The One Tree test had been an unmitigated success. Operation Buffalo was off to an excellent start.

In the beer garden and canteen at Maralinga, those fortunate enough to have witnessed the event were the envy of others.

‘You could actually feel it! The heat! Incredible!’

‘And the shock waves! Like a bloody great punch in the back!’

‘Yeah, you wouldn’t believe it, would you? Nearly knocked me off my feet.’

Men could talk of nothing else, and the luckless ones who’d been far from the action were already volunteering for duties that would get them as near as was humanly possible to the front-line of the next firing.

There were to be three more detonations over the ensuing month, and, weather conditions permitting, the next test, codenamed Marcoo, was barely one week away. Life had taken on a new meaning for the men of Maralinga. Boredom had become a thing of the past.

In the main conference room of the Australian Government Information Office (AGIO), situated on the second floor of an attractive Georgian building in Rundle Street, Adelaide, Nick Stratton was happy with the way things were going. It was two days after the firing, and this was the first of the open press conferences that would follow the four tests that constituted the Buffalo series. AGIO would play host to the conferences and Nick would be the principal spokesperson at each, with perhaps an occasional representation from AWTSC, or even an appearance from Sir William Penney himself, should it be deemed necessary. At the moment, however, all was going smoothly.

Nick was acquainted with most of the Australian press in attendance, and he’d met the five British journalists who were covering the series two days previously, at the One Tree firing. It had been instantly evident to him that all five were the variety of press he referred to as ‘tame’ – clearly the British had vetted their own with great care. He had expected as much, but was thankful nonetheless. Nick himself had selected the Australian journalists who’d been invited to observe the detonation, and he’d been most stringent in his choice. The rules had been made abundantly clear to all. Ego-driven, investigative reporters who liked to cause trouble and those with a tendency towards sensationalism would not be tolerated. Any newspaper journalist privileged to witness a test firing did so with the joint per mission of the British and Australian governments and, as a specially invited guest, was expected to toe the line.

He was relieved now to discover that at this first major conference, the press at large appeared willing to behave responsibly and observe the rules. He’d anticipated some possibly tricky questions, but his answers to even those queries that could have become issues had been met with a ready acceptance. He presumed, and correctly so, that this was because each of the journalists was hoping to be on his next invitation list.

‘Has there been any radioactivity detected outside the restricted area of Maralinga, Colonel?’

Nick recognised the journalist – Bob Swindon of The Sydney Morning Herald – not one of those invited to observe the test firing, and not one of those likely to be. Bob was a good journo whose work Nick respected under normal circumstances – but these were not normal circumstances.

He responded in the respectful fashion he’d always found to be effective. ‘As you know, Mr Swindon, I’m not at liberty to release the specifics of any scientific data, but I can most definitely assure you that there has been no threat whatsoever to surrounding areas.’

The answer came smoothly – he was, after all, speaking the truth. The reports he’d received had stated categorically that the levels of radioactivity, which had been detected over vast distances, were minimal and presented no particular threat. Nick firmly agreed that any overreaction would be pointless scaremongering.

‘Stringent safety measures were maintained at all times, and we can rest assured that these safety measures will continue to be maintained throughout the series,’ he said.

He wasn’t one hundred per cent sure on that particular score, but that’s what he’d been told, and he could only hope like hell it was true.

 

Maurie and Len weren’t at all sure about the safety measures. In fact, Maurie, for all of his former braggadocio, had been severely shaken by the events that had ensued upon their return to base.

As ordered, they’d landed the Canberra at the south end of the runway, where the air-sample canisters attached to its wings were to be released for examination. Guided by ground crew, Maurie had taxied the aircraft into position, but several minutes later, when he and Len had opened the hatch, they’d found themselves confronted by men in goon suits and gas masks.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Maurie had muttered.

‘Remain in the aircraft,’ one of the goon suits had ordered, and the two of them had closed the hatch and stayed rigid in their seats, not daring to move a muscle.

