Dirty Fracking Business (15 page)

Dean, famished and feeling weak, ate the remaining jelly beans, took a swig of water from what was left in the last bottle and put it in his back-pack, along with the mosquito net and groundsheet. He still had not worked out where he’d get the courage to creep down to the pit, but he still prepared by cutting two lengths of string and tying them around the necks of jars, so he could dip them. While he was doing this, he heard a new thumping sound and, when he peered through the grass, he saw men standing around the now-activated pump. He still had no idea what its purpose was. Just after midnight Beck went to one of the huts, returned with two slabs of beer and shared them around. They were only about fifteen metres from the wastewater pit. Soon some of them drifted off to their huts but a small, hard core kept drinking and Dean started to fret, wondering if they were going to booze on all night. Around 2.30 Beck pointed to the huts and the remaining few men reluctantly finished their beers and trooped off to bed.

Dean packed the tripod, put the two jars in the back-pack, hung the camcorder from his shoulder, waited another ten minutes while he built up his courage and then he was off. He ran through the long grass in a low crouch, trying to keep his feet as light as possible. There were no lights on in the huts but Dean was on edge, and wasted no time dunking the jars into the wastewater pit, withdrawing them by the strings, capping them and putting them in his back-pack. Beck’s Hummer was on the pad, about twenty metres away. Moving like a cat, Dean reached the passenger side rear wheel and let the tyre down, even though he wasn’t sure why. Striding back past the rig, he saw the black tubing on the other side of the pit running through the long grass towards the track and, while hesitant to follow it, at least it appeared to be lying in the same direction he was going. He took a deep breath and charged into the long grass, following the thick black tubing until he heard the sound of slushing water. It was pouring out of the end of the tubing and he gasped at Beck’s audacious disregard for licence conditions and environment laws. It was almost certainly toxic, saline-laden wastewater. He could hear the river and surely there were aquifers nearby; this irresponsible fool and the company he worked for were poisoning them. He took a third jar and filled it. Turning the camcorder on, he filmed the hose and slush heap, before he ran through the last fifty metres of long grass to the side track that the convoy had turned into two nights earlier. He was still having flashbacks but at last he could put the fear of stepping on an unseen snake behind him. Reaching the T-intersection, he looked up to see a sign:
CEGL Private Property Trespassers will be prosecuted.

Dean was exhausted, and the trek back to the four-wheel-drive felt like it would never end. By the time he threw the branches off the Toyota, dawn was starting to break. He drove slowly without turning the lights on, worried that there might be an early morning riser in the Filliburton camp. As it turned out, Frank Beck was up doing his early morning exercises and was stunned when he saw the small approaching dust cloud - all the land for kilometres around was owned by CEGL and no-one ever came out this far. The old, white four-wheel-drive was adjacent to the well-pad, and Beck, meaning to find out what was going on, jumped into his Hummer and gunned it, only to feel the
clunk, clunk, clunk
of a flat tyre. He quickly surmised that the unusual activity and flat tyre had to be more than coincidence.

Once around the bend, Dean turned the headlights on and increased his speed but drove nowhere near as fast as he had when following the convoys. He was spent, but the sight of herds of kangaroos in the trees and bushes and the occasional one or two on the edge of the track forced him to fight through his need for sleep. Three hours later he drove up the long bumpy gravel trail to his house. Vicki raced to the front door to see her husband almost fall out of the vehicle and lurch towards her like he was drunk. His eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn; he stank and was filthy with red and grey dust caked on his heavy facial growth.

‘Wha … what happened to you?’ Concern was etched on her face, and she put an arm around his waist to support him.

‘Not now. I need a shower, something to eat and then a long sleep. God, I need sleep.’

He struggled to keep his eyes open as the lukewarm water and a large cake of soap washed away the three-day build-up of grime. The soft feel of the towel on his skin was something he had never before thought of as a luxury. He opened the bathroom door, breathed in the aroma and headed for the kitchen, where a huge plate of bacon and eggs and two pieces of thick, already-buttered pieces of toast and a mug of steaming coffee were waiting for him.

