Ashmore Grief

By D.A. Cairns

The story of an illegal immigrant who arrives in Australia by boat and goes on to become the Prime Minister. The story of a woman at the end of hope who is rescued from a smuggler's boat only to become enslaved. The story of a man who has lost his way, and needs a cause for which to fight, and a reason to live. These three lives collide in Ashmore Grief: an epic tale of struggle. The struggle to survive, the struggle to belong and the struggle for purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.A. Cairns
• Release date: Sep 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301321049

Book preview

Part I

Chapter One

The klaxon blared a deafening call to arms for the crew of HMAS Albany. Midshipman Mark Clayfield was staring into the vacant space on the other side of his glass of orange juice. The galley of the Armidale class patrol boat was empty as breakfast was over, ended prematurely by the summoning siren.

Muddy! Let’s go.

Mark turned to the sound of his crewmate’s voice. He felt sluggish. A poor night’s sleep had robbed him of vitality. His thoughts were fuzzy.

It’s not the bloody orange juice talking to you, mate. Snap out of it.

Mark marveled at the pulp hovering in the orange liquid.

Muddy! Again the voice, more urgent. We’re up.

His reply sounded like it was uttered by someone else, but eventually he rose and donned his blue Navy cap. It bore the embroidered insignia of the RAN: a crown astride an oval bearing the words Royal Australian Navy over a picture of an anchor. As the alert continued to sound, the passageways flooded with personnel. The Albany carried a crew of twenty one sailors including Midshipman Clayfield. He climbed the ladder to the deck where he followed the gaze of the assembled crew towards the horizon. A hazy dot bobbed in and out of view.

Warrant Officer Campbell spoke: What is it?

Sub Lieutenant Jayawardene answered: Given our location, I think it’s a safe bet that we are about to intercept another boatload of refugees.

Lieutenant Buchanan: You never know. Stations!

In no time, Mark was in position at one of two 12.7mm mounted machine guns should he be given the order to fire. The Albany was also equipped with an ATK Bushmaster cannon which was operated remotely from the bridge. Each man knew his job. The well oiled machinery of this patrol boat was matched by the efficiency of the men and women who crewed her. With everyone at their respective stations, the countdown began. Mission parameters for Armidale Class patrol boats supporting civilian authorities included fisheries protection, customs patrol, and protection against illegal immigration. Unidentified vessels were most likely foreign fishing boats, trespassing in Australian territorial waters or leaking, overcrowded people smugglers. There was a potential for hostility in either case, as well as the chance that pirates were plying their wicked trade. Piracy was a new phenomenon in Australian waters. Formerly ignored by maritime criminals, the popularity of the Great Southland had ballooned following the much publicized campaigns of the colorful Indonesian buccaneer Porampu Satu.

Mark flexed his fingers and rolled his wrists. He had only ever unleashed the Bushmaster’s particular brand of carnage on one occasion. As luck would have it, a serious incident occurred during his very first patrol across the top end of Australia. The Albany was one of ten boats based at HMAS Coonawarra at Darwin, whose continuing mission was to patrol Australian waters in the northern exclusive economic zone. Mark had been formerly posted on HMAS Fremantle. On the western edge of the Arafura Sea, six hundred kilometers from Darwin, the Fremantle had intercepted a boat which had refused to identify itself. On approach, two men were observed on the deck of the decrepit vessel waving white rags. The explosion of gunfire from the seemingly innocuous fishing boat had stunned the crew of the Fremantle and two sailors had been wounded before the firefight was properly engaged. Mark had sprayed the attacking boat with a hail of 25mm shells which shredded the old wooden vessel like tissue paper. With the sound of blood boiling in his ears joined by the thunderous roar of the Bushmaster, Mark missed the ceasefire order. His final discharge strafed the splintered deck and tossed two men overboard, blood spitting from their chests.

The difference between firing blanks, or even live ammunition at practice targets, and unloading on actual human beings was one for which there were no adequate words. Mark had been reprimanded but the searing of his soul had been a much more poignant result. He had never figured out how to live with the fact that he had killed at least two men, maybe more, and no amount of mealy mouthed justification could ameliorate his pain. The execution of orders could potentially result in death. A disturbing reality but one to which all military men necessarily became inured. Mark continued, ready to carry out his orders without question, but there were times when he felt that a part of him had been destroyed, stolen along with the lives of the two men he had killed.

He heard the soothing voice of his CO in his headset, ordering calm. Mark inhaled slowly and deeply, welcoming the assurance and authority of Commander Chen. Although at times he still felt like a fish out of water, a boy playing men’s games, it was comforting to be among highly trained professionals.

