Dirty Fracking Business (26 page)

‘There’s no election result yet,’ Bancroft butted in.

‘Nick Gould got the barest majority and one of the independents has accepted the speaker’s job,’ Harbrow said confidently. ‘I’ll be speaking to Nick tonight and the first thing I’ll tell him to do is to send the police in, in force. Let’s see how those ferals feel about blockading us after a few of them have felt a baton across the back of their skulls.’

‘There’s been no announcement,’ Bancroft persisted.

‘He’s right, Phillip,’ Llewellyn said. ‘The last absentee votes were counted this morning. Nick will claim victory on tonight’s news.’

‘I’m not sure the police will be successful,’ Bezzina said.

‘Not by themselves they won’t, but, once the army gets involved, it’ll all be over very quickly.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ Aspley said.

‘It’s hardly like it’s unprecedented. The Federal Labor Government made air force personnel and planes available to crush the Qantas pilots’ strike in 1989. They will have no choice now.’ Harbrow smiled smugly. ‘We must look like Venezuela to the rest of the world, and international investors aren’t going to keep pumping cash into the country, knowing that a group of ratbags can bring it to a standstill. There are mining companies all over Australia desperately in need of funds and, if international investors get a sniff of sovereign risk, they’re dead. If it was to get totally out of hand, it might even drive housing loan interest rates up, and you can imagine the outcry if that was to occur. No government could survive that.’

‘I hope this doesn’t backfire,’ Sir Richard said. ‘And, for the record, I don’t agree with dismissing Moira.’’

‘It won’t backfire, but it’s not going to happen overnight,’ Harbrow growled, ignoring the knight’s comment about Moira. ‘Once the government is involved, we’ll hardly rate a mention. Harold, you’d better talk to your friends in Canberra, but it would surprise me if they weren’t already looking at ways to smash this illegal blockade.’

‘I will, Spencer. I also want to put on record my thanks for Moira’s fine contribution to the success of this company over many years. It’s a damn shame she won’t be continuing with us.’

‘Gentlemen, your concerns are misguided. The questions each one of you should be considering are whether you want to see the company’s share price exceed its previous high and if I am the man to ensure it does.’

There was a smattering of half-hearted yesses. ‘Well, do you?’ Harbrow snarled.

‘Of course we do,’ Phillip Bancroft said. ‘We have total confidence in you.’

‘I hope so. Does anyone have any other matter they’d like to raise?’ Harbrow said, pausing. ‘No? Then I declare this meeting closed.’ He felt in total control again.

‘Janet, get me a macchiato, then get Moira Raymond for me and then, when I’m finished with her, Frank Beck and then Nick Gould.’

Ten minutes later, Harbrow pushed himself hard into his high-backed chair, flung his legs onto the desk and took a long sip of coffee. ‘Moira, the business out in Tura is a complete debacle, we’re getting terrible press and the share price is getting hammered. Moving in the middle of the night like grave robbers was an ill-thought out strategy.’

‘We’ve done it before.’

‘Quite so, but we’ve never been caught and that’s what makes Tura different. The board is very unhappy.’

‘I heard about the hastily-convened board meeting. Did you forget to tell me about it?’

‘Given the circumstances, it wasn’t appropriate for you to be there. Moira, I don’t know how the media found out that you authorised this operation, but they did. They even know you called it Project Genesis
.’

‘I bet you don’t.’

‘We have to give them someone and, seeing they already know you were behind it, we have very little choice. I want your resignation as an executive and director of the company immediately.’

She had known from the minute she heard the convoy had been blockaded that she was living on borrowed time. ‘And if I don’t resign?’

‘You’ll be removed. There’ll be locksmiths there within the hour and someone from this office will temporarily assume control in the morning. I’m sorry it had to come to this, but it will be far better for your brand if you resign and go quietly. You kick up a fuss and make it worse, and you’ll never get another job in this industry. You’re a wealthy woman, Moira. Take a year off, go around the world and come back in a year’s time, and this fiasco will be yesterday’s news.’

