Maralinga

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Oh, what a pity to be left all on one’s own,’ he’d said, when Vic had insisted upon winding his weary way off to bed. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you to a final nightcap?’

  Vic had read his wife’s hesitation. ‘You stay for a drink if you like, love,’ he’d said. ‘I’m off to bed, I’ve had it.’

  A complacent man, assured of his wife’s fidelity, Harold had thought – always a fatal mistake.

  Gloria had stayed.

  ‘Alone at last,’ he’d said jokingly. Or was it a joke? Gloria had laughed, a girlish, breathless laugh, the sort he recognised – middle-aged women always found him irresistible.

  Gloria had been his for the taking. He’d known she would be from the moment he’d joined the couple at the table. Except, of course, he hadn’t taken her. He never did. He was always faithful to Lavinia. But he did so enjoy the game. Harold was a terrible tease.

  ‘Goodnight, Gloria,’ he’d said forty minutes later. ‘I’ve enjoyed your company immeasurably.’

  Her disappointment had been palpable, and Harold had delighted in the thought that she’d been prepared to cuckold her husband, no doubt for the first time in a twenty-five-year marriage. Such moments were a wonderful boost to one’s ego.

  ‘So you had a decent night’s sleep then, Dan?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I did.’

  ‘I must say, you look well-rested. The sea air’s obviously worked wonders for you too. I thought you seemed a little peaky on the trip down.’ Harold’s bonhomie knew no bounds.

  ‘I was rather out of sorts, but I feel very much better, sir, thank you.’

  ‘Excellent. A bit of a change now and then would do all you lads good, I should think.’

  Daniel wondered how twelve hours or more of heavy-duty driving over rough terrain could be termed ‘a bit of a change’, but he wasn’t about to argue. Harold Dartleigh was, after all, quite right. The trip to Ceduna had done him the world of good.

  Harold peered regretfully back at the last glimpse of coastline. ‘It must be hard for you boys sometimes,’ he said. The sea disappeared from sight and he turned to stare down the endless dusty highway. ‘Very hard, being stranded out here in the middle of nowhere without family and without women. Lonely, I should think.’

  Daniel couldn’t really dispute the fact. It was lonely. Particularly now that Pete had gone – he hadn’t realised how much he’d come to rely on Pete’s company. But he felt somehow bound to give a positive reply.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, sir, we have a lot of laughs. There’s plenty of camaraderie amongst the men –’

  ‘Bollocks! Camaraderie, my arse!’

  Harold Dartleigh’s reaction was so completely unexpected Daniel wasn’t sure how to respond.

  ‘There should be a great deal more camaraderie, boy.’ As Harold warmed to his theme, it was plain he expected no response. ‘The army is successfully demoralising the men, in my opinion. The need-to-know policy’s been taken to such extremes it’s denying the freedom of friendship.’

  Harold was actually referring to William Penney’s policy rather than the army’s. Penney’s insistence that the men be kept in ignorance irritated Harold intensely. There were times when even he was denied information, and all because of Penney’s ridiculous obsession with his own power. Thank God he’d placed Gideon undercover, Harold thought, and thank God he’d cultivated the odious Melvyn Crowley. William Penney, in his megalomania, would close the doors even on MI6 if he could. Damn the man’s hide.

  ‘Men need to let off steam, Dan.’ Harold looked out at the desolation surrounding them – in only minutes, it seemed the desert had swallowed them up. ‘Particularly in a depressing hellhole like Maralinga.’

  Harold Dartleigh’s views surprised Daniel. He’d have thought the need-to-know regulations would be right on target for MI6.

  ‘Well, don’t you agree, lad?’ Harold was inviting comment now – he was in the mood for conversation. ‘The camaraderie of men is of the utmost importance in a place like Maralinga, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, indeed I would, sir.’

  ‘So why the reticence? Come along, Dan, let’s have your say. I feel like a chat.’

  ‘I suppose I’m just a little surprised, sir. Given your position, I’d have thought you’d consider security in every form to be of the utmost importance.’

