The Loach shushes through a twisty rock formation, close enough to strike a match, right behind the steer. Spike expertly balances on the seat, shifts his weight and props himself against the side of the cabin with a paw when necessary, his claws the reason for the seat’s scarred leather upholstery.
The steer clears the rock formation and sprints towards the open desert.
‘You’re just gonna die out there, little fella.’ The turbine whines as Corey yanks the Loach into a sharp climb, then drops it in front of the animal, a metre off the deck. The steer stops dead.
It’s a stand-off.
The steer breaks left. Corey works the controls, blocks it. ‘Tape.’ Spike rummages in the pile of rubbish within the passenger’s foot well and finds a grubby cassette tape with ‘BM’ scratched on the case. He bites down on it then slots it into the tape deck under the instrument panel. The tape deck autoplays and from the speaker attached to the fuselage blares: ‘Copa — Copacabana —’
Startled, the steer instantly pivots and gallops back from where it came. Corey grins. ‘Nothing gets past Barry Manilow.’ He works the controls and the Loach climbs, follows the steer as it navigates the rock formation then slots through a break in the fence and trots back to a large herd of cattle. Corey kills the song and unhappily studies the broken fence. ‘Gonna have to fix that today.’
He swings the Loach around and notices a glint on the horizon. The dawn sun blinks off something distant, deep in the arid, uninhabited no-man’s-land of the Northern Territory.
Spike barks.
‘I’m not blind, mate, I can see it.’ Corey sets the Loach in a hover, slides his Randolphs to the top of his head, pulls a tarnished telescope from the leather pouch attached to the side of his seat which also houses his field knife, then pushes the telescope to his eye and focuses. The glint is closer but no clearer.
‘Whatever it is, it’s miles out. Should we go have a look-see?’
Spike growls.
The dog’s right. Corey knows they don’t have time for it, there’s too much to do today. Incredibly, after the mortifying scene at Les Whittle’s the other day, Les felt bad and hired him for a job. It was a one-off that wasn’t booked through the usual tourist operators so Les could offer it without concern.
Corey decides to forget about the glint on the horizon. He replaces the telescope in the pouch, slides his sunnies back on, works the controls and guides the Loach towards a collection of large hay bales. There’s a dozen and they need to be distributed across Clem Alpine’s sprawling cattle station. The drought has bitten hard over the last six months and the hay kept the cattle fed. Some of the rocky terrain was impassable for wheeled vehicles so Corey moved the feed with the Loach.
He glances at the horizon again. The glint is still there.
A bark.
Corey drags his eyes from the glint. ‘Yep, I’m on it.’
A five-centimetre-wide hole has been cut into the floor between the Loach’s two front seats. Above the hole is mounted a large electric winch with a fat, sky-blue Dynamica rope wrapped around it. At the end of the rope is a carabiner attached to a big hook. Corey flicks a switch on the winch and the hook drops towards a hay bale, wrapped in wire cord with a large loop at the top.
Corey’s eyes move to the glint on the horizon. It twinkles and glistens. Curiosity gets the better of the pilot. He works the winch and retracts the hook.
Spike growls.
‘But they might need our help.’ Corey knows that Spike knows this is nothing but a lame excuse. Of course if someone needs help they’ll assist in any way they can, but the real reason Corey wants to fly out to no-man’s-land is that when he sees something shiny in the distance he always thinks it’s treasure.
It’s been that way for as long as he can remember. He was the kid who would traverse 50 metres of thorny thicket to discover if what glittered was gold. It never was, of course. It was a discarded piece of tin or a shard of glass reflecting the sun. Never the diamond he hoped for, never the gold. Even so, he can’t help but think there will come a day when it is a diamond or it is gold or something equally valuable. This glinting object might be an abandoned car he can salvage. He’s always wanted a ‘67 Mustang. Or something that fell off an aircraft that he can sell, like an engine of something. Or maybe it’s a UFO. He always thought he’d make an excellent ambassador for planet Earth.
His head swimming with the possibilities, Corey swings the Loach around, throttles up and sets sail for that glint on the horizon.
17
Seven marines dressed for combat stride across the airfield at the naval air station in Pensacola, Florida. Bringing up the rear is Severson Burke. He tugs at his collar, tight against his neck, and grimly studies the Greyhound. It’s not a member of the canine family but a stubby, twin-engined aircraft built by Northrop Grumman. Its turboprops splutter to life.
Severson’s not happy and it’s that 24 carat prick Thompkins’ fault. He’d always considered Severson a rival so his first order of business as head of the Atlantis recovery mission was to dispatch him far from Houston, to be his ‘eyes in the Pacific’ as a ‘liaison’ officer attached to a marine unit. Severson would be miles from the action and any chance of contributing to Atlantis’s recovery, or at least being seen to contribute, before the investigation into the hijacking began. The only job that was worse was the one Judd had been given in Central Australia.
The marines stride up the Greyhound’s cargo ramp and enter the aircraft. Severson stops at the entrance. His collar feels even tighter than before. A prickly sweat breaks out across the back of his neck.
‘Major Burke?’
Severson turns to the approaching marine. Late twenties, blond, stolid features and a foghorn voice that somehow mashes the inflection of southern gentry with the urban rhythms of Fiddy Cent.
‘Sorry I’m late, sir; needed to collect our orders. I’m Captain Mike Disser and I couldn’t be happier that you’re joining us.’
Jesus Christ, this kid’s voice is loud. Severson nods dully. ‘Yes, yes, good.’
‘It’s an honour to work with the first marine pilot to fly the space shuttle, sir. You’re a legend in the corps.’
‘I am?’
‘I would not lie to you, sir.’
Severson’s sure of it. Disser turns to his seated squad and honks over the roar of the Greyhound’s turboprops. ‘Hey, we got ourselves a bonafide, genuine marine astronaut hero in the house. Give it up for Severson Burke! This man’s been to space, ladies.’
The marines erupt in hoots and hollers, their faces abeam with old-school pride. Suddenly Severson feels better. He holds up his hands like a victorious politician half-heartedly tamping down an enthusiastic crowd. ‘Please, please, you’re too kind. Really.’
The hoots and hollers morph into applause. Severson just loves applause, it’s his favourite sound in the world. It rolls on, momentarily drowning out the Greyhound’s engines. ‘Oh, come on, that’s not necessary.’ He laps it up but knows they wouldn’t be clapping if they knew the truth.
The applause slowly dies away. Disser takes a seat at the rear of the cabin but Severson doesn’t move from the entrance. Everyone stares at him. Disser points at the empty spot beside him. ‘Sir, it’d be an honour it you’d park it here.’
Severson nods, takes a breath, nods again, takes another breath then steps into the Greyhound and stiffly makes his way to the seat beside Disser. He sits down, watches the Greyhound’s rear hatch whine shut then whispers a private affirmation to himself: ‘I can do this.’