‘I bet you’re sorry! But you’re right, I am wealthy and I don’t need to work, so maybe I should hang around, litigate for harsh and unfair dismissal, and make your life hell.’

‘I know you don’t need to work, but you want to work. Without work you wouldn’t know how to fill your days and, besides you’re still craving a CEO’s position. If you think you’re going to hurt me, think again. You bring legal action against the company and I’ll hand it to our lawyers and leave it totally in their hands. I won’t even know what you’re doing, Moira, and, as far as I’m concerned you will have ceased to exist.’

‘I’ll resign, but, mark my words Spencer, you’ll live to regret this day.’

As he put the phone down, he was disappointed. There had been no tears, histrionics or anger and he had hoped that she might beg to save herself, but she’d been cold and businesslike, depriving him of the pleasure he’d so looked forward to.

‘I have Mr Beck,’ Janet said over the intercom.

‘Frank, I want you to distance yourself from what’s happened out there, so you need to get out just as soon as you can organise it.’

‘And how am I supposed to do that? Hitch a ride with Tom Morgan?’

‘Don’t be bloody silly. What’s to stop you walking back down the line, cutting through the bush and finishing up behind those fools at the rear of the convoy? Frank, don’t make me do your thinking for you.’

‘What’s Moira think?’

‘She’s no longer with the company.’

Beck paused; at least he no longer had to worry about where his allegiance lay. ‘That was sudden.’

‘It’s the price of failure, Frank. The good thing is that, without the blockade, the police and army would’ve never helped us but now they have no choice. However, I want you out before they move. I don’t know if it’ll get violent but, if it does, it’s critical that you’re not involved.’

‘I understand. I’ll organise for someone to pick me up tonight.’

‘Good man, and, when you get back, don’t do any interviews. Lie low and in a few weeks this thing will blow over and you can take up your new position with us.’

‘I was as much to blame as Moira.’

‘I know that but, luckily for you, the buck stopped with her. Think about that when you’re sitting in her chair and make sure you never approve any half-arsed plans from your subordinates.’

‘It wasn’t a half …’

‘We’ll talk again soon Frank.’

A few minutes later, Harbrow was saying, ‘Congratulations, Nick, I always knew you could do it.’

‘Is that why you left your campaign contribution so late?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Was the cheque late? You know I don’t actually do the mailing myself.’

‘Yeah, yeah. What is it I can help you with, as if I don’t already know?’

‘Nick, we have to smash that blockade. Christ, we must look like some type of South American anarchy to international investors, and don’t forget this is costing taxpayers plenty.’

‘Yeah, but sending the army in is going to be unpopular with the media and the public. I’ve already spoken to the PM and she’s not happy.’

‘Our investment is going to total twenty billion and we’ve already got long-term supply contracts with India and China aggregating fifty billion dollars. Are you and her going to let 300 ratbags jeopardise this deal and send a message to the rest of the world that Australia’s a country with a high degree of sovereign risk? Can you imagine what that’ll do to interest rates?’

‘I don’t need a lecture in basic economics, Spencer. We were hoping that the blockade might die a natural death.’

‘Well, it’s not going to; those bloody fanatics are trying to shut the whole industry down.’

‘No they’re not, they’re just trying to save the land they live on, and I can understand exactly where they’re coming from.’

‘You sound like you’re sympathetic to their cause.’

‘I am, but don’t worry, I can also see the bigger picture and know that if the blockade’s not lifted it’ll virtually shut down investment in the industry. Don’t worry, Spencer, the PM knows she has to remove the protestors and between us we will, but neither of us like what we’re going to have to do.’

By the fifteenth day of the blockade some of the protestors were starting to lose their enthusiasm. The nights were growing colder and they’d gone from being dirty to filthy and were on edge from lack of sleep. Their families had no wages coming in, they were missing their kids and their kids were missing them and the days were long and boring. Vicki Prezky wanted to know why Dean had to stay when there were so many other protestors manning the barricades. Nearly a third of the truckies had chosen to fly out on Tom Morgan’s helicopter and Charles Paxton was returning every second day clean and refreshed. Steve Forrest was red-eyed and sporting thick, black facial growth. He was certain something big was about to break and he wanted to be there when it did. The last thing he had expected was a phone call from Dr George Bingham, and he was astonished when he wanted to talk about one of his patients.