The following sequence of events had taken on a surreal quality, like watching a B-grade science fiction film, Maurie had thought. Or, worse still, like observing something you suspect is about to become your own personal nightmare. Tractor-like machines with electronic arms had approached the aircraft from either side, men in goon suits operating the machines with deft precision. The electronic arms had carefully detached the air-sample canisters from the Canberra’s wings and deposited them in open lead-lined boxes. The boxes had then been closed and locked by further men in goon suits, and loaded aboard a truck to be taken away for radiochemical analysis, after which the washing-down process of the aircraft had begun.

It had been around this time that the science fiction film had taken its nightmarish turn, raising a series of questions in Maurie’s mind.

Why aren’t we in goon suits, he’d wondered, looking at his and Len’s khaki combination overalls – we’re the ones who were up there. The plane’s not airtight – hell, it’s not even pressurised. And then he’d noticed that the regular servicemen hosing down the aircraft were in shorts and shirts, and that jets of water were bouncing right back at them. Why aren’t they in goon suits? There’s something they’re not telling us, he’d thought with a quick glance at Len, who, wide-eyed beside him, was plainly thinking the same thing.

‘Step down from the aircraft,’ the chief goon suit had ordered, and Maurie and Len had climbed out of the cockpit.

As they’d jumped to the ground, Maurie had noticed the channel of black sludge making its way to the nearby soak-away ditch, but he’d become quickly distracted by the Geiger counter that had been held up to him and the fact that the needle was going off the dial. The Geiger counter being run over Len was doing the same thing. And then the nightmare had become a reality for them both as they’d been put through the showers. Again and again they’d been ordered to scrub themselves, harder and more vigorously each time. Over and over, their skin turning a raw pink, until finally their body readings had been reduced to a level of ‘reasonable acceptance’.

To the scientists conducting the examination, the level of ‘reasonable acceptance’ plainly meant that the safety measures had been observed. But Maurie and Len had been left with the distinct impression that there was a discrepancy between the safety measures in place for the scientists and those in place for the average serviceman at Maralinga.

 

Following the discovery of an Aboriginal family who’d wandered through the blast area two days after the firing, a spotter with field glasses was placed a mile or so from ground zero to keep watch. His job was to radio a warning to the patrol team should anyone, white or black, unwittingly approach the contaminated site.

Holy Mother of God, young Paddy thought as he gazed through his field glasses. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Eighteen-year-old Private Paddy O’Hare of the Royal Engineers had laboured on the construction of the tower. He hadn’t been fortunate enough to score a front seat at Roadside and therefore witness the firing, but he’d seen the site in all its glory prior to the test. The ninety-foot aluminium tower had been a splendid sight in Paddy’s eyes. There it had stood, a giant modern marvel in primitive scrubland, a testament to man’s invention. Paddy had been proud that he’d played a part in it, minor though that part may have been.

But where was the tower now? Indeed, where was the scrubland? Every scrap of vegetation had been annihilated and in its place was a shiny, black-green surface, like glass. Paddy recalled the talk in the beer garden. One of the Australians who’d been at Emu Field had told them about ‘bomb glaze’. So this was it, he thought. But surely there’d be a bit of the tower left, wouldn’t there? Just a bit. He scanned the area with his field glasses. Perhaps he was looking in slightly the wrong direction, or perhaps he wasn’t looking closely enough. But try as he might, Paddy could find no shred of evidence that the tower had ever existed. The ninety-foot aluminium edifice from which the bomb had been suspended had been fused into nothing.

Holy Mother, he thought, so this was what the black family with their little kiddies had walked through, barefoot and barely clad. No wonder the boffins had decided to set up a watch.

 

‘Do you have any idea what that would have done to them psychologically? A primitive people like that? They’d never even been in a truck before, let alone been showered and scrubbed! The woman was pregnant, for Christ’s sake!’

Daniel and Pete were sitting outside the barracks in their canvas chairs with the mugs of tea Daniel had brought back from the mess. It was lunchtime, and Pete, who had just returned from the DC/RB area, clearly needed to get things off his chest. Daniel said nothing, just let him rave on.