Holding, said Chen. Awaiting visual confirmation.

Able Seaman van DeKlyf: Decks are clear apart from four crew. Vessel appears to be disabled.

Chen: Alter course for direct interception. Ahead fifteen knots.

Having floated through the morning in a fog, Mark now felt alert. He strained his ears to hear every imagined whisper. He squinted his eyes and locked them on the expanding target. He concentrated on his breathing. Spoke calming words to himself to keep a lid on his excitement. The adrenaline rush brought about by imminent engagement was intoxicating. Despite his fear, and the bitter aftertaste of his previous killings, Mark was primed. Ready for action.

The distance between the two vessels closed rapidly. Five kilometers being easily chewed up by the Albany’s twelve thousand horsepower twin diesel engines. The boat came into clear view and Mark gripped the trigger of the machine gun.

All slow.

Slowing.

All stop.

One hundred meters of the Timor Sea separated the Albany and the rotting old walrus attempting to pass itself off as a seaworthy vessel. Fifteen pairs of eyes scrutinized the boat and its occupants while Captain Davis spoke through the public address system, his voice clear and dispassionate. He spoke first in English then in Bahasa Indonesia. The latter elicited an excited response from a man standing on the roof of the cabin, who waved his arms. His hands were empty. His mouth was moving but most of his words, no doubt shouted as they were, were gobbled up by the cool ocean breeze.

Davis in Indonesian: You have entered Australian Territorial Waters without permission. You must turn your vessel and return to where you came from. Failure to follow these instructions will result in your vessel being impounded and charges being laid against your captain and crew. Raise you right hand if you understand.

Chen: Hold steady. Weapons locked and loaded.

Davis: Raise your right hand again if you intend to comply with these instructions.

Chen: Prepare boarding party. Helm. Take us closer. Maintain starboard positioning.

Mark did not understand Bahasa Indonesia but knew the protocol. The fact that the man with whom Captain Davis was communicating did not raise his arm the second time indicated a complication. He anticipated the scene playing out much like the previous forty-seven times they had encountered a people smuggling boat. The captain of the vessel would accept that he was in Australian territory but would not agree to turn around because he could not. The boat was unseaworthy and would not make it back to port. There were sick people on board, women and children. Medical attention was required. Political asylum was sought. The story about another boatload of illegals would be splashed across all media platforms as soon as Captain Davis notified central command of the situation. A press release would be issued as protocol dictated and then everyone would know. Mark could hear the opposition spokesman for immigration, Screaming Scott Wilson, bleating before the cameras about how the government was failing to stop the flood of illegal refugees, and here was another case to prove the point. Damn fool didn’t even realize that it was not a crime to seek asylum.

The boat people issue was the biggest political football in the country and had been ever since the infamous children overboard incident in 1998, which robbed popular opposition leader, Kim Beazley, of the opportunity to become Australia’s Prime Minster. Mark shook his head. He had a firm view on the topic but he wasn’t a politician, and his personal views had nothing to do with the execution of his duty.

Chen: Bring her in. Steady. Steady.

DeKlyf: Steady.

There was still no movement on deck. No sound as the six-man boarding party stepped down and across from the Albany; pistols poised. The man who Mark supposed to be the captain, the one who had waved his arms, was still standing on the roof of the cabin. He watched and waited patiently. Mark wondered what thoughts traversed his mind. Such musings led him back to his own.

The hatch was opened and soon people filtered out onto the deck. They gathered in clumps and obediently squatted: men, women and children. Mark was stunned as he watched more bodies emerge. How the hell had they all fit? As the last of them joined their fellow refugees, he continued his intense scrutiny of the hunched figures who now resembled clusters of barnacles on the deck of the fishing vessel.

What desperation led these people to risk their lives on a fanciful promise of a better life in a foreign land? Having handed over large sums of money, probably all they had, and followed instructions to discard all their identification papers, they carried their whole world in their hearts and minds. Possessing nothing but the clothes on their backs and hope. Hope could never be underestimated. Its supernatural power to sustain life and infuse a body with strength was breathtaking. Mark had read the reports, and he had met some of the people who were the subject of those reports. It was impossible not to be moved by the human face of the political controversy. Queue jumper. Boat people. Illegals. These were terms thrown around by the media and the ignorant sheep who slavishly hung off their every word as though it was gospel truth. To be fair, these refugees were not jumping queues; there were no queues to jump, and there was so much more to their stories. The complexity of international relations, the fabric of human experience, the practical financial realities. The lies. The truth.

Clayfield! Stand down!

Marks thoughts were snatched from pontification and flung into the immediate context.

Stand down!

