Noah's Ark

By Chris Craig

The popular Tomorrow Series by John Marsden raises the spectre of an invaded Australia. Noah’s Ark sets out to examine the questions raised by this proposition.
Under what circumstances could such a thing occur? What international upheavals and geo-political manoeuvres would need to take place for an invader to threaten our shores? What would be their motivation?
If it did happen, how would our existing military alliances and forces stack up against those of neighbouring nations?
Is it possible?
The story unfolds as we follow a journalist and his family being drawn into the accelerating crisis. They personify the faith that such a thing could never occur, the disbelief when threat becomes reality and the terror felt by so many in the history of the world but not known in Australia since the darkest days of World War 2: the fear of an invader’s approach.
As our forces are swept aside and the enemy advances southward on Australian soil, Noah’s Ark draws on historical precedent. For example, a hastily raised militia force makes a desperate stand on the banks of the Clarence River, in Northern NSW: a plan that was actually formulated to oppose a Japanese invasion in WW2. Similarly, military officers are stationed in all major media outlets during WW 2, to restrict the flow of bad news to the general public, creating a situation when the HMAS Sydney was sunk by the Kormoran in 1941: the newspapers were not allowed to print what the grapevine had already broadcast.
Noah’s Ark also examines the plight of Asian Australians - turned on, just as those from Europe were during the World Wars of the 20th Century.
The characters of Noah’s Ark are driven from their homes, forced to flee by these historical forces in a conflict ultimately generated by climate change and competition for resources between emerging superpowers in the Asian Century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Craig
• Release date: Jan 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9780987245441

Chris Craig

Chris Craig: Born in Lithgow, New South Wales, Australia. I grew up in the mountains before moving to Lake Macquarie and attending the University of Newcastle, studying History and Economic History. I have enjoyed a varied career including labouring in the BHP steel works, working as a concrete contractor, a student politician, a newspaper columnist and as an Industrial Officer for the Australian Journalists Association (which became the Media, Entertainment and Arts Alliance while I worked for them). I cut my teeth reading C.S. Forester, Herman Wouk, Leon Uris and Georgette Heyer. Have you read them? You should, if you haven’t yet. They are the real deal. Well researched, well written. True to the story. If you enjoy them, you’ll enjoy my work. It’s worth a read.

Book preview

Noah’s Ark

Terror Australis Book 1

An Australian Novel

Chris Craig 2013

Smashwords Edition

1st Edition

Copyright Chris Craig 2011

ISBN: 978-0-9872454-4-1

*** ***

Smashwords Edition License Note

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Put another way; if you enjoy this book (he said in the confident expectation that you will), then please pay the freight so the author can afford to sit down and write you another. Thanks.

Other titles by Chris Craig now available:

Catterthun

Lithgow

Last of the Mycenaeans

LotM Companion web_book

The House of Thunder Series:

The Father

The Son

THOT Companion web_book

See them at chriscraigbooks.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

The End

sample chapter of Lithgow

sample chapter end

Chapter 1

(return to ToC)

The black cold of night had gripped the mountains hard. Their great steepness reached up towards a clear sky, made even darker by stars so close they could be touched. But even the darkest night must end. In the east, black sky began to fade into grey dawn. Beads of bright light appeared along the ridge: sun shining between the trunks of gum trees. Down in the valley, mist blanketed rock and moss, and soft grasses. Beads of stinging moisture formed on the leaves of patient trees.

Mist muted the sound of a creek bubbling between the steep slopes and filtered the growing light. Brown and green, colours of the mountain bush emerged from the blackness, along with the ancient grey-brown of wallaby fur. The wary marsupial looked around before stooping to drink. Standing erect again, its ears twitched this way and that. Alert black eyes searched the bush for any sign of danger. The wallaby turned and began to move down, its slow, unhurried bounces taking it through the bush.

As the rhythmic thuds of the wallaby’s progress floated through the mist, two more patches of grey-brown wallaby and kangaroo fur appeared. It was a man and a young boy. Dressed in kangaroo fur, timeless camouflage, they moved even more warily than the wallaby had done.