‘The woman was terrified out of her wits. By the time they called me in there, she was virtually catatonic – I couldn’t get through to her at all. They’ve piled the whole family into a truck now, and they’re driving them to the mission at Yalata. They’re Yankuntjatjara people who were heading for the soak at Ooldea – Yalata’s hundreds of miles from their own lands. They shouldn’t have been put through this ordeal. It’s wrong! It’s so bloody wrong!’

Daniel was wondering what possible alternatives the military or the scientists could have come up with. The family would have had to go through the decontamination process, no matter how terrifying – they’d been exposed to radiation. To return them to their own lands would have been physically impossible, and Ooldea, commandeered by the army as a water source, was closed off to all. Yalata, a hundred miles to the south, was the nearest mission, and surely the only option, particularly for the pregnant woman. Pete was being unrealistic, Daniel thought, and the reason was patently obvious.

‘It may be wrong, but it’s not your fault.’

Pete’s angry tirade came to a halt. He hadn’t yet allowed himself time to feel guilty, but the kid, of course, was spot on. The military patrol officers under his guidance should have discovered the family well before there’d been any risk of exposure.

Daniel continued in earnest. ‘You do everything that’s humanly possible, Pete. Your men can’t cover every inch of this terrain.’

‘They’d hardly have needed to cover every inch in this case.’ There was an unpleasantly sarcastic edge to Pete’s reply. ‘The family was travelling slowly, with children and a pregnant woman – they must have been in the vicinity for days.’

‘You said yourself they have a talent for making themselves invisible.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I did. And it’s true. Which makes it their own bloody fault really, doesn’t it.’ He shrugged. ‘Ah well, there’s bugger all I can do about it now.’ He stood and tipped his tea out onto the ground. ‘I need a drink,’ he said, and he went into the donga to fill his mug from one of the many bottles of whisky he kept stashed away.

Once again, Daniel was left bewildered. Pete, with his mood swings from passion to indifference in a matter of seconds, remained a puzzling man. Much as Daniel had grown to admire him, he found Petraeus Mitchell possibly the most complicated person he’d ever met.

In truth, Petraeus Mitchell was not complicated. He was angry. He’d been angry throughout his entire life. He’d been angry that his father, after fighting in the Boer War, had re-enlisted fifteen years later and died at the Somme. Hadn’t one war been enough for the man? He’d been angry that the mother he’d adored, having been transplanted from her homeland and left with five children, had been literally worked to death by the age of forty-three.

But it was the army that had put the final seal on Pete’s anger, turning it from the frustration and regret of his youth to a true bitterness. Many of those who had served as coast watchers during the war and had lived to tell the tale had been left similarly disenchanted. For the job of a coast watcher was a dangerous and lonely one, with little or no backup. It was a job where a man, if discovered, found himself at the sole mercy of an enemy known to be merciless. The coast watcher was not looked after by his own. The fact that Pete had survived such a job for three long years had been nothing short of miraculous, but his time in the army had left him with a cynical view of the world. Look after number one had become his creed. If you don’t, no-one else will, because no-one else cares. And why the bloody hell should they?

It wasn’t a view he had held in the past. Despite the anger of his youth, he had never felt a disregard for others. To the contrary, the very anger of his youth had produced a passion to learn, to become the person his mother would have wished him to be.

Johanna Mitchell had been an inspiration to her youngest child. A highly intelligent woman and a skilled teacher, she’d encouraged him to mingle with the children of the black families who’d regularly visited their remote property. She’d instilled in him the lessons she’d learnt from her own parents, who had fought against the injustices wrought upon the South African native. There was much to be learnt from those who were different, she’d told her son, and the Aboriginal culture was the oldest in existence.

Pete had formed friendships with many of the young Unmatjera, a sub-group of the central desert people who’d inhabited the country near his home, and by the time he was twelve he’d spoken fluent Arrernte. When he was fifteen, his mother had encouraged him to sit for the GAE – the South Australian Government’s Ability Exams – an educational scheme that was shortly to be discontinued due to the Depression. The boy had been granted a scholarship and fresh doors had opened for him. From that moment on, Pete had known the path he wished to follow.

