THIRTY

Jarra was in bed and had begun reading a lengthy law case review when the phone startled him. He jumped at it.

'Hello,' Jarra called down the phone as he stretched. He was breathless and his voice had distorted.

'Barry?' Jarra recognised the voice. 'Barry, who got you..? What's happened?' Instinctively he knew the answer.

'Them, you know, the cops, the government, the bastards, those who are... fuck them!'

The phone went silent. Jarra knew he was still on the line, he was just too upset to speak. He hadn't heard from Barry Stevenson for weeks.

'I arrived at work as usual, Esther met me at the steps, cops were everywhere, wheeling out my filing cabinets.'

'She said she tried to stop them, they simply gave her a warrant and pushed past... I'm being transferred to Alice Springs. Esther is sacked... made redundant. It was all too easy.'

'I'm... really sorry mate,' Jarra spoke quietly and sat back a willing listener.

'It's funny when things like this happen to you, you hear stories of similar things happening to other people, some of them much worse than this.'

'Horror stories,' he said and paused. 'I remember a country doctor who acted as coroner in a small town in New South Wales, can't recall where, in the bush somewhere... had his sanity questioned... his own wife gave evidence that his behaviour had become irrational. All the poor bastard did was spend all his money on medical supplies trying to do something to address the health problems of the Kooris down there. He had evidence of police killing blacks, then tampering with and manufacturing evidence and... well he blew the whistle on them. He's still an involuntary patient at Ryde Hospital.'

'They didn't specify what they wanted. The court order said any files thought to be necessary to their investigations. They took the lot.'

'That's a pretty wide order, any files,' Jarra said, but he had heard of this before. 'I guess we can assume the files they really wanted were those you had on the three Aboriginal elders, you know, the forest murders.'

'Don't do anything rash mate. Go and see how you can fit in. Later maybe you can plan a better career path, at a time to suit you.'

'No, I've already decided. I'm just calling to say goodbye, I'm going back to Sydney.'

Jarra was upset at losing a valuable ally but reluctantly agreed that if he could afford it then the move to Sydney was probably best.

Clambering slowly from between the sheets he looked about. The whole apartment smelled of pizza (left over from last night's late delivery) and an insect floated in the half-drunk glass of red wine beside the bed. Jarra's head ached severely as he headed for the paracetamol. He was suffering a self inflicted, cask-wine hangover of the worst kind.

Irritations had accumulated for Jarra past the point of control: the valuable union support slipping away; his bogus arrests (Reynolds had arranged his release from police custody late the previous night, as promised); and now Barry and Esther being forced out of their jobs.

Storm clouds blocked out the morning light, the rushing wind quashed all sound, the rain had blocked the major roads, no one could move around the city of Darwin with any sureness of safety. Cyclone Tamara had moved nearer the coast.

Lees International was a company that sub-contracted men and equipment to numerous mercenary outfits throughout the world: they were middle men only. Their personnel did not themselves provide security or training, their executives were simply the conduit through which others were connected. Most of their income was derived from questionable military actions in Africa, the East Pacific and Central America. Their operatives sold and ran arms to whoever was able to pay the money. They seemed able enough to provide military manpower and machinery for any occasion. Their largest foray was in the sixties in Nicaragua, acting for the Cubans. This earned them their reputation and an estimated two hundred million dollars (US) in profit. It also earned them the ire of the CIA.

The CIA had been monitoring Lees closely for more than thirty years. They had found it necessary to slow this private organisation down at times; numerous Lees Intelligence and Special Service Personnel had mysteriously disappeared. So, for the past eight years Lees International had had their own operatives pursuing careers inside the CIA and could react if and when their interests were threatened.

It was from them that they learned that the CIA did not want their involvement in Australia to go ahead and that they had dispatched a covert, high impact group to halt their actions.

Jarra deposited the cheques from the combined Aboriginal organisations into the Swiss bank account as instructed by the Lees liaison officer known as Leon Burke. Within two weeks, the first of the Lees men had arrived in Darwin and their equipment followed soon after on board a freighter owned by the Lees company and registered in Panama.

Each Northern Territory Aboriginal community had slowly acquired helicopters for its security service, with additional sophisticated high-tech equipment installed on site. They had already made an impact in the skies around Darwin. The Aboriginal community's reasons for employing an airborne security service were given in a printed statement to the media: their properties weren't fenced off and their exposed perimeters were far and wide - they needed the assurance that air surveillance provided. It was hoped the service would keep the arrests down, keep people out of jail.