Silently, they made their way to the creek. Their breaths, curling white in the cold air, the only sign of their presence. The boy looked around before kneeling to fill the battered buckets he carried. The man remained standing above him, looking, peering into the bush and the mist, straining his eyes and ears, as the wallaby had done, for any sign of danger. He carried a rifle, held high. It moved, swinging one way and the other, following his eyes as the man looked this way and that.

There was no immediate danger, however. As the boy quietly filled the second bucket, the man’s attention was drawn to the only other movement in that grey, misty world – water bubbling over and between the rocks of the stream bed. He watched the flow spurting between two rocks, tinkling into the pool below. His brow furrowed and he thought....

I remember when water used to come out of a tap, just like that, whenever you wanted it, the man said, in his thoughts. His mouth twisted into a wry smile as he remembered a life, a world, that seemed so long ago….

Water did run from a tap, back then; spurting and then swirling around and plunging down the plug hole as a woman rinsed her hands and freshened her face. She was in her fifties, this woman. She peered into a mirror over the basin, taking stock. Her face was pale, framed by flaming red hair cut into a power bob. Her nose was long and pointed and she gently touched the increasing bags below her eyes. The eyes narrowed, as she inspected a fine tracery of veins starting to show on her cheeks, and the deep lines around her mouth. These jobs certainly come with a cost, she thought to herself, completing the inspection.

So, Tony, she said, leaving the bathroom and entering her spacious office, you were saying we can’t see all the oil companies at once, that I have to go through it all with them one at a time. Although it was a large room, heavy carpet and solid furniture gave it a cosy air; accentuated by the flicker of lightning from outside, followed by a muted roll of thunder and the hiss of steady rain.

Yes, Prime Minister, one at a time, replied the man standing next to the large desk. Head of the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, he was both the epitome and the height of the public service. He was urbane. His hair, his clothes, his soft voice and manner all had a geometric perfection. Like the office décor, he was modern, yet staid and solid. In fact, if he was not actually speaking he seemed to disappear into the surroundings, as if he became part of the furniture.

Bloody waste of time, the Prime Minister replied.

As you say, Prime Minister, he said, but after having the A triple C chasing them for years over collusion, we can’t have them all in together to have a chat about petrol prices. I’m sure they would see the irony in that.

And they wouldn’t miss us, either, I suppose. But this will take all morning, now.

We’ve cleared your schedule on that assumption, Prime Minister.

The PM was distracted by a young woman swiftly but quietly entering the room. Nodding to the department head, she placed a sheaf of papers on the PM’s desk, leaving the door open as she left. The soft hum of a government at work came in from outside: the ringing of telephones, the murmur of conversation and the rattle of keyboards. The Prime Minister looked through the papers as she spoke, making notes here and there as she went.

I thought Kennett was coming in to talk about sea walls this morning at some stage, the PM said before calling through the open door, Susan, could you find David Feeney and tell him I need to see him today, please?

Not now, Tony replied, we’ve put him off, Kennett, for the time being.

Not that I mind, you understand, the PM went on, I mean, they, state and local governments, they want walls to protect their, their rates and land, in the long run, but they want us to find the money, it seems.

It seems, said the department head.

Well I’ll be damned if I’ll cut any more of our programs to build their dykes, the PM said emphatically.

We have agreed to call them ‘sea walls’ Prime Minister, the department head said patiently.

Quite, the PM replied.

We have also put off the call scheduled with our ambassador to the UN, he said.

Kevin? the PM raised an eyebrow, What’s he want now?

More money for inundation mitigation in the third world, I understand.

Climate change refugees.

As you say, PM, refugees from the rising seas.

So, no sea walls and no refugees, the Prime Minister mused, it’s all petrol prices today – the urgent crowding out the important again.

It’s what they’ll be talking about in the pubs this afternoon.

And that’s how we run the country? she asked.

Traditionally. It is what has got us where we are today, he replied.

I see. Well, don’t reschedule the call from Kevin. Pass it on to the Treasurer instead. If it’s money he wants, he can tell Wayne where he thinks we’ll find it.

I suspect he has his eye on the increased revenues from fuel taxes, Prime Minister, he said.

Don’t they all, she replied, by the way, what are the petrol prices now?

It’s all in the file, Prime Minister, the department head said, handing her a folder, but, from memory, $3.00 per litre this morning in Sydney and Melbourne. Cheaper in Brisbane, of course.

