Peter Corris - The Big Score

‘Wonder what that means.’

‘No idea.’

‘Nothing on where we’re going or for how long?’

‘No.’

‘How does Gary take off like this if he’s at university?’

‘He just does. Get a good night’s sleep. Stay in touch, Cliff.’

Despite myself, I was close to excited. I was never in the Scouts or anything like that, but with some teenage mates I went out west at weekends: we took old. 303s,. 22s and beer, ostensibly to shoot kangaroos and feral pigs, but really just to go bush and rough it. Then came the army. Training in Queensland was okay, fighting in the jungles wasn’t, but this felt more like a harking back to the good old days- with a professional edge.

I did a web check on Hilary St James. He was CEO of something called Survival Enterprises which, in addition to publishing the magazine, had several retail outlets selling outdoor and patriotic gear. The company claimed to have offices in Jakarta and Malaysia and to be affiliated with similar organisations in Britain, New Zealand and the United States. Its motto was, ‘We will be there!’

St James was born in South Africa and had served in that country’s army in the apartheid era. According to the webpage, he moved to Australia and ran a successful import/export business before turning his ‘talents and resources to stiffening the physical and moral fibre of Australia’s youth’. He was sixty years of age and the webpage described him as being as fit as a man half his age. A slightly faded postcard-sized photograph of him in semi-combat gear backed up the claim. St James stood half a head taller than others in the picture, and his tilted-back head showed a mane of fair hair, a strong neck and a sharp jawline. Icy pale eyes. Interestingly, the photo would not blow up. He’d self-published two books- Man Alive and Fight for Your Freedom. Go, Hilary!

I was at the rendezvous point at the stated time, wearing boots, jeans, a T-shirt and a flannie against the early morning cold. A two-day stubble. It was early July and the day was clear-hard to say how it’d develop in the city, let alone where we might be headed. The mobile had a hands-free hookup, and a quick check showed that it was fully charged. The laptops battery likewise. I’d slept well and I had a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 pistol wrapped in a towel tucked down in a backpack under a couple of books. Be prepared.

Three off-road vehicles were there when I arrived and two sedans. A covered truck pulled up soon after. I sat tight, preferring to have St James seek me out rather than the other way around. After a bit of confab between the various drivers, a man jumped down from the truck and came towards me. No mistaking him, although he wasn’t as tall as he’d looked in the photo. As he drew nearer, I could see why he hadn’t wanted a clearer photo-hair that had looked white-blonde was actually grey and the flinty eyes were surrounded by lines and wrinkles. If his birth certificate said he was sixty I still wouldn’t have believed it-he was at least ten years older. Still, he moved well, with a long, balanced stride, and looked trim inside dark pants and shirt and a tight down vest. I got out of the car.

‘Mr Hardy, I presume,’ he said, the voice strongly accented. ‘Welcome.’

‘Thank you.’ We shook hands. His grip was strong but not aggressive. ‘Cliff’ll do it, Mr St James.’

‘Oh, no,’ he shook his head. ‘We insist on some formality in this exercise. I’m simply known as Leader and what you might call our NCOs are called numbers one to five respectively. The trainees answer to code names, which will be stencilled onto the back of their clothing.’

‘Got it,’ I said. ‘Very efficient arrangement. Where are we bound?’

‘All in good time, Mr Hardy, all in good time. If you’ll just fall in to the middle of the convoy we’ll be on our way.’

I nodded and got back behind the wheel. 0630 hours, Leader, NCOs, convoy-military stuff, but there was nothing of that about the vehicles. The 4WDs were of various makes, sizes and colours and the truck was red with a blue covering. The lettering on its side read DTS but, with the sedans positioned between the truck and the 4WDs, a casual observer would see nothing alarming about us as we pulled on to the road and took off at a modest pace. Traffic was light and a grey, overcast day was building. Before too long at least our intended direction was evident-west.

Clay had provided me with a batch of CDs not to my taste-classical and jazz instrumentals, not even an aria or two. Music needs words to my mind, but I tried a few before switching off and tuning in to Radio National at news time. A congestion tax for the CBD was being debated-okay by me. Anyone who takes a car to within a couple of clicks of the city deserves to pay.

It wasn’t a problem here where we picked up the Great Western Highway and followed it to the Bathurst Road exit. The land rose, the air cooled and I was grateful for the Pajero’s heating system. We ran into a brief but severe rainstorm and the wipers coped well: heating and effective wipers both needed urgent attention on my Falcon.

I was impressed by the discipline of my co-drivers. No macho stuff. When cowboys wanted to pass they were permitted, and when the truck laboured a bit on the hills it was allowed to fall behind and then the convoy slowed almost imperceptibly to let it catch up. Give him his due, St James apparently had no need to be at the head of his troops. I was happy to stay more or less in the middle position. I amused myself by memorising the registration plates of the truck and several of the other vehicles-for no good reason, just staying in practice.

After we bypassed Bathurst my Clay-supplied mobile rang. It was St James, who’d evidently been given the number by Clay, something he hadn’t told me.

‘Any bladder pressure, Mr Hardy?’

‘I went before I came.’

He didn’t laugh. ‘Is that a no?’

‘Yes, that’s a no.’

I heard him draw in an exasperated breath, but he maintained control. ‘Good man!’

He rang off. A concerned commander, or testing my mettle? I shouldn’t have needled him but I couldn’t help it. Serious soldiering has my respect; play-actors should have a sense of humour.

We went off the paved road onto gravel and then to a dirt track winding through thick bush. Climbing and getting colder. A brief stop for a gate to be opened, and then it was over a cattle grid and onto a track that was wider than the previous one and had recently been graded. The bush was still thick, but I could see open patches through the trees. A bridge over a moderately large stream appeared to be new and solid. Then the convoy slowed, took a bend, and I came in sight of what St James probably referred to as HQ, or perhaps the operational base, with an electronically operated gate.

The farmhouse in the middle of the enclosed space was sandstone and old with a bullnose verandah running around three sides. It was long and low and three chimneys were smoking. There was a cement parking space for the vehicles to one side and four old-style Nissan huts arranged in a square around a gravel area with a flagpole in its centre. No grass, no garden except a small patch around the base of the flagpole. Nothing frivolous.

Uh-oh, I thought, square bashing and hard beds in unheated huts. Took me back and not to where I wanted to go. I determined to insist on my civilian status. I fancied being inside the house, nestled up to a fire with a drink in hand.

I parked the Pajero as far as I could from the other vehicles, got out and used Clay’s camera to take a few pictures of the scene. All of a sudden the site had assumed a military aspect despite the disparate character of the vehicles-the Australian flag, flying bravely above another carrying a DTS logo, in a light, chilly breeze, and the fatigues and berets being worn by the personnel did the trick.