paxton, with Cosmos next to him, was already on his way to join Morgan. This was a fight he wasn’t going to miss.
The track to the Tura estates was normally desolate after midnight but, as Dean sped along the red dirt tracks, he saw tail-lights in front of him and headlights behind him and vehicles moving down long driveways to the right and left. The troops were rallying and racing to take up positions at the end of Old Farm Road; it wasn’t really a road but just a wider red dirt track.
A bit further along, Dean could see the lights of a double line of trucks, pick-ups, utilities, cars and four-wheel-drives lined up across the road, with only a small break in the middle for ‘friendly’ vehicles to pass through. About a hundred metres in front of the line, a group of men were building a bonfire to the left of the road which, when ignited, would make the road impassable. As more vehicles joined the barricade, the General shouted instructions and, by the time the enemy was in sight, the vehicles would be in tightly spaced rows and the passageway would be closed. As Dean climbed out of the Toyota, he shook Mick’s hand and said, ‘I sure hope we’ve got the right location.’
‘Won’t make any difference,’ the older man said, a thin roll-your-own smoke hanging out of the side of his mouth. ‘I’ve despatched two groups of men to cover the other properties. I’ve spoken to Tom Morgan and he’s going to track the convoy in his chopper, so we’ll know their destination early enough to reposition ourselves. Don’t worry; I’ve got everything under control.’
Dean grinned and breathed a little easier. It was little wonder that this man was nicknamed the ‘General’ and was so highly thought of by everyone, from the Tura landowners to rich graziers and vineyard owners. It wouldn’t be without hardship but, for the first time since he’d left the hotel, Dean knew that the gas companies would not be breaching any landowner’s property tonight. ‘Well done, Mick.’
Mick ignored the compliment, spitting on the ground and shouting at a newcomer to go and help build another bonfire a further fifty metres along the road, but on the other side. Nearly a kilometre from the front line, twenty men were in the bushes hiding long planks of wood with nails driven through them, ready to be laid on the road as soon they received Mick’s orders.
Morgan had paid fifteen million dollars for the Sikorsky and its sophisticated navigation and tracking systems were state of the art. He flew high above the convoy, as it commenced its journey from the Scott-Tempy property. ‘There must be more than a hundred trucks,’ he said.
‘You’re not wrong,’ Paxton responded, while patting Cosmos as the big dog pressed into him. ‘Look at the cars pouring out of Paisley. They’re not going to make it in time to be of any help though.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought, but the General wants them to form a blockade behind the last truck and trap them in what he said is a classic pincer movement.’
‘Hmmph, sounds like he’s been reading too many war stories to me.’
‘Maybe, but he’s a good man and a great organiser. If he wasn’t such a bloody recluse, I’d get him to reorganise my warehouses. What do you think, Andrew?’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘No, about the blockade?’
‘I hope we don’t end up in jail.’
‘Andrew, you and your f
amily are very unpopular in the valley through no fault of your own. You can change that in the next few hours, and when we land I want you to do everything the General tells you to do without question.’
‘How will I know him?’
Paxton laughed. ‘You won’t have to worry about that.’
‘They’re heading to the Tura estates all right,’ Morgan cut in. ‘Look at that stream of lights below us. In ten minutes they’ll be at the five-ways intersection and we’ll know exactly where they’re going, but my money’s on Jack Thomas being right.’
Billy McGregor and his gang didn’t want to miss any of the action and had taken only a few minutes to stock up on booze before speeding out of town. An hour later, their three cars were sitting behind the last truck. Although his mates egged him on to pass and get in front of the convoy, he knew it would be suicide to try.
Tom Morgan, having established that the convoy could only be heading to Old Farm Road, set the Sikorsky down behind the last row of cars, to the rousing cheers of nearly 200 men and a few brave women. The General, who had been worded up by Morgan, handed Andrew Brown two small petrol cans. It was 3.35 when he told him to prime the bonfires and then to wait for the vehicles in the front row to flash their lights, before lighting them.
