James Rawles - Expatriates

The camera boxes had only a pair of 48-volt DC power input wires, a mini-USB controller port, two pairs of 20-centimeter-long 48-volt output wires, and another 40-centimeter pair of thinner leads in a contrasting color, with smaller connectors that were attached to the low-current, low-voltage green status light LEDs. These were left dangling for later assembly, which was not common practice.

Wulandari asked his supervisor why they were doing only part of the assembly, but the senior engineer offered no explanation. “I don’t know. We are just the subcontractor.” And when Wulandari asked about the customer, his boss said, “They tell me it is a secret project for the BIN. I think it must be some kind of spy camera.” The Indonesian Badan Intelijen Negara—the Indonesian equivalent of the CIA—was notoriously secretive. Another employee, however, was told that it was a project for the National Institute of Aeronautics and Space or Lembaga Penerbangan dan Antariksa Nasional (LAPAN). Wulandari didn’t know who to believe.

Wulandari also raised concerns about the flimsy aluminum screws that were specified for mounting the camera’s timer and battery, as they would be easily deformed when the cameras were eventually serviced. Once again, his concerns were brushed aside. “I have no idea why aluminum. That is just what they ordered.”

After all of the parts had arrived, the assembly of the cameras was completed in just one week and resulted in a very profitable contract for the company. The 252 camera housings—with batteries and timers installed and LEDs attached—were then packaged and sent by truck to another small company farther south in Banten Province, ostensibly for installation of the cameras.

The camera case contract was soon forgotten by most of the company’s employees. But Wulandari’s doubts about it persisted until almost three years later, when the camera cases made news headlines, erasing all doubt about their true purpose.

It was late in the afternoon, and the three men were tired. They had already lowered ten of the high-explosive seismic charges down the previously drilled shot holes, and this would be the eleventh of the day. Sweat was dripping off the end of Chuck Nolan’s nose. Randall “Rabbit” Burroughs, one of Chuck’s “jug hustler” assistants, lifted the thirty-four-pound yellow plastic tube of Geoprime dBX explosives to the mouth of the hole. The thousands of feet of cables and geophones, or jugs, laid out by the team over the rough, dry terrain would capture the reflected acoustic energy released from these explosive charges and provide an image of the underlying geologic strata.

Looking up from the reel of thin two-strand electrical wire that was resting in the payout stand, his other assistant, Bruce Drake, said, “Hey, mate, you forgot the suspension cord.”

“What?” Burroughs asked.

Just then, the tube slipped from Randall’s sweaty fingers. The five-inch-diameter plastic canister briefly lodged at a slight angle in the top of the bore, but then straightened itself and continued its fall before Burroughs could grasp it again. The wire payout wheel spun rapidly with a loud whirring sound.

Chuck yelled, “Run!” at the top of his lungs.

Run they did, in three different directions. They were still sprinting and just ten yards from the bore when the explosives tube hit the bottom of the hole. The sharp jolt of bottoming in the bore set off the blasting caps. Instantly, the main charge detonated. An enormous cloud of red dust loomed up from the bore and from the soil near it. The ground lurched beneath their feet as dirt and rocks came raining down around them. Chuck felt at least two clods or small rocks hit his yellow plastic bump cap, and one glanced off his shoulder. Another hit the side of Chuck’s Jeep.

After running a few more yards, Chuck stopped and looked back. As the cloud of red dust started to dissipate, he could see that his assistants were still in one piece and running. Even though his ears were ringing, Chuck started laughing uproariously, greatly relieved that they had escaped the blast unscathed.

Drake stopped and yelled at Burroughs. “You mongrel! You’re a few sandwiches short of a picnic!”

After catching his breath, Drake added, “You better keep running, Rabbit!”

Still laughing, Chuck muttered to himself, “Just another day of oil fossicking in the Merry Old Land of Oz.”

Despite their proximity to the blast, there was no damage to the trucks, other than a shattered passenger-side rearview mirror on Chuck’s Jeep. Rabbit Burroughs had been complaining of a headache all day, and had twice mentioned that he thought he was coming down with the flu. That was his explanation for failing to attach the nylon parachute cord that was normally used to slowly lower the seismic testing charges. They laughed off the incident on their drive back to Darwin, although Rabbit Burroughs spent the next three days sick in bed with the flu.

Two weeks later, the replacement side-mirror assembly Chuck had ordered arrived. He bolted it on without the assistance of the dealership, but when he’d finished, he was confronted with a strange sight: His perennially filthy Jeep had one clean mirror housing. It was enough to compel Chuck to take his truck to the car wash for a long-overdue cleaning.

The self-service car wash on Vanderlin Drive was run by a genial man in his thirties. By his looks, Chuck assumed the man was half Aborigine. Instead of being coin-operated like the car wash in his small hometown in Texas, this one used credit cards for payment. Washing the accumulated red dirt from the truck took three full cycles.

Chuck wore his cowboy hat as protection from the glaring sun. As he worked, he hummed the tune to the song “I’m So Ronery” from a political parody movie featuring puppets, which he had seen many years before. Just as he was finishing up the last cycle, he heard a woman’s voice from behind him. “What’s T-T?” she asked.

He turned to see a tall young woman with curly, sandy-brown hair, wearing short pants and a simple blouse. Her index finger was pointing to the large red decal on his truck’s back window, with overlapping capital T s.

Momentarily flummoxed at the unexpected sight of the woman, Chuck answered haltingly, “That’s, uh, Texas Tech, ma’am.”

Mimicking his Texan accent, she asked, “Are you new in these parts?”

Chuck laughed. “No, I’ve been here about eight months. I’m in the oil business.”

Dropping the accent, the young woman said, “A genuine Texas oilman. You’re practically a walking cliché with the left-hand drive steering wheel, the Wranglers, and the Stetson hat. You’re quite the poser.”

She cocked her head and added, “But I would have thought we’d meet here long before this. I’m usually here two or three Saturdays a month, especially in the summer.”

“That’s because I only give my truck a bath about once a year.”

She laughed, the warm sound causing Chuck to smile.

Chuck shoved the dribbling sprayer rod into the holder mounted on the masonry-block wall. He turned to face the young woman, saying, “My name’s Chuck Nolan. Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Ava… Ava Palmer.”