Maralinga (18 page)

Which was probably why the swimming pool and the football oval were so popular, Daniel had decided. They were places where men could simply be men. It was also why he enjoyed the company of Pete Mitchell. Pete might not give much away about himself, but, when in the mood, he talked quite freely about his job, albeit at times with an intense irritation that Daniel found understandable.

This evening, however, Pete's irritation was at a minimum. He was affable and in the mood for a chat.

‘What the stupid buggers around here fail to understand,' Pete said, halting for a second to take a swig of his beer, ‘is that this land we're sitting on is a veritable highway to the desert Aborigine.' He plonked his glass back on the table and wiped the foam from the stubble of his upper lip in a gesture Daniel had come to recognise as characteristic.

They were once again in the officers' recreation mess. The place was more crowded than usual, further teams of experts having arrived for the first in the series of tests, which was scheduled to take place in only a few weeks. Things were becoming busy all round in the central block of the township, where the buildings housed the social amenities. Men wandered out into the dusty square, cigars and glasses in hand, from the special VIP dining room reserved for the upper echelons of the visiting hierarchy while, on the other side of the common kitchen that served all, soldiers flocked from the canteen into the beer garden, ignoring the chill air, to smoke and drink and socialise. The general ennui that had pervaded Maralinga was being replaced by a sense of anticipation.

‘You see, when this site was surveyed,' Pete continued, oblivious to the burgeoning crowd around him, ‘the large permanent water base at Ooldea was a major consideration. But the boffins and the military don't seem able to credit a 40,000-year-old race with similar intelligence. When you apply a bit of common sense, it's pretty understandable that a permanent water source to the south would be the ultimate destination for a desert people leading a nomadic lifestyle, wouldn't you say?'

Daniel nodded. They were only halfway through their first beer and yet Pete was waxing loquacious the way he did when he had quite a few under his belt. He'd probably downed a hefty amount of the whisky he kept back at the donga before meeting up at the mess, Daniel thought. Pete regularly drove into Ceduna to top up his supply. He was a heavy drinker, Daniel had discovered.

‘The Ooldea soak's an important gathering place. They come from all over – from the east and the west as well as the north.' Pete gave an airy wave of his hand. ‘Even the Arrernte from the central ranges up my way – they all head for Ooldea. The Ooldea soak's more than a watering hole; it's a focal point for trade, and for ceremonial events and general socialising. They've been heading for Ooldea from the beginning of time. Christ, that's why Daisy Bates set up her camp there.'

‘Daisy Bates?'

‘Yeah.' Pete paused, his expression enigmatic as he waited for a reaction. But there was none. ‘A remarkable woman, pretty famous – I'm surprised you haven't heard of her.'

Daniel looked duly chastened, but Pete shrugged forgivingly. Hell, the kid was a Pom, he could hardly be expected to know about Daisy Bates. Christ, the majority of Australians didn't bloody well know about Daisy Bates, why should the kid? Pete knew that he was getting a bit pissed, but he didn't care. He enjoyed imparting his knowledge to young Dan. Young Dan was one of the very few who appeared remotely interested in the Aboriginal situation.

‘She was Irish by birth, Daisy Bates. I met her once, in Adelaide just before the war, at a lecture she was
giving to promote her book. She was well into her seventies by then, but still a pretty formidable figure. Handsome woman. Tall and regal and very Victorian, with a little hat and metal-framed glasses. Difficult to imagine her out there in the desert living with the blackfellas, but that's what she did. Back in 1919 she pitched her tent near Wynbring Siding, east of Ooldea, set herself up as a sort of one-woman welfare centre and stayed there for a whole sixteen years.'

‘So she was a missionary?' Daniel asked. He was fascinated.

‘Christ, no – just the opposite. She didn't want to convert the Aborigine, she wanted to protect him from the white man's influence that she believed was destroying him. She devoted her life to the Aboriginal people, recording their language and culture, tending to the sick and looking after their babies. Her work's been recognised by the government and she's respected in anthropological circles, but it was always the people themselves she cared about.'

