by Matt Hammond
He stopped staring back at Hone in the mirror. “So where do we fit into all this? Why all the destruction and mayhem? Surely this is all just legitimate business?”
“Well, up until September 11 last year, the Americans had a deal with the Arabs that they would process one of these alternative fuels. It’s one of the reasons New Zealand sends so much dairy produce to the Middle East. Our farmers and the public are led to believe that it’s all to do with the Arabs being big milk and cheese consumers but when did you last see Arabian cheese on a supermarket shelf? It’s all to do with something called whey. Apparently the Americans are on the verge of perfecting a process to produce commercially usable fuel right here in New Zealand. The small quantities of fuel produced overseas are explained away as the big oil companies just playing around with the formula to try and lengthen the life of the oil reserves. Most cars in the States are already driving around with some milk–based or tree–based fuel in their tanks. Something called bio ethanol.”
Katherine had been listening intently whilst trying not to stare into Hone’s deep blue eyes. She interrupted him. “I’ve heard of that, and the trees?”
“Same story. Just look around you. Vast areas of our land given over to forestry, and again our people are told it either goes to the States or Japan for construction. In fact the plan is to use it to produce bio–ethanol. The wood is pulped, fermented and distilled, and usable fuel is the end result. Did you guys know that the earliest cars ran on vegetable oil? In fact, several of Henry Ford’s early cars could run on bio–ethanol but, as we all know, the automobile industry took the petroleum route and the rest of the industrialised world followed, or maybe they were led by the Americans.”
The road ahead ran straight into the shimmering midday horizon. Through its haze they could see the distinctive red, with blue flashing lights, of a fire truck, quickly followed by another. They sped silently past, heading towards the opposite horizon where a thin black line of smoke rose up between the trees lining the road.
Hone sighed and continued; “So anyways, now we have a situation where the Americans want to have complete control over the production process. They can’t invade us militarily. In fact they’ll probably do that somewhere else to distract attention away from what’s happening here and, anyway, the Poms - sorry folks, the British - would have to come to our rescue and it would be the Falklands all over again but this time with help from the Aussies. All sorts of alliances would be buggered. So they have to take us over politically, commercially or industrially, whichever way you look at it. They know the price they can eventually charge, once all the oil has gone, outweighs the production and transport costs. So, in the next few years, their plan is to build huge bio–ethanol production plants here in New Zealand. Then they can pipe the finished product across the Pacific straight into the tanks of the car–loving Californians and beyond.”
David was still puzzled; “I still don’t see why this is a bad thing. Surely this kind of industry fits in with New Zealand’s clean, green image, not to mention the anti nuclear policy.”
A police car approached at high speed and hurtled past.
“He’s come from ten kilometres away. They’re onto it alright.” Hone continued. “Each of these production plants will cost around a billion US dollars to build. The most recent intelligence says they intend to build about fifty of them, from Invercargill in the south to Whangarei in the north, each linked by pipes to the next. Within a 100 kilometre radius of each one there has to be either enough cattle to produce the milk to sustain them or enough forest to pulp. Now the cattle will need a certain amount of looking after, but the trees, well, they pretty much take care of themselves. Once each site is up and running it will probably need no more than fifty blokes working around the clock to operate it. Think about it; no more than 2,500 people to produce up to thirty percent of the fuel needed by the United States. Of course, these guys will be scientists, so they’ll need to be brought in especially. No prizes for guessing which country will be supplying them.”
Katherine looked at David. For the first time he could see in her eyes that she finally believed him.
Hone had not finished. “So, in about ten years we’ll have around fifty of these huge power stations on our land, producing supposedly clean sustainable environmentally friendly fuel, but there is a downside. Almost all of our productive land will be used to feed these power stations in one way or another. So, most of our farming will be gone. So will all the tourism. Who wants to look at a landscape littered with a whole heap of chimney stacks? The economy will collapse as heaps of people move offshore, to Australia or Europe or the U.S.. The remaining population will nearly all live within sight of permanent plumes of white steam rising from shining steel venting stacks. That’s gonna take the edge off the thermal pools and geysers in Rotorua for sure eh?”
