“And how do we deploy them?”
“From the back of a C-17,” he said. “Like I said, the top section can be dismantled, leaving you a platform about the same size as an MBT. Just as sturdy, but with less weight, a less complex engine, and a driving system any miner or bus driver can handle. We can reinstall the top-armour at the frontline. All three meet our requirements,” he added, glancing around with a faux-nonchalance bordering on furtive.
“These sound perfect. Too perfect. So why are you asking me out here rather than waiting for the cabinet meeting?”
“Lignatiev still wants his tanks,” O.O. said. “The only reason he’s not driving around in one is he’d prefer to show off in his helicopter. Good thing all these new vegetable beds and barricades mean he hasn’t got anywhere to land it. Instead, he’s dug out a design from the 1960s, complete with machine gun mounts for which we don’t have the guns, let alone the ammo. It’d take us two months to set up a factory to build a prototype.”
“Again, I don’t see the problem. Of course we’ll use a modern design based on what our factories are already geared up to build and our civilians are able to drive. So why are you asking me now?”
“I just want to get my ducks all lined up before I open fire,” he said, taking the tablet back. “After all, we can’t waste ammo, can we?”
Anna watched O.O. drive away. He had a secret agenda. He always did. He was playing politics. He always was. But he shouldn’t be. Not now. Not when absolutely everything was so critically important.
General Yoon needed ammunition and fuel, and soon she’d need food and medical supplies. And that was just for her army. Singapore needed resupply, as did Taiwan, and Japan needed reinforcement before they lost any more ground. There was Malaysia and Thailand. There was Mexico. India. The entire world needed help and equipment, and they needed it yesterday. But Oswald Owen was working his angles into sharp points to which he could pin his own personal advantage. Some people never changed, she supposed, not even during a crisis.
As she reached for the car door, a gunshot echoed across the rooftops. She listened for a second shot, waiting for the siren. Neither came. Breathing out, she got in, buckled up, switched on the engine, and pulled away from the kerb.
As the greatly expanded agricultural department had begun turning every inch of grass into an experimental crop-bed, and every spare inch of concrete into the foundations for an equally experimental greenhouse, the road signs had come down. Navigating through the university’s prettily curving roads, she almost got lost until she saw a Humvee speeding towards her. The vehicle slowed as it neared, but didn’t stop. Presumably it was searching for the gunshot, but the direction it came told her the direction to head, and soon she was back into the city proper, and on her short drive back to Parliament House.
She saw no more traffic, at least not moving. Plenty of vehicles partially blocked junctions with more nearby ready to be rolled across to create an unguarded barricade. Most of the guards and sentries had been deployed to clear the outer suburbs. Which wasn’t to say that Canberra was deserted. Though conscription into the ever-increasing armed services, or into the even larger engineering and manufacturing corps, had reduced the capital’s population, and escape to the bush had reduced it further, refugees had begun to arrive. Some now dug the verge. Others, off-duty after working in prototype factories run in hastily converted office blocks, boarded up the windows of their newly allocated multiple occupancy homes. Many cooked, the plumes of smoke rising from back yards and barricaded kitchen windows. Mostly beef, from the smell. No one would go hungry. Not for a few days. But after then, many would.
Not every old resident of Canberra, or any other city, had been conscripted. A shelter-in-place order had been issued for anyone who could to remain at home for as long as they could. But if they required assistance, they would get conscription along with it. The inequality troubled her, as did the exemptions for the mining barons in their gated mansions, but time would be a great leveller, assuming they overcame the immediate crisis.
Unbidden, she pushed on the accelerator, picking up speed as she crossed the bridge over Lake Burley Griffin, and approached Parliament House.
She parked her car behind Erin Vaughn’s police cruiser, and next to the sentries standing guard on the ring road that circled Parliament House. A smile at the sentries received a professional nod in return. Unlike those elsewhere in the city, these were dressed in black utility gear. The kind she thought of as being worn by Special Forces. At least, it was how Special Forces dressed in the movies her dad had taken to viewing every spare minute he had. These soldiers weren’t SASR, but their familiarity with their weapons gave her comfort in a way that would have been alien to her only three weeks before. If anything, she now wished there were more of them.
