Maralinga (19 page)

Ernest Titterton and Alan Butement had provided the perfect solution. They were ideally qualified to represent the host country, but neither was actually Australian. Furthermore, both men were highly respected in American scientific circles, having contributed significantly to joint wartime atomic projects. America wholeheartedly approved the choice.

As a salve to Australia, Britain had invited Leslie Martin to join the team, albeit reluctantly, and, in the
early days, as an observer only. The eminent nuclear physicist Mark Oliphant, however, Australia's foremost authority on atomic energy, had been deliberately, and insultingly, excluded. The Americans considered Oliphant and his outspoken views a security risk.

Nick recognised the fragile issues at stake. Indeed, he had to. It was his job to recognise every aspect and to play the game accordingly. The British were toeing the line for fear of offending the Americans, and the Australians were bending over backwards to appease Mother England. Australia needed Britain, just as Britain needed America, and he was in the middle, fielding on all sides. He would shortly be fielding the Australian press too. Following the One Tree detonation, he would be the public relations voice of Maralinga and, as such, virtual spokesperson for all parties.

Nick Stratton's job was a challenge at the best of times and, though he had no wish to be back in the front-line, he did occasionally think that fighting in the jungles of New Guinea and on the battlefields of Korea had been a great deal simpler.

‘I'm relying upon you, Colonel.' Sir William Penney's diatribe had come to an end. ‘It's not in your charter, I realise, and perhaps it's even a little unethical of me to suggest it, but surely you can bring some influence to bear on the safety committee. They need to be made aware that these unnecessary delays really cannot be tolerated.'

Nick recalled the look he'd exchanged with Leslie Martin during yesterday's meeting, as Titterton and Butement had hummed and hawed about whether or not the firing should be aborted.

‘I agree with Leslie,' he'd heard himself say, to the astonishment of those present, not least of all himself. ‘It's not worth the risk.'

The burly Australian had given him a none-too-subtle wink, while Titterton, with slender fingers, had patted down his perfectly parted hair and Butement had polished his spectacles yet again. The two had not liked him at all for voicing his opinion, but they'd liked even less the thought that he might voice it elsewhere. Nick, in speaking out, had swung the balance.

‘Of course, Sir William,' he now said. ‘I shall attempt to bring to bear whatever small degree of influence I may have on the committee, I can assure you of that.'

‘Thank you, Colonel. The sooner we get on with things, the better for all concerned.'

 

For once, Harold Dartleigh was in agreement with William Penney. He wished they would just get on with the job and blow up the damned bomb. But he was keeping well out of the political debate, which was hardly his area, and anyway it bored him. His meeting with Melvyn Crowley had been far more to his liking, and ultimately more constructive.

Even without Gideon's description, Melvyn Crowley had been exactly as Harold had imagined him – colourless. Short, balding, physically under-developed and with glasses, he was a typical boffin in Harold's opinion. But there was something else about the man that Harold found eminently familiar: the manic gleam in his eyes, which even the thick lenses of his spectacles could not disguise. Crowley was the sort who would have been bullied at school, and now,
given a little power, liked to make others pay for it. Harold knew the type well. Every man who'd been to a British public school did.

Dr Melvyn Crowley, of the renowned Birmingham medical research team, headed the principal pathology unit, which was located in the decontamination and radiobiological zone, one and a half miles east of the village. Access to the DC/RB area, as it was known, was highly restricted, and those visitors who had gained prior permission entered under military police escort, for here was where the plutonium was stored and the bombs constructed. Here, too, were the experimental laboratories, and also the decontamination units, a series of white vans linked to each other, where those showing high radiation readings would be forced through a process of vigorous cleansing.

Harold had needed no special pass to enter the DC/RB area, but he'd nevertheless been personally escorted to Crowley's laboratory by a member of the military police – ‘for his own safety' he'd been told. It appeared even the deputy director of MI6 was not free to wander at leisure around the secret heart of Maralinga.

