Maralinga

by Judy Nunn

  ‘I’ve heard they’re going to suspend the bomb from a balloon,’ Macca told Bob in semi-hushed tones.

  ‘You’re joking!’ Bob replied.

  ‘No, he’s not.’ Georgie, seated beside Macca, exchanged a look with Ron who nodded. They’d heard the same thing themselves out at Maralinga. ‘Three balloons actually,’ he said, peering around Macca to address Bob several chairs away. ‘Three balloons linked together, one above the other.’

  Macca gestured for Georgie to keep his voice down, although given the general hubbub of the gathering it probably wasn’t necessary. ‘We’re not supposed to know that,’ he said to Bob. ‘At the debriefings we’re always warned about disclosing information. Could get us into trouble,’ he said with a warning glance to Georgie.

  ‘I don’t see how the balloons can be “disclosing information”,’ Georgie said nonchalantly. ‘The blokes we were talking to at Maralinga didn’t give a shit. The gear’s all out there ready to go, they told us –’

  ‘And what’s the bet there’s not one mention of balloons today,’ Bob interrupted dryly. Yet again, he’d learnt more from a gossip with the boys than through any official channel. Press conferences were just so much bullshit in his opinion. ‘What do you reckon, Liz?’ She was very quiet, he thought.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right, Bob,’ Elizabeth replied automatically. She hadn’t really heard what he’d said – something about the balloons to be used in the final test of the series. She’d had the full rundown on everything from Macca and she’d found it most interesting, but she could think of nothing now except the possibility of seeing Harold Dartleigh face to face. Was she going to have the chance to confront him or not? She felt nervy and on edge.

  Several minutes later, the official party made its entrance. Through the open double doors of the conference room strode an AGIO officer, an official representative from Canberra and Colonel Nick Stratton. As they walked to the dais at the far end of the room, an attendant closed the doors behind them. Lord Dartleigh was clearly not expected to make an appearance.

  The AGIO officer introduced Nick, who then addressed the gathering.

  ‘Good morning, everyone. Today, as on a number of previous occasions, you’ll be receiving your information directly from me.’ He placed his manila folder on the podium. ‘I have here a full report from the safety committee and will be happy to answer any questions you may have at the end of the proceedings.’

  He opened the folder for appearances’ sake – he didn’t need to refer to it – and as he did, he looked squarely at Elizabeth. I tried, his eyes said. I tried my best, but … He gave the slightest of shrugs.

  She disguised her disappointment behind a grateful smile. I know you tried, Nick, I know. It doesn’t matter.

  ‘The Biak firing took place at ten o’clock yesterday morning. It was a tower detonation, as before …’

  I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.

  Don’t be sorry. I love you.

  ‘… and the energy yield of the device was 6 kilotons.’

  His eyes had no trouble sending the message that he found such difficulty in voicing. I love you too, they said.

  ‘I’m sorry about the way things worked out, Elizabeth,’ he said as she lay with her head nestled against his shoulder. ‘I know today must have been a terrible disappointment for you.’

  ‘How could a day that ends like this be a disappointment?’ She rolled onto her side, perched on an elbow and slung a shameless leg over his thigh, the fullness of her breasts rubbing wantonly against his chest.

  He laughed. ‘Give a man time, for God’s sake,’ he said, but it wouldn’t take long, he wanted her again already.

  Elizabeth disentangled her leg and flopped back on her pillow to look up at the ceiling. She hadn’t actually intended to be provocative, just comforting.

  ‘It was a bit of a disappointment,’ she admitted. ‘I’d got myself quite worked up about confronting Dartleigh, but it’s hardly your fault – you did what you could.’

  ‘I think he was fobbing me off from the start. He probably never intended to front up. When I approached him early this morning he seemed to have completely forgotten about the conference.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Nick, stop agonising.’

  ‘I’m not agonising, I’m bloody annoyed. Christ, he’s an arrogant bastard. But don’t you worry, I haven’t thrown in the towel yet. Although we’re running short of time, I must say. The final test’s less than two weeks away, and we have to corner him between now and then. He’ll head straight back to London when the Antler series is over.’

  She propped herself on her side again to look at him. ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘I intend to have an eminently plausible reason why he has to come to Adelaide.’ Her breasts were once more caressing his chest, which was distracting. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult. A few of the big guns are flying in from Canberra for a meeting at AGIO next week. I’ll suggest to them that, in the interests of national security, they express a desire to meet the deputy director of MI6. Even Dartleigh won’t be able to refuse a personal request from representatives of the Australian government.’

  ‘Excellent. I shall storm the meeting.’

  ‘Well, we might have to work out a place and a time when –’

  ‘Later. Let’s talk about that part later.’

  She leaned her head down to kiss him, and the smell and the warmth and the womanliness of her was irresistible. Recovery time over, Nick gathered her to him.

  Members of the indoctrination force discovered the Aboriginal girl two days after the detonation. They radioed back to the DC/RB area.

  ‘She’s irradiated,’ they said, ‘her readings are going off the dial. She’s alive, but only just, and she’s heavily pregnant.’

  ‘Bring her in,’ was the reply.

  By the time the girl arrived she was barely conscious.

  Melvyn Crowley was waiting at the decontamination unit to greet the new arrival. He was all suited up in protective clothing, as was his assistant, Trafford Whitely.

  Melvyn immediately set about examining the girl, but Trafford, realising that she appeared to be trying to communicate, did not lend assistance. Instead, he bent close to the parched lips in an attempt to discern the barely audible whisper. She was speaking English he was sure. Then he made out the words ‘baby’ and ‘save’.

  Intent upon offering some form of comfort, he stroked the girl’s bare arm with his gloved fingers, ignoring Melvyn Crowley’s irritated glance. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we’ll save your baby.’

  The huge brown eyes seemed to look deeply into him and Trafford wondered if she could tell he was lying. They would be unable to save her baby. But she obviously didn’t know that, for all he could see in her gaze was gratitude. He wanted to weep. She was so young, he thought, so very young.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked softly.

  Very faintly, he heard her say ‘Etta’.

  ‘The child’s alive,’ Melvyn Crowley said.

  He had been about to bark at Trafford to address the job at hand, but his irritation had vanished as he’d heard the heartbeat through the stethoscope. Amazingly enough, the baby’s vital signs were healthy. The child was very much alive, even though its mother was near dead. Melvyn couldn’t have been more excited.

  ‘We need to get it out as soon as possible,’ he said.

  Trafford stroked the girl’s arm once more before he left. ‘We’ll save your baby, Etta,’ he said.

  The huge brown eyes thanked him.

  He turned away and followed Melvyn Crowley from the decontamination unit to the outer area where they were divested of their protective clothing.

  ‘Have her put through the decontamination process,’ Melvyn ordered. ‘Once her body readings are acceptable we’ll take the baby out.’

  A child irradiated in the womb, he thought. Breakthrough examination material – perfect. He couldn’t have asked for better.

  ‘But once he
r readings are acceptable, shouldn’t we get her to the hospital?’ Trafford said.

  ‘Why? She’ll be dead by then anyway.’

  ‘The child won’t be. The child’s still alive.’

  ‘But for how long?’ Melvyn was becoming impatient; how dare young Trafford question him. ‘Good God, boy, the baby’s readings will go through the roof. We can’t deliver a contaminated child in a non-protected area. Besides,’ he added, ‘this whole business has to be kept as quiet as possible. If word spreads, the army won’t like it one bit.’ He turned on his heel. ‘Now have her decontaminated and get yourself scrubbed up and ready to assist me. I’ll be in the laboratory.’

  ‘Yes, Dr Crowley.’

  While the girl was being put through the gruelling process of decontamination, Trafford, unbeknownst to his superior, issued his own order.

  ‘Radio the hospital and tell Dr Bradshaw I’d like him to come to the DC/RB area as quickly as possible,’ he said to one of the junior assistants. ‘Tell him to say nothing to anyone, but warn him he’s to deliver a child by caesarean.’

  Trafford could just imagine the look on Cliff Bradshaw’s face when he received the message. It was hardly the sort of summons one would expect at Maralinga.

  He left instructions with the MPs at the main gate and took himself off to the scrubroom adjoining the main pathology laboratory, where he would await Clifton Bradshaw’s arrival.

  Captain Clifton ‘Cliff’ Bradshaw of the British medical corps was Trafford’s senior by little more than a year. Like Trafford he was an ambitious but highly principled young man, and the two had become friends. It was unusual – scientists and military kept to their own as a rule – but Cliff and Trafford shared the mutual bond of their medical background. Coincidentally, both had graduated from Oxford, although they’d barely known each other at university. Their friendship had been forged at Maralinga. It was a friendship that would prove to last a lifetime, due principally to the events of this day.

  When the girl was finally returned to the laboratory she was unconscious and her vital signs minimal. She would not regain consciousness.

  Melvyn watched with eager anticipation as the two assistants from the decontamination unit lifted her naked body from the gurney to the examination table. He was so excited by the prospect of what lay ahead that he didn’t notice Trafford usher Clifton Bradshaw through the door. Cliff was gowned, scrubbed up and ready to operate.

  The men departed with the gurney, and Melvyn dragged his eyes from the body to issue instructions to his assistant. It was then he noticed to his utter astonishment that there was a third person in the laboratory.

  Trafford made the introductions. ‘Dr Crowley, this is Dr Bradshaw,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you will have met each other from time to time. Cliff, this is Dr Crowley, our head pathologist.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve bumped into each other on a number of occasions,’ Cliff said congenially. ‘Difficult not to in a place like Maralinga.’ He saluted the older man with the wave of a sterilised hand. ‘Only too happy to be of assistance, sir.’

  Assistance? Melvyn looked dumbfounded from Clifton to Trafford and back again. What assistance? He didn’t need any fucking assistance!

  ‘I thought that as we couldn’t take the girl to the hospital, we could bring the hospital to the girl,’ Trafford said. ‘Cliff’s a medical practitioner. He’s experienced in child delivery and I was sure you’d want to exercise every caution, Dr Crowley, given the fact that the baby’s vital signs are still strong.’

  A murderous light shone in Melvyn’s eyes. You little bastard. ‘Of course, Trafford … how clever of you to show such foresight.’ You fucking little bastard! ‘I’m indebted to you, Dr Bradshaw.’

  He stood to one side, gesturing to the examination table, the girl, the tray of instruments, a gesture that said she’s all yours, but the murderous light didn’t leave his eyes. You young bastards, the pair of you. Melvyn wanted to kill them both.

  As Clifton stepped forward to the table Trafford joined him to assist with the operation and the two exchanged the quickest of glances. Trafford was right, Cliff thought. There was something of the madman about Crowley.

  The moment he looked down at the girl he knew she was gone, but he felt her pulse anyway. ‘We’ve lost her,’ he said.

  Poor little Etta, Trafford thought. She’d died unnoticed in the minute or so they’d been talking.

  ‘We’ll have to move fast.’ Clasping the scalpel Trafford placed in his open palm, Cliff made the incision.

  With Trafford assisting, Clifton Bradshaw worked speedily and efficiently, the two young men forming a slick, professional team. Melvyn watched from the sidelines, fuming. This is my laboratory, he thought. That cadaver and that child belong to me. But he was powerless and he knew it. He seethed with impotent rage.

  Within only minutes the baby was lifted, squirming, from the dead woman’s womb. It was a girl, and she wanted to live. She opened her mouth, her tiny lungs filled with air, her angry little brown face twisted and she cried out her existence to the world.

  When they’d cut the cord and cleaned her up, they took a reading of the baby’s levels with the radiac survey meter, Trafford running the external probe over the tiny naked body and Clifton listening through the headphones. All eyes, including Melvyn Crowley’s, were keenly trained on the Geiger counter’s dial and indicator. But to the utter astonishment of all three men, there was no reading.

  ‘There’s no evidence of ionising radiation in this baby,’ Cliff Bradshaw announced.

  ‘My God,’ Trafford said, amazed, ‘she’s clean.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Melvyn Crowley snapped.