Pete paused long enough to take a healthy swig from his glass before continuing. ‘The stories about her are bloody amazing. When livestock was taken from the rail cars and butchered by the siding to supply the fettlers' camps along the line, Daisy Bates would be standing by with her wheelbarrow – primly attired, as she always was. She'd collect the sheep heads and offal and cart the whole lot away to her tent, where she'd feed the Aboriginal families who'd flocked to be near her.' He skolled the remains of his beer. ‘Like I said, a remarkable woman!'

Daniel waited expectantly for the next instalment, but it appeared there wasn't to be one.

‘My round,' Pete said.

‘What happened to her?' Daniel jumped in quickly before Pete could rise from the table.

‘She died in her nineties, just a few years ago.'

Any number of questions were gathering in Daniel's brain, but, knowing the call for beer took precedence, he was prepared to bide his time.

‘Hello, Pete, Dan. There's a shortage of tables. Do you mind if we join you?'

Looking up at the handsome face of Gideon Melbray, Daniel realised that the moment had passed. The subject of Daisy Bates would not be revisited over the next round. She'd been one of those brief glimpses into the Aboriginal world that Pete shared with him and no-one else, because, as he said, ‘No-one else is interested.'

‘G'day, Gideon,' Pete said as he stood. ‘G'day, Nick, haven't seen you around for a while,' and he offered his hand to the man with Gideon, a tall Australian of around forty whose uniform displayed the rank of colonel. ‘The bigwigs running you ragged, are they?'

‘Yeah, sort of.' Nick's smile was wry as they shook. ‘Canberra for a fortnight,' he said. ‘It's good to be back amongst real people.'

Pete returned the smile. He and Nick were aware of each other's background and shared the knowledge that they'd both served in delicately diplomatic areas. Pete knew only too well the political tightrope Nick Stratton would be expected to negotiate over the coming months. Pleasing two masters was never easy, but fielding the press into the bargain? He wouldn't have Nick's job for quids.

‘I'm grabbing a beer for me and Dan – I take it you blokes are all right?' Gideon and Nick held up their glasses, which were virtually full. ‘Pull up a pew then, I'll be back in a tick.'

As Pete walked off to the bar, he couldn't help thinking that if anyone was capable of handling such a job it would certainly have to be Nick. Strange that he liked the bloke as much as he did – Nick was such a product of the military, but there was something admirable about him. Perhaps it was the fact that in doing his job, he wouldn't sell others down the river, Pete thought with a familiar sense of bitterness. Something he hadn't been able to achieve himself.

‘Have you two met?' Gideon asked, and Daniel rose from the table.

‘Not in the official sense,' Nick said pleasantly as he offered his hand, ‘although I think we've swum a simultaneous lap or two of the pool.'

‘Colonel Nick Stratton, Lieutenant Dan Gardiner.' Gideon made the introduction.

‘How do you do, sir,' Daniel said as they shook.

Nick briefly considered suggesting that over a beer in the mess, the young man might call him Nick, but he decided against it. The lieutenant was, after all, British and the British were sticklers for protocol. Dan Gardiner might well find such a suggestion confronting.

‘Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant.'

Gideon and Nick pulled up a couple of chairs.

‘Dan's with the transport corps, we work together a lot,' Gideon said chattily to Nick as they sat. Then to Daniel, ‘Nick's our official go-between.' In response to Daniel's understandably blank look, he added,
‘Liaison officer between the British and Australian defence organisations. And he's soon to become Maralinga's conduit to the world!' Gideon ensured the delivery had a suitably dramatic ring.

‘Give it a break, Gideon.'

Nick's warning look was wasted on Gideon, who made a regular point of flaunting the need-to-know rule, which he openly stated did not apply to him.

