by Peter Docker
Gentlemen, and ladies. I do not have to tell you that we are in unchartered waters here. This state has not had a situation like this for over a hundred years. I do not need to remind you officers how serious this is. The death toll stands at twenty-two, including four police officers, eight Defence Force personnel, and five government agents.
Sergeant Smithers scoffs under his breath.
Spies, he says to Constable Slopken, who looks at the floor and smiles.
The Commissioner’s eyes flick to Smithers but too fast for Smithers to notice.
We are dealing with a very dangerous individual, or individuals, who will not stop until we get him. This individual must not be approached by any officers, except under the express supervision of the officer commanding this operation. If anyone talks to the media, I guarantee it will be your career. I will now hand you over to Detective Inspector McIntyre, of the Queensland Police Service, who will be running this operation.
Jesus, how old is he? says Smithers under his breath.
A few of the younger officers around Smithers laugh. The Commissioner glares at him, his hands balling into fists. When he speaks his voice is as cold as ice.
What did you say, Smithers?
The Commissioner’s tone freeze-dries the laughs.
Nothing, Sir.
You tell me what you said, you fucking worm, or you are finished right now!
Smithers looks around for support. In the room of grim-faced coppers, there is none.
Well?
Macca gives the Commissioner a glance out of the corner of his eye. He would’ve made a great RSM.
I was wondering how old the Queensland Detective Inspector is, Sir.
Well, Sergeant Smithers, as it turns out I do know the answer to your question. It is my job to know these things. But let me ask you a question, Smithers – where were you in 1968?
Smithers looks confused.
I was two years old, Sir.
In 1968, Detective Inspector McIntyre was twenty years old, and a soldier in 1st Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment, fighting in South Vietnam at a place called Fire Support Base Coral. The Americans were using us as the tethered goat. It was the costliest series of operations that Australian Forces experienced in Vietnam. Detective Inspector McIntyre was with the Mortar Platoon when they were being overrun, and the lieutenant was forced to call in fire on their own position. They threw themselves in their holes, and called in splintex rounds on themselves. Some of our positions were taken by the NVA; Detective McIntyre and others assaulted them and took them back. Nine of our boys were killed that night, and twenty-eight were wounded. When DI McIntyre came back to Australia, he retrained with SAS, and then went back to Vietnam, where he served his country with distinction.
Smithers is starting to look like he has been surprised with a mouthful of sacred cow by some angry and heavily armed Hindus. The Commissioner is clearly emotional. He clenches and releases his fists as he speaks.
I doubt whether a fucking worm like you would be fit to polish Detective Inspector McIntyre’s shoes, Smithers!
Some of the officers close to Macca look down to notice his impeccably polished shoes. Men are looking at Smithers with disgust and open scorn.
Detective Inspector McIntyre has delayed his retirement to run this operation, and we are fucking lucky to have him.
The Commissioner nods to DI McIntyre. Macca straightens his tie again. The room full of coppers facing him look at him with fresh eyes. Eyes full of respect and admiration. Gone are the thoughts of Queensland cowboys. Now the whole room is noticing the small gold pin on his left lapel, a dagger with oak-leaf cluster – the privilege of a combat veteran. Macca has been there and done that.
Thank you for the introduction, Commissioner.
Macca pauses, a little smile of embarrassment crossing his weather-beaten features.
For anyone who is not sure what splintex rounds are, you just have to follow me through airport security, and see me trying to explain why my arse sets the metal detector off.
There are some chuckles in the room.
I know that having a banana bender in charge may be challenging for some of you officers. I am here because I know more about this situation than any of you. Are there any other returned soldiers present?
Three of the blokes in black overalls put their hands up.
Good. I will need to speak to you men separately. What we are dealing with are two highly trained, highly motivated offenders who are prepared to escalate and exploit a violent situation. They will continue killing until they are killed or captured themselves.
Macca opens the folder that he is carrying in his left hand, and takes out two 10x8 photos, which he pins onto the board behind him. Sweet One and Smokey are both in camouflage uniform, and wearing the sand-coloured berets of the SASR with its distinctive flying dagger badge.
Akhbal Khan Murali, also known as ‘AK’, also known as ‘Sweet One’. Peter Arthur Aransen, also known as ‘PA’, also known as ‘Smokey’. These men may be operating separately, or as a unit. They are combat veterans of East Timor, Iraq and Afghanistan. It is believed that their grievances surround the events that led to the death of an old man in the back of a prison vehicle transporting him from this station. They have intimate knowledge of the goldfields area, and the local people who live here. We believe these men are well armed, and quite possibly able to sustain a protracted operation against us. In soldiering terms, they are a formidable enemy.
Macca pauses to see how everyone is coping with this. They seem to be keeping up. Much of what he is saying isn’t new.
Intelligence gathering will be essential to our success, and I will be giving extensive orders to officers heading up each group. Make no mistake: our only chance is to befriend the local Aboriginal population.
Now a few officers are shuffling on their feet and crossing their arms. New territory here.