Johanna Mitchell, sadly, had not lived to see her youngest son further his studies of the Aboriginal culture they had both come to hold in such high regard. She had died shortly before his sixteenth birthday. She never saw him gain his degree in anthropology. She wasn’t there to share in his achievements as he worked alongside the young T.G.H. Strehlow, already recognised as one of the foremost authorities on the desert people of Australia. She was never to witness the similar form of recognition afforded her son in the ensuing years. But Johanna Mitchell had, nonetheless, been with him on every single step of his journey. That is, until the army had claimed him.

Following his experiences in New Guinea, even the influence that had governed his life from beyond the grave had become a source of annoyance to Pete. What was the point in trying to fulfil his mother’s dreams? The woman was dead, for God’s sake! And what purpose did her dreams serve anyway? He was of no value to the Aboriginal people; he was just a puppet in a chain of bureaucracy. So why bother caring? No-one else did. Anger continued to devour Petraeus Mitchell.

Pete reappeared with his mug of whisky and no further mention was made of the Aboriginal family, Daniel wisely avoiding the topic. If Pete wished to talk, then he would, although he may have dismissed the subject from his mind altogether – it was difficult to tell. He was surly, but then that didn’t really mean much. Pete was often surly.

 

Early the following morning, when Daniel awoke, Pete was nowhere to be seen. Then, fifteen minutes later, he came back from the ablutions block clean-shaven.

‘Very smart,’ Daniel said amiably, although he always found Pete a little odd without his stubble. Receiving only a grunt by way of reply, he slung his towel around his neck, grabbed his toiletry kit and set off for the ablutions block himself.

When he returned to the donga, Pete was nowhere to be seen and, as he wasn’t around at breakfast, Daniel presumed he’d left early in his patrol truck. It came as a surprise, therefore, to find the FJ Holden parked near the fettlers’ cottages.

‘That’s Pete’s utility,’ Daniel said to Gideon as he pulled the Land Rover up beside the corrugated-iron shed and stock-water tank that constituted Watson railway station. Behind them, in a swirl of dust, the two Bedford trucks came to a halt, and Gideon’s team started lifting out tarpaulins and ropes in readiness for loading and securing the crates of fresh supplies that would shortly arrive by rail from Adelaide.

Barely 200 yards from the siding stood the row of six asbestos-built houses with corrugated-iron roofs, supplied by the railroad as married men’s quarters for the fettlers employed to service the Trans-Australian Railway line. Forlorn, shabby and dilapidated, the houses were nonetheless the height of sophistication compared to the many rough-and-tumble fettlers’ camps dotted along the track at other remote sidings.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Daniel was puzzled. Pete’s utility was parked directly outside the second of the fettlers’ houses. But what business could he possibly have with the fettlers?

The question was rhetorical and Daniel expected no answer, but beside him Gideon smirked knowingly.

‘Well, good old Pete knows how to while away the time, doesn’t he? Half his luck, I say.’

Again, Daniel was puzzled. Why would Pete be whiling away the time? The Marcoo test was only a few days away. Surely he should be out in his patrol truck.

‘Wouldn’t mind being in his shoes,’ Gideon said with a touch of genuine envy. ‘She’s quite a looker. Trouble though – he’s asking for it in my opinion.’

‘What are you talking about?’

But Gideon appeared not to have heard. ‘He’s being rather blatant, I must say. Usually he parks closer to the siding so it looks as if he’s waiting for the train, but this time he’s right outside her house. Bold.’ Gideon obviously had his reservations about the wisdom of such a move.

‘Are you telling me Pete’s having an affair?’

They looked at each other, both equally surprised.

‘I assumed you knew. He’s been having a fling with the wife of one of the fettlers for months.’

Gideon wondered now why he had assumed Daniel knew. It was true the two men shared a donga and were friends of sorts, but Daniel was naive and Pete was secretive. There was no reason to believe that Daniel would guess or that Pete would tell. Oh well, too bad, he thought, the cat was well and truly out of the bag now so he might as well fill Dan in on the details. It may even prove to Pete’s advantage. Young Dan may be the one person capable of talking sense into the man. Pete Mitchell was playing a dangerous game.

