Dirty Fracking Business

by Peter Ralph

  ‘I’m going to try, Jake. Now, we’d best be getting you back to town.’

  As the helicopter took off, Steve opened his laptop and began typing. He had been deeply moved by Jake Martin’s plight and the fire burning in his brain flowed to his rapidly moving fingers, as the article he had titled Shame took on a life of its own. He checked it once, but made no alterations before emailing it to Buffy, instructing her to run it on the front page tomorrow. Little did he know that, the following day, it would appear on the front page of a national daily; the Advocate printed it unedited, except for the title, which they amended to Shame Bloody Shame. Talkback presenters were quick to pick up on the story and Aaron James conducted a heart-wrenching phone interview with Jake Martin, after which he and his legions of listeners unmercifully lambasted Filliburton.

  The generals in Canberra had spoken against suggestions by their bosses in government to involve the army in a civil dispute and many in the Labor Party were of the same view, but the fear of Australia being tainted as a country with a high degree of sovereign risk tipped the scales. On the eighteenth day of the blockade, a police car, a black truck, and six divvy vans, accompanied by an equal number of motorbikes, sped through Tura, followed by forty army vehicles carrying cranes, forklifts and other lifting equipment. Bringing up the rear was another convoy of Filliburton trucks loaded with gravel, huts, drill rig components and light poles.

  Those manning the rear of the blockade were quickly informed and Len Forrest and his mates told a reluctant and scruffy-looking Simon Breckenridge that he had to get out before the confrontation took place, because it wouldn’t help anyone if he was in jail. Fifteen minutes later, Breckenridge pulled to the side of the road as a red cloud of dust and a cacophony of blaring sirens raced towards him.

  As the motorbikes pulled in behind the rows of vehicles and a crowd of about a hundred protestors, a police inspector jumped out of his car and shouted into a megaphone. ‘This is an illegal blockade, so I am asking you to move your vehicles immediately. If you refuse, the army is following five minutes behind and they will move them for you. I urge you to act peacefully.’

  ‘We’re staying right where we are,’ Len Forrest shouted. ‘And if you try and …’ Before he could get another word out, two policemen flanked him and led him away to one of the vans, his protests drowned out by the yelling of his supporters.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Billy McGregor screamed, charging at the police, only to be brought down by a baton and unceremoniously hurled into the back of a divvy van.

  ‘We are not messing around and we intend to remove this blockade with or without your help,’ the policeman on the megaphone shouted, as the first army truck came into sight. ‘We will not accept any responsibility for damage done to your vehicles and this is your last chance to voluntarily move them.’

  Maggie Forrest threw herself in front of the first army truck, which had to brake hard to miss her, before she was picked up and thrown into the van with her husband. Anyone who resisted was locked away and soon two of the divvy vans, with a dozen noisy protestors in the back, roared away. The police brooked no interference, were not concerned about the television cameras and were ruthlessly efficient. Some of the protestors with cars in the back row moved them. This was followed by others and soon there was a flood of people all trying to get out at the same time. The rear barricade was broken and the army cranes and tow trucks had only to move the remaining, locked cars to the side of the road.

  The motorbikes then moved slowly down the right-hand side of the road past the convoy of stationary trucks, followed by the police car - in which the overbearing inspector was a passenger - and the remaining four divvy vans. Following immediately behind the last van was an army truck carrying a huge crane, and three flatbed trailers. The inspector shouted the same message into his megaphone, but this time there were over 300 protestors who already knew what had just occurred, and no-one said a word. The General had warned them that shouting or retaliating would only identify their leaders, so the police were met with stony silence. Undeterred, an army sergeant and a group of privates connected a harness to one of the two cars in the middle of the front row and the crane lifted it onto the rear-most flatbed trailer. The process was repeated, until three vehicles were loaded and the first flatbed was heading for Paisley.

  ‘You’ve seen how easy this is for us,’ the inspector yelled. ‘I’ll give you one last opportunity to move your vehicles.’