Our core tasks will be to protect the intended targets, and to maintain a strong presence so that we can gather an accurate picture of who is moving where and when. When these offenders move around, that is the time that they are vulnerable. When we get the right information, we will have to move very quickly. You all know your jobs. I expect a high standard. Are there any questions?
Finn Macomish, the JP, shifts on his feet. He runs his fingers around the brim of his akubra that he is holding.
Yes, Mister Macomish?
Is it true, what Sergeant Smithers said, that you want us all to camp here?
The station is the place where we can best protect you. You, Sergeant Smithers, Senior Constables Charleston and Lishtokitz, and Constable Slopken, will all be living at the station until a better alternative is found.
I can’t live here. I’ve got a station to run.
You will be his main target.
I didn’t arrest the Old Man.
You denied him bail.
I’m not on trial here.
That is a matter for others. I am trying to stop a killer from killing. But you must know that you exceeded your authority as a JP, and that is why he will target you.
Macomish glares at Smithers. Smithers looks away.
This is all bullshit! I took on the JP position because this community needed someone to step up. No bloody wonder! I got no training. Do you reckon I want to spend my mornings coming in to deal with stinking blacks that can’t hold their piss? And this is the thanks I get!
I am merely trying to keep you alive, Mister Macomish.
Trying to send me fucking broke! What a joke!
He turns and shoves his way through the throng of coppers, heading for the front door. Macca turns to the TRG boss.
Put a team with him, your best men, twenty-four seven.
Macomish pauses at the door.
You wanna help me? Send me coppers who can muster cattle!
The TRG boss nods at his 2IC, who follows Macomish with a group of black-clad officers. The Commissioner and Macca give each other a look. All the police
in the room turn back to Macca.
There is one other thing. All of your actions during this operation will be scrutinised at the highest level. The Prime Minister rang me this morning. Three days ago four prisoners at the Alice Springs Correctional Centre were attacked. They were the four young white men convicted of the unprovoked murder of a young Aboriginal ranger. Two of them are dead. Two are in critical condition. The attackers are believed to be Aboriginal. There is a strong view that whatever has been started here must be stopped immediately.
Macca scans their faces again to make sure he is getting through. He sees the old fears waking up in the eyes of the white policemen. The few Aboriginal police aides in the room seem to be looking at the floor.
Embedded
Twenty-one ... twenty-two ... twenty-three...
There is a loud knock at the door.
Izzy freezes mid press-up.
Who is it?
Police.
She lets herself drop to the floor. She feels her sweaty flesh squeak on the cool polished floorboards. Can she admit now that she is frightened of Mort coming back? If he was going to kill her, he would’ve done it already.
Give me a sec.
Right – oh.
Maybe she’s frightened because she might say yes. She might say, ‘Yes, let’s blow this popsicle stand. Let’s fly first-class and live in the Bahamas, and have sex, and drink cocktails by the pool, and have competitions to see who can spend the most money in one day.’
She just has to forget all about the truth. The truth and the proof. She has to forget everything she’s seen. She has to forget why she wanted to be a journalist in the first place. She has to forget everything she believes in. Everything her father believed in. Everything Josh believed in.
Are you all right Ms Langford?
Yeah. I’m good.
She gets to her feet and opens the door. Two police officers with shotguns come into her room, and two more stand at the door. The shotguns seem massive in the small hotel room. Izzy is in her bike shorts and singlet. The sweat from her press-up and crunches exertion has sleeked down the material, and it clings to her flesh. The police officers don’t know where to look. Macca has told them in no uncertain terms how she is to be treated.
I’m sorry, Ms Langford, we...
Sorry to intrude, says the second cop.
Is that a shotgun in your hands, or are you just pleased to see me?
We are your security detail, Ms Langford. DI McIntyre told us that you know the rules; you’ve been to Afghanistan.
What is going on?
Where you go – we go.
Izzy nods.
OK. I want to see the detective. Where is he?
He said that you would.
Did he?
He’s at the station.
Can you let me get dressed?
We’ll be outside, says the first cop.
The second cop puts his head into the bathroom for a look. He checks the only window. He opens the cupboard.
Do you want to look under the bed?
Just doing my job, Ms Langford.
He goes out and shuts the door behind him. Izzy goes to the bathroom and takes a cold shower. The water isn’t that cold. Copper pipes on the outside of the building heated up by the sun’s rays see to that. She dresses quickly in jeans, T-shirt and Blundstones. She grabs her BlackBerry and goes for the front door.
Outside, the four cops are spread across the car park. She starts to strike out for the street.
The 4WD, says the first cop.
I want to walk.
We’re driving.
It’s only a couple of blocks.
The second cop is looking at her from the side.
We have to drive. Orders.
Izzy heads for the police 4WD. Once she is belted in, they all get in around her, with all but the driver still holding their shotguns.
