Milkshake (12 page)

“No.”

“Good, I’ll just go over and put this one in the car, then.
Wait here. It’s a bit gruesome eh?”

He pulled a credit card from his jeans and walked back under
the battered trailer. David could only see his legs as Hone
wrenched open the door on the driver’s side. Then, moving quickly,
he went round to the passenger side which was obscured by the
wheels of the trailer. David could make out he was dragging the
inert body of the passenger round the back of the car. Perhaps he
was alive? He appeared to haul the body upright and took a step
back, allowing the limp, lifeless body to collapse face down on the
road. Hone turned, walked back and reached up, opening the truck’s
driver–side door. There was a plume of black smoke as the engine
choked into life. Once again he ducked under the trailer and ran
towards them.

“Quick, get in the back of the car. We’ve
only got a few seconds.” Hone got into the driver’s seat. Without
questioning, they ran to the car and clambered into the rear. He
started the engine and drove forward, bumping over bits of
wreckage, steering onto the grass and around the truck cab. As they
passed the front of the truck, the full horror of the scene this
large Maori stranger had seemingly engineered moments before
unfolded in front of them.

Now he accelerated, the back wheels screaming as they tried to
grip the still hot tarmac. David and Katherine looked back as the
scene quickly receded. Flames were beginning to emanate from under
the front of the truck.

Hone spoke. “Another ten minutes and all she’ll be is a
charred mess. By the time the local fire guys piss water and foam
all over it and the cops have done their bit, all they’re gonna
find is one dead truckie and a dead American tourist. The report
back to their Embassy will confirm the car driver was carrying the
card supposedly retrieved from you guys, and all the media will get
will be a fatal traffic accident involving a logging truck and
another foreign tourist who crossed the centre line.”

The big guy not only looked intimidating but had also just
murdered two people in gleeful cold blood, and was now, quite
literally, in the driving seat.

David leaned forward, trying to catch Hone’s eye in the rear
view mirror; “So, who exactly do you work for, Hone?”

“Well, Dave, let’s just say I am working for the interests of
my country. That’s all you need to know for now.”

“So what can you tell us about a company called Cowood
Industries?” David could see Hone’s shoulders gently shaking as he
laughed silently to himself.

“Jeez, you fellas don’t waste any time, do you? Where did you
get that one from?”

“Well, their name was written on a big sign back
there.”

Hone was now casually driving at 120kph single–handed. His
left hand waved around and his eyes constantly looked into the
mirror, alternately checking the view behind and his passengers as
he talked. “Cowood was set up by the Americans in the late nineties
as a front for its long term plan to buy Aotearoa.” He paused,
looking at David, who knew full well from reading his immigration
pack supplied by the New Zealand Government that this was the Maori
name for the country. Hone’s stare implied David’s ignorance of
this fact and invited a question he was not about to give Hone the
satisfaction of being asked.

“Go on.”

“Well, so the story goes, the Yanks realised as far back as
the sixties that oil would only last for another hundred years or
so. They started to look at different sources of energy. It’s no
secret that over the years breakthroughs have been made but the raw
materials needed to make commercial quantities of these fuels is
massive. So the Yanks started to make some quiet investments in
overseas industries which they knew they would need in future
years. So Cowood has made huge investments in forestry and dairy in
this country as well as places like Canada and Norway. With these
investments comes power and influence. That’s why you don’t see any
of these countries as big movers and shakers on the world stage,
because basically America, through Cowood, more or less owns
them.”

David was taken aback by Hone’s knowledge and eloquence on the
subject. The words didn’t quite match the weather–beaten, unshaven
pugilistic face. There was more to this man than the initial
impression he gave.

He stopped staring back at Hone in the mirror. “So where do
we fit into all this? Why all the destruction and mayhem? Surely
this is all just legitimate business?”

“Well, up until September 11 last year, the Americans had a
deal with the Arabs that they would process one of these
alternative fuels. It’s one of the reasons New Zealand sends so
much dairy produce to the Middle East. Our farmers and the public
are led to believe that it’s all to do with the Arabs being big
milk and cheese consumers but when did you last see Arabian cheese
on a supermarket shelf? It’s all to do with something called whey.
Apparently the Americans are on the verge of perfecting a process
to produce commercially usable fuel right here in New Zealand. The
small quantities of fuel produced overseas are explained away as
the big oil companies just playing around with the formula to try
and lengthen the life of the oil reserves. Most cars in the States
are already driving around with some milk–based or tree–based fuel
in their tanks. Something called bio ethanol.”

Katherine had been listening intently whilst trying not to
stare into Hone’s deep blue eyes. She interrupted him. “I’ve heard
of that, and the trees?”

“Same story. Just look around you. Vast areas of our land
given over to forestry, and again our people are told it either
goes to the States or Japan for construction. In fact the plan is
to use it to produce bio–ethanol. The wood is pulped, fermented and
distilled, and usable fuel is the end result. Did you guys know
that the earliest cars ran on vegetable oil? In fact, several of
Henry Ford’s early cars could run on bio–ethanol but, as we all
know, the automobile industry took the petroleum route and the rest
of the industrialised world followed, or maybe they were led by the
Americans.”

The road ahead ran straight into the shimmering midday
horizon. Through its haze they could see the distinctive red, with
blue flashing lights, of a fire truck, quickly followed by another.
They sped silently past, heading towards the opposite horizon where
a thin black line of smoke rose up between the trees lining the
road.