‘His name’s Jake Martin, he’s forty-five years old and his body’s riddled with cancer. The poor bugger’s got a couple of school-age kids and a huge mortgage.’

‘Sounds terrible, George; but I don’t understand; you never discuss patients or their problems.’

‘He’s a driller with Filliburton and he’s had a lifetime getting drenched with wastewater.’

‘Oh, now I see. Go on.’

‘He put a claim in under WorkCover but Filliburton’s insurers are saying that it’s not work-related and he’s stressing about what’s going to happen to his family after he goes. I doubt he’ll last more than three months.’

‘That’s really sad. What’s the union doing?’

‘Nothing! They’ve paid negligible attention to safety, rarely if ever visit drill sites and have been less than half-hearted in their attempts to help this poor fellow with his WorkCover claim. I think the union officials are probably on Filliburton’s payroll.’

‘That’s a serious accusation, George, and I’d be careful where I voiced it, if I was you.’

‘I’m not a fool. This man needs help and I thought, if you interviewed him and then ran his story, it might bring pressure to bear on Filliburton.’

‘I gathered that and it’s just the type of story I’d love to run, but I’m not sure the
Chronicle’s
as influential as you think it is. Besides, I can’t leave here and I’ve got no idea how long this blockade is going to last.’

‘You’re too modest Steven. You and I both know that the
National Advocate
is running all your stories from the blockade and, after they’ve published, the likes of Aaron James and the other talkback presenters will pick his story up and pour pressure on Filliburton. If I can get Tom Morgan to bring Jake out to see you tomorrow, will you interview him?’

‘You know I will, but I can’t be certain that the editors at the
Advocate
will publish what I write. George, it’s bitterly cold out here at night and not something you want to put your patient through.’

‘Don’t worry; I’ll see to it that Tom returns him as soon as the interview is over. Steven, write with your usual passion and the
Advocate
will have no choice but to publish. I’m expecting to see your article on the front page.’

‘I’ll be in touch, but don’t get your hopes up.’

At ten o’clock that night, Frank Beck called his leading hand over. ‘The bosses at head office want me to report back to them in person. They’ve sent an SUV, which is waiting for me on the other side of the line.’

‘Are you coming back?’

‘Of course, just as soon as I can,’ Beck lied. As he walked down the dirt road, the fires were dying and men were climbing into the cabins of their trucks for another uncomfortable night. It was a cold, moonless night and the wind bit into his chest. He passed a group of five men with their coats buttoned up around their necks, standing around some embers, drinking cans of beer that had been flown in by Tom Morgan. Their voices were harsh and one man said that he’d had enough and he’d be on the helicopter tomorrow, while his mates warned him that, if he was, he’d never get another job in the industry.

As Beck neared the last of the trucks, he left the road and trudged through the thick bush. A few minutes later, he stopped adjacent to the protestors and saw the headlights of moving cars and listened to two men fighting about whether they should stay or not. The blockade was starting to take its toll and, as he watched, three cars reversed from their rows to let a four-wheel-drive out, which immediately took off towards town. A kilometre on the other side of the line the SUV was waiting. As he got in, he savoured the warmth from its heater.

The man Tom Morgan helped out of the helicopter was gaunt, with a sallow complexion and his hair was a stark shade of grey. Had Steve not known otherwise, he would have put him in his mid-sixties. ‘Take it easy with the handshake,’ the man said, extending a bony, almost skinless hand. ‘I’m Jake Martin.’

‘G’day, Jake. Let’s get you a seat.’

