Cascade Smith: The Making of a Spy

By John Somerset

The exciting sequel to The Excalibur File.

Named after her father’s favourite beer, Cascade Smith is born beautiful, which will shape her life.

She grows up an ‘all Australian girl,’ progressing from her High-Country home through school, university, first love and sporting success – given her stunning looks, the perfect formula for ‘happily ever after.’ But that is not to be.

The year 2024 sees the tragic death of her soul mate. Bad enough, but 2024 also heralds a worldwide financial crash, a return to the gold standard and the rise of a China intent on gold and territorial expansion. America’s NSA obtains the PLA plan for ‘Oceania Gold’ – a strategic blueprint to conquer the islands of the South Pacific and ultimately invade northern Australia on Christmas Day, 2030.

Cascade is recruited into Wedgetail, ASIO’s clandestine black ops group, tasked to counter China’s MSS agents inserted into Australia to destabilise the defence effort and open the way for invasion. She and her fellow agents take on the MSS as an undermanned ADF prepares for the greatest naval battle since the Second World War – a battle Australia can never hope to win.

Or can it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035828173

John Somerset

John Somerset is the best-selling author of Lasseter’s Truth, Benito’s Truth and The Excalibur File. He was born in Melbourne, Australia, and educated at Geelong Grammar and Melbourne University. John spent his working life in international marketing and latterly advertising, and is a winner of the Hoover Award for Marketing, Australia’s leading marketing award of its time. A keen surfer and PADI-qualified scuba diver, he lives and writes at Anglesea, Victoria, with his wife Marion and one-eyed kelpie.

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About the Author

John Somerset is the best-selling author of Lasseter’s Truth, Benito’s Truth and The Excalibur File. He was born in Melbourne, Australia, and educated at Geelong Grammar and Melbourne University. John spent his working life in international marketing and latterly advertising, and is a winner of the Hoover Award for Marketing, Australia’s leading marketing award of its time. A keen surfer and PADI-qualified scuba diver, he lives and writes at Anglesea, Victoria, with his wife Marion and one-eyed kelpie.

Dedication

To my granddaughter Grace, who is about to qualify as a lawyer. I can only hope that her career will be slightly less dangerous than Cascade’s!

Copyright Information ©

John Somerset 2024

The right of John Somerset to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035828142 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035828159 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781035828173 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781035828166 (Audiobook)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

My wife and chief editor Marion.

Chapter 1

A Rose by Any Other Name

We can’t possibly call her Jane. With Smith as a surname, every motel receptionist she ever meets will think she’s booking a room for a one-night stand! Preceding Smith as it will, our daughter’s name must be long and distinctive.

Well, how about Elizabeth? Elizabeth Smith sounds distinctive, don’t you think? It’s three syllables long and was good enough for two Queens of England!

Bill Smith thought he was on a certain winner here as his wife Diana was not only English but, despite Australia leaning ever closer to becoming a republic, a committed royalist. It was, however, not going to be that easy.

Elizabeth Smith is fine but Lizzie Smith is certainly NOT. It must not be able to be shortened. You know how I hate the whole town and every skier who hits the bar referring to me as ‘Di’—I am determined our daughter will not have to put up with ‘Liz’, ‘Ro’ or ‘Cat’. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

The battle raged until Bill cut it short by tickling Diana which inevitably led to squeals, sex, spooning and blissful sleep—at least until a lusty 2AM cry from the hungry ‘unnamed’ in the nursery woke them and Bill stumped off to the kitchen, it being his turn to warm and administer her bottle.

Fortunately for all concerned, the naming dilemma was solved the very next day, by the regular delivery of beer to the Merrijig Hotel from the Cascade Brewery of Tasmania, the oldest operating brewery in Australia. Cascade Premium was Bill’s favourite ale (which had some influence on his subsequent suggestion of name), while his romantic explanation that ‘Cascade ale is made from the pure waters that cascade off Mt Wellington’ swayed Diana to agreement.

Two weeks later, the little girl was christened at St John’s Anglican Church, Mansfield. Her two godmothers were her aunt Rowena (‘Ro’) Richmond and Diana’s best friend from her Lauriston Girls School days, Fiona (‘Fi’) Daniels. Her godfather was Bill’s best friend Dave (‘Mad Dog’) Bubb, manager of Mt Buller ski tows and long-time head of the mountain’s ski rescue service—a fine line-up indeed.

