Dirty Fracking Business (25 page)

It was 7.45am when the alarm went off on Harbrow’s clock radio and the theme music for the ABC’s national news resonated around his grossly-oversized bedroom. An excited young female reporter described the scene below her as utter chaos, with more than a hundred heavy transport rigs caught between two well-organised groups of protestors protecting landowners from the coal seam gas companies. He reached for the TV remote.

His face creased in a thin smile at the pandemonium he was witnessing. Truckies were congregating in groups around fires they’d built on the road to keep warm; placard-carrying protestors at either end of the convoy were hurling abuse at them; and the sky was thick with television and news helicopters. Three police cars, with lights flashing and sirens screaming, threw up a red dust storm as they sped towards the convoy. He’d known that Moira would fail, but this was more spectacular than he had dared hope for, and the unwanted publicity she had drawn to the industry would be extremely damaging. He would have no choice but to demand her resignation. While showering, he thought about what he was going to say when he phoned his co-directors. He would be sympathetic, but would ensure that they were not left in any doubt as to where the responsibility for this fiasco lay.

Josh was tired and testy and, other than
good morning,
hardly spoke to a relieved Sandi as they sped towards Tura. By the time they reached the rear of the convoy, there were seven rows of vehicles, mainly cars, four-wheel-drives and a few pick-ups, parked nose to bumper, five across the road, with stragglers starting an eighth row. Father Michael O’Rourke was in earnest conversation with Simon Breckenridge and Don Carmody while, on the other side of the road, about twenty men and women stood around a cut-down forty-four-gallon drum which Len Forrest had converted into a makeshift barbecue. The aroma of sausages and chops wafted through the air and Maggie Forrest stood next to her husband, buttering thick slices of bread. Billy McGregor, with a can of beer in hand, was sitting on the bonnet of his hot yellow Ford, which was parked in the middle of the front row; on either side were souped-up Holdens belonging to his mates. They were shouting at an overweight truckie dressed in an undersized blue singlet and black shorts, giving him hell about the size of his gut. Josh, still angry from the bollocking he’d received from the pompous superintendent, strode over to three of the pillars of Paisley’s society, with Sandi in close tow. ‘What do you think you’re playing at, Simon? You should know better. I want you to …’

‘Calm down laddie,’ the old priest interrupted. ‘We’re doing the Lord’s work. Do you object to that?’

Josh groaned, knowing there was no way he could win an argument against Father Michael. ‘You’re blocking the road, Father. What if there’s an emergency and someone needs to get out or an ambulance or a doctor needs to get in? Have you thought about that?’

‘If that was to occur, the cars would part like the Red Sea, my boy.’

‘Jeez, Josh, this is a peaceful demonstration against what would have been a violent land seizure.’ Simon Breckenridge said. ‘If you protected landowners, we wouldn’t need to be here.’

‘You can’t block the roads, Simon. I want you to tell everyone to move their cars or I’m going to have to arrest them. And, while you’re at it, why don’t you tell them the penalties they’re looking at.’

‘They know they could end up behind bars, Josh. Simple fact is that they’re sick of getting trampled on by the gas companies and they no longer care what happens to them. Anyhow, what makes you think they’re going to listen to me? I’m not their leader.’

‘Nor me,’ said Don Carmody. ‘I’m just a simple merchant banker and vineyard owner, here to support my neighbours.’

‘That leaves me,’ laughed Father Michael. ‘Sadly, I think there are a lot of heathens out here, so they’re hardly likely to heed anything I say.’

Jack Thomas’s decision to supervise operations out of Paisley had proved enlightened, because he would have found it hard to deny that he was their leader.

Josh felt less sure of himself. ‘You know you can’t win.’

‘Maybe not, Josh. But before this is over, all of Australia will know of our plight,’ Breckenridge replied.

‘Josh,’ Len Forrest shouted from behind the barbecue. ‘Can I get you a sausage? Hi, Sandi. What about you?’

‘No thanks,’ Josh yelled back and then he heard the sound of sirens in the distance. He turned to Breckenridge. ‘There’s backup on the way and they’re not going to be as nice as me, so you better move before it’s too late.’

