The Worm King (26 page)

‘That’s right!’ the Brigadier interjected. The
Googong route was supposed to be on the hush-hush, although apparently many did
know about it. A lengthy pause ensued.

‘Come on then Captain! Give us the numbers. Didn’t
bring you here just for your smiley face, you know!’ The Brigadier and Snow laughed
heartily.

‘Righto.’ He tried to keep it as bare-bones
as possible. ‘Canberras water supply is stored in four reservoirs. Corin dam,
Bendora Dam, Cotter and Googong Dam. The Googong’s by far the biggest, as I
assume you know, so that’s where we’ve been getting it. The Bendora and Cotter
are both smaller, so the acid rain seems to have had a more pronounced effect. Corin’s
a decent size too, but further away and the access is currently difficult so
we’re leaving that ’til last resort.’

‘What’s your quality like?’ probed Snow.

‘We’ve got purifiers on the base so it’s okay
at this point. Without those, you need to add a decent belt of baking soda to neutralize
it, or it’ll give you the shits something awful. And we’ve lost twenty-five men
in the last fortnight on the thirty kilometer run between Duntroon and Googong.’

‘Baking soda! What an excellent idea.’

‘The conveys and men completely disappeared.
No trace at all; we never found them, or the trucks. Duntroon is effectively
surrounded by civilian groups of varying sizes demanding assistance with food
and water. Some are becoming aggressive, to say the least. Sir.’

The Brigadier shook his head sadly, staring glumly
at the floor. Snow still appeared to be thinking about the baking soda. Forsyth
shifted in his chair and the padded leather seat emitted a rude farting sound
which made the Brigadier turn, and give him a look. ‘You need to try and buck
up a bit more there Forsyth,’ he admonished. ‘It’s not the end of the world
yet. How much water we got in Corin, if we need it?’ An unpleasant gleam lurked
in his eye.

‘A hundred and seventy three million, two
hundred and sixty-five thousand liters. Sir.’

‘That’s right,’ voice dripping with disappointment
and suspicion suggesting he’d no idea of Corins capacity in the first place. ‘And
that’s only the reserve!’ he raved, waving his gloved right-hand
enthusiastically.

Snow nodded, clearly impressed. ‘You know . . . ’
He pointed his index finger briefly at the Brigadier, then back to touch his
own lips. ‘You know, you’d go well on the screen. Very well indeed. I’ve always
thought the army needed a better PR front person. If it hadn’t been for this
comet, you could’ve . . . ’

The Brigadier looked so pleased you’d think he
must’ve just cracked a fat, then the realness of the situation caught up with
him, and he frowned at the roof, damning the comet for putting the kibosh on
his TV career before it’d even started.

Snow continued. ‘There is one question you
might be able to help us with—’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

‘We need an idea of the geographical
cross-densities and location of your personnel in the event of modifications or
updates to the hydrography.’

The Brigadier turned blankly to Forsyth, out
of depth with the question, let alone the answer. Snow should’ve simply said, “Where
are your men?” and the old dill might’ve got half-way towards understanding it.
Snow tried from another angle. ‘Cabinet will need a breakdown on NSW troop
locations, in the first instance I believe.’ He took a swallow of brandy and watched
eagle-eyed over the top of his glass, awaiting a reply.

 ‘Come on Forsyth! Quick update then, by the
numbers there, you heard Mr Snow.’

‘Yes, Sir!’ The reply snuck out as near
enough to a shout to earn a look of sour distaste from Hensley, and a smirk
from Snow. The brandy was making him cocky, and he made a mental note to rein it
in. ‘From the top then, Sir. Prior to this event we had 45,000 personnel, of
whom 28,000 were regular and 17,000 reserves. This is split into two divisions:
the 1
^st
, who’re mainly regulars; and 2
^nd
, the reserves. We’re
focusing mainly on the 1
^st
at this juncture because the reserves are
more fragmented, and their limited field experience to a degree. We think they’ll
be better equipped to lend assistance locally, given the way the crisis is
unfolding.’

‘What about around Sydney?’