The Reverend Parton went through the Anglican promissory formalities with parents and godparents, then cut to the chase:

The grace of being is gift of baptism by washing in water. And in spirit of Christ Jesus. Whoever believes and is baptised will be saved, but whoever does not believe will be condemned. When we were baptised, we took upon us not only the name of Christ, but also the law of obedience.

As prescribed, he quickly went on to sprinkle holy water on his wriggling charge.

I baptise this child Cascade Smith.

Chapter 2

The Girl Who Never Cried (1)

Following months of entreaties, Bill and Diana weakened and gave Cascade a puppy for her third birthday.

Bill’s choice of breed for a family pet to be domiciled in the Merrijig Hotel was not ideal. There are any number of breeds such as the golden retriever or labrador that would have made an ideal choice for the Smith home, but a kelpie working dog was not one of them.

It happened more or less by accident. Five days before Cascade’s birthday, Bill was sharing a twilight ale with Jeremiah Fink after helping his mate muster cattle on his Howqua run when the sound of mewling drew his eyes to an open crate at the end of Jeremiah’s veranda containing two kelpie pups.

Last two, explained Jeremiah. The father’s a Melbourne Show champion and the mother’s my bitch Cocoa, so the genes are spot on. Even with mate’s rates, the male would set you back ten grand; but tell you what—the female’s the runt of the litter and you can have her for nothing. Saves me having to do the deed, if you get my drift!

Bill was a hard man, but like many a country boy, a complete softie where puppies were concerned. The rejected runt was carted back to Mansfield and lodged at the local vet (a footy mate of Bill) until the day when Bill sneaked out at daybreak and presented the little pup to the birthday girl over her birthday breakfast.

Cascade named her Emma.

Bill and Diana marvelled at their two children, for different reasons.

Elder son George was very bright. He was talking within six months—not just forming words, but communicating. At age two, he was not only taking his toys apart (not unusual) but putting them back together (highly unusual for a child his age), could tell the time and count to a hundred.

I think he’s going to be a rocket scientist, observed a proud dad to anyone who would listen.

Cascade was not far behind George in the intelligence stakes, but whether her early vocabulary and numeracy was due to nature or nurture by association with her brilliant brother was unclear.

Bill and Diana didn’t care. All little girls are beautiful, but Cascade was classically beautiful. As she grew, her most striking feature were her eyes—blue at birth like all babies, but within a year, this had changed to a bottomless emerald green that never failed to mesmerise anyone they gazed upon.

She’s going to break hearts, Bill was often heard to boast. Get a load of those eyes!

Looks aren’t everything, was Diana’s standard response—but as a raving beauty herself, she knew that rightly or wrongly, good looks were a great asset for any woman (or man for that matter), and underneath was every bit as proud of their creation as was her husband.

Cascade was blissfully unaware any such assessments are made as part of the human condition, and proceeded to grow up as a typical younger sister with an elder brother who regarded her mostly as a nuisance (but was nonetheless fiercely protective) and a little kelpie who loved her unconditionally (and was even more protective).

The relationship that grew between Cascade and Emma was truly amazing. Like her brother, Cascade had talked early, but from the moment she and Emma laid eyes on each other, it transpired she also had the mysterious gift of being able to talk kelpie.

The little pup was sitting to command, staying and coming when called the first day they met and from there the pair never looked back, if one ignores the row Cascade had with her mother the night of her birthday, when Emma had disappeared from her box in the laundry and Cascade and Emma were discovered by Diana sound asleep, their heads on Cascade’s pillow with noses touching.