‘The wife has an arrangement with the ganger,’ he explained. ‘She gives the chap a bottle of whisky – provided by Pete, of course – and Tommo, the ganger, sends her husband on one of the long trips down the track, which means he has to camp out. Sometimes he doesn’t get home for days – it’s an excellent set-up.’

Daniel regarded Gideon with suspicion. How could he possibly know this? Pete wouldn’t have told him. Pete was one of the few who didn’t particularly like Gideon Melbray – he found him a little too flashy.

But Gideon wasn’t giving away any personal secrets. ‘It’s true, whether you believe it or not.’ He shrugged carelessly. ‘Haven’t you ever wondered about the once-a-week shave? Why doesn’t the man grow a beard?’

Daniel’s expression was one of utter bemusement.

‘Ada’s the reason for the shave,’ Gideon said. ‘Ada Lampton.’

He remembered his own encounter with the woman. ‘You wouldn’t even need to bring a bottle of whisky, Gideon,’ she’d said. ‘There are other ways I can get around Tommo.’ He could well imagine there would be. ‘Come on, lover boy,’ she’d said, snaking her hips at him brazenly right out there in the open as the men unloaded the supplies from the train. ‘I’ve never had anyone as beautiful as you.’ But Gideon had resisted the advances of Ada Lampton with ease. Enticing though she was, she was far too dangerous. Ada was the sort who liked to cause trouble. Normally, her very danger would have added to her appeal in Gideon’s eyes, but given the current circumstances she was off limits. He was on a job and under strict orders. Gideon had no intention of disobeying Harold Dartleigh.

Across the long, flat desert plain, where the railway track disappeared and the land met the sky, a tiny puff of steam appeared.

‘Good grief, it appears the train’s going to be vaguely on time for once.’ Gideon opened the passenger door of the Land Rover. ‘Better rally the men, I suppose.’ But he made no move to get out. It was close to midday. Why stand in the sun any longer than necessary? And the men were squatting in the shade of the trucks having a smoke anyway – no point in disturbing them.

‘You’d be doing Pete Mitchell a favour if you warned him to be careful,’ he said with a nod in the direction of the Holden. ‘From what I’ve heard, Harry Lampton’s the worst of a bad bunch. It wouldn’t be a good idea to cross him.’

There was silence for a moment as they both looked at the shabby row of houses, where the only signs of life were several rangy yellow mongrels prowling amongst the shadows. The fettlers kept the ‘pig dogs’ for hunting kangaroo.

Gideon said no more on the subject, and Daniel made no comment, but he knew he wouldn’t act on Gideon’s advice, sensible though it might be. He couldn’t possibly intrude in such a way. He felt uncomfortable enough already, as though he’d been caught peeping through the keyhole of Pete’s personal life. Who was he to issue a warning in any event? Pete Mitchell, of all people, would be fully aware of the danger he was courting. The fettlers’ camps were known to attract tough, ruthless men of whom no questions were asked, for many were on the run from the law.

‘I need to stretch my legs,’ he said, and he got out of the Land Rover. He felt like a spy sitting there looking at Pete’s FJ Holden. Turning his back on the fettlers’ cottages, he walked over to chat to the men as they waited for the train. Daniel wished that he hadn’t been made privy to Pete’s secret.

Behind the tattered drawn blinds of the second cottage, Ada was performing her magic. Lean and taut-bodied, her olive skin shining with a hard-earned sweat, she rode him in steady rhythm, her muscles clenching and unclenching with systematic purpose, working him into her like a piston rod, not too fast, not too slow, they had a way to travel yet.

This was their second bout in less than an hour, and it would end ferociously as she rekindled in him a lust he would not have thought possible. He was no stud, he was a forty-year-old man, and a jaded one at that. But with Ada he was twenty and a stallion.

Their first bout of sex was always a form of torment. She’d rub her naked body against his, offering him every part of her, wantonly opening herself to him, her mouth, her thighs, her buttocks, but she wouldn’t allow him to stay in any one place too long. When she sensed him losing control, she’d deny all access, and then she’d eke out the delicious agony with her lips and her tongue, teasing him to a point almost beyond endurance, always knowing when to stop, and how to halt the final moment before continuing. Only when he could take no more would she give herself to him, and the final shuddering of his climax would come as an exquisite relief.

