Maralinga (49 page)

‘I'll see you at the conference after the firing next week,' he said. ‘I'll arrange things so that I can stay overnight.' They'd talk about it then, he thought.

‘See you at the conference,' she said, and they kissed. She wished she could tell him of her plan, but she didn't dare.

 

The final test of the Antler series was codenamed Taranaki and, with an energy yield of 27 kilotons, the bomb was the largest yet to be detonated at Maralinga. The firing was to take place on 9 October, and the device was to be suspended from a system of three balloons held at 1000 feet over the desert. The test organisers were convinced this particular firing technique would considerably reduce both the close-in and long-range fallout.

Weather conditions were carefully monitored throughout the previous night and throughout the morning of 9 October. With a weapon of such size, all precautions must be strictly observed. But the meteorological reports continued to prove favourable and the final go-ahead was given. The hourly countdown to Taranaki had begun.

At Roadside, the spectators were gathered in their hundreds as usual. Scientists, military, bureaucrats and press all had their binoculars and field glasses trained on the three distant spheres in the sky and the barely visible object dangling beneath them. Gigantic though the balloons were, from where the observers stood they were mere dots to the naked eye.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Fifteen minutes to go. Then ten, then five, then one … Then the voice through the tannoy started counting down the seconds, until finally …

Ten, nine …

Binoculars were left to dangle around necks as the crowd turned its back to the site.

Eight, seven …

Everyone stood legs astride, feet planted firmly as instructed. They'd been warned about the shock waves.

Six, five …

Hands were placed over eyes, palms tightly pressed into sockets.

Four, three, two …

Finally the moment of detonation and the blinding flash that drained the world of all colour. The backs of necks felt the heat of the gamma rays. But no-one moved. No-one spoke. They all stood waiting.

The atomic shock waves hit with brutal force and a number amongst the crowd lost their footing, staggering, off balance. Hands left eyes and fingers were jammed into ears as a devastating series of explosions ricocheted about the scrub.

Then, as suddenly as it had happened, the madness was over and the desert returned to silence. Still, no-one moved. They stayed with their backs to the site, as instructed.

Finally, when it was deemed safe, the order was given and, in unison, the crowd turned to see the aftermath of Taranaki.

They didn't need their binoculars and field glasses now. Towering in the sky, pulsating and growing by the minute like a living being, was the great mushroom cloud. And clearly depicted in it, hundreds of feet high, complete in every detail, was the gigantic silhouetted face of an angry bearded man.

They all saw it. Some said later they thought it was the face of a Greek god. ‘The nose was Grecian,' they said. Others disagreed. ‘No,' they said. ‘Oh, no, the face was most definitely Aboriginal.'

For a full ten minutes the face remained in the cloud, and those watching certainly agreed upon one thing. It seemed to be looking down in judgement.

Following the detonation, the members of the press in attendance were transported back to Maralinga for their customary debriefing, after which they were to be taken to the airport. They would be flown directly to Adelaide, where those from interstate or overseas would stay the night before attending the press conference the following day and then returning home.

The forty or so journalists and photographers were ushered into the main conference room in the administration block by military police. Although the MPs were not overly officious, they were nonetheless a reminder of the vigilant security in place as they took up their positions by the room's several entrances. No wayward reporter was tempted to duck through a door for a quick snoop around the nearby offices.

Chairs had been provided, and at one end of the room were tables with jugs of water and paper cups. After a long afternoon standing around in the sun,
the men made a beeline for the water, fanning their faces with their hats and loosening their collars and ties. Regardless of discomfort, the mood was relaxed and conversation was rife. There were few newcomers amongst them, most having witnessed the previous detonations, and the general consensus of opinion was that this had been the most spectacular.

‘The balloons,' they said. ‘And the shock waves … And what about that face in the cloud!'

The face in the cloud was a particularly popular subject amongst the photographers, most of whom were convinced they'd caught it to perfection.

‘Got every little detail,' Ron Woods boasted to Macca. ‘It'll be front-page stuff, mate, a real beauty.'

As it turned out, Ron was wrong, and so were all the others. When the pictures were developed, there was no face. The cloud was just a cloud.

The babble of voices continued and there was the scrape of chairs on wood as they shuffled into their seats. No-one took any notice of the young man in the pinstriped suit and grey fedora who sat with Macca and Ron. But no-one had paid him much attention all day.

‘Where's Georgie?' one or two of the old hands had asked Macca, with a querying look at the young man who appeared little more than a youth.

‘Georgie couldn't make it,' Macca had muttered, ‘so I brought young Les along. He's only a cadet. Not a word, mate, he's travelling on Georgie's ticket.'

The reaction from the several old hands had been ‘lucky kid'.

‘You don't get a break like this often, young fella,'
one had said. ‘Make the most of it.' The lad had nodded deferentially and looked down at his shoes without saying a word.