Touted on its website as ‘Gateway to Victoria’s High Country’, the Merrijig Hotel was built on the banks of the Delatite River, which fed off the snow melt from Mt Buller. Not as ideal as a farm to bring up a kelpie, but undoubtedly the next best thing. Sticks and balls replaced sheep and boy, could Emma run—and as she grew from a toddler to a coltish little girl it soon transpired that Cascade could run like the wind herself. She and Emma would often streak into the distance, leaving a grumpy elder brother stumping along far in the rear, tasked with the sometimes-difficult job of finding them again, especially when they hid on purpose amongst the ferns and gums along the banks of the Delatite. Bred to round up and then push sheep into yards and races, most kelpies in Australia think their name is ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP’, but Emma broke the mould. Whenever they hid behind a tree, she would instantly drop and freeze to Cascade’s hand command, then watch intently for further instructions—an index finger to the lips meant the traditional ‘shut the fuck up’, but once the finger was pointed in the direction of George crashing about amongst the ferns yelling ‘it’s not funny anymore, Sis’, the dog would bark to command and run to Cascade’s brother to release him from the ordeal.

Cascade and Emma never tired of the game, but despite increasing irritation at being its patsy, George invariably forgave them.

All it took was a good licking from Emma and a flash of his sister’s emerald eyes.

The uncanny connection between Cascade and Emma continued on from there, manifesting itself in traditional kelpie pursuits.

The first of these was the time ‘Cascade Smith & her Wonder Dog’ became the favourite drawcard at the Mansfield show. This took the form of a classic double act performed by kelpie pups and their handlers at many shows and sheepdog trials around the country. A number of ducklings were released into a miniature paddock containing a little pen and Cascade and Emma thrilled the crowd lining the fence as Emma herded the ducklings into a tight group and thence into the pen; seemingly without any instruction—although experienced stockmen present marked Cascade’s index finger in action, nodding sagely to each other as Emma froze to command, dropped and cast out whenever a duckling dared stray from the group. The crowd kept demanding encores, and the shaker’s tin for ‘gold coin donations’ to the Mansfield kindergarten was soon filled to overflowing.

Over the next four years, Cascade grew into a leggy ten-year-old, while Emma (being the runt of the litter) grew somewhat less impressively—although she made up for her small size with blistering speed and off the scale intelligence; even for a kelpie.

They won the Mansfield sheepdog trials three years in a row. In their final tilt, they won not only the mob and yard trial where kelpies traditionally reigned supreme, but the ‘3 sheep’ section, usually the domain of the border collie, eight of which returned to their home farms with tails between their legs—including Laird of Hamilton, a twice Melbourne Show champion and his pissed off owner who had lost a thousand-dollar bet on his dog.

Cascade was happy to stock the hotel mantlepiece with cups to make her parents proud but showed no desire to progress to the big televised sheepdog trials or capital city shows. By the time she was twelve, she had her own horse and rode like a crack. She and Emma lived for the seasonal mustering on the Howqua, King and Jamieson rivers and it was here that the little dog truly excelled.

Around a Howqua camp fire, Jeremiah Fink had a serious talk with Cascade, who the old mountain man had come to dote on as she grew:

I know your show wins are very much due to the time you have put into Emma, but you need to appreciate that here you have an exceptional dog—the best I’ve ever seen. Do you know the origin of the kelpie?

Well, I know that they are unique to Australia and are renowned as working dogs all over the world. They originated as a dingo cross, didn’t they?

That’s partly true, but not completely. The kelpie originated in Scotland, not Australia and it was only in 1870 that a breeder in NSW is rumoured to have crossed a Scottish border collie with a dingo. A champion working dog named Kelpie was the result, and the breed in Australia grew from that original litter of Kelpie’s pups, which even in those days commanded big prices.

"Even though she was the runt of the litter, Emma has just about the best pedigree a kelpie can have. Her lineage goes back to Karrawarra Caesar himself. There are a lot of good kelpies running around that can push sheep and cattle in the paddock and yards, but many have lost the original casting ability that made the original Kelpie famous. To my way of thinking, Emma has turned back the clock and if you were to breed from her, I am convinced we could ask upwards of twenty grand for each of her pups if we took her to the Casterton kelpie roundup."

I’m afraid that’s not possible as we had her spayed the year you gave her to me. I’m glad we did—she should live every day of her life running free, not lying there as a puppy factory.

What a waste thought Jeremiah, but hid that thought behind an enigmatic smile.

Just watching the two of them working a bush muster together was worth more than money, although Emma seemed slower and reluctant to cast as wide as usual that day.

That muster represented a high point in Cascade’s childhood, but the first tragedy in her short life was only four days away.

It started with the usual run after school.

