Whiskey Lima Golf, page 7
A black Chevrolet Suburban SUV pulls up outside the BS Ministry’s front entrance, Tom pulls himself up onto his crutches and half-hiding behind the pillar focuses on the vehicle and takes a quick photo, then another few as a large man in a black suit exits the car and holds the rear door open. Kendrick leaves the entrance and climbs into the rear seat. Then sliding out of view behind the pillar, Tom waits for the black Chevy to drive past his position. He snaps another photo as the Chevy comes alongside him and another as it pulls out into traffic on Lambton Quay and speeds away.
‘Well if that doesn’t scream CIA, then I don’t know what does,’ Tom thinks.
His tummy rumbles in complaint, ‘I wonder how much the expenses will cover?’ Back into his easy swinging motion, Tom turns and heads further up Lambton Quay looking for an eatery.
***
Monday Afternoon
“Tāmati Yelich?” A weary looking middle-aged man asks.
“That’s me,” Tom answers as he hikes himself up onto his crutches and follows the man down the equally tired-looking hallway to his consulting room.
“Take a seat please, Tāmati, I’m Dr Peter Cleeland, please call me Peter,” he invites.
“Thanks Peter, I go by Tom.”
“Ah, that’s right, you’re a referral from Megan, a conscientious lady there.” Peter checks his computer, then gets up and pulls the curtain to screen the bed from his work station, “Okay, lets run through this physical, if you can strip down to your underwear and hop on the bed, I’ll get this paperwork started.”
Tom sits on the examination bed and starts the laborious process of getting undressed, “Geez Peter, I thought I’d already filled out enough paperwork in the waiting room.”
“There is always an excessive number of forms for anything to do with the government, Tom. Now what exactly are you applying for?”
“According to the Middlemore doctors, and the Americans in Afghanistan, they reckon I won’t be walking, let alone running ever again. Well, not without crutches. I get these jolts of severe pain in my leg, but what really worried me was I had a bit of a turn, an episode, I don’t know what to call it, last week.”
“What happened?”
“I was at the gym and I had a moment where I thought I was actually back in Afghanistan. It felt so real, like I could hear the gun shots and smell the cordite and everything.” Tom explains the whole situation.
Peter listens carefully, gently probing while he checks Tom’s reflexes, blood pressure, and other vitals, noting the results. After he is satisfied with his examination, he instructs Tom to get dressed and sits back at his workstation to complete the paperwork.
“All done Doc. What’s the verdict?”
“You have the most extensive scaring down your left leg that I’ve seen since I worked in the Emergency Department of Auckland Hospital fifteen years ago. And from what I’ve seen, you may not be able to run again, but you could walk unaided if you continue the strengthening work at the gym, so keep that up.”
“Cool, I’ll do that,” Tom confirms.
“As for your sudden onset leg pain, I believe that is probably nerve damage from the shrapnel. Your severed nerves are healing, but will be sending incorrect messages to your brain causing the electrical jolts of pain. Sorry, but that one’s going to take some time to heal properly.”
“How long Doc?”
“It varies from patient to patient, it could be years Tom. Now I’ve written you a referral to a Clinical Psychologist, Sandra Williams, because you may very well have a form of PTSD from the trauma you experienced in Afghanistan. But she will make that diagnosis. Now if you can sign this form, I’ll scan it back to Megan for you and here’s a copy of a medical certificate which you will need for Veterans Affairs.”
“Wow, do you really think I might be able to walk without these sticks?” Tom asks hopefully.
“It will take a lot of effort, Tom, but I have seen an industrial accident where a young man who got his leg crushed by a forklift managed to get back to walking again.”
Tom’s eyes grew moist. “Thanks Peter, I think that’s the best news I’ve heard in a very long time.”
***
Monday Evening
With his thigh muscles quivering under the stress, Tom grits his teeth and pushes the resistance plate away from him once again, hissing the count… “Five.”
“Do you have three more Tom?” Taylor dubiously asks.