She would allow just enough recovery time for a whisky and a cigarette. She’d fetch a fresh bottle from the secret stock – the stock with which he kept her regularly supplied and of which her husband knew nothing. Then, when they’d finished their whisky and smoke, she’d initiate the second bout. He never quite knew how he came to manage the second time, but he always did. Ada was an expert.

Today, her teasing had taken on the broader dimension of a demand for entertainment, as happened on the occasions when she was particularly bored.

‘I want to go for a drive,’ she’d said when he’d first arrived.

Pete had heaved a sigh of reluctance. ‘Sure,’ he’d replied, although all he wanted was the sex. God, just the sight of her was enough to make him hard. It wasn’t her beauty, although in her late thirties she was still good-looking, with a touch of the exotic inherited from her Indonesian father. It was the aura of the woman, and the thought of the sexual heights her mouth and her body could drive him to. Pete couldn’t get enough of Ada Lampton.

‘A drive it is then.’ He’d ignored the twinge of guilt he felt at wasting more of the day when he should have been out on patrol.

He’d driven along the rough fifteen mile service track that ran beside the railway line from Watson to Ooldea, Ada urging him to go faster, dust swirling in their wake. She’d laughed whenever they’d hit a soft pocket of sand, the Holden slewing to one side, Pete wrestling the wheel.

‘Faster,’ she’d urged. ‘Go faster.’

‘We’re not likely to bump into your husband, I take it?’ It’d be just his luck to find Harry Lampton working the track between Watson and Ooldea, Pete had thought.

‘Nah.’ Ada obviously had no such qualms. ‘Tommo’s sent him way down the line – he won’t be back for days.’ She’d put her hand on his crotch. ‘Come on, lover boy,’ she’d said, the touch of her fingers producing an immediate erection, ‘go faster …’

He’d driven like a maniac to Ooldea, not only to please her but in order to get her back to the cottage and into bed.

During the return trip to Watson she’d continued to play with him, bringing him close to the point of ejaculation, then stopping and playing with herself instead, pulling her skirt up around her waist, exposing herself to him – she never wore panties – and he’d nearly driven off the track.

He’d pulled up beside the cottage and waited for her to get out so that he could park the vehicle over near the siding as usual.

‘Leave the ute here,’ she’d said.

He’d hesitated. Then her hand was on him yet again, and yet again he’d felt himself instantly harden.

‘The men are all at work, there’s no train due, and I need to fuck,’ she’d said.

Stuff the ute, Pete had thought. He hadn’t been able get out of the car quickly enough.

The second bout now nearing its conclusion, he rolled her onto her back and was pounding himself into her when he heard the train. He dimly recalled that she’d said there was no train due, but the responsive thrust of her hips signalled she was on the verge of orgasm, which drove him to fresh heights and his mind became blanketed to all but the frenzy of their coupling. Then her fingernails were raking his back and the crescendo of her moans was mingling with his own animal grunts, and suddenly it was over.

She recovered herself in a matter of seconds, and stood to peer through the slit of the torn canvas blinds at the train that had just pulled into the siding.

He sat up, still fighting for breath. ‘You told me there was no train due,’ he said.

‘I forgot.’ The lie was blatant, but she shrugged with unashamed indifference.

Ada’s gaze was focused on the man in charge of the team about to unload the crates. God, Gideon was beautiful. She willed him to look in her direction. And he did. She could have sworn he looked right into her eyes. She was aware that he wouldn’t actually be able to see her, but she’d put money on the fact that he was fantasising about her. He would know exactly what was going on inside the cottage – he would have seen Pete’s ute, as had been her intention. At this very moment he would be wishing like hell he’d accepted her offer, she thought with smug satisfaction. Then she noticed that quite a number of the other men were glancing in the direction of the house. They would all have seen the ute, and no doubt they were all fantasising about having her. The thought excited Ada immeasurably.