Cascade had resolved to win the hundred metres at the upcoming school sports and as she and George rode their bikes back to the Merrijig Pub, there was her ‘running dog’ waiting on the veranda as usual.

As soon as she got off her bike, Cascade invariably had to admonish her dog with a ‘DOWN Emma. NO JUMPING ON MY UNIFORM’ (this usually followed with peals of laughter, yaps and lots of pats), but today, Emma stayed flat on her rug, greeting her mistress with only a wag of her tail.

Hey, what’s wrong, girl? said Cascade, leaning her bike against the veranda post and holding Emma’s head in her hands.

Not even a yap of greeting, just a little whine and a lick on the hand. Cascade laid the dog’s head gently on the rug and ran into the bar.

"Dad! Something’s wrong! Emma’s in pain!"

Bill Smith followed his daughter back out to become consumed with guilt:

I fed her at twelve as usual, but she’s hardly touched it, he said. I’m sorry to have left her here all afternoon—I didn’t realise she was sick.

Bill knew dogs and gently probed Emma’s belly.

Another little whine.

Her stomach’s distended and I feel a lump. I’ll call Ron Kidd right now.

Ron Kidd the town vet was closed for the weekend, but Bill was a mate.

I’ll be right over, he said.

Half an hour later, the dreaded diagnosis.

I’m almost certain it’s stomach cancer with secondaries. I’ll give her a shot for the pain, but we’ll have to book scans tomorrow morning. Keep her warm.

Bill left Cascade holding Emma while he saw Ron to the door. The vet turned to Bill and shook his head as he turned to walk down the path. He didn’t really need scans—he knew an aggressive canine cancer growth when he felt one.

Cascade refused to go to school, insisting on coming into the clinic, but the scans only confirmed the worst.

Cascade, I’m afraid it is cancer, as I thought.

"Oh. Then you must operate. I know you will save her. Everyone at the trials says you are one of the best vets in Australia."

This left Ron Kidd to give Cascade The Talk he had done several times before but never got used to. It went with the territory:

Cascade, this is a massive cancer which is inoperable and as her owner you must make the decision that Emma is unable to make herself. We will need to put her to sleep, and soon. I’m sure you don’t want your dog to stay in pain.

"NO! I’m getting a second opinion! If you can’t operate, our science teacher is a Doctor of Science and must know where we can take her for radiation, responded a surprisingly calm Cascade. Can Emma come home with us now?"

Of course, she can. I’ll give her another shot for the pain—I know you love your dog, but you need to understand we cannot put her through this for long.

Sometimes I really, really hate my job.

The Smiths returned to Merrijig with Emma cradled in Cascade’s arms. They carefully laid her on her blanket in front of the fire and Emma’s mother hugged her daughter:

I’m so sorry, darling, she said—surprised by Cascade’s dry-eyed response.

"It’s alright Mum. Emma’s not going to die—no way!"

Next morning, Ron Kidd arrived straight after breakfast and once again, repeated his advice that Emma be put to sleep ‘here at home, with you’.

Once again, Cascade refused the ‘green dream’.

I know you mean well, Doctor Kidd, but I’m off to see Doctor Young at school and find Emma the best cancer clinic in Australia. We must take her there while there’s still time.

Bill saw the vet to the door where George turned and squeezed his mate’s arm, shaking his head once again:

You realise there’s no hope at all, Bill—there are secondaries all over the place, almost certainly including her pancreas. Ring me any time and I’ll be straight back.

Cascade remained beside the fire with her dog, gently stroking Emma down the soft ridge along her nose the way she liked it.

Stay and be a good girl. I’ll be back soon to make you better.

One last pat, and Cascade rose to leave on her mercy mission, but Emma struggled to the door, whining to go to her place on the veranda where she always waited. It was a sunny day, so they moved her basket out there as she wanted and Cascade pedalled off with George.

As soon as they were out of sight, Bill rang the school and asked to be urgently put through to Dr David Young, the biology teacher.

It’s Bill Smith, Doctor Young. My daughter Cascade will shortly demand to see you, wanting you to use your contacts to find a vet that can perform a miracle that cannot be done. Her dog Emma has inoperable cancer and Ron Kidd has already told us she must be put down. Please let Cascade down as lightly as you can and do not give her any false hope.