Slowly easing his legs back to a ninety-degree angle, he braces for the next push… “Six”.
“Come on brother,” Devon urges, “nearly there!”
Their voices are barely heard as Tom focuses solely on his objective, edging his legs back into position for their next push… “Seven.”
“This is crazy progress,” Taylor shakes her head in amazement.
Lessening the pressure for his last repetition, noticing both thighs are now visibly pulsating, Tom gathers his strength and drives his feet forward, crying out triumphantly…“Eight!”
“Go you good thing!” Devon joins in.
“Wow, that’s just… well I haven’t seen that before,” Taylor shakes her head, then noticing Tom’s thigh is still pulsating, directs, “Devon grab the plate please and hold it firm. Here Tom let me help.” She supports his legs as he carefully twists himself free from the seated leg press machine.
“Thanks Taylor,” Tom grunts, exhausted but feeling a sudden excitement at her electric touch.
“Are you okay Tom?” Taylor asks, passing him his drink bottle.
He nods and tips the bottle up taking a long drink of water, before wiping his mouth with the back of his left hand. “Thanks again,” he puffs. “I needed that… yeah, sure, I’m okay.”
“How’s the leg bro? Any pain? Your left one is still jumping,” Devon’s concern evident.
Tom massages his trembling thigh with his left hand. “It’s okay. Not so sore at the moment. Man that was hard work.”
“I don’t want you to overdo it Tom,” Taylor warns. “You’re making steady progress and the last thing you want is to have a setback at this stage.”
“Save your breath Taylor, Tom can be as stubborn as a mule when he’s set himself a goal,” Devon advises, “I could tell you some stories.”
Frowning, Taylor admonishes, “Devon, there is a fine line between encouragement and macho bullshit, and I mean it, I’m not having any of that crap in MY gym.”
Tom laughs, “It’s all good Taylor, but he is right, I can be stubborn. Go on Dev, I’d like to hear what story you have up your sleeve.”
Intrigued despite herself, Taylor says, “Okay, I only listen to true stories.”
“Oh, which one do I choose?” Devon exaggeratedly scratches his chin looking wistful. “Okay, when we signed up for cadets, Tom was a skinny little runt. He could hardly carry his full kit when we went on exercise. After about five kilometres, he would be wobbling around and lagging behind the rest of us. We thought we had real pricks for instructors and they said to the rest of us, Don’t help Yelich or you’ll be on a charge, if he can’t make it to our objective tonight, he’s out.”
“That’s so unfair! Aren’t you meant to be there for your army buddies?” Taylor asks.
“What we didn’t know at the time, was that it was a test not just for me, but for the rest of the intake,” Tom chips in.
“Yeah, one of the instructors said we couldn’t carry any of his load, so I thought about it and decided that I’d walk beside Tom and just encourage him,” Devon recalls. “The rest of the crew carried on and we had one instructor walking behind us keeping an eye on what we were up to.”
“How long was the march?” Taylor asks.
“Twenty-five kilometres, with pack, webbing and rifle. Forty kilos,” Tom replies, “I wouldn’t have made it without Devon there.”
“Bullshit brother, when you get that look in your eye and I’ve seen it plenty of times since, you just go for it. Just like you did tonight.”
“Wow and you guys were just kids. You made it obviously, or you wouldn’t have had an army career.”
“Yeah, I did and that started Devon on his way up the ranks. He got a promotion by showing real leadership.”
Devon hands Tom his crutches. “Anyone would’ve done it.”
“But they didn’t, did they Devon?” Tom quickly responds, “And that’s what generates great leaders. Compassion and the willingness to walk in someone else’s shoes.”
“Come on, let’s hit the showers and get cleaned up,” Devon deflects.
Pushing himself up on his crutches, Tom makes his way to the door, “Thanks for tonight Taylor. With both your help, I’m sure I’ll be walking without these sticks sooner rather than later.”
“I still think that doctor of yours was out of line for telling you that,” Taylor shakes her head, “But who knows, with the right attitude and lots of hard work, and from what I just witnessed, you might just make it.”
