August 1994
‘How is Nuri?’ Jonathan Dau wanted to know, anger and deep resentment running through his veins as he looked down on the badly beaten, Dayak village girl.
‘She will live, if she has the spirit,’ the old woman attending the teenager answered philosophically, whilst gently sponging wounds. The girl’s body bore evidence of a most savage attack. Blows to her chest caused a shattered rib to pierce a lung, and cigarette burns to her lower abdomen determined that her attackers could not have been of Dayak origins.
‘Call me the moment she regains consciousness,’ the chief ordered, leaving the gray-haired woman to care for her grandchild. Jonathan then returned to his quarters and summoned the youth who had discovered Nuri, questioning him, before gathering with the other elders to discuss the attack. Then, he waited, praying that the young woman would survive and reveal who was responsible for the brutal rape and beating. An hour passed, then another, a child sent to fetch Jonathan tripping over in her excitement as she ran down the main Longhouse corridor and into the meeting hall, where he had been waiting for word. The chief’s long, powerful strides took him to the little messenger’s side and, with one arm, scooped her up, placing the child on his hip then made his way back to where the injured teenager lay.
For Jonathan, it was now obvious that Nuri had but a short time left; with each lung-racking cough she dribbled blood. Under the anxious eyes of her family, the dukun sprinkled potions over her body whilst calling upon her ancestral spirits to come to her side, the air so filled with grief it was clear that those gathered accepted she would surely die.
****
Nuri had been one of a number of young villagers to leave the Longhouse environment, attracted to the mining camps downriver where they sought employment as laborers, cooks and other domestic roles. Although saddened by this exodus, Jonathan did not blame them for leaving in search of greater opportunity, understanding why the village girls ventured down to the mining camps, enticed by things foreign, and the money they were offered. He knew that once they had fallen into the trap, only an occasional few would return to their communities – those with child, abandoned by their transient lovers and others, who had been dismissed because of injury, sent home without compensation.
Nuri had gone to seek work at the newly established drilling camp downstream.
When her broken body had been discovered, the camp manager ordered the youth to take her away, indifferent to her condition. The young Dayak man had requested assistance and, when none was forthcoming he had stolen a powered, rubber dinghy then transported Nuri home to their Longhouse. It was not until the family had removed what was left of her clothing did the extent of her injuries become apparent. When word spread through the village that she had been raped, the mood amongst the men was one of retribution, the call for all Dayaks to abandon working at the mining site, all but closing the foreign operation down.
Jonathan observed her eyes flicker, and he leaned forward to speak. ‘Can you tell us who did this, Nuri?’ he whispered, holding her hands reassuringly, brushing strands of matted hair that had fallen over her brow. She struggled to respond, her throat offering only a hoarse, gurgling rattle and she choked, her eyes stuck wide open in panic as she drowned in her own blood. Jonathan felt her hands go limp and he knew that nothing could save her now. ‘Rest now, Nuri,’ he spoke, softly, placing a cloth across her eyes.
Amongst the babbling, background cries of anguish, Nuri recognized the dukun’s voice and heard the soft, beating wings of a bird, and her weightless spirit was swept away by an intense calm, the crushing pain in her chest extinguished as she surrendered her physical presence, and drifted peacefully away. Jonathan, sensing the moment of transition, closed his eyes and commenced the chant for the dead, to lay Nuri’s spirit to rest.
The Longhouse community tended to her remains as custom dictated, after which Jonathan slipped quietly away and climbed to his own, special place set high amongst Bukit Batubrok’s cloud-draped slopes, where he remained in meditation throughout the night. He prayed for Nuri, pleading that her ancestral spirits view the young woman with kindness and accept her into their world, asking also for guidance to reveal those responsible for her death. Enveloped in darkness, Jonathan lapsed into an induced trance in which he transcended his earthly surrounds, his spirit wandering the forests and rivers and floating through moonless skies across seemingly endless seas. In his latihan state the shaman was transported to a place where men gathered around, shouting and screaming with strange tickets held high in their hands, the scene convoluted by an image of others, their pockets filled with gold, sobbing as they lay incarcerated in cells. And he saw Nuri standing in the distance, waving, calling out to him and, as Jonathan approached he cried out in dismay, the face of the dead girl transposed with that of his daughter, Angela.