‘I'm hardly revealing top-secret information,' he said reasonably. ‘You're the press liaison officer as well – good God, you'll soon be the voice of Maralinga. The eyes and ears of the world will be –'

‘Fair enough, you've made your point. I'd just prefer it if you got your facts right, that's all.'

Nick's tone, although not disagreeable, sent a clear signal. Gideon was amusing and, like most, Nick enjoyed the man's company – indeed, he considered the likes of Gideon valuable to the social fabric of Maralinga. The cloak-and-dagger policy the British had adopted was not only un-Australian, it was unproductive in Nick's opinion. So long as there was no threat to security, surely mateship should be encouraged amongst men stranded in so remote an outpost. But there were times when Gideon's garrulousness jarred and Nick found him just a little bit grating.

‘Well, if you'd tell me the facts, then I'd be able to get them right, wouldn't I,' Gideon replied with a grin. ‘But of course that would be breaching the need-to-know rule.' He backed off, albeit cheekily. He always knew exactly how far he could push, and Nick was the last person he would wish to offend.

Gideon had a crush on Nick, he had to admit, but then he'd always been drawn to the rugged type. And
Nick Stratton was certainly rugged. Dark-haired and strong-boned, there was a bit of the Gregory Peck about him, Gideon thought. Perhaps in another time and another place …? But no, he'd only end up with a broken jaw. Ah well, there were plenty more fish in the sea.

‘So who's going to win the match tomorrow?' he asked, and, with a wink to Daniel, he added, ‘I'd put us at two to one.'

When Pete returned with the beers only minutes later, Gideon was running a book on the following day's rugby match.

‘Are you in, Pete?' he asked, marking down the bets in the notebook he always carried, as Dan and Nick placed their money on the table.

‘What are the odds?'

‘Two to one the British, and three to one the Australians.'

‘I'm in,' Pete said, digging a fiver out of his pocket.

Gideon had wasted no time in ingratiating himself throughout Maralinga. Everyone knew him, he was well-liked by most, and even those of his countrymen who found his behaviour at times inappropriate respected his talents. For Gideon had substituted his calling card of good looks with a sporting prowess that was of great significance in such a man's world. Admittedly, he'd been forced to concede defeat to the Australians in the swimming pool, but he was Britain's star soccer player, one of their most valuable rugby team members, and on the athletics track he'd proved himself second to none.

Gideon Melbray had also successfully infiltrated every area of Maralinga, including the heavily restricted
zone to which he had a regular pass. He hadn't needed Harold Dartleigh's influence to gain access – necessity had sufficed. He was, after all, senior requisitions officer, and everyone needed supplies, including the scientists in their laboratories. Those very men who had been instructed by Sir William Penney to answer to none other but him, and to allow no intimidation whatsoever by Lord Dartleigh, did not suspect for one minute that they were regularly welcoming a covert MI6 agent into their midst. Gideon's was the perfect cover. Just as Gideon himself was the perfect personality.

‘Only three weeks to go! I must say, I'm frightfully excited about the whole thing.' It was an hour and several rounds later, the mess was more crowded than ever and Gideon had to pitch his voice above the noise. ‘I mean, it's thrilling, let's face it – a nuclear explosion before our very eyes! Well, that would be silly, wouldn't it,' he corrected himself, ‘if we keep our eyes open we'll be blinded, but you know what I mean. How many men can say they've seen an atomic bomb go off and lived to tell the tale? I for one can't wait!' He raised his glass in a personal toast to the powers that made such things possible, then downed the rest of his beer.

Daniel glanced at Nick Stratton. Gideon's behaviour was overly flamboyant and very much out of place in the officers' mess, surely the colonel agreed. The colonel plainly did. But as Nick's eyes met his, Daniel saw in them a truth that he instantly recognised. Let's be honest, Nick's eyes said, he's only voicing the feelings of us all.

