The Third Day, The Frost (10 page)

‘How sure are you that you got it on right?’
Homer asked.

‘She must have, or the truck wouldn’t have
started again,’ Lee said.

‘Yeah, true. If the timer works OK it’ll
definitely stop it,’ Kevin confirmed. ‘The problem then will be if
they find the timer. At this time of night, and after being held up
already, I don’t think they’ll have the patience to make the whole
convoy wait while they look for a reason for one truck breaking
down. They sounded tired enough when they were chasing the
sheep.’

‘I thought you were a long way back in the
bush,’ I said.

‘No, no, I was really close,’ he said, but I
wasn’t sure of that.

‘If they find the timer we’ll walk straight
into an ambush,’ Lee said quietly and calmly.

We all slowed down and looked at each other in
shock. We’d reached that stage of exhaustion where we were
overlooking obvious things.

‘But we haven’t got time to sneak along in the
bush,’ Fi said. ‘It’ll be light soon.’

‘We have to,’ Homer said. ‘Don’t forget, this
raid is a chance in a million. If anything goes wrong we can call
it off, no harm done, no need to feel bad. It’s much too big for
us, anyway. I think we should put our own safety higher than going
on with this.’

I was really staggered. I’m sure Homer wasn’t
scared. His voice was steady and strong. I think he’d just weighed
the risks and made a scientific judgement. For hot-headed Homer
this was very cool. Something about it pleased me a lot, though,
and not only the fact that it slightly increased my chances of
staying alive. I think it was the hope that maybe Homer no longer
felt a great macho need to prove himself by leaping wildly into
action at every opportunity.

I had strong memories of other amateur
soldiers we’d worked with, the adults of Harvey’s so-called Heroes,
being shot down like skittles as we’d watched helplessly from the
bush. They’d been walking towards a disabled enemy vehicle too,
taking it for granted that it had been deserted.

So we went bush, we quit talking, we threaded
our way through the trees, tripping over roots and rocks, getting
bashed in the face by stray branches. Oh, it was hard. ‘Won’t life
ever be easy again?’ I begged myself. At about 4.45 in the morning
we saw the dull gleam of the stationary container truck, reflecting
a little moonlight as it sat at the side of the road.

Chapter
Thirteen

I wondered as I looked at it whether I was
looking at my own coffin. It was a horrible feeling, to think that
I’d be locking myself into that big metal box. We’d crept up on it
very gingerly, but everything seemed normal. I know if I were a
driver whose truck broke down at that hour of the night I wouldn’t
want to hang around trying to fix it. I’d leave it to the
mechanics.

Kevin took the timer off, wired the lead
together again, then pulled the positive wire off the coil. He
assured us that they’d think that had caused the breakdown. But he
did something to the fuel line as well: ran some water through it,
I think. He said they’d have to call a tow truck for that. I took
his word for it. I’m good on basic mechanics but I’m not into the
deeper mysteries of engines.

We got the container open by swinging one bolt
to the right and the other to the left. I’d been thinking – hoping
– it might be locked but really that was the easiest part of the
whole operation. You could open it from the inside too, which was
another thing I’d been wondering about. I didn’t want to end up
like a possum in a trap.

The inside was a metal cave. It looked much
bigger than from the outside. Our footsteps echoed as we tiptoed
nervously along its full length. But of course there was nothing to
see. It was the same at one end as it was at the other.

‘Come on,’ I said to the others, knowing Homer
was just opening his mouth to say the same thing, and determined to
beat him to it. I never wanted to let Homer think he was our lord
and master. ‘Time to do some hard yakka.’

It was hard yakka, too. Our dump of fertiliser
and diesel was about two k’s away. We’d calculated the time and
speed of the convoy fairly well but I was still whingeing about it.
I’d only have been happy if the truck had pulled up neatly next to
our pile, had backed up to it even. Homer told Kevin he shouldn’t
have wrecked the fuel supply, because then I could have driven the
truck to the dump and driven it back to the breakdown point after
we’d loaded it. Of course there was no way. Those things were too
hard to reverse, and in that narrow road, with no good places to
turn a semi around, I might have had to drive it right down to
Cobbler’s Bay to find a place to manoeuvre. That wouldn’t have
looked so good to the soldiers.

So it was back to the wheelbarrows, back to
another trundle through the cold night air, heavy arms struggling
to hold up heavy handles, heavy legs wobbling as we tried to keep
our balance. We stuck to the road now, listening for convoys and
patrols, but knowing that dawn was another enemy for us to beat.
But there were no convoys, and there seemed to be no patrols at all
in this area.

The hardest part was getting the bags and the
drums up into the actual container. I’ve got to admit, Homer was
good there too. He might be just a big lump of bone and muscle but
he did a good job with the sacks. Fi especially had no chance of
getting her bags up high enough, and Homer did all of hers. I know
he had the strength, but I don’t know where he got the energy.

