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Jarra's actions in the High Court of Australia had stalled. It rocked him professionally, ruining his plans. It usually took him weeks to prepare for a High Court challenge but to have one heard at an undetermined time in the future, it was unfair to him and his case. He didn't want to believe it, but he concluded that pressure had been put on the High Court judiciary and they had crumbled. In this situation preparations for the mine could legally commence. It was as if the court were saying - the mining giant would win anyway, you're just a litigating nuisance, so we'll grant them a temporary victory.
––––––––
Viewed from the air a few days later, the iron rich site had been transformed to resemble a Martian landscape: for miles, yellow geometric bodies - machines - were executing clever choreographed sequences on its reddish surface. Sir Peter wasted no time. On the very day the court announced the grant of leave for his company to proceed with their operations, he had machinery denuding Namarrkon of all foliage. His plan was to immediately lay open the surface of the land, get the operation to a point where it would be foolish to stop such an enterprise.
Acting on advice from the Prime Minister he recruited fifteen Aboriginal leaders and local agitators on high salaries, gave them houses, cars, furniture and clothes, and flew them to bogus meetings around the world - there was no care for cost.
'Let them think they're fucking executives,' Robin McKeon recommended to him a few weeks earlier.
Sir Peter recognised this action as bribery with a different cut, but McKeon convinced him this method had proved successful for his government on numerous occasions. So, Sir Peter agreed and took his advice.
––––––––
The mine's official opening was a substantial, well organised function. Beneath a huge marquee on a red carpet there was an imposing mahogany lectern from which Sir Peter would deliver his address to a gathering of invited guests. There were of course TransGlobal's most senior executives, the hand-picked Aboriginal employees and about twenty representatives from the media, all flown in for the mine's official commencement. Everyone was seated comfortably on top of a bald plateau which overlooked an expansive red plain. Below, the seemingly oversized yellow machinery zigged, zipped, zagged and bellowed as chilled French Chablis, abundant seafood and bushtucker was being arranged on long buffet trestles covered by heavy white linen.
Overhead, the popping sounds of rotors signalled the arrival of Australia's Prime Minister's helicopter; the miniature dust storm caused by the helicopter's blades created temporary chaos with the catering staff.
'This really is the theatre of the absurd,' a popular television current affairs journalist was heard to say at the back of the media scrum.
Sir Peter hurried to greet Robin McKeon as he stepped from the helicopter; the two men smiled at length and were animated as the press recorded their hand shakes and familiar demeanour. The speeches which followed left no doubt that this mine was endorsed by the popular Australian leader.
The Prime Minister spoke with confidence:
'The twentieth century has been an era filled with outstanding moments in the development of our great country. It has been an age when lives passed into legends even as they were being lived. There has been no wasting of time; we have waited for no one and we have learned how to adapt things to fit, in an instant. So, we have created instant epochs and instant legends.
'But the second day of August, 1965, became known as the end of an era in Australia, on that day there was an end to the White Australia Policy. This policy was drawn up as a mandate that would eliminate non-white people from coming to settle here. From August 1965 onward in this country, racism has been in decline.
'Today you can see the joint effort of Aboriginals and Europeans right here at Namarrkon. The commencement of this mine by TransGlobal will shift Australia to the forefront of world mining. We will be the leading provider of iron ore and the greatest steel manufacturer that has ever existed on this planet.'
The press lapped it up.
'Ladies and Gentlemen it is my pleasure to be here for this historic occasion and it is an honour to declare this mine open.'
McKeon smiled for the cameras as, athletically, he turned the sod adjacent to the carpeted area; he used an engraved, gold-plated spade which was his to keep after the ceremony. The camera shutters clattered from all directions.
––––––––
Aaron and Lee Shoemaker were seated towards the back of the TransGlobal pack. Lee was busy pulling focus and clicking her cameras, she had three Nikons loaded with various lenses and differently rated film, hanging from her neck, her professionalism was showing. Once everyone's attention had turned to the drinks and food, the couple were beckoned by Sir Peter and both moved forward, eager to meet the Australian Prime Minister.
