‘Dare to Survive is a cover for a Muslim terrorist training camp? Come on, Clay.’
‘I know, I know, I’m overreacting. But you know how things are just now. The least smell of anything like that can bugger the prospects of anyone associated with it. I want my boy to have a decent career, a decent life.’
‘Spotted him reading the Koran?’
‘You can laugh, but I’m serious and I’ve got a serious job for you. That’s if you want to work and not just make jokes.’
I wanted to work, and I needed to. Business had been slow and the bills still came in quickly. I’d had to take out costly levels of protective professional insurance and cover for the people I occasionally recruit as helpers. I had a bit of a tax problem and the house needed repairs. I couldn’t afford to turn down work from someone who was in a position to meet my fees. I nodded and picked up the magazine to indicate that I was paying attention.
‘I’ve done a deal with the DTS people to send a journalist along on their next camp to write about it for one of my magazines. That’s you, if you’re up for it, Cliff.’
‘Hold on. Won’t your kid know you’re spying on him?’
‘Shit, you’ve got a great way of putting things. No.’ He struggled to keep the disappointment out of his voice. ‘Gary’s bored by my business. I’ll concoct a false name for the magazine, but he wouldn’t show any interest anyway. Like I say, we’re not close but I still care about him. I hope we can get on better terms one of these days.’
‘Suppose someone notices the names—yours and his being the same—and works out what’s going on?’
Clay shook his head. ‘We weren’t married when he was born. She insisted that he took her name—Pearson. I tried to get it changed later but we were finished by then, so…’
He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a photograph and handed it to me. There was something sad about that—keeping your kid’s picture in a drawer. Gary Pearson was Clay’s son all right, the way James Packer is Kerry’s. In fact there was a resemblance—the same big, strong features, thrusting jaw, aggressive hairline. He wasn’t handsome in the same way Clay wasn’t, but he caught your attention. Looked to have the same solid neck and shoulders.
‘He’s a lump of a lad,’ I said. ‘I doubt I could keep up with him in a cross-country run.’
Clay must have been confident I’d do it. He opened another drawer and took out a set of keys and a wallet.
‘There’s a Pajero standing waiting. It’s got all the gear you’ll need—camping equipment, camera, tape recorder, clothing, medical stuff, mobile, laptop, the works. Your authorisation as a journalist is here and some cash. I’ll sign a contract and pay your retainer. This is a legitimate job, Cliff. More so than some you’ve taken on, I bet.’
I let that pass. People like to think the worst of us and I like to let them and then give them a pleasant surprise. He told me that the DTS bivouac party was to set off from a meeting point to be named in two days’ time. Six vehicles, plus mine—twenty-four survivalists, plus me.
‘To be named?’ I said.
‘They’ll advise me and I’ll advise you.’
I scooped the keys and the wallet towards me. The wallet felt comfortably filled. ‘Destination?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Dunno. To be revealed at the time of departure. You can bet they’ve got a bush camp out there somewhere.’
‘It’s a big “out there”. Any names?’
‘Just one—Hilary St James, would you believe. He’s the editor of their magazine and the head of the organisation. Whether he’s going on safari I don’t know.’
‘Did you check on him?’
Clay smiled in the winning way he had that redeemed that almost brutal face. ‘I thought I’d leave that to you.’
* * * *
Clay got someone to drive my car home while I piloted the newish, slightly travel-stained Pajero. It handled well, but still felt like driving a truck, lending a false sense of superiority. The fuel tank was full and the service sticker indicated that it had been tuned up recently.
Clay’s driver took off and I went through the gear in the 4WD. The clothes and boots and other usefuls were newish but showed a bit of wear. Obviously I was to present as someone who’d been off the tarmac in his time—partly true, but it had been a while. I took the technical bits inside and made myself familiar with them. As well as the things Clay had mentioned, there was a folder of maps covering a good part of the state, and a compass I hoped I’d never need. The gas stove and cylinder were a potential comfort, like the medical chest and, especially, the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. Luckily, the laptop was user-friendly for me—a Mac with Word installed, so I’d be able to make a show of entering notes and impressions. The digital camera was in advance of anything I’d used but simple enough.
Clay phoned me the following day. ‘0630 hours,’ he said. ‘Muster at Wentworth Park.’
‘You sound like you wish you were going.’
‘In a way I do. Take care of yourself, Cliff, and keep an eye on my boy. First sign of anything dodgy along the lines we talked about and you pull him out.’
‘You didn’t mention that—might not be easy.’
‘Probably won’t be necessary but you’ll manage if it is. I have confidence in you. And this St James character is going apparently. Wants to meet you and he says you’ll have no trouble spotting him.’
‘Wonder what that means.’
‘No idea.’
‘Nothing on where we’re going or for how long?’
‘No.’
‘How does Gary take off like this if he’s at university?’
‘He just does. Get a good night’s sleep. Stay in touch, Cliff.’
