ANTARCTIC FIRE: A Harry Crook Thriller - Conspiracy in the Antarctic Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Map

  Introduction

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Antarctic

  Fire

  Chris Geater

  A Harry Crook Thriller

  Copyright © 2019 Chris Geater

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN- 9781672548663

  Cover Image -Antony Dubber - British Antarctic Survey

  For my old mate, Dudley Neville Perske

  Because he hates success stories.

  Introduction

  The Australian Antarctic Division embarked on a recruitment campaign in Autumn of each year, offering well paid, tax reduced positions to a broad spectrum of qualified persons. The only catch, a twelve month stint experiencing the brutal Antarctic winter where temperatures can fall to -89.2°C, the lowest temperature ever recorded on the planet. At this temperature accompanied by a stiff breeze, your skin can freeze within seconds and even eyeballs when facing the wind can become ice-blocks within a minute. If a bloke were to pee in such a climate, his urine would freeze before completing its fall and as the last dribble hit the snow his frozen penis would follow shortly thereafter.

  Michael Bentley began his adventure with an eight-day voyage from Tasmania in an ageing but comfortable icebreaker called ‘Aurora Australis’ and an hour long helicopter flight arriving at Australia's Davis Station on a beautiful clear early spring day. The first week filled with inductions, safety issues, survival, emergency drills added to his recent knowledge of this extreme environment gained during two weeks of Antarctic testing and training in Hobart. Once the new crew were comfortable with their positions and Davis re-provisioned, the incumbents boarded the vessel returning to Australia along with a couple of newbies who suddenly felt that the Antarctic was not for them after all, now that they’d seen it.

  Michael, or Diesel as he was affectionately known came from North West Queensland. A diesel mechanic by trade, he spent most of his working life, all ten years of it, on mine sites fixing and maintaining large equipment designed to move lots of dirt, rock and coal around as quickly as possible. His favourite past times were drinking, shooting, carousing and fishing. Although not necessarily in that order it often ended up that way most of the time.

  His job here in the Davis Station situated on the eastern shore of the continent in Princess Elizabeth Land was, unsurprisingly, a mechanic. Over summer there would be a dozen tradesmen but the winter crew reduced to five, an electrician, a plumber, a carpenter and two mechanical diesel fitters, one of which they designated him to become. The station relied upon its many and varied pieces of equipment to provide power, transport, heating and other aspects of survival in a land not really designed for humans. People living here could be compared to the occupants of a house living inside their air conditioner rather than the air-conditioned house itself.

  Michael did hold one unique talent, rum distillation, manufactured from anything, but usually sugar and potatoes. As was Micheal’s intention this skill did not make it onto his resume nor did it come up during his interviews with the Antarctic Divisions Psychologists.

  On inspection of the well equipped and well stocked mechanical/electrical workshop where no expense was spared, he quickly noticed its ample capability of producing a distillery of sufficient output. The garage where vehicles and mobile plant were maintained was located away from the main buildings allowing the mechanic a certain discretion in his activities. The plant and equipment, already immaculately maintained by the winter tradie needed little attention freeing Michael up for the first few weeks. He industriously set about making his ‘still’ whilst accumulating the necessary raw materials for batch number one.

  Michael’s commitment and dedication impressed the Station Leader who noticed that Michael spent many hours in the workshop and garage allegedly inspecting equipment to make sure that they were all in first class order for the heavy spring and summer use.

  The Spring thaw began and the outside temperature increased sometimes reaching a high of minus 10°C by the time the copper, glass and stainless steel conversion device began bubbling away. The small diesel flame flickering beneath the fermented concoction of food scraps, water and sugar, a beautiful sight to the budding chemist.

  Alcohol was limited to small quantities of wine and beer that the crew members were permitted to bring with them or that which was issued on special occasions. All said booze was stored in a ‘Fort Knox’, access to which could only be authorised by the station commander or second in command. Within a week of production Michael held in his possession three small bottles of first class over-proof rum, not Bundaberg by any means but jolly good stuff none the less. During his time on the base he befriended a like-minded individual known as Teresa, a station cook. Teresa wasn't a female, the feminine name came about due to a typo on his paperwork when he served in the Australian navy and stuck with him ever since.

  The two met in the workshop office late one evening with a view to critiquing the flavour and effects of the brew and noting where improvements could be made. This couple of rum sommelier greats guzzled two of the three small bottles leaving them almost senseless and in danger of alcoholic poisoning. They staggered outside to head for the accommodation but in the dark and with a small storm blowing they stumbled in the wrong direction becoming hopelessly lost in the process. With enough sense to remember that holding hands and walking in ever increasing circles improved survival odds, they sang and muttered to each other along the way.

