HANSON

Doug Hanson looked up from his crossword and gazed idly through the window. The view across the inner harbour left visitors to the shipping control tower impressed, yet Hanson took it for granted these days. The lights of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the spectacularly lit buildings rising up the hill from Milsons Point to North Sydney left him cold. As did the new foreshore developments nearby along the Hungry Mile. It was a shame, he conceded, for in the first year of the job it was difficult to drag himself away from the view. These days, however, he had more pressing matters on his mind. What the hell was the capital of Bolivia anyway?

Perhaps he should ask Bob Walker, who sat in the centre of the room, his face green in the reflected radar screen. Hanson decided against it. Walker would only know the answer and gloat about it. They had shared the night shift for almost four years and were anything but compatible. Walker was a stickler for the rules, everything had to be by the book and well documented. He was ambitious and saw himself climbing the harbour authority ladder to the top.

Hanson knew better. The only place you could go after reaching the top floor of the control tower, was down. He was perfectly happy in his job, though. He did what he had to do, enjoyed his crosswords and books and loved the solitude. In a more simple world he could easily see himself becoming a lighthouse keeper. Now, where was he? Oh, yes, Bolivia...

“Look at this, Doug!”

The sound of Walker’s voice startled Hanson. The circular room did strange things to sound. Though Walker was directly in front of him, the voice came from his left.

“Hurry up!”

Hanson moved deliberately slowly. Walker was easily excited and as a matter of principle Hanson was not prepared to show much interest in anything the other man did or said. Besides, it was probably nothing. Little of any interest happened on the harbour in the dead of night, and on this shift a speck in a cup of coffee was regarded as being memorable.

“What’s up?” asked Hanson, joining his colleague. He glanced at the wall clock. It was 2.58am. A time that would remain embedded in his memory.

Walker pointed at the radar screen, though before his eyes adjusted, Hanson could only see their reflections. It irritated him that although two years older at thirty-eight, Walker looked ten years younger. It was the hair, Hanson reasoned. Walker had some. He looked in vain for a bald spot.

Focussing on the screen, Hanson watched the green arm trace a circle, the arc interrupted by an object in the middle of the upper harbour. It moved slowly west through Port Jackson.

“What do you reckon?” he asked. He knew Walker could read a screen like a fortune teller read a crystal ball.

“It’s fairly large,” answered Walker. “But nothing official is due in tonight and anything that size would need clearance. Put out a call, will you?”

“Sure.” Sitting close to the screen, Hanson switched on the transmitter and adjusted the microphone. He flicked the all frequencies switch. “This is Sydney Control calling the unauthorised vessel...” he paused to check the location, “...adjacent to Bradleys Head. Identify yourself. Over.”

A crackle of static was the only reply. “Repeat. Vessel passing Bradleys Head. Identify yourself. Over.”

Hanson tried again without success and turned to Walker. The older man walked to the eastern window. Looking past him, Hanson could see nothing through the gap between the bridge and the Opera House. Everything was lost in the shimmer of city lights.

“All right,’ said Walker decisively. “Call the police. They’ll have to send a launch.”

“Are you sure?” asked Hanson, with some alarm. “Remember last month?” On that occasion the Water Police had not taken too kindly to being called out, even though they were on duty. There was talk that a major card game had been in progress and few of the Tower’s staff escaped a parking ticket over the following couple of weeks. The boat turned out to be a Christmas trip by a dozen politicians on a millionaire’s cruiser.

Walker shrugged. “It’s our balls if it is something and we ignore it. Better to be safe than sorry.”

Hanson did not like the ‘our’ bit. Walker was supervisor, and good or bad, he would carry the can. However, he knew the man was right. He dialled the number and as he waited for the connection, the answer jumped into his mind. “La Paz!”

“What?”

“It’s the capital of Bolivia.”

“I knew that,” said Walker, smugly.