They all made it back to their quads which were still warm, thankfully, and fired up instantly. They took off in a cloud of dust, grass and rocks. This wasn’t the time for making a stand! The pursuers were about 100 metres behind and Jack heard another gunshot echo across the plains. He felt a sharp stinging all over his back, neck, and the back of his head. He heard one of the dogs on Charlie’s bike yelp. Jack quickly felt the back of his neck for blood and was relieved to find nothing but sweat mixed with dirt and grime. He hunched forward and tried to catch up to Mike and Charlie, glancing over his shoulder only to see the pursuers gradually gaining on him—I am a novice after all, he thought. Shit!
Just then a battle-scarred feral pig burst out of the undergrowth to Jack’s left. It was roughly the same size as the quad bike and on a collision course with Jack. The pig had one intent—to get across the track and into the thicker vegetation on the other side. Jack and his thundering quad bike were not going to stop it—that was clear. Jack swerved sharply, and miraculously didn’t roll as he clipped the low shrubs beside the road. Glancing behind he could see the pursuers were now only 50 metres behind.
Another gunshot rang out and Jack heard Mike yell, ‘It’s just bird shot, keep going.’ He didn’t need to be told twice.
As their quads four-wheel drifted out of the timbered area onto a wide gravel road the angry pursuers slowed and then retreated, no doubt concerned about there being witnesses to them taking pot shots at the trio. Mike, Charlie and Jack kept going at high speed for another five minutes before Charlie yelled, ‘I think we’re ok now, fellas,’ and they all slowed and then stopped to listen. No lights or sounds of trouble. Thank God, was all Jack could think. His hands were trembling and the knees were a bit wobbly too. This was certainly a far cry from writing about Hamilton Island holidays, Jack reflected.
‘That was fun,’ said Charlie, grinning.
Mike replied, ‘Could’ve been worse. At least they only used bird shot. That way no-one gets seriously hurt and all those within earshot think it’s just those bloody bird scarers. Now that they know we know what they’re up to, things could get interesting. We’d better get home and be prepared for anything, Charlie. I’ll ring around and let the others know about this, and go through the motions of calling the tap turners in town tomorrow—not that that will make any difference. Jack, you still want to write this story mate?’
‘Try to stop me now,’ Jack replied, thinking that may go down as one of the dumbest things he’d ever said.
Chapter 6
The rest of that night was uneventful. The patrollers returned to Charlie’s and told Sandie about what had happened. She told them they were silly buggers, but they all knew she didn’t mean it. These battle lines had been drawn many years earlier.
Mike and Jack made their way back to Sunset Downs. ‘You drink port?’ Mike asked as they settled down in the big leather lounges on the veranda, with the cicadas chirping loudly in the hot night air. Jack was still jumpy, especially whenever the bird and flying fox scarers went off.
‘Only drink it to help me sleep, so it’s probably a good idea tonight,’ Jack replied.
Mike produced a bottle of Grandfather Port and glasses, blowing the dust off as he did so. ‘Jack, you might want to think about going home tomorrow. This is not your fight and after tonight I think it’s about to get even more ugly.’
It had been a long day so Jack’s brain was weary and processing Mike’s words slowly. Suddenly the lights went on in his brain and he had a moment of insight.
‘Do you know anyone with a chopper?’ inquired Jack.
‘There’s a mob over in Dawson that hire out for mustering and pig shooting. What’ve you got in mind?’
‘Well, if we’re going to expose what those guys are doing I need photos and be damned if I’m going back out there on a quad bike,’ said Jack.
‘Won’t be cheap,’ was Mike’s reply.
‘How much is your livelihood worth, not to mention Charlie and Sandie and the kids, and all your mates? And, bloody hell Mike, what they’re doing is criminal. I’ll make some inquiries tomorrow.’
Before Jack retired for the night there was one more question he’d been dying to ask Mike, so he blurted it out. ‘Mike, when you accused Peter Wellsmore of corruption in that meeting the other day did you have proof or were you just bluffing?’