Chapter 18 - Housing and Agriculture
Parliament House, Canberra
In Anna’s recently acquired office, the lights were off, but the curtains were open. Originally a large and airy meeting room, its table and chairs had been replaced with a pair of desks. On hers were three large and one small stack of papers. The other desk was Aaron Bryce’s, at which a figure sat hunched over a laptop, tapping at the keyboard. For the briefest moment she thought it was Aaron, but of course, no.
“G’day, Hoa,” Anna said, as she entered.
The woman at the keyboard nearly jumped. Hoa Nguyen, seventy-three, and six months retired after fifty years in Australia’s civil service, had returned to duty after the outbreak. It was she who really ran the department of which Anna was Minister.
“Ma’am,” Hoa said, half standing.
“No, don’t get up,” Anna said, dropping her bag behind her desk, sitting, and kicking off her shoes.
“How were the scientists?” Hoa asked.
“Give them a billy and a match, and you’d get a particle accelerator before you got a cup of tea,” Anna said. “Smilovitz is mostly all there, but Avalon is almost entirely somewhere else. But they think they can build us a weapon.”
“Think? So they’re not certain. And you have reservations?” Hoa asked.
“Is it that obvious?” Anna said. “But yes. Partly, they’ll need subjects to test it on. Zombies. Those were people a few days ago. If they could guarantee results, and quickly, it might be different, but they implied it will take months.”
“In my experience, with scientists, you can double any time-frame they give,” Hoa said. “And triple the expense.”
“At least we don’t have to worry about cost,” Anna said. “What are you working on?”
“It’s the infrastructure expansion plan from New Zealand,” Hoa said. “The documents arrived at the airport yesterday, but only reached my desk this morning. My apologies they didn’t reach you sooner.”
“It’s not your fault,” Anna said.
“No, but it is my responsibility,” Hoa said. “The document contains some useful ideas. I’ve begun drafting a series of recommendations, and a reply. Speaking of which, albeit obliquely, I heard the first rocket is on the launch pad in the Marshall Islands. As soon as the weather conditions are favourable, they’ll launch. We’ll have the capability for satellite communications within a few days.”
“The capability,” Anna said. “Which isn’t the same as the reality, but it would be preferable to radio and plane.”
Hoa smiled. “We’re muddling through, like we used to do not so long ago, but yes, I too will be glad when a semblance of normality returns.”
“Is this lot for me to sign?” Anna asked.
“Those three piles require your signature. You should read the paragraph summary, but you don’t need to read the details. The ones in the smaller pile need to be read, and a course of action decided upon. Mr Dalgleish’s unionisation proposal has arrived. It contains an injury compensation package, life insurance, post-pandemic training, and healthcare. He’s also included the wage structure.”
“In units of hours worked rather than in currency?”
“Yes, as you requested. And he made the alterations so it can be applied to mine workers as well as soldiers.”
“And teachers,” Anna said. “And fishers, and who knows who else, but it’s probably everyone. Good. So we just need to find an economist to tell us how to convert that into currency, and how to go about paying people.”
“I found three economists,” Hoa said. “None could agree so I’ve locked them in a room until they reach a consensus.” She raised her watch. “They’ve had three hours so far. At the bottom, in the red file, are the billeting proposals from Victoria and the Northern Territories. With amendments.”
“They made changes? Oh, that is good news,” Anna said, picking up the top-most folder, quickly scanning the contents. “They’ve altered almost every figure.”
“And I’m sure the numbers don’t add up,” Hoa said. “But it means approval of the principle. Senator Bryce was correct. Speaking of whom, I haven’t seen him today.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Sorry, you don’t know. It’s been such a day. Hoa, I’m sorry. I have bad news. Aaron is dead. It was suicide.”