‘Slow down,’ Vicki said, ‘slow down. You’ll make yourself sick,’ but he ignored her, wolfing down pieces of bacon and toast like a ravenous dog. He had never tasted anything so good. A little life returned to his face as he sipped the coffee and savoured the aroma and taste.

‘Where have you been?’

‘After, Sweetie, after. I’m going to bed. Don’t wake me. Let me sleep, no matter how long I’m out to it.’

Frank Beck wasn’t a man to take risks or leave openings for others to exploit. By 9am he was on the phone to Filliburton’s environment manager, explaining that some of his men had accidentally and inadvertently discharged wastewater into the bushland and in the circumstances it might be prudent to notify the environment authorities and stress that the company was sorry and would ensure it didn’t happen again.

‘Did someone see you?’ the officer asked.

‘I’m not sure, but it’s better to play safe and fess up, rather than have someone report us, isn’t it?’

‘Consider it done.’

It was six o’clock the following morning when Dean finally awoke to the sounds of birds singing and Vicki preparing the kids’ breakfasts. He felt reinvigorated and bounded down the hallway to the kitchen. ‘Good morning, Honey,’ he said, putting his arms around her waist and kissing her on the cheek. ‘I’m starved. What’s to eat?’

‘You’re so rough.’ She laughed. ‘Why don’t you go and shave and I’ll make you an omelette, and then you can tell me where you were and what you’ve been doing since Friday night.’

He didn’t waste any time in the bathroom, giving himself a few small nicks, before he was back sitting at the kitchen table. While he devoured his ham and tomato omelette, he told Vicki everything that had occurred but toned down the encounter with the snake, telling her that it had appeared in his little clearing and that he had chased it away. When he finished, she sat looking at him, grim-faced, shaking her head and wondering why she had to be the one who was married to this one-man vigilante squad. What were the other husbands on the
estates
doing?

‘Honey, I have to do this. I need you to understand and support me. Come on, cheer up; I’ll try and get home from work early tonight.’

She softened a little, knowing that he was trying hard to balance his work, family and gas company commitments. ‘I’ll try, but don’t disappear like that again. I was worried sick.’

‘I promise I won’t.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Sorry, Honey, I have to fly.’

As Dean drove away from the house, he was already on the mobile to Jack Thomas, telling him what he had seen and asking if he could drop the wastewater samples off for analysis. ‘I want you to report Filliburton and Beck to the environment authorities.’

‘It’ll give me great pleasure. I’ll say I got an anonymous tip-off and ask them to check it out.’

‘You can say it was me. They don’t worry me, criminal pricks!’

‘Dean, I know where you were; it was on private property owned by CEGL and the wastewater you’re going to give me is their property and you stole it. Now do you understand why my source must remain anonymous?’

‘You’re saying they could have me charged?’

‘I’m not a lawyer, so I don’t know how many laws you broke, but I do know it was plenty.’

‘Hell, how am I going to use what I filmed?’

‘With great care and anonymously. We can talk about that when you drop the samples off.’

‘Sure.’ Dean wondered if he’d nearly lost his life for nothing.

Dennis Fulton said that he would be pleased to show Steve around what he described as the ‘ugly coal seam gas fields of South East Queensland’. Anxious to find out whether his fears were well-founded, Steve took an early morning flight to Brisbane the next day. Soon after landing he was on the freeway in his rented SUV, heading towards the small town of Marra, four hundred kilometres inland on the southern boundary of the Spurling Downs. It was an unusually overcast day and the cloud cover played havoc with the dash-mounted GPS, taking him off the freeway and onto a narrow, crumbling road with gravel shoulders. A few minutes later he was banked up in heavy traffic on another thoroughfare where workmen had closed off one lane while they effected what looked like temporary repairs.