‘Wondered when you’d get around to asking me that,’ Mike replied. A long silence followed and it was obvious he was deep in thought. ‘Let’s sleep on that. There’s someone I have to speak to before I can answer that question, ok.’
Chapter 7
Jack awoke to a rooster crowing and the smell of bacon cooking—a sizzling pan could be heard in the kitchen. He dragged himself out of bed and looked at the clock; 6.00 am. Bloody hell! At home he was a 7.30 or 8.00 am riser so he knew mornings weren’t his best time. Wandering out of the spare room, he saw his host busy in the kitchen again. Full of good cheer, Mike yelled—or so it seemed—‘How many eggs for you?’
Jack replied, ‘I’m usually a toast and coffee man for breakfast, Mike. I’m happy to try a country brekkie though. Maybe just one egg and easy on the bacon, thanks.’
A few minutes later Mike appeared clutching a huge plate with an egg, bacon, sausage, cooked half tomato, baked beans and toast. A steaming mug of tea was in his other hand. ‘Git that into ya,’ he said, plonking it all down in front of Jack and heading back to the kitchen.
Mike returned with his own plate; two eggs, two sausages, several rashers of bacon and so on. ‘After you went to bed I made a phone call,’ he commenced hesitantly. ‘The tricky thing with what I said in that meeting is that it was based on some documents I’d been told about by a source in the system, shall we say. The person who told me about them is scared shitless someone will find out and they’ll lose their job, or worse.’
He stopped and looked at Jack intently. ‘You see the problem? If I disclose this information it will be pretty obvious where it came from, and the whistleblower will cop it. I’d like to find another way to prove what these bastards are up to, without using this info. It’s my insurance I suppose, but I can only use it as a last resort.’
Chapter 8
Before leaving for Dawson Mike let Jack use his satellite internet connection to check emails on his laptop and browse the Sydney newspapers—the usual political wranglings and shock jock garbage he didn’t miss at all thought Jack. With directions from Mike, Jack hesitantly aimed the Prius back onto the corrugated gravel road. As he arrived in town he spied a windsock blowing gently in the hot northerly breeze at the end of a runway and then the sign to the airport.
Driving up to the shed nestled in the long grass beside the runway—as directed by Mike—he saw a four-seater chopper and a sign saying ‘Sandford’s Helicopter Charters’. He was hoping someone was there as he hadn’t called ahead. He opened the screen door, which squeaked loudly. A dog barked and he heard a female voice from out the back say, ‘Sit down, Spanner’.
He headed toward where the voice had emerged as an overall-clad woman appeared from the behind chopper holding a rag and some tools. She had blonde hair tied up behind her head, a grease mark on her right cheek, and the rest he didn’t notice once he got to the emerald-green eyes. ‘G’day,’ she said, ‘I’m Pip Sandford, what can I do for you?’
Since his short-lived marriage had failed four years ago, Jack had been happy to play the field a bit. When you visit tropical islands to write about the perfect holidays on offer there are lots of backpackers and seasonal workers who like to party hard—enough said. His marriage had been a mistake, and they’d both known it almost from day one. Since then he’d been the classic ‘once bitten twice shy guy’. But, he reflected, he was getting ahead of himself—he’d just made eye contact with this woman and here he was starting to think about their future together.
Jack introduced himself and started to explain why he needed a chopper. She interrupted him, ‘Are you serious? You want me to fly you d
own over someone’s place; low enough to get photos of them, you claim, breaking the law. Is that a fair summary?’
He nodded. No shrinking violet here but he should have guessed that. You don’t run a chopper charter service out here without being made of tough stuff.
‘Pardon me saying it but you’re bloody mad, mate,’ said Pip, not mincing her words and heading back round behind the chopper. Over her shoulder she said, ‘And while you’re taking photos they’ll be taking pot shots at my chopper, no thanks. Go find yourself another chopper pilot, buddy.’
This wasn’t going as he had hoped. ‘Listen,’ said Jack, trying to sound confident, ‘they won’t be doing the digging in broad daylight I assume, so we should be perfectly safe.’