With something like a salute, Mark signaled his comprehension and he released the trigger and stood at ease. Sub Lieutenant Jayawardene was immediately in his face.

What the hell is wrong with you, Muddy?

What do you mean?

Chen issued the stand down order three times before you responded. Where were you?

The Crocodile Arms, said Mark with a smile. Throwing down a cold one.

Jayawardene stared at him. Chen is going to kick your arse from stern to bow.

I wonder which way first.

A frown knitted the Sub Lieutenant’s thick eyebrows together.

Here I am amidships about to have my rear end transported against its will and I was just wondering where it would be off to first.

Jayawardene shook his head and walked away.

Thank you, sir, said Mark to the Sub Lieutenant’s back.

No dope on this ship had even a sliver of a sense of humor. They laughed at knock-knock jokes and jokes about penises and homosexuals. They laughed at slapstick and Jackie Chan busted them up, but sarcasm, irony and the fine art of being facetious were lost on them. Mark was forever wasting his breath. A bomb went off inside his head: a shocking thought, so unexpected that he turned his head sharply to look for the person who dared say it. He wasn’t just wasting his breath on this crew, but he was frittering away his life on this boat. Straight out of school and into a navy apprenticeship. Now with ten years of service under his belt, Mark knew that the source of his recent malaise was discontent. He’d made good money, good rank through hard work and made some good friends, who despite their lack of appreciation of his sense of humor, were loyal mates and decent men and women. He had seen things many would never see and therefore never understand. Perhaps he could make them understand. Maybe he could shine some light into the ill informed or misinformed minds of the masses. If he could make a difference, help somehow. Do something more worthwhile. The smothering blanket of dissatisfaction could be removed. It was time to move. Time to get off.

Mark stood on the deck and watched the clumps of refugees on the old fishing boat. He noticed that Captain Davis had come on board and was talking to the captain of the boat. The latter man was waving his arms around and shaking his head. In contrast, Davis was still. Arms folded across his chest. Steadfast.

After counting as many heads as he could see, Mark reached the unbelievable total of seventy-two people. They were packed in tightly which explained the minimal movements. They were shrouded in blankets and most wore caps or hats of one variety or another. It was headwear that Mark counted. No matter how hard he looked he could see very few faces. Where did they come from? Afghanistan? Where despite the withdrawal of all foreign troops and the establishment of a national police force, the Taliban still dictated the terms of peace, or the lack thereof. Sri Lanka? Where the Tamil minority having lost the civil war a decade earlier, were still subject to persecution and disproportionate reprisals. Burma? The displaced tribes of Northern Burma, mostly Kareni speakers, forced into refugee camps in Thailand to await an uncertain future. How did any of them afford to pay smugglers to get them this far? What further horrors had they suffered en route? How much deeper had their misery become? And here they gathered, lining up unofficially and unannounced at Australia’s maritime borders with one last throw of the dice.

Chen barked in Mark’s ear. Clayfield. What is your problem? Are you not getting enough sleep? Not eating properly? Going deaf?

Sir?

Stand to attention, sailor. And drop the innocent crap. Tell me what’s going on with you. Why did I have to give you an order three times before you obeyed?

Chen had his back to the fishing boat. Mark’s attention was partially on his superior officer and partly on the boat from where he still expected some movement. The division of his attention retarded his response.

Clayfield?

Mark did not know what to say. He had no excuse, reasonable or otherwise, for failing to hear the order to stand down. His mind had wandered: an inexcusable act for a sailor on duty. What could he say to avert Chen’s wrath and the certain punishment which would accompany it? Would this be an appropriate time to discuss his feelings of restlessness? Would Commander Chen provide a sympathetic ear? Mark heard his name again but in the same instant noticed a sudden movement on the deck of the fishing boat. A man who had been squatting at the feet of one of the security boarding party members stood quickly and in so doing, knocked the man off his feet. Weapons. Shouting. Gunshots. Chen slumped forward against Mark who wrapped his arms around him and laid him gently on the deck. Silence followed soon after. A frightening silence as though the whole world was holding its breath.

***

She had been knocked sideways into another woman when the gunman had suddenly stood. As the hellish roar of gunfire erupted around her, she regained her balance as best she could and folded even further in on herself. The noise obliterated her discomfort and every rational thought from her mind. She expected death. She waited for pain. Her face was a frozen mask of fear, every breath an enemy. She hoped she was low enough to avoid a bullet but knew she could not possibly be. Wicked fate had harassed and tortured her ever since her father had deserted her and her mother had disappeared. Was it a blessing that somehow she had survived and that she had been allowed sufficient luck to make it this far on her journey to the other side of the world? Or was it a curse? An eternal hope, never satisfied. A promise never fulfilled. It was difficult to think straight. Hard to think at all.