Of course, she agreed, what about crude oil?

Should reach $300.00 per barrel on the Singapore spot market this afternoon. As I say, all the information you will need is in your briefing papers.

There will be trouble over this, she said, leafing through the papers in her folder, big trouble. Anyway, let’s see what we can do to avoid being blamed for it, if nothing else. Are they here? She rose from her chair, smoothing her skirt as she walked around the desk and towards the window.

I’ll go and bring them in, said the department head with a nod of his head, somehow contriving to leave the room without turning his back.

The PM looked out through her window. Fitful gusts were flinging raindrops against the glass with a muted rattle. She watched the water flowing erratically down the window pane, refracting light and distorting her view of the world outside.

Big trouble, she said quietly to herself.

During the long day the rain moved north, covering mountains with mist and drizzle. Along the coast, lightning flickered and thunder crashed as the change made its way north. The waters of Lake Macquarie turned from cobalt blue to metal grey and whitecaps began to foam, whipped by the stinging southerly wind. And rain began to rattle softly on the roof of the Bay Hotel. Inside, three men, middle-aged and older, sat in the cozy gloom of the back bar. Their beers rested on a long, bar height table between them. They quietly sipped as they watched the evening news on the TV screen on the wall.

The prime minister’s face filled the screen, confronted by a battery of microphones, crowded in a doorstop interview.

I have had discussions with the major oil companies, she said into the cameras, and together, we will work through this to reduce the impact on Australian working families. But we have to realise that this is an international problem, a global issue.

So she’s not going to do anything about it, said Barnsey, a man in his late forties dressed in the work boots and fluorescent jacket of an outdoors worker.

Give her a go, said Jim, She’s all right. Jim was a thin man in his early sixties, wearing the uniform shirt of a school bus driver.

Ha! said Max, the oldest of them all. A retired high school teacher, he ran the local plant nursery, fulfilling a lifelong ambition.

The trio fell silent again as the news anchor introduced another image on the television. It was a man, red faced and angry, sitting in his car in a petrol station queue, speaking to the camera through his car window.

$3.20 a litre, the man said, and you’ve got to queue up to get it at that! At these prices I can’t afford to get to work – and what happens then?

The noise of rain from outside increased momentarily as two more men entered the bar; a tall man in his forties with a close trimmed beard and a short, thin man, balding, with a remnant of grey hair in strings over his pate. They brushed rain from their clothes as they approached the table.

Mark, said Jim, by way of greeting. The other two nodded theirs.

Max, Jim, Barnsey, said the tall man, Mark Paul, this is Godfrey, Godfrey Hyde. He’s a friend of mine from Uni days. Godfrey, this is the table of knowledge. Come here with any question and you’ll get an answer.

It mightn’t be right, said Jim, shaking Godfrey’s hand.

But you’ll get one, said Barnsey, extending his hand.

What will you have, Professor? Mark asked.

Do they have sherry here? Perhaps a small sherry, my dear boy, Godfrey replied, rubbing his thin hands in anticipation of its arrival. He spoke with an unmistakable, emphatic Cambridge accent, equally audible in a bar or from the back row of a lecture theatre.

Professor? asked Max in his taciturn way, leaving doubt as to whether it was a question or an allegation.

Of Classics, University of Newcastle, emeritus now, of course, Godfrey replied.

Classics? asked Jim.

Ancient history, ancient languages; the ancient world and its people, you might say, Godfrey answered.

Emeritus, asked Barnsey, raising an eyebrow, what’s that?

Retired, answered Mark Paul, returning from the bar with a schooner of foaming ale and a large glass of dark sherry.

We’ve been solving the problems of the world, said Jim.

It’s what we do at the table of knowledge, agreed Mark.

We should get them all solved now, Barnsey said hopefully.

With an actual professor, and a newspaper editor to help us, Jim said mischievously.

Sub editor, Mark corrected him.

Same thing, said Jim.

Sadly, it’s not, Mark replied.

Anyway, Barnsey took up the cudgels, Jim here, being of Irish descent, assures us that the Labor government is going to solve the problem of rising fuel prices. What do you think, professor?