‘You’re from Sydney, right? Figures!’ She looked at him as if he’d trodden in something Spanner the dog had left lying around and then bent down to continue her maintenance work.
Jack turned to leave. ‘Who did you say you were trying to help? Was it Mike Thompson?’ she asked, peeking back around the side of the chopper. He nodded and she contemplated this for a moment.
‘I do feel sorry for those blokes getting screwed by the big boys—don’t tell anyone I said that.’ Jack sensed a change in her tone.
‘The only way this could work is if you tag along on a pig shoot and we just happen to fly over the site and you take a few snaps—without me knowing, of course,’ Pip said with a cheeky grin and a twinkle in those wonderful eyes. ‘Still risky, but what the hell. If those poor buggers go under, the whole community’s screwed anyway.’
Jack just stood there smiling. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘I suggest you come back in the morning, say at six, and I’ll have a pig-shooter friend organised. I’ll call Mike to find out exactly where it is we need to accidentally fly over,’ Pip the organiser said in rapid fire.
‘It’s too far back to Mike’s tonight so I think I’ll stay in town,’ Jack said, dropping a hint about his availability for the evening.
Pip replied, ‘No worries. Just stay clear of me. I don’t want any of the GrowOz boys seeing us together.’ Bugger! Jack thought.
Back in his car, Jack called Mike and told him what had been arranged and to expect a call from Pip. He asked Mike where to stay in town and he suggested the Shady Gardens Motel.
‘Tell them you’re a friend of mine; and Jack,’ Mike said with surprising firmness, ‘stay away from the Royal Hotel. That’s where the enemy drinks and you may not come out alive.’ Jack thought—he’s joking right? After last night’s shooting incident, maybe not.
Jack had some time to kill that afternoon. He decided to take a walk around and check out this town that many had described as being paved with gold since the arrival of the big irrigators in the valley. The streets, while not gleaming with gold, were well kept and he didn’t see any of the empty shopfronts so common in other rural towns. The cars were fairly new too, most 4WD’s with bull bars and driving lights. Many of the utes had RM Williams ‘horns’ stickers on the rear windscreen. There were several roo shooters’ utes with rifle rests perched near the side mirrors, and a couple of pig shooters too, with dog cages on the back. He reflected—one thing they all share—dust!
Jack saw the shopfront of the local Member of Parliament, John Burton, and decided on an impulse to see if he happened to be around. It might be interesting to get his perspectives on what Mike and Charlie have told him, he thought.
He was in luck and Burton was there, although about to rush out the door to catch a flight to Sydney. Parliament resumed the next day. He could give Jack ten minutes, he said. Burton was about Jack’s height, 5’ 11” in the old measure; but around fifty years old with a red-flushed face and a beer belly that was making the lower buttons on his shirt work hard. This was a man under pressure, Jack sensed, but weren’t all politicians—especially rural ones during a prolonged drought?
They sat down and Jack started by explaining why he was in Dawson. As he was talking he detected Burton’s interest waning. ‘I want to stress that I’m here to get both sides of the story in terms of how water is shared among the farmers in this valley, and I imagine you’ve got your finger on that pulse?’ said Jack.
Burton fidgeted a little and glanced at his watch, ‘Well, Jack, you see this all goes back to when the Water Sharing Plan for this river was negotiated four years ago. It’s now enshrined in legislation and will come up for review in two years time. There are some people—Mike and Charlie are among them—that feel the cattlemen didn’t get a fair share when that pie was carved up, and are still lashing out. That regrettable incident at the public meeting the other day was just another example. I keep telling them to get better organised for when we review the Plan, not to waste their energies on baseless accusations against long-serving public servants like Pete Wellsmore.’ He started to rise off his chair, signalling that the meeting was coming to an end.
‘John, thanks, that’s great context, but I’m also hearing suggestions that there are farmers out doing night patrols to stop unscrupulous people redirecting water to themselves, taking more than they’re entitled to and denying it from others. Do you know anything about that?’ Jack threw down the ‘left bower’ to see what Burton had in his hand.