Breckenridge looked up at the Channel Six helicopter hovering above and laughed. ‘So long as the media’s around, they’re not going to do anything, and by tonight this place will be swarming with reporters. Why don’t you go and get something to eat, because you’re going to be here for a long time?’

At the front of the convoy, Frank Beck was fuming and led a small group of his best men to confront the blockaders. ‘You’re no better than criminals,’ he shouted. ‘And someone’s gonna pay for vandalising those trucks. Someone could have been killed.’

‘After what you’ve done, don’t you talk to us about killing,’ Charles Paxton snapped, pushing Beck in the chest.

‘Get your hands off me.’ Beck cocked his right fist, but there was a bloodcurdling growl and he looked down to see Cosmos, with fangs bared, at Paxton’s side. ‘Get that mongrel away from me.’

‘You know this dog loves everyone except those who’ve got a rotten streak,’ Paxton said, patting Cosmos. ‘After what you’ve done, I ought to let him go.’

‘Take him back behind the line, Charles,’ the General urged. ‘We don’t want any violence.’

‘Yeah, do that,’ Beck said, regaining his earlier bluster. ‘I warn you, little man, you’re going to be moved on. So why don’t you save yourself a lot of trouble and just get out of the way?’

‘Why don’t you piss off back to your trucks, Frank, and take your scabs with you?’ Dean Prezky butted in, and half-a-dozen men fell in behind him.

‘If ya know what’s good for you, you’ll clear out,’ the General added. ‘We’re not looking for trouble.’

Frank Beck had been in a similar position on countless occasions and could smell a change in mob mood, and his nose told him that Prezky and his followers were spoiling for a fight. ‘We’ll go, but we’ll be back.’

After they’d gone, the General ambled over to Tom Morgan. ‘I need your help.’

‘Anything you want, Mick, just name it.’

‘I don’t know how long we’re going to be here, but we’re going to need food and you’re the only means we have to get in and out.’

‘That won’t be a problem.’

‘Hold on, you haven’t heard all I have to say. You’ll need to bring enough for the truckies too. I’m also guessing some of them will have young families and old parents to look after and they might be desperate to get out. It’d be great if we could say that we’re prepared to fly ’em out, and don’t forget every truck without a driver is another obstacle in the way of
big gas.
I’m not saying that you’d need them, but you could take Charles and Cosmos along as bodyguards.’

‘You’re a smart man, Mick. That’ll give us the high moral ground in the media and with the public. I’ll take Andrew back to the stud with me and he can be our quartermaster. After this is over, I have a job for you in logistics, if you’re interested.’

‘Thanks but no thanks. Tom, this is going to cost you a pretty penny before it’s over. Are you okay with that?’

‘So long as you don’t tell anyone. I’d hate to lose my reputation as a tight-fisted bastard. What are you going to say when the press asks you what it will take to remove the blockade?’

‘I was going to ask for a moratorium on coal seam gas in the valley, then I thought, why not New South Wales, and that led to the whole of Australia, but I’m still undecided. Fair compensation for landowners who’ve already been fleeced and damages for those afflicted with ill-health. That’s just for starters.’

‘They’ll never agree to a moratorium, even if it’s only limited to the valley. The international gas companies are just too big and powerful.’

‘I think you’re underestimating the voice of the public, Tom.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

By the time Steve arrived at the start of the convoy, a dozen or so police reinforcements were trying to take control, without success. A thickset, plain-clothes policeman was on his megaphone, threatening anyone who didn’t immediately remove their vehicle with a night in the lockup. Even as he was shouting, more cars, containing groups of greenies rolled in, ignoring Josh and Sandi, who’d been relegated to stopping them completing the eighth row. Billy McGregor and his mates turned their radios on full blast, drowning out the copper’s voice, to rousing cheers. Father Michael positioned himself in a central spot at the rear of the vehicles and was keeping a close eye on the police. Steve wondered what they might be doing if the priest wasn’t there.

