by Judy Nunn
'So the booms are snooker cues and the spill's the ball?' Ash finally left his beard alone.
'That's it in a nutshell.'
Gary thumped Mike on the back. 'The man's a bloody genius.'
Jesus, Mike thought, I sure hope so.
'Marge, photocopy this section of the map.' Gary slid the Admiralty map across the table to his secretary. 'Three copies, quick as you can, thanks. Ash'll collect them from you in a couple of minutes.'
Marge took the map and disappeared silently. Mike wondered whether perhaps she was mute.
'I'll issue instructions to the tug crews,' Gary said, 'but Ash, I want you to take the maps down to the wharf and give them to Bill and Trev, and I'd like you to go out on PHS1 to help with the booms' placement. Bill's an experienced hand but he's got a raw crew, young kids mostly, he could use a steadying influence on the stern deck. Okay with you?'
'Sure, I'm on my way. Good luck with the snooker, buddy.' Ash gave Mike a wink and left.
As Gary Hayman radioed through to the tugs, Mike picked up the set of binoculars sitting on the end of the table and crossed to the huge windows that looked out in all directions over the harbour. Everything was riding on a theory of his that had never been put to the test. He prayed he was right.
Fifteen minutes later, when Gary joined him, he was still staring through the binoculars.
'The dispersant's arrived,' Gary said. 'The truck's down at the wharf and they're loading it onto PHS2.' Then he added with concern, 'But can we use it safely, Mike? I've heard that dispersants can be as harmful as oils to some forms of marine life.'
How cheering, Mike thought. A man who actually cared about the marine environment. He'd thought only money counted around here.
'It's okay to apply it in open water. That's why we have to deflect the spill and wait for the ebb tide. When the spill's out of the danger area, we'll hit it with the dispersant.'
'So now we play the waiting game?'
'That's right.'
They both glanced at the clock. It was eight forty-five.
Once again, Mike raised the binoculars to his eyes, and for the following half-hour he watched the live action unfold before him.
The booms were now in place. He could see them, lying at jagged angles from the north-east and the south-west. Just like giant snooker cues, he thought, tension mounting as he awaited the outcome.
Then, shortly after nine o'clock, through the glare of the mid-morning sun, he saw it. The sheen of diesel. A broad, glistening path heading towards the booms. No black, coagulated mass of oil, but a thin, reflective gloss, pretty in a way. Pretty and deadly, Mike thought, his eyes straining to maintain focus.
Gary joined him with another set of binoculars, and they watched together as the slick crept steadily closer.
'By my reckoning the tide's at full flood,' Gary said. 'It should be on the turn in the next half-hour or so.'
Mike didn't take his eyes from the binoculars. 'Fingers crossed,' he muttered.
Nine forty-five the clock said, and now the slick was licking at the first of the booms. Gary was no longer watching; he was busy on the radio with traffic coming in on the marine channel. But he kept calling out intermittently, 'Anything happening?'
'Can't tell yet,' Mike called back each time.
His eyes were playing tricks on him. One moment he was sure he could see the sheen on the water, the next there was nothing but a blur of blue ocean. He felt beads of perspiration forming on his brow. It was warm and close in the control room, but he wasn't sweating from the heat. He put down the binoculars and placed the palms of his hands over his eyes, forcing himself to slowly and steadily count a full sixty seconds. Then he raised the binoculars and once again looked out the windows.
The picture painted before him was as clear as the day itself, everything etched to perfection. The glossy sheen of diesel had coursed along one boom and was spilling down to the next, where it was edging along that too. The spill was slowly and steadily being deflected out into the Strait.
My God, it's working, Mike thought.
'Ash just radioed through from PHS1.' Gary was grinning broadly as he joined Mike at the windows. 'He said your snooker game's working a treat.'
'Take a look for yourself.' Mike handed him the binoculars.
Peering through them, Gary gave a whoop of triumph, then pumped Mike's hand. 'You're a bloody genius, mate.'
'Now we have to work on the dispersant,' Mike said, and they both sobered up quickly. There was more to be done.
'How do you suggest we go about it?' Gary wasn't making one single move without Mike McAllister's say-so.
'When we've contained the spill out in the deep water, we can hit it with the dispersant, but not until the tide's changed.'
'It's on the turn right about now.'
'Good.' Mike took another quick look through the binoculars. 'Another half an hour should do it, I'd say. Does your number two tug have spray booms?'