The general conclusion amongst the few who'd noticed the kid had been that although he was respectful enough, he didn't deserve such an opportunity. Why had Macca put himself out on a limb for a kid so shy he was tongue-tied? Pretty-boys like that didn't belong in the business anyway. The old hands ignored him. Why would you bother?

Once she'd passed the initial test, Elizabeth had had few problems. She'd stayed close to Macca and Ron, speaking to no-one, knowing that her voice was the giveaway, and when they were out at Roadside, she'd simply become one of the crowd. She'd been relieved by the ease with which the deception had been carried out. She'd worried that she might have been discovered right from the start.

‘Won't they demand identification at the airport?' she'd asked.

‘They've already got it,' Georgie had said. ‘You're me. Macca hands over the pass, they tick off the three-man team from
The Advertiser
and you're on the plane. It'll be that simple.'

Georgie hadn't minded Elizabeth going in his place. In fact, he'd found the idea hilarious. When he'd been called into P. J.'s office, he hadn't even recognised Liz. He'd given a nod to the kid in the pinstriped suit lounging against the wall with his hands in his pockets, and when P. J. had said ‘Liz has got an idea', he still hadn't twigged. And then the kid had spoken and Georgie had been knocked for six. ‘What a hoot,' he'd said when they'd told him the plan. ‘I can just see
the headlines:
Lone Female Reporter Foils the Might of Maralinga Security.
'

P. J. hadn't even cracked a smile. If they could pull off the scam, that was exactly the story he could foresee a little further down the track when the paranoia had lessened. Indeed, they could drum up a whole exposé on the ineffectuality of national security measures if and when the time seemed right. Meanwhile, an inside account of Maralinga and the Taranaki firing written by a journalist of Liz's calibre would be extremely worthwhile. And further down the track, with or without the exposé, they could announce that it had actually been written by a woman. P. J. had seen a wealth of value in Liz's plan.

‘You don't mind missing out then, Georgie?' Elizabeth had felt guilty about depriving him of the Taranaki experience.

‘Nah. You've seen one atomic explosion, you've seen them all, love,' Georgie had said with a wink. ‘Besides, hanging around in the middle of the desert for hours isn't a barrel of laughs. I'd rather be down the pub.' Georgie's principal regret was that he wouldn't be part of the fun.

Ron Woods had also embraced the idea. Like Georgie, Ron was a bit of a renegade and he too had seen the whole thing as a huge joke. The only one with serious misgivings had been Macca. A cautious man by nature, Macca hadn't relished playing a part in the deception one bit. But he'd comforted himself with the knowledge that should they be discovered he could hardly be blamed. He had, after all, simply been carrying out orders.

Now, as they waited for the debriefing to commence,
Macca finally allowed himself to relax a little. Things were all pretty much downhill from now on, he thought. It looked as if they'd got away with it. Thank Christ for that.

Elizabeth felt herself tense. An MP guarding one of the doors had stood aside and Nick had appeared. Her main problem now was to escape detection by her lover. She lowered her head, peering from beneath the brim of her fedora, thankful that a number of the others had kept their hats on and that she didn't look conspicuous.

Two men followed Nick into the room. Elizabeth recognised them both in an instant. The first was Sir William Penney. The second was Harold Dartleigh.

She studied Dartleigh. He was a figure with whom she'd been well acquainted over the years, his image regularly appearing in British print media and newsreel footage. He was imposing in the flesh, she thought, although she could see what Nick meant when he spoke of the man's arrogance. Even at a glance, Dartleigh had the air of one born to a life of wealth and privilege.

As the three men walked to the front of the conference room, Elizabeth's eyes followed Harold Dartleigh. His every move, his every nuance were those of a man utterly inviolable, but she refused to be daunted. Regardless of his position, Dartleigh had actions to answer for. And what better platform could she find upon which to raise her questions than right here? MI6 would undoubtedly fob off any approach she attempted through legitimate channels, she was aware of that. Indeed, she'd been aware that Nick had considered her plan virtually useless. But
here, surrounded by the press, Dartleigh would be personally caught out. He'd have to give himself away somehow.

The debriefing being a quick formality, the three men did not sit. The provision of chairs for the press, while ostensibly a courtesy following a long afternoon in the sun, served an eminently more practical purpose in reality. It was simpler for the MPs to monitor men who were seated and easier for those conducting the debriefing to make eye contact with everyone present.

As usual Nick opened the proceedings. ‘I'll be seeing most of you at the press conference tomorrow, and we want to get you to the airport while it's still light, so I'll hand you straight over to Sir William Penney who's graciously offered to say a few words. Sir William …'

‘Thank you, Colonel.' The scientist stepped forward. ‘As you're no doubt aware, gentlemen, I don't usually attend these debriefings, but this being the final test I'd like to offer my thanks to you all for the courtesy and respect you've displayed. Quite a number of you have been with us throughout both major series, Buffalo and Antler. Seven tests in all, and I think you'll agree each one of those seven detonations has been a spectacular event to witness …'

As Penney addressed the gathering, Elizabeth continued to study Dartleigh, carefully angling her head so that the brim of her hat obscured Nick. Dartleigh was paying no attention whatsoever to William Penney. In fact, he wasn't even feigning interest. He was staring vacantly out the nearest window at the dusty street lined with she-oaks and
his mind appeared a million miles away. Elizabeth wondered where.