Pete stood and joined her. ‘Shit,’ he muttered as he peered through the blind and saw Daniel. Twice in the past when he’d failed to avoid the train’s arrival, he’d seen Gideon and his men, but on both occasions another officer of the transport corps had been with the team. Why did the kid have to turn up on the very day he’d parked directly outside Ada’s cottage, damn it! The fact annoyed Pete intensely, although he wasn’t sure why. Did it really matter if the kid knew of his tawdry arrangement with the fettler’s wife? Or was he angered at being caught out neglecting his duty? Whatever the reason, Pete felt strangely guilty, as if he’d let young Daniel down in some way.

‘Why the hell did you lie, Ada?’ He took his anger out on the woman. ‘You bloody well knew about the train. Why did you lie?’

‘Don’t you like your mates knowing what you’re up to, Pete?’ She didn’t even bother answering the question, preferring to tease him instead. ‘You should be proud – they’ll be green with envy. They’ve all seen me around, they all want to fuck me.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ The bitch had set him up deliberately, he thought. This was a sexual game to her.

Unconcerned, Ada continued gazing out at the siding. ‘They’ll be a while unloading, so you might as well stay.’ She turned to him with a predatory smile. ‘Why don’t we have another whisky, lover boy? Maybe I can get you up and going for a third round, what do you say?’

Aware of his anger, she was goading him. If she couldn’t arouse him sexually a third time, which was doubtful, then she’d work him up for a fight, the way she did Harry. The ability to anger men to the point where they lost control was another power that excited Ada. She considered the odd black eye and bloodied lip she suffered as a result a small price to pay for the alleviation of her boredom. Besides, it was something to boast of to the other wives. All five of them knew Harry belted her on occasions, just as they knew about her affair with the patrol officer, but they would never betray her. There was a code of honour amongst the fettlers’ wives. They admired Ada’s guts.

‘Come on, lover boy, let’s see what you’re made of.’

Her fingers reached down to take hold of him, but Pete wasn’t in the mood for her games. He belted her across the face with the back of his hand, taking her by surprise – he’d not hit her before. She staggered sideways, crashing heavily into the pine dresser.

‘Bugger you, Ada,’ he said, pulling on his clothes and reaching for his boots. ‘You’re more trouble than you’re worth. You can go to hell!’

Seconds later, he stormed out of the cottage, tripping over one of the kangaroo dogs, which bared its yellow fangs at him. He kicked the dog and climbed into his utility without a glance at the train or the men. Bugger Daniel too, he thought. He wasn’t the kid’s father, for Christ’s sake.

Behind him he heard Ada’s laughter. ‘You’ll be back,’ she called mockingly. And Pete knew she was right. He was obsessed, not only with Ada but with the escape she offered.

 

Back at the barracks that night, it was clear that the relationship between Pete Mitchell and Daniel Gardiner had undergone a change. Neither mentioned the subject of the fettler’s wife, but somehow she formed a barrier between them. Daniel was uncomfortable about having inadvertently discovered Pete’s secret, which he considered none of his business, and Pete wrongly interpreted the younger man’s discomfort as disappointment in a father figure he’d come to respect. Both men felt guilty – and both for the wrong reasons.

 

The fourth of October dawned with favourable weather conditions, and the meteorologists predicted little change. The test was scheduled for late afternoon. The hourly countdown to Marcoo was now under way.

‘Jeez, we’ll be in with a bird’s eye view, eh, Col?’

‘Bloody oath we will, mate.’

‘It’ll be something to write home about, I reckon.’

‘Too right it will – if you want to end up court-martialled.’ Col Rogerson laughed and his mate, Bud Barton, joined in.

Privates Michael ‘Bud’ Barton and Colin Rogerson were only two in the group of Australian, British and Canadian servicemen excited by the prospect of getting closer to the blast. A number of their regiments’ middle-ranking officers had signed up to be part of the newly formed Commonwealth Indoctrination Force, which, under cover and protectively clad, would stand only a mile or so from ground zero. The group of general servicemen, around forty in all, was to be positioned a further one mile back from the front-line force, and they were to be dressed in varying styles of uniform. The intention was to test whether conventional battledress was adequate for nuclear war. All those taking part in the operation had been assured of its safety; there would be no risk of overexposure, they had been told, as they would be placed upwind of the fallout. The prospect of being in on the action had been eagerly embraced by those fortunate enough to have been assigned the task.

