Into the Mist

by Lee Murray

  Coolie shrugged. “They’re not saying, but it’s getting pretty tense.”

  McKenna nodded, imagining the pair stalking about glowering at each other. “Let’s just keep an eye on them. Anyone else got a problem? Miller? Winters?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Excellent.”

  Wrapping on his ballistic sunglasses, Taine strode into the sunlight to meet his section.

  Chapter 5

  Rotorua township, Monday evening

  Nathan Kerei popped the last piece of crumbed schnitzel in his mouth. Still chewing, he placed his knife and fork neatly on the plate, and swallowed his mouthful. “Got a call today. I’m off in the morning, love.”

  From her armchair in front of the telly, her eyes on her Downton Abbey rerun, Paula said, “Another group? It’s late in the year for tourists.”

  “It’s not tourists. The army called me up.”

  “Why? There a war on?” said Nathan’s grandson. The teen sat alongside Nathan, geography homework laid out on the kitchen table: a textbook, a couple of coloured pencils and a tatty refill pad.

  Brandon had been with them for a few months now, since Nathan’s daughter Mary had hooked up with her new man and they’d had baby Kimbra. Mary was happy enough, but poor Brandon had never really hit it off with his step-dad. When the atmosphere between them had become too tough for Mary, Nathan and the wife had stepped in, offering Brandon a home until things settled down.

  “They’ve asked me to be a guide.”

  “Why don’t they use a map?”

  “Because they want someone familiar with the area up near Maungapōhatu.”

  Brandon flicked through his textbook then pointed out a page to Nathan. “They need a topography map, like this.”

  “It’s not the same as knowing a place, son.”

  “But why do they need to know?” Brandon demanded.

  Nathan pushed back a speck of annoyance at Brandon’s constant questioning. These days, teenagers asked a lot of questions. They taught them that in school. It was how they learned, apparently. “Not sure,” Nathan replied. “Some scientists are going.”

  “I bet it’s a cover for something.”

  “And I bet it’s just a regular science trip.”

  “So, why send in the army?”

  Nathan shrugged. “Just helping out. The army helped out when the Rena was wrecked off the coast in Tauranga, remember? They cleared the beach of oil and those decomposing meat patties. It’s part of their job.”

  “But aren’t they like trespassing?” Brandon insisted. “The beach belongs to everyone, but Te Urewera belongs to us Tūhoe.”

  Nathan carried his plate across to the sink and scraped a piece of fat into the rubbish bin with the back of his knife. “I assume they’ve asked permission, otherwise we wouldn’t be going.” He rinsed his plate and put it on the draining board.

  “But who would they ask, Koro? There’s more than one group thinks they’re in charge of the whole tribe.”

  The boy had a point. Maybe asking questions wasn’t so bad for the kid’s learning.

  “Will you be gone long?” Paula said, interrupting the discussion. She stretched one arm out wide, unravelling more of the cupcake-pink wool.

  “Few days. A week. That’s all.”

  “I’d better get some warm clothes ready for you then,” she said, getting up. She wound the wool around the bonnet, bending to pop her knitting back in her workbag before switching off the telly then disappearing down the hall. A few minutes later, Nathan ducked out to the garage to get his tramping boots.

  * * *

  Brandon reckoned he had about fifteen minutes to make the call while his koro had a smoke out back. When he heard his grandmother opening and closing the drawers in the bedroom, he grabbed the phone.

  “There’s an army group going into the park,” he told the boy at the other end. He kept his voice low. “My koro’s going in with them.”

  “The army? That’s effing bold.”

  “I reckon.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Koro didn’t say.”

  “Looking for our separatist training groups again?”

  “Like I said, Koro didn’t say. Just that they needed a guide.”

  “My dad’ll know. Or if he doesn’t, he’ll find out.”

  “What’ll he do?”

  “I dunno. Something. The army’s got no business coming here. The park belongs to the Tūhoe Nation.”

  Brandon cut him off; he’d heard the power-to-the-people speech before. “Just remember to tell your dad that Nathan’s going to be with them.”

