The House That Jack Built

by Patrick Ford

  “Who the hell are you? What is going on?” demanded the Captain.

  “You are now our prisoners,” said one of the boarders. “If you do as you are told, you will not be harmed. You will remain on the bridge, Captain, with your crew confined to their quarters. Now, follow our instructions without demur, or you will be very dead.”

  By daylight, Sunbird III had disappeared.

  Steaming in a southerly direction was a small container ship with the name Whitby Trader Liverpool emblazoned on her stern. She flew the Red Ensign of the British Merchant Navy and her funnel and upper works were clad in a fresh coat of blue paint. Two nights later, she rendezvoused with a small boat near Ramu Island.

  * * * *

  Abdul Amir Mahomet had spent several months sailing along the north coast of Australia. He would lie up during the day and investigate potential anchorages by night and early morning. He was equipped with depth sounding equipment, tide tables and the latest Admiralty charts of the area. It took a long time, but the bolt hole he discovered was well worth it. AK Bay, he called it, completely hidden from the sea by a river that twisted away to the east about a mile from its mouth.

  Here, alongside the towering cliffs of an escarpment, lay a small island. Between the mainland and the island lay a narrow body of water, deep enough for medium-sized ships. It was possible to moor a ship close in along the escarpment, partly hidden by a large overhang. The small island would be the campsite for the men Abdul would leave here to mind his prize. Both ship and camp could be camouflaged using netting and painted panels and be virtually invisible from the air. After a couple of days, the ship would cool down and be safe from infrared cameras.

  Now, Abdul and his little group were waiting for the ship to arrive. This it did, moving into the river mouth under cover of darkness and using the faint light of dawn to manoeuvre into position. Soon she lay shut down with the camouflage netting applied. Rashid and his fellow terrorists would begin negotiations for the ransom of the crew the next day.

  Chapter 5

  Pastoral

  Jack and Susan had just returned from an inspection tour of Ballinrobe. They sat on the veranda and had their morning smoko with Helen and Jacqui. Helen had returned from Brisbane the previous day, anxious to see her new rooms. The new carpet, the new sitting room furniture, and her brand new bathroom pleased her. Her colour scheme was perfect. Jack and Susan planned to convert their bedroom in the same way, but deferred the expense until after the harvest. The crop looked magnificent, tall, and thick, growing apace with the good rains they had had since December. It should be the best crop they had ever grown, but there are no guarantees with farming. No crop is safe from failure until safely harvested and in the silos.

  Susan and Jack had been to the thinking place. They habitually did this whenever they had been away, recharging their spirits. The homestead buzzed with happiness. As the song says, All You Need is Love.

  While the wheat crop grew, the property found plenty of work for them all. The calves, weaned from their mothers, were growing fat for sale in the spring. Called weaners at this stage of their lives, they needed regular handling to turn them into docile little animals. All the animals and the activities surrounding them fascinated Jacqui so much that Jack jokingly called her Old MacDonald. His love for her knew no bounds.

  Helen enjoyed her freedom from the farm’s mundane tasks, so capably carried out by Susan, and, with Mick’s help, turned her already magnificent garden into something spectacular. Word spread, and various organisations asked for the use of it for fund raising activities. Many young couples asked if they could be married there. She always refused any kind of payment; she remembered the flush of young love, and how much it could strengthen the human spirit. She never forgot her own life with Paddy, and the strength of Jack’s love for Susan.

  Susan was into the fifth month of her pregnancy. She wore the condition like a badge of honour. She was yet to show, just a thickening of her midriff, barely noticeable to anyone. Jack repeatedly asked questions about babies. At night in their room, they made love, gently and passionately. Jack could not wait for the birth. This time he had no strong intuition that Susan was carrying a girl, as he had had with Jacqui, but Susan was confident she would have a boy. Jack hoped for that, a son to carry on at Ballinrobe. Thus, life passed in a flurry of love, joy, and hope.

  Then once more, the army called. Jack was required again. They were going to Brisbane.

  * * * *

  The telephone call came from HQ Australian Army Training Force. The caller identified himself as Captain Walters, the staff officer Jack had met in Brisbane. “This is a courtesy call, sir. I wonder if you would like a trip to Brisbane.” Jack thought of the Mayfair Hotel; he wouldn’t mind that again, but this call was business. “We are processing the final makeup of your command, sir, and all your officers will be here for a couple of days. Could you meet with them? It is quite important, and there is some more good news for you, as well.”