And so, he did. As long as he lived, David Young would never forget running the gauntlet of Cascade’s emerald eyes as they changed from hope, to anger, to despair.

But she didn’t cry.

She walked slowly out of Dr Young’s office, shook off her brother’s arm, mounted her bike and rode for home.

A hundred metres from the Merrijig turnoff she found Emma lying dead beside the road. The little kelpie had followed Cascade’s bike tracks, trying to reach her mistress one last time.

THEN Cascade cried.

Chapter 3

Never Been Kissed

There was a sadness about Cascade that everyone tried their best to cure.

Her parents decided that a holiday away from the scene of the tragedy might help, and as soon as the May school holidays arrived Cascade, George and their mother were booked on Cascade’s first overseas trip—a two-week skiing holiday at Coronet Peak, on the South Island of New Zealand.

Bill had to stay and run the Merrijig Hotel to cater for the opening of the local ski season at Mt Buller, but the night before they departed presented Cascade with the latest K2 carbon fibre skis, obtained from Powder Hound Melbourne as a contra deal for a free long weekend in the ‘Honeymoon Suite’ at Merrijig for the proprietor and his wife. Cascade’s mother teamed that with the latest Arctica downhill racing suit and new boots in emerald green (to match her daughter’s eyes) which cost a further week’s contra for the summer season, as Hans, the owner of Powder Hound planned to teach his new wife to fly fish once the snow had melted and the runoff in the Howqua and Jamieson rivers had subsided.

George played the opening gambit in ‘Mission Cascade’ by conceding the window seat in the plane to his sister, and she was not to be disappointed as they flew between the mountains in the approach to Queenstown airport. The sky was crystal clear and the surrounding snow-capped peaks turned on their best ‘travel brochure’ spectacle. Cascade started talking heli-skiing in The Remarkables, which Diana thought was a good sign.

There are no resort hotels on the mountain itself at Coronet Peak, so the Smith family had booked in to the Swiss-Belresort, to travel up to the ski slopes each day by shuttle bus. The first day, they found themselves sharing the bus with twenty excited students from Wakatipu High School and their ski coach, in town for the NZ Junior Interfield races to be held on the mountain one week’s hence.

Cascade and George had loved the snow ever since they were toddlers skiing between their father’s legs, and while George had decided that snowboarding was his go, Cascade had long felt ‘a need for speed’, and despite being only twelve years old was already an A grade downhill racer with Mt Buller’s U14 slalom cup to her name and the Olympics in her sights.

Cascade pricked up her ears at the competition banter pinballing around the bus, to learn that the NZ Junior Interfield was a Giant Slalom race for U14 and U16 boys and girls. She resolved to enter, if Australians were allowed.

Then they arrived, marvelling at the long, wide runs stretching up the mountain and the spectacular peaks around them.

They have to be twice the length of our Buller runs, enthused Cascade. Another good sign.

Diana Smith bought the required weekly lift passes, then gathered her brood of two over hot chocolates, instructing Cascade and George to ‘meet back here at one, for lunch’. Diana was a good intermediate skier and resolved to tour Coronet Peak’s blue runs while George took on the 18-foot international half pipe especially erected for the upcoming Secondary School Championships and Cascade went off to rip the black runs apart with her new K2s.

Brother and Sister spent the morning doing their separate things, meeting at Heidi’s Hut at the bottom of Easy Rider tow as arranged at one o’clock, intent on skiing the Schools GS run together.

This is where ‘the incident’ occurred.

Tom Donovan was the U16 hope of the Queenstown Alpine Ski Team and it had gone to his head in a number of ways. Self-appointed leader of the pack, his social media posts boasted not only that he was a shoe in to make the upcoming World Junior Championship team for New Zealand, but had circulated photographic proof he had ‘done it’ with no less than three girls in his class (naked phone pics posted under the alias ‘Skistud’). Mature for his age, he only fell into the U16 category by one week, and had used his size and older appearance to obtain a small flask of Jamieson’s Irish Whiskey without ID, a few slugs of which were to play a part in what was about to unfold.

Tom led a line of six members of the Alpine team down the competition run, skied to a halt beside Cascade and George in a shower of snow and