As a part of their strategy the Aboriginal communities volunteered their air surveillance units to Australia's armed services as a northern coast watch facility.

Their offer was quickly taken up and publicly welcomed. But the Prime Minister and almost every federal politician watched nervously; they had condoned mining companies hiring such men and equipment for years, why should the Aboriginal communities not be entitled to the same rights? Their hands were bound, they were unable to act.

Bruce Rowland, the Treasurer, rose an hour earlier than usual, he had agreed to appear on an early morning national television programme: it was five-thirty and winter in the Australian capital. An official letter contained in a glossy media folder requested an interview and was sent weeks previously to the prime minister but McKeon simply refused to be drawn from his bed so early and took some devilish delight in putting Rowland forward instead. Although they were good friends McKeon enjoyed exercising his superior position over his closest friend and political ally; there was nothing personal in this, he pulled rank at every opportunity with all his cabinet ministers, recognising they were his rivals as well as the nation's executive panel.

Rowland hated early morning interviews too. His wife, Sarah, stirred beside him as he peeled back the bed clothes and struggled to find the side of the bed. In the darkened room, his probing feet discovered his slippers and he patted his hands on the side chair and clutched his robe. He shuffled to the window, drew back the heavy drapes which denied light to the room and peered out onto the front garden.

It was a chilly morning and heavy overnight frost had coated the long narrow lawns, turning them completely white - the whiteness stretched downhill to the pretentious wrought iron gates he had installed the previous summer.

Sarah rose cheerfully from bed soon after he had left the room; she had commandeered the large bathroom as was usual. Neither could eat breakfast at this hour so they sat and quietly discussed the upcoming week's agenda as they drank freshly ground coffee from large, multi-coloured, Italian cups.

A long white sedan, an official government car, rolled to a stop at the front door and the uniformed chauffeur rang the bell at exactly six-thirty, as per Rowland's schedule.

Sarah watched through the bedroom window as the car with her husband, his secretary and the driver sped down the red pebbled driveway, then she settled back in bed, switched the television set on and waited to watch her husband's performance on breakfast television.

He was placed on his mettle that morning: another mining company wanted to take advantage of the same lease conditions offered to TransGlobal Mining, the Aborigines were in an agitated state and the government had assumed battle stations.

Sarah didn't like her husband taking the initial brunt of the assault but understood he was the best man for the job. As treasurer he was claiming more, and still more. Government revenue from large mining leases which, he claimed, equated to less taxes and more jobs. She worried as she watched him reading over his notes until late last night, she saw he was uncomfortable with the whole situation. Over coffee in the kitchen that morning, his eyes had looked puffy, his face had fallen overnight; she hoped the make-up people at the television station would be kind and offer him some professional assistance. He looked so tired and hagged.

Rowlands left the make-up room looking ten years younger and feeling more alert than he had a right to feel at seven a.m.. On his walk to the green room prior to his interview he saw a glow from the sun had washed a pinkish hue across the eastern sky. When he stopped to remark how inspiring it was to see the sun rise, his tall secretary became concerned, knowing how nervous he must be to engage in such small talk, especially with her, and especially before such an important interview.

She could see him wince as he turned his head away. He was agitated and anxious and wrung his hands as they walked forward once more.

Copper Ridge Propriety Limited (CRP) was one of Australia's largest mining companies, founded last century it had a paid up capital of eight hundred million dollars. Usually stock holders could rely on fifteen per cent return on their investment in this blue chip stock. Last year profits were down on the record level established the previous year but still topped the half billion dollar mark, the eighth consecutive year it had done so. The lease giving CRP rights to the minerals on Djamich land was signed by the Prime Minister and his Minister for Lands.

Five CRP four-wheel drive vehicles, filled to capacity with men, sped past an Aboriginal family walking at a narrow road's edge in the central Australian desert, causing stones and dust to spray onto the startled group. Two of the vehicles had covered trailers in tow. The men wore looks of determination and were armed.

One glance and the man's wife was sure: 'They look like trouble to me - guns and city fellas.'

'Where you blokes think you're going!' he called down the dusty road. 'This is our place.'

The children laughed at the slap-stick humour of it and their mother joined with them.

Soon after, the couple settled down with their three children and two domesticated dingoes and lit a fire to cook their first food of the day. But first, they layed on numerous green bushy branches and sent a clear warning signal to their clansmen in the smoke. The spiralling smoke simply indicated danger, warning of strangers on their lands. The smoke was seen by half the Djamich population.

