Book 24 - An Imperfect Utopia, page 10
Glory of glories, there was an actual cup and saucer to go with the teapot! Two, in fact, so I poured. Oh, the colour. The smell! Tea, glorious tea. And being drunk in the Oval Office on the day of the inauguration, and on July 4th. Take that, Boston.
“Welcome to the Oval Office,” I said.
“Not bad. Not bad at all,” he said, looking around before sitting on the sofa opposite. “You could do with some paintings, though. These walls are as bare as a ‘roo on laundry day.”
“Nope, the only artefacts and decorations displayed in the Oval will be gifts given during the president’s term,” I said. “We’re not going to start that nonsense with Churchill's bust all over again. So, go on, what’s the bad news. Why are you here unannounced?”
“It’s political,” he said. “Our politics, not yours.”
“Is Oswald Owen in trouble?” I asked as I took a sip of the tea. Oh, if heaven could reside in a cup, it was that one.
“Not really,” Scott said. “The political winds have shifted a bit, that’s all. There’s trouble ahead, but when isn’t there? O.O. wrote you a letter. Mary wrote you a longer one that includes an update from Tess about her investigation. The highlights are that one plane was supposed to depart at the end of next week, bringing the Canadians and a few of the pilgrims who are camped out in the Top End. They’d been vetted and selected from the Canadians’ prioritised list. We’ve added three more planes and filled them with Americans. They all registered as people wanting to return, but there was no time for vetting. Mary thought she had until next month, and it’d be one plane at a time. O.O. announced they were leaving five days ago. Announced it publicly.”
“Five days ago? I’m guessing most will be people who lived and worked in the Northern Territory and thought a flight into the unknown was better than their daily grind. We don’t know if they actually were American residents before the outbreak?”
“Not really. And hopefully they’re people without families rather than people trying to get away from them. Sorry about that. Mary hopes to have more control over the next batch of flights.”
“And when will they be?”
“Not before I go back,” Scott said. “But that’s got to be within two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” I picked up my notebook. “We can manage that, but it’ll be a small jet, not one of your 777s. And we’ll need the jet back, as we’ve only got two, and we need both for long-range reconnaissance when we’re dealing with Tippy.”
“You’re short on fuel?”
“No, but we are short of storage and transportation. Most of our tankers are being serviced after the long haul across Canada. We’ve got a convoy due in tomorrow, and it set out with ten tankers of aviation fuel, but six of those are going to Cooking Lake in Alberta to form a stockpile for Leon’s push down to Louisiana. We have a similar problem with diesel, and because we need more for ferries and fishing to deal with this influx, we can’t repurpose them to haul aviation fuel.”
“How big are your tankers?”
“That come to Bellingham? Twenty-thousand litres,” I said.
“Strewth. That’s more a nip than a drink.”
“Because we’ve got to transport the fuel across to Vancouver Island on the back of a fishing trawler. We’re converting a seventy-footer, and that’ll be able to take eighty thousand litres, but it’s not as big a priority as the sixty-foot sailing yacht we plan to use as a local ferry, and so save a lake of diesel on the over-powered cabin cruisers.”
“When will the bottleneck burst?” he asked.
“In another two weeks we can start running two fuel convoys a week. In a month, we should have the yacht finished, so call it two before we have a proper fuel tug. Really, you need to wait until we’ve dealt with Tippy before things truly ease.”
“Ah, that might be too late. There was a confidence vote in parliament. O.O. won, but it caught everyone by surprise. It was a vote on the budget, and he thought it would sail through. The debate should have been pro forma, but it turned into an accounting of his performance to date. It was clearly staged.”
“What was his margin of victory?”
“Liu said you’d ask that,” Scott said, fishing a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “One hundred voted for, but there were eight abstentions from the Unity Coalition, and three no-shows. Forty voted no-confidence, which sounds like a decent showing until you learn Green Future only voted for him because they haven’t decided which of the other parties to sell their support to.”