  “Yeah, okay, I’ll tell him. Don’t worry, nothing’ll happen to your granddad. I better go. Thanks for the tip.”

  “No worries.”

  * * *

  CBD, Sydney, Australia

  The hostess of the Collar and Thai ushered Caren into a booth where richly-woven wall tapestries glinted in the low lighting. It was early for lunch, just after 11:00am, yet already several groups were scattered amongst the tables, their shopping bags stacked against the black lacquered table legs.

  Caren slipped into the bench seat, annoyed with herself for not stopping in at a boutique downstairs so she, too, could tuck a shopping bag at her feet, making her anonymous amongst the ladies-who-lunch crowd. Caren almost laughed – a lady who lunched.

  Not this lady.

  Minutes later, a tall florid man in his late fifties, his lips too thick and too wet, wove his way through the labyrinth of chairs and tables. Caren checked her watch and smiled; right on time.

  The Texan extended his hand as she stood. Caren clasped it in her own, turning the handshake into something more. His hands were damp.

  “Vernon. Kind of you to take time out from your vacation,” she said, making a conscious effort not to wipe her palms dry on the front of her skirt.

  Inclining his head, Vernon motioned to the booth and the pair sat.

  “It can be crazy here at lunchtime so I took the liberty of ordering,” Caren said. She scooped her hands under her buttocks, tucking her skirt tidily beneath her. “Barbeque Duck Curry and Spicy Beef Salad.”

  A scowl flitted across her companion’s face.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Caren could have kicked herself; she shouldn’t have presumed to order for him. Men like Vernon Bonnar needed to feel they were in control, that they were making the decisions. Calling the shots. That tiny mistake could cost her the deal. Uneasy, Caren twirled the opal on her finger, hardly daring to hold her breath. But Bonnar must have been feeling sweet, because he ignored the blunder, summoning the waitress with a click of his fingers. He pointed to the wine-list then shooed the girl away.

  “These trials – the info – it’s legit?” he demanded finally, his Texan drawl booming about the restaurant.

  Caren wanted to hiss at him to keep his damn voice down. Instead, she delayed answering, pouring herself a glass of water – the fact Bonnar hadn’t offered her a drink not lost on her. This was a game, after all.

  Caren chose her words carefully. “How we got the data is irrelevant. The results speak for themselves. We’re looking at extensive reserves – perhaps better even than gold output from the Martha mine at Waihi – and with minimal extraction costs.”

  “Anyone else seen this?”

  “Only you, Vernon.” Caren fingered the stem of her water glass. “For the moment.”

  “Now, just a minute. If you’re thinking—”

  Deliberately, Caren took the serviette from her lap, placed it on the table, then stood, pulling her handbag over her shoulder. She kept her action slow, knowing this was a bluff she could only play once. “If you’ll excuse me. I believe we’re done here.”

  But Vernon didn’t move. “Hey, there’s no need to get all huffy,” he protested, his hands palm up. “I just need to be sure what you’re offering is exclusive to OreGen. You’re asking us to commit a fuckload of money to this.”

  Caren
smiled inwardly. Backtracking and swearing. She set her handbag down and settled herself back in the booth before continuing. “We’ve already invested a lot of money in this project, Vernon, and I’m letting you in on it. I don’t have to do that.”

  “As a matter of interest, why are you doing that? Why not exploit the information yourselves?”

  “Let’s just say that right now the Geotech name might throw up a few hurdles.”

  Vernon’s piggy eyes bored into her. “Because?”

  Twirling the opal again, Caren shrugged. “There’ve been some site safety allegations.”

  Vernon’s eyes narrowed. “OreGen won’t buy an unsafe plant, Caren.”

  “Nor will it be. Our equipment meets the highest compliance standards, Vernon. So our mines have had a couple of accidents. You know as well as I do that more often than not, accidents are caused by human error.”

  “So you need us.”