The de Havilland Heron made a perfect landing, slowed to a near standstill, then taxied towards the apron, guided into its position by the ground crew. The huge parking area adjacent to the runway boasted an extraordinary collection of aircraft. There were the sturdy Hastings transport planes, the Herons and Doves reserved for the VIPs, the Shackletons used for weather reports, sundry Dakotas and Vulcans, and the Canberra bombers, especially rigged for air-sampling tests after each of the nuclear detonations. With just one week to go before the first test in the Buffalo series, Maralinga's airfield presented a remarkable sight.

Daniel wished yet again that he could paint the extraordinary picture of Maralinga in his letters to Elizabeth. He longed to share everything with her. Oh well, he thought with a wry smile as he looked at the profusion of scarlet and pink and white blossom that formed a welcoming pathway to the terminal, at least there were the oleanders. In the early spring,
the desert oleanders were proving even more colourful than their English counterparts. Alfred Hoffmann would be most impressed, he thought, as he returned his gaze to the Heron from which Harold Dartleigh was alighting.

Five minutes later, he introduced himself.

‘Lord Dartleigh, how do you do, sir. I'm Lieu tenant Gardiner. I've been assigned to drive you to your accommodation in Maralinga.'

‘Oh, good show.' Harold gave the young first lieutenant a cursory glance, then looked around as if expecting something more of a welcoming committee.

Daniel was quick to respond with his colonel's instructions. ‘Sir William Penney wishes to convey his apologies, sir. He said he would have liked to have been here to greet you personally, but –'

‘Good heavens above, lad, Sir William has better things to do with his time. Besides, this is hardly my first visit – no need to stand on ceremony, what?'

Harold perceived a distinct message in William Penney's absence. On the two previous occasions he'd visited Maralinga – during the early days of the township's construction, and then for the first in the series of minor tests – Penney had personally greeted him upon arrival. Now that they were about to embark upon the major detonations, Sir William was clearly stating he was in total charge and that the deputy director of MI6 was present in the capacity of observer only. Harold refused to take offence. If a personal snub was intended, he didn't give a damn, and he had his own methods of gaining the covert form of control he wished
anyway. Gideon would have been very busy over these past months.

‘Gardiner, was it?' he asked as they set off for the township, Daniel having loaded his two bags into the back of the Land Rover.

‘That's correct, sir.'

‘First name?'

‘Daniel, sir.'

‘Goodo, Dan.' On such occasions Harold liked to present a casual and friendly front. ‘Marvellous day, what, hardly a breath of breeze – let's hope the weather conditions remain the same next week, eh?'

‘Yes, indeed, sir.'

‘Mind you, one can never tell what's going on up there.' He squinted as he raised his eyes to the mild scattering of clouds high in an otherwise clear, blue sky. ‘Could be wind conditions we know nothing about. The final decision will rest in the hands of a few. We'll be at the mercy of the meteorologists, no doubt.'

‘No doubt we will, sir.'

As they approached the village, Harold instructed Daniel to drop him off at headquarters, where his office was permanently maintained by his cipher clerk. The buildings allocated for VIP accommodation were close to HQ in any event, and he had no need to freshen up. ‘Only flown in from Adelaide, after all,' he said to the young lieutenant. ‘Hardly the long haul.'

Having travelled to Australia in the relative comfort of a Qantas Airways flight, Harold had whiled away several days in Adelaide, timing his arrival at Maralinga to coincide with the final briefings before the test took place. He saw no point in hanging around
in the middle of a desert any longer than was absolutely necessary, although he'd come to the personal conclusion that Adelaide wasn't really all that much better.

‘Thank you, Dan,' he said as he picked up the two bags Daniel had lifted from the Land Rover, ‘most obliged.'

‘My pleasure, sir.'

But Harold Dartleigh had turned his back and was already striding towards the doors of HQ, his mind on other things. He would pretend interest in the boringly predictable reports that had been submitted to Ned Hanson, he thought, and then he'd send Ned off to lunch. A private meeting with Gideon was bound to prove far more interesting.

It did.