‘In Sydney most of the bases sustained
significant damage, or were lost completely. The Holsworthy barracks was hit by
waves that went up the Georges River and through Liverpool. The Randwick
barracks and Victoria barracks also turned out to be too close to the sea. Victoria
Barracks had the HQ for Land Command in Australia. In the rest of New South
Wales there were pockets inland that came through almost unscathed, like Lone
Pine barracks at Singleton in from Newcastle, but they’ve been non-stop helping
dig men out of collapsed coal mines. Still a lot trapped. At Bullecourt
Barracks in Newcastle, the 2
^nd
Division suffered major damage, and
we lost the entire 113th Field Battery there too.’

Snow took it all in and didn’t seem overly perturbed
by the magnitude of the catastrophe. ‘What about here, around Canberra?’

The Brigadier winked conspiratorially and touched
his nose. ‘Fortunately, we managed to move some chaps out of Holsworthy and
inland beforehand. The word came down.’ Forsyth knew for a fact the Brigadier
never received a scrap of prior warning because he’d listened to the
Brigadier’s wife berate him about it. She had a face like a bag full of dropped
pies and tended to berate him a lot.

‘And they’re all at Duntroon?’

‘They are,’ Hensley confirmed. ‘We’ve got 200
men out of the 3
^rd
battalion, who’re mostly from two companies of
parachute light-infantry, minus the ’chutes of course, with the ’planes still
non-op.’ He mustered a wan smile. ‘The 2
^nd
Commando regiment’s
there, which Forsyth here was with, before he joined my staff.’ Snow’s lips
tightened in surprise but the Brigadier didn’t appear to notice and pressed on.
‘And a med support battalion which was originally based at Holsworthy. Oh, and 127
cadets who were already at Duntroon on officer training. We don’t want to bring
any more into the place at present and the rest of the men who’re scattered
about NSW are assisting where they can with recovery operations and whatnot
more locally. No point bringing ’em all together when there’s nobody to
actually fight, so to speak. The word is to hunker down and await further
orders.’

So for the next two minutes, the three men sat
hunkering down, drinking brandy, and no one uttered a word.

 ‘So you’re a Commando then?’ said Snow
eventually.

‘Yes.’

‘Golly. Is that one of those Special Forces
units?’

Golly?

‘I’m sorry, we’re not at liberty to dis—’

‘Go on man, it’s all right in this
instance,’ insisted the Brigadier.

‘I’m with the 2
^nd
. It’s just one
of three Special Forces units that are kept combat ready at all times, so naturally
those who were able, have gravitated here.’ Snow opened his mouth on the verge
of asking more, so Forsyth elaborated to head him off. ‘Most of the time we sit
around the mess, playing ping pong.’ This shut him up and he smiled, but not
for long.

‘Any trouble getting here?’

‘I was already at Duntroon.’ He saw no point
in mentioning it was to face a military court of inquiry.

‘Where are the other special forces units
now?’ There he was, probing again.

‘Townsville. Darwin. We’re communicating.’

He watched Snow’s expression change, and
kicked himself because he’d been picked up on the fib. “Communicating” had at
least a 70% lie content and anything over 49% starts show up in your facial expression,
or so some psych boffin had said at an interrogation training course one time.

‘Communicating?’ Snow cocked his head, frowning.
‘I would’ve thought that’s taken for . . . well, taken for
granted?’

Snow was a driller. Drillers dig down to
that one thing that’s important: the weakest link you’ve got, and zero dead in on
it. Give it the full nine yards.

You don’t want drillers.

The Brigadier had been explaining how Forsyth’s
transfer from the 2
^
nd
was only meant to be temporary
assignment, and Forsyth sure didn’t have a lot to contribute to that
conversation. He looked at his watch again. ‘The last chap I had, we lost in
the fires.’ Hensley shook his head, remembering the unfortunate Reynolds. ‘Quite
a few chaps were, I’m afraid.’ Thankfully he didn’t mention Brenda, not that he
would.

‘Listen Forsyth, I’m going to get you to
wait here at the hotel, speak with someone from cabinet when you can.’

Snow raised his eyebrows and anyone with
half a mind might’ve been offended. However it didn’t surprise Forsyth in the
least: it gave the Brigadier a chance to get him out of his hair, as well as
appearing to make a more proactive effort at getting his report across, without
actually having to do anything himself. Brilliant from a strategic point of
view. He was given half a dozen points of protocol in dealing with the Prime
Minister, should the situation arise, where he managed to switch off almost completely
for the first time in a week.