Harold had emphasised to Crowley the casual nature of his visit – ‘just wanted to say a brief hello to you chaps who are doing such a sterling job,' he'd said. Then he'd shared a cup of tea with the scientist, noting the way Crowley's eyes lingered on the young assistant who delivered the tray – another symptom Harold recognised from public school days. He'd be willing to bet Crowley didn't acknowledge his homosexuality – the man wouldn't have had the guts – but there was no doubt Crowley lived with a chronic lust,
possibly alleviated by the occasional male prostitute when time and place permitted. Little wonder, Harold had thought, that Gideon had made such inroads.

As they'd drunk their tea, Harold, in his insidious way, had encouraged Melvyn Crowley to talk freely.

‘I imagine these delays must be particularly frustrating for a man of your talents, Dr Crowley. You must be positively champing at the bit.'

‘Oh, indeed, Lord Dartleigh, indeed I am!'

‘These damn safety issues are too restricting all round, in my opinion. Pity we can't hurry things along a bit, what?'

‘Oh, I'm sure we'll be able to pick up the pace after the first firing,' Crowley had said a little guardedly. ‘There's a natural tendency to be over-cautious at the start of a series.'

‘The over-cautious don't win the race though, do they, Melvyn?' Harold had noted the immediate impact as he'd cut to the chase. ‘Caution is hardly the keyword in a global battle for nuclear supremacy. Britain needs to use every advantage she has to hand, wouldn't you agree?'

Well, there'd been no looking back after that. Gideon had been spot on, Harold thought – it didn't take much to crank Crowley up. But Gideon was wrong in one respect. Crowley wasn't your run-of-the-mill, blinkered megalomaniac. Crowley was actually a smart thinker.

‘We choose middle-ranking officers with career ambitions and encourage in them ideas of heroic proportions, Harold, that's the secret.' Melvyn had quickly embraced the suggestion that as like-minded, forward-thinking men, he and the deputy director
of MI6, a peer of the realm no less, should address each other on a first-name basis.

‘These officers would be placed well beyond the safety zone,' he eagerly continued, ‘perhaps just a mile or so from ground zero, where they would observe the detonation, after which they would return to their regiments as visible proof that there is life for the conventional soldier following a nuclear attack. They would be heroes to their regiments, Harold.' Melvyn's eyes flickered with the light of the true zealot. ‘And their honourable service to the cause would see their careers skyrocket. What greater incentive could a serviceman have?'

He mopped his expansive forehead with his handkerchief. The heat generally did not agree with him, although here, in the cool of his laboratory, it was excitement that was promoting his tendency to sweat. Melvyn had never had such an auspicious nor attentive audience.

‘And, of course, in the process,' he concluded, ‘we would get the test results we're after.'

‘Perhaps.' Harold's agreement was dubious. ‘Presuming there are any of them left to tell the tale.'

‘Either way, we would have our test results, wouldn't we?' Melvyn's thin lips curled into the slyest of smiles.

Harold gave a boisterous bark of laughter. ‘Goodness gracious me, Melvyn, what a ruthless man you are.'

Lord Dartleigh's laugh was a little too jarring and Melvyn was shocked into wondering whether or not he may have overstepped the mark. He back-pedalled immediately.

‘Just a little joke, Harold,' he said, ‘a little joke, believe me, nothing more. Our officers would naturally
be in protective clothing and under cover. We would, furthermore, ensure that they were positioned upwind of the fallout, so that when they emerged to examine the results, they would be exposed to residual ionising radiation only. Harmless, I can assure you, quite harmless.'

‘Oh, don't back down now, Melvyn, whatever you do.' Harold clapped his hands encouragingly. ‘I'm on your side, remember? But do tell me, come along, old chap, do – how the heck does one convince men to behave in such heroic but downright stupid fashion?'

Melvyn relaxed. Even his sweat glands started to take a rest. ‘It's already been done to a great degree,' he said, pausing for effect as he sensed Harold's intrigue. ‘You must have noticed the extreme youth of the average soldier here at Maralinga – even the majority of junior officers aren't long out of military school.'

Harold nodded. He was intrigued.