  Jack, Susan and Jacqui set off a couple of days later. He was intrigued with the prospect of getting his command up and running, particularly meeting and assessing his junior officers. Denni and Grace welcomed them. Grace was beginning to say more than a few words and was making an effort to crawl about.

  Jack was familiar with Enoggera now, and it took only a few minutes to find the meeting room allocated to his conference. As he stepped inside, all present came to attention. “Okay, you blokes, at ease. Welcome to the Rifles.”

  His company commanders were there, and the two Second Lieutenants he had met before. There was another Captain, who was the Quarter Master and Adjutant, along with eight Lieutenants and Second Lieutenants. A couple of them wore Vietnam medal ribbons. Good, thought Jack, a couple of experienced men. Then he noticed another figure standing behind the officers. Bugger me, Jack realised, it was his old section leader from 11RAR, Andy McGuire!

  McGuire stepped forward, a mile-wide grin on his face. Jack saw that he was wearing the crowns of a Warrant Officer, Second Class (WO2). Jack shook his hand. He had not seen Andy since he and Ronnie Whyte had spirited Jack out of the Grande Hotel in Saigon, seconds before the Military Police had arrived. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he said.

  “To your eternal gratitude, I am to be your acting RSM. If this outfit gets off the ground, I will be promoted and have the job full time.”

  Jack had commanded a platoon of 11 RAR, and Andy had been a Corporal commanding one of the sections. He had been a dependable and competent soldier. Jack was not surprised to find him here a year later wearing WO2 rank. “We’ll catch up later, Sarn’t Major,” he said, “I am keen to hear of old mates.”

  “You will do more than hear of a couple of them. Bluey Cook and Dan Ebberling are both Corporals now, and I have managed to get them posted here.” Jack was more than glad. Two more experienced and steady NCOs! Things were taking shape nicely.

  They convened under the chairman, Captain Walters. He began with good news. “Your plans for the recruit course and your field exercise have been approved by HQ. You will have details in your hands at the end of this meeting. There is some good news as well. HQ has approved the inclusion of a weapons platoon for the Rifles. Lieutenant Corrigan will command it. Introduce yourself, Mr Corrigan.” A small, dark haired young man rose and, rather deferentially introduced himself as Ben Corrigan, from Longreach. He worked as a livestock agent. Jack looked him over. He might be shy, he thought, but he has Vietnam ribbons and a MID. He’ll do.

  The rest of the day, they worked on the details of the forthcoming courses: stores, vehicles, weapons and ammunition, and the dozens of small but vital details necessary to work such as this. Finally, Jack had the opportunity of meeting them all in the informal atmosphere of the Officers Mess. Jack set up a meeting next morning with his RSM, in civilian clothes, at Denni’s home.

  * * * *

  Andy McGuire arrived for coffee the next morning, full of news about his old platoon. He told Jack t
hat they had all survived their tour. After Jack left for other duties, their platoon sergeant, Ross O’Reily had had command for two months before they received a replacement officer. O’Reily had been a good man, remembered Jack. He was not surprised to find that he had done a good job with the platoon.

  Andy said, “Our new Looey was a Second Lieutenant fresh out of Duntroon. For a regular, he had enough sense to learn his trade from Ross and his other NCOs. By the time we left, he was doing a good job. We had a couple more wounded, but no KIA. Sharkey Dutton lost a foot in a minefield, but that was the worst of them.” They chatted for an hour or more about old times. Then Jack got to the point. “Andy, we have a big job in front of us. I am afraid the Rifles got off to a bad start. The original CO did not have his heart in the job, and morale is not good. We have a number of men who are using the Rifles to avoid conscription. Their hearts are not in it either. Our job will be to turn them into proper soldiers with some regimental pride and confidence in their own capabilities. I want you, as senior NCO to accept responsibility for most of that.”

  “I will see to that, Boss. It is hard to build regimental pride with a new unit because we have nothing with which to compare ourselves. I was thinking we might run into some regulars around Darwin and arrange an exercise with them. If we can give them a close run, it would work wonders for our morale.”