‘ . . . and I’ll take
the car back,’ Hensley concluded. Snow offered to send another vehicle along as
escort.

The Brigadier was a Hunkerer. Complete with
bushy moustache and the whole package. He apparently even had a speech
impediment which forced him to use the word “chap” at least once every three
minutes, or else his head would pop like a cluster. Lately, “hunker” had been
his favorite word-of-the-day. Or word-of-the-night, you’d probably say, and
because the night had been a long one, it got used plenty. After all, the
Commandant of Duntroon Military Camp didn’t get to be Commandant of Duntroon
Military Camp by being a risky chap. No Sir-ee. A few weeks ago, a disgruntled major
in the officers mess told Forsyth that he’d been reliably informed, that if it
were just Hensley and a plate of scrambled eggs locked in a bare room for an
hour, the Hen would still squeeze in “chaps” at least eight times. Straight up.

But Forsyth was also coming to appreciate a
hidden side to the Hen, after having worked so closely with him these last
weeks. He’d discovered that the echelons on high thought of Hensley as a man happy
to make the hard decisions when needed, especially with strategics and
logistics and manpower and all that what-have-you, which is why they kept promoting
him. The Colonel Blimp persona was a bit of a cover, the result of a tour in
Bosnia attached to a Grenadiers unit during his formative years in the mid-90s.
He just came back talking like that.

Snow checked his watch. Lunch shouldn’t be
far off, and Forsyth’s mouth watered at the prospect. ‘What’s moral like?’

‘Excellent,’ replied the Brigadier, nodding
vigorously.

Forsyth shrugged unenthusiastically.

‘Is there anything we can help you with from
here, Captain?’ Snow tapped his pen on the desk, staring like a cat looking into
a fishbowl.

‘There is one thing. The Brigadier’s legs
were getting a mite chilly in the car on the way here. You don’t have a spare
blanket do you?’

Snow laughed. ‘I’m sure we can dredge up
something.’

Brigadier Reginald Albert Hensley ACM, AO,
OBE looked as angry as forty-bastards. ‘Why don’t you help track that down, and
unload your kit from the car,’ he said coldly. ‘While Mr Snow and I have
lunch.’

So he wasn’t just a Hunkerer. He was a cunt
too; bloody scrambled eggs and all.

Me?

I’m the fool.

Dick waved merrily as the Brigadier drove off.
The three guards on the gate already had it open and the car swerved unsteadily
through. The escort vehicle tracked close behind, an old Chrysler previously owned
for a short period by the Australian Minister of Telecommunications but now
contained two armed men who answered solely to Dick. It’d be a miracle if the
old shit even made it back to Duntroon in one piece, after the amount of brandy
he’d swilled. The headlights were visible for another twenty seconds, then gone.
Dick felt a warm, satisfied glow despite the damp, sulphurous air. Today had
unfolded extraordinarily well. He’d purchased the Australian army for the price
of a meal and a blanket. It hadn’t been hard to find the PM’s signature in her
room, and simply forge it. He found that if you sat down for couple of hours with
a few memos signed by hers truly, and a bunch of pens, you could get it pretty darn
close. Sheng helped, and the Hyatt had no shortage of pens. This was a big
step-up for Hensley anyway, and as soon as he heard he’d be in overall control
of all the police and “what-have-you” he was in like Flynn.

A weak light flared in the tin shack on the
front lawn, then two seconds later disappeared. This reminded him of a job undone:
he needed to speak with those Kiwi yokels.

Dick was thrilled. This little enclave could
be all that’s left! Outstanding! He strode confidently away from the Kiwi’s
shack, back towards the hotel. A light burnt on the veranda so no need for a
torch, and besides, he wanted it to appear as though he were storming out of
the night at the three men waiting around the front door. Keep them on their
toes. All told, there were more than fifty now, who he could count on: mostly
men, and a few determined women, scattered in various rooms around the Hyatt. Team
Dick. From here it was only a matter of attracting the key elements: those of a
certain . . . character, and disposition, then start from scratch.
It wouldn’t include those kiwi hillbillies either.