‘The deliberate choice of young, naive servicemen, together with the strictly enforced need-to-know rule, serves our scientific purposes to perfection,' Melvyn continued. ‘Men are kept in a state of ignorance, and we're able to feed them the amount and the form of data we feel necessary at any given time. It is my belief that after the first firing, during which all safety precautions will have been firmly observed, a general sense of security will prevail. It is then I intend to suggest more extreme forms of experimentation, along the lines I've mentioned. I have many such plans.' Melvyn's smile was bolder now. No longer sly, he was starting to gloat. ‘Those wishing to be involved
would participate on a strictly volunteer basis,' he said, ‘after which it's simply a case of letting human nature take its course.'

‘And which particular course would that be?'

Gideon had not been exaggerating after all, Harold thought, the man was a megalomaniac of the first order.

‘There are always those who want to be heroes and push themselves that one step further, and there are always those who are content to follow. We would have no shortage of volunteers begging to lead or be led on the latest enterprise, so long as we minimise the actual threat of danger.'

‘And, in the meantime,' Harold said jovially, ‘should a catastrophe occur, you'd have a wealth of human material for examination purposes.'

Melvyn presumed Lord Dartleigh was joking, but he wasn't prepared to take the risk. ‘We're scientists, Harold,' he said. ‘We do not make catastrophic mistakes.'

Balls, Harold thought. Melvyn Crowley was just panting for a mistake, and the more catastrophic its proportion the better. All of which quite suited Harold's purpose.

‘Well, keep up the good work, Melvyn.' He stood and offered his hand. ‘You're doing your country a great service, and you have the full support of MI6, I can assure you.'

‘Thank you, Harold.' Melvyn also stood and the two shook hands.

‘I shall look forward to receiving your personal reports,' Harold said, ‘on a confidential basis, naturally. I'll be of greater assistance to you that way – we'll
be able to cut a few corners in the general bureaucratic process.'

‘Of course.' Melvyn once again mopped the beads of perspiration from his brow. This had been one of the most exciting days of his life. ‘Thank you, Harold. I'm only too delighted to be of service to MI6.'

‘Of course you are, old chap.'

As Harold left, he thought what an excellent SS officer Melvyn would have made during the days of the Nazi regime. Come to think of it, he looked rather like Heinrich Himmler. Harold wondered if Himmler had been bullied at school.

 

On 27 September 1956, after a fortnight of postponements and eleven aborted countdowns, it appeared the One Tree test was finally about to happen.

At dawn, weather conditions were perfect and meteorological reports predicted minimal change. The detonation was planned for late afternoon and, yet again, the countdown began.

Throughout the day, preparations were made. Animals were strategically placed for experimental purposes. Goats were tethered inside the air-raid shelters, which had been constructed not far from ground zero, while sheep, rabbits and mice were tethered and caged in the open air several miles from the blast. Human dummies in military uniform were placed in several of the vehicles that were strewn haphazardly about in the forward zone, the vast collection of warfare paraphernalia having been standing there for weeks – tanks, vehicles, planes, guns, radar sets and more – all awaiting the effects of a nuclear explosion.

Men, too, were prepared for their specialised tasks. Scientists and the officers of the ‘indoctrination force' responsible for examining the equipment shortly after the blast were supplied with respirators and the all-white protective clothing fondly referred to as ‘goon suits'.

Engineers and technicians spent hours rigging the scientific recording apparatus in the blast area, and the cameras in the twin observation towers that had been erected at the firing zone, officially known as Roadside, ten miles from ground zero.

At the airfield, ground crew ran final checks on the two Canberra bombers that were to fly into the cloud shortly after detonation, special canisters fitted beneath their wings to collect air samples. The pilots were standing by their respective aircrafts, waiting to conduct their own checks, and both two-man teams were excited at the prospect of what lay ahead. Like many at Maralinga, they were young and eager for adventure.

‘Looks like today's going to be the day,' Maurie said as he and his co-pilot, Len, stood shoulder to shoulder watching the ground crew at work. ‘Something to tell your kids about, eh?'