Читать книгу Cull - Stafford Ray - Страница 15

"No way, Bob!” shouted the Prime Minister. “It’s the centre piece of our climate change policy. If that goes, we look stupid.”

“I understand your problem,” reasoned his departmental head. “But the fact is, the stuff’s getting out. You can’t keep claiming it’s working when the figures show it isn’t.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Bob,” he snarled. “If it’s my problem, it’s your problem!”

“I didn’t mean it quite like that,” he smiled. “But in a way you’re right. You have policy. I only have science.”

“Well, what’s the problem?” asked Mulaney, still angry. “Is it money? It’s gotta be fixed!”

“No, it’s the basic technology. In a few sites we get complete containment and some sites we get an acceptable result of leakage of… maybe as low as a hundredth of a percent per annum, but others are not holding well at all. Too much surface fracturing. We can’t hold the pressure to keep it liquid, so it goes to gas and leaks.”

“What do we tell China? It’s their money.”

“They’ll have to know,” replied Bob Bouffler, Department of Sustainability. “They probably already know.”

“How’s that? Who told them?” demanded the PM.

“Their techs are here too, PM,” he replied. “They want to know where their money’s going; they see the reports.”

“There’s got to be a fix,” he moaned. “Look, get CSIRO onto it. No, I’ll speak to them personally. They need a shake up and you, you keep the Chinese happy until we figure something out. OK?”

“Well, yes,” he replied dubiously. “I’ll try, but they have access to the same figures we do. They’ll soon know. We see the numbers as they come in raw but within days, they have them too,” He looked seriously at his boss. “And they’ll know we know.”

“Where do we go from here, then?”

Bouffler had no answer. He was silent, calmly watching as Mulaney tapped a pen on his desk to accentuate his words, an annoying habit that indicated extreme agitation. He stopped tapping.

“I’ll get the minister to make a statement.” He tapped again. “We’ve discovered minor leaks but we’re close to a solution. We can fix it. How’s that!”

He glowered at his bureaucrat, demanding concurrence.

“But we can’t fix it,” insisted Bouffler. “There is no fix. The CSIRO has already said that, sir.”

The PM glared at him “They did not say there was no fix. They

said they were concerned. That’s the word they used, ‘concerned’. Don’t make it sound worse than it is.”

“True, sir,” he replied. “But as you know, scientists are careful to not overstate the case. Raw numbers seem to indicate a worse situation than they are yet prepared to put in reports…”

“Don’t lecture me on reports!” he shouted. “The bloody environment isn’t the only thing that’s heating up!”

“I can see that, sir,” smiled Bouffler, attempting to head off a

famous Mulaney rave. “The pressure isn’t all in the geology!”

“You’re damn right it isn’t! I’ve got the bloody Chinese bleating about spent uranium, the Yanks pushing us to undercut the Canadians, half the world is out there drilling holes all over the country for God knows what, and now this!”

“Oil,” said Bouffler quietly.

The PM had not heard him clearly. “What?” he asked.

“Oil, I said ‘oil’, sir,” he repeated. “They’re drilling for oil.”

“Of course they are. And wouldn’t you? With prices over three hundred a barrel and rising? I should be out there with the Black and Decker myself! Christ, I’m sick of it.”

“I feel it’s my duty, sir,” he said gently, “to point out that oil, even at three hundred a barrel is unsustainable.”

“Of course it’s unsustainable!” shouted the PM, missing the point. “We can’t afford to pay that much. Everything is so bloody far away. Too far. If they keep this up, even the shit-house’ll be too far for me!”

Bouffler laughed dutifully at the PM’s joke, then attempted to bring the discussion back.

“I hate to remind you, Prime Minister. What you want is just not happening and we need a fallback position.” He noted the PM’s rising anger and added the rider, “in case the boffins can’t fix it.”

“There is no fallback position!” he fumed. “And who sold me that crap about geosequestration anyway? Bloody fools!”

“The idea came from Poland, actually.”

“Is this some sort of ‘Polish joke’?”

“Unfortunately, no, it isn’t,” he answered. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, as they say, but our trials show…”

“So how come we didn’t know all this before we invested so much political capital in a loser?”

“We got sucked in because we were so keen to believe it,” he answered. “As soon as it was touted we grabbed it.”

“And who did the bloody touting? Was it you?”

“No, not me. Blackwater Coal did, sir,” he replied quietly. “It was in their Environment Impact Statement. Their EIS contained an

opinion there was a high probability it could be achieved. It was not an unequivocal assurance.”

“And who wrote the bloody EIS?” he demanded. “It’s no good going with a half-arsed EIS if we’re the ones left with our trousers down! Who signed off on it anyway?”

“I believe it was the CR Corporation, sir,” he explained. “Consulting Engineers.”

“Who the hell is CR Corp?” he demanded. “Are they credible? Maybe we can dump this back on them. I’ll need to quote some bastard when I feed the chooks. Bloody press!”

“In the industry, sir, CR stands for ‘Coal Roolz’.” He smiled. “It seems the miners pay and CR plays their tune.”

“And who gave Blackwater their licence on a dodgy EIS to start sequestration trials anyway?” demanded Mulaney.

“Well, it was a while ago, sir,” he smiled. “It was when you were minister. I’m afraid it has your signature on it.”

“Crap! You‘re not afraid,” he shouted. “You’re enjoying this, you supercilious bastard!”

