Redback. Lindy Cameron
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as everyone in the mess had to endure Alan's insightful opinion of women in uniform.
'I'm all for it,' he was saying, 'especially if they're half out of it, and in a Playboy centrefold.'
'Careful, Alan,' one of the two American delegates advised. 'I'd wager Dr Smith - you know, that woman in the uniform with the nice guns who helped rescue us - would eat you for breakfast.'
'Colin mate,' Alan sneered, 'I'll wager - and you can fire me from a torpedo tube if I'm wrong - but I bet you that that chick was nothing more than a medic.'
'I thought her name was Jones. Captain Jones,' said Hilary Bennet from Tourism Victoria.
'Alan,' Jana said, 'I think you'll find that the Commander was in charge of our rescue.'
'I don't think she's a soldier at all,' the Queensland tourism rep pronounced. 'I reckon she's a spy. I think they were all spies.'
'I'm with you John,' said Mary Copes, the Hawaiian. 'I heard one of the officers on this vessel call her Agent-something.'
An attention drawing tap-tap on the hatchway had the desired effect. Jana was delighted to see one of the so-called Redbacks - the young one who'd been in her boat; but he wasn't exactly smiling.
'In order to kybosh any further rumour and slander, I will confirm that the ungrateful prick with the naked soldier fetish,' Coop said, staring at Alan, 'is kinda right with his 'doctor' comment.'
'I knew it,' Alan stated, completely missing the insult.
'Yeah,' Cooper nodded. 'Smith - or Jones - is not even a medic. She's a Doctor of History.'
'Oh man, Alan,' Colin Davies observed. 'You are in for it.'
'Too right,' Cooper agreed. 'I recommend a forward tube, mate, and I bloody hope you can swim.'
Everyone in the mess, except Alan and Kiwi Shirley, laughed, or tried not to.
'And right now, our squad leader and mission commander,' Cooper enunciated, 'needs to speak to all of you in turn before we reach Wellington. She, and Agent Brand from ASIS, have asked that you present yourselves in pairs; that is, with the same person you were locked up with on Laui. And if someone could make a list of how that was, it'd make the process faster.'
'I can do that,' Jana offered.
'Actually, you're up first Dr Rossi,' Cooper said, leaning down. 'Who were you with?'
'The ungrateful prick,' Jana smiled.
'Oh.'
'He says his name is Alan Wagner.' She raised an eyebrow. 'And he claims he 'knows' people.'
Cooper grinned. 'You'd be wanting to help me and the boss load that tube later then.'
'Oh yes, please,' Jana said.
'I can make the list for you,' Sally Tan offered.
'Thank you,' Cooper said, then straightened up. 'Hey, Shark Bait! Front and centre.'
After leading them through several hatchways, Cooper opened a door to a space furnished with a table, chairs and bookshelves, but he ushered only Alan inside.
'Agent Brand will be right here Mr Wagner. Or whoever you are,' he said, closing the door on the journalist just as he began demanding 'what the hell' the soldier meant by that.
'I totally approve, but what's going on?' Jana began.
'You obviously do know people, Dr Rossi. You get a private pre-debriefing debrief.' Cooper led the way to the cabin marked Commanding Officer. He knocked, opened the door and then left her to it.
Jana stepped into the relative spaciousness of the skipper's cabin but was surprised to find that the submarine's stocky, balding and white-uniformed Commander McClure, who had welcomed them all on board just off Laui Island, was not there.
Instead she was confronted with the blue-jeaned backside of an obviously tall person in the midst of tying a shoelace, while talking to someone else.
Except there was no one else. Jana cleared her throat.
The lithe but well-muscled person snapped to attention and blinked. 'Sorry, didn't hear you come in.'
Jana was so completely taken aback that she just stood there. She was almost sure she knew who this stunning individual was, but, but…
'You okay, Doc?'
Jana nodded, even though this was not her usual reaction to meeting anyone, especially for the second time.
'You sure? You want to sit down?'
Jana shook her head at the raven-haired, blue-eyed soldier who'd rescued her from captivity, saved her from a fate worse than death, and then from death itself.
It didn't take a rocket scientist to work out why she'd just fallen, in a bizarre kind of cerebral way, for her rescuer. She was savvy enough to realise her reaction was obviously a variation on the Stockholm Syndrome. But real or not, right here, right now Jana Isobel Rossi knew she was ready to swear that oath of allegiance she'd rain-checked earlier.
'Commander Gideon,' she managed to say.
'Dr Rossi,' Gideon said, with the raise of an eyebrow to acknowledge the obvious.
Chapter Seven
Tokyo, Japan
Tuesday 8 pm
Energetic, psychedelic and insanely vibrant, Tokyo's Harajuku district was a pulsing synthetic-organic citybeing. Its circulatory system pumped a steady stream of staidly dressed or strangely-costumed life forms, all weaving to a streetside soundtrack of oriental twang, techno-opera and rap-doof.
Assailed by a heady dose of the real and surreal, it was with his writer's sensibility that Scott Dreher registered the suited-salarymen, Manga clones, tourists, kimonoed or mini-skirted women, and gangs of blonde Japanese Goths. This was Blade Runner territory without the flying taxis, faux animals and blimps advertising off-world employment, and Scott was revelling in every cold and drizzly moment of it.
He was even starting to think that, if he gave up his futile little quest he could do this all the time.
If he gave up the things that made him serious, for a life of serious living, he could enjoy foreign or familiar moments for what they were. He could sit at the edge of the rain in a noodle bar like this one, or a café or park anywhere in the world and just soak up the ambience - for the hell of it. Somewhere public would be a place to sit solo, or meet friends to eat or drink, instead of what it had become for him: a safe environment to wait for a clandestine reason that had nothing to do with food, local culture or friendship.
It had been six years since he'd written a story where his name wasn't the first or only reason for its publication; where the issue itself was worth paying attention to, regardless of who wrote about it.
Scott Dreher: political and social analyst extraordinaire - a name to be reckoned with.
Well, now he had the story of his career and he couldn't write it. Not yet anyway.
It was more valuable - in terms of newsworthiness - than nearly everything he'd had published in the last decade. Even his book was 'after the fact'. He rubbed his face in frustration. But, going public too soon could risk lives, his own even, and he was pretty sure his own was worth hanging on to.
Conversely, waiting too long might have dire consequences for three or four countries, not to mention several specific individuals. It was just a pity he didn't yet know who, or when, or where in the world.
Scott nodded his thanks to the waiter who pushed a bowl of udon noodles and a Sapporo beer across the counter to him. Then he scanned the street for his contact again. There was still no sign of him.
Five feral-haired girls, giggling over a magazine with an excessively-tattooed boy band on the cover, surged by and into the establishment next door for a Big Mac and fries. Man! Talk about cultural train wreck.