  ‘Stuff this,’ said Dean Prezky, pulling out a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his jacket and chaining himself to the next car to be moved. Two minutes later an army private cut through the chain with boltcutters and Dean was frogmarched, hurling abuse at the police, and thrown into the back of a divvy van.

  ‘Let him go, he’s done nothing wrong,’ Charles Paxton shouted; as two police strode towards him, Cosmos snarled.

  ‘Control your dog mister or I’ll put a bullet in its head,’ one of the policemen said, drawing his pistol, his face masked in fear.

  ‘Cosmos, Cosmos heel,’ Paxton yelled, grabbing the dog by its collar. ‘Tom, grab him and lock him in the copter.’

  As Morgan dragged the growling dog away, the police seized Paxton and the protestors surged towards them. ‘No violence,’ the General shouted above the growing din. ‘No violence.’

  Another half-a-dozen vociferous protestors were manhandled into the waiting vans before Dennis Fulton yelled, ‘Stand your ground. They can’t lock 300 of us up.’ The words had barely escaped his lips before he was manhandled by three policemen, who tried to force his arms up his back so they could handcuff him. He was surprisingly strong and aggressively resisted their attempts, while assailing them with obscenities, but in the end they dragged him, kicking and shouting, to one of the divvy vans.

  Meanwhile, the army trucks continued to move down the middle of the rows of vehicles, lifting them out of the way and onto the following flatbeds. Some of the protestors, with their cars parked at the rear, moved them, but most remained steadfast. The passage that the army trucks had cleared was quickly filled with dissenters lying or sitting down. The police inspector in charge of the operation had been advised that, once the leaders and troublemakers were locked up, the remaining protestors would fall away but, if anything, they seemed more determined. Frustrated, he grabbed the megaphone and shouted, ‘I warn you, do not make me use force.’

  This was greeted by jeers and catcalls as the protestors filled the area from which the vehicles had been carted away. Meanwhile, the inspector barked instructions into his two-way and soon the large black police truck, followed by the Filliburton convoy, rumbled into sight; the protestors steeled themselves, many locking arms. A large tank was mounted on the body of the black truck. ‘Do not make me use the water cannon,’ the inspector shouted. ‘I implore you, clear out of the way and make it easy for yourselves.’

  This was met with more booing and defiant hand gestures, but some of the bravado of a few minutes earlier had been replaced by looks of anger and resignation. Steve Forrest stood amongst the television crews who were filming the drama unfolding in front of them, not believing that the police would actually use the water cannon.

  ‘They’re bluffing,’ he said to one of the cameramen. ‘He who blinks first loses.’

  At the back of the crowd, Tom Morgan made his way to the helicopter, asking those nearby if they wanted to join him on the trip back to Paisley, but he was met with stony silence. They had not washed or shaved for nearly three weeks, their eyes were red from lack of sleep, but their resolve was undiminished. Morgan had not the slightest doubt that the police would use the water cannon and, when they did, the blockade would be smashed. He also knew they might impound the helicopter and possibly arrest him, and he reasoned that he could do far more to help if he remained out of jail.

  ‘You have one minute to move,’ the inspector yelled, as the ominous black truck edged to within twenty-five metres of the protestors, its cannon swivelling and focusing on
its targets.

  Some at the front started to pull back ever so slightly and a woman screamed, ‘Hold your line. Don’t move.’

  ‘They won’t fire. They can’t,’ Steve whispered to himself. And then the first jet of water blew the protestors who were standing, off their feet, and those lying on the ground were rolled over like tumbleweed. The black truck moved slowly through the passage, sporadically firing its cannon, while the police arrested dissenters who were throwing rocks at them.

  ‘No violence,’ the General shouted, but those who were saturated, crushed and angry continued to hurl rocks. No-one could stand against the force of the water cannon and within minutes the motorbikes and convoy were on the other side of the barricade, roaring towards Shawn Rosen’s property. The protestors quickly reassembled, clambered into their vehicles and gave chase, but the damage had been done. By the time they arrived at Shawn’s property, the police were manning the front gates and the trucks were being unloaded.