They jolted forward sharply as Hone braked hard and the car skidded to a halt. The dusty cloud created by the sudden deceleration caught up and enveloped them. The cloud travelled forward, obscuring the trees and the sky beyond. Hone turned, resting his arm across the front passenger seat, and looked first at Katherine, then David, He gestured across the windscreen with his right arm, like a T.V weatherman pointing out the map behind him. As he did so, the dust swirled and cleared, revealing a gap between the trees that framed a vast green plain bordered in the distance by a uniform blue–green mountain range, the silhouette contrasting with the vivid pristine blue of the southern hemisphere sky.
Hone smiled like a proud father: “Kia ora, Welcome.” He paused and the trio sat for a few moments staring at the landscape before them, broken only by a thin line of grey, the road they had yet to travel.
Hone broke the silence, speaking softer this time. “When my ancestors came to these shores they named this place Aotearoa. It means land of the long white cloud, and you can see why.”
In the far distance, suspended low in front of the mountains, there it was - a long cloud - not in the sky, but resting against the mountain range like a pure white cotton towel that had been twisted tight to wring it dry. “If the Americans have their way, this land will be changed forever. The long white clouds will be vertical and the emissions they contain will alter the climate of these islands within fifty years. The rain forests of the West Coast will begin to die, the lakes will run dry as fuel production uses most of the freshwater reserves, and the majority of the population will be forced overseas to look for work. In fact, they will be paid to leave. Already the US Government is putting political pressure on the Aussies to make their tax system more attractive than the Kiwi one. New Zealand will become the fifty-first state in the Union, and the Yanks will still be able to drive around in their gas guzzlers keeping enough gasoline free for their military to be able to intimidate the world for hundreds of years after any practical sources have long run out for the rest of us.”
Here they were, a perfectly ordinary couple, sitting in the back of a rental car in remote rural New Zealand, with a stranger who had just murdered two people in cold blood only minutes before, and who was now explaining some huge global conspiracy that affected every single person on the planet, and in which they seemed to be playing an unwitting but crucial part.
Hone sat, still staring into the distance, as if he had just heard his own revelations for the first time and was finding them equally difficult to comprehend. Suddenly he jumped out of his daydream, wiped his sweating face with his palm, and sighed. “Anyway, that’s about the story. My job now is to make sure yous fellas are kept safe for a bit, at least until the mess back there dies down.”
“Waiheke Island?
Hone’s frown was reflected in the mirror as he put the car into gear and pulled away. David continued: “I know someone on Waiheke Island which would be a good place to go for a few days, wouldn’t it?”
The frown remained. “Not somewhere I had down as a first choice, but yeah, Bro’, that could work. So who do you know there, Dave?”
“An old
school friend. He’s a vet, at least he was last time I – er - spoke to him.” He hesitated, realising that he had not actually spoken to him for about twenty five years.
“Ok, once we get over the mountains up ahead, I’ll make a call. If your mate checks out, we’ll head on over to Waiheke.”
They spent the next hour staring out of the window in silence as the landscape changed from endless forest plantation to winding mountain road. Once over the summit, they could see the flat river plain in the distance and, beyond that, the sea. Halfway down, Hone pulled over next to a look-out point, got out of the car, and leaving the engine running, walked round to the front. Leaning against the bonnet, he began talking intently into his mobile phone.
“Have we been kidnapped?’ whispered Katherine
‘I’m not sure” replied David.
“Because if we have, and I think we have, then now would be as good a time as any to put a stop to this once and for all. Go to the police, give ourselves up, or turn ourselves in, or whatever it is we have to do to actually start our lives in this country properly.” With that she clicked open the car door and started to get out.
“Where are you going?” David hissed.