'Yes.'
'Do you have any other tugs you can use as well?
'No. We only have the three, and the others are deployed as you know. But the stuff's all loaded onto PHS2 and ready to go – why do we need more tugs?'
'Dispersants are far more effective if they're mechanically mixed into the seawater,' Mike said, 'bit like a washing machine really. Oil dispersants are the same as washing detergents in principle,' he explained. 'They're just surfactants that help break down the forces of cohesion.'
He looked out the windows to where the slick was still steadily edging into Mermaid Strait. 'The tug's propellers and spray booms will do a certain amount, but it'd be a help if we had more craft out there.'
Then the thought hit him. Of course. The local boating population. The area boasted Australia's highest number of recreational vessels per capita.
'Private boats,' he said.
'Eh?'
'We put out a call for volunteers.' He turned to Gary. 'We get all the locals involved in the mixing process.'
'All of them?' Gary looked horrified. 'Do you know how many cowboys there are out there? They'd kill each other.'
'Okay,' Mike agreed, 'but a couple of dozen power boats – the bigger the craft the better. How do we put the call out? What about that newspaper reporter? She does the local radio show . . .'
Gary picked up his office phone and pressed the intercom button. 'Marge, can you contact that reporter, whatever her name is, the one who was in here?'
'She's right outside your office, Gary. Here in reception.'
Marge speaks, Mike thought. She sounded very nice.
'Her name's Kay Freeman, by the way.' Marge offered a quiet reminder.
'Send her in.'
'Miss Freeman . . .' Gary was expansive as Kay was ushered into the room, and he was even more expansive when she left five minutes later.
'Volunteers with boats over six metres.' Kay repeated her instructions. 'Only those from Dampier, and they must be launched from the Hampton Bay Boat and Sailing Club ramp.'
'That's right. The harbour will be closed to all other boating. And we only want one dozen boats,' Gary added with a warning glance at Mike. 'Too many cowboys other-wise. I'll have marshals at the club to oversee things.'
'It'll be on the air in fifteen minutes,' Kay promised.
'Well done, Miss Freeman, I knew I could rely on you.'
She hoped she could rely on him too: he'd promised her an exclusive interview. But then the harbour master seemed a man of his word, Kay thought as she raced down the stairs to the car park. By God, she'd be in with the scoop of the year – her feature would be syndicated all over the state, perhaps even nationally.
The first boat was out on the water within half an hour. Mike recognised the vessel, which was penned at the sailing club. A huge pleasure craft, it was the 'gin palace' owned by one of the bosses of Hamersley Iron. How appropriate, he thought. Others swiftly followed and soon the water was teeming with boats. He watched through the binoculars as they swarmed about the tu
g. Surely there were more than a dozen.
'An accident just waiting to happen,' Gary muttered ominously.
But there were no mishaps. Amongst the apparent chaos, order prevailed, all skippers bent on a common purpose. The boating fraternity of Dampier was coming to the rescue. It was a grand sight, Mike thought.
'You want to be down there, don't you?' Gary said, reading his mind.
'Yep,' Mike admitted. 'I'd like to be part of the action.'
'You have been, my friend. You most certainly have been.'
The rest of the day was a blur to Mike. A general press conference was called, during which Gary Hayman gave brief details about the spill and announced that the danger had been averted. He then honoured his promise to Kay Freeman and granted her an exclusive interview. On both occasions, he demanded that Mike be present and gave him full credit for the success of the exercise. In fact, he made a point of referring every second question asked of him to Mike. 'Dr McAllister's the expert,' he said.
Kay's article, which was picked up by the syndicate that very afternoon, prominently featured the brilliant young marine biologist who had saved the day.
Gary also insisted upon Mike's presence during the lengthy meetings that followed with the upper echelons of power. Full investigations were to be held into the reason for the spill, and the legal eagles needed to know every aspect.
Mike didn't get home to Point Samson until after dark.
The following morning, he didn't report in early, but fronted up at Dampier Salt around nine, only to discover himself besieged by reporters and photographers who'd travelled from miles for a personal interview. Kay's syndicated feature had appeared across the nation, and it seemed everyone wanted a piece of Mike McAllister.
Mike made his excuses and headed for the laboratory as quickly as he could, but there was no escape. Maurie burst in on him.
'The ABC's sent a crew up from Perth – they're after a one-on-one interview for Statewide Live to go to air tonight. Are you all right with that?'
