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The dark morning at Gove airport was ushered in by a lessening wind but relentless rain.
'If it stays like this we'll be okay,' the nervous helicopter pilot announced in an overly loud voice as he stood beside Sir Peter at the window of the flight control building.
Sir Peter had offered the man double his charter fee to get him to Namarrkon that morning and the young pilot had accepted. He lodged the necessary flight plans and they left immediately.
The two men ran to the aircraft and boarded without incident, the tether lines were removed by a third man and the engine started. The rotating blades gave comfort to Sir Peter that they would soon be above the uncontrollable madness of this place. The small aircraft was buffeted by the wind as it made a quick ascent and flew in a curve to rise over the nearby line of trees. As they gained elevation they could see there would be no conventional winged aircraft using this runway for some time; debris was haphazardly strewn along its entirety.
Aaron and Lee were driven to the airport by Walter and arrived at the flight control building in time to see Sir Peter's helicopter take off. They knew then that they must be able to depart this morning as well but both were nervous at the prospect.
*
Namarrkon was a one hour helicopter flight from Gove in perfect conditions - that particular morning it took Sir Peter seventy five minutes. It was time enough to reflect on what he would now do. He had reached the highest level of company management because he was a master strategist. He had been planning his exit from TransGlobal since the Lightning Mine prospectus was launched but he just didn't count on the obstinance of Australia's indigenous people or of the country's ineffectual politicians. When Werner arrived at Namarrkon he would talk to him about their exit.
––––––––
Aaron and Lee waited for an hour before they too were airborne. The rain continued to fall heavily but the wind had dropped only slightly. The pilot could not believe anything was so urgent as to venture to the air in this weather, but he had made them a promise and had kept to his word. The take off was easier than he had thought it would be under the circumstances, but enroute they were tossed well off course by the wind and the flight was bumpy in the extreme as erratic storm clouds developing massive electrical charges, came bubbling in from over the ocean. They flew fast, at full throttle, holding a low altitude.
Looking below, at Devil Devil Pass, the earth was like a Martian landscape. Aaron had written notes on previous flights, that this area - just east of Namarrkon - had absorbed a freakish number of meteor impacts; his later research revealed more impacts than the rest of the Australian continent combined. He learned the meteorites had arrived here at vastly different times, not part of one unearthly shower as one might have expected. He thought an explanation may lie in the magnetic composition of the atmosphere above this area.
Seen from a crater below, the aircraft was like a mosquito against the brilliantly lit heavens. The entire sky was alight with unbroken, discharging gasses as ear-splitting thunderclaps cracked and resounded across the plain.
––––––––
The huge thirty-two passenger helicopters had been flying the miners out from Namarrkon in a shuttle service for the past twenty four hours. Furlough in Darwin, even in this weather, was better than staying at the mine. Those who remained behind were a skeleton staff and the die-hard miners with no real wish to see Darwin again. Some had not been to a major city for years: CDs they were called, cop dodgers. Some CDs became professional gamblers and moved from camp to camp. They worked like everyone else, usually as kitchen hands but their jobs were only a passport which enabled them onto the sites to play cards. Miners had cash, thousands upon thousands of burning dollars; and there wasn't a shop or bar for two hundred kilometres in which to spend them.
A group of twenty or so TransGlobal executives had arrived together on a single flight from Queensland. That particular flight experienced a spectacular up draft followed immediately by a massive down draft which caused several stomachs to convulse.
Jarra Mariba, all the UNA executives and several shop stewards had stayed at the mine overnight. The high powered meeting scheduled for that day at the Lightning Mine would determine its future. TransGlobal planners allowed for forty men to be in attendance, the federal government had five representatives with Sir Peter its Chairperson, of course.
Jarra hoped his wild card, Aaron, the prospector who found the site, was on the way; the meeting was scheduled for noon, in three hours time.
*
Sir Peter lurched forward in his seat and the pilot cursed.
'Jesus! Fuck!' he yelled. 'That was too close.'
He was referring to the massive lightning bolt that speared upward from the mine into the hissing cloud mass beside them. A deafening thunder clap followed the flash almost immediately, causing both men to clutch their heads. The Lightning Mine was below.
'Is everything... okay?' Sir Peter asked nervously.
'Now you're worried. You should have been worried this morning mate. We never should have taken off.'
'But is the aircraft's equipment functioning as it should?'
The young pilot checked his instruments.
'Yep, we're okay. Just one more minute baby,' he muttered to his aircraft as he patted the instrument panel in front of him like one pats a pet animal.
He pushed forward on the joy stick and the chopper tilted forward and dropped sharply. The ground came at them more quickly than Sir Peter would have liked but he was keen to get his feet on solid ground.