“They’re part of the coalition?” I asked.
“For now. They have twenty-two seats under the current system.”
“Ah, and there are a hundred and fifty-one MPs and seventy-six senators, yes? The same as before the outbreak?”
“That’s it. Only twenty of them were ever elected. The rest are seat-fillers for an incumbent who died during the chaos or in the coup that followed. The next election will be fought with the new boundaries, where we’ve got three hundred and fifty-three MPs.”
“Let me guess. Each party, regardless of how many seats they have now, thinks they can win every one of the new seats, automatically giving them a majority. Thus every party leader thinks they can be P.M. Now there’s been one confidence vote, there’ll be a second. O.O. will win, but by a reduced majority. The seeming loss of support will leave him with no choice but to call an election.”
“He’ll probably win the election,” Scott said, “but his opponents are definitely coordinating their attacks. He wants to show he’s meeting his promises, one of which was to deal with urban overcrowding through voluntary repatriation, hence the flights. But there’s more. Remember how you offered machinery from old American factories in exchange for food, medicine, and the air fares?”
“He wants those?” I asked.
“Anna was leaked a copy of Dermot Coolihan’s speech. He’s the leader of Tomorrow’s Australia, and he’s the real threat. Ex Liberal MP, a convenient Christian who thinks it isn’t just our technology that should return to the fifties. We think he’s getting financial backing from Cardinal Ruiz. He’s targeting younger voters with a blitz on shorter hours, better jobs, and earlier pensions if only we could make Australia just for the Australians. In this speech of his, he was going to denounce the pilgrims, and you, for not paying your bills. You’re a drain on resources, living it large at the expense of the Australian farmer. He was going to mention you by name.”
“Of course he was. So he didn’t give the speech?”
Scott checked his watch. “By now, O.O. will have preempted it.”
“By saying he was going to demand payment?”
“Sorry, mate. He said that payment was already on its way.”
“Good grief.” I took a sip of tea. This time, it tasted like ash after a bonfire. “Is he mad?”
“Just desperate.”
“I can imagine. So we’ve got to fill these four planes with salvage, and somehow find the fuel to get them to Australia?”
“Yes, but I think that’s the end of the bad news. I’ve got a list of businesses identified by exiles which have precision manufacturing equipment that Australia could make use of. The list was compiled by exiles who used to work around here.” He opened a folder and handed the list over.
“These are all in the Vancouver Metro area,” I said, looking at the top sheet. “We’ve barely scratched the suburbs.” I turned to the next page. “Everett. Seattle. Hmm.” I stood up and limped my way over to the one decoration we did have on the wall, a map of the region, there to help all of us strangers learn the local geography. “Okay. This might work. Kim and Sholto are heading down to Southern Washington State tomorrow. They’re looking for farmland for the returning exiles. Yep. Olympia. It’s on your list, and it says here they want us to prioritise everything in clean rooms one and three at Benton Aerospace. There’s some other local businesses listed and I’m sure there are more that aren’t. Olympia has an airport, too, though with a red cross through it. There must have been a crash.” I went back to the sofa and took a sip of the tea.
“You’ve got a plan?” Scott asked.
“Maybe. Give me a moment. Did you hear about the cruise ship that’s on its way here?”
“Only since I arrived. Everyone I’ve met has been asking me what I know about it. I’d like to speak with the ship’s captain when it docks. O.O. will want a report.”
“Of course,” I said. “You two are getting close.”
“Strewth, mate, we’re not handing out wedding invites. I tell him how it is. Other than his daughter, no one else will.”
“In politics, that’s what we call a best friend. It’s good that he’s got someone to talk with. An isolated and lonely leader is a danger to himself and the world. The ship’s new captain has reported some damage, but its hull and engines must be intact. Assuming that it doesn’t need much repair, we could sail it down to the Columbia River. Sholto can find a suitable pier. It’s not a container ship, so it would be difficult to load, but it could take more than a plane.”
“You think you can fill it up?” Scott asked.