‘I've managed something of a coup,' Gideon said boastfully as he lounged in one of the wicker chairs opposite Harold's desk. The second lunchtime shift being underway, there were fewer men in the building than normal and it was unlikely he'd been observed entering Harold's office. Not that it would have mattered particularly – Gideon was observed everywhere about the village.

Harold made no reply, waiting for him to go on. He found the arrogance of Gideon's body language annoying, but when Gideon showed off in such a manner, there was usually a good reason, so he turned a blind eye.

‘I've wired the telephones of five key scientists –'

‘Heavens above, have you really?' The body language was instantly forgiven.

‘Including Sir William Penney's.'

Harold guffawed. ‘Good God, wouldn't he have a fit if he knew!' The thought pleased Harold immensely. ‘Well done, I must say. How the hell did you manage it?'

‘Their egos made it easy,' Gideon said with a careless shrug, although he was very much enjoying himself – he did so love impressing Harold. ‘They wanted instant access to each other without having to go through the switchboard, so I provided them with personal interconnecting phones. Lovely bright red ones – they liked that touch. The sixth of the set is in my office at the storage depot – I can tap into each and every one of them whenever my pilot light flashes.'

‘Excellent work,' Harold said approvingly. ‘Good man.'

‘I must say, for the most part, they're a frightfully boring lot.' While basking in Harold's praise, Gideon continued to pretend nonchalance. ‘Half the time I can't understand a word they say. But there is one chap I believe you'll find very interesting.'

Harold could tell from the gleam in his eye that Gideon had made some sort of breakthrough. ‘Go on.'

‘Dr Melvyn Crowley, head pathologist and a megalomaniac of sizeable proportion,' Gideon announced with a ring of triumph. ‘Crowley sees Maralinga as the perfect grounds for experimentation on all levels. The use of human guinea pigs is already planned to a certain extent, but he thinks, in the name of science, full advantage should be taken of Maralinga's isolation and the opportunity it offers. Given our precarious times, all ends justify the means, according to Crowley.'

‘You learned this from your telephone tap?' Harold was most surprised.

‘Not exactly, although the disagreements he has with Penney speak for themselves – they both seek the same ends, but Penney's reluctant to push things to the absolute extreme like Crowley. No, I learned it more from the horse's mouth so to speak.' Gideon's eyebrows arched suggestively. ‘Melvyn's frustrated in his work. He seeks an outlet through which to express himself and, as you know, I've always been an excellent listener …'

‘Good God, man, I told you there was to be no funny business here,' Harold said with a flash of annoyance. ‘Those were my orders –'

‘And I've obeyed them to the letter.' Gideon held his hands up in a gesture of innocence. ‘I've done my job, nothing more. I encouraged the man to talk and he did.' His smile was satyr-like. ‘I can hardly be blamed if Melvyn Crowley is smitten.'

Harold's annoyance abated as quickly as it had ignited. There was no denying Gideon was good – one of the best. But of course he'd recognised him as a natural right from the start – it was why he'd recruited him. Harold Dartleigh was as proud of his own talents as he was of his protégé's.

‘So tell me why I'd find Melvyn Crowley so very interesting,' he said.

Having made his impact, Gideon dropped the indolent manner and leaned forward, eager to communicate.

‘Crowley desperately wants the freedom to make decisions he believes others are too scared to make. He says that all of the scientists want to use every
experimental opportunity Maralinga has to offer, but that the upper echelons amongst them are frightened of the public outcry should word get out.'

‘So Crowley would welcome approval from a higher source. Excellent,' Harold said with a smug chuckle.

‘And on being granted that approval,' Gideon continued, ‘he would most certainly provide you with all the detail Penney wishes to keep to himself. The guarded reports that come in via Ned Hanson could be thrown out the window.'

‘Excellent, Gideon, excellent. I shall pay Melvyn Crowley a visit and assure him he has the full approval and protection of MI6. After all, the experiments conducted at Maralinga are for the good of Britain – Dr Crowley is doing his country a great service.'

‘He certainly is,' Gideon agreed, and they shared the self-congratulatory smile of a job well done by a first-rate team.