As he drew closer to Marra, the roads continued to deteriorate, suggesting there were little or no funds available for infrastructure, so there were plenty of reasons for the government bending over backwards to accommodate
big gas
and its royalty dollars. By the time he reached the large town of Hallby, the GPS still wasn’t working, so he stopped at the Information Centre to ask for directions. When the little, middle-aged lady behind the counter asked him why he was going to Marra, he replied that he was a Sydney reporter doing a story on the gas wells and was meeting someone there.

‘You’re fifty kilometres from Marra,’ she said, pulling out a map and marking it with red crosses. ‘The gas companies have made such a difference. They’ve provided jobs for the young and brought wealth and growth back to the town. It was dying until they discovered those coal seams.’

‘Oh, I didn’t think they were very popular,’ Steve said. ‘I heard something about them pumping toxic chemicals into aquifers.’

‘Hmmph. If that was right, everyone in town would be sick or dead, wouldn’t they?’

‘So, no-one has come down with skin or respiratory problems?’

Her face clouded over and she squinted and wiggled her nose as if in deep thought, before responding. ‘Mister, I’ve been in this town for twenty years and there have always been those with skin problems and asthma but there aren’t any more now than there was when I first came here.’

‘So there were kids with red welts all over the body and nose bleeds then?’

‘We don’t need greenie Sydney trouble-makers up here,’ she replied, as a young couple came into the centre. ‘I have other people to look after.’

As he climbed back into the SUV, he thought that her remarks typified what was happening in the Fisher Valley, with those in the towns supporting the gas companies and those on the land hating them.

Marra was a tiny town with a few houses, a hotel and a freight depot. Dennis Fulton had his office in the back of the faded, weatherboard post office. In the adjacent room there was a mattress on the floor and a mosquito net. Dennis greeted Steve warmly, asking him to take a seat on a plastic kitchen chair, while he continued to pound the keyboard of his old computer. Clearly
Barricade the Gate
was not rolling in cash and Dennis obviously had to be a frugal dissident.

‘Have a look at this,’ he said, pointing to the screen.

Steve walked behind the desk and saw an overhead shot of the Colorado River and thousands of gas wells surrounding it, all joined by gravel tracks. It was like looking at a massive peg board with all the pegs joined by pieces of string.

‘I’ve seen it before.’

‘I thought you might’ve, but I wanted to refresh your memory. I’ve gotta farmer mate who has a light plane and he’s taking us up this afternoon. You’re going to see a near-identical grid on the Spurling Downs. Hard to believe, isn’t it? There are 4000 wells already and the fools are looking to drill another 40,000 on what is some of the best agricultural land in Australia.’

Steve took what he’d just heard with a grain of salt, knowing that zealots supporting a cause, no matter how good-hearted, were always prone to exaggerate.

‘I was on Source Energy’s website last night and they’ve got testimonials from landowners who’ve entered into access agreements with them. They all seem happy. How’s that work?’

‘Ignorant fools! They’re all graziers, you know, and I bet you didn’t see any testimonials from crop growers. When their livestock starts dying and the calves they breed are deformed, they’ll wake up, but by then it’ll be too late.’

Steve wasn’t happy with that answer; it smacked of Dennis saying he knew more than the graziers who had signed up with Source Energy.

‘You said on the phone that there are many families suffering from skin and respiratory problems.’

‘Sadly, yes there are.’

‘The lady at the Information Centre in Hallby told me that the gas companies had been good for the town and that there’s been no increase in skin and respiratory ailments in the twenty years she’s lived there.’

‘God, ignorance is the biggest problem we have. I’m going to introduce you to a family that had never experienced a day of sickness until gas wells were drilled on the property across the road from them, and I’ll show you a few other things that you won’t believe. We’ve got a ninety-minute drive to the airstrip, so we’d better get a move on.’