  Jack agreed. “Where are you living now, Andy?”

  “I’m in Roma, working security for one of the oil exploration companies.”

  “That’s only a couple of hours away from me. I go there regularly for cattle sales, so we can liaise pretty well. I have suggested to Training Command that Roma be our Headquarters. They have an empty depot and storage shed. We can base our Quartermaster there too. It should work out pretty well.” Susan appeared with Jacqui to invite Andy to stay for lunch. Andy looked at Jacqui. “Gee, Boss, you have a beauty there. She is gorgeous!” Jack said, “Two of them!”

  The next morning, Jack and family set off home, Jack armed with a complete roster of all his troops. He planned to institute a series of newsletters to keep them all informed between meetings. The next would be the annual recruits’ course and exercise. Jack had already christened this ‘Operation Koala’, using the regular army’s derisive name for reservists.

  * * * *

  The Riordans arrived back at Ballinrobe at lunchtime. Helen was waiting for them, her lamb casserole simmering, emitting that old familiar aroma Jack had known all his life. She hugged and kissed them all, especially Jacqui. She wanted to know all the news of the McGregors. Jacqui began a complicated story about Grace. Susan went to change, and Jack looked through the mail. Life had returned to normal on Ballinrobe. After lunch, it was into the old Land Rover for the customary property inspection and the recharging of their spirits at the thinking place. Sam went with them, joyously licking Jacqui, who hugged and patted her in return. They were happy to see the property in such great shape. The wheat crop stood in splendour, just about ready to come into head. In the pasture paddocks, the cows were beginning to give birth, and little red and white bundles lay in the rich clover or gambolled around their mothers as if to say look at me.

  At the thinking place, all remained quiet as they listened to the cool breeze whisper its way through the trees. Jack and Susan looked at each other. This place meant so much to them. Jack began to kiss her passionately. Jacqui looked at them. “Mommy”, she said, “You must love Daddy; you kiss him all the time!” They smiled at each other. Soon they would return alone to make love as they had done so often. Sam ran from bush to bush, seeking rabbits and other exciting scents. She somehow knew that this place was special, but no longer contained the grief Jack had suffered during Susan’s long absence.

  They were very happy. Soon, Jack would be away for a month, but this time Susan would be surrounded by love and care as her baby grew. When Jack returned, she would have a large bulge to show him. For by then she would have only two months to go. She hoped so much for a boy for Jack’s sake. Jack was sanguine about that. “If this one is a girl, so what? We’ll just keep on trying until we are too old for babies.” Susan thanked God for her good fortune.

  Chapter 6

  Prelude to Conflict

  The man known only as Rashid had taken a suite in the Sultan’s Palace Hotel in Damascus, Syria, openly registering in the presence of the security personnel placed in every hotel by the government. Right now, the suite was empty. It would remain so. Shortly after entering the hotel, the clean-shaven and be-suited Rashid transformed into a bearded, robed Arab.

  He emerged from a service entrance into a foul smelling and rubbish strewn alley behind the hotel. He would not return. Taking a circuitous route, he eventually entered a ramshackle coffee house. “I am the Camel.” He said to the villainous looking man behind the counter. Fear and respect fought to dominate the man’s face. Fear won. “This way, effendi, he said. They await you. Allah Akbar.”

  Rashid mounted the stairs and entered a room on the second floor. Two Arab men stood and made salaam to him. “Welcome,” they chorused, “Allah Akbar.” There were heavy mesh grills on the windows and on the door to a small balcony, upon which a guard reposed, cradling an AK47. In one corner, there was a table bearing communications equipment consisting of an encrypted telephone and a powerful radio set. “Let us begin.” said Rashid. He made a phone call to the Sunrise Shipping Company of China. This call, routed through Moscow, Johannesburg, and Montreal, was untraceable.

  One mention of the Sunbird III and her Captain ensured the call went to the 30th floor of the office tower, to the personal line of the Chairman. Rashid made no small talk. “We have your ship and its crew. If you meet our demand, the crew will be unharmed and your ship returned to you. We require the sum of US$30 million. You have until the end of August to comply. After that, your ship and crew will disappear. I will telephone tomorrow to give you further instructions.” He ignored the shrill voice on the other end of the phone, hanging up immediately.