  “We need a front. I’d like it to be OreGen, but it could just as easily be someone else. China Mining Corp, for example.” Caren kept her voice offhand. “In fact, I had lunch with the Chairman Xu only two weeks ago in this very restaurant. He was particularly fond of the chili tamarind snapper—”

  Bonnar’s lip curled. “You’re forgetting that OreGen could go ahead without you. I have the data,” he snarled, cutting her off. A spray of his spittle hit the glossy table top.

  “It won’t help you, Vernon. You’d be starting from behind.”

  “At least we’d be looking in the right place.”

  “Yes, but it could take you years to get permission to prospect on that parkland. I have a strategy in place which should see us underway within six months.”

  “Providing OreGen agrees to purchase a new plant from you.”

  Caren stared at him, raising her water glass to her lips.

  “Okay, so tell me more,” Bonnar drawled.

  She didn’t, of course. Why would she tell Vernon Bonnar anything that would allow OreGen to go ahead without her? By the time the waitress arrived with the duck, she’d told him enough to hook him.

  * * *

  Army Leave Centre, Rotorua township, Tuesday morning

  “Sergeant McKenna?”

  Straightening, Taine turned away from the truck to face the man behind him. Wide-faced with cheery features, he was more like a student than a 31-year-old consultant.

  “Mr Fogarty.”

  “Ah, so you know who I am.”

  “Process of elimination, you’re not female, which rules out Dr Asher or Ms Hemphill, and I’ve already met Dr de Haas. And the Australian accent helped.”

  “Incredible. I didn’t even mention the words pool or six,” Fogarty said, giving Taine an easy grin. “Call me Ben, please.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ben.”

  They shook hands. Ben Fogarty’s grasp was firm. Solid.

  “So,” Ben rocked lazily on his heels. “I don’t suppose there’re any coffee kiosks where we’re heading?”

  “Not a lot of call for them. The milk tends to go off.”

  “I figured as much. Will I have time to grab a last brew before we pull out? I’m told this little jaunt could take a week – a long time to go without a double shot of Columbian Arabica.”

  Laughing, Taine checked his watch. “We’ll be leaving in twenty minutes. Briefing here in fifteen.”

  “I’d better be quick, then.” Ben’s hand was already diving into his pocket for his wallet.

  When the consultant had left, Taine spared a moment to observe the other civilians. No obvious couch potatoes at least. Not far away, Louise Hemphill, de Haas’ research assistant – a striking woman in her late twenties – set her pack down on the asphalt next to a second canvas bag. Louise opened the second bag and checked through its contents, lifting out notebooks, fabric sample bags, a geologist’s pick, a few chisels. Not a single strand of hair escaped her ponytail. Taine’s dossier said she’d once won a junior national single sculls title. She’d kept up her training from the looks of it, with decent shoulders and a leanness to her.

  Taine smiled as the section new guy, Miller, ambled towards her, obviously believing the NZDF recruitment slogan that he’s Got What it Takes. Still, it was clear to Taine, if not yet to Miller, that even without the ten-year age gap, Louise was way out of his league. Luckily the private was spared from finding out, his approach cut off by a woman crossing the parking lot in fluid efficient strides.

  Jules Asher.

  Taine recognised the biologist from her file photo. Petite and dark, she looked fit enough despite her lack of recent field experience.

  “Louise?” the biologist asked. Taine detected a hint of tension in her voice. Just nerves at meeting someone new? Pushing the pack deeper into the truck, he strained his ears.

  “Yes?”

  “Jules Asher. Your tent-mate. Thought I’d pop across and reassure you that any snoring you might hear won’t be coming from me.” Taine glanced over to see Asher push a wisp of hair off her forehead with one hand while extending the other.

  Smiling, Louise shook Jules’ hand, the movement sharp and efficient. “Good to know. Where do you stand on teeth grinding?”

  “Only in daylight hours.”

  “Sharing a toothbrush?”

  “‘Ew.” Jules screwed up her face, but her dark eyes sparkled.

  “I think we’re good, then.”

  A pause.

  “Good to see someone else still getting their gear sorted,” Jules said, gesturing at the equipment bag.