Godfrey was in the middle of taking a deep draft of his sherry. He smacked his lips meditatively for a moment before replying.

Irish. I see. Well, my dear chap, he began, "the price of petrol is not a matter which affects me as much as most. Not directly, at any rate. I do not drive a motor car, you see. I prefer public transport, and my bicycle, of course.

However, he went on, "I concede that even I will feel the effects, nonetheless. Public transport fares and costs are sure to rise, and the economic turmoil will inevitably affect us all. Clearly, as I have been saying for some time now, we need to adopt other means of propelling our vehicles.

But it’s too late for that now, in the short run. That is what will have to happen eventually, however. It may well take some time for the market forces, and our governments, to adjust to the new cost of fuel, but they must. What other choice is there? In the meantime, we will all have to ‘pull our belts in,’ as they say. What concerns me more, quite frankly, is this dreadful rising of the seas.

Do you have property on the waterfront? Jim asked.

Not at all, not at all, the professor replied, far from it, in fact.

Up on the hill, Mark explained.

I am concerned, Godfrey went on, about the millions currently displaced, their farmlands inundated by even the modest sea level rise we have experienced so far.

Refugees, Max growled into his glass.

Indeed, Godfrey said, "particularly in Asia and the sub-continent. Millions of poor wretches with nowhere left to go, do you see? Canberra, Washington and Tokyo were not ready for this, any more than they were ready for the shortage of petrol. Unless we can solve this problem quickly, I foresee a great turmoil, an instability in the world order.

I always feared a situation like this might result from the rise of fundamentalist regimes to our north. Ironically it turns out to be our own doing. In any case, we may have far more to worry about than the cost of filling our petrol tanks. Ah, I see it is time for another. My shout, I believe?

Cheery bastard, your mate, Barnsey said as Godfrey went to the bar.

Yes, Mark laughed in agreement, but the trouble is, he’s often right.

The offices of the Newcastle Herald are housed, still, in a heritage sandstone building in Bolton St; a street sloping up from the harbour, running up the hill between tall, old buildings. When the wind is from the south, it funnels between these dark edifices, becoming stronger and even more gusty. It blew today, driving sheets of rain down the shiny, wet street. Umbrellas turned inside out as Novocastrians struggled to stay dry against its blasts. Coats flapped around hurrying legs as workers made a dash along the footpath, mostly going home at this time of day.

Mark Paul, however, was on his way to work. Newspaper reporters spend normal working hours gathering stories under the direction of the paper’s Chief of Staff (or COS). At four pm, however, another work force arrives – the sub editors. To them falls the task of editing stories assembled by the reporters – cutting the text to the right size to, as they say, fill the holes between the ads. In the process they correct the spelling and grammar of the reporters, loudly complaining about declining standards as they do so. They also check stories, as they go, excising anything that might get the paper sued for defamation and so on. Sub editors work nights.

Mark made his way up the hill from the railway station, leaning into the wind and holding his hat in place. He entered the building through automatic doors, shaking water from his hat and coat as he crossed the public area surrounded by counters and clerks. He pressed his code into a pad by the gate and made his way upstairs.

Behind the classified advertising and enquiry counters on the ground floor, the building was cavernous and empty. Once, great presses had churned away in these spaces. Huge rolls of paper were spun at high speed, oily machines pounded and rattled and the newspaper had come out. But those machines, and the people that worked them, were all gone now. New, automated presses had been built out in the industrial suburbs. The paper was compiled upstairs, still, on the editorial floor. But once set out on computer screens, the pages were sent on line to computers in the new, remote factory where the few remaining printers fed rolls of paper in one end and collected bundles of newspapers from the other.

Mark made his way onto the editorial floor of the Herald – a large, open plan space occupying the full width of the building. It was covered in desks from which emitted the new sounds of newspaper production. Like that of government in progress, it consisted of phones ringing and being answered, the hum and murmur of conversation and the padded rattle of keyboards in use. Mark made his way to his desk – at the head of a row of desks with larger than normal computer screens staring blankly from them. The desks were beginning to fill as the other sub editors started to arrive. Nodding in greeting to them, Mark dropped his coat and, picking up a folder, headed across the space towards the Editor’s office. As Chief Sub Editor, Mark’s first duty of the evening was to attend the afternoon news conference.