Despite myself, I was close to excited. I was never in the Scouts or anything like that, but with some teenage mates I went out west at weekends: we took old .303s, .22s and beer, ostensibly to shoot kangaroos and feral pigs, but really just to go bush and rough it. Then came the army. Training in Queensland was okay, fighting in the jungles wasn’t, but this felt more like a harking back to the good old days— with a professional edge.
I did a web check on Hilary St James. He was CEO of something called Survival Enterprises which, in addition to publishing the magazine, had several retail outlets selling outdoor and patriotic gear. The company claimed to have offices in Jakarta and Malaysia and to be affiliated with similar organisations in Britain, New Zealand and the United States. Its motto was, ‘We will be there!’
St James was born in South Africa and had served in that country’s army in the apartheid era. According to the webpage, he moved to Australia and ran a successful import/export business before turning his ‘talents and resources to stiffening the physical and moral fibre of Australia’s youth’. He was sixty years of age and the webpage described him as being as fit as a man half his age. A slightly faded postcard-sized photograph of him in semi-combat gear backed up the claim. St James stood half a head taller than others in the picture, and his tilted-back head showed a mane of fair hair, a strong neck and a sharp jawline. Icy pale eyes. Interestingly, the photo would not blow up. He’d self-published two books—Man Alive and Fight for Your Freedom. Go, Hilary!
* * * *
I was at the rendezvous point at the stated time, wearing boots, jeans, a T-shirt and a flannie against the early morning cold. A two-day stubble. It was early July and the day was clear—hard to say how it’d develop in the city, let alone where we might be headed. The mobile had a hands-free hookup, and a quick check showed that it was fully charged. The laptops battery likewise. I’d slept well and I had a Smith & Wesson .38 pistol wrapped in a towel tucked down in a backpack under a couple of books. Be prepared.
Three off-road vehicles were there when I arrived and two sedans. A covered truck pulled up soon after. I sat tight, preferring to have St James seek me out rather than the other way around. After a bit of confab between the various drivers, a man jumped down from the truck and came towards me. No mi
staking him, although he wasn’t as tall as he’d looked in the photo. As he drew nearer, I could see why he hadn’t wanted a clearer photo—hair that had looked white-blonde was actually grey and the flinty eyes were surrounded by lines and wrinkles. If his birth certificate said he was sixty I still wouldn’t have believed it—he was at least ten years older. Still, he moved well, with a long, balanced stride, and looked trim inside dark pants and shirt and a tight down vest. I got out of the car.
‘Mr Hardy, I presume,’ he said, the voice strongly accented. ‘Welcome.’
‘Thank you.’ We shook hands. His grip was strong but not aggressive. ‘Cliff’ll do it, Mr St James.’
‘Oh, no,’ he shook his head. ‘We insist on some formality in this exercise. I’m simply known as Leader and what you might call our NCOs are called numbers one to five respectively. The trainees answer to code names, which will be stencilled onto the back of their clothing.’
‘Got it,’ I said. ‘Very efficient arrangement. Where are we bound?’
‘All in good time, Mr Hardy, all in good time. If you’ll just fall in to the middle of the convoy we’ll be on our way.’
I nodded and got back behind the wheel. 0630 hours, Leader, NCOs, convoy—military stuff, but there was nothing of that about the vehicles. The 4WDs were of various makes, sizes and colours and the truck was red with a blue covering. The lettering on its side read DTS but, with the sedans positioned between the truck and the 4WDs, a casual observer would see nothing alarming about us as we pulled on to the road and took off at a modest pace. Traffic was light and a grey, overcast day was building. Before too long at least our intended direction was evident—west.
Clay had provided me with a batch of CDs not to my taste—classical and jazz instrumentals, not even an aria or two. Music needs words to my mind, but I tried a few before switching off and tuning in to Radio National at news time. A congestion tax for the CBD was being debated—okay by me. Anyone who takes a car to within a couple of clicks of the city deserves to pay.
It wasn’t a problem here where we picked up the Great Western Highway and followed it to the Bathurst Road exit. The land rose, the air cooled and I was grateful for the Pajero’s heating system. We ran into a brief but severe rainstorm and the wipers coped well: heating and effective wipers both needed urgent attention on my Falcon.
I was impressed by the discipline of my co-drivers. No macho stuff. When cowboys wanted to pass they were permitted, and when the truck laboured a bit on the hills it was allowed to fall behind and then the convoy slowed almost imperceptibly to let it catch up. Give him his due, St James apparently had no need to be at the head of his troops. I was happy to stay more or less in the middle position. I amused myself by memorising the registration plates of the truck and several of the other vehicles—for no good reason, just staying in practice.
After we bypassed Bathurst my Clay-supplied mobile rang. It was St James, who’d evidently been given the number by Clay, something he hadn’t told me.
‘Any bladder pressure, Mr Hardy?’
‘I went before I came.’
He didn’t laugh. ‘Is that a no?’
‘Yes, that’s a no.’
I heard him draw in an exasperated breath, but he maintained control. ‘Good man!’
He rang off. A concerned commander, or testing my mettle? I shouldn’t have needled him but I couldn’t help it. Serious soldiering has my respect; play-actors should have a sense of humour.
We went off the paved road onto gravel and then to a dirt track winding through thick bush. Climbing and getting colder. A brief stop for a gate to be opened, and then it was over a cattle grid and onto a track that was wider than the previous one and had recently been graded. The bush was still thick, but I could see open patches through the trees. A bridge over a moderately large stream appeared to be new and solid. Then the convoy slowed, took a bend, and I came in sight of what St James probably referred to as HQ, or perhaps the operational base, with an electronically operated gate.
The farmhouse in the middle of the enclosed space was sandstone and old with a bullnose verandah running around three sides. It was long and low and three chimneys were smoking. There was a cement parking space for the vehicles to one side and four old-style Nissan huts arranged in a square around a gravel area with a flagpole in its centre. No grass, no garden except a small patch around the base of the flagpole. Nothing frivolous.
Uh-oh, I thought, square bashing and hard beds in unheated huts. Took me back and not to where I wanted to go. I determined to insist on my civilian status. I fancied being inside the house, nestled up to a fire with a drink in hand.
I parked the Pajero as far as I could from the other vehicles, got out and used Clay’s camera to take a few pictures of the scene. All of a sudden the site had assumed a military aspect despite the disparate character of the vehicles—the Australian flag, flying bravely above another carrying a DTS logo, in a light, chilly breeze, and the fatigues and berets being worn by the personnel did the trick.
St James approached me. ‘Should have asked permission, Hardy,’ he said.
He was annoyed enough to drop the Mister. ‘Sorry, Leader,’ I said. ‘I meant no harm.’
‘Hope not. Ask next time. You’ll be quartered in the house. Take your gear in and one of my chaps’ll show you to your room.’
Suited me. I almost saluted. I gathered together the stuff Clay had provided and my own equipment and organised it into a portable load. I spent longer at the task than needed, and used the time to inspect the NCOs and trainees as they got organised. I was more than fifty metres away and couldn’t be quite sure I’d spotted Gary Pearson. The code names were simply colours with a numeral, red 1, blue 2, yellow, etc. Pearson could’ve been one of three big blokes with a similar build.
As expected, the trainees looked young—early twenties or younger—and the NCOs were older. To my surprise, two of them had dark faces. Three or four of the trainees didn’t look like Anglo-Celts either, but they all seemed dead keen. They fell in smartly and were marched off towards the Nissan huts with duffel bags on their square shoulders.
I took my stuff to the house—laptop slung from one shoulder, overnight bag from the other, carrying other items. Just before I mounted the steps to the verandah, I looked around and experienced an odd sensation that stayed with me, although it meant nothing at all—I was the only man in sight not wearing headgear. Seriously undressed in military terms.
The big man who met me on the verandah wore a beret and a buttoned-up white Nehru-type jacket, with black trousers tucked into combat boots. Not quite a steward, not quite a soldier, but not far off either.
* * * *
Over the next three days I spent some time participating in the trainees’ activities. I had a comfortable bed in a warm room while they slept in bunks in the huts with kerosene heaters that didn’t do much against the cold. I ate the same nutritious food as them but served motel-style in my room. I attended without encouragement one of St James’s lectures on courage and character, and that was enough.
I went on a couple of the route marches and didn’t fall behind, although I was carrying only a light backpack while they were heavily laden. A couple of trainees who finished well behind were given mild kitchen punishment duties. I passed on fording the waist-deep stream with equipment held up high above my head. Two trainees who fell into the water were roundly abused by the NCOs.
On the fourth day the trainees were mustered for shooting practice and I went along. I’d been permitted to take photographs up to then, but St James banned the camera for this exercise.
‘Might give your readers the wrong idea,’ he said. ‘You can write whatever you like, but pictures speak louder and sometimes more ambiguously than words.’
Nicely put. They marched, I walked, to a shooting site that had been constructed by bulldozers. A chute with sides about six metres high had been built with a solid earth wall at least twice that height fifty or sixty metres distant. Targets were
arranged on the wall that sloped back slightly so that ricochets and deflections would be directed away from the shooters. There were six shooting stalls, all equipped with benches holding earmuffs, ammunition and semiautomatic rifles.
It had taken a while to identify Gary Pearson. The trainees wore their hats pulled down and seemed to delight in keeping their combat camouflage paint on, but I had him now and watched him closely. He appeared to be one of the keenest and most accomplished of the trainees— smartly turned out at all times, an early finisher in the marches, first or second man across the stream, beating a couple of the NCOs who’d had a head start. Now he was selected as one of the first batch of shooters.
St James took me aside. ‘In case you’re wondering, Hardy, DTS is registered as a gun club. In any case, this is private property.’
‘Really? I meant to ask. How many acres?’
‘About a hundred and fifty hectares.’
Corris, Peter Page 17