As they touched the ground another lightning blast shot from the earth, this time Sir Peter distinctly saw that it had originated from the ground and speared the sky above. The rush of air from the thunder clap pushed past the chopper and the men felt the power in the sound wave driving at them. They were both temporarily unsighted by the brightness of the flash. Sir Peter was surprised at the width of the bolt itself and by the air still sizzling from the fusing atoms.
'Make a run for it!' the pilot bellowed as if they were under fire in some battle zone. '... I'll follow on.'
Sir Peter wasted no time in following instructions, scurrying across the slippery clay pan in which numerous hollows were supporting ankle deep lakes.
Just inside the lobby of the large demountable office block a waiting TransGlobal crowd cheered as Sir Peter swayed in followed by more than a spattering of rain. One of the men called to him with hands up to his cheeks mimicking a megaphone. 'Well done Sir Peter.'
Sir Peter smiled good naturedly and tried to regain his composure as his gifted young pilot charged in though the door behind him. There was a rousing cheer for him as well.
Jarra stood well back and watched, but was smiling all the same.
––––––––
In one year Jarra had seen the whole Namarrkon area transformed from pristine green tropical wilderness - as it had been for countless thousands of years - into a twenty mile wide red desert. Massive machines roamed the surface while yellow, grey and blue structures dotted the landscape on geometric roadways - circles of roads linked to more circles by short straight sections. On a normal work day there were hundreds of men in light blue overalls running about the place. All of these objects were colour designed to contrast against the blistering rust-red earth; they were meant to be seen.
The smelter plant was not yet fully operational but most of the superstructure was in place. The excavation of the ship canal that would soon connect the smelter to the ocean, was due for completion in a matter of months. Namarrkon had become a triumph of modern engineering and guile. Collectively, it was a radical statement in defiance of all that is sacred in nature.
*
Jarra watched as Sir Peter was surrounded by sycophants, men forced unashamed smiles, pulling hard on their facial muscles, making inane comments about the weather or the mine. And one of them remarked that this was no place for women even though there were two women in their group.
Jarra thought to himself - most women weren't foolish enough to take up on-site jobs in mining, smelting or stevedoring.
Jarra decided to venture forth and greet his adversary; Sir Peter saw him coming and extended his hand, overly enthusiastic.
'You must be Jarra Mariba.... my good man, how are you?'
'I'm well Sir Peter. You look like you are doing okay.' He looked at the Englishman's rounded mid section as he said this. 'At least you made it... through that mess out there.'
'Oh I don't worry about the weather. If we English concerned ourselves too much about a little water we would still be wearing fur skins and dancing around stone pillars, sacrificing maidens at the alter, and all that jazz.'
This brought a round of laughter from the toadying group who pressed in.
'Nothing wrong with a good romp around the stones Sir Peter, before they're bulldozed away forever,' Jarra added sharply.
The group went quiet and faced Jarra.
'Yes, well.... not many stones around this area, I see,' Sir Peter said holding his smile.
'There'll be even less when you're through.'
Jarra stared aggressively as his venom seethed through the veins of the bootlickers. He turned and walked away, leaving a buzz of whispered insults behind. He didn't mean to be so rude but this man's pomposity drives sane men to madness.
'Yes we leave no stones unturned in the name of progress,' Sir Peter shouted as he thought of a comeback.
His band fairly fell about laughing. One fellow louder than the rest called to Jarra.
'And there was no moss in sight when these stones were rolled away... right Sir Peter?'
'Absolutely not Arnold. No moss around here.'
Jarra continued to walk down the large mess hall to the cafeteria counter, took a tray and proceeded to load it with food he knew he simply would not eat. But he had to get away from the herd of grey suited jackals.
He paid for his food and moved as far from the TransGlobal people as he could. He found a corner table and sat with his back to the wall so he could see the whole room. The group were mindful of his eyes on them. In just a few minutes they each became unnerved by the black man and in turn they faced away defensively from his sentry-like gaze.
They sought psychological comfort in their numbers, by slapping each others backs and other gestures of camaraderie. The extrovert behaviour was designed to exclude Jarra.
As soon as he thought he was able to leave with his dignity intact, Jarra walked the length of the hall and past the group.
'They'll have to learn to live with it,' one of the men said for Jarra to hear as he passed.
He ignored the man and walked on, his rubber soled shoes squeaked on the highly polished vinyl flooring. The air conditioned buildings at the Lightning Mine were interconnected, designed to control climate, to exclude dust, dirt, grit, flies, heat and of course cyclones. All buildings in the Northern Territory were built to withstand the annual cyclone season.
*
When he noted the depression's centre was moving in a direct line for the Darwin coastline, Paul Mioli personally arranged for a helicopter flight to Darwin for his wife, Rita, and the kids. Rita could not stop shaking, she was extremely nervous; fortunately for her, the kids slept most of the way. But she sensed the chopper pilot's fear in the cockpit, he spent the entire journey talking to Darwin airport control. No one was more relieved than this young man when they touched down in the drenching rain.