At eight o’clock that night, the first results of the election flashed across television screens. They revealed an amazing comeback by Labor, which had won forty-five seats out of a possible ninety-three, with eight undecided. It would be days before a final result was known, but winning two more seats would see Nick Gould re-elected for a record-breaking sixth term.

Father Michael was an inspiration. It was a bitterly cold Saturday night. He sat near one of many camp fires, railing against the coal seam gas companies. The following morning, his voice was hoarse and his face a shade of white that almost matched his hair. He had not slept for nearly forty-eight hours. The years were catching up with him and his friends and parishioners were concerned for his health.

Don Carmody had been careful not to park his car in the blocking formation, choosing instead to park where it was easily accessible. He had flown the flag, but roughing it was not for him and the thought of spending another night in near-artic conditions was too much. Besides, supporters of the cause had streamed in overnight and ten rows of vehicles now blocked access to the road. Carmody was quick to volunteer to take Father Michael back to town; despite the priest’s protests, he was bundled into the front seat and they were soon on their way. As they drove, they passed two caravans coming towards them, as well as a bus and countless cars.

The General had been in constant touch, urging those whom he termed as ‘defending the rear’ not to resort to violence. He expressed concern about controlling the professional protestors who were joining the cause. He also told them that it wasn’t the drivers’ fault and that they should be offered a share of the available food.

One of the newcomers had brought a diesel generator and a television, which he set up near the central camp fire, and they could soon see themselves on the screen. When Dean Prezky’s face appeared, being interviewed by a Channel Six reporter, there was shouting and applause. Dean had been designated to provide the passion, while the calm and controlled reason was provided by the General.

Then there were boos and hissing as Frank Beck’s arrogant face looked out at them; he pilloried the protestors for placing his drivers’ lives at risk. The pretty young reporter asked him what property they had been going to enter and why it was necessary to sneak around in the early hours of the morning. Like a good politician who hates probing questions, he ignored her and ranted on about the planks with nails in them, the fires on the road and the illegality of the blockade. The reporter wouldn’t be sidetracked, though. She brought the question back to why the convoy was stealing around in the middle of the night and had it been because it was going to forcibly enter some luckless landowner’s property and, if so, whose property. Beck shook his head and rolled his eyes as if she were an imbecile, saying, ‘Didn’t you listen to what I just said?’

Steve had folded the rear seats of the Cherokee forward and slept in a thick, padded sleeping bag in the back. While uncomfortable, it was far better than most of the protestors were enduring. He had barely five minutes with Sandi before the heavies from Sydney had her and Josh foraging for pieces of wood to build a fire, after which they were sent back to town to fetch food and drink for their superiors. Steve was annoyed that he was stuck at the rear, knowing the big stories were unfolding at the front. Two television crews, complete with trucks and caravans, had joined a dozen or so reporters and had been interviewing the likes of Simon Breckenridge and Len Forrest, and even Billy McGregor had managed to get his fifteen seconds of fame. But this was nothing compared with the television and news helicopters that were continually landing and taking off behind the front line.

Three more police cars arrived overnight and more than twenty officers milled around, but they appeared directionless. Perhaps it was because their bosses were too scared or uncertain to provide them with definitive orders while the election hung in the balance. At around midday on Sunday, two police cars were despatched five kilometres down the road, where they set up a roadblock. The police had been unable to move the protestors, but they could make sure that no more were added to their ranks. Josh and Sandi had been treated like second-class citizens by the plain-clothed police and sent back to Paisley; as the officious senior detective had said, ‘To look after local matters.’

•

Most of the protestors had had no time to throw food and drink into their vehicles and had not only spent a cold night but a hungry one as well. Much to Andrew Brown’s relief, he was going home and would not be back; he allowed himself a soft whistle when Tom Morgan turned on the ignition of the copter. ‘When we get back, I want you to take the truck into town and load it to capacity, and then get back as fast as you can. Buy meat, bread, vegetables, soup, tea, coffee, sugar, milk, mineral water and anything else you can think of. There are a lot of hungry people here to feed. Tell Ross at the supermarket to increase the size of his orders, because we’ll be taking the same every day, and, Andrew, tell him we’re not paying retail prices. Hell, I nearly forget, buy all the spades and toilet rolls that he’s got.’