  ‘Oh, I do, my boy, I do, believe me. But Maralinga’s security lies in its isolation. The remoteness of its location makes it a veritable fortress. And do you know the next most important security factor to be taken into consideration after the choice of location?’ Harold paused, and Daniel wondered whether it was a trick question. But it wasn’t. ‘The loyalty of one’s team, Dan.’ Harold triumphantly answered himself. ‘And do you know what breeds loyalty?’

  This time Daniel took a punt. ‘The camaraderie of men, sir?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Harold clapped his hands and Daniel felt as if he’d just gone to the top of the class. ‘Loyalty and comradeship should be encouraged at all times, particularly under conditions such as those at Maralinga.’

  Harold was very much enjoying his own argument. He really should be running Maralinga himself, he thought – Sir William Penney and the military were both employing the wrong tactics.

  ‘To nurture ignorance is to invite inefficiency,’ he proclaimed. ‘And to breed fear, as the army has done, is counterproductive on every level.’

  To breed fear, as the army has done. The words struck an immediate chord with Daniel. Could Harold Dartleigh be indirectly referring to the army’s threat of court martial? The man seemed very passionate in his views, and if soldiers had been threatened with court martial then the deputy director of MI6 would be bound to know of it.

  ‘What’s the matter, Dan?’ The boy had been paying rapt attention, but he’d suddenly drifted off as he had during the drive south. Harold was in such a good mood that, rather than finding the fact irritating, he felt a touch of concern. ‘You’ve gone very quiet, lad. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, sir, I do beg your pardon. I didn’t mean –’

  ‘You’ve been preoccupied lately. Come on, boy, spill the beans. What’s weighing on your mind?’ Harold was imbued with a rush of avuncular affection. If young Dan had a problem, he’d like to help. Perhaps the lad was being bullied, or perhaps some senior officer was making his life hell.

  Daniel wondered whether he dared test for a reaction, and, as he carefully broached his subject, he studied Harold Dartleigh from the corner of his eye, searching for a giveaway sign.

  ‘A close friend of mine died recently, sir. I’m afraid I’ve found it rather upsetting.’

  ‘Yes, well, death tends to upset us all, doesn’t it.’ Harold’s interest waned dramatically and he looked out the window. How disappointing, he thought.

  Undeterred, Daniel continued. ‘His name was Pete Mitchell. He was my roommate at the barracks.’

  ‘Ah, Pete Mitchell …’ Harold’s interest was immediately rekindled and his eyes lit up. ‘The liaison chappie responsible for the Aboriginal business. Yes, yes.’

  Daniel’s breath caught in his throat. He felt himself physically gasp. Surely Harold Dartleigh couldn’t mean the Aboriginal deaths. He’d hoped to garner some hint about the veracity of Pete’s story, but he was shocked to hear the subject referred to so openly.

  ‘What Aboriginal business would that be, sir?’ he asked, keeping his voice as steady as possible and his eyes focused on the road.

  ‘You know … locating them … seeing them off the land …’ Harold gave an airy wave of his hand; he really had no idea what an Aboriginal liaison officer did. ‘All that sort of thing.’

  Realising that Dartleigh had been speaking in generalities, Daniel nodded a little too readily and a little too eagerly. ‘Yes, sir, that’s right,’ he said, ‘that was Pete’s job.’ He was praying fervently that his reaction had gone unnoticed.

  It hadn’t. Very little escaped Harold Dartleigh. So the boy knew about the native dea
ths, he thought. How very interesting. He hadn’t known himself until Melvyn Crowley had told him. Of course, Melvyn considered the natives’ deaths a major breakthrough, but then Melvyn was a ghoul. A very handy man to have on side though, Harold told himself. If it weren’t for Melvyn, he would be unaware of the army’s threat of court martial. Gideon, for all his contacts, had heard nothing – the men were plainly too frightened to talk. Just as well Melvyn, with his ear firmly pasted to the laboratory door, had overheard every word. He’d come up with a full report too, including an account of all those present. Good old Melvyn, Harold thought – he was indeed indebted to the man. Personally, he couldn’t give a tinker’s toss about the natives, nor about the army’s threat of court martial, which he supposed was necessary under the circumstances, but he did so detest being left in the dark.