‘Not happening. That’s just gossip spread by—excuse me saying it—the Sydney media. They’re constantly trying to make more of our occasional flashpoints, like Mike’s ill-considered outburst in that meeting, so they can write about the ‘water wars’ they have wet dreams about; if you’ll excuse the pun. We’ve been in drought for nearly a decade and sadly some of the farmers that didn’t learn from the past and prepare for these hard times have suffered badly, and some have even packed up and moved away. As the local member that’s a concern to me, but you must understand I can’t hold the hand of every constituent. Now, I really must go.’
Burton turned and collected his briefcase off the well-ordered desk, retrieving his mobile phone and raising it toward his eyes to check for text messages.
Jack decided it was time to use his ‘right bower’ and said, ‘When you’re back here, or maybe in Sydney, I’d like to do a more formal interview with you, John. If you’re ok with that? I’d like to explore the issue of rural policies and farmer suicides with you and what the government is doing about it. Oh, and I’m hanging around here for a few more days yet, and hoping to catch up with Peter Wellsmore tomorrow.’
Burton turned back to face Jack and moved one small, slightly intimidating step closer. Jack could smell his coffee breath.
‘My advice is to go back to Sydney. There’s no story here. Just some pissed-off cattle farmers trying to make a mountain out of a mole hill.’ With that he turned and rushed out the back door of his office. Jack heard a car rev to life and gravel fly as Burton accelerated too hard out of the car park. His office assistant—a young, freckle-faced girl—glanced Jack’s way before resuming her work on the desktop computer.
Jack walked back out into the baking afternoon sun thinking to himself—there’s definitely a story here and you’re in it up to your ears, Mr Burton. Now all he needed was the joker in his hand to nail this story.
As Burton drove at high speed toward the airport he pushed some buttons on his mobile phone and waited for an answer ‘Todd, John Burton here. Listen, I think we’ve got a problem, mate. I’ve just had a bloody journo, guy called Jack Miller, in my office quizzing me about water sharing and asking me what I know about people rorting the system. I gave him the usual gumpf about the Water Sharing Plan but I reckon he’s not going to buy it. He said he was going to see Pete Wellsmore next.’
Todd, from the noisy office of the minister, replied, ‘John, stay calm, I’ll make some calls and see what we can do. You stay away from the journo though, alright.’
While Burton was parking his car at the airport in Dawson, Todd was making another call. ‘Vinnie, I just had John Burton on the phone crapping himself because some journo, who’s been talking to Mike Thompson, waltzed into his o
ffice and started asking questions about water sharing and rorting. What’s the story? I thought I asked you to put a lid on this.’
‘That’s easier said than done. I spoke to Wellsmore and Robertson from GrowOz. Wellsmore reckons he’s covered his tracks but this journo is a worry.’
‘He told Burton he’s going to see Wellsmore next. Might be time we put Wellsmore in moth balls, eh?’
‘Good idea, this is starting to become awkward,’ Vinnie agreed.
‘And Vinnie, I think you’d better do some homework on the journo too. They’ve usually got some dark little secret we can exploit. He might have a drug habit or a liking for little boys. Find out, and do it quickly.’
Todd’s next call was to Des Drummond. ‘Des, Todd here. Things are starting to heat up over this Wellsmore thing. We need him out of the way for a while. Maybe some sick leave, then you could bring him down here to lead a special Task Force looking into some fucking thing.’
Drummond hesitated before answering, ‘Todd, as I said in the minister’s office, I’m not comfortable about this…’
Todd interrupted, ‘I don’t give a flying fuck about your comfort mate, just get that stupid bastard out of the firing line today. Do I make myself clear?’
They both knew how Drummond had gotten to be head of the Department. After a few moments of hesitation; Des replied, with obvious distaste and reluctance, ‘Ok, I’ll try… but today is pushing it.’
‘Don’t let us down Des. The Premier has told the Minister he’s giving some thought to reviewing the Departmental heads before the election.’ The threat was loud and clear to Drummond, even though retirement wasn’t far off for the experienced bureaucrat.
Flood country Page 3