  ‘Have a listen yourself.’ Clifton handed him the headphones.

  Melvyn jammed them on his head and once again Trafford ran the probe over the baby. Once again they all studied the dial, and once again the Geiger counter showed no reading.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Melvyn said, snatching off the headphones. ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Clifton queried. ‘The womb’s a very protective place. It seems eminently possible to me.’ As there was no blanket in sight, he started wrapping the child in a clean towel. ‘And you must admit, Dr Crowley, stranger things have happened in medical science.’

  ‘But the thyroid would show radioactive levels, I’m sure …’ Melvyn was desperate, everything was going wrong. ‘And there’s bound to be traces of strontium-90 in the bones …’

  ‘We’ll run a urinalysis at the hospital,’ Clifton said, ‘but it’s my guess we’ll find no evidence of strontium-90. As for the rest …’ He looked at the Geiger counter and shrugged. ‘The RSM 2 says she’s clean and it’s a pretty reliable machine. You can hardly cut her up to prove the thing wrong, can you?’

  He smiled as if the comment was an attempt at black humour, but it wasn’t. He hadn’t altogether believed Trafford when he’d said that Crowley would happily murder the child for experimental purposes. He believed him now. Melvyn Crowley belonged to another world.

  ‘Anyway, enough chat,’ he said, picking up the baby. She wriggled in his arms, her perfect little hands escaping the confines of the towel, her tiny fingers clutching the air. ‘Time to get this one to the hospital.’

  ‘You do realise that if you take it to the hospital, word will quickly circulate, don’t you? I mean about … this.’ Melvyn gestured to the bloodied table and the corpse of the girl.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Clifton replied. He was beginning to see no reason why he should even pretend civility to a man like Crowley.

  ‘As Trafford well knows,’ Melvyn said with a damning look at his assistant, ‘a similar irradiation incident occurred last year and troops were threatened with court martial if the news became public.’

  Clifton cast a querying look at his friend.

  ‘It’s true,’ Trafford said. He’d naturally made no mention to Clifton of the Aboriginal deaths. Cliff was in the army, after all – why pl
ace him in such a threatening position?

  ‘We must be discreet then, mustn’t we,’ Clifton said. ‘The fewer of us who know, the fewer of us there will be who will have to live with that threat. And the sooner the child can be placed safely in the care of Aboriginal welfare authorities, the better for all of us, wouldn’t you say?’

  Melvyn was stumped and Trafford wanted to cheer.

  ‘What a tragedy,’ Clifton said as he looked at the body on the table. He’d been so focused upon the child it was the first time he’d addressed the situation of the young mother. ‘How sad. She’s not much more than a child herself.’

  The baby started to cry, as if demanding he redirect his attention to the living, and he gave her the tip of his little finger to suck on.

  ‘Drive me to the hospital, Trafford,’ he said. ‘The miracle baby of Maralinga wants to be fed.’

  They left Melvyn Crowley to fume. And fume he did.

  Melvyn cursed Trafford for his betrayal. He’d have the young ingrate transferred immediately, he decided, although the sure knowledge that Trafford would welcome transferral was irksome. If only he could have the little bastard dismissed, he thought, or dishonoured or disbarred or at least in some way discredited. But with Trafford’s good chum Cliff on the scene as a witness that would be an impossibility.

  Melvyn didn’t know which of the two he despised most, Trafford or Clifton Bradshaw. How dare they snatch such an opportunity from him! Indeed, how dare they deprive the scientific world of his findings! There was so much fresh knowledge he might have contributed for the benefit of mankind. He glanced at the corpse. At least he still had her. That was some comfort. But he could have had so very much more.

  Two days later, when he heard the baby had been flown to Adelaide, Melvyn was even more livid. He had presumed she would be taken to the mission at Yalata where he would be able to keep an eye on her condition, which would hopefully decline. But Etta’s child, ‘the miracle baby of Maralinga’ as she was now referred to by the few who knew of her existence, had been swallowed up by the system. She would be given a home with a family keen to adopt, and would be forever beyond the clutches of Melvyn Crowley.