The 4WD pulls out onto the main drag with Izzy sitting in the middle of the back, flanked by the officers with shotties. They head down towards the station. It is still early, and Somerset is just coming alive. Izzy sees the police crime-scene tape still around the chalets, with forensic cops in white overalls coming and going. On the other side of the divided main street she sees an old Troopie going in the opposite direction. The eyes of the police go to the vehicle as well. The police eyes relax when they note the very old Aboriginal woman behind the wheel.
But Izzy can’t look away. She knows the woman from the little kitchen in Boolbardji: Nana Fay. Izzy keeps looking as the two vehicles sweep past each other. Izzy takes her eyes back to the front. She is still in a car full of coppers. She wants to twist her head around. But she knows that Nana Fay won’t be looking at anyone or anything moving away from her. Izzy concentrates on keeping her breathing even, and trying to slow the clamour in her chest.
The police 4WD passes through the roadblock, and pulls into the station. Izzy looks up to notice a rifle barrel just above the guttering: sniper. There are police spaced out all around the station. Her mind is thinking of Tarin Kowt. These blokes aren’t lounging around. They are expecting some serious shit. Izzy gets out and follows the blokes with their shotties. Outside the front door, two officers pat her down for weapons. They are thorough. She stands with her legs apart and arms outstretched. She looks at the other two guards and smiles as the hands of the patters go over her front, and down to her groin. Have your fun, boys. The guards are taken aback, and not sure if they’re allowed to smile or not. They split the diff. One smiles, and the other one forces his grim face to remain intact.
Sorry, Ms Langford, one of the patters says.
Izzy gives the officer a pat on the shoulder.
I’ll return the favour sometime, she says, and goes inside.
The coppers standing outside all break into grins this time. Sheila’s all right.
Macca is standing over near the counter talking to a detective. The main entrance area has been transformed into an operations centre. On the board are a series of maps and photos. Smokey and Sweet One in their perfect uniforms, the destroyed helicopter, the frozen figure of the GPL4 supervisor with the paperwork pinned to her front, it goes on and on. There is one big map with a series of coloured pins stuck into it. But Izzy’s eyes are drawn to the photos at the very end of the display. One is of the back of the prison transport vehicle, with the bloodstain, with even the pie and water bottle still there. Below that is the close-up picture of burnt human flesh in the unmistakable shape of the rising sun military badge of Australia, with a ruler next to it.
Izzy, you didn’t have to come in.
Izzy doesn’t take her eyes off the photos.
Am I interrupting you?
Not at all, says Macca.
The burn looks like the badge, Izzy says without taking her eyes from the image.
Macca looks at the photos.
The rising sun, says Macca. Of course you would see that.
Came out of the Boer war, didn’t it?
Yep.
Our guy’s ancestor was there.
How do you know?
I’ve seen the photo.
Want a coffee?
Is it instant?
There’s no real coffee in Somerset, Iz.
I’d love one.
Macca nods at a young copper, and leads Izzy behind the counter to two chairs at a table. On the table there are military documents everywhere. Izzy notices the trapdoor behind the counter with its large metal handle sticking out of the concrete floor.
What’s that? A secret tunnel?
Charleston tells me it’s a bomb shelter.
What are they expecting here?
Trouble.
They’ll get it.
Apparently Smithers uses it as a wine cellar. He’s got a good collection down there.
Good to know.
Macca smiles. Sometimes Izzy is so like her father that it unnerves him. He shoves that thought under the counter.
The blokes I’ve put on you are the be
st.
They seem nice. None of them looked at my tits.
Discipline, Izzy. You remember that.
The young copper with the shaved head from Baal brings over an instant coffee in a mug that reads CIB and puts it down in front of Izzy.
Oh, look, the regimental china, she says.
No expense spared, Macca says.
And fast, too.
We’ve got white man’s magic – urn.
Izzy takes a sip. She considers Macca for a moment.
Are you enjoying yourself, Macca?
I’m going to catch him. It’s my job.
I don’t need to drain your resources.
I’ve budgeted for it.
Are you trying to keep an eye on me?
Izzy. I want you to be safe. You know why.
Izzy snorts with derision.
I wasn’t born when you made that promise.
You wanted to be embedded, Izzy. So now you are.
She takes a sip of coffee.
Can I get access to those photos?
They’re from the coroner’s office. Not released.
Izzy takes another sip.
He was here. Came to see me.
Aransen? Murali?
Mort.
We’re not hunting Mort.
He killed Xavier.
We don’t know that.
Macca fixes her with a stare as if she were sixteen and coming home drunk and dishevelled. Izzy sighs a big sigh. She feels like stamping her foot. Macca told her in the bunker. It makes sense. Macca has to go for Smokey and Sweet One.
Who is the girl? he asks.
I told you, she’s got nothing to do with this. Do you know how hard it is to get the confidence of this mob?
What do you think I’ve been doing for the past thirty-five years?
Sorry, Macca.
The shaved-head young copper comes over.
Excuse me, Sir. Phone call.
Who is it?
The Commissioner, Sir.
Macca turns to Izzy.
Stay in touch, he says.
What does the Commissioner want?
The Aboriginal prisoners are on strike.
Which prison?
All of them.