By the time the warning telephone call reached the Djamich Lees Headquarters, the message had become more elaborate: CRP miners were on Djamich land without permission. And a faxed directive was immediately given, it read: CRP miners were trespassing and were to be removed immediately.

It was Jarra who had given the order and the Lees team responded at once, implementing their code-red schedule. A summary was relayed to all units of the Lees co-operative throughout the Northern Territory, they were told to be on standby alert - twenty-four hour call - in case the contact squad required reinforcements to execute their mission.

Rowland was introduced immediately after the first television commercial break; and his wife sat upright in her bed at the mention of his name.

'Mr Rowland thank you for joining us this morning, it's always nice to have you with us,' the programme's smiling host Ann Beachley read from the rolling autocue prompt screen, flashing her perfect teeth as she did so.

Brunette and beautiful, a former Miss Australia finalist, Ann Beachley had fulfilled her voiced pageant wish to 'work in the media'. However, there was scandal surrounding exactly how she had gained the staunch support of at least two highly-placed television executives and was able to jump the long queue of waiting journalists for this plum job.

He spoke quickly to disguise any nervous wavering which might distort his voice. But there was no distortion.

Sarah smiled when she saw that her husband's face had been professionally attended to. She thought he looked comfortable, he would be fine. She fell back in her bed and relaxed.

'Mr Rowland, I'd like to draw your attention to the national revenue base, and income from the mining sector in particular. There has been a lot of concern that Australia will never reach its economic potential if mining companies are forever thwarted in their efforts to extract minerals from the earth.'

'I bet you couldn't believe your luck when TransGlobal mining won their mining rights over the objections of the Aboriginal people of that region?'

Rowland frowned, surprised by the naivety of the leading question. Did she really think luck had played a part in this?

'Now we all know that the Aboriginal people were here first,' she continued. 'But the question most people want to ask is, so what? That was then, this is now. Hey, it was your land, now it's ours... and we want it mined.'

'That's too simplistic Ann,' he said. 'Let me put it this way. Aboriginal people and their ancestors have been custodians of this place for many thousands of years, they do have rights to this land and we must observe them - Aboriginal occupation is a historical fact.'

'Yes, but these Aboriginal people and their expensive, Phillip Street lawyers are ruining it for the rest of us aren't they?'

'And I suppose, as taxpayers, we're paying for those lawyers, right? These pale, city Kooris are not even Aborigines.'

'No, that's wrong... . Some of their ancestors took up with Europeans and some were raped by our ancestors - yours and mine - as they occupied, or invaded, their lands. The pale skins you see in Aboriginal society are our legacy, not theirs.'

That seemed to quell the beautiful host's onslaught, temporarily at least. Rowland found himself placed in an awkward position, here he was, defending indigenous Australian's rights.

'Listen,' he continued, '... there are many things we can learn from the indigenous people of this country. But we must first of all respect that they were here first.'

'Okay, okay... most people do respect and fully understand that they were here first. But now what? It isn't logical or democratic. Today, do they have the right to hold up huge mining ventures because they were here first?'

Rowland was becoming impatient and spoke more loudly: 'The Prime Minister has signed a massive mining lease covering land in the Northern Territory with another mining company, CRP, as recent as yesterday. I'm telling you, they're not holding up anything.'

Three thousand kilometres away, twenty uniformed and well-armed Lees security men scrambled from their military-style huts carrying equipment, running and yelling. The engines of five helicopters quickly roared into service and the men piled into them, then they reeled into the air, peeling off into the characteristically clear sky out over the flat plain. Viewed from high above they were like imposing metallic insects, skimming the dry expanse, searching for sustenance.

The CRP miners had made camp fifty two kilometres from the Pike River bridge. They had already pitched several tents and were in the process of unloading equipment, furniture and galley utensils. The Lees helicopters had initially flown in a five kilometre parallel grid pattern across Djamich land until they made visual contact with the mining group. Then they regrouped and approached the camp at a low altitude in 'vee' formation.

Hearing the choppers approaching, the miners stopped work, walked toward each other and inadvertently formed a defensive circle and watched the approaching airborne storm.

Even before the helicopters touched the ground the Lees men bailed out and spread in a wide formation around the camp perimeter.

'Stand still and no one will get hurt,' the group leader said as he advanced. 'You are trespassing. You are on Djamich land without authorisation. We are the Djamich security service and it is our job to escort you to the perimeter of these lands.'

The next day headlines screamed from the nation's newspapers, resounding like a chorus from a herd of tortured animals:

Aborigines wage war!

Black Anarchy!

Australia under attack!