For the next fifteen minutes, Jake recounted his story, from the time he first started coughing up blood to the time Dr George had made his dreadful diagnosis. Even talking for such a short time took its toll and Steve watched on, helpless, as Jake gasped for air. He was stressed about what would happen to his thirteen-year-old daughter and his mildly autistic eleven-year-old son after he was gone.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee, or a bottle of water?’

‘I’ve got no appetite and I can’t taste anything. Thanks, but can we just get on with it, because I can’t last long without a rest.’

‘Sure, Jake. How long have you been employed by Filliburton?’

‘Nearly twelve years.’

‘And what happened when you put your WorkCover claim in?’

‘I dropped it into one of the girls in Human Resources and she read it and asked me to wait. I saw her go into another office and talk to a guy who I later found out was the Human Resources manager. Anyhow,’ Jake stopped to take a deep breath, ‘this guy started flapping his hands and shaking his head and you didn’t need to be a Rhodes Scholar to work out what he was saying. When the girl came back, she told me that my illness had to be work-related before I could file a claim and that there’s nothing to suggest that’s the case. While all this is going on, I noticed the lump of lard who calls himself the Human Resources manager watching us, trying to listen to what’s going on, so I beckoned him over.’ Jake had just the trace of a grin. ‘Anyhow, the weak bastard put his head down like he didn’t see me. Then the girl tried to hand me back the claim form but, luckily for me, I’d read every union newsletter and I knew that once I’d lodged the claim the company had no choice but to submit it to its insurers. She went back into her boss’s office and then he waddled out and told me that the insurance company will almost certainly reject my claim, so it’s hardly worth submitting.’

‘Did he display any compassion?’

‘You’re joking. He asks me to take a seat while he spoke with his director and after a few minutes, returns with a face like the cat that swallowed the canary and says that there’s no point in lodging a claim as it will definitely be rejected.’

‘What’d you do?’

‘Like I said, I knew my rights, so I left it with them and went home.’

‘And?’

‘A few weeks later I got a letter from their insurers rejecting my claim, stating that my illness is not work-related and that I have sixty days to refer it to some disputes conciliation body, but I ain’t got time for that. I gotta know whether my family’s gonna be taken care of and I gotta know now.’ Tears trickled from Jake’s cavernous, black eyes.

‘Did you talk to your union?’

‘Yeah, they said that it’d be hard to prove my affliction was work related. They’re in Filliburton’s pocket and they’re not about to rock the boat.’

‘Have you seen a lawyer?’

‘I told ya, I ain’t got time.’

‘When you get back to Paisley, I want you and your wife to go and see this lawyer.’ Steve wrote down Simon Breckenridge’s details. He reached over and put his hand on Jake’s knee. ‘This fight might have to go on after you have gone.’

‘It’s hard to come to grips with. I’m not going to get to spend another Christmas with my kids and it’s because of the poison those heartless bastards have been pumping into the ground. If only I’d been told what it was and what it could do all those years ago. Do you think you can help me?’

‘I’m going to try, Jake. Now, we’d best be getting you back to town.’

As the helicopter took off, Steve opened his laptop and began typing. He had been deeply moved by Jake Martin’s plight and the fire burning in his brain flowed to his rapidly moving fingers, as the article he had titled
Shame
took on a life of its own. He checked it once, but made no alterations before emailing it to Buffy, instructing her to run it on the front page tomorrow. Little did he know that, the following day, it would appear on the front page of a national daily; the
Advocate
printed it unedited, except for the title, which they amended to
Shame Bloody Shame.
Talkback presenters were quick to pick up on the story and Aaron James conducted a heart-wrenching phone interview with Jake Martin, after which he and his legions of listeners unmercifully lambasted Filliburton.

The generals in Canberra had spoken against suggestions by their bosses in government to involve the army in a civil dispute and many in the Labor Party were of the same view, but the fear of Australia being tainted as a country with a high degree of sovereign risk tipped the scales. On the eighteenth day of the blockade, a police car, a black truck, and six divvy vans, accompanied by an equal number of motorbikes, sped through Tura, followed by forty army vehicles carrying cranes, forklifts and other lifting equipment. Bringing up the rear was another convoy of Filliburton trucks loaded with gravel, huts, drill rig components and light poles.