Keeping her head down prevented her from seeing anything, including the source of danger. When a body fell on her, she groaned, and tried to push it away. The weight was too light for an adult. A child? Oh God, a child. A flicker of anger sparked in her soul but it was extinguished by a heavier weight crushing her. She screamed until the weight lifted then resumed her minimal exposure posture. She wanted to pray but both the benevolence and interest of her God were severely in question. Why was he allowing yet more suffering? When would it end?

She, like her fellow travelers, was throwing the dice for the last time, trying to reach Australia where they had heard stories of peaceful wide open spaces and a generous government. They had handed over their last coins, dumped their identity documents and begged with the smugglers’ agents for the privilege of being transported in miserable conditions on a dangerous voyage. In her case, her mother had arranged it all but with no money, and her pleas for mercy having fallen on deaf ears, she made an arrangement with one of them. It was all her mother had to give and he happily took it from her. The young woman was seventeen years old. She was alone. Her name was Thuza.

Thuza watched the unfolding drama on board the navy boat. She was not yet able to move. Her blood ran slowly and coldly through her cramped legs which were tucked underneath her slight frame. She was thin. It had been a long time since she had eaten a proper meal. The smuggler had treated her worse than a dog. She collected the scraps that fell from his table, then, when he was ready, she spread her legs for him. Having filled her with his filthy seed, he pushed her to the floor so he could have the lumpy bed to himself. Disgust had long since been bleached from her mind. The numbness inflicting her limbs was entrenched in her head.

A strange silence had descended. A splash here and there as the ocean lapped at the sides of the boats. Muffled groans. Stern commands. Occasional bursts of foreign tongues of which Thuza understood not a word. Soon orders were being broadcast in her face. The relative quiet shattered, she shook with fear. A collective fright engulfed her and her fellow refugees. She did not understand, but people were struggling to their feet, so she rose with them. A hand squeezed her arm and she flinched without trying to break free of the strong invisible grip. What would be the point? The end was surely near. The end of hope: shipwrecked by a hail of bullets. They moved in an awkward shuffle toward the back of the boat. Each time she stumbled, her weight was supported by the tightly packed bodies which surrounded her.

A single word. A large hand raised. The painful procession halted and she heard the word again. S-top.

Two soldiers were talking together quietly. One got louder, then the other followed suit. A third soldier entered the verbal stoush, and silenced them. What were they arguing about? One was probably suggesting the refugees be shot and thrown overboard. The other advocating mercy. Or was that wishful thinking? Maybe they were discussing the most efficient means with which to dispose of the intruders. They had the guns. They could do whatever they wanted. Thuza wished to God that someone would speak to her in Thai or Kareni to tell her what was going on.

She screamed, happily shocked, when she heard the words in her native language, Does anyone speak Kareni?

Her scream caused an uproar: shouting erupted and guns were again being targeted. Thuza had to defuse the crisis she had inadvertently caused. I’m sorry, she said. I got excited, I think I am the only one. I speak Kareni. I am Burmese. What is happening? Please tell me what you are going to do with us?

The soldier who had used her language looked embarrassed. The other two seemed to be waiting for him to tell them what Thuza was saying. She ceased her ebullient outburst and cocked her head. Waiting.

Say that again please. Slowly this time.

She heard the broken sentence and corrected it in her head before responding. The man was a beginner. She would have to keep her language simple. As she began a second time, with considerably more control, she noticed him nodding, and knew that she had hit the right register.

The three soldiers conferred once more, while Thuza scraped her feet on the deck and fidgeted.

You will not be harmed. You are not in danger. Do you understand?

Thuza smiled for the first time in God only knew how long, and she bowed her head as deeply as she could given the crowding. The soldier smiled back and in an instant reignited her hope, her desire to live. How could so simple a gesture have such incredible power? Their eyes locked very briefly before she resumed her downward gaze. Her heart was dancing. She thought that nothing would ever erase the memory of those kind eyes.

Chapter Two

In a small room crowded with men and women carrying either cameras, microphones or digital voice recorders, a tall man in an expensive suit perched at the rostrum. He stood still and remained quiet. The men either side of him called for silence, motioning with their hands for the assembled media personnel to assume their seats so that the press conference could commence.

When the hubbub died down, the tall man spoke. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I have a short statement to make and then I will take questions.