“No. No, really?” the old woman asked, suddenly looking her age. She made to sit on Aaron’s old chair, but abruptly turned away, pressing a hand against the wall for support.
“His body was found this morning by a team securing the outer suburbs,” Anna said. “Tess summoned me to identify him. You were busy at the department, but I should have left you a note.”
“Suicide?” Hoa said. “Poor Aaron.”
“What was it you said to me last week? There’ll be a time for grief, but it isn’t now.”
“Indeed, yes,” Hoa said, straightening. She picked up her laptop. “I’ll finish this, have it printed, and I’ll pass word about Aaron to everyone in the department. Do you think this will mean some politicians will return from Hobart?”
“Hopefully,” Anna said. “But I’ve been requesting it for a week.”
“If only you knew someone who could fly down and bring them back,” Hoa said.
“That would be a coup, wouldn’t it?” Anna said.
“The most democratic coup in history,” Hoa said. “Two reports arrived from Tasmania. One on education, one on domestic economics. I put them in the pile-to-be-read, but only if you want some light relief.”
“They’re that bad?”
“They are that fantastical,” Hoa said. “Perhaps, when we send our reply to Victoria and the Northern Territories, we could request they send a pair of representatives to join the cabinet. I’m sure that the other states and territories will quickly follow suit.”
“Perhaps, but let me speak to the prime minister first,” Anna said.
“Of course. Ma’am.”
Hoa left, leaving Anna alone in the office with Aaron’s ghost. Doing her best to ignore him, she picked up a pen and began adding her signature to the piles of papers.
This was her real purpose in Canberra. Hoa ran the department. State and territorial governments administered their regions. But decisions were made by the doctors and mayors, military commanders, cattle-station owners, and mining managers. The strategy could be summed up as stockpile and stay alive, and with priority given in that order. Anna, meanwhile, signed her name with as broad a stroke as the policies she designed, taking responsibility for them all.
No matter how much she relished the rewarding simplicity of muscle-aching labour, she couldn’t pick up a shovel and dig foundations. She certainly couldn’t return to the complexity of the classroom. There were no taxes to be collected, no manifestos to fulfil, but she had refugees to be housed. But how would they house millions of refugees in a nation of twenty-five million residents? New Zealand and Papua, and the Pacific islands, could take some, but how many?
Aaron had solved the problem by making it someone else’s, devolving implementation to regional authorities. The weaknesses of their federal system could, in this disaster, be turned into a strength. No one could foretell how many refugees would arrive, how many would be redeployed overseas, sent to which farm or mine, or returned to a fortified enclave close to their original home. But they did know how long it took a ship to sail and a plane to fly. Though boarding could be rushed, the flight and sailing times remained one of the few things unchanged by the outbreak.
Aaron had declared twenty million a month as an arbitrary absolute maximum, and after subtracting the soldiers and conscripts sent overseas, determined an increase of a hundred million over the next nine months. Anna was reasonably sure he’d pulled the numbers out of the air, but it had given them something to work with.
Locally, priority was given to moving refugees away from airports and harbours, and responsibility was given to the individual state, territory, and commonwealth governments. Numbers were allocated proportionally based on the local population at the last census. Internal flights were scheduled to transport refugees from the Asia-facing harbours of Western Australia where most were likely to arrive. The State of Victoria was allocated another seven million refugees this month, with an expected total increase of thirty million by December. A quick scan through the amendments the state government had made, and the total was closer to twenty million.
She smiled. “Thank you, Aaron.”
Twenty million might be enough. It might be twice as much as needed. But if it was far less, when boots wearily slogged ashore, what choice would Victoria have but to accept everyone who arrived? In the meantime, locally, they would install water pipes and electricity lines, power stations and treatment plants. The people who knew the land would plan roads and suburbs, and, of course, walls. It would keep people occupied, focused on the future. It would convince them that there would be a future. When the refugees came, they would have a roof and drinking water, and somewhere to cook. And if, in a month, the outbreak ended as abruptly as it had begun, she would take the blame. She and the other four politicians.