  ‘A terrible business,’ he said, ‘quite, quite terrible.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’ Daniel was nervous. Harold Dartleigh’s mood had become contemplative and it worried him. He wasn’t at all sure what to expect.

  ‘Your friend’s murder, of course.’

  Harold had no intention of putting young Dan on the spot. Pete Mitchell had obviously told the boy about the dead natives – rather inconsiderate, he thought, feeding the lad information that could lead to his court martial.

  ‘I didn’t know you and Pete Mitchell had been roommates, Dan. No wonder you’re upset,’ he said sympathetically. ‘A gruesome affair, most unpleasant all round.’

  ‘You know about Pete’s death then, sir?’

  ‘Of course I do. I know everything about it – the whole of Maralinga does.’

  Surely the boy must be aware of the book Gideon Melbray was running, Harold thought. The capture of Pete Mitchell’s killer was the hottest bet in town. But possibly, in the interests of good taste, the men had kept Gideon’s book a secret from young Dan.

  ‘I believe the killer’s a chap from Watson,’ he said. ‘A fettler by the name of Harry Lampton.’ He’d put ten pounds on Harry Lampton turning up in Kalgoorlie – a gold-mining town had seemed a good choice to Harold.

  ‘Well, yes, sir, Harry Lampton’s the chief suspect.’

  Harold’s senses were instantly on the alert. There was something in the way young Dan had said that, he thought. But he kept his response casual.

  ‘You have your doubts, eh, Dan?’

  ‘About what, sir?’

  ‘You think it might not be the fettler?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir, I didn’t say that.’ Daniel was flustered in his reply. ‘I mean, everything points to Harry Lampton of course …’

  ‘Yes, but naturally you’d want to be sure, wouldn’t you?’

  Harold’s finely tuned antennae had come into play. He was sifting through every single nuance of every single word they’d spoken, and things were adding up. He didn’t need to confront the boy. Who do you think it was, Dan? There was no necessity for such interrogation. He knew exactly who Dan thought it was.

  ‘You’d want to be sure because Pete Mitchell was your friend. And when a friend meets a terrible end like that, you’d want to know that the true culprit had been apprehended. Isn’t that right, Dan?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s right.’ It was the simple truth, and Harold Dartleigh seemed so understanding that Daniel had no trouble admitting it. ‘The sooner Harry Lampton’s found, and the sooner he’s proved guilty, the happier I’ll be.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to get cracking then, won’t we?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘The only problem is, from what I’ve heard, the military police haven’t been able to come up with any witnesses. The fettlers have closed ranks, I believe. Of course, a motley bunch like that always does when the police snoop around, what?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s right.’ The conversation had taken a most unexpected turn, but it seemed Daniel had found an ally in Harold Dartleigh. ‘I’d thought of making some enquiries at Watson myself.’

  ‘Ah, no, Dan, no, no, wrong move. The fettlers wouldn’t open up to you any more than they would to the police. But a civilian with hefty bribe money – now that would be a different matter altogether. I’ll put a man on to it, you just leave it to me.’

  Daniel felt a rush of relief. The mental agony of the past few days suddenly lifted. If there had been any conspiracy to silence Pete Mitchell, he thought, then Harold Dartleigh would undoubtedly have known of it. But clearly he didn’t. Everything pointed to Pete’s death being the coincidence it had appeared to be.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, sir. I’m very grateful, very grateful indeed.’

  ‘No need to be, Dan. I can’t have my driver distracted from his duties, what? Don’t you worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this. Nothing goes on around Maralinga that I don’t know about or can’t find out. You pop into my office in a few days and I’ll let you know what I’ve come up with.’

  ‘Yes, I will, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I might try and have a bit of a nap before we get to the really bumpy parts of the drive. All right with you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, sir.’

  Harold leaned back and pretended to doze. He wasn’t at all tired, but he couldn’t be bothered talking any more. What a very interesting turn of events, he thought. He could certainly see why young Dan had been so preoccupied.