Preparations similar to those for the One Tree test had been made. The site had been pegged out so that, following the blast, radioactivity in the soil could be tested at varying distances, and animals and equipment had been strategically positioned, also at varying distances from ground zero. The differing factors in the Marcoo test were the absence of a tower – the bomb was to be exploded at ground level – and the direct involvement of soldiers for experimental purposes. As the nuclear device was far smaller than the One Tree bomb, with a predicted yield of only one and a half kilotons, this practice was deemed quite within the safety measures.

As before, hundreds assembled in order to witness the detonation, but the excitement engendered amongst those at Roadside could not match that of the servicemen gathered just two miles from the blast.

‘Fingers crossed, eh,’ Bud muttered jokingly to Col, although, if the truth be known, he was just the tiniest bit apprehensive.

‘Bloody oath, mate – who wants to get fried,’ Col replied, which didn’t help Bud’s nerves.

Col himself wasn’t nervous at all – he was excited. Why shouldn’t he be? They weren’t at war. The army wouldn’t put them in this position if there was any risk, and it was sure as hell something to tell his girlfriend about when he got back to Perth. Bugger the Official Secrets Act – he’d swear her to his own oath of silence the way only he could. Marge’d do anything for him. But then he’d do anything for Marge.

They were standing at ease, as commanded, and Col glanced around at his fellow servicemen, who were divided into three groups according to the uniforms they were wearing. He and Bud and their mob were in cotton khaki drill, another bunch was in battledress serge, and the third lot was in gabardine combat suits. It seemed to Col that his mob, in their lightweight uniforms, had copped the raw end of the deal, but he wasn’t particularly bothered. They had all been issued with the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment combination underwear, guaranteed to provide protection.

One minute to go.

At Roadside, the crowd stood motionless as the voice counting down the seconds reverberated through the loudspeakers.

Two miles from ground zero, the soldiers also stood motionless as the sergeant barked out each passing second. Until …

‘Ten…’

Simultaneously, all turned their backs to the site and, as the countdown continued, all firmly placed the palms of their hands over their eyes, as instructed.

‘Two, one, zero…’

Then the blinding flash of the gamma rays. Even through closed and covered eyes, the spectators at Roadside were startled to see a sudden blaze of white. The men two miles from the blast, however, could see something far more sinister.

Bloody hell, Col thought. He heard himself gasp with shock, a quick intake of breath. They all heard themselves gasp as they saw the bones of their hands. Through their skin and their flesh, they could see their own skeletons, each bone clearly highlighted as if by X-ray. The sight was so distracting they barely noticed the wave of intense heat that followed.

Seconds later, they were ordered to brace for the shock wave, which, when it came, knocked several men over. Then they were ordered to face the bomb site.

In the distance, all vegetation had disappeared, and in its place was a yawning great crater, above which a burgeoning mushroom cloud billowed. Halfway between them and the crater, the men could see the indoctrination force emerge from cover in their protective suits. Officers from their own regiments, they thought, right there in the thick of it. But they were given no time to admire the sight. Their own job had just begun.

For the next forty minutes, the soldiers were given a variety of orders. Those in battledress serge and the gabardine combat suits were sent off in different directions with instructions to march through bushy areas ensuring their uniforms gathered as much contamination as possible. Those in cotton khaki drills were split into two groups, and both were ordered to crawl in the accepted military manner over a distance of thirty yards. The first group was to crawl over a barren, sandy area, and the second through spinifex grasses – it was later discovered that the grasses retained radioactive particles to a far greater degree than the soil.

Col Rogerson couldn’t help thinking that, once again, his mob had copped the raw end of the deal. But the next day, who cared? Over breakfast in the canteen, Col and Bud and the rest of them had the best of stories.

‘You could see the bones in your hands, honest. Like a bloody X-ray it was.’

‘Yeah. And just look at that.’

Those who’d been there compared the burns on the backs of their necks; blisters had already started to appear.

‘The scars of battle, mate,’ Col boasted, and they all laughed. Something to tell Marge about, he thought.