with yo’ ah’m gunna break yo buddy’s arms.’ Carmody continued to walk cat-like towards the showers.
‘Hey, hey, here’s Lazarus. You notice how these tin-tanks are always full of crap? You know Scotty, if bullshit was electricity, this prick could almost be a power station.’
Despite his levity, Fox was sizing up his opponent and respected what he saw. He would let Carmody make the first move – there was a tenuous advantage in the American’s anger. That Carmody was ignoring contest rules bespoke his humiliation at being transported to base in a car boot. Fox tucked the towel around his naked frame and waited. This was going to have to be quick and dirty but without too much injury. Carmody stopped about a metre from Fox, his face pale and mask-like, another danger sign. Tuned in, Fox stared into Carmody’s eyes, dense with concentration. Without warning, Carmody delivered a turning kick outwards and upwards at Fox’s throat. Fox blocked and imprisoned Carmody’s boot, stepped backwards and viciously yanked him off balance. Falling to the wet, slippery floor, Carmody twisted to break the fall with his hands. Before he could recover, Fox stamped on Carmody’s other leg and gave the one he held a mighty upwards jerk. All three heard the clear snap of Carmody’s adductor muscles as they tore from the pubic bone in his groin. A deep moan of anguish followed. Carmody lay still on the wet floor, immobilised by searing pain.
‘I don’t like being called a coon and I don’t like people who can’t stick to the rules. Next time, I’ll break both your arms. Keep out of our way!’
Unhurriedly, Neal and Fox dressed in their purloined running gear and, taking three tennis balls found in one of the lockers, left the gym. Jogging at a steady pace, they headed in the opposite direction to the Command Centre, a room within the main administration block fronting the runway. Circling streets around the base, they chatted and bounced a ball back and forth between them as they ran. They drew little attention. Despite the current exercise, daily life at the base continued as usual.
Jogging past the ops centre, they drew cold, professional stares from marines guarding the three entrances. Continuing their circuit, they passed the guards a second time twenty minutes later. On their third circuit, they positioned themselves to pass within a pace of the two marines at the main entrance to the ops centre. Five paces from the marines, laughing and still bouncing the ball, Fox applied a spin that made it whizz between the heads of the marines. As they turned to see what had happened, they were savagely felled by Fox and Neal who leapt upon them. The two continued their charge at full pace through the door and left down a short corridor to the Command Centre. There, they bounced their remaining tennis balls into the midst of the Directing staff and bawled, ‘Wipeout! You’ve all been blown up.’
CHAPTER 11
1985
‘Come,’ barked Major John Hoey to the soft knock at his door. Corporal Colin Fox entered and snapped to attention before his desk. ‘At ease Fox. Sit.’ Hoey, at fifty years of age, was a highly respected administrator and renowned as a fearless soldier. His personal credo was shaped by an oft repeated phrase: ‘substance flows from action.’ His piercing blue eyes examined the world from a calm, strong face and his presence filled the room.
‘Been going through your file, Fox. Impressive. Got a bit of “go” about you. I like that. And you’re quiet with it. I note quite a few entries here concerning your contribution to our knowledge and understanding of Aboriginal food and customs. Bloody good! It builds on work by Elder Sam Woolagoodja and Major Les Hiddens. I must confess too – and Chatham House Rules apply here – I pissed myself laughing when you took out that snooty nosed Holmes in Tar Pot last year. Sometimes, the oldest and least complex strategies work best. Trouble with the bloody yanks is, they think they’re God’s gift to the world. If, as I have, you study their history in war, you’ll find arrogance is their achilles.’
Fox sat quietly, wondering what was coming. This summons had come yesterday, during an exercise at Rottnest Island off the Western Australian coast. Being there depressed him. Between 1838 and 1931 Rottnest had held more than three thousand Aboriginal prisoners. Boys as young as eight were incarcerated with men in their seventies under brutal conditions. Taken from all over Western Australia, there was no common language, dialect or custom between them. Shackled at the neck and ankles by chains, 370 souls had perished and still, the Western Australian Government equivocated about properly recognising their burial place. It had been a period of unbridled and sadistic savagery and Fox found the government’s lethargic attitude beyond belief. He was there because he had to be, but didn’t like it.
He did, however, like Hoey. Hoey was a “straight-up” bloke who spoke the truth and pulled no punches.
Hoey peered at the file before him. ‘I see when you joined us three years ago you said you hoped you might get to England for professional development one day. Would next month suit?’
Fox’s even features cracked into a broad smile. ‘Yes sir. It certainly would! Do you mind if I ask a question?’
‘Speak,’ smiled Hoey.
‘Well, it’s just … this is … unexpected. I mean … there’s been nothing on the radar about professional development for any of us.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Hoey laughed. ‘Don’t tell me we’ve actually managed to keep a secret.’ He laughed again. ‘As you know Fox, we’ve been through trying times over the last couple of years. Army recruitment has been falling and our traditional recruitment base for the SASR is the army. We’ve just been authorised to raise another squad but, as you can imagine, finding the right people is bloody difficult. We’ve had modern equipment on order for so damn long it’s nearly a memory. Now it looks as if direct public recruitment to the SASR will get the nod and, our new equipment is beginning to arrive. But that’s not why you’re here. Apart from telling you about the UK, there’s something else I want to raise and I want you to indulge me a little. I know your training fully covers origins of terrorism. I, however, have a particular view of things that’s not always appreciated and I believe you are the kind of person who can take it on board. I want you to think about these things when you are overseas.’
Fox was intrigued – he sensed an aspect of Hoey that perhaps was revealed only among trusted friends and felt honoured. Moreover, he sensed that Hoey was settling in for discussion of a subject dear to him.
Tilting his head, Hoey gazed reflectively at the ceiling. Patiently, Fox waited.
‘Terrorism,’ started Hoey in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, ‘has been around a bloody long time – at least from the first century when zealots tried to annihilate the Romans. It will never go away. We all know, or think we do, the reasons for terrorism: destruction of governments, nullifying opponents, polarising unity, subjugating by fear and popularising the terrorist cause. Motivating all of that is the toxic and heady cocktail of ideology and politics. That’s how it’s been since the days of the French Revolution. And, as you know, any means is used to effect terror – bombings, hostage taking, arson, rape, armed attacks and horrendous forms of murder.’ He paused, a wry smile upon his lips. ‘Even we, in Australia, contributed to the terrorist arsenal. Did you know the pipe bomb used by so many of our mad friends is attributed to the Eureka rebellion at Ballarat in 1854? Strange how these things can bite you on the bum. But Fox, terrorism is an interesting term.’
‘How do you mean sir? We don’t seem to have too much difficulty understanding it.’
‘I’m sure you don’t because here, we are mainly concerned with action, not the origins of terrorism. And that’s okay – action is our role. When we get involved, we are inevitably dealing with a situation demanding an immediate solution.’
‘So