Those manning the rear of the blockade were quickly informed and Len Forrest and his mates told a reluctant and scruffy-looking Simon Breckenridge that he had to get out before the confrontation took place, because it wouldn’t help anyone if he was in jail. Fifteen minutes later, Breckenridge pulled to the side of the road as a red cloud of dust and a cacophony of blaring sirens raced towards him.

As the motorbikes pulled in behind the rows of vehicles and a crowd of about a hundred protestors, a police inspector jumped out of his car and shouted into a megaphone. ‘This is an illegal blockade, so I am asking you to move your vehicles immediately. If you refuse, the army is following five minutes behind and they will move them for you. I urge you to act peacefully.’

‘We’re staying right where we are,’ Len Forrest shouted. ‘And if you try and …’ Before he could get another word out, two policemen flanked him and led him away to one of the vans, his protests drowned out by the yelling of his supporters.

‘Leave him alone,’ Billy McGregor screamed, charging at the police, only to be brought down by a baton and unceremoniously hurled into the back of a divvy van.

‘We are not messing around and we intend to remove this blockade with or without your help,’ the policeman on the megaphone shouted, as the first army truck came into sight. ‘We will not accept any responsibility for damage done to your vehicles and this is your last chance to voluntarily move them.’

Maggie Forrest threw herself in front of the first army truck, which had to brake hard to miss her, before she was picked up and thrown into the van with her husband. Anyone who resisted was locked away and soon two of the divvy vans, with a dozen noisy protestors in the back, roared away. The police brooked no interference, were not concerned about the television cameras and were ruthlessly efficient. Some of the protestors with cars in the back row moved them. This was followed by others and soon there was a flood of people all trying to get out at the same time. The rear barricade was broken and the army cranes and tow trucks had only to move the remaining, locked cars to the side of the road.

The motorbikes then moved slowly down the right-hand side of the road past the convoy of stationary trucks, followed by the police car - in which the overbearing inspector was a passenger - and the remaining four divvy vans. Following immediately behind the last van was an army truck carrying a huge crane, and three flatbed trailers. The inspector shouted the same message into his megaphone, but this time there were over 300 protestors who already knew what had just occurred, and no-one said a word. The General had warned them that shouting or retaliating would only identify their leaders, so the police were met with stony silence. Undeterred, an army sergeant and a group of privates connected a harness to one of the two cars in the middle of the front row and the crane lifted it onto the rear-most flatbed trailer. The process was repeated, until three vehicles were loaded and the first flatbed was heading for Paisley.

‘You’ve seen how easy this is for us,’ the inspector yelled. ‘I’ll give you one last opportunity to move your vehicles.’

‘Stuff this,’ said Dean Prezky, pulling out a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his jacket and chaining himself to the next car to be moved. Two minutes later an army private cut through the chain with boltcutters and Dean was frogmarched, hurling abuse at the police, and thrown into the back of a divvy van.

‘Let him go, he’s done nothing wrong,’ Charles Paxton shouted; as two police strode towards him, Cosmos snarled.

‘Control your dog mister or I’ll put a bullet in its head,’ one of the policemen said, drawing his pistol, his face masked in fear.

‘Cosmos, Cosmos heel,’ Paxton yelled, grabbing the dog by its collar. ‘Tom, grab him and lock him in the copter.’

As Morgan dragged the growling dog away, the police seized Paxton and the protestors surged towards them. ‘No violence,’ the General shouted above the growing din. ‘No violence.’

Another half-a-dozen vociferous protestors were manhandled into the waiting vans before Dennis Fulton yelled, ‘Stand your ground. They can’t lock 300 of us up.’ The words had barely escaped his lips before he was manhandled by three policemen, who tried to force his arms up his back so they could handcuff him. He was surprisingly strong and aggressively resisted their attempts, while assailing them with obscenities, but in the end they dragged him, kicking and shouting, to one of the divvy vans.