The Ghost of Timor Ch. 08

December 1999

I remember the events of that day as if they only happened yesterday. I never had to write them down, as the entire episode stayed with me for the last 20 years.

The day started out as so many had in the past few months. I awoke in the darkness of my little secret cave. The muffled sounds of vehicles' engines rumbling to life, breaking the silence. The occasional shouting of some overzealous non-commissioned officer piercing the morning mist.

As per my routine, I brewed a coffee and made myself presentable. I poked my head out the door on the pretext of letting some humid yet fresh air into my office. But I was really checking for any gifts that were left for me in the wee hours of the previous night. As luck would have it, that day there was another oddly shaped package wrapped up in a sandbag waiting for me on the stoop.

I nodded and exchanged small talk with any passers-by. They made eye contact, and I acknowledged their good-natured jibes of "Spook," "Spooky" or even "Spookster." It is a very Australian thing to shorten people's surnames as a sign of affection. But you know that you have really found a place in an Australian's heart when they give you a nickname.

Once I'd completed my usual pleasantries, I collected my gift and headed back inside to examine it. Again, it was a present from my secret arms supplier. This time, he had left me a shoulder holster for a pistol. I assumed it was for me to hold the SIG that he had left earlier. Deciding that I should try it on to see if it fit, I returned to the back end of my cave and retrieved the pistol from where I had hidden it. I didn't want the remote chance that anyone accidentally stumbled across this highly illegal item. So I buried it in the bottom of my personal padlocked trunk. The trunk itself was on the bottom of a stack of empty, yet identical, trunks. I reasoned that if I had to get to the SIG quickly, I could throw the other empty trunks to the floor in a heartbeat. No one else would have reason to go rummaging around in a stack of locked cases and stumble across it by accident.

I found the pistol fit snugly into the holster and, as I had never used one before, I tried it on for size. With a little adjusting, I got it to fit me. Not being used to the feel of a holster, it felt odd having it on. I should have put it away immediately, but when you have a shoulder holstered pistol on for the first time in your life, there is only one thing to do. Take it out for a test draw.

I was well versed enough in weapons' safety. I had it drummed into me for 10 years whilst I was in the army. So I wasn't about to shoot myself stupidly in the foot while I was experimenting with an illegal firearm in a highly classified, portable, secret government facility. I made sure that I'd unloaded the SIG, twice before I did my best silent Dirty Harry impersonation. The first few tries were difficult, and I was glad that I had unloaded the SIG as I was sure that I had accidentally squeezed the trigger on at least two occasions.

But I finally got the hang of it on the fourth go. If an unarmed umbrella stand accosted me in the next 24 hours, I would have at least a 50-50 chance of outdrawing it. But so focused had I become on my practice that I failed to hear the door to my vault opening or the quiet voice calling out my name from the doorway. It was stupid of me to take such a risk. But I had reasoned that at that hour of the day, no one was about to come calling and even less likely to intrude on my secret residence at the back of my vault.

So when I heard a female voice behind me doing her deepest Homer Simpson impersonation by singing, "Mr Plow, that's my name. My name again is Mr Plow!" I was mortified.

Spinning around immediately, I saw Sally standing before me with her biggest shit-eating grin on her face. I was dumbstruck, not knowing which crime I should attempt to deny first, the security breach or the possession of an illegal firearm. I was so flustered that my mouth was just about to talk before my brain had thought about what to say when Sally struck first.

"You know, I had a dream about this exact situation last night," she said matter-of-factly. "But in my dream, you weren't wearing any pants!"

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I know it sounds ridiculