The soft sound of footsteps behind him broke his deep train of thought, and he turned to catch sight of a similarly dark, man-shaped silhouette approaching.
“Not disturbing you, I hope?” Trumbull ventured as he drew near, trying to sound cheery but not really managing it.
“Too bloody hot to sleep…” Thorne growled, shaking his head. “What have you got there?” He demanded, eyes zeroing in on a large, bulky mass hanging from the man’s right hand.
“I thought perhaps, if you’re not sleeping, you might fancy something cold…” he answered, detaching a single can from the plastic-linked six-pack and handing it across.
“Oooh, that is cold!” Thorne remarked with an appreciative grin, before holding the can of Castlemaine Bitter up to his eyes and studying it in the available light. “What…? Bloody Four-Ex…?” He moaned jokingly. “You couldn’t find any VB, for God’s sake?”
“I can take if back if you like,” the pilot suggested with a grin of his own. “The mess said they could swap it for some Schlitz or Budweiser…”
“Oh, Christ, no…!” Thorne shook his head fervently, stifling a chuckle as he lifted the can’s ring pull and popped it open with a soft hiss of escaping gas. “This’ll do… this’ll do…!”
“Thought it might…” Trumbull grinned broadly, turning and ambling off in the same direction he’d originally been heading as Thorne took that as a cue to follow along. “One has to make do, after all…” he added, breaking off a can for himself and making an awkward enough attempt at opening it with his hands full for Thorne to hand over his own, already open can and take the other in exchange.
“Hang on…” Thorne growled, suddenly suspicious. “Beware of Poms bearing gifts: since when did you start bringing mates beer… or start drinking it, for that matter?”
“About the same time there was no longer any decent bloody scotch to be found anywhere on this airbase,” Trumbull answered sourly. “As I said: one must make do…”
“All right... I’ll bite,” Thorne declared, taking a drag at the cold can and nodding in silent appreciation. “What’re y’ really here for?”
Alec Trumbull released a long, tired sigh and took an even longer drag at his own beer.
“Solingen has made an official report to Canberra,” he explained, disappointment clear in his tone. “He flew up to Darwin this afternoon. I must admit, I was in accord with Harry on that one, and we were definitely both mistaken.”
“Fuck him,” Thorne muttered, trying to sound as if he could care less. “The prick had it coming anyway!”
“What’s going on, Old Friend…?” Trumbull asked suddenly, his face still a mask of solemnity.
“‘Going on…”…?” Thorne repeated, momentarily stumped by such an unexpectedly blunt and all-encompassing question. “What d’you mean?”
“I suspect you know what I mean, Max,” Alec replied quickly, not angry but also not interested in evading the issue. “And don’t start getting defensive…” he added, noting the faint inflection that had instantly crept into his friend’s voice. “…I’ve heard that tone before and I’ll not tolerate it… not here…not now…”
He’s right… the voice in Thorne’s head whispered softly, surprising him with its call for control. Hear him out… keep in mind he’s a friend: one of the few you have left…
“Ohhh-kayyyy…” he began slowly, doing his best to heed the advice in his own mind and fighting against his natural urge to immediately fight back. “…Specifics then… what are we talking about…?”
“Everything…!” Trumbull exclaimed, his own nerves making him sound a little agitated. “Max, North Africa was the first time I’d seen you in almost two years, and what happened there… the danger you put yourself and everyone else in…”
“This again…?” He snorted in exasperation, thinking he saw the point of Trumbull’s argument. “God, they started in on me about this over there: that I was sounding American… that I’ve changed...”
“No, Max, that’s not it at all!” Alec snapped in return, cutting him off. “In fact, if anything it’s quite the opposite: you’ve not changed in the slightest…!”
What the fuck…?
“What the f– hell…?” Thorne and his inner voice echoed, almost in unison.
“Disobeying direct orders in North Africa… on numerous occasions…” Trumbull went on. “Worse still, placing everyone’s lives in jeopardy because of it. Losing those tanks… again in direct contravention of standing orders…”
“I saved fifteen hundred people by ‘losing those fuckin’ tanks…” he snapped in return, starting to anger now under direct criticism he’d certainly not expected from a close friend.
“Yes… yes, you did…” Alec conceded, bowing his head momentarily. “You saved them from a huge enemy assault that was directed toward Kibrit only because those bloody tanks were taken there in the first place…! Max…!” He added sharply, cutting Thorne off again from issuing another angry rebuttal. “No one… ever… doubts your courage or your loyalty to your colleagues, or the men under your command…”
“Then what is the bloody issue?” He growled sullenly, throwing his arms wide in a frustrated gesture that sprayed beer across the glass nose of the nearest bomber. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s some shit going on at the moment I’m already dealing with… I don’t really need anything else thrown on my back right now.”
“Max… my friend…” Trumbull began again, softening his tone and emphasising his words in an attempt to convey the genuine concern behind what he was saying. “When we first met, you were a newly-arrived MI6 operative with extremely limited resources, facing up against an entire world you didn’t fit into…” He gave a thin, almost sentimental smile. “Do you think I shall ever forget that crash landing near Swanage? You saved my life…!”
“And you were being bloody difficult about it at the time, if I recall,” Thorne conceded, giving a faint grin of his own in spite of himself. “Something about me telling you to get your ‘Pommy arse’ into the Lightning before the bad guys turned up?”
“…Words to that effect,” Trumbull agreed, chuckling and very relieved that the ice seemed to be broken now. “And look at you, now…” he continued, forging on with renewed energy. “Since then, you’ve been consultant to kings and presidents… you’ve created a huge, multi-national company, and you’ve been handed control of enough financial resources to make you the richest man on earth several times over…”
“Not too bad for two and a half years’ work…” Thorne observed with a shrug, completely missing the direction in which Trumbull was going.
“…And what have you done with all that…?” He asked softly, his expression and tone turning serious once more. “Faffing about the front lines in North Africa, carrying out testing that could easily have been done by someone far more technically qualified than you? Haring about the globe, playing soldier while – let’s be honest – Rupert does the lion’s share of running your business interests for you? One or two thoughtless words from some lowly colonel, and you end up brawling in a hallway like a drunken bloody aircraftman on weekend leave! Why, Max…? These aren’t the actions of a CEO… of the master of a corporate empire…”
“I signed on to do one bloody job,” Thorne grumped, not ready to concede any ground just yet, “and that was to run Hindsight…”
“To run Hindsight and put right the history of the entire world itself?” Trumbull suggested with a raised eyebrow.
“Well shit, it sounds bad when you say it like that…”
“How else should it sound?” Alec asked curtly, quickly becoming exasperated now by the man’s unrelenting attitude. “Your mission has changed… whether you like it or not, that’s a plain and simple fact: stop acting like none of this matters!” He added, holding both arms outstretched as if encompassing the entire planet with the gesture.
“It doesn’t bloody matter! None of this is real… none of it should’ve happened!”
> “How long will you keep telling yourself that before you finally decide to stump up and ‘grow a pair’, as you’ve so eloquently put in on numerous occasions.”
“Man… Harsh…!” Thorne frowned, taking a few steps back into the darkness and feeling particularly vulnerable to such criticism, levelled at him as it was by a man for whom he had such great respect. “Never mind what the hell’s going on with me…!” He added caustically. “Drinking beer… swearing…! What the hell’s going on with you?”
“I’ve changed…!” Trumbull shot back immediately, having been handed the opening he was looking for. “I’ve grown… evolved… that’s what people do…!” He continued, his tone low, cold and quite barbed. “Perhaps that isn’t always perfect, or even for the good, but it happens nonetheless! Everyone, that is, except you…! Still acting the ‘man’s man’; pretending you’re just ‘one of the boys’… still behaving like some egotistical bully-boy with a chip on his shoulder instead of the titular head of a huge multinational conglomerate that you are. The whole ‘Larrikin Aussie’ thing doesn’t work anymore: there’s a bloody war on – in case you hadn’t noticed – and your team – and the rest of the world for that matter – expects a bloody sight better…!”
“I never asked for any of this…!” Thorne groaned in defeat, staring darkly at a far wall now and unable to meet his friend’s gaze. “I never signed on for any of it…!”
“No… you didn’t…” Trumbull agreed pointedly, stepping forward and jabbing an accusing finger into his friend’s chest “…but millions of others did, your own team included, and whether you like it or not, they’re now looking to you for guidance… depending on you for leadership! I’ve heard you moaning a few times now that both Canberra and Washington have been trying to push you to one side… to ‘marginalise’ you, I think is the word you’ve been using is.” He gave a soft, mirthless snort of derision. “Any wonder considering how difficult it is to deal with you. Even your own friends can’t get a straight answer, most of the time: what chance do governments have? And don’t tell me you don’t revel in it, deep down… don’t you dare deny it…!” He barked, raising his voice for the first time as he saw Thorne’s expression change in preparation to challenge that statement. “I know you, Max… a bloody sight better than you imagine, and I know exactly how much that planet-sized ego of yours glories in the thrill that little power trip gives you, as you ignore and obstruct and thumb your nose at the entire world…!”
“Are you done?” Thorne snarled, his temper reaching a point where it was close to breaking.
“How should I answer that, I wonder,” Trumbull asked tartly, the question clearly rhetoric.
“Are you done....?” That repeated demand was far louder, barked with a force and clarity that had been markedly absent from Thorne’s tone and general demeanour up to that point.
Hold it… control it… let it work for you… his inner voice whispered softly, guiding and focussing his rage into one sharp, focussed stream of consciousness.
“You dare to speak to me in that fashion…?” He snarled savagely, bringing himself to his full height before leaning in toward Trumbull until their faces were barely inches apart. “Maybe you can’t see the bands on my shoulders in this light,” he added, bracing both of them back, turning one shoulder forward and tapping a finger on his epaulettes in emphasis, “but I assure you, there’s still one thick and one thin up there, commodore! I wouldn’t accept that kind of insolence from the General Staff, and I’m bloody sure I won’t take it from you…! Stand to attention when I’m addressing you…!”
“Sah…!” Trumbull snapped almost automatically, coming immediately to attention and staring directly eyes forward as he weathered the full brunt of that tirade.
“If you have some problem with my performance, or my behaviour, I expect you to forward it to me through the appropriate channels and at a civil bloody hour…!” He went on, barking each sentence with enough force to draw a flinch here or there. “As you’ve so presciently observed, there is a bloody war on, and I’ll thank you to respect the proper chain of command and accord me the respect the authority that comes with the rank I’m wearing. Do I make myself clear…?”
“Yes, sir…!”
“Do I make myself clear…?” He bellowed directly in Trumbull’s face, and Alec could’ve sworn later that his cheeks were almost glowing red with fury despite the complete lack of illumination.
“Yes, sah…!” He confirmed almost as loudly, knowing exactly what was expected.
“Then don’t you bloody forget it, air commodore! I believe you’re flying out in a few hours: I don’t expect to see your face anywhere near me before then. Consider yourself dismissed!”
“Sah…!”
Alec Trumbull executed possibly the most perfect, by-the-numbers about face in his entire career before marching off in the same direction he’d originally come, the left-over beers still hanging from his left hand. The moment he’d turned around, the rigid, stony expression he’d held during that entire scene was instantly replaced by a faint, almost self-satisfied smile. In his younger days as a junior officer, he’d received his fair share of right-royal bollockings at the hands of any number of commanding officers looking to earn a reputation for toughness.
As bollockings went, the one he’d just received – although relatively short for all that – had been right up there with the best of them in terms of its brutal intensity. It was also the first time in his memory that Trumbull could ever recall Max Thorne pull rank with any conviction whatsoever, and the fact that it had been utterly convincing actually left the pilot somewhat impressed.
He knew it wasn’t much – a good start at best – but as he continued to march on, making sure he never allowed the sudden jauntiness of his mood to work its way into his step, Trumbull hoped that perhaps just some of that feeling might stay with his friend; a man for whom he held such great love and respect. There was already so much greatness in the man, yet somehow Alec instinctively understood that if Max Thorne was to ever become more than he had been before now… before this moment… then someone needed to push him: to challenge him to do more so that he might be more.
Thorne’s chest was heaving with anger and adrenalin as he glared after Trumbull’s retreating form, marching stiffly off down the taxiway between the big Boeings. Already, his conscience was beginning to eat at him; beginning to worm its way into his consciousness with the idea that the way he’d spoken had been incredibly harsh, and mightily over the top in reaction to his friend’s genuine concerns. Remembering the forgotten beer in his hand, he glanced down for a moment, realised he no longer had any taste for it, and tossed it away onto the grass between the two nearest aircraft.
“Doesn’t seem to be your night…”
That completely unexpected voice, originating from the pitch darkness behind him, so completely startled Thorne that he literally jumped in fright and released a choked cry of surprise as he whirled around. The voice was soft and confident, and tinted with a strange accent that sounded vaguely European but was ultimately impossible to lock down. It was a voice Thorne had heard only once, just months before.
“Don’t go shouting for guards, or any rubbish like that…!” Brandis warned tiredly, there not being any difficulty whatsoever in knowing exactly what he was thinking at that moment. “For one, they’d never catch me – trust me on this – and secondly, you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say far too badly to risk me being hauled off by the wallopers…”
“For fuck’s sake…!” Thorne moaned in almost mournful frustration. “Everywhere I bloody turn around, you’re hiding there! I’ll have to start checking my bloody shorts from now on…!”
“You never know…” Brandis chuckled softly, stepping away from the landing gear strut he’d been hiding behind just enough for Thorne to make out a barely-visible shape against the deeper blackness that was the body of the B-17 behind him.
“The things you see when you don’t have a fuckin�
�� gun…! Me asking how the fuck you got past security here isn’t going to help, is it?” He asked with resignation already obvious in his tone.
“Not at all,” Brandis answered with casual honesty. “I tend to be able to get past most security if I put my mind to it. You should know… you’ve had MI6 out looking for me since Tocumwal – which they’ve tried before, I might add. That really was a terrible thing you just did, by the way!”
There was a long pause, Thorne staring angrily into that darkness, before his featured finally melted into an expression far more akin to shame and self-loathing.
“I – yeah… I know…” he sighed eventually, raising a hand in a vague gesture of surrender. “Alec came to me, honestly wanting to talk, and I bit his head off the first chance I got.”
“Well, actually I was talking about throwing away a full can of beer,” Brandis shot back with an impish tone to match his smile, “but now you mention it: yes, that was a shitty way to treat such a close friend.”
“Jesus, everyone’s a smartarse tonight!” Thorne growled, deciding he’d no strength for standing any longer and taking a few steps across to the landing gear beneath the opposite wing. Sitting down on the flattened grass there he was able to face Brandis, with his back against the flat inside wall of the tyre and the main strut at his right shoulder. “What do you want, now? Still got some pepper spray you need to offload, maybe? Have you wandered in here ‘cause you’ve run out of innocent peoples’ lives to fiddle about with for your own amusement? Or maybe there’s just a bloody great neon sign out front of the base tonight that says ‘Come on in and shit on Max!’…” He almost snorted in derision then at the thought of his own words. “Well, don’t fuckin’ bother: I’ve got my own private voices lining up to take that job without your bloody help!”
Well thank you, very bloody much…!
“You mean the voices in your own head, of course,” Brandis observed knowingly.
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 95