She was staring at Aaron’s desk. It was smaller than hers, and as free of clutter. It had been his idea to commandeer the conference room after she’d accepted the job he’d refused. She’d wanted the promotion no more than he had. In the original post-outbreak cabinet, she had been Minister for Wellbeing and Continuing Education, responsible for morale, and for the national TV and radio broadcasts. When most of the remaining politicians had been sent to safety on Tasmania, she’d expected to be sent with them. Instead, she’d been offered the job Aaron had refused. And now he was gone.
No, now wasn’t the time for grief. Not when the pile of papers was still so tall. But she was getting a cramp in her hand. Deciding she’d earned a break, she opened the documents from Hobart.
Some politicians had returned to the hospitals or regiments they’d served with before entering politics. Others had returned to their constituencies. A few had simply disappeared, and too many had committed suicide. The rest had been dispatched to Hobart, partly to keep them safe during the days when it seemed Canberra would succumb like so many other capital cities. But those evacuated politicians had also been tasked with devising a blueprint for the future. The world had changed, so everything about it, from education to healthcare, had to change, too. She picked up their report on economics, scanning the first few pages. They discussed creating a new global reserve currency, seeming to have missed the news that the value of a bank was now measured in how many refugees it could house.
The education report was more promising. An expansion of the School of the Air was included on page one, but most of the document dealt with the re-organisation of universities into life-long learning institutions. She put the document aside, to read more thoroughly later. Perhaps next month. Perhaps next year.
When her hand began cramping again, she checked the time and realised she’d missed the prime ministerial broadcast. It was no great loss since Erin Vaughn wrote it, often with notes and snippets provided by Anna and the other members of the cabinet. The follow-on programme, a dissection by a panel of pundits, comics, and grandees, stil
l had a half hour to run. Rather than a policy discussion, the show was a deliberately irreverent, though broadly patriotic, satire. Bronwyn Wilson had wanted a light-hearted buffer separating her daily speech from the always-grim news bulletin broadcast afterwards. Anna thought it a mistake. They should have stuck to the original schedule where the PM’s broadcast was after the news and followed by an informative debate, but her opinion hadn’t been asked.
She signed the last document a good five minutes before the messenger arrived to collect them. Still wearing bicycle clips, and carrying a shotgun, he dashed in.
“G’day, ma’am,” he said. “Got a delivery for you.”
“Please tell me it’s pizza,” she said.
“What? Oh, sorry, no,” he said, looking down at the bag’s logo. “The bag’s from my previous job. Three weeks ago. They’re easier to carry on the bike so I swapped. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“No worries,” she said. “Whatever works, right? You know, that should be our slogan from now on. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Darryl, ma’am. Darryl Quinn. Mrs Nguyen sent me.”
She handed him the signed documents, and he handed her the new ones, and hurried away. But with the documents came a large plastic box. Dinner, sent by Hoa.
Anna smiled.
A pizza delivery boy was now a government messenger, while the teacher she’d once been was a scapegoat-in-waiting. By prime ministerial decree, all cabinet ministers must work from Parliament House, blocks away from their much-diminished departmental staff. The daily broadcast was made from the temporary studio up at the Telstra Tower rather than from the pressroom downstairs or at the ABC studio in Dickson. It was all so chaotic. So accidental. Decisions were made before ramifications could be considered, let alone discussed. But order was slowly emerging. Very slowly.
She opened the folder from New Zealand, quickly scanning the contents before reaching for her bag. She wanted her laptop, but her eyes fell first on the much thumbed copy of the British evacuation plan, a thin document which had come from ship to plane to Lignatiev and then photocopied for all the cabinet. The British plan involved redistributing the population along the coast. But her constituency alone was bigger than that Atlantic island, and in Australia, most people already lived within an afternoon’s drive of an ocean swim. Had they really developed a vaccine? Surely not.
Life Goes On | Book 3 | While The Lights Are On [Surviving The Evacuation] Page 17