Jack Thomas had no time for the state environment authorities, whom he saw as mere sycophants to their political masters. However, there were times, like now, when he had irrefutable evidence of a serious environmental crime, that he relished the thought of bringing them to account. He asked the receptionist to put him through to a senior environment officer with whom he’d had many run-ins. Angry at having been kept waiting for nearly five minutes, he blurted out his accusation. The officer condescendingly responded that they already knew about the spillage, that the company had reported it, that it was accidental, that damage was minimal and that Filliburton was making its best efforts to minimise the impact of the spill. Thomas silently cursed; someone must have seen Dean spying, as the gas companies never fessed up to anything unless they knew they had already been sprung. He put the phone down, his earlier ebullient mood replaced with dejection.

The crushing sorrow weighing on Charles Paxton had threatened to derail him, and it was only the warm feeling he got from thinking about taking the law into his own hands that kept him from completely losing his mind. He mused about blowing Spencer Harbrow’s head off with his double-barrel shot gun, smashing his pick-up truck into Moira Raymond’s car and pummelling Frank Beck to death with his bare fists, but his upbringing and character would never let him act these thoughts out. Every day he woke up grieving for Charlie, his marriage was on the rocks, the farm and winery were neglected and his only companion was Cosmos, who never left his side. He had taken the autopsy to his local and federal members of parliament, the EPA, lawyers and cancer specialists, all to no avail. Just like Dr George, they told him that the level of toxins found in Charlie’s liver and kidneys were within normal parameters. In his mind there was no such thing as a normal level of poison in the body of a six-year-old and he knew, without the slightest smidgeon of doubt, that CEGL had killed his son.

He was glad that he had taken it upon himself to organise
Lock ’em Out
and it was only when he was recruiting, circulating phone numbers and planning tactics, that the ever-present misery eased. One of the men who had signed on without any prompting was Mick Petheridge, an
estatee,
who headed up the
Tura Defence Association,
and who turned out to be a very clever tactician with an amazing knowledge of what the gas companies were doing. They had hit it off immediately and barely a day went by without them meeting or talking on the phone.

Paxton accepted Billy McGregor and his larrikin mob only after they swore they would not beat up the gas companies’ employees, but deep down he didn’t really care. Tom Morgan was another who had signed on without needing to be asked and soon there was a small army of 250 ready to move at short notice.

Morgan’s phone call, when it came, was brief. Gentle Lady’s water had broken and she was about to foal. Besides providing him with the thrill of winning big races, she was, like her name, quiet and gentle, and he could still see Charlie riding her around the paddocks. He loved her. He jumped into the car with Cosmos next to him and headed to Morgan’s stud. He knew from an early ultrasound that she was about to give birth to a colt, that would, no doubt, grow to be a magnificent, good-natured racehorse.

A large brass plaque worded
Portman Stud
was affixed to one of the two enormous rendered pillars that formed an imposing entrance to one of the finest properties in the valley. Paxton drove past the black, wrought-iron gates underneath the elms that were showing the first signs of spring and up to Morgan’s countrified mansion. The garden beds that housed the rose bushes were weedless and the lawns were manicured. Morgan’s glistening red-and-white Sikorsky sat on a helipad adjacent to the gardens. The stables were at the rear of the mansion; a little further on was the training track, which was the equivalent of any city racecourse. It was surrounded by lush paddocks where Morgan’s horses could enjoy their freedom. The opulent twenty-stall breeding facility was a hive of activity when Paxton entered; Gentle Lady was lying on a bed of straw and Morgan, two vets and three stable hands were around her.

‘You’re just in time,’ Morgan said. ‘She’s straining but the vets say that she’s doing fine.’

Strangely, Cosmos started to whimper and Paxton put his hand on his head and told him to shut up. ‘Sorry, Tom, he’s never carried on like this before and if he keeps it up I’ll put him outside.’

Gentle Lady was groaning and letting out the occasional whinny but this wasn’t unusual, given that she was pushing a thirty-five kilogram foal through her birth canal. What was unusual was that Cosmos kept on whimpering. Paxton led him to the door and pushed him out.

‘There’s one of the front hooves,’ shouted a stable hand. It was distinctly visible through the white transparent sac and was soon joined by the other.