Without looking up from the folder he was leafing through as he walked, Mark was aware of the Head Photographer, the Chief of Staff and the Features Editor also making their way towards the door to the editor’s office. Mark opened it, ushering in the Chief of Staff.

How’s it been, Mark asked the COS as he brushed past. The COS rolled his eyes and grimaced.

Don’t ask, he replied, moving to take his usual seat.

The Editor looked up from his desk as they all entered. He had short cropped, grizzled hair and a square, clean shaven jaw. His brown eyes, kindly but alert, moved from one to the other as they sat.

What have we got? the Editor said, leaning back in his chair.

Fuel prices, said the Chief of Staff.

Again? said Mark, sounding pained.

Again, the COS confirmed.

Local angles? the Editor asked.

Covered, said the COS, and no shortage of wire stories on national economic impact and so on.

Pics? said the Editor.

The Picture Editor began to pull prints from a folder, passing them across the desk as he spoke.

Queues at servos, he said, a close up of the pump showing $3.50 a litre, some people pushing a car that has run out.

I like the close up, the Editor said, holding up one of the pictures, but it might be out of date before we go to print, the way the stuff is going up.

Yeah, the photographer agreed, I can get someone down the street and get another shot at the last possible moment.

Or we can photo shop it, Mark put in.

Or we can photo shop it, the Head photographer agreed.

Do both, the Editor said, and use whichever comes up best. What have we got for World News? Pakistan v India again?

The war in Kashmir, the COS confirmed, The Yanks are gearing up to intervene.

Any number on the troops they are committing? the Editor asked.

Lots, the COS answered, one hundred thousand plus.

The Editor let out a slow whistle.

They’re worried about the nukes on both sides, obviously, the COS ventured.

What about the UN? asked the Features Editor, a young woman with bright, wavy red hair. Mark sorted through pages in his folder.

Here it is, he said, passing a page to the Features Editor, the motion authorising intervention passed through the Security Council last night. China abstained.

The Editor leaned forward in his chair, furrowing his brow. Abstained, he said, that’s odd. I mean, people have been saying that China was revving Pakistan up. It seems odd they didn’t veto.

Don’t know, Mark replied, but they seem happy enough for the US to intervene.

Any one else sending troops so far? The UN, NATO, the EU? the Features Editor asked, handing the page back to Mark.

Not yet, the COS answered her, all busy at home, rising seas and so on.

What about us, the Editor asked, have we been asked?

Not that has been announced, the COS said, but you wouldn’t know, really, would you?

OK, the Editor clapped his hands together, rubbing them as was his habit to signal a move to the next agenda item. That’s the World page taken care of. Paper writes itself nowadays, doesn’t it? What have we got from Features?

The Features Editor leaned forward as she consulted her list.

A background piece on the Hubbert Peak, she began, which apparently happened in 2008, they seem to think. Is it ‘Hewbert’, or ‘Hub-bert,’ by the way?

Hub-bert, Mark and the COS chorused in reply.

Thanks, the Features Editor continued, and a piece on the shrinking margins of small service stations – apparently the independents are making less now than they used to when the prices were lower, believe it or not.

Hold that one over until Saturday’s paper, said the Editor, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. OK, I think that’s about it then, he said, leaning forward as if to rise from his chair, ending the meeting.

There’s another wire story today, Mark said, arresting the Editor’s rise.

Not refugees again? the Editor asked, sinking back into his chair and pulling a face.

Yes, Mark replied, and climate change. I think we should give it a run.

It’s been done to death, the COS put in, the whole climate change thing.

Sea levels going up, so are the sea walls. Been there, done that, the Editor agreed.

Not here, Mark persisted, I mean over there. There’s millions of, what, ‘displaced persons’ they are calling them now.

There was millions before, the Editor said, something has to change to make it news.

Well, then, Mark went on, pulling another sheet of paper from his folder, what about ‘Boat People Flooding In,’ then – ‘The Trickle Becomes a Torrent.’

But it’s not what they are talking about in the pubs this afternoon, is it, the Editor said patiently, not with petrol prices the way they are.

I just think this thing might bite us on the arse, Mark