  He ran through the sequence in his mind. Natives killed, soldiers threatened with court martial, Pete Mitchell blabbed it all out to the boy and ended up with a bullet through his skull. Well, no wonder the lad thought the army had murdered his friend. And who knew? Perhaps he was right. Pete Mitchell wasn’t a soldier, after all – he couldn’t be tidily dealt with in a court martial that no-one would hear about. The quickest and most efficient way to silence him would be to kill him. Harold would certainly have done so himself in similar circumstances.

  Harold was grateful to young Dan, and had every intention of honouring his promise. He’d put Gideon on the job, he decided. If anyone could get information from the fettlers, Gideon certainly could. Personally, he didn’t care one iota whether Pete Mitchell’s death had been a matter of military expediency or the result of a jealous husband’s rage, but he would not be left out of the picture. First Penney, and now the army – it simply wouldn’t do.

  Three days later, a familiar excitement pervaded Maralinga. Once again the routine of military life was about to be shattered by the thrill of a nuclear explosion.

  The final test of the Buffalo series was codenamed Breakaway. The bomb, with a core of 10 kilotons, was to be suspended from a tower, as had been the case in the One Tree test, but the difference on this occasion was the time of detonation. Breakaway was to take place in the dead of night.

  ‘Well, we’re beggars for punishment, aren’t we?’ Bud muttered.

  Privates Bud Barton and Col Rogerson, rather than waiting to be assigned special duty, had this time volunteered.

  ‘You’ve got to be in it, mate,’ Col had said. He was always the ringleader. ‘They say the explosion’s spectacular at night.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Who’s they?’

  ‘Well, you know, that’s what they reckon.’

  It was shortly after one o’clock in the morning and a dozen or so men were assembled in the outer perimeters of the forward area. They were wearing uniforms made of a new style of fibre the army was keen to test. A crescent moon was etched in the cloudless desert sky and stars glittered like gemstones, but the night’s serenity was broken by the officer’s voice barking out each second of the final minute’s countdown.

  ‘Bloody stupid, that’s what we are,’ Bud continued to grumble when Col made no reply. He didn’t know how he let himself get talked into these things.

  Col grinned, undaunted. ‘Don’t be such a whinger. Imagine the stories you’ll have down the track.’ Col was excited. This was something else to tell Marge about when he got back to Perth.

  The countdown reached ten and the men turned their backs.
/>   ‘Three, two, one, zero …’

  This time, Bud’s and Col’s hands were not splayed over their faces. This time their fists were firmly ground into the sockets of their eyes. But, strangely enough, as the world turned white, they still saw the bones of their fingers.

  For those watching several miles away at Roadside, the sight was truly spectacular. When the shock waves had passed, they unveiled their eyes and turned to look at an unbelievable sky. The night was lit up as bright as day, and a giant red and gold fireball hung in the air.

  Those in the forward area were greeted by an altogether different sight. They uncovered their eyes but did not turn around. They stood frozen in horror at the chaos before them.

  ‘Shit,’ Col muttered. ‘Holy shit.’

  They were surrounded by dozens of blinded rabbits.

  The officer in charge made an instant decision. He did not order the men to crawl on the ground as had been his instructions. A quick ten-minute march sufficed, and then they were in the trucks heading back to Maralinga.

  At dawn, clad in protective clothing and wearing gas masks, a team of scientists and several squads from the indoctrination force and the radiation detection unit arrived at the forward area several miles from ground zero. The scientists set about collecting their recording apparatus, and the officers commenced their laborious examination of the now burnt-out vehicles and equipment that had been strategically placed.

  They could see, in the shallow far-distant valley, where the tower had been, the earth’s bald surface now reflecting an ominous glassy-green. The teams would not venture that far. Readings would not be taken at ground zero for several days yet.

  It was Captain Brian Fadden, a Canadian engineer from the radiation detection unit who first noticed the blackened Land Rover. He was puzzled. Who had put a Land Rover in the line of fire? The equipment normally used for experimentation purposes was worthless. Why destroy a valuable vehicle? What sort of idiot had made such a stupid decision, he wondered.

  The same sort of idiot who’d put a dummy in the thing, he realised as he walked over to have a look. Now, how smart was that? The uniform and equipment placed on a dummy set at this range would be incinerated. And, of course, it was. The whole dummy was incinerated, charred beyond all recognition. It was just a blackened effigy of a human being.