Cull. Stafford Ray
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remind you, it was me who suffered demotion at your hand because I opposed your interference…”
“That’s enough!” fumed Mulaney. “If you think you can stand there and make a bloody fool out of me, you’ll be waving good-bye from Canberra Airport.”
“Prime Minister,” he soothed, “I am merely offering honest advice. Everything I’ve said is in the reports and you’ll be quizzed about it eventually.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “But you keep your mouth shut and leave the talking to me. No comment, or just give them official policy. OK?” he fumed. “One peep and you’re out of here.”
He stood, indicating the meeting was over. Bob Bouffler collected his papers and stood for a moment regarding his PM on the other side of the oversized teak desk.
Mulaney read the threat in the other’s eyes. It was he who might be on the plane if this got into the media.
“I don’t think you realise how much my prestige depends on this.” He paused and shook his head as he contemplated what he had said. “No, the whole country’s prestige depends on this working…and our security. The Chinese might be putting in the big bucks, but so are the Yanks. We pay for our defence hardware by selling energy. It has to work, or we lose big time.”
Support from his officer didn’t come. What he did get, was a grimace that could have been interpreted as compassion, but could have been contempt.
“I know that, sir,” Bouffler explained. “I would rather it had worked too. I never was convinced, as you know, but I could have been wrong and wish I had been. You were so strong on it. Unfortunately you’ve painted yourself into a corner. I tried to…”
“Crap!” Mulaney retorted. “Those charlatans at the CSIRO gave me the brush and Coal fucking Research gave me the paint. How was I to know? Bastards!”
“That’s not quite fair, sir. There were plenty of dissenting voices and it was you as Minister for Trade who overrode…”
“Listen,” Mulaney pleaded. “What would I know? I’m a lawyer, for Christ sake! I was guided by you. I thought I was protected by your credibility.”
“Perhaps I didn’t shout loudly enough,” he answered. “I knew it was my credentials that got me the job. That’s OK, but unfortunately I was a party faithful and wanted to believe your rhetoric on climate change.” Mulaney’s rising anger caused him to hold up his hands in supplication.
“Please hear me out.” A dubious nod was his answer and he continued, “My advice to you is to bite the bullet and admit now that it’s too unreliable and too costly. Between the leaks and the extra energy used for sequestration, there is precious little gain, if any. Then there’s leakage from coal seam gas and fracking.” He pointed downwards. “Coal in the ground is stable. Its gases and its oxides are not. They are the facts. Now, if I’m asked…”
“If you’re asked, you’ll dump it all on me!” growled Mulaney. “I want your resignation on my desk in the hour and your office empty before I go home or I’ll fire you publicly at my morning press conference tomorrow.”
“If that’s what you want, sir,” he replied, “you’ll have it, but it’s still my duty as your adviser to…”
“Your duty, Bouffl er,” he snarled, “is to keep your mouth shut. This comes under the Official Secrets Act!”
“Since when?” demanded Bouffler.
“Since now!” shouted Mulaney. “And if you as much as touch your phone, I’ll have you under the Terrorism Act. Got it?”
“Terrorism Act? That’s ridiculous. There’s no terrorism threat.” He began to wonder at the PM’s mental state, and asked more calmly, “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not. If you tell the world geosequestration doesn’t work and start bleating about coal seam gas being unsustainable, this country will go broke and then how will national security look?” He turned, picked up his handset and stood facing Bouffler. “So that’s it, Mr Robert Bloody Bouffler. You’re fired!”
Mulaney appeared to change his mind. He sat, replaced the handpiece on its cradle and apparently busied himself attending to the pile of paperwork on his desk.
Bouffler stood for a long moment staring at the thin grey hair and scaly scalp of his Prime Minister. He turned and strode to his own office to begin the depressing task of clearing out his desk.
He had just finished placing his family photographs into a cardboard crate and was looking around for the next item, when two Commonwealth Police officers walked through his open door and pinioned his arms. They applied handcuffs and pushed him roughly into the corridor towards the emergency exit.
Not a word was spoken. They offered no explanation and he was speechless with surprise. He realised they had chosen a minor exit to avoid the ever-lurking press corps, but he could do little but try to keep on his feet as his egress was completed and he was shoved into an unmarked car, motor running and driver ready to gun the engine.
As soon as the noise level dropped to normal inside the car, he asked reasonably, “What’s the charge?”
“Suspected of offering aid to a terrorist organisation, sir.”
The ‘sir’ carried the tone of contempt.
“That’s crazy!” he objected. “Who issued that order?”
“That’s for us to know and you to wonder about, sir.” He laughed derisively.
Bouffler looked at the second officer. He had seen him before in the corridors. He appealed for support. “Tell this clown who I am, Officer,” he demanded. “I’m not some bum off the street that you can push…”
“We know who you are, sir,” he said with even more contempt. “A bum is a gentleman compared to you terrorist-cell bastards. You’re going down big time!”
He realised there was nothing to be gained by saying anything so he spent his time on the way to the lock-up pondering his ultimate destination. Would it be Christmas Island? He hoped it would not be that once pearl of the Indian Ocean, still the principal refugee processing centre but now a prison with a recent history of untold bloodshed and torture under the guise of anti-terrorism. Poor bastards. Now he was one of them. If he ended up there, who would know?
11. MEKONG
Darkness came quickly, bringing with it a sense of unease to people whose feet had never felt a deck and for whom the land over which they had moved always remained still, solid and predictable. Terror replaced unease when the captain called through the hatchway. “Be quiet. Soldiers coming!”
He slid the hatch cover in place, this time with no gap. Their ears picked up the high pitched whine of a fast outboard, becoming louder, then backing off.
The ‘whump whump’ of an inflatable bouncing off small waves replaced motor noise as it came alongside, then the soft thump of its gunwale hitting the hull ended the wait.
Children were shushed but continued to whimper. Adult hands over tiny mouths smothered cries of terrified infants. Straining ears became aware of a radio playing loudly and wondered if it came from the soldiers’ boat.
“It’s the captain,” Loi whispered. “He’s making noise.”
The big diesel motor eased back to a ‘thunka thunka’ idle and the boat began to roll in the low swell from the river mouth. Loud voices were followed by the clatter of boots landing on the deck.
“Hộ chiếu!” demanded a shrill officious voice. “Show papers!”
Footsteps moved aft to the wheelhouse as ears strained and all eyes looked to where what started as flashlight beams were seen below as spots of light squeezing through the gap. Tiny stars of danger.
Footsteps returned, followed