'Prime Minister, let me introduce you to the man who found this site, our brightest explorer, Aaron Shoemaker.'
'I'm pleased to meet you Prime Minister,' Aaron said shaking his hand.
'And this is his beautiful wife, Lee. As you can see she is something of a photographer.'
'So you're the bastard responsible for all this?' McKeon spoke to Aaron but his eyes never left Lee's chest.
'Well, not for all of it... but I'll take the blame for letting everyone know the place is riddled with iron.'
As he said this a rush of guilt swept across Aaron's face, Lee saw it and so did Sir Peter.
'Shoemaker, you're as white as a sheet. Do you feel alright?' Sir Peter asked.
'I'm fine sir, really.'
He would tough it out.
'I'll get you some water,' Lee offered.
'No, no... I'll be okay, really.'
Rod McKeon smiled at the lean American and spoke to him jokingly. 'You look like you just need a good feed mate.'
The politician's several sycophants laughed loudly.
Lee didn't laugh: she realised Aaron's confession meant more than they could ever know.
*
Sir Peter was on board the twenty-seat TransGlobal helicopter enroute to Cairns International Airport in Queensland when he took the second call from Werner that day. His patience had been tested: the opening of the mine two hours earlier had not been to his liking, the discourtesy shown to him by the Prime Minister had made him furious.
'I can't talk now man, I'm in flight,' he told Werner.
'Sir Peter, I underestimated our opposition. They're here... and they are here in force.'
'What are you talking about.'
'I was shot at in the street fifteen minutes ago in Darwin in front of my hotel... two men with automatic weapons. I'm lucky to be alive. Hundreds of rounds were put into the car that I was driving.'
'Was anyone in the car with you?'
'No... I was travelling alone. I opened my door and fell to the road.'
'Did you see them.'
'No I didn't but I know who they are.'
'Well, who are they man?'
'You know who they are.'
'You're wrong Werner... I don't.'
'It's the South Africans... the Vryburg Corporation.'
Sir Peter was shocked into silence.
The co-pilot of the helicopter opened the door to the cockpit and looked about the cabin, spotting Sir Peter on the mobile phone he walked to the back of the aircraft to talk with him.
'I'm sorry sir, you'll have to cancel your call. The instruments on our panel are fluctuating badly.'
Sir Peter nodded and pushed his palm at the man, like a traffic cop halting approaching cars.
'How do you know that?' he asked Werner, turning away from the co-pilot.
'They were the same personnel that were interested in our friend Shoemaker.'
'When did you learn this?'
'A few days ago.'
'Well why didn't you tell me?'
The pilot put his hands on his hips in frustration.
'Frankly, I didn't think you'd want to be bothered, Sir Peter. You have so much on your plate.'
'Werner you must keep me informed about such matters.'
'Yes... okay Sir Peter I will.'
'Get yourself under cover man. Call me in three days and let me know where you are.'
'I will Sir Peter, good bye.'
'Good bye...'
Sir Peter switched the phone off and the co-pilot turned away.
'Sorry about that,' Sir Peter said in a low voice.
'You're not half as sorry as you'd be if we rammed into the side of that mountain down there, mate.'
The Australian aviator was not impressed by the overweight Englishman's lack of concern for air safety.
Sir Peter rested back in his seat, gazed blankly at the ground below and became philosophical about the afternoon and the Prime Minister's rude behaviour. He realised how important McKeon was to the success of this venture, his final undertaking. Soon he had it rationalised: he would become a rich man before the second year of production; he needed this crude politician. He smiled as he thought about how the press had been taken in by the cast of characters he had assembled and his choice of the remote location was perfect. Such enthusiasm: a trip away from their dreary offices, a little food and wine...
The next day, images of black men standing with white men overlooking the devastation below were blazoned across the whole country. The message was clear to the white majority who saw it, reconciliation had finally succeeded; surely this was proof positive.
The following week, in smug defiance of Namarrkon and the courts of Australia, TransGlobal renamed their venture 'The Lightning Mine'.