  “Yes, we didn’t get much notice and Dr de Haas likes to be prepared.” Louise nodded in the direction of her boss. Near the rear of the second truck, the stocky geologist had intercepted Miller, bellowing at the private to stop what he was doing immediately and help him load his pack into the vehicle.

  “Have you worked with him long?” Jules asked.

  “About a year.”

  “And is he always so… so…”

  De Haas’ barking carried across the lot, prompting Coolie to stride over to see what the fuss was about.

  “Exacting?” Louise said. “Yes, he is.”

  Jules didn’t look surprised by her companion’s choice of adjective.

  “Can I ask you a question?” said Louise, her eyes on Miller and Coolie.

  “Sure.”

  “What’s with all the rippling muscle? Why are we getting an army escort when we already have a guide?”

  Jules threw a backwards glance in Taine’s direction, and he leaned into the truck, hiding his face.

  “I don’t know,” Jules said. “Maybe the army hasn’t got enough for them to do? You know how it can be with boys. Too much testosterone left to idle and they get themselves into trouble. And we’ve got plenty to keep them busy here.”

  Taine straightened, to see her waving at the packs lined up on the asphalt.

  “You’re right,” Louise agreed. “Let me rephrase. What I meant was, isn’t it wonderful to have all this rippling muscle and rampant testosterone to help us carry our gear?”

  “There you go,” Jules said with a laugh, Louise joining her.

  * * *

  Christian de Haas washed his hands at the basin, allowing the cold water to run over his wrists, a trick he’d seen his mother use to calm her nerves. Little wonder he was rattled. That stupid soldier wasn’t capable of following even the simplest instruction. “I’ll just squash it in here,” the idiot had said. There was a microscope in that pack! De Haas shook his head. No finesse whatsoever. Although, it was what he’d come to expect from Kiwis, always worshiping brawn over brains. For God’s sake, New Zealand’s annual competition to find the best farmer – hoary blokes riding around in tractors – got more press than any academic achievement.

  Sighing, he dried his hands under the blower, and smoothed the hair over his ears. Then, about to check his watch, he stopped himself. There was no hurry. In fact, it wouldn’t hurt to make a point and turn up to the briefing fashionably late. They could hardly lea
ve without the Task Force Leader, could they? De Haas smiled at the man in the mirror. It had been a thrill when the minister’s aide had called him about the appointment. De Haas stepped back and straightened his collar. An entire expedition, civilians and soldiers, and all under his leadership.

  Task Force Leader.

  Such a satisfying ring to it. Not that the title would impress his old man. Nothing less than Springbok rugby captaincy would have been good enough for him. But Christian had his moments. Being headhunted by New Zealand’s Petroleum and Minerals, and handing in his notice at his father’s company, for example. The satisfaction of departing his home country within the week, finally free of the bastard. He’d hoped to shoot up the ladder, but as always, he’d been disappointed, instead spending a decade pushing paper. There’d be no pushing paper after this. Not after he’d distinguished himself with a momentous discovery in the Ureweras. Let’s see his father ignore that.

  A momentous discovery...

  De Haas had every intention of making that happen. With a last look in the mirror and a final tug to the bottom of his jacket, de Haas exited the bathroom.

  * * *

  Her gear stowed in one of the trucks, Jules joined the others for the briefing at the edge of the car park. In green combat fatigues, the army sergeant waited for the group to settle.

  “Good morning, everyone. My name is Sergeant Taine McKenna,” he said, his voice reminding Jules of a well-known newsreader, its timbre solid and trustworthy. “I’m heading up the army escort accompanying this party into the Urewera forest. It seems our Task Force Leader has stepped away for a moment, so in the interests of expediency, I’ll get started on the logistical briefing. We’ll be leaving at 0800 hours, travelling by army vehicle to the head of the trail. It should take us…” He paused as the man who went off earlier re-joined the group. Panting slightly, the man raised his takeout coffee cup at the sergeant.

  A last coffee.

  Damn, Jules could’ve done with one of those. Might have calmed her nerves. Still, it was worth taking the time to make a friend of Louise. And the technician was good value. Just the right kind of tent-mate to help her survive a week in the wop-wops.