‘Good girl, good girl,’ Morgan encouraged, but his sharp horseman’s eye detected what looked like a deformity in the foal’s knees and he prayed he was wrong. A few seconds later the head and nose appeared. He was a chestnut with a white diamond forehead. Gentle Lady let out a huge sigh and stopped pushing. Ten minutes went by before she started straining again and the shoulders appeared.

‘Wha … what’s than on his neck?’ Paxton said. ‘Bloody hell, what is it?’

They had all seen the ugly, protruding lump but no-one wanted to answer. Only the rear legs were left in the birth canal and Gentle Lady and the newborn foal paused for a rest, while the grim-faced men looked on, unable to take their eyes off the deformities in the front knees and neck.

‘What’s wrong?’ Morgan asked, directing his question to the two vets.

One shrugged his shoulders and the other said, ‘I’ve seen half-a-dozen deformed calves in the past year, but I’ve never seen an ulcer like that on a newborn foal before.’

As they were talking, the mare struggled to her feet and broke the umbilical cord. The foal tried to stand but kept falling over. ‘He’s no good and he’ll never be any good,’ Morgan said, a tear running down his cheek. ‘The kindest thing we can do is put him out of his misery.’

‘No, I owe Gentle Lady for all the pleasure she’s given me and Charlie,’ Paxton said. ‘She’s a part of him and so is her foal.’

The foal was still on the ground when the vet gave him a pain-killing injection, before lancing the growth on his neck. Grey, murky fluid, tinged with blood, poured from the small incision.

‘Make sure you get a sample of that muck,’ Paxton said. ‘I want it analysed.’

‘I was going to.’ The vet ran his hands behind the foal’s front legs. ‘It’s not his knees, they’re okay. It’s his tendons. Just like the calves, they’re short and he may never walk.’

‘Are you sure you want to keep him, Charles?’

‘I’m positive, Tom.’

Paxton turned to the vets. ‘I want you to treat them with tenderness and care. Think about what can be done for the foal’s legs. I know he’ll never race, but I want you to do everything you can to ease his discomfort. Money is no object.’

Cosmos was still whimpering at the door and Paxton ruffled his big head. ‘I don’t know how, but you knew, didn’t you boy?’

‘I’ve never seen anything like that before, Charles. We’ve had fifteen foals this season, every one of them perfect.’

‘Nor me and, if I’d hadn’t heard about those deformed calves, I would’ve put it down to a freak of nature. I feel so sorry for the poor little bugger. No animal deserves to come into the world like that. Let’s hope the analysis of that muck proves what we already know and that we never see anything like it again.’

A healthy colt out of Gentle Lady by Achilles would have been worth in excess of $800,000 but neither man mentioned the money. Their burning passion had been to breed a champion that they could cheer for in big races.

There were a few small planes on the grass tarmac when Steve drove through the rusted gates of the tiny airport and along a gravel track to where an old, reddish-brown, four-wheel-drive was parked. The man standing next to it ambled over, hand extended, the bow in his legs suggesting that he spent a lot of time riding horses. ‘Lang McRae’, he said. ‘So you’re Steve Forrest. I heard you wanted to see some gas wells. Well you’re gonna see plenty. G’day Dennis. The weather looks like it’s coming in, so we better not loiter.’

The plane was an old four-seater, single engine Cessna Skyhawk with patches on the fuselage and on one wing, and Steve, who was no fan of light planes, started to have second thoughts. However, the interior was spotless and looked like it had had a complete makeover; its four black leather seats still smelt new.

‘Lang’s got an eight-thousand-acre cattle property,’ Dennis volunteered, as they taxied along the runway. ‘He’s worried that the gas companies are working their way towards him and he wants to stop ’em where they are. He’s one of the founding members of
Barricade the Gate
and every time we’ve blocked the bastards he’s been there.’

‘If we don’t stop ’em, they’ll ruin the country. They’re stealing and destroying the land and when they’re not poisoning the water they’re depleting it, and our bloody useless politicians are helping them,’ Lang said, as the little plane hit turbulence. Steve gripped the armrests tightly, glad that he was sitting in the back where the other two men couldn’t see him.