Then suddenly, too fast for my liking, we were
ready. I stood on the road behind the truck looking at the others,
trying to cope with my flood of feelings. I felt like you do when
you realise a polypipe’s about to come apart at the join. What do
you do first? Try to jam it back on? Rush to the valve? Rush to the
pump? It was like that in my head. I’d half thought we might have a
mushy farewell scene with everyone kissing and hugging and making
speeches. I should have known it wouldn’t be like that. In fact
what happened was that Kevin handed me the fuse and detonator, and
we gave the others our boots, socks and heavy clothes, and the
contents of our pockets, so we could swim the bay easily. Then we
stood and looked at each other feeling a bit embarrassed, then
Homer said, ‘Oh well, see you guys at the creek,’ which was the
meeting place we’d arranged, and Kevin said, ‘Yeah, see you,’ and I
winked at Fi and waved to Robyn and in we went and shut the huge
doors behind us.

As soon as we were in that darkness I wanted
to rush out again and throw myself around all of them like an
emotional boa constrictor but no matter what happened I was going
to be as cool as Homer.

It was quite black in there. I held up my hand
about five centimetres from my face and could see only the faintest
gleam of pale skin. Outside I’d just had evidence that there was
still light in the world, with the smudging of grey along the
horizon, but in here I could hardly believe it. It was scary in a
way that nothing else had been before. This was a totally new kind
of venture for us. The other times were kind of local, us doing
what we could do in our own neighbourhood, using petrol and gas,
stuff that we used every day of our lives. Now it was war and we
were soldiers. Anfo, detonators, fuses, trying to infiltrate a
harbour and blow up shipping: this wasn’t small time. This was a
major act of sabotage that we were attempting. This was the Battle
of Cobbler’s Bay, serious war, real war, the kind of thing that
should only be attempted by hundreds of soldiers with uniforms and
guns, people who’d been training for years.

‘Homer,’ I said, suddenly terrified that he’d
disappeared and I was all alone in the world. ‘Homer, where are
you?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here.’ I heard him move
towards me and I felt out in front of my face. My fingers found his
face: I was touching the rough skin of his chin. He put his arms
around me and I gratefully accepted his big wide hug. Being hugged
by Homer felt funny; he didn’t do it often and you could feel his
awkwardness when he did. He was all sharp angles, not relaxed or
comfortable, but it was nice to feel some closeness with him again.
I admired him a lot these days, though I didn’t ever let him know
that.

We sat against the bags of ammonium nitrate
and talked in tiny whispers. Although it was amazing how much stuff
we’d collected, there was still heaps of room in the container. I
was sure the weight wouldn’t be noticed. These trucks were used to
carrying twenty-five tonnes or more.

We talked about everything: the Deb Ball,
embryo transplants for ewes, a heavy metal CD by a group called
Bigger than Boeing, why Robyn sometimes irritated Homer so much,
whether stalactites go up or down. We talked about our dreams for
the future. Boy, had they ever changed. No more talk now of
overseas trips on Rotary Exchanges, hotted up utes for B & S’s,
courses in hotel management or marine biology. Now it was all small
stuff. Having our families back together. Being able to walk around
in daylight. Eating fresh fruit. Going to school again. Seeing kids
playing on swings and seesaws. That was all we wanted. Little
things.

As the light outside strengthened we realised
that there were cracks and pinpoint holes in the sides of the
container. We could see that the light outside was getting bright
and strong. Even without that, we still could have worked it out by
the heat in the container, which rose quite fast. Seemed like it
was probably heading for a fine winter’s day out there. I kept
trying to read my watch, wondering when they would come, but I’d
say it was about ten o’clock before we heard them. A slow grinding
noise of a low-geared vehicle was our warning. We stopped talking
and waited, straining every muscle to hear, as though our arms and
legs and stomach were as much involved in listening as our ears. We
heard the vehicle stop. We heard the opening and shutting of two
truck doors. Although there was little point, we crouched lower
behind the sacks. Homer thought that our most dangerous time would
be getting through the gate into the wharf. I didn’t agree. I
thought the sentries would take it for granted that the mechanics
had checked the container. I thought our most dangerous time would
be getting lifted onto a ship, and having the crane driver notice
the weight of the load. Homer didn’t agree with that. He said the
crane driver wouldn’t be used to thinking for himself. No one would
bother to tell him anything. He’d just sit there all day pressing
buttons. If one container was heavier than the others he’d think it
was for some reason that he hadn’t been told about.

The dangers after that would be of a different
type: full of action, physical dangers. But this, this sitting and
waiting in the dark, this was all mental.

When I heard those little noises outside, the
thumps and bangs, when I felt the container shake a few times, I
stopped caring about future dangers. This was danger enough for me.
I prayed just to survive this. I heard voices, quiet voices,
muttering occasionally to each other. I heard the clang of metal. I
heard the rattling of tools. I heard a swear word: not in English,
but there’s no mistaking the sound of a swear word. Then someone
started up the engine. It started OK but it didn’t run well: there
were a lot of backfires, and it sounded really rough. I heard a
shout, the engine went off, and then there was nothing; just a long
silence. Soon it started to give me the creeps. I imagined them
quietly surrounding the container, quietly raising their weapons,
until I was certain that the doors were about to be flung open and
we would be caught and dragged away and tortured and killed. I
didn’t have a relaxed muscle in my body. I could feel trembles
running through me as though I’d been wired up to a twelve-volt
generator and someone had turned on the power. Only Homer’s hand on
my arm stopped me from jumping to my feet and screaming. At last
the rumble of the low-geared vehicle started again. I whispered in
Homer’s ear: ‘What do you think?’ and felt him give an impatient
shrug. He didn’t like guessing, speculating.

I could hear the vehicle revving and turning.
The noise sounded like it was coming from all around us. There were
a few shouts, then the engine settled down to a steady throb. And
suddenly the container moved. Even though I’d been half expecting
it, I took a grip on Homer’s arm so tightly that I felt the bone.
The container gave a quick lurch, then started moving slowly and
steadily forward and upward, until it was at an angle that felt
like 45 degrees, but probably wasn’t quite so steep. A container of
diesel not restrained by the fertiliser bags slid slowly downhill.
I grabbed it as though I were drowning and it were a lifebuoy,
clutching it hard and hoping the men outside hadn’t heard the
noise. Homer grabbed me and I realised that on the fear scale we
were rating about the same figure. Then we really started moving.
There was a clanking noise and slowly we felt ourselves bumping
forwards. I wanted to cheer, but didn’t. I knew that somewhere
Robyn and Lee and Kevin and Fi would be watching, and wondered if
they would be cheering, or whether they would be too scared for
that. We hadn’t talked about covering fire for us, but I’d taken it
for granted that they’d have the shotguns out. I’d have lost too
much face if I’d mentioned it, but now I prayed that they had them
pointing straight at the truck.

The ride down to Cobbler’s Bay was
uncomfortable and unpleasant. We couldn’t see any of the bends of
course, so each of them took us by surprise. We used the fertiliser
bags to save us from being thrown around too much. They weren’t
quite the same as air bags but they did the job. It was impossible
to guess how far we’d come or how far we had to go: I thought we’d
have reached the bay about ten minutes before we actually did. In
fact I’d convinced myself that we’d made a terrible mistake and the
container wasn’t going to Cobbler’s; we’d end up in some remote
city, not even knowing where we were.

The truck slowed and I could hear gears
changing down as we drove along in a straight line for the first
time. Then we rocked slowly to a stop. By now my mouth was so dry I
couldn’t close it. I must have looked like a fish: in the dry
coffin I was gasping for air but too panic-stricken to breathe
properly. My mind was quite numb. I didn’t seem able to think any
more. I could hear voices and the throbbing of the engine but
couldn’t connect them to any meaning. I just sat there waiting for
something to happen. After a minute it did: we began to move again,
still on a smooth straight road. We swung to the right, then to the
left, then went over a series of regular bumps, as though we were
driving on a railway track. ‘We’re on the wharf,’ Homer whispered
in my ear. His voice was so unexpected that it shocked me back into
thought. I realised he was right – we were suddenly breathtakingly
close to our target. We’d gone right through the dreaded guard post
at the gate without my realising it.

After the shock of this quick change in our
situation nothing happened for three hours. The time passed very
slowly. We sat in silence, sweat running down my face and stinging
my eyes. My neck and armpits and groin became horribly
uncomfortable: prickly and damp. I could feel the hair sticking to
my skin more and more. There was nothing we could do, of course. We
were at their mercy. If they decided to leave us sitting on the
wharf for a week, what would become of us? My mind still wasn’t
working enough to think of any possibilities. I suppose I just
vaguely accepted that we’d have to break out and jump off the jetty
and swim. I know every time I let myself think about water I longed
for a drink with such desperation that I had to try to force a
different image into my head. The thirst was certainly the worst
thing, so much so that even the danger of being shot got pushed
into the background.

A thump on the roof was the first clue that
anything had changed. It hit so hard that I jumped up in panic,
choking back a scream, thinking that something was about to come
right through the roof. I looked for Homer and saw his dark shape
opposite mine. He too was standing with equal anxiety, looking up
at the thin metal sheet above us, which was still trembling with
the shock of the impact.