  Television stations across the nation broke into their regular programs to show graphic close-ups of the police hurling protestors into the back of divvy vans, the army removing vehicles with their heavy equipment and the water cannon pounding all those in its way. Some presenters described it as bastardy, while others said it was un-Australian. Newsroom switchboards went into meltdown as they fielded calls from irate viewers.

  Spencer Harbrow sat in his office, rubbing his hands together in glee as he watched the coverage. There were those in government who had fought to keep his convoy of trucks from following the police and army, but his plans had prevailed and, with one decisive blow, he’d opened up the Tura estates. He glanced at another screen with stock quotes running across the bottom; CEGL’s share price was up over six percent for the day on heavy volume. The public might hate what he had done but the stockmarket loved it and that was all he cared about.

  Nick Gould viewed the television footage with disgust. He’d had no choice but to send the police in, but he’d been ostracised in the media and held up to ridicule by the cartoonists in a way that he’d never experienced before. He had talked about ‘the national interest’ and ‘protecting sovereign rights’ but this had been ignored. Instead, he was attacked for siding with big business to crush the little man. He was glad this was his last term in office, as the folk hero status he had enjoyed for so long had been badly tarnished; his popularity was unlikely to ever return to the heights of his halcyon days. One small saving grace was that the PM was copping even more flak than he was and she was the subject of scorn on the nightly current affairs programs. She had had no choice, and the press drew comparisons with the great Labor PM of the mid-twentieth century, Ben Chifley, who’d sent the troops in to reopen the coal mines and crush the miners’ strike, only to be destroyed at the next election.

  By the time Steve Forrest reached the Rosen property, workers operating heavy machinery had started digging out the earth and tippers were dumping their loads of gravel. Trucks were being unloaded on the track to Shawn’s house and access to it was completely blocked. An angry group of fifty diehard protestors, mainly Tura landowners, screamed abuse at the police, but they knew they had been defeated and that it was only a matter of time before drilling on their properties would begin. Steve quickly typed up an article headed No Justice and emailed it off to Buffy. He then hitched a ride to his car with one of the disillusioned protestors.

  He had talked to Sandi many times every day, but had not seen her for over two weeks. When he barged into the apartment unannounced, she threw herself at him, hugging him and telling him how much she’d missed him, before gently pushing him away. ‘Phew, you stink.’ His clothes were filthy and he had a full beard, his hair was greasy and his teeth had not seen a brush since the day he had driven out of town. ‘You need a shower, badly.’

  ‘Don’t go away,’ he said, throwing off his shirt. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes, smelling like a flower.’

  Although he felt sorry for the landowners, he was glad the strike was finally over. He had stressed terribly about being away from Sandi, something he’d never felt with Bianca.

  The shower door opened and Sandi hopped in, a playful grin on her face. ‘Can I wash your back, Sir?’

  ‘How about something a little more personal,’ he said, pulling her close to him and kissing her passionately, as the warm spray splashed over them.

  ‘You smell so good,’ she said, nestling into his chest as she gently ran her fingers up and down his hardness, barely touching, knowing that it drove him crazy.

  His breathing was shallow as he dropped his hands from her breasts and manoeuvred her up against the shower wall, his hands massaging and lifting her taut bottom ever so slightly as he guided himself into her. They were soon in rhythm and then he went faster and harder as the water beat down on them, and Sandi responded, gasping, her breath intensifying. Her release was fantastic and she screamed while he simultaneously exploded inside her.

  As they swayed under the hot water, she giggled, ‘How good was that and why have you got that dopey smile on your face?’

  ‘God, I missed you.’