“Bastard I may be, but supercilious I am not, sir” he replied evenly. “I too opposed that particular permit, given over the objections of the departmental officer who knocked it back. He was right to question the EIS. I remind you, it was me who suffered demotion at your hand because I opposed your interference…”

“That’s enough!” fumed Mulaney. “If you think you can stand there and make a bloody fool out of me, you’ll be waving good-bye from Canberra Airport.”

“Prime Minister,” he soothed, “I am merely offering honest advice. Everything I’ve said is in the reports and you’ll be quizzed about it eventually.”

“You’re right,” he agreed. “But you keep your mouth shut and leave the talking to me. No comment, or just give them official policy. OK?” he fumed. “One peep and you’re out of here.”

He stood, indicating the meeting was over. Bob Bouffler collected his papers and stood for a moment regarding his PM on the other side of the oversized teak desk.

Mulaney read the threat in the other’s eyes. It was he who might be on the plane if this got into the media.

“I don’t think you realise how much my prestige depends on this.” He paused and shook his head as he contemplated what he had said. “No, the whole country’s prestige depends on this working…and our security. The Chinese might be putting in the big bucks, but so are the Yanks. We pay for our defence hardware by selling energy. It has to work, or we lose big time.”

Support from his officer didn’t come. What he did get, was a grimace that could have been interpreted as compassion, but could have been contempt.

“I know that, sir,” Bouffler explained. “I would rather it had worked too. I never was convinced, as you know, but I could have been wrong and wish I had been. You were so strong on it. Unfortunately you’ve painted yourself into a corner. I tried to…”

“Crap!” Mulaney retorted. “Those charlatans at the CSIRO gave me the brush and Coal fucking Research gave me the paint. How was I to know? Bastards!”

“That’s not quite fair, sir. There were plenty of dissenting voices and it was you as Minister for Trade who overrode…”

“Listen,” Mulaney pleaded. “What would I know? I’m a lawyer, for Christ sake! I was guided by you. I thought I was protected by your credibility.”

“Perhaps I didn’t shout loudly enough,” he answered. “I knew it was my credentials that got me the job. That’s OK, but unfortunately I was a party faithful and wanted to believe your rhetoric on climate change.” Mulaney’s rising anger caused him to hold up his hands in supplication.

“Please hear me out.” A dubious nod was his answer and he continued, “My advice to you is to bite the bullet and admit now that it’s too unreliable and too costly. Between the leaks and the extra energy used for sequestration, there is precious little gain, if any. Then there’s leakage from coal seam gas and fracking.” He pointed downwards. “Coal in the ground is stable. Its gases and its oxides are not. They are the facts. Now, if I’m asked…”

“If you’re asked, you’ll dump it all on me!” growled Mulaney. “I want your resignation on my desk in the hour and your office empty before I go home or I’ll fire you publicly at my morning press conference tomorrow.”

“If that’s what you want, sir,” he replied, “you’ll have it, but it’s still my duty as your adviser to…”

“Your duty, Bouffl er,” he snarled, “is to keep your mouth shut. This comes under the Official Secrets Act!”

“Since when?” demanded Bouffler.

“Since now!” shouted Mulaney. “And if you as much as touch your phone, I’ll have you under the Terrorism Act. Got it?”

“Terrorism Act? That’s ridiculous. There’s no terrorism threat.” He began to wonder at the PM’s mental state, and asked more calmly, “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not. If you tell the world geosequestration doesn’t work and start bleating about coal seam gas being unsustainable, this country will go broke and then how will national security look?” He turned, picked up his handset and stood facing Bouffler. “So that’s it, Mr Robert Bloody Bouffler. You’re fired!”

Mulaney appeared to change his mind. He sat, replaced the handpiece on its cradle and apparently busied himself attending to the pile of paperwork on his desk.

Bouffler stood for a long moment staring at the thin grey hair and scaly scalp of his Prime Minister. He turned and strode to his own office to begin the depressing task of clearing out his desk.

He had just finished placing his family photographs into a cardboard crate and was looking around for the next item, when two Commonwealth Police officers walked through his open door and pinioned his arms. They applied handcuffs and pushed him roughly into the corridor towards the emergency exit.

Not a word was spoken. They offered no explanation and he was speechless with surprise. He realised they had chosen a minor exit to avoid the ever-lurking press corps, but he could do little but try to keep on his feet as his egress was completed and he was shoved into an unmarked car, motor running and driver ready to gun the engine.

As soon as the noise level dropped to normal inside the car, he asked reasonably, “What’s the charge?”

“Suspected of offering aid to a terrorist organisation, sir.”

The ‘sir’ carried the tone of contempt.

“That’s crazy!” he objected. “Who issued that order?”

“That’s for us to know and you to wonder about, sir.” He laughed derisively.

Bouffler looked at the second officer. He had seen him before in the corridors. He appealed for support. “Tell this clown who I am, Officer,” he demanded. “I’m not some bum off the street that you can push…”

“We know who you are, sir,” he said with even more contempt. “A bum is a gentleman compared to you terrorist-cell bastards. You’re going down big time!”

He realised there was nothing to be gained by saying anything so he spent his time on the way to the lock-up pondering his ultimate destination. Would it be Christmas Island? He hoped it would not be that once pearl of the Indian Ocean, still the principal refugee processing centre but now a prison with a recent history of untold bloodshed and torture under the guise of anti-terrorism. Poor bastards. Now he was one of them. If he ended up there, who would know?