Maralinga

by Judy Nunn

  Nick had been angered and frustrated when he’d discovered Harold Dartleigh had disappeared to Sydney.

  ‘What do you mean no-one knows where he is?’ he’d demanded of Ned Hanson. ‘Surely he informed you of where he’s staying. You must be able to contact him somehow.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Colonel. He has no wish to be contacted. He was quite definite about that.’ Ned Hanson’s weary sigh had been audible. He found the vagaries of his superior frustrating too. ‘Lord Dartleigh’s gone on holiday and doesn’t wish to be disturbed. He’ll be back two days before the final test.’

  Bloody indulgence, Nick had thought as he’d stormed out of Ned’s poky little office, which adjoined Harold’s. Why the hell did the British government bother paying Dartleigh? The man was a waste of taxpayers’ money!

  He’d immediately telephoned Elizabeth with the news.

  ‘Our friend’s gone away on holiday for ten days,’ he’d said. ‘He’s in Sydney, but no-one knows where.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘Exactly. So he won’t be available for next week’s meeting. In fact, he won’t be available full stop.’

  ‘Right.’ He’d sounded so fed up that Elizabeth had decided not to offer any further comment on the subject. ‘You’re coming into town yourself though, aren’t you?’ she’d asked hopefully.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I am glad. I’ll look forward to seeing you then, shall I?’ She always took her cue from Nick and never gave away a thing on the phone.

  ‘The meeting’s at three o’clock. I’m not sure how long it’ll last,’ he’d said meaningfully, ‘so I’ve decided to stay in town for the night. I’ll give you a ring when it’s over and maybe we could meet for a drink when you’ve finished work, what do you say?’

  ‘I say that sounds like an excellent idea.’

  Now, five days later, they sat on the beach looking out at the ocean. It was late in the afternoon, daylight was fading and the bank of clouds low on the horizon promised a pretty sunset. They’d caught a taxi from the city. These days, during his brief visits, Nick didn’t bother with hire cars. Taxis were easier, and he no longer needed the excuse of a car to hand in order to drive her home.

  They’d broken their normal pattern of making love as their first priority. Nick, feeling in some way that he’d let her down, had suggested they go for a walk on the beach. ‘There’s a lot to talk about,’ he’d said.

  They’d changed into casual clothes and walked barefoot, their shoes in their hands, beside the water’s edge. They’d walked, and they’d talked. He’d been keen to make up for the disappointment of Harold Dartleigh’s non-appearance.

  ‘Shall I try and entice Gideon Melbray to town?’ he asked. ‘I’m not quite sure how I’d go about it, I have no official connection with Gideon, but I’m happy to give it a try.’

  ‘No, Nick.’ Her reply was adamant. ‘You might arouse suspicion, and I don’t want you to become directly involved. Your career could be threatened.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll come up with something plausible. It’s just a case of finding the right angle.’

  ‘Anyway, I don’t see a great deal of value in Gideon Melbray.’

  She’d surprised him. ‘Why not? Isn’t he your other key person of interest?’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Besides, Gideon’s only the messenger. I need to get to the man at the top.’

  ‘But making contact with Dartleigh is –’

  ‘And that man might not even be Harold Dartleigh.’

  Their walk came to a halt. He was confused. ‘What exactly are you getting at?’

  ‘I’m absolutely convinced that MI6 is behind all this, Nick.’

  He wasn’t sure how to respond. Since when had it been irrevocably decided that MI6 was ‘behind all this’, he wondered. Hadn’t they agreed that the theory had been based upon supposition? But Elizabeth wasn’t seeking a response. She went on without drawing breath.

  ‘Given Harold Dartleigh’s involvement, it’s pretty obvious to me that MI6 is responsible for faking Danny’s death to look like a suicide. Whatever they were covering I’ve no idea, but it’s MI6 who needs to answer for what happened.’

  Nick marvelled at the simplicity of her reasoning. For Elizabeth, everything seemed to have fallen neatly into place. She was so supremely sure of herself, he thought. But then she always was. Positivity was perhaps one of her greatest assets.

  ‘Harold Dartleigh might or might not have been acting on orders from above,’ she briskly continued, ‘but either way he’s answerable to the organisation that employs him. And that organisation is in turn answerable for the actions of its employees, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Answerable about what and to whom?’ Was she really serious? She was talking about MI6.

  ‘In this case, answerable to me. Danny was my fiancé and I demand to know what happened.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She was about to charge off tilting at windmills, he thought, how very typical, and how very futile. ‘What course of action do you intend to take?’ he asked for want of anything better to say.

  ‘I have a colleague in London with excellent connections. He’ll most certainly know who I should contact within MI6. I’ll start at the top, and if I can’t make any inroads I’ll threaten to go public. I’m sure if I rattle the sabre loud enough they’ll be forced to take action, or at least to come up with some answers. Harold Dartleigh’s head may roll – or the head of the person who gave him his instructions, who can tell? But I intend to get my answers.’

  ‘Ah.’ He’d been so distracted by the futility of her plan that the practical aspect hadn’t as yet occurred to him. It did now. ‘So you’ll be heading back to London.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When? How soon?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Certainly not for another month – I’d need to hand in my notice at the paper.’

  ‘I see.’ There didn’t really seem much more to be said. She’d plainly made up her mind. ‘Shall we go back to the flat?’

  ‘No. Not just yet.’

  That was when they’d decided to sit on the sand and wait for the sunset.

  They were silent now as they watched the golden orb of the sun slowly sink into the sea. Then, all of a sudden, the last glimmer disappeared, leaving the clouds aglow with pinks and oranges that fanned out across the sky like a multicoloured roof to the world.

  ‘How beautiful,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I’d never seen such beautiful sunsets until I came to Australia.’

  ‘Yes, it’s certainly lovely.’ God, I’ll miss her, he thought. ‘The days are getting warmer,’ he said, still gazing out at the ocean. ‘We must get in a few swimming lessons before you go.’

  ‘Yes, we must.’

  She didn’t want to leave him, but she would if she had to. She’d conduct her fight from London if necessary, although she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She still had one more plan up her sleeve. A plan she could not share with Nick.

  That night, after they’d made love, the two of them lay awake for some time, each lost in their own thoughts.

  Elizabeth was forming the approach she would take with her editor the following day. She must pitch her idea with care, but she was sure P. J. would agree. He was an adventurous man.

  Nick’s mind was in a far greater state of turmoil. During their talk on the beach, he’d dismissed Elizabeth’s decision to confront MI6 as a waste of time – they would simply close ranks and she’d get nowhere, he’d thought. But now a dreadful possibility struck him. Was there the remotest chance that Daniel Gardiner might have been under investigation by MI6? It seemed most unlikely. But Dan had formed a close friendship with Pete Mitchell, a strangely complex man. Could Pete have converted Dan to whatever cause had obsessed him? Perhaps Pete’s death had not been the simple crime of passion it had been reported to be. In which case, perhaps young Dan’s hadn’t been so simple either. Much as he tried to dismiss such thoughts, Nick couldn’t help
but worry. His original premise about the possible cover-up of a botched death for security purposes was one thing, but the MI6 investigation of a British soldier working in a top-secret area like Maralinga was quite another. Could Elizabeth be on the verge of disturbing a hornets’ nest?

  The following morning, after a sleepless night, he wondered whether he should bring up the subject, although he didn’t relish the prospect. He could well imagine her reaction. He decided to say nothing. There was no time for discussion anyway. He had to leave for the airport.

  ‘I’ll see you at the conference after the firing next week,’ he said. ‘I’ll arrange things so that I can stay overnight.’ They’d talk about it then, he thought.

  ‘See you at the conference,’ she said, and they kissed. She wished she could tell him of her plan, but she didn’t dare.

  The final test of the Antler series was codenamed Taranaki and, with an energy yield of 27 kilotons, the bomb was the largest yet to be detonated at Maralinga. The firing was to take place on 9 October, and the device was to be suspended from a system of three balloons held at 1000 feet over the desert. The test organisers were convinced this particular firing technique would considerably reduce both the close-in and long-range fallout.

  Weather conditions were carefully monitored throughout the previous night and throughout the morning of 9 October. With a weapon of such size, all precautions must be strictly observed. But the meteorological reports continued to prove favourable and the final go-ahead was given. The hourly countdown to Taranaki had begun.

  At Roadside, the spectators were gathered in their hundreds as usual. Scientists, military, bureaucrats and press all had their binoculars and field glasses trained on the three distant spheres in the sky and the barely visible object dangling beneath them. Gigantic though the balloons were, from where the observers stood they were mere dots to the naked eye.

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Fifteen minutes to go. Then ten, then five, then one … Then the voice through the tannoy started counting down the seconds, until finally …

  Ten, nine …

  Binoculars were left to dangle around necks as the crowd turned its back to the site.

  Eight, seven …

  Everyone stood legs astride, feet planted firmly as instructed. They’d been warned about the shock waves.

  Six, five …

  Hands were placed over eyes, palms tightly pressed into sockets.

  Four, three, two …

  Finally the moment of detonation and the blinding flash that drained the world of all colour. The backs of necks felt the heat of the gamma rays. But no-one moved. No-one spoke. They all stood waiting.

  The atomic shock waves hit with brutal force and a number amongst the crowd lost their footing, staggering, off balance. Hands left eyes and fingers were jammed into ears as a devastating series of explosions ricocheted about the scrub.

  Then, as suddenly as it had happened, the madness was over and the desert returned to silence. Still, no-one moved. They stayed with their backs to the site, as instructed.

  Finally, when it was deemed safe, the order was given and, in unison, the crowd turned to see the aftermath of Taranaki.

  They didn’t need their binoculars and field glasses now. Towering in the sky, pulsating and growing by the minute like a living being, was the great mushroom cloud. And clearly depicted in it, hundreds of feet high, complete in every detail, was the gigantic silhouetted face of an angry bearded man.

  They all saw it. Some said later they thought it was the face of a Greek god. ‘The nose was Grecian,’ they said. Others disagreed. ‘No,’ they said. ‘Oh, no, the face was most definitely Aboriginal.’

  For a full ten minutes the face remained in the cloud, and those watching certainly agreed upon one thing. It seemed to be looking down in judgement.

  CHAPTER TWENTY -ONE

  Following the detonation, the members of the press in attendance were transported back to Maralinga for their customary debriefing, after which they were to be taken to the airport. They would be flown directly to Adelaide, where those from interstate or overseas would stay the night before attending the press conference the following day and then returning home.

  The forty or so journalists and photographers were ushered into the main conference room in the administration block by military police. Although the MPs were not overly officious, they were nonetheless a reminder of the vigilant security in place as they took up their positions by the room’s several entrances. No wayward reporter was tempted to duck through a door for a quick snoop around the nearby offices.

  Chairs had been provided, and at one end of the room were tables with jugs of water and paper cups. After a long afternoon standing around in the sun, the men made a beeline for the water, fanning their faces with their hats and loosening their collars and ties. Regardless of discomfort, the mood was relaxed and conversation was rife. There were few newcomers amongst them, most having witnessed the previous detonations, and the general consensus of opinion was that this had been the most spectacular.

  ‘The balloons,’ they said. ‘And the shock waves … And what about that face in the cloud!’

  The face in the cloud was a particularly popular subject amongst the photographers, most of whom were convinced they’d caught it to perfection.

  ‘Got every little detail,’ Ron Woods boasted to Macca. ‘It’ll be front-page stuff, mate, a real beauty.’

  As it turned out, Ron was wrong, and so were all the others. When the pictures were developed, there was no face. The cloud was just a cloud.

  The babble of voices continued and there was the scrape of chairs on wood as they shuffled into their seats. No-one took any notice of the young man in the pinstriped suit and grey fedora who sat with Macca and Ron. But no-one had paid him much attention all day.

  ‘Where’s Georgie?’ one or two of the old hands had asked Macca, with a querying look at the young man who appeared little more than a youth.

  ‘Georgie couldn’t make it,’ Macca had muttered, ‘so I brought young Les along. He’s only a cadet. Not a word, mate, he’s travelling on Georgie’s ticket.’

  The reaction from the several old hands had been ‘lucky kid’.

  ‘You don’t get a break like this often, young fella,’ one had said. ‘Make the most of it.’ The lad had nodded deferentially and looked down at his shoes without saying a word.

  The general conclusion amongst the few who’d noticed the kid had been that although he was respectful enough, he didn’t deserve such an opportunity. Why had Macca put himself out on a limb for a kid so shy he was tongue-tied? Pretty-boys like that didn’t belong in the business anyway. The old hands ignored him. Why would you bother?

  Once she’d passed the initial test, Elizabeth had had few problems. She’d stayed close to Macca and Ron, speaking to no-one, knowing that her voice was the giveaway, and when they were out at Roadside, she’d simply become one of the crowd. She’d been relieved by the ease with which the deception had been carried out. She’d worried that she might have been discovered right from the start.

  ‘Won’t they demand identification at the airport?’ she’d asked.

  ‘They’ve already got it,’ Georgie had said. ‘You’re me. Macca hands over the pass, they tick off the three-man team from The Advertiser and you’re on the plane. It’ll be that simple.’

  Georgie hadn’t minded Elizabeth going in his place. In fact, he’d found the idea hilarious. When he’d been called into P. J.’s office, he hadn’t even recognised Liz. He’d given a nod to the kid in the pinstriped suit lounging against the wall with his hands in his pockets, and when P. J. had said ‘Liz has got an idea’, he still hadn’t twigged. And then the kid had spoken and Georgie had been knocked for six. ‘What a hoot,’ he’d said when they’d told him the plan. ‘I can just see the headlines: Lone Female Reporter Foils the Might of Maralinga Security.’

  P. J. hadn’t even cracked a smile. If they could pull off the scam, that was exactly
the story he could foresee a little further down the track when the paranoia had lessened. Indeed, they could drum up a whole exposé on the ineffectuality of national security measures if and when the time seemed right. Meanwhile, an inside account of Maralinga and the Taranaki firing written by a journalist of Liz’s calibre would be extremely worthwhile. And further down the track, with or without the exposé, they could announce that it had actually been written by a woman. P. J. had seen a wealth of value in Liz’s plan.

  ‘You don’t mind missing out then, Georgie?’ Elizabeth had felt guilty about depriving him of the Taranaki experience.

  ‘Nah. You’ve seen one atomic explosion, you’ve seen them all, love,’ Georgie had said with a wink. ‘Besides, hanging around in the middle of the desert for hours isn’t a barrel of laughs. I’d rather be down the pub.’ Georgie’s principal regret was that he wouldn’t be part of the fun.

  Ron Woods had also embraced the idea. Like Georgie, Ron was a bit of a renegade and he too had seen the whole thing as a huge joke. The only one with serious misgivings had been Macca. A cautious man by nature, Macca hadn’t relished playing a part in the deception one bit. But he’d comforted himself with the knowledge that should they be discovered he could hardly be blamed. He had, after all, simply been carrying out orders.

  Now, as they waited for the debriefing to commence, Macca finally allowed himself to relax a little. Things were all pretty much downhill from now on, he thought. It looked as if they’d got away with it. Thank Christ for that.

  Elizabeth felt herself tense. An MP guarding one of the doors had stood aside and Nick had appeared. Her main problem now was to escape detection by her lover. She lowered her head, peering from beneath the brim of her fedora, thankful that a number of the others had kept their hats on and that she didn’t look conspicuous.

  Two men followed Nick into the room. Elizabeth recognised them both in an instant. The first was Sir William Penney. The second was Harold Dartleigh.