by Gary Gregor
Of course, the HQ bunker was still here, buried under the hill of dirt and invisible to any casual passer-by should one be so demented as to pass by, casually or otherwise.
Back in those days, no low-ranking combat soldier was ever permitted access to the bunker system. The relatively cool and comfortable HQ was reserved strictly for those in command along with a small number of Communications personnel.
Now, it was his HQ. From here he could command the operation as it unfolded. From here he could imagine all the ways he was going to spend his share of the ransom money. Money and revenge; these two ingredients were the motivation for the whole damn thing. Craig Garrett smiled to himself, swung his legs up onto the camp stretcher, laid back, and closed his eyes.
12
In the compact public foyer area of the Papunya Police Station, Russell Foley stood before a large wall map displaying the vast area west of Alice Springs, north to Napperby Station and south to King’s Canyon. Just behind the front counter, the two local Papunya cops, Sparrow and Smart, sat behind individual desks butted together to form one large work space. Sparrow and Smart looked up from their work and Foley turned as Sam entered the front door.
“Any luck?” Foley asked Sam.
“Yep,” Sam tossed a plastic shopping back onto the counter. “I got the last six pairs of underwear they had in stock.”
“Boxers or Jocks?”
“Jocks. Who the fuck wears boxers?”
“I wear boxers,” Foley answered.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” Foley picked up the shopping back, opened it and looked inside. “Pink!” he exclaimed. “You bought me pink Jocks!”
“Not just pink,” Sam explained. “Hot pink.”
“I don’t believe you bought me pink Jocks!”
Sam offered Foley and exaggerated shrug of indifference. “It was all they had left,” he said.
“I can’t wear pink Jocks,” Foley dropped the package back on the counter.
“Why not?” Sam asked. “Nobody’s gonna see them… except perhaps for Jessica that is.”
Foley glanced down and noticed the second bag Sam held. Before his partner could react, he reached out and snatched the bag from Sam’s hand. “What colour did you get?”
“Hey!” Sam reached for the bag as Foley stepped away, opened it and looked inside.
“Black!” Foley declared loudly. “You got black Jocks, and I got pink, what the fuck is that about?”
“It was pink, or black. It was all they had left. I went to the store to get them. I paid for them… with my own money I might add. I get to choose what colour I wear. I get black, you get pink. It’s not rocket science, Russ.”
“If it’s not that important, you wear the pink ones.” Foley scrunched the bag closed. “I’m keeping these.”
“You know, Russ, it wouldn’t hurt for you to get in touch with your feminine side once in a while. Girls love a man who is into all that sensitive new-age-guy shit.”
“How about I get in touch with your arse with my size twelve boot?”
“Now, now, Russ. Take a deep breath. Think about your blood pressure.”
Behind the counter, their heads turning in unison back and forth between Foley and Rose, Sparrow and Smart, like they were watching a verbal tennis match, looked like wide-mouth, laughing, ping-pong clowns at a community fair. Unable to contain himself any longer, Richard “Maxwell” Smart attempted to stifle a laugh which finally emerged from behind his hand as a muffled snigger.
Foley turned and looked at Smart. “Don’t laugh, Max,” he admonished. “It only encourages him. He already thinks he is a stand-up comic. Laughing at him reinforces that belief.” He turned back to Sam. “Any chance we can get back to work, or is there perhaps a little soft-shoe shuffle you would like to perform for us?”
Sam smiled. “No, I’m good, thank you. I’m a comedian, not a dancer.”
Smart laughed again.
“Anything happen while I was out fashion shopping?” Sam asked
“Max and Spog have been working the phones, doing the rounds of outlying cattle stations. Some of them have already started flying low over their properties in their mustering choppers. A couple of others are using small, fixed-wing aircraft. No luck yet,” Foley answered. “I’ve also spoken again to Yap Yap Barker and he has every available member on the lookout incase the hi-jackers head for Alice Springs. He has road-blocks set up north, and south of Alice as well as at the intersection of the Tanami Track and the Stuart Highway.”
Sam shook his head. “They won’t head for Alice Springs. They’ll stay away from towns and settlements. It’s gotta be far too risky. That many people will be difficult to conceal. There has to be something… somewhere… big enough, secure enough, and inconspicuous enough to keep them all hidden until they get what they want.” He stepped closer to the wall map and studied it for a few moments. “They’re still out there… somewhere,” he said.
“Yap Yap has also dispatched our Air Wing on a low altitude flight north-west along the Tanami Track looking for vehicles big enough to transport twelve hostages.”
“So, what’s our plan?” Sam asked.
“It’s obvious the offenders have left the immediate area. For the moment, we sit and wait. Hopefully we will get something from one of the cattle stations; a sighting, a suspicion, anything will do. Right now, we have nothing. One school teacher, eleven young students and at least two offenders have simply disappeared.”
“What if they haven’t left the immediate area?” Sam said. “I mean, at least not all of them.”
“What are you suggesting?” Foley asked.
Sam moved closer to the wall map, paused, and studied it closely. “Well,” he began finally. “What if the offenders have split up?”
“Split up?”