The federal Minister for Immigration, Wittaya Keawwanna, thought that he was to be attending a routine press conference to announce the arrival and interception of another load of illegal maritime arrivals; boat people. Reports from Naval Central command concerning the actions of Australia’s coastal patrol fleet were frequent though seldom interesting. Once a week or so, a floating death trap entered Australian territorial waters. When it did, Keawwanna received details immediately and then continuous updates. He wanted it that way. He hated surprises, detested being caught off guard by people who knew things he didn’t but should have. If he was not personally available to receive and digest the content of those reports then his staff would fill the role. It was acceptable for them to learn new information before him because he trusted them, and they would not make him look foolish. Modern media made sport of politicians and contributed to the lack of esteem in which the country’s most senior public servants were held.

On Wittaya’s arrival at Parliament House that morning, one of his staffers had updated him on the situation near Ashmore Reef. This statement concerning HMAS Albany was not going to be easy to deliver after all.

Minister Keawwanna began: ‘"Just before seven a.m. this morning, HMAS Albany was on a routine twenty-one day patrol in the Arafua Sea when an unidentified vessel was sighted. Albany intercepted the boat which was found to be carrying approximately seventy refugees. Captain Davis issued the standard warning to the captain of the fishing boat as per protocol but the latter insisted that the boat was not seaworthy and would not be able to make the return journey. It was pointed out to Captain Davis that women and children were onboard and some needed urgent medical attention.

During routine checks and thorough inspection of the vessel, it was determined that neither the passengers nor the crew posed any threat. Nevertheless, guards were left on board the vessel until such time as a determination could be made with regard to what was to be done with the illegal arrivals."

Wittaya paused and surveyed the room. Disinterested stares and mechanical actions signified that he was in safe waters. The assembled pack had heard all of this before. However, as the air grew thick with anticipation, his heart rate climbed.

At 7:50, one of the refugees reportedly produced a weapon and opened fire. The following gunfight resulted in the deaths of fourteen alleged refugees, and one sailor. The name of the fatally injured Able Seaman is being withheld until his family can be notified. Commander Victor Chen was also shot and wounded. His condition is listed as stable. A full investigation into the circumstances of this tragedy has already begun. We will keep you posted on developments as they occur and when we are able to divulge them. Your questions please.

He could have blown out the candles on twenty birthday cakes when he finished speaking. Wittaya hoped no one noticed the dramatic release of air from his mouth. Dry didn’t tell half the story of the condition of his throat. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief but thought better of it. Instead, he removed his hand from his pocket and placed it on the rostrum as he braced himself for the first question.

Daniel?

You said that fourteen alleged refugees were killed. Were all of them terrorists then, or can we assume that some of the victims were innocents caught in the crossfire?

Wittaya took a sharp breath. He had chosen Daniel from The Australian because he knew him and he knew he would ask a tough question right off the bat. Better to get the hard ones out of the way.

We would be unwise to assume anything at this point. The facts as they are known have already been presented to you. Beyond that, we know nothing at this early stage of the investigation. Let me say once more, that any assumptions based on this very limited information would be foolish.

Daniel made a few sweeping strokes on his tablet and nodded without looking up. Wittaya stared at the top of his head without achieving the desired effect. All the journalists knew how the game was played. The questions asked were always convoluted, the answers given, excessively verbose. Yes or no were forbidden answers even to closed questions. Wittaya Keawwanna, like his fellow members of parliament, was an expert at obtuse answers, and purposeful ambiguity. He also possessed the ability to be extremely succinct when it was required. In fact, he had been accused of bluntness and outright incivility. Despite these claims, Wittaya was self assured enough to follow his agenda and use words the way he wished to use them, regardless of the expectations of his interlocutors. In short, if he needed to able to trot out the all too familiar doublespeak of the politician, he could. If he needed to cut through the bull and be concise, he could do that too.

He chose an attractive young lady who was sitting patiently with her hand in the air as though waiting for permission to speak to her teacher. In truth, she looked to be not long out of the education system.

Miss? he said, gesturing towards her.

"Ellen Fowler. Splashnews."

On hearing the name of the organization she represented, the fastest growing internet based peoplecast news service in the world, he regretted his choice. Yes, Miss Fowler.

Is it true that a gunner aboard Albany was asleep at his post and failed to notice and therefore take the appropriate action which would have prevented the carnage aboard the refugee transport?

Wittaya mustered his impassive expression. Negligence? Carnage? Refugee transport? Bullshit emotionally charged words designed to inflame public opinion against the government and its agencies: in this case the Royal Navy. He sucked in another short breath.

I have no information along those lines and therefore cannot answer your question. I can neither confirm nor deny the decidedly offensive suggestion that one of our highly trained men was remiss in some way in the execution of his duty. If I may make a suggestion to you, Miss Fowler, allow me to advise more circumspection on your part.

He watched Ellen