“Nowhere, I just want to see how far he’s going to let me get.”
He grabbed her arm; “What if he’s got a gun?”
“Well you have a go, then!”
‘Ok, get back in and don’t move. Just keep a close eye on him. If he makes a move, or you see a gun, just cough loudly or something.”
As he carefully manoeuvred himself from the back seat through the small gap between the front seats, David felt his heartbeat start to increase and his scalp flush hot. Desperately trying to move smoothly and quickly, he found himself having to squeeze his torso and legs over the transmission tunnel and into the driver’s seat without moving the car and alerting Hone to his actions.
He was now in the driver’s seat. The engine was still purring and Hone was still perched against the bonnet talking.
Forwards or backwards? If he drove forward, he risked pushing Hone forward also, possibly under the car, and he had no reason to injure him. They just wanted to escape from him. If David put the car into reverse, Hone would no doubt fall back with it and then he would have to drive round him.
David took a chance. Expecting the car horn to be there, he pushed hard on the centre of the steering wheel. The sudden loud noise made the startled Hone spin round as David put the car into gear, pulled the steering wheel down hard to his right and drove sharply forward. Hone instinctively jumped clear but the wing caught the top of his left leg and he spun against the passenger side of the car and fell to the ground, shouting as he did so, a strange unexpected cry of disappointment.
“Wait. It’s not safe! Don’t be so bloody stupid!”
It was too late. The gravel crunched beneath the tyres as David accelerated down the hill as if expecting Hone to be running after them. He approached a sharp right hand bend and, realising he was going far too fast, braked hard to avoid missing the curve completely and sliding over the steep hillside into which the snaking road had been cut. The car shuddered and rolled violently as he pumped the brake pedal, the smell of burning rubber entering through the air vents.
Hone had not even attempted the downhill sprint David had somehow expected and was nowhere in sight. He brought his speed back up to 60kph and continued quickly, but safely, down the switchback mountain road. As they followed the road north, back towards Auckland, it occurred to David that they were now being pursued by the police, some American secret agents, and whichever organisation Hone and his companions were allied to.
It seemed as if a significant proportion of the entire population was now on their tail.
Chapter 8
The map confirmed Waiheke Island lay to the east, in the Hauraki Gulf. It looked like a three hour drive to the coast opposite the island, just outside Auckland. If they were being followed, David hoped the city would conceal their exact location, at least until they caught the ferry.
They approached the suburbs, David pulled into the car park of a small shopping mall and stopped the engine. Katherine looked at him, puzzled. He explained, “We need to mingle, lose ourselves in the crowd. Grab what you need, put it in your back pack and let’s find a bus.”
Opening the boot and taking out some essential clothes and toiletries, Katherine watched as her husband did the same. “The trouble with you,” she said, “is you watch too much TV.”
They walked a short distance until they found a bus stop, then stood looking down the road expectantly for what felt like hours, feeling vulnerable and self–conscious. As each car passed, the pair instinctively lowered their heads a little, carefully avoiding the gaze of each driver whose last thought would have been to stare at the innocuous back packers standing at the side of the road.
The bus glided through the city. After about twenty minutes the driver indicated they had reached the ferry terminal. By now it was mid-afternoon. The next ferry was due to depart at four. David booked two tickets and, realising they had not yet eaten today, they walked the short distance to a small café for a coffee and a sandwich. As Katherine savoured her large flat white, David noticed the free internet computer. Perhaps Ed had seen his message and answered it?
You have 1 new message.
David quickly opened the reply, apprehensive at Ed’s response to what must have seemed a bizarre request.
Got your message. Bit of a blast from the past? Looking forward to catching up after all these years. Sorry, haven’t updated my profile for a while. Bit of a career change. No longer a vet, now own the Mushroom Café on Waiheke, not far from the ferry terminal at Kennedy Point. Just ask for directions. See you soon.
David rushed back to the table. “Good news, Ed got my email. He runs a café on the island, so we’ll go straight there.”