  He turned to the others. “Tomorrow at 0900 Hong Kong time, you will call that number. Give them this telephone number and instruct them to call it within the hour. I will be leaving now. You have not seen me, nor will you see me again, Allah Akbar.” Rashid left the coffee house and walked to a nearby square. A taxi displaying the pre-arranged colours on its door stopped. Rashid got in. Neither he nor the driver spoke. The taxi accelerated away. Twenty minutes later, it turned into the gateway of a secluded house in a quiet and prosperous suburb. It drove by the large house and out a back gate to a deserted lane, turned the way it had come and headed back to the city. This subterfuge was repeated twice more before reaching another house, secluded behind a high wall topped with razor wire. It was the private home of a high-ranking officer of the Syrian Army Intelligence, a secret supporter of Rashid and his shadowy organisation. Here he would await the telephone call.

  * * * *

  Right on time, the telephone shrilled. Rashid picked it up. “Yes.” A rush of Chinese accented English, demanding, threatening, and vowing retribution, filled his ear. Rashid cut in. “You have until August 31 to pay us the money. Do not call me for any reason other than to arrange transfer.” He hung up on the babbling executive of the Sunrise Shipping Company of China.

  George Lee, chairman of the company, looked at the Superintendent of Police, spliced into the phone. “What can we do?” he pleaded.

  The policeman was maddeningly calm. “Sounded like an Arab.” He said. “No hope of tracing the call. It could have come from anywhere. If he calls again, explain that you will have to release assets or borrow to find that amount of money. Tell him you will phone in a couple of days. In the meantime, we will get cracking on trying to find your ship.”

  Superintendent Fong Lim returned to his office. He had many calls to make, Interpol, governments with naval forces in the area, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, Portuguese Timor, and Australia. The Royal Navy would have a presence, as would the Americans from their base i
n the Philippines. He would hand over the search to a higher authority of course. He was glad of that. There were thousands of islands in that area, some neither charted nor named. There were treacherous seas with reefs and sandbanks. They were welcome to it. He completed his calls, filed a report, and went home to his wife.

  * * * *

  Rashid was angry. He had not expected the abuse down the phone line. He had expected immediate compliance. He would not phone again. Let them stew for a while. If no one called in a week, he would have to arrange a demonstration of his intent, a particularly graphic one.

  Chapter 7

  Soldiers of the Queen

  The Bushmen’s Rifles paraded as a regiment for the first time early in August at Northwest Area Headquarters in Darwin, in the Northern Territory. Acting RSM McGuire called them to attention, then to stand easy. Jack was about to address his command. He looked them over from the small dais. They looked like good physical specimens. There were no beer guts, no obvious problems. Some of the men from office jobs looked rather pale. Two weeks in the Darwin sun should fix that. Their turnout, however, did not impress Jack. There were men without their trousers tucked into their gaiters, men with pockets bulging and buttons undone. One man even had his slouch hat back to front. He dismounted the dais and inspected the front ranks. There were dirty boots, untidy clothing, unshaven faces, missing belts and bayonets. It was time for a good shake up. His NCOs under RSM McGuire would have plenty of material to work with.

  He climbed the dais again. “Men,” he addressed them, “You have come a long way to be here for this, the first parade of the Rifles. This unit is unique, both in its role in the army, and in its organisation. I have a challenge before me and I am passing that to you. Some of my fellow officers, particularly regular officers, are of the opinion that men such as you cannot make good soldiers. I have served beside men like you in action, men who a few short months before were mere civilians with no idea of soldiering. They were as good as any men I have seen in this army. You can be the same. We are fortunate to have a good sprinkling of officers and NCOs who have seen action. I advise you to listen and learn from them. You are not here as refugees from the national service scheme. You are here to become soldiers. The next two weeks will not be easy for you. You will experience harsh punishment for any misdemeanour. You will not like your NCOs very much. You will dislike your RSM even more. Remember, the RSM is the backbone of the regiment. To you he is GOD. He owns you for the next two weeks. He can do whatever he likes with you. You will emerge from this course stronger, fitter, and more capable than you have ever been. You will be Australian Infantry. There is no finer soldier in the world. Be proud of your achievement.” He called them to attention. “Sarn’t Major, you have the parade!” He marched back to his HQ tent and left them to the tender mercies of the RSM.