The Sikorsky could carry twenty passengers, but Morgan had had it customised for only nine, so that he could carry more gear for the stud. This would come in useful now. ‘I’ll make the first drop-off to those at the rear of the convoy, before heading back behind the front line.’

‘How long is this going to go on for?’

‘As long as it takes,’ Morgan responded grimly.

That night
Your Nation
hastily put together a program titled
Gas Wars.
It opened with aerial shots of the massive convoy of trucks and trailers locked between, what Libby Hanover described as, ‘Two immovable barriers.’

Harbrow had at first been reluctant to appear but, after a little thought, saw it as a golden opportunity. He sat in front of Libby, poised, reasoned and confident.

‘Mr Harbrow, do your company and its contractors normally skulk around in the middle of the night before crashing through the gates of some unsuspecting landowner?’

‘Libby, your words are colourful but they do not provide an accurate portrayal of how CEGL operates. We are good corporate citizens and, while we don’t like to boast about it, we are possibly the largest donor in Australia to hospitals, charities and other worthwhile causes.’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘I was coming to it.’ He smiled, displaying no angst or impatience. ‘And the answer is “no”. I have no idea why our contractor, Filliburton, thought that it was necessary to move their equipment at night.’

‘In the wee hours of the morning,’ Libby corrected. ‘So, are you saying that your contractor is to blame for this blockade that has captured the nation’s imagination?’

‘Certainly not. We have worked with Filliburton for many years and they are a company of undoubted integrity, but that is not to say that they don’t have loose cannons in their midst. Today I’ve asked them to launch a full investigation into this matter and to provide me with answers without delay.’

‘This was an operation of enormous proportions and if, as you say, there are loose cannons, they must hold very senior positions.’

‘Well, we won’t know that until we get the results of the investigation.’

‘What if I told you that I have information that a senior executive in your own organisation sanctioned what was known as Project Genesis
?’

Viewers watched as Harbrow’s bottom lip dropped and his confidence appeared momentarily shaken. No-one knew that he was the one who had ensured this information was leaked to
Your Nation
just before the program went to air. ‘Libby, I don’t know the source of your information, but I would be very surprised if what you said is true.’

‘Hypothetically speaking, what would you do if it was? Would you dismiss the person?’

‘Sorry, I don’t deal in hypotheticals. Our executives are professional and ethical so, with respect, I have reservations about the accuracy and source of your information.’ Harbrow’s face appeared serious and sincere. ‘Libby, can I say that I think the coal seam gas industry has been unfairly maligned by the media over the past few days. This industry provides cheap gas and electricity to millions of consumers, along with jobs for tens of thousands, and it pays its taxes. By any measure, the industry is comprised of good corporate citizens. And further I …’

‘Thank you Mr Harbrow, but this is not a forum for policy speeches. I think your investigation will reveal that someone very close to you authorised this clandestine operation, which has virtually closed down a community. Would you like to come back on
Your Nation
when you know the results?’

‘I doubt your assertions but, yes, I’d welcome that.’ He was content in the knowledge that he could finally rid himself of Moira Raymond.

Dennis Fulton had been torn between joining the blockade and staying in Queensland to block any attempt that
big gas
might launch against farmers on the Spurling Downs. He determined that the immediate evil was in Tura and made his way down to Tom Morgan’s stud, from where he caught a ride with him out to the front line. When he alighted from the copter, he was greeted with cheers and shouts. ‘Onya, Dennis!’ Leaping up on the back of a utility, he gave a rousing, morale-lifting speech.

Five days had now elapsed and the nation was entranced by the battle that raged in the red dirt, spinifex and eucalypts on the Tura
estates.
CEGL and Filliburton had point-blank refused to negotiate until, what they described as an illegal blockade, was lifted. Reporters from all over the land worked behind the lines and with the truckies, and every night human hardship stories dominated the news and current affairs programs. Steve had hitched a ride with Tom Morgan in his helicopter and was firmly entrenched behind the front line, phoning or emailing articles into Buffy every day. He was dirty, unshaven and missing Sandi terribly, but he had a reporter’s gut instinct for a story and knew that something big was about to break. The
National Advocate
had their own reporters behind the lines, but was also carrying Steve’s stories every day. The
Chronicle
had never been more profitable.