  Teresa noticed something on the ground, a slight glow emanating from a small disc-like rock. He picked it up and handed it to Michael who shrugged his shoulders and fumbled the item into his thick jacket pocket. Minutes later a glow appeared around them, illuminating the airborne ice particles and the white ground beneath their feet. Michael could feel a warmth spreading through his body, pleasant and unexpected but obviously as a result of the fine rum. The glow began to flicker as the warm sensation became extreme pain and spread to his entire body. Teresa looked over, leapt back and fell into the snow, screaming. Michael ignited from head to toe, violent flames shot out his mouth and eyes and who in seconds was a mere black shrunken shape sinking into the melting ice of the Southern Ocean.

  Teresa stood and started to run, hysterical, almost sober from the horror. It was only good luck and certainly not good management that brought him back to the station. He stood next to a building under the external light, eyes wide with shock, gasping for air, mind foggy from the potent brew. The whole episode was just too surreal. How would he explain it? What would he say? Did it even happen? Couldn’t it have just been a hallucination from Michael’s home brew? Unable to figure it out due to lack of functioning brain cells he stumbled into the accommodation and went to bed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was a chilly Friday in Sydney, a cold breeze blew in from the south over the ocean bringing a stinging rebuke for any bare flesh. I hurried across Sydney’s Hyde Park looking for
ward to a heart warmer at the Crown Hotel on Elizabeth and Goulburn, one of my longtime haunts. The last eight hours at the Supreme Court left me drained and frustrated. It was a case of being in the right place at the right time or inversely depending on whether you were the defendant or the victim. Either way, I was an important witness for the prosecution which meant sitting in an uncomfortable chair drinking dispensed fake coffee and eating stale catered sandwiches for the last three days. In my opinion, life was too short for squandering in such a manner but other than facts, the court couldn't give a rats about my opinion.

  My phone vibrated but I didn't look to see who it was, that meant taking my hand out of my pocket and exposing it to the wind, I wasn't in a benevolent mood. The Crown, an old pub but redecorated regularly to suit the times, offered a warm refuge from the crisp afternoon. A gas fire in the corner, flames dancing on the imitation logs doing its best to portray the real thing radiated an impressive beam of heat towards the bar where I stood. In another life it wasn't uncommon for a few of us to meet at the Macquarie Hotel, a block over. That stopped when they changed the name to ‘Harpoon Harry’ and served Spanish barbecoa including spit-roast suckling pig with Aquas Fresco drinks and South American beer from the Aztec ceviche bar. We could have accepted all that, but the loud Latino music was the straw that drove us over to the Crown.

  I was a complete stranger to the girl behind the bar who looked all of sixteen.

  “What’ll you have?” she asked as she reached for a schooner glass assuming I would order a beer.

  “Rum an’ Coke,” I replied. I hate presumptuous teenagers.

  I chose an empty table, happy just to sit and enjoy some solo reminiscing and thawing. The phone vibrated again and in a gush of generosity I pulled it out. My boss had already called twice so I felt it prudent to answer.

  “Ahh, Harris, good of you to answer,” said Smurf in his best sarcastic tone. “Been trying to reach you, thought they might have locked you up, Contempt of Court or something.”

  Charles Murphy or Smurf as I called him for obvious reasons if you said his name quickly, currently my boss and mentor, previously more but that’s for another time.

  “No Charles, best behaviour. His eminence, Judge Watercress thought my testimony was helpful. Susan Grainger represented the defence so I was in good hands.”

  “Susan Grainger you say. Must have been a bit tense for you.”

  Susan and I had a little something not that long ago. We parted when it became apparent to the eminent solicitor that I was not the marrying kind and her biological clock, although still ticking sounded less distinct to me than to her.

  “She was less than gracious. I’m glad we prepared to the level of detail that we did.”

  “Yes, preparation is always the key.” Smurf waxing philosophical. To him, detail was divine.

  I waited for him to speak, he only called when there was a reason. Not because he was devoid of feeling or empathy, phones were for business. The other stuff he reserved for face to face.

  “Would like to chat to you, something interesting has come up.”

  “Okay,” I replied.

  “A bit out of the ordinary, just your thing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Unusual to say the least,” he added.

  I didn't reply. Smurf had a habit of explaining little while waiting for you to ask the right questions. He felt such repartee revealed your frame of mind and what you understood.

  “I’m on my way home Charles, can it wait? I’m in the mood for a spot of dinner and a quiet evening.”

  “Yes, of course,” always the gentleman our Smurf. “Wouldn’t want to put it off indefinitely though. Tempis Fugits and all that. Only a small window.”

  “I’ll come over,” I resigned.

  Taxis were in abundance in the CBD of Sydney on a Friday afternoon and it was only minutes before my person, secured in the rear of a yellow cab made its way to Paddington and the offices of Section 12. Smurf owned and ran the company, a Private Investigation firm that started its life pursuing errant husbands, and wives, gathering evidence that would lead to a straight forward settlement in favour of the innocent. There were rarely any innocents.