Even after Jonathan returned from his spiritualist wanderings he remained anxious for his daughter’s life. The shaman hurried back to his village and made radio contact with Samarinda, and sought their assistance in contacting Angela to see if anything had befallen her. Later in the morning a hook-up was successfully arranged and Jonathan spoke to his only child, the relief in his voice immeasurable once his fears had been allayed. Confused by his dream, he concluded that Nuri’s spirit was hostile and would remain so until her death had been avenged. Jonathan decided to visit the mining campsite to determine for himself what had transpired there. Two days passed when word was sent from the drilling site that one of the expatriate drillers had died, ostensibly of alcoholic poisoning.
That evening Jonathan returned to the mountain and again induced the latihan state, the dreams that passed through his mind confirming that the dead driller had indeed been the one responsible for Nuri’s demise. With his concerns for Angela assuaged, Jonathan Dau, chief and shaman to his Dayak community, smiled for the first time in months as he strolled back through his beloved forests to his Longhouse enclave.
* * * *
P.T. Kalimantan Gold (Ind.)
Drilling Site – Mahakam River
‘Screw this! I’m not working this fucking rig without laborers!’ Calvin Alderson picked up a rock and angrily tossed this at a stand of dieseline fuel drums, missing widely.
‘What’s the bitch doing about it?’ Carl Patrick’s dark mood matched that of his fellow expatriate driller, the pair deeply annoyed with not only having to do most of the manual work themselves, but also the Filipino’s refusal to replace their late colleague.
‘She sent one of the locals back downriver to recruit more men from his village, before she pissed off to Samarinda.’ Patrick looked on sullenly as the other driller selected another rock, tested this for weight then discarded it.
‘I knew this would fucking well happen!’ Alderson kicked at the ground with his heel, his eyes filled with loathing as he looked over at the camp. ‘What a fucking mess!’ He removed a grease-stained cap, running a filthy hand through his wiry mat of hair. ‘Why don’t we just shoot through and leave them to it?’
Carl Patrick wiped sweat from his brow with a forearm, dragged heavily from somewhere deep inside his chest then spat, aiming the phlegm at a discarded packet of cigarettes. ‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘When Ducay gets back, let’s go and read her the riot act. Tell her we want time off to go down to Samarinda for a few days.’
‘Think she’d let us hitch a ride out on the chopper?’
‘Nah,’ the other roughneck snarled, returning to reality, ‘she’s not about to let us go.’
Patrick’s wandering hand found a used toothpick in a trousers’ pocket, absentmindedly playing with this as he considered their position. ‘You don’t get the feeling that’s just what the bitch wants?’
‘Whaddya mean?’
‘Shit, Cal, she’s done nothing but fucking complain about us since she set foot on site!’
‘You reckon she wants us out?’ Alderson squinted, cocking his head at his workmate.
‘Dunno. But what she really wants is a bloody good screwing, ’ Patrick had, by now, retrieved the dirty toothpick and was worrying something loose from between his teeth.
‘Do you think Baird’s been slipping her one on the side?’ Alder-son’s comment brought a half-hearted laugh in response.
‘That bastard may have tickets on himself, but it’s not bloody likely. I could hear the dirty little turd-burglar going twenty to the dozen with that poofter mate of his the other night.’
‘Mardidi?’
‘Yeah.’
‘No wonder Baird’s been wandering around half the bloody time like a stunned mullet!’
‘Had a drink with a guy in the Tanamur Bar who used to know of Baird when he was married,’ this from Carl Patrick, referring to one of his regular haunts in Jakarta. ‘Said that his missus back in Melbourne tossed him out, cause he couldn’t get it up.’
Alderson thought about this for a moment, then twisted his face in disgust.
‘Doesn’t seem to have that problem with little boys.’ He returned to breaking the heavily crusted soil with the heel of his boot. ‘Why do you reckon she won’t let anyone into the shed?’
Carl Patrick glanced over in the direction of the locked shed built from a half-container. A galvanized roofed lean-to had been erected alongside, providing shade as a comfort station for Sharon Ducay. She had caused a rift by declaring her premises off limits to all.
‘Hasn’t Baird been in there yet?’
‘Nope.’
‘Wanna go and take a peek while she’s away?’
Alderson shook his head. ‘Nah, that’ll only give her an excuse to shunt us out.’ He stretched, then put both hands on his hips. ‘Got any of that rum left?’
Patrick raised an eyebrow, then glanced at his watch. ‘Yeah, why not – I’ve had enough of this shit for one day.’ With that, the two men strolled slowly away from the silent rig, the intense tropical heat beating down on their backs as they made their way up the slope to where their tents had been erected.
****
Within hours of the expatriate driller’s death, Sharon Ducay had radioed Samarinda and called for a chopper to airlift the man’s body to the local morgue. She had not even considered the alternative, as a voyage downriver would require at least two days. The only available helicopters fitted with sufficient fuel reserves to cover the distance were based in Balikpapan. Sharon had already made one such return flight, the month after establishing the mining site when she felt the necessity to speak privately with Kremenchug, by phone. Once mobilization had been completed and the heli-rig and ancillary equipment finally transported to the site, supplies of the Jet A1 refined kerosene fuel had been placed on standby at the Longdamai camp, for such an emergency. The helicopter had arrived within hours, Sharon certain that the surrounding jungle had filled with inquisitive eyes, as Avtur was hand-pumped into the aircraft.
Uneasy with leaving the field operations, but also accepting that it was in her interests to convince the provincial authorities that the driller’s death had been by misadventure, Sharon boarded the Bell JetRanger for the two-and-a-half hour flight.
She had accompanied the deceased to the provincial capital, but even wrapped with heavily scented sheets prior to departure, the driller’s remains still reeked of death. Sharon had filed the necessary reports at both the hospital and police headquarters, and made arrangements to have the body flown to Balikpapan, then on to Jakarta. The authorities had treated the incident with indifference and, as they concluded that there was no question of foul play, accepting the cause of death as alcoholic poisoning, Sharon was able to complete the formalities within the day. Tired, and desperate for a bath to cleanse the lingering memory of the driller’s corpse, she booked into the Mesra Hotel, had her clothes taken to the laundry, bathed and ordered room service. Then she spent the evening in air-conditioned comfort preparing for the return charter flight arranged to depart at 0600 the following morning.
****
As the helicopter beat its way back across the dense jungle Sharon could see the devastation inflicted upon the rainforests, the bleak tracts of scarred landscape carved across the earth below, stretching as far as the eye could see. Unconcerned, she turned to her notes, re-checking geological data obtained from core samples extracted at the Longdamai site, determined now to accelerate her plan to initiate the ‘discovery’ process in view of the expatriate driller’s death. Although tempted, Sharon had resisted spiking the core samples until then, conscious that she had to build credibility by demonstrating that a serious drilling program had been undertaken, before any discovery occurred.
Within two weeks of first establishing camp, drilling samples were already being taken and recorded. Sharon had opted for the rotary air blast-drilling program (RAB), a percussion method that grinds the rock by vibrating vertically, then uses air under compression to blow the residual to the surface, where the sample is collected. It was her intention to build a credible report based on a series of shallow holes drilled to around forty meters, doctoring the samples in such a way as to demonstrate a consistency in the findings.
Sharon ’s program required for a progressive increase in the amount of gold to be ‘discovered’ in the primary drilling operation. She understood the import of credibility associated with such findings, determined to demonstrate that the integrity of the recovery process had been monitored within industry parameters at all times. Sharon had decided to send samples to a well recognized Australian laboratory where further analyses would be conducted, the results sure to support her own findings at the Longdamai site. She knew that there would be skeptics but, with such objective, supportive evidence and the locality of the site, Sharon was convinced that her scheme would succeed.
The helicopter yawed momentarily, thumping along through the morning’s thermals, sending Sharon scrambling for the contents of her aluminum briefcase as these were scattered across the metal floor. Ignoring the pilot’s admonishing shake of his head for not wearing the safety harness, Sharon gathered her papers, relieved that the hypodermics and half-kilo gold bars secreted inside her case had not been dislodged, her fingers tapping the securely sealed, glass jars which contained solutions of potassium cyanide, essential to the successful execution of the salting process.
Sharon Ducay’s plan was not dissimilar to that used by Kremenchug’s associates in the West Australian scam more than a year before. She would simply ensure that there would be a gradual ‘spiking’ of the samples, her methodology creative in its original conception. Prior to the project’s commencement, Sharon had considered a number of means to introduce the gold traces, but before taking a final decision, she had to know precisely what the geology could offer, and what drilling methods would be employed. Once the RAB system had been decided upon, she had then set about developing a methodology for introducing the gold into the samples.
Industry practices required that samples be split, with one being sent to a recognized analyses laboratory for testing, the other, retained under lock and key at the mining site in the event future scrutiny be deemed necessary. Sharon intended introducing minute gold samples into the potassium cyanide solution which would dissolve the dust, permitting her to inject the metal through the canvas bag and its plastic liner, directly into the sealed samples. When the cyanide solution evaporated, the gold particles would appear throughout the sample as if in a natural state.
Sharon reflected on the foreign drillers engaged on site, accepting that she had to be very, very careful to avoid raising their suspicions. The remaining Australians, Eric Baird, Calvin Alderson and Carl Patrick would remain only for the primary drilling operation, their presence an integral part of her scheme. Sharon expected that, although cautioned, they would be amongst the first to reveal information relating to the high-yield results, counting on their lack of integrity to create even greater interest through rumor and speculative action. Alderson and Patrick were sure to swear that the find was real, pointing to the fact that they were the onsite drillers, and that there could have been no way for others to tamper with the samples.
Her thoughts then shifted to her fellow, on-site geologist, Eric Baird, and she frowned, undecided as to how long to keep him on contract. Although indifferent to the man’s peculiarities, Baird’s behavior around the camp was causing distractions and Sharon detected growing hostility between him and the drillers – a situation she needed to correct.
****
‘Tell that miserable son-of-a-bitch to get his skinny, little rear-gunner’s arse out here now!’ Carl Patrick bellowed, the combination of his foul breath and the Bundaberg Rum too much for the frightened, Modang laborer.
A week following Sharon’s return from Samarinda, a number of down-river villagers had trickled into the camp, having learned that work was available. As this was Penehing territory, the Modang workers were too terrified to venture outside the camp’s perimeters.
‘Baik, Tuan,’ the small-framed man kowtowed to the drilling superintendent, terrified of the Australian’s reputation for striking his men. The villager turned and fled, running across the slippery surface, falling and cracking his knees against larger rocks that were strewn around the disorderly site. He ran to the geologist’s tent, and called from outside. ‘Tuan!’ his voice reflecting the urgency of his mission. ‘Tuan Eric!’ the laborer called again, this time stepping back to permit the expatriate room to exit the four-man tent.
‘What is it?’ Mardidi came out of the tent in half-crouched position, bending to avoid the myriad of ropes he inevitably tripped over at least once each day.
‘Mas Mardidi,’ the field hand was relieved to see the Tuan’s companion. At least he could make himself understood. ‘Tuan Carl is very angry. He sent me to invite Tuan Eric to join him down where we are drilling.’
Mardidi’s eyes searched the scene, his eyes inadvertently coming into direct contact with the intimidating bully, designated drill boss. His sphincter muscles tightened with the eye contact, and he turned to retreat back inside the tent where Eric Baird lay dehydrated from yet another bout of the dreaded stomach infection that had beset the expatriates at this site.
‘Eric,’ Mardidi sat down beside Baird and touched his forehead again. ‘Are you strong enough to get up?’ he asked, knowing that he was not, but hoping that the man would find the energy to do so.
‘What is it?’ Baird’s slurred voice was without strength. He had swallowed more tablets than would have been recommended for two with this affliction, and had added a couple of painkillers to boot.
‘It’s Mister Carl. He wants you to go down to the drilling pits.’
Baird understood, but knew he was just not up to staggering around the site, even for Carl Patrick. He closed his eyes, questioning his judgment at having given the drilling to this group. ‘Tell him I’ll be down shortly,’ he ordered, hoping that the problem, whatever it might be, would disappear quickly and leave him in peace.
* * * *
In the months since Eric Baird’s interlocution with Alex Kremenchug had led him to commit to undertake the fieldwork with Sharon Ducay, the Australian geologist had begrudgingly acknowledged that the Filipino was capable of conducting the operation even without his support. Although he questioned Kremenchug’s insistence that he remain on site, Baird elected to continue, if for no other reason than to avoid both his partner, Subroto, and the General’s niece, Pipi Suhartono.
Mobilization had not been without incident. Gathering equipment and supplies in Jakarta for shipment to Balikpapan had presented the usual problems with freight forwarders – space being finally secured on board a smaller, coastal freighter, by paying a premium to the captain. The vessel had then been delayed, throwing Baird’s schedule into chaos from the outset. Once in Balikpapan, the shipment had been trucked to Samarinda, where his three expatriate drillers had been waiting for more than a week. Sharon Ducay had arrived soon thereafter on a direct charter flight from the Philippines, assuming operational control over the programme. Baird had hired a houseboat and a number of small barges to take them up as far as the rapids, from where the difficult work commenced, shifting the cumbersome RAB transportable rig, compressors and ancillary gear to the site by helicopter, where the Australian drillers would reassemble the equipment.
As labor had been one of their primary concerns, Baird had suggested that they employ the Modang river people to assist with the transportation and, once on site, approach the local villagers for their labor force. Before departing Jakarta, Baird and Sharon Ducay had spent considerable time discussing the operation by telephone and facsimile, reaching agreement where to establish the main camp, prior to his departing the capital. They had sent a small group ahead to prepare for the main body’s arrival, and to scout for local workers. For a brief time, there had been a reasonable semblance of harmony between drillers and the local laborers who had followed the expedition upstream, to the site. Mardidi however, had a falling out with one of the expatriate riggers and, from that moment, the atmosphere around the camp had deteriorated dramatically.
As he lay listlessly listening to others moving around the camp Eric Baird wondered if he might have succeeded in another field of endeavor, wishing at that particular moment that he had followed his mother’s advice, and studied law.
****
He had never been overly interested in sports at school, his small, frail frame often the object of both bullies and pedophiliac teachers of the middle persuasion. Academically, he was not considered overly bright, although he did manage to achieve sufficient grades to enter university. Severely influenced by a demonstrative mother, he selected what was then perceived as the easiest degree course to undertake, and then proceeded to fail Geology One. He repeated the year, managing to scrape through under the guidance of an overly doting tutor, then went on to complete the course, graduating without any significant degree of achievement.
Baird’s foray into the Indonesian mining arena had been by accident. Once he had graduated from university and bowed to family pressure by acquiring a wife, his ensuing, colorless life had left him directionless, and unmotivated. Early into his marriage he had become addicted to alcohol, the resulting divorce not entirely linked to his incapacity to maintain his role in the marital bed, but more his growing adoration for the father figure who had given him his first job, as a geologist. From the outset, Eric Baird strove to emulate the Fine Gold Search NL company chairman, the effort keeping him in near poverty as he shopped for wristwatches, cufflinks and other jewelry, acquiring duplicates of those worn by his mentor. As gold was considered fashionable at the time, Baird discarded his silver Seiko and purchased an Omega, identical to that worn by the chairman. Months later, when the chairman strolled into the office sporting a new, platinum Cartier wristwatch, having forgone his customary gold accoutrements, Baird went out immediately and purchased the same make and model, throwing himself into even greater debt than before.
Although the company secretaries sniggered at the young geologist’s ways, his capacity to produce results out in the field gained him considerable respect with management. He became the company’s golden boy, selected to go overseas with the Sydney-based mining group – rewarding their decision by returning a most professional and positive survey for their Malaysian concession areas. Baird had moved over to Sarawak to take up the post of senior geologist, taking with him the chairman’s undying support.
It had been Baird’s glowing submission that had served to punch the company’s stock up noticeably, permitting the Board to raise sufficient capital to maintain their high-flying lifestyles as mining entrepreneurs. It was through this corporate relationship that he had first met Alex Kremenchug, whose meteoric rise to Fine Gold Search NL’s board had not only raised eyebrows amongst Sydney’s mining elite, but also provided corporate rumormongers with sufficient gossip material for them to dine off for weeks. As Kremenchug continued to consolidate his position within the gold mining company’s corporate structure, his influence over operational decisions precipitated management changes, and Eric Baird’s most-favored position as senior geologist came under threat.
In time, Baird learned how to deal with Kremenchug whose penchant for expensive acquisitions and a good time at shareholder’s expense, ultimately resulted in his resignation from the Fine Gold Search NL Board. A company secretary overheard the heated argument when Kremenchug was ordered to step down for inappropriately disposing of shares without advising the relevant authorities at the Sydney Stock Exchange. Weeks later, Kremenchug had appeared in Jakarta, relegated to the lesser position of company representative. Since then, their relationship had grown only as a result of their interdependency, with Kremenchug consistently dragging potential investors into the country, while Baird’s role was to provide supporting evidence that the mineral prospects Kremenchug touted around were viable prospects of considerable potential.
Now, after so many years treading the jungles being bitten by ticks, mites and having his blood sucked by leeches, he found himself desperately in debt. He had been counting on the BGC shares to buy a small house in the mountains outside Jakarta, a place he and Mardidi could call their own. Of course, Baird accepted that ownership would have to be in Mardidi’s name, as Indonesia Law did not permit foreign ownership outside a very limited number of condominiums. His mind turned to his companion, and Mardidi’s incessant requests for more money to be sent home to his kampung, back in Java. Apparently, there had been another death in the family. It seemed to Baird that Mardidi’s clan had lost so many uncles, aunts, cousins and other family members over recent years, there would be few relatives left. Baird was convinced that he had covered the costs of funerals for the same identities on more than one occasion and, as he lay there with this thought annoyingly amongst his wanderings, he was reminded of the expatriate driller’s death just days before.
When the man had joined their group in Jakarta he had reeked of alcohol. The three-man expatriate drilling team had troubled him at first, but once they had arrived at the site and settled down to the task at hand, he dismissed earlier concerns, relieved that the drilling was proceeding without any meaningful incident. He was, however, aware that these men had brought a substantial supply of alcohol to the site. When it became obvious to Baird that the drillers’ stocks had been depleted, the men’s surly behavior prompted Baird to seek Sharon’s approval to send Mardidi back to Samarinda in one of the longboats, under the pretext to source additional medical supplies. Mardidi had returned three days later with the shopping complete, totally humiliated by Carl Patrick when it was discovered that he had not purchased the specific brand of Bourbon the driller had ordered. Fortunately, Baird’s intervention prevented his companion from taking a beating, an act that would surely have resulted in the driller’s contract being terminated – and a possible walk out by all.
It was around that time that a number of Dayak village girls had appeared seeking work. The drillers had all winked at each other, and given the teenagers laundry and other chores to keep them occupied. The following morning, no one noticed the absence of one of the girls until a young man discovered her badly beaten body, hidden under bushes some distance from the drilling site. The camp atmosphere had immediately turned tense, and the young Penehing men, in their thirst for revenge, had attacked the Modang laborers. One of the victim’s fellow villagers had then stolen the expedition’s inflatable dinghy, and taken the girl back to her Longhouse. Baird recalled that the girl had been the one singled out by the now dead driller, and wondered if the man had somehow been implicated in the villager’s demise. Whatever had happened, Baird resigned himself to never learning the truth as the driller had overdosed himself on alcohol, his body hurriedly transported to Samarinda, for examination and burial. The remaining two expatriate drillers, Patrick and Alderson, had become extremely belligerent with the additional workload, Baird suspecting that they were about to quit. When he heard Mardidi calling for him once again, wearily, he dragged his debilitated body out of the tent and shuffled down to the excavation site to face yet another dose of drillers’ vituperation.
* * * *
Sharon Ducay remained lethargically still, standing within the shaded area quietly observing the hostile body language exchanged between the drillers and Baird, their voices carrying up the slope to the makeshift verandah. Overhead, the tarpaulin flapped intermittently under occasional, dry mid-afternoon gusts and she glanced out at the weather, discouraged by the absence of cloud. With the most economic of movements she raised a cloth to her brow, removing minute droplets of perspiration before these could gather and flow. Gently dabbing the nape of her neck, Sharon suppressed a sigh, reminding herself why she was there – and the golden harvest that awaited her.
Her attention drawn back to the feuding expatriates, Sharon revisited her decision not to remove Baird, agreeing that she had made the correct choice – even if this had meant sacrificing harmony within the camp. To further reduce the possibility of suspicion, Sharon had decided that it would be best to have him around the site when she spiked the samples, and when the results were returned. She looked over at the shed which housed the bagged material, impatient to begin, her thoughts interrupted as Baird’s advancing figure crossed into her peripheral vision.
‘What’s up?’ Sharon asked, nodding in the direction of the drillers. Eric Baird came to rest under the shelter, wiped an arm across his forehead and shook his head disconsolately.
‘They want more money,’ he replied, with disgust in his voice.
Sharon remained standing, arms crossed as she responded to the geologist’s response. ‘How much?’
Baird licked dry, cracked lips, as if considering the question. ‘They’re demanding another grand a week.’
‘Each?’ Sharon was taken aback by the drillers’ audaciousness.
‘No. A grand would cover them both.’
‘And that’s it? They’ll stay on until we finish up here?’ she asked.
Baird frowned. ‘You’re not seriously considering giving it to them, are you?’
Sharon unfolded her arms and, with fingers hooked inside the top of her trousers, shrugged resignedly. ‘Tell them we’ll give them what they ask. But,’ she continued, ‘make sure they understand that this will be treated as a bonus, to be paid only if they remain to the end of the drilling program.’ She could see that Baird was not at all happy with her decision and, without hesitation, added, ‘There will be bonuses for all who see it through, Eric.’
Baird’s frown slipped down his face, slowly turning into a narrow grin. ‘You’re all right, Sharon,’ he offered, ‘they’ll go for that.’ He looked back down the slope at the men, wondering how long it would be before they made other demands. ‘I’ll go and tell them now.’
Sharon permitted Baird no more than a few steps before calling after him.
‘Make sure they get the rest of those sample bags up into the shed before they finish up today,’ she insisted. Satisfied that Baird would see to this when he nodded, Sharon returned to her quarters where she reexamined the most recent analysis reports carried out by the Western Australian laboratory, then settled down to wait for the drillers’ shift to finish for the day.
****
‘Here, top this up,’ Calvin Alderson held a metal mug out, and Carl Patrick obliged, reaching over and pouring the rum carefully from cross-legged position. Alderson took another swig, grimaced, placed the mug down and lit a cigarette, then leaned back on one elbow as the alcohol and nicotine took effect. The temperature had not dropped noticeably with the advance of evening, both men now resting outside their tent.
‘We should have held out for more,’ Patrick complained.
The other man considered this, scratched his unkempt hair, and nodded in agreement. ‘Shouldn’t have let that little prick take it to her. Should’ve gone to her ourselves.’
Patrick squinted as his eyes roamed the camp, the late afternoon rays piercing lofty treetops across the river. He spotted the object of their conversation moving determinedly through the camp towards the storage shed dressed, as always, in jodhpurs and a matching, armless, khaki jacket. He continued to observe as Sharon Ducay hesitated before the compact building, unlocking the door and disappearing inside without so much as a glance back. Annoyed, the driller shook his head as the door closed behind her, then dragged heavily from deep inside his throat and spat, throwing a lump of phlegm over one shoulder.
‘She’s over there checking up on us again,’ he griped.
The other driller cast a casual glance in the direction of the shed, and his lip curled. ‘The bitch doesn’t mind showing that she doesn’t trust anyone.’
Carl Patrick sneered. ‘We ought’a rip up there, and slip ‘er one.’
Calvin Alderson’s mind had already gone there. The local laborers would not guard her back and Baird would be unlikely to intercede.
****
Unaware that the two drillers’ fantasy moved dangerously towards becoming reality, Sharon busied herself, syringe in hand, bending down to examine each of the sample bags she would inject with the potassium cyanide gold solution. Sharon was conversant with the three basic sampling rules involving integrity, transparency and posterity. The industry demanded that, in order to preserve sample integrity after extracting and logging samples, these should be placed in sealed, numbered plastic bags and dispatched as quickly as possible to an independent assay laboratory.
Sharon knew that she was in danger of exceeding acceptable time parameters, but believed she could justify the delays in sending samples away due to the difficulties arising from the isolated location – another reason why she selected this site. As for transparency, Sharon was prepared to demonstrate to future inspection teams that the practices carried out were in accordance with industry standards, assured that the drillers and her assistant geologist, Baird would support the results. With respect to the question of posterity, Sharon would provide access to all records and duplicate samples retained on site believing that this would satisfy future inspections and potential detractors.
Confirming that the samples matched her log, she inserted the industrial size needle through the canvas covers, puncturing the plastic liner and releasing the clever cocktail directly into the powdery samples through the hypodermic needle. Sharon was particularly careful to match bag lots which would be shipped to the laboratory for testing, with those which would be retained on site for future examination and comparison. An hour passed and, with her task completed, Sharon placed the hypodermic and other evidence inside her leather case, unlocked the door to leave and stepped outside, startled when confronted by the expatriate drillers blocking her exit.
Sharon had been in similar situations before whilst working in African and Canadian mining camps, her eyes quickly assessing the situation. She looked beyond the two men for help, realizing immediately that none would be forthcoming. ‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ she challenged, mustering whatever bravado she could.
‘Calvin ‘ere wants ya to join us for a drink.’ With Carl Patrick’s slurred delivery Sharon’s heart sunk; handling drunken drillers could be a difficult task.
‘Yeah,’ Alderson joined in, ‘Whaddya say?’
Sharon knew where this was leading. Her grip firmed on the briefcase, instinct suggesting that she use this to defend herself against attack, abandoning this thought when reminded of the contents. Her eyes dropped to the bottle in Alderson’s hand.
‘Sure,’ she said, extending her free hand, ‘why not?’
Patrick’s face cracked from ear to ear and he reached over, pulling the bottle free from Alderson’s grasp, and offering the rum to Sharon. She accepted the alcohol with her free hand, rolling her wrist over the neck and in one continuous motion, slammed the bottle against the shed, then stepped forward and swung the jagged remains across the closer man’s body, to within inches of his face.
‘Now get out of my way!’ she hissed, adrenalin pumping as she waved the broken bottle threateningly. ‘I mean it!’ she shouted, relieved when both men shied away.
Sharon advanced slowly, her confidence building as the drillers retreated. With arm extended, she made her way cautiously around the men, walking away with an eye over her shoulder in the event they might charge. Willing her knees not to fail her, Sharon strode across to her quarters and locked herself inside, where she remained, considering how to resolve what might be an ongoing threat with the drillers. The men needed women – but she could not afford another incident with the local tribes. Also, this was not the time to alienate the drillers as they would unwittingly add further credence to the find.
The following morning Sharon called Baird, a sulking Alderson and an apprehensive Carl Patrick, advising the surprised trio that they could all take a few days off, sending the expatriates down river to Samarinda where they would airfreight the first batch of compromised samples for analyses. And, hopefully, return to complete the remaining two-months drilling program required to substantiate the results, which Sharon was confident would flow from the independent laboratory.
Days later, when Baird returned with the drillers, harmony was restored to the camp, Sharon then deciding to send the men down-river on a regular basis to reduce the possibility of future conflict.
****