‘God help us all if they pollute the Great Artesian Basin,’ Dennis said. ‘Look out your window, Steve. Can you see them?’

Steve strained his eyes, but all he could see was green; it was hard to distinguish the grass from the trees, let alone see a gas well. ‘Sorry, I can’t.’

‘I’m at eight thousand feet. I’ll take it down lower when we get near the Owens’ place. They’ve got ninety wells on their property and there are plans to double that.’

‘Did they sign an access agreement?’ Steve asked.

‘Nah. Up here the land access consultants know more about the law than the lawyers, but the landowners are only allowed legal representation when negotiating an agreement and then only if the gas companies consent. Have you ever heard anything so bloody one-sided and stupid? Anyhow, the Owens told them to get lost and Source Energy applied to the Land Court to have an agreement determined. Now listen to this. Once the application was filed, Source had the right to give the Owens notice, telling them that they intended to enter the property within ten business days, which they did. The mining and gas companies have the right to enter landowners’ properties before the Land Court has even made a determination on their applications. It’s ludicrous legislation enacted to favour the gas companies and screw the farmers.’

‘Why didn’t you block them?’

‘We hadn’t formed
Barricade the Gate
back then, but we’ve stopped them in their tracks many times since, haven’t we Dennis? We’ve cost the bastards plenty and they haven’t liked it, so they whinged and whined to their buddies in the Government, who rushed through draconian legislation in an attempt to stop us. Any person blocking a gas company from entering a property is now liable to a fine of $50,000.’

Dennis laughed. ‘And if you’re someone who can’t or won’t pay, like me, they’ll jail you for two years. We’ve got nearly 500 members and I can’t wait for them to try us on. Can you imagine the media’s reaction when they try to put us all behind bars?’

‘We’ll be over the Owens’ place in a minute, so I’m gonna take it down.’

It was obvious to Steve that governments were desperate for cash and he wasn’t surprised that they were selling out their primary producers for royalties and taxes. What did surprise him were the risks they were prepared to take with the Great Artesian Basin, the aquifers and the health of their constituents. As the plane completed its abrupt descent and levelled out, he could see the tracks between scores of gas wells.

‘There’s the Owens’ place,’ Dennis shouted. ‘God, look at the bloody wells. They’re on every property in the area.’

Steve thought that it was like looking down on the land adjacent to the Colorado River, except the grid was more widely spaced.

As if reading his mind, Dennis said, ‘And the mongrels are hell-bent on increasing the concentration. Look at the size of that wastewater pit half full with God knows what.’

It was so large that Steve had thought that it was a dam - hundreds of acres of enclosed land, containing a grey, grimy solution.

‘It’s on a flood pain,’ Dennis continued. ‘If it ever floods up here, the land will take years to recover. That’s if it ever recovers. And to think they want to sink gas wells all over the Downs. Bloody fools!’

There was a flash of lightning on the horizon and Lang yelled, ‘It’s time to head back.’ The little plane started to climb, labouring through the rain and the wind. Steve gripped the armrests even tighter as hailstones battered the fuselage and wings, and he resolved that this would be the last time he’d get into anything smaller than a 737. Forty minutes later the storm was over and Lang made a perfect landing in bright sunshine. ‘Are you coming back home for dinner?’

‘Sorry, Lang, Steve has to get back to Hallby. I’m taking him out to the Lairds’ place in the morning.’

‘Poor buggers,’ Lang muttered, shaking Steve’s hand. ‘I read your article in the
Advocate
young fella and it was very good. You need to follow it up with something about the damage to the environment and to people’s lives that the bloody gas companies cause once they force their way onto our land.’

Steve thanked him but didn’t respond. Sure, he’d seen a lot of gas wells, heard some terrible stories and thought it inequitable when landowners had their properties stolen from under them, but they did provide cheap gas for the masses here and overseas, there were economic benefits and they created employment. He also knew that, if he was going to be true to himself and his craft, he needed to remain open-minded.