‘Oh I’ll make it alright,’ Tom thinks to himself, ‘and then I might just be able to ask you out.’
***
“You boys are looking a bit tired. Have you got enough energy for some kaimoana?” Koro asks.
“Always plenty of room for some kaimoana, Koro, eh Tom?”
“Āe, I’ll be up for that.” Tom drops his gym bag by his armchair and makes his way to the dining table.
“Devon can you please get the plates?” Koro asks.
“Sure Koro,” Devon gets the crockery and cutlery and takes it to the table, setting them in front of three of the chairs.
Tom puts his phone on the table and slides it towards his friend. “Check out those new photos Dev.” He passed over the loaf of white bread, still in its plastic wrapper, and the chipped china butter dish.
Scrolling through the gallery, Devon’s eyes widen slightly. “Could it be any more obvious? A black Chevy Suburban.”
“Check out the passenger opening the car door for him,” Tom points out.
“That headset is so noticeable with that marine buzz cut. Hey, did you see what he’s carrying, bro?” Devon asks.
“Yeah, the bulge in the back of his suit jacket and the way he carries his left arm makes it obvious.”
“Put that phone away boys and tuck into this,” Koro interrupts, placing a large steaming bowl of mussels in the centre of the table.
Tom opens the bread bag and tosses a couple of slices towards each of their plates, hitting them dead centre.
Koro shakes his head and complains, “Bloody dead-eye dick here eh? Where’s your manners?”
Laughing Devon agrees, “Give him a rifle or a packet of bread and he’ll hit the bulls eye every time!”
“Aroha mai Koro, but it’s a bit hard to get up and down at the moment,” Tom apologises.
“Less talking and more eating,” Koro grumbles good-naturedly, “What’s so important on that phone?”
“Just someone we are taking an interest in,” Devon tries to cover.
“That bloody Kendrick I bet. Where is he?” Koro demands.
“Yeah, about that,” Tom starts, looking at Devon for assistance, “Koro, no one is meant to know that he’s in New Zealand.”
“So what? I bloody well know and that’s enough,” Koro replies belligerently.
“How about I make you a deal, Koro?” Devon asks.
“Pass the butter while I’m listening,” Koro picks up his knife.
“How about you let Tom and I find out what he’s up to first. Then once we have everything we need, I’ll personally tell you where you can find him?”
“Huh, let me think about it.” Koro answers, spreading a thick wedge of butter onto his bread.
“These mussels are awesome, Koro,” Tom tries to divert the conversation. “What did you put in them?”
“Plenty of garlic and chilli in a butter sauce. Pretty good for an old fella, eh?” Koro smiles, “But I’m not that senile boy, when I get a hold of that Kendrick…”
“Okay Koro, just what will you do?” Tom calls his bluff.
“You don’t learn to fight just in the army, boy. We got plenty of practice in the union,” Koro counters.
“Hey, settle down, you two,” Devon mediates. “But, I am wondering about union fights. What’s the story?”
Koro calms down and explains, “I’ve worked mainly for the Railways all my life and joining the union was compulsory until the eighties. The bosses have always held the power and back when I started there were only a few managers who knew what they were doing, so us workers got a raw deal.” Koro pauses to pull another mussel from its shell and wrap it in buttered bread, “When that happened, the union called us out on strike and we would picket outside the front gates to stop any scabs from working.”
“What’s a scab, Koro?” Tom asks.
“That’s what we called a person who worked while we were on strike,” Koro explained, “And of course the bosses would encourage scabs to work and get the cops to break up our pickets.”
“More fighting with the police Koro? You’re a real rebel, eh?” Devon teases.
Koro pulls his hair back and points to a hidden scar running back into his hairline. “Got this from the Nazi pricks in seventy- eight. The bastards wouldn’t let the paramedics see us for hours. Not until they had processed us at the station and charged us.”
“Holy shit!” Devon exclaims. Tom shakes his head.