  Due to Smurf’s connections within Government and intelligence circles, the firm evolved from sleazy family matters to sensitive national problems. Gaining attention when we discovered an illegal nuclear fuel waste dump in central Western Australia, Section 12 found itself in demand, perfectly placed for those off-the-books investigations that required discretion and freedom from bureaucracy. Since that time the firm had been involved with several cases, one of which required my presence in the Supreme Court over the past few days.

  Arriving at the salubrious offices, I made my way up to the second floor where Sally, Smurf’s personal assistant poised, waiting to strike. Her stern face set in concrete welcomed me with the enthusiasm of a climate change scientist analysing data that revealed a cooling planet. I nodded, she glared. Apparently Sally gave birth to three children. My mind boggled as I thought of the conception, maybe it was immaculate. That a man gained permission to climb aboard such a creature fell outside the realm of my imagination. She probably ate him once the deed was done.

  Smurf sat behind his modest desk, a large monitor mounted on the wall behind him showed the image on his laptop when he chose. Google Earth at its most accurate showed a screen of mainly white interspersed with what appeared to be coastal geography. Only three names next to three red dots appeared on the satellite elevation, Davis, Progress and Zhongshan. Stations in the Antarctic, Davis was Australian and the nearby stations, Russian Progress and Chinese Zhongshan. It looked cold, something my chest didn't like. Two 7.62 rounds impacted my torso region a few years ago and for some reason cold air triggered a reaction in my lungs bringing on pain and breathlessness. Just looking at the screen changed my breathing pattern, placebo for sure but real none the less.

  I spun on my heels. “I’ll get Olivier,” a parting shot over my shoulder as I headed for the office door. Section 12 employed four investigators. Olivier, an ex-Australian Army MP investigator, ten years younger than me and far more suitable for anything as cold as that screen behind Smurf.

  “One moment please Harris,” Smurf returned fire before I even made it to the door. I stopped and turned, he was still my boss and also a man who had earned my respect.

  “I think you’ll find our discussion more than interesting, be a shame to miss out on possibly our most intriguing cases yet,” Smurf said placing the bait into the trap.

  I waited.

  “I can give it to Olivier if you like, not really an issue,” he said with a certain amount of indifference whilst setting the snare.

  “What’s it about, tell me some detail?” I asked circling the bait knowing it was a trap but unable to walk away.

  “Well, it’s not something I should discuss other than with the operative who will carry out the investigation,” he said giving the bait a nudge to ensure the aroma was as it should be.

  “I need more information to make an informed decision, assess the suitability of my skill set.”

  “Your skills are more than suitable for this particular case but I’m afraid I can’t say any more, fairly high on the ‘for your eyes only’ list, you understand. Olivier is in her office, you could ask her to come in on your way out if you like?”

  Smurf played his hornpipe as I danced to his tune. He could be such a manipulative old bastard but he is what he is and I sprung the trap.

  “Okay Charles, I’m in. What’s going on?”

  “Shut the door over, there’s a good chap.”

  I lived in a suburb called Glebe close to the centre of Sydney, an evolving suburb, too expensive for the original inhabitants who were now living two hours from the city instead of two minutes and now full of urbanites addicted to huge mortgages and avocado based lifestyles. Many of the buildings retained their facades whilst the interiors were completely renovated into modern energy conscious pa
laces. My old 1942 terrace had changed little since Mackerras Master Builders completed the construction and handed it over to the initial owners, the Postmaster-General’s Department. I inherited the house from my Mother who passed away several years prior, she couldn't have given me a more desirous gift. My upbringing in the family home comprised many adventures within and without along with great memories.

  An element of the old local colourful residents resisted Glebe’s transformation from an industrial waterfront workers paradise to an inner city vibrant hub and who often met at one of the local pubs known as the AB, formerly the Ancient Briton Hotel. The publican, Lionel Turnbull retired from his professorship at the Sydney University and purchased the AB with a view to retaining the original atmosphere of the classic Australian pub. A few of the characters who met here regularly had been around my life since I could remember, old waterfront workers, colleagues of my Father, they frequented our home often when he was alive.

  Dooley, Bobby Marsh and Stan sat at a table near the bar and the television. Dooley sat in his wheelchair, one leg missing complements of Vietnam in the early sixties. Bobby Marsh, a raconteur at heart regaled his old mates with an infinite number of stories. Whether truth ever got in the way no one was sure but his stories were always colourful.

  “I knew this copper who worked out Richmond way, he had some stories to tell. Once him and his offsider were called to an address where the lady of the house had complained about a someone snooping around her backyard. They turned up and found a bloke, pants around his ankles giving it to her black bitch Labrador. They arrested him and took him back to the station where he was charged with all sorts of weird stuff. When he was asked why he chose the black dog he said that he preferred brunettes.”

  Dooley snorted with delight at the story and Stan almost choked on his 7 oz glass of beer.

  Bobby continued, “Then they asked him if he did it to male dogs as well and the pervert got all indignant and cried out, 'What do you think I am, a homo?'”