They boarded the small ferry, crowded with casually dressed commuters, islanders who had been over to the mainland shopping, and a few of tourists. It headed out of the harbour towards Waiheke, assuming a rhythmic pitching motion in gentle time with the clear wind–lapped Gulf waters beneath.
David and Katherine made their way to the stern rail and watched as Auckland slowly receded, the cityscape a thin line of hastily scribbled humanity caught between the twinkling ocean and the milky blue of the late afternoon sky. David admired the view whilst scanning his fellow passengers.
Katherine noticed what he was doing and smiled. “I was right about you watching too much television. You’re treating this like some big murder mystery drama.”
He could see her point. “To be perfectly honest, it feels more like a Scooby Doo mystery at the moment, especially as we seem to be getting to the part where we arrive on Skull Island. Get that map out and let’s have a look in case this island is, like, skull-shaped, Scoob - gulp!” His Shaggy impersonation was rubbish. They both laughed, a quick, false laugh intended to ease the real tension they were both now feeling.
Their lives had suddenly, and without notice, been taken over by something that was obviously much bigger than them alone. It had supposedly been going on for years and affected millions of people, yet, up until a few days ago, it had never knowingly entered their consciousness. Now it had not only crossed their path, it had crashed into it, climbed onto their backs and was somehow controlling every step they took.
David stared aimlessly into the water as the boat bounced swiftly through it. Suddenly, as his eyes focussed on the surface of the water, he felt sick and took a few deep breaths of cool sea air. Looking beyond the stern of the boat, back towards the thin darkening jagged Auckland skyline, he tried to imagine how many of the million people who lived there had any idea that at that moment their country was being invaded.
Katherine was thinking the same thing. “Just think, right now, as four million New Zealanders go about their daily lives, probably some of the hardest working people in the country - forestry workers, cattle and dairy farmers - are all unwi
ttingly helping to lay the foundations for an invasion which is going to decimate their economy, probably bring down the government and hand the whole country over to foreign businesses who are going to completely destroy the flora and fauna in the interests of mass energy production. So how come this isn’t news?”
“What do you mean?” David responded. “We’ve only been here a couple of days, and with everything that’s been going on we haven’t exactly had time to sit down and watch the TV news, let alone read a paper.”
“I know but you would think an issue like this would be world news. Other countries should be up in arms. The Save the Planet greenies should have this issue plastered all over the media, but nothing. In all the stuff we read about coming here, I don’t remember reading a single thing about exploitation of natural assets or how this country is going to solve the planet’s energy crisis, which is the spin you would expect to have heard. But I can’t recall anything.”
“We’ll ask Ed when we see him. He’s lived here for years. He’ll know if anything’s going on.”
David asked one of the deck hands if he knew where the Mushroom Café was. As it was his last crossing of the day, if they waited on the quayside while he tied up the boat, he would give them a lift as it was on his way home.
It was a five minute drive from the small ferry port. The deck hand, a large middle-aged Maori called Jono who had worked on the ferry for five years, had a wife and three kids, and had never been to Europe but met a lot of European tourists in his job, brought his car to a sharp halt in the middle of the street. “There you go, guys. Never eaten there myself. Bit too veggie for my taste. Anyways, enjoy the rest of your day.” He drove off, leaving them standing outside the café.
Katherine entered first, pushing open the door to find a small eating area with a bar on one side and a counter along the back wall on which rested display cabinets containing neat piles of fresh Paninis, wraps, pizza slices and large trays of pasta dishes. There was a pleasant garlicky smell, none of the unpleasant fatty odour she often associated with these smaller eateries. They appeared to be the only customers. From a doorway behind the counter, a middle–aged man emerged, tall with a mass of curly grey hair. This spilled down his cheeks, meeting in a white beard on his chin. His face was deep brown and lined. David thought the man looked at least five years older than him, but he wasn't. They had been in the same class at school.