“Assuming it’s anything like the ships we sailed across the Atlantic, yes. Driving fuel down there is just an extra couple of days’ road travel. We’d have to find a route, but we’d need to do that anyway if we’re moving farmers there. We could get some of them to drive the tankers. They could dismantle the machines and take care of loading. We’d have to provide them with food anyway while they set up. It would mean fewer of them working on the farms, but that’s doable.”
“What about the planes?” he asked.
“The issue is going to be transporting sufficient fuel from Bellingham to Vancouver Island by sea for at least the next month, but maybe at least two months. I’ll ask Sholto to check out the runway in Olympia. We’ve got it marked as unusable, but perhaps it can be repaired. You need to be back in two weeks?”
“There’s a big trade union conference beginning in thirteen days. It was originally billed as a festival of work, but it’s become a chance for all the new party leaders to set out their stands in front of the viewing public. The speeches will be televised and shown in the cinemas and covered on the radio. O.O. goes on last, seventeen days from now.”
“And you want to announce something definitive during this conference? Well, they’re leaving tomorrow morning. It’ll take all day to sail down the Hood Canal. Another day to cycle to Olympia, a third to get to the Columbia River. Two to get back. They have two boats, so we could ask if one can sail back here early. By then, we’ll have finished an inspection of the Japanese ship. You should be able to fly back in nine days with details of the plan, would that do?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” I said. “That’ll give me a chance to work through the numbers and see if I can come up with a plan C. It won’t be enough, of course. His opponents will say that whatever is sent is just trinkets and beads, too little and too late. He’ll need something more.”
“Hopefully, he’ll have it. No offence, mate, but North America is just a sideshow. The real story is going to be a military victory in Thailand. It’s all-out war over there. The junta pirates launched a cutting-out raid on Ranong, trying to steal the fishing boats. General Somtow got wind the attack was coming. It got bloody, and there were losses, but the outcome was a resounding victory for Thailand. They even ended up with a few prisoners, including the son of the junta’s minister of war, and he sang like Dame Nellie.”
“Ah, so you’ve got some intel on the junta?” I asked.
“And beyond. To the north are a couple of warlords, based around mining towns. They’ve been operating a defensive offence, if you like, pushing against the junta, and pushing back on any idea of reconstituting Myanmar. I don’t think they fancy the idea of restoring a unified Burma, either. North of them, you’ve got the border with China. That’s where things start to get interesting.”
“There are survivors there, then?”
“Not in the cities, but in the mountains, yes. General Somtow is launching a major push, which the Pacific is backing, to wipe out the junta. Burma will be reconstituted in the south, but it’s going to leave those warlords alone. That’ll form the northern reach of the Pacific Alliance.”
“So O.O.’s abandoning any attempt to liberate the world?” I asked.
“Or conquer it. If he is on the way out, he wants to reformulate the Pacific Alliance into a real international institution, rather than just an alternative spelling for an Australian Empire.”
“I was going to ask, because it does sound like a lot of these problems are local to him, and not to New Zealand and the rest.”
“The Kiwis are actually happy with their boost in population,” he said. “Most of them, anyway. There’s been a bit of a swing in the last couple of months. What they’re short of is materials. They were always more used to isolation, and now they can point to Oz and ask whether they really want to turn out like that.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Potentially heading that way,” he said.
“What about elsewhere?”
“Indonesia and the Philippines are ticking along, waiting for news from the pilgrims. That’s probably going to come in around the time of this conference. Papua New Guinea is a mess. Too many people for too little infrastructure, exacerbated by recent flooding. We’re already relocating people from there to Thailand, and if all goes well with the war, they’ll help build a new Burma.” He poured me another cup of tea. “And then there’s Sri Lanka. It’s a colony in all but name, but it’s beginning to thrive. One of O.O.’s big achievements.”