  Chapter 33

  Norris Scott-Tempy had never been popular with the good folk of the Fisher Valley but, once they found out that he had aided and abetted Filliburton by letting them hide their vehicles on his property, he became the most despised man in the valley. In the aftermath, someone took to his pristine, black Rolls Silver Cloud and painted the word scab all over it in fluorescent, white paint.

  After the demise of Moira Raymond, Donny Drayton soon found himself demoted back to being a land access consultant and Bianca, facing diminished financial prospects, was quick to cool their romance.

  The cell at the Paisley police station was capable of housing six prisoners in cramped conditions if absolutely necessary, so there had been no choice but to process the paperwork on the forty-six arrested at the Tura blockade and release them back into the community. Paisley Court was overflowing with reporters and gawking spectators on Monday morning. The defendants, who in the main were represented by Simon Breckenridge, faced a total of ninety-seven charges, ranging from obstruction, which carried a $440 fine, to assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duty, for which the maximum penalty was seven years imprisonment. The magistrate, an angry, middle-aged, balding man with bifocals sitting on the end of his hawk-like nose, was no fan of big gas and did not record convictions against those charged with minor offences, including Charles Paxton. Instead, he ordered each of them to pay fifty-five dollars in costs and to get out of his court and make sure they were not brought up before him again.

  Serious charges against twelve of the thirteen remaining defendants, including Billy McGregor, for obstruction, intimidation and assault, were adjourned for two months and they were released on their own recognisance. Dennis Fulton was the only defendant committed to appear before a District Court Judge on the serious charges of inciting a riot, assault, obscene language, offensive behaviour and resisting arrest.

  Dean Prezky bounced out of court wearing his gas man attire and was immediately assailed by television cameramen and reporters, all looking for a twenty-second grab that would lead into the nightly news. He was soon railing against the prime minister for sending in the army to stop ordinary law-abiding citizens from protecting their properties from what he described as ‘rapacious foreign investors’.

  Charles Paxton looked like a defeated man as he slumped out of court supported by his good friend Tom Morgan. ‘They killed Charlie and now they’re going to destroy the valley, Tom, and there’s not a goddamn thing we can do about it.’

  ‘It’s too early to give up, Charles,’ Morgan said unconvincingly, knowing that the value of coal seam gas projects across Australia ran into the hundreds of billions of dollars and that Queensland had already been described as the Saudi Arabia of coal seam gas which, by his reckoning, made New South Wales the next Kuwait.

  Steve Forrest had been in court to support his parents wh
o, after incurring $110 in costs, were free to go without a conviction, leaving their records unblemished. As they stood on the footpath, Steve looked around him and was hit by a sense of failure. The protagonists were quiet and the bluster of the past few months seemed to have died. He knew that they would bounce back and fight again, but that they would do so aware that there was no prospect of winning. Someone suggested going to the pub, but this was met with little enthusiasm and, instead, those who had fought the good fight drifted off to their cars. They knew that in the not-too-distant future there would be thousands of gas wells sunk in the valley.

  On the walk back to the Chronicle’s offices, Steve phoned Jake Martin. The phone was answered by a softly-spoken woman who, upon hearing who was calling, sounded concerned. ‘He can’t talk to you, Mr Forrest.’

  ‘Is he all right? Who am I talking to?’

  ‘I’m Jake’s wife, Helen. Look, we can’t talk to you. Please don’t phone again.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Steve could hear agitated voices in the background.

  ‘Steve,’ a raspy, familiar voice said. ‘We can’t talk to the media and you in particular.’

  ‘G’day, Jake. You did a deal and Filliburton made you sign a non-disclosure agreement, didn’t they? They’re bluffing, Jake. There’s no way they’ll go back on any deal they’ve done with you. Jeez, if that document ever got out in the public and Filliburton reneged, they’d be crucified.’

  ‘I dunno what ya talking about. I’m tired and I’ve had enough of being interviewed. I just want some quiet time with my family before …’

  ‘Did they look after your family, Jake? I sure hope they did.’

  ‘Sorry, Steve, I can’t say anything.’