Hone sighed and continued; “So anyways, now we have a
situation where the Americans want to have complete control over
the production process. They can’t invade us militarily. In fact
they’ll probably do that somewhere else to distract attention away
from what’s happening here and, anyway, the Poms - sorry folks, the
British - would have to come to our rescue and it would be the
Falklands all over again but this time with help from the Aussies.
All sorts of alliances would be buggered. So they have to take us
over politically, commercially or industrially, whichever way you
look at it. They know the price they can eventually charge, once
all the oil has gone, outweighs the production and transport costs.
So, in the next few years, their plan is to build huge bio–ethanol
production plants here in New Zealand. Then they can pipe the
finished product across the Pacific straight into the tanks of the
car–loving Californians and beyond.”

David was still puzzled; “I still don’t see why this is a bad
thing. Surely this kind of industry fits in with New Zealand’s
clean, green image, not to mention the anti nuclear
policy.”

A police car approached at high speed and hurtled
past.

“He’s come from ten kilometres away. They’re onto it
alright.” Hone continued. “Each of these production plants will
cost around a billion US dollars to build. The most recent
intelligence says they intend to build about fifty of them, from
Invercargill in the south to Whangarei in the north, each linked by
pipes to the next. Within a 100 kilometre radius of each one there
has to be either enough cattle to produce the milk to sustain them
or enough forest to pulp. Now the cattle will need a certain amount
of looking after, but the trees, well, they pretty much take care
of themselves. Once each site is up and running it will probably
need no more than fifty blokes working around the clock to operate
it. Think about it; no more than 2,500 people to produce up to
thirty percent of the fuel needed by the United States. Of course,
these guys will be scientists, so they’ll need to be brought in
especially. No prizes for guessing which country will be supplying
them.”

Katherine looked at David. For the first time he could see in
her eyes that she finally believed him.

Hone had not finished. “So, in about ten years we’ll have
around fifty of these huge power stations on our land, producing
supposedly clean sustainable environmentally friendly fuel, but
there is a downside. Almost all of our productive land will be used
to feed these power stations in one way or another. So, most of our
farming will be gone. So will all the tourism. Who wants to look at
a landscape littered with a whole heap of chimney stacks? The
economy will collapse as heaps of people move offshore, to
Australia or Europe or the U.S.. The remaining population will
nearly all live within sight of permanent plumes of white steam
rising from shining steel venting stacks. That’s gonna take the
edge off the thermal pools and geysers in Rotorua for sure
eh?”

They jolted forward sharply as Hone braked hard and the car
skidded to a halt. The dusty cloud created by the sudden
deceleration caught up and enveloped them. The cloud travelled
forward, obscuring the trees and the sky beyond. Hone turned,
resting his arm across the front passenger seat, and looked first
at Katherine, then David, He gestured across the windscreen with
his right arm, like a T.V weatherman pointing out the map behind
him. As he did so, the dust swirled and cleared, revealing a gap
between the trees that framed a vast green plain bordered in the
distance by a uniform blue–green mountain range, the silhouette
contrasting with the vivid pristine blue of the southern hemisphere
sky.

Hone smiled like a proud father: “Kia ora, Welcome.” He paused
and the trio sat for a few moments staring at the landscape before
them, broken only by a thin line of grey, the road they had yet to
travel.

Hone broke the silence, speaking softer this time. “When my
ancestors came to these shores they named this place Aotearoa. It
means land of the long white cloud, and you can see
why.”

In the far distance, suspended low in front of the mountains,
there it was - a long cloud - not in the sky, but resting against
the mountain range like a pure white cotton towel that had been
twisted tight to wring it dry. “If the Americans have their way,
this land will be changed forever. The long white clouds will be
vertical and the emissions they contain will alter the climate of
these islands within fifty years. The rain forests of the West
Coast will begin to die, the lakes will run dry as fuel production
uses most of the freshwater reserves, and the majority of the
population will be forced overseas to look for work. In fact, they
will be paid to leave. Already the US Government is putting
political pressure on the Aussies to make their tax system more
attractive than the Kiwi one. New Zealand will become the
fifty-first state in the Union, and the Yanks will still be able to
drive around in their gas guzzlers keeping enough gasoline free for
their military to be able to intimidate the world for hundreds of
years after any practical sources have long run out for the rest of
us.”

Here they were, a perfectly ordinary couple, sitting in the
back of a rental car in remote rural New Zealand, with a stranger
who had just murdered two people in cold blood only minutes before,
and who was now explaining some huge global conspiracy that
affected every single person on the planet, and in which they
seemed to be playing an unwitting but crucial part.

Hone sat, still staring into the distance, as if he had just
heard his own revelations for the first time and was finding them
equally difficult to comprehend. Suddenly he jumped out of his
daydream, wiped his sweating face with his palm, and sighed.
“Anyway, that’s about the story. My job now is to make sure yous
fellas are kept safe for a bit, at least until the mess back there
dies down.”

“Waiheke Island?

Hone’s frown was reflected in the mirror as he put the car
into gear and pulled away. David continued: “I know someone on
Waiheke Island which would be a good place to go for a few days,
wouldn’t it?”

The frown remained. “Not somewhere I had down as a first
choice, but yeah, Bro’, that could work. So who do you know there,
Dave?”

“An old school friend. He’s a vet, at least he was last time
I – er - spoke to him.” He hesitated, realising that he had not
actually spoken to him for about twenty five years.

“Ok, once we get over the mountains up ahead, I’ll make a
call. If your mate checks out, we’ll head on over to
Waiheke.”

They spent the next hour staring out of the window in silence
as the landscape changed from endless forest plantation to winding
mountain road. Once over the summit, they could see the flat river
plain in the distance and, beyond that, the sea. Halfway down, Hone
pulled over next to a look-out point, got out of the car, and
leaving the engine running, walked round to the front. Leaning
against the bonnet, he began talking intently into his mobile
phone.