I took another sip. “When you’ve the wherewithal to brew a cup of tea, nothing is truly apocalyptic. You know it’s almost certain Mr Owen will have to resign after the next election. It’s unlikely he’ll get a large enough majority that, based on the percentage of seats, it won’t look like a defeat. The press will start chattering about his replacement, because that’s easier to write than finding a real story.”
“He knows. I told him he’s a bit like Churchill. Terrible bloke before the war. Too tired afterwards. But for 1940 and ’41, he was who the world needed.”
“You said that to Oswald?”
“It was appropriate to the moment,” Scott said. “He likes the idea of being an elder statesman who can drink as much as he likes.”
“Who’ll replace him? Anna?” I asked.
“Most of the country view her as O.O.’s attack dog and have forgotten that she stopped the coup and saved our corner of the world. Business owners blame her for high taxes. Unions say they’re not high enough. There’s those who don’t like the return of religion to the centre stage, and the religious who don’t want to share that stage with unbelievers. Some of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders view her as their personal representative and feel betrayed by her stance depending on whether they’re a progressive or a conservative. She’s being pulled in nine different directions and isn’t sure she wants to stay in politics. For now, her focus is on the election. Win it, root out the crowd-pleasing card-punchers, and then build up the Pacific Alliance. She has no plans beyond that.”
“Events, dear boy, events,” I said. “The pilgrims will be reporting soon. And whatever they say, it’s going to cause friction. I suppose we can hope that, for once, news from the Middle East might bring peace.”
“Amen. Oh, there is one more thing. There’s an American politician among the passengers. Tess vetted him. He has no link with Dwyer or the investigation into the serial killer.”
“What type of politician?” I asked.
“Grass roots, he’s trying to put together a voter registration campaign. Tess said he didn’t seem dangerous. There are a fair few political types who still think they should be running things here. She thought it best to send at least one up north, just so she could get the others to shut up. She thinks he might even be a help.”
“What’s his name?”
Scott took out his notebook. “Lee Plusset. And he’s travelling with his bodyguard, a bloke called Julian Spitzer.”
Part 2
Umbrellas and Jazz Clubs
Constable Fatima Khalil
Vancouver Island
Chapter 10 - Never Work with Family
Nanaimo International Airport, 5th July
Constable Fatima Khalil unsuccessfully stifled a yawn.
“Three yawns in three minutes,” her mother, Myrna, said. “Someone needs to get to bed.”
The office in Nanaimo International Airport, gateway to the apocalyptic wasteland, was so small they were working back-to-back. There was no way her mother could have seen her yawn, and yet…
“We’ve a job to do,” Fatima muttered for the umpteenth time that evening. The clock on the wall said it was coming up to two a.m. Her in-tray still overflowed, and there were four more stacks waiting on the table in the hall. There was no way they’d finish entering the thirteen hundred immigration forms before dawn.
“Poor sleep hygiene is the number one cause of strokes among the middle-aged,” her mother said. “I read it only yesterday.”
Says who? Read it where? And she was barely thirty. Fatima did not say that. And she certainly didn’t say that if she were middle-aged, that made her mother a crone. She was thinking it, though.
Don’t tell a parent they’re infuriating, because it hurts infinitely more when they say it to you, or so Monsieur Piedmont had told her during one of their many summer evening walks when she was fourteen. Sixteen years later, she was beginning to question the advice. After her father’s death, and relocating to Vancouver City with her mother, she’d lost the network of uncles and cousins in their close-knit Lebanese community. Gabriel Piedmont had filled the paternal vacancy, though not the matrimonial one. He’d also taken it upon himself to fill the gaps in her education with all the advice schools failed to teach. A head in the clouds misses the pennies on the pavement; Even vampires look harmless in daytime; Zip, tail, and laces. There were a few nonsensical ones, too, like Never take an umbrella to a jazz club. At the time, she assumed she’d understand it when she was older. Now she was older, she wondered if he was just trying to distract her from what had otherwise been a lonely childhood. One of his sayings that she’d disagreed with then, but which she had come to fully embrace during the last two weeks, was Never work with family.