 

Harold's social chat with Daniel in the drive from the airport proved ominously correct. After months of meticulous planning and with all in place for the initial Buffalo test, codenamed One Tree, the final decision rested in the hands of the meteorologists, and their predictions were not favourable. To avoid contaminating Maralinga village and Watson railway station to the south, steady winds were necessary to carry the cloud in an easterly, northerly or westerly direction for at least twenty-four hours. According to the meteorologists' reports, however, the wind patterns over the test range continued to fluctuate and, as each day passed and yet another test firing was aborted, the
strain of being on constant standby started to take its toll. Servicemen who'd been living with the promise of action became restless. They craved excitement, and if a scuffle broke out in the beer garden, the protagonists were urged to turn it into a fight for the amusement of others as men sought ways to alleviate the irritation and boredom of repeated disappointment.

Tempers were fraying amongst the scientists too, who felt thwarted and frustrated by the continuous postponements. None more so than Sir William Penney.

‘It's sheer political procrastination, Colonel,' he complained in private to Nick Stratton after the sixth aborted firing. ‘The safety committee has overreacted to a ridiculous degree.'

The Atomic Weapons Tests Safety Committee (AWTSC) had advised against the latest firing in the belief there was a chance that fallout carried east might be brought down by the rainfalls that had been forecast over Adelaide and Melbourne. Sir William vehemently disagreed. In his opinion, the amount of contamination, should such an incident have occurred, would have been negligible.

‘Radioactive counts in the rainwater have been magnified out of all proportion by political troublemakers,' he continued. ‘The committee must be made to recognise this, and Menzies must be approached and warned that this form of interference is counterproductive.'

Nick listened attentively as Penney vented his spleen, but he said nothing. There was nothing he
could
say. He agreed wholeheartedly with AWTSC's findings. In fact, during his previous day's meeting
with the committee's three founding members, he'd openly supported their decision, which was most unlike him. His job was not to lend opinion, but to report and to liaise, which called for a great deal of diplomacy, and at times restraint. On this particular occasion, however, he'd been unable to resist voicing his agreement. He'd considered this the first decision the committee had made that actually had Australia's interests at heart.

Colonel Nick Stratton's job was not an easy one. As the Australian Defence Department's liaison officer to the British Ministry of Defence and the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment, headed by Sir William Penney, his principal ally should have been AWTSC. The committee's founding members were Ernest Titterton, professor of nuclear physics at the Australian National University, Alan Butement, chief scientist in the Australian Commonwealth Department of Supply, and Leslie Martin, whose career as professor of physics at Melbourne University and scientific adviser to the Defence Department combined both academic and civil duties. All three were eminent scientists with a wealth of experience in defence-oriented ventures, and the appointment of each to the Maralinga project had been approved by both British and Australian governments. There was, however, an imbalance. Of the three, Martin was the only Australian born and bred. Titterton and Butement were both British, both had accepted post-war positions in Australia, and their scientific experience had been principally gained while working on top-secret British and American allied defence projects. To Nick, it was patently obvious that these men's loyalties lay with
the mother country. He was further aware that Leslie Martin was kept on the outer to a certain degree and, at times, denied access to data that had been supplied to his colleagues.

Nick Stratton was possibly one of the few Australians who knew that his country's perceived representation in the scientific aspect of Maralinga was a sham. But he was also one of the few who knew the reasons why. The situation was a delicate one, and dictated primarily by Anglo-American relations.

Following the war, the United States government had decided that the safest way to thwart atomic proliferation was to keep the relevant technology in American hands. The British, denied the support of their former ally, had therefore turned to Australia to provide atomic test facilities, but in so doing they had found themselves in an awkward situation. They hoped, through their atomic experimentation, to revive Anglo-American relations, but if they were to involve the Australians on a scientific level, they would risk contravening the American non-proliferation policy. The situation was further aggravated by the United States' innate distrust of Australian security measures.