Darwin airport was dotted by debris, carried there by strong gusts. The kids and Rita were bundled together by airport staff and driven to the safety of the terminal building. Inside the facility people were quiet. Stranded out-of-town passengers were everywhere; sleeping on seats, benches, counters, floors. Numerous children were crying and distressed parents strolled through the crowded terminus carrying their babies.
Rita was met by her sister and driven to her apartment which was near Darwin's town centre. She heard rumours that all roads leading out of town would be closed until the approaching storm had blown over. People from the surrounding region were spilling into the town by the hundreds; all of the hotels were full. Strong winds continued as night approached and fear routed its way through the population.
––––––––
At one in the morning the bite of Cyclone Tamara bore into the Lightning Mine camp and grew stronger with each passing hour. Just after two o'clock, 100 kph winds gave warning of their lethal capacity. Now Tamara's full force was being felt: wicked wind gusts had partially taken the roof off an office block and the sides of two dormitories were badly damaged. The men had begun to panic; their camp was being ripped apart.
'It is as if an atomic bomb has been detonated nearby and we are witnessing its effects on the camp,' the camp's communications officer said as he talked to Darwin Emergency Services.
Flying sheets of corrugated iron and other debris were lethal missiles. No one walked outside.
The union representatives had learned never to approach their adversaries weakly, if they did, industrial grief always followed. It was not agreeable that worker and boss regarded one another as the enemy - but so it was in modern western societies. What followed on from that were warfare tactics being practiced as a matter of course.
As Jarra walked into their offices he saw the three union leaders huddled, discussing strategy in low, anxious tones. At the same time Alan Parker saw Jarra; he noticed his face was taut, his bearing tense and his arms were fully loaded with files.
'A fax for you Jarra... just came in,' he said and pointed to an envelope on the table.
Jarra sat, took up the brown envelope and said nothing. At mining operations as big as this one, the union had their own office with independent communications links connected to it. Jarra's fax had been received in this union office.
'They're fucking murderers!' Parker spoke without looking up.
He had seen the fax as it came in, before he had put it in the envelope. He obviously had told the others, all three were head bent and looking at their own pile of papers.
Jarra could not believe his eyes. The fax was from the coroner in Darwin, it simply stated that federal police had informed him that they had evidence that Werner Muller and Sir Peter Gables had conspired to have the Aboriginal elders from the Oenpelli region murdered. Warrants had been issued for their immediate arrest.
'Jesus!' Jarra said, jolted.
Suddenly, there was an almighty crash: the door to the union office was flung open and three armed security guards pushed through.
'Everybody stay calm and stay seated!' one of the men shouted, heaving his chest as he sucked hard for air. 'You are all under house arrest!'
Alan Parker jumped to his feet and was shoved back by one of the men. Jarra leaped at the closest TransGlobal uniform and hit him with a rugby tackle and they fell to the ground in an ungainly, tangled pile. Parker was quickly to his feet swinging punches at the head of another uniformed man. He ignored the pain in his fist as it found the man's cheek bone. One of the guards backed up to the door and pulled his walkie-talkie from his hip pouch.
'Mayday!' He called into the device as the scuffles continued.
Furniture was upturned and chairs were used as clubs.
'Union office in B block... Mayday! Mayday!' The man screamed into the perforated hand piece as he pulled a gleaming silvery pistol from its holster.
'Hit the floor!' he yelled and pulled twice on the trigger.
The .38 calibre slugs shattered the plasterboard ceiling, pieces and dust sprayed across the disordered room.
'Hold it!' Jarra shouted. 'Just fucking hold it!
'No... you fucking hold it, you black bastard! Hit the fucking floor!'
The soprano pitch in the guard's voice indicated he'd lost it. He straightened his shooting arm and pulled off another shot at the ceiling. His eyes were wide, his hands shook and his mouth was dry.
The union men quickly did as they were asked but Jarra leaped at the man with the gun. He heard the explosion and smelled the spent gunpowder as the bullet pounded into his chest. It was as if he had been punched or stabbed to the hilt with a short dagger. Then he fell on the man as blood seeped from his shattered ribcage.
Precious moments before, Sir Peter received news from head office - Australian police were asking questions about his and Werner's whereabouts. Without hesitation he harnessed the Lightning Mine security men as a distraction from his own actions. Sir Peter had spent a lifetime solving problems, making executive decisions under extraordinary pressures, he quickly arrived at his best option here: run.
He moved quickly along the corridors of the operations block that led to the helipad control centre. His intention: to bribe, or coerce at gun point, any pilot to fly him to an island, any island, in the nearby Indonesian archipelago.