The stand-off entered its sixth day on Thursday and Harbrow convened an emergency meeting of directors that afternoon, but did not extend an invitation to Moira Raymond. The whinges were to be expected and Phillip Bancroft was like a broken record. ‘My clients aren’t happy Spencer,’ he snapped. ‘Christ, the stock’s off another twenty percent this week. You’ve gotta break that blockade before it breaks us.’

‘It’s not good,’ Harold Llewellyn muttered, thinking of the battering his superannuation was taking.

‘The publicity’s killing us,’ Clem Aspley added. ‘That little prick they call the General has the media eating out of his hand, and Tom Morgan flying the truckies out looks like Mother Teresa.’

Harbrow had resolved not to rub them up the wrong way, but couldn’t help himself. ‘That’s your area isn’t it, Clem?’

‘Don’t hang this on me. Every television station and newspaper in the land is siding with the landowners, and it’s getting worse. There was an article in yesterday’s
Wall Street Journal
titled
Big bad gas.
Phillip’s right, you’ve gotta get rid of the blockade.’

‘So, you think we should enter into a moratorium with these thugs, Clem?’

No-one spoke and, as he watched their sorry, hangdog faces, he knew they had worked out how much a moratorium would personally cost them and that it wasn’t an option.

‘Let’s get to the business of the meeting.’

‘Aren’t we going to wait for Moira?’ Vic Bezzina asked.

‘Given that I intend to ask for her resignation after the close of this meeting, I did not extend an invitation to her.’

‘What?’ Sir Richard scowled. ‘Why?’

‘She’s directly responsible for the dilemma in which we find ourselves.’

‘On your instructions,’ Bezzina snapped. ‘I’m not happy with this.’

‘Vic, that’s simply not true. I asked her to get four wells drilled on the Tura
Estates
but I had no idea that she was going to launch a commando operation in the middle of the night.’

‘But it was Filliburton,’ Llewellyn added. ‘It wasn’t us. Why can’t we stick
them
with it? We’ve got grounds for damages?’

‘Didn’t you watch that bitch from
Your Nation
interview me? She knows we authorised it and, if we don’t give her a head, she’s not going to let up on us. She wants blood.’

‘I watched the interview and wondered how she found out so many details about the operation,’ Clem Aspley said, as he eyed Harbrow suspiciously.

‘Why can’t we give the media someone else?’ Sir Richard interjected.

‘We can; the last thing I want to do is lose Moira. But the risk is that we don’t know how much Libby Hanover knows and, if we sack a scapegoat and she already knows it was Moira … Well,’ he said extending his palms upward. ‘I don’t need to tell you where that’d leave us.’

‘Can’t we send her on a sabbatical for six months?’ Bezzina asked.

‘And have this thing hanging over us and the share price for that long? It’s unfortunate, but she has to go,’ Bancroft said.

Harbrow smiled to himself, Bancroft was so predictable.

‘So, we throw her to the lions, fess up, beg for forgiveness and hope the protestors lift the blockade,’ Aspley said.

Why had he ever thought that this guy, with his dyed blond hair and faded, torn jeans, was smart? ‘Why would I beg for forgiveness? We have a legal right to explore those properties on the Tura
Estates
and that is exactly what I intend to do. I’ll apologise for mounting a clandestine operation in the middle of the night and that’s why Moira has to go.’

‘What are you going to do to get the blockade removed?’ Aspley asked.

‘Before we move on, let’s settle what we’re going do about Moira,’ Llewellyn said.

Harbrow looked at the long-silver-haired man with disdain. ‘Harold, you mustn’t have heard me. I’m not seeking the board’s consent, my decision is made.’

Vic Bezzina started to say something and then thought better of it.

‘The police have been mollycoddling those bloody tree huggers but now we finally have a government that’s about to change.’