“If it were possible for members of different nationalities, with different language and customs, and an intellectual life of a different kind, to live side by side in one and the same state, without succumbing to the temptation of each trying to force his own nationality on the other, things would look a good deal more peaceful. But it is a law of life and development in history that where two national civilizations meet they fight for ascendancy. In the struggle between nationalities, one nation is the hammer and the other the anvil: one is the victor and the other the vanquished.”
—Bernhard Heinrich Karl Martin von Bülow, German Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs and later Chancellor of the German Empire
The evening after his briefing by the brigade commander, Caleb sent Chuck Nolan an e-mail. He wrote a one-line message that simply said, “Check Your Inbox (NTXT).”
By prior arrangement, Chuck knew this meant he was to use their “not secure but semiprivate” method of avoiding e-mails, which could be intercepted. With this method, rather than sending e-mail back and forth, they would log in to Caleb’s DarwiNet account using Caleb’s password and check the “Drafts” e-mail folder. There, he found an e-mail that originated from his office computer, which was unusual. It read:
(UNCLASSIFIED)
FROM: W01 CALEB BURROUGHS
HQ, LOG GRP 2, 7 CSSB, GALLIPOLI BARRACKS, ENOGGERA, QLND
PRIORITY: HIGH
TITLE: Most Urgent: Need Your Southern (Not Yankee) Ingenuity
Chuck:
I will be arriving in Darwin in three or four days. I must ask you to clear your calendar so that we can meet to discuss some pressing issues related to my branch of service. I’ve been put in charge of a project of great importance that will see me posted there for an extended period. I will be arriving with a few subordinates. I can’t go into any details via phone or Internet. Can you be ready to quit your civvy job to be a contractor for my endeavor? Treat this with the utmost discretion. Consilio et animis.—Caleb
(UNCLASSIFIED)
Reading between the lines, Chuck recognized that “issues related to my branch of service” could only mean a military logistics operation of some sort. He quickly replied, also in the form of an unsent draft, in the same folder:
Caleb:
You can be assured of my full cooperation. Given the current exigencies, my boss would probably be agreeable to a leave of absence, or if need be, even releasing and rehiring me. I’ll put myself at your disposal for your project. I’m sure that Ava will understand, given the circumstances. You have my mobile number to coordinate a meeting.
Amat Victoria Curam—Chuck
—
Caleb arrived in Darwin four days later in an Australian Army Bushmaster Protected Mobility Vehicle (PMV) that had been requisitioned from the Army Logistic Training Centre. These Irish-designed and Australian-built vehicles could carry up to nine passengers. This one carried just Burroughs, the truck’s driver (a female lance corporal with a plain face), a supply sergeant, and a load of mixed cargo in the back. All three of them were wearing MultiCam Australian Defense Force (ADF) uniforms with the latest-issue bush hats of the same camouflage pattern.
They seemed particularly proud of their vehicle because it was equipped with a Common Remotely Operated Weapon Station (CROWS)—a piece of weapons technology that came to the ADF by way of the U.S. Army.
All around them, there was a steady stream of civilian evacuees heading south. The Indonesians had warned that they “could not be responsible” for the safety of anyone who remained north of the 24th parallel. The Australian government grudgingly echoed this, urging evacuation. They did mention that there would be “an undetermined number” of stay-behind resistance forces operating in the north. They asked all civilian refugees to leave their houses unlocked to accommodate these Stay Behinds.
Caleb met Chuck at the main gate of Robertson Barracks, which had recently been evacuated. There were no longer soldiers manning the gate. Caleb had a standard issue AUG rifle slung across his chest. Chuck could see the glint of brass cartridge cases through the rifle’s translucent magazine. Seeing this loaded rifle was a reminder that Australia was now on a war footing and that their conversation would be serious business.
Leaving their vehicles parked in what had been the security inspection lane, they sat down to talk at the desk of the guardhouse. After inquiring about each other’s health and pouring a couple of lukewarm cups of Daintree tea that Caleb had brought in his thermos, he gave Chuck a ten-minute briefing about his mission. He concluded by requesting, “So . . . I’d like you to be our explosives expert, bouncing between all three sites, training both those in uniform and the civilian contractors. You might even be training some of the civilian Stay Behind militia members. You’d also oversee the safe storage and handling of all explosives, rockets, and mortar bombs at the FLBs.”
“I know something about civilian explosives, but I don’t know much about military explosives or artillery shells,” Chuck protested.
Caleb wagged his finger dismissively. “You haven’t had military courses, but you still have all those military manuals that we put on our memory sticks, right? Well, just consider this the on-the-job training to ‘go with.’ And for whatever it’s worth, there will be no artillery shells. The biggest thing that goes bang we’ll be handing out will be some 81-millimeter mortar rounds and some satchel charges, but those are just like civilian explosives. There will be some rockets, but this isn’t rocket science. I just need you to teach everyone the common sense stuff, like not transporting detonators and the explosives in close proximity, and warning them about static electricity around blasting caps, that sort of thing.”
Chuck nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it.”