“Yeah. We know the offenders had their own vehicle. We know that because it was at the ‘break down’ site. What if the offenders transported the hostages in the school bus to wherever they are holding them, and then a second and third offender drove the empty bus and their own vehicle away? They drove the bus up to the Tanami Track, torched it, and left the scene in the other vehicle. There would be no need to have another bus, or a large enclosed truck. The hostages are already stashed away somewhere, under guard, and the second, and third offender are now in a smaller, run-of-the-mill, inconspicuous vehicle. One that looks as though it belongs in this country. Like a four-wheel-drive for instance. We have been looking for a vehicle big enough to transport twelve people and perhaps a couple of offenders. There are any number of four-wheel-drives out here, one more is not going to arouse suspicion. Maybe the teacher and the kids are still in the area somewhere. Maybe closer than we think and being held by at least one of the perps.”
Russell Foley looked at Sparrow. Sparrow looked at Smart. All three turned and looked at Sam Rose.
“What?” Sam asked.
Foley stepped across to the where Sam stood in front of the wall map. He placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“What,” Sam asked again.
“Sometimes you amaze me,” Foley said.
“Only sometimes?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Foley smiled. “Only sometimes.” He stepped in front of Sam and looked at the wall map. “After that enlightening monologue, can you tell us where the teacher and the kids are being held?”
Sam shrugged. “Somewhere.”
“Somewhere? Is that the best you can do?”
“Hey, steady on, Russ!” Sam said, sounding miffed. “I half solve the case for you and now you want more! I can’t be expected to do all the work. What have you got?”
“I can expand on your theory,” Foley said.
“Expand away,” Sam invited. “I’m all ears.”
“This is not the time to talk about your unsightly, wing-nut ears, Sam,” Foley smiled. “Let’s assume you are right,” he continued. “Perhaps we should be looking for premises large enough to hide twelve hostages instead of a large vehic
le.”
Sam turned and spoke to Sparrow and Smart. “There it is, chaps. That’s why he’s got all the pigeon shit on his shoulder and we are just the lowly paid underlings.”
“It is something to aspire to,” Smart said.
“How do you do it, sir?” Sparrow asked Foley.
Foley smiled. “Just keep working at it, fellas. A few more years of hard work and you too can be as smart as I am.”
Sam threw his arms in the air. “It’s a fucking conspiracy!” he cried.
“Okay,” Foley said. “That’s enough frivolity. Let’s brain-storm this for a moment.” He addressed Sparrow and Smart. “What’s out there? What have we got in the area in regards to premises of some sort, big enough to hold twelve hostages without drawing the attention of searchers?”
Sparrow thought about the question for a moment before answering. “There is nothing at Haasts Bluff, and nothing at Papunya,” he said finally. “If they were in either place, we would know about it already.”
“What about outside both those places?” Foley asked.
“There is nothing I know of big enough, and isolated enough to hide that many people,” Sparrow answered.
Foley looked at Smart. “Max?”
“Spog is right,” he said. “There is nothing out there but spinifex grass and red dirt. The only buildings large enough to hold that many people are either in populated settlements or on one of the cattle stations.”
“What about the cattle stations?” Foley asked.
“No chance,” Sparrow answered. “Max and I are familiar with all of them. None of them would be involved in something like this.”
“Well,” Sam said. “I guess that leaves us back at square one.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Sam,” Foley said. “It’s a theory. It’s something we can work on. And, it’s nice to see you are thinking about the job at hand and not one of the many female conquests that seem to take up so much of your time.”
Sam looked at Sparrow and Smart. “Unloved and unappreciated, lads. That’s me. Poor, pitiful me.”
“Let’s wrap this up for the day,” Foley said. “We’ll spend the night here and re-group in the morning.” He turned to Sparrow. “Spog, Sam and I have our swags in our vehicle. Can we bunk down here in the station?”
“There’s a spare room in my house,” Sparrow said. “Two single beds. You can stay with the wife and me.”
“You might want to run that by your bride, Spog,” Sam suggested.
“It was her idea, Sparrow said. “She’s got a roast leg of lamb cooking as we speak.”
“Roast lamb!” Sam exclaimed, smiling widely. “My favorite.”
“Two single beds,” Foley said. “My favorite.”
DAY TWO
13
Tracy woke slowly. Confused and disorientated at first, it took a few moments for the realisation of her predicament to surface. When it did, she lifted herself from the thin, barely adequate mattress, rested on one elbow, and grimaced at the stab of pain that bit sharply in her lower back. Cautiously, she rose to a sitting position, turned and stretched her shoulders to ease the aches instigated by an uncomfortable night. As she stared into the gloom that enveloped the room like a heavy fog, the reality of where she was, and how she got there, slowly rose to the forefront of her consciousness.
In the near distance, in the corner opposite where she sat, a faint, orange glow from the lantern she had brought from the adjacent room the previous evening emitted a weak circle of light in futile competition against the darkness. Soft, flickering, mildly mesmerising shadows danced about the wall immediately behind the lamp, capturing Tracy’s attention. Finally, stifling a yawn, she lifted her arm close to her face and squinted at her watch. Unable to read the time in the darkness, it could be the middle of the night, or early in the morning. She knew she must have slept, but she also knew it was not quality, invigorating sleep. It was more like tiny snippets of restless, dream filled naps that neither felt like sleep nor offered any sanctuary from the horrors of the situation she found herself in. Frustrated, she lowered her head and moaned softly. When was this horror going to end?