'Sure.' Mike shrugged. The question had been rhetorical, he obviously had no choice.
'They're waiting in my office.' Maurie started leading the way. 'The reporter's a bit of a looker,' he added with a wink.
'Dr McAllister.'
She rose from her chair as they entered, a leggy redhead in her late twenties with a figure her power suit couldn't disguise.
'Sally Jordan, Statewide Live. How do you do.' Her handshake was strong, masculine.
'Hello, Sally. Call me Mike.'
'Right.' She smiled. 'Mike it is. This is Willie and Jasper.' She introduced the two crew members with her, then turned briskly to Maurie. 'Okay if we do the interview here?'
'Yes. Fine. I'll have some coffee sent in.'
'Thanks, that'd be great.' She nodded to Willie and Jasper who started unzipping bags of equipment. 'Take a seat, Mike, while the boys set up.'
'Right,' Maurie said, it was plain he was superfluous, 'I'll leave you to it.'
Sally Jordan didn't even notice him go. Her full attention was now focused upon Mike. She pulled up a chair and sat opposite him.
'So tell me, Mike, how does it feel to be an instant celebrity?'
Her smile was warm and, the brittle efficiency discarded, her manner now friendly and relaxed. Sally liked to build a personal rapport with her interview subject before the camera started rolling.
'I didn't know I was one.'
'Oh God, yes. The Abe doesn't send a team all this way unless the story's really crash hot. And believe me, you're the hottest ticket in town now that the Beach Girl Beauty killer's off the hook. That's the way it should be too, in my opinion. Environmental issues are of far greater relevance than –'
'Excuse me? Now that what's off the hook?' Mike wasn't sure if he'd heard correctly.
'The Beach Girl Beauty killer. Well he wasn't ever really on the hook, was he?' She gave an abrupt laugh. 'Much as the cops might have hoped that he was.'
'I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.' He had heard correctly. What the hell was going on?
'You mean you haven't read about it?'
Mike shook his head.
Sally smiled. 'Understandable, I suppose, you've been a bit busy. They caught a bloke and tried to pin the Beach Girl Beauty Murder on him – it's been headlines for the past couple of days.' His blank expression rather surprised her. 'Don't you remember the case? December, '67? Mayjay, face of WA? It was a huge story. Nationwide.'
'Yes. Yes, I remember it.'
'So they thought they had the killer.' She shrugged. 'But it turned out they didn't.'
'Who was he?'
'Some poor schizophrenic, off his medication.'
'And what happened?'
'They let him go. The whole thing was quite sad really.' This time her laugh was more a snort of derision. 'Sadder for the cops though, they thought they had a scapegoat.' Sally's view of the police was a little jaundiced, she'd been arrested as a demonstrator twice during the Vietnam anti-war protests. 'I don't think they were too happy about it,' she said. 'In fact –'
'We're ready, Sal,' Jasper interrupted, and Sally jumped to her feet to check on the lights and the camera shot.
Mike had trouble concentrating throughout the interview. His mind was elsewhere. He wasn't surprised that he hadn't heard the news from Pembo. Pembo would have buried his head in the sand hoping it would all go away. But why hadn't Spud been in touch? Perhaps he had, Mike thought. Perhaps there was a message at the switchboard. He certainly hoped so. The implications of any deliberate silence on Spud's part were highly disturbing.
'That's a wrap,' Sally announced. 'Set up for the cutaways, thanks, guys. Great interview, Mike,' she said as she shook his hand effusively. 'Really great.'
Was it? He couldn't remember a word he'd said.
Sally dug a compact out of her handbag and started refreshing her make-up.
'I need to make a quick call,' Mike said, picking up the phone on Maurie's desk. 'Only take a tick, then I'll be out of your hair.' He rang through to the switchboard. 'Mike McAllister here, Janie. Any messages for me?'
'Tons.' There was a moment's pause while Janie consulted her list. 'The Environmental Protection Authority and the WA Mines Department both rang you directly, but Mr Healey's said they have to go through him. And the media's gone mad, they all want to speak to you person-ally. The West rang from Perth, there's a Jim Forrest from the Sydney Morning Herald, someone from the Age in Melbourne who didn't leave a message but said they'd call back, and the local radio wants –'
'Any personal calls?'
'Nope.'
'Thanks.' He hung up.
Leaving Sally doing her seriously-in-depth-journalist nods to the camera, Mike stepped out of the office. Maurie was waiting for him.