“We learnt to take the law into our own hands and never trust a cop or a boss,” Koro recalls. “We had many bar fights with the cops when they were supposedly off duty. A bunch of the bastards would show up at our pub and start pushing us around, winding us up until someone reacted. Then it was all on. You had to stand up for yourself and back your mates or they would smash you into the ground.”
“I never knew,” Tom says, both boys taken aback.
“It was hard on your Gran. She couldn’t take it in the end,” Koro softly admits, a tear coming unbidden to his eye. “That’s why she left me and went back up north to her whānau.”
“I don’t remember Gran much, Koro, just her warm hugs and her tangi that you took me to when I was about six…” Tom falters.
Reaching across the table, Koro places his hand on top of Tom’s, tears candidly falling, “I know Tāmati, it was only six months after your parents’ tangi. That was a terrible year.”
“That must have been real tough,” Devon sympathises trying to hold the tears back himself.
“I don’t remember much, Dev,” Tom wipes the tears from his face. “There was the car accident with Mum and Dad, moving in with Koro, then Gran leaving and then her tangi, I really don’t remember much at all from back then.”
“Sometimes that’s a good thing,” Koro replies, then more firmly, “Come on you two, your kai is getting cold, eat up!”
***
Chapter Nine – Given Notice
Tuesday Morning
WITH THE MORNING sun warming Tom swings his way down the Wellington Waterfront Walk, admiring the old wharf buildings’ architecture, ‘man we are lucky to still have these.’
His thoughts range randomly. He nods to some of the other walkers exercising, who greet him occasionally with friendly hellos and bright fluro active wear.
Faltering on his crutches slightly as a memory surfaces, Tom stops, a distant look in his eyes as he recalls a series of disjointed memories. His parents in the front seat of the Holden Kingswood laughing, a loud bang, the car rolling and being tossed around like a rag doll, his father’s head twisted at an unnatural angle, his mother half hanging out the front window and blood everywhere, men’s voices, then the fire engine and hiding under the seat blocking out the awful reality.
He shakes his head to clear the horrific memories and drags himself back to the present, wondering, ‘If only I had of stayed with Koro and Gran maybe they wouldn’t have had the accident. Oh geez, come on Tom, snap out of it, it was in the past and you can’t change it. Come on man, you promised yourself you would make it to Te Papa and then have a coffee as a reward.’
With a deep intake of breath, Tom sets off again, and starts taking an interest in the people around him.
At Queen’s wharf, Tom slows to avoid the influx of passengers disembarking from the Eastbourne Ferry, heading in all directions, some well-dressed women stop at a turquoise coffee caravan parked next to a small pohutukawa tree. Following his nose he smells the distinctive aroma of espresso. The sign atop of the caravan reads, Micco’s Turkish Treats.
As the new crowd disperses and thins, he recognises a distinctive number-one haircut. Raking his brain he recalls with surprise, ‘it’s that young Israeli from the café. I wonder what he’s up to?’
Initially, Tom manages to keep up with the Israeli spy, but gradually the distance between them increases, as they saunter down the Quay. ‘That is one old suit. Good, he’s going my way towards Te Papa.’
Concentrating on his rhythm, Tom determinedly increases his pace for a few minutes, then goes back into his easy stride, noticing his busy internal mental chatter, ‘Oh, his gaze is focused ahead. He must be following someone. Damn that’s an old suit, looks like it’s from a charity shop, it certainly doesn’t disguise the pistol he’s packing. I must ask Devon if that’s normal. Shit, I better report in.’
In front of Shed 5, Tom leans against the bench seat and fishes his secure phone out of his shoulder bag, tapping a quick text: following one of the Israeli guys from the café last week, passing Shed 5 heading towards Te Papa.
He pops his earbuds in, turns the Bluetooth on and slips back into his crutches. He is about to resume his pursuit, when he sees another familiar face. This time it is one of the Frenchmen. He taps out another message: Now there’s a French spy following the Israeli.
His phone chirps, and a reply comes through: Be careful bro!