It was the silence that troubled Tracy most. Interspersed throughout the long night by the occasional sound of gentle adolescent snoring and the infrequent, involuntary whimper of a sleeping child, the silence was so profound it was almost palpable. It must be the earth above them, she decided. It was like being buried alive in a gigantic, coffin-like room under tons upon tons of compacted soil deadening any sound that may be obvious on the outside. She knew this place was underneath a hill; she could scream until her lungs burst and no one on the outside of this horrible place would hear her. Whatever this place was, wherever it was, it was the silence that terrified Tracy; perhaps even more than the predicament she and her students faced, if that were possible.
She turned and peered long and hard through the dark space between herself and the locked door just a few metres away, hoping the image of the door would somehow morph out of the gloom and it would be open. No image appeared. There was no open door. Tracy lowered her head and wiped at an errant tear that escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek.
The sense of failure was almost overwhelming. Tracy felt she had failed in her responsibility and the feeling threatened to consume her. She was not, and never had been, a quitter. She considered herself to be a strong, independent person possessive of a ‘never-say-die’ attitude to life. But this was a situation she was not prepared for; and it was not just about her. There were eleven young children entrusted to her care and she was the sole person responsible for their welfare.
When their respective families sent their children off to school each morning, they expected them to come home again that afternoon. And, while they were in school, they expected the teacher to take responsibility for their wellbeing. That was her job. While in her charge, she was entrusted to ensure they were well taken care of and they all went home safely to their families. That didn’t happen yesterday and, right now, she wondered if it would happen anytime soon. Would she ever be able to send the children back to the arms of their families?Tracy looked around at the dark shapes of the children scattered about her on their respective mattresses. In the darkness it was difficult to tell if any of them were awake. Most appeared to be sound asleep, their bodies motionless. Others stirred as though they might be on the verge of waking, and some mumbled incoherently in their slumber.
If ever Tracy needed to demonstrate strength of character, it was now. She wiped angrily at another errant tear and silently admonished herself for what she perceived as weakness. She was a stronger person than what she was showing and now was the time to stand up and be counted. Her students depended on her. If she succumbed to her fears, she was going to be of very little help to them and that was unacceptable. They had no one else. There was only her.
Then, she heard it for the first time. A sound. Strange and unfamiliar. It seemed to be coming from somewhere above her. She looked up but saw nothing that might explain the sound. This room, this chamber, this dungeon, was dark. Even in the daylight. There were no windows where natural light from the outside could penetrate. The only light in the room came from the lantern in the corner. She wondered what would happen when the lantern ran out of oil. Would they be plunged into darkness twenty-four hours a day? She couldn’t remember what the man said about using the supplies sparingly. Did that include oil for the lantern? Was there any more in the fourth room? She made a mental note to check.
There was the noise again. She looked up. They were being held in a shipping container and, while she could stand comfortably in it, the ceiling was low. If she reached up at full stretch, her hand would fall just a few inches short of the ceiling. The whirring was soft and if it weren’t for the silence in the confined space, she might never have heard it. Then it dawned on her. It was an exhaust fan.
Tracy stared and focused on the sound above her. There was a shape up there, she was certain of it. It was sm
all and it was round and she wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. The soft whirring sound waxed and waned and she determined it must be powered by wind rather than by electricity; there would be no electricity power out here, she assumed.
As the velocity of the wind outside rose and fell, so did the speed at which the fan turned, extracting warm, stale air from inside the room. The sound was faint, indicating the intensity of wind passing across the top of the hill must be no stronger than a gentle breeze, she decided.
She wondered how big the fan housing was. It was hard to tell in the darkness. If the fan was removed, would it leave a hole large enough to climb out and flee from this awful place? Impossible, she decided despondently. How would she, or any of the children get up there? There was no ladder. If by some miracle they were to escape where would they go? Tracy did not even know where they were. How was she going to lead eleven young children across the hot, dry, featureless landscape when she didn’t even know which direction would take them to a place of safety. She might very easily lead them deeper and deeper into the burning desert.
She looked up and focused again on the gentle whirring of the exhaust fan. Was there a way out there? Was there the tiniest glimmer of hope? No. There was nothing. There were no tools to remove the fan and expose the hole in the ceiling. And, even if she had the right tools how was she ever going to get all twelve of them up there and out through the hole? It was preposterous. The whole idea was nothing more than her tired mind grasping at straws. She decided to forget about the whirring fan just a few feet above where she sat.
Frustrated, she carefully, so as to not disturb the children, pushed herself to her feet and padded softly into the adjacent room where she used the toilet facility, washed her hands, and drank a cup of water.
Having taken the only lantern into the main room the night before, this room was very dark. She fumbled about amongst the supplies, looking for more lantern oil. Finally, giving up the search, she returned to the third room and sat back down on her mattress.