Harold was thinking of his wife, Lavinia, and his son, Nigel, and even of his daughter, Catherine, whom he didn't really like. But above all, he was thinking of home, of his country estate in Sussex where the air would be crisp and bracing and where the trees would be painted in their glorious autumn hues. Outside in the street he could see the she-oaks. Who had come up with such a name, he wondered. She-oaks? They weren't
oaks
. They didn't deserve to be called oaks. They weren't even trees. They were scaly-trunked, mothy-leaved pretenders. Thank God he was leaving tomorrow, he thought. Thank God he'd soon be home in England in the bosom of his family and this ghastly Australian desert would be no more than an unpleasant memory …

‘Thank you, Sir William.'

Harold snapped out of his reverie at the sound of Nick Stratton's voice and, realising he was about to be introduced, looked benignly over the gathering. As his eyes roamed the room making friendly contact with all and sundry, he caught the intense gaze of a young man. A very good-looking young man, he noted, one with the androgynous quality of true beauty, and the lad was peering directly at him from beneath the brim of his fedora. Harold held the youth's gaze, expecting him to look away, but the cheeky little blighter didn't. How intriguing, he thought.

He barely heard the colonel's brief introduction, until …

‘Lord Dartleigh …?' Nick prompted. The man appeared not to have been listening.

‘Yes, yes, Colonel, thank you.' Harold stepped forward, his arms outstretched in a gesture of bonhomie. ‘And now, gentlemen, we come to the true purpose of these debriefings,' he said with a smile, ‘and that is of course my customary caution, which some of you may well be able to recite off by heart.'

He glanced again at the young man, whose eyes still hadn't left him. The lad must be a newcomer, he thought, such youthful beauty could never have escaped his notice in the past.

‘Yes, yes, I know, it's all in the pamphlet you received upon your arrival …' He gave a regretful shrug of apology – Harold was always the show pony in front of a crowd. ‘Nevertheless, gentlemen, I'm afraid I am required by law to say the words out loud.'

Having charmed his audience, he usually rattled through the caution, which was dry old stuff. But he didn't today. Today he actually slowed things down in order to observe the young man, who seemed to be intent upon some form of exchange. What was his intention, Harold wondered. No longer was he peering from beneath the brim of his hat; he'd raised his head and was staring in brazen defiance.

‘It is a crime, under the British Official Secrets Acts of 1911, 1920 and Part VII of the Australian Crimes Act of 1914, to disclose or publish information obtained in contravention of the said Acts …'

As he recited the caution, Harold couldn't help but feel a frisson of excitement. There was something in the boldness of the young man's manner that reminded him just a little of Gideon when they'd first met in Washington. Gideon had dared him in just the same way, and it had meant only one thing.

‘In particular I must remind you that newspapers, and indeed journalists, who publish information in contravention of section 3 of the Official Secrets Act are guilty of a crime punishable by fine and imprisonment.'

How very rewarding to be found attractive by one so young, Harold thought. Naturally he would make no response and offer no encouragement, but he wondered whether he might have a brief chat with the lad after the debriefing. He did so admire beauty. Fancy encountering it here, he thought, in this Godforsaken place where even the trees were ugly.

‘And that concludes the official caution, gentlemen. I thank you for your patience.'

He smiled graciously at the room at large and the youth in particular and was about to step back so that the colonel could wrap up the debriefing when, to his amazement, the young man rose to his feet. How extraordinary, Harold thought, and he stood his ground waiting to see what the lad had to say.

There was a reaction from some even before she revealed herself.

Oh my God, Nick thought. It's Elizabeth. But he made no move, his eyes darting about seeking who would intervene.

Oh shit, Macca thought, she's about to give the whole game away.

What the hell's she doing, Ron wondered. Christ, she's got guts.

All eyes were upon the young man who seemed to be squaring up to Harold Dartleigh. The MPs were wary. Was the kid about to cause trouble? The old hands were confused. What was the pretty-boy up to?

For one brief moment, there was complete silence. Then Elizabeth took off the fedora.

‘My name is Elizabeth Hoffmann,' she said, and the place erupted.

Good heavens above, Harold thought, it's a woman, how very amusing. Someone's idea of a joke, he supposed.

Elizabeth raised her voice above the babble of amazement. ‘I have some questions to ask you, Lord Dartleigh.' The babble came to an instant halt and she continued, her focus concentrated solely upon Harold. ‘I was engaged to Lieutenant Daniel Gardiner whose death here at Maralinga was reported as accidental …'

At the mention of Daniel's name, Harold was instantly on the alert. Young Dan's fiancée, he thought. This was not a joke after all.