Andrew wanted to refuse. He’d never been brave, never been a dissident, always accepted authority; and he was sure he was about to participate in a dangerous criminal act. Reluctantly he trudged down the road towards the bonfires, wondering what Tom Morgan had got him into. He heard the raspy shout of the General telling him to get a move on and ordering all vehicle lights turned off and smokes stubbed out. When Andrew reached the second bonfire, he looked back at the barricade, but couldn’t see anything. However, in the opposite direction he saw a glimmer of light, which soon flared into powerful beams racing towards him. He felt sick, his gut was knotted and he was shaking, as the lights charged towards him. He fought the urge to throw a lighted match on the bonfire and run back to sanctuary. He felt certain that he was going to be run over and driven into the dirt like an insect, when the vehicles in the front row finally flashed their lights in unison. He hurled a match into the first bonfire, but didn’t wait to watch it erupt in flames before sprinting towards the second one. He was sweating heavily when he reached the barricade, to applause and shouts of ‘good onya, Andrew!’ Tom Morgan stood in the shadows smiling; the resurrection of Andrew Brown had begun.
The lead trucks braked abruptly on seeing the flashing lights and huge fires on the road, but not quickly enough to avoid the planks and their vicious spikes, which tore through their tyres. As Frank Beck jumped to the ground in a blind fury the General gave the command and every vehicle in the barricade turned their lights on high beam, blinding him. He hadn’t breathed a word to anyone at Filliburton and knew that someone at CEGL had leaked; he cursed Moira Raymond. Had he still been in the marines, he would have ordered the largest B-double to the front of the convoy to smash the barricade apart, but in the civilised world you went to jail for actions like that. Instead, he dialled 000 and screamed at the operator, telling her that it was a matter of life and death and to get a team of police out to Old Farm Road as a matter of extreme urgency. The next call he made was to Moira Raymond.
It was 5.17am when Josh Gibson was awoken from a deep sleep by a fractious superintendent in Sydney, who quickly briefed him and finished by telling him to get out to Tura and fix the problem. Steve had been awake most of the night and had wanted to race out to Tura as soon as he’d received the text message from Jack Thomas, but the truckies had terrified Sandi and he couldn’t bring himself to leave her by herself. He knew the call would come early in the morning and the phone rang only once before he picked it up. ‘Sure, Josh,’ he said, ‘I’ll wake her.’
When Sandi put the phone down, she looked totally distraught. ‘There’s over two kilometres of trucks and trailers blockaded on the Tura estates.’ She hurriedly threw her uniform on. ‘Did I do that?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘What am I going to say if Josh asks me whether I told you anything?’
‘He probably won’t ask, because I’m still here. If he thought I knew anything, he’d expect me to be out there, but, if he asks, just say no.’
‘I don’t like lying.’
‘Sometimes you have to lie when it’s for a good cause,’ Steve said, feeling like a hypocrite after what he’d thought about his parents’ lies. ‘Honey, you did the right thing.’
She was pensive and not her normal, bright self as they sat in the kitchen, picking at fruit and muesli. Ten minutes later they heard Josh beeping out the front and she brushed his lips. ‘Are you going out there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I might see you; I don’t know what time I’ll be home.’
‘Nor me.’ He gave her a quick cuddle. Josh beeped impatiently.
She was barely out the door before he flicked the telly on. He saw the first aerial shots of this massive convoy of trucks wedged between barricades of smaller vehicles. It was election day, but the political battle hardly rated a mention and every channel was carrying the blockade. It was being portrayed as the little man bloodying the big corporate bully’s nose. If coal seam gas and the Fisher Valley hadn’t been national news before this morning, they certainly were now. It was 6am when Steve tuned the Cherokee’s radio to 2ZL so he could listen to Aaron James on the drive to Tura.
Moira Raymond hated broken sleeps, but when the phone rang early in the morning she had a sense of foreboding. Frank Beck’s attitude hadn’t helped when he virtually accused her of being the source of the leak that had ruined his carefully-mapped-out plan. She had been short with him and, after hanging up, knew it was pointless going back to bed. Instead, she made a cup of coffee, before phoning the Chief Commissioner who, while abrupt, promised that he’d immediately organise to despatch a squad of his finest to Tura. She knew she should phone Spencer Harbrow, but the thought of his vengeful face sent a shiver down her spine.
It was 7.45am when the alarm went off on Harbrow’s clock radio and the theme music for the ABC’s national news resonated around his grossly-oversized bedroom. An excited young female reporter described the scene below her as utter chaos, with more than a hundred heavy transport rigs caught between two well-organised groups of protestors protecting landowners from the coal seam gas companies. He reached for the TV remote.
His face creased in a thin smile at the pandemonium he was witnessing. Truckies were congregating in groups around fires they’d built on the road to keep warm; placard-carrying protestors at either end of the convoy were hurling abuse at them; and the sky was thick with television and news helicopters. Three police cars, with lights flashing and sirens screaming, threw up a red dust storm as they sped towards the convoy. He’d known that Moira would fail, but this was more spectacular than he had dared hope for, and the unwanted publicity she had drawn to the industry would be extremely damaging. He would have no choice but to demand her resignation. While showering, he thought about what he was going to say when he phoned his co-directors. He would be sympathetic, but would ensure that they were not left in any doubt as to where the responsibility for this fiasco lay.
Josh was tired and testy and, other than good morning, hardly spoke to a relieved Sandi as they sped towards Tura. By the time they reached the rear of the convoy, there were seven rows of vehicles, mainly cars, four-wheel-drives and a few pick-ups, parked nose to bumper, five across the road, with stragglers starting an eighth row. Father Michael O’Rourke was in earnest conversation with Simon Breckenridge and Don Carmody while, on the other side of the road, about twenty men and women stood around a cut-down forty-four-gallon drum which Len Forrest had converted into a makeshift barbecue. The aroma of sausages and chops wafted through the air and Maggie Forrest stood next to her husband, buttering thick slices of bread. Billy McGregor, with a can of beer in hand, was sitting on the bonnet of his hot yellow Ford, which was parked in the middle of the front row;
on either side were souped-up Holdens belonging to his mates. They were shouting at an overweight truckie dressed in an undersized blue singlet and black shorts, giving him hell about the size of his gut. Josh, still angry from the bollocking he’d received from the pompous superintendent, strode over to three of the pillars of Paisley’s society, with Sandi in close tow. ‘What do you think you’re playing at, Simon? You should know better. I want you to …’
‘Calm down laddie,’ the old priest interrupted. ‘We’re doing the Lord’s work. Do you object to that?’
Josh groaned, knowing there was no way he could win an argument against Father Michael. ‘You’re blocking the road, Father. What if there’s an emergency and someone needs to get out or an ambulance or a doctor needs to get in? Have you thought about that?’
‘If that was to occur, the cars would part like the Red Sea, my boy.’
‘Jeez, Josh, this is a peaceful demonstration against what would have been a violent land seizure.’ Simon Breckenridge said. ‘If you protected landowners, we wouldn’t need to be here.’
‘You can’t block the roads, Simon. I want you to tell everyone to move their cars or I’m going to have to arrest them. And, while you’re at it, why don’t you tell them the penalties they’re looking at.’
‘They know they could end up behind bars, Josh. Simple fact is that they’re sick of getting trampled on by the gas companies and they no longer care what happens to them. Anyhow, what makes you think they’re going to listen to me? I’m not their leader.’
‘Nor me,’ said Don Carmody. ‘I’m just a simple merchant banker and vineyard owner, here to support my neighbours.’
‘That leaves me,’ laughed Father Michael. ‘Sadly, I think there are a lot of heathens out here, so they’re hardly likely to heed anything I say.’
Jack Thomas’s decision to supervise operations out of Paisley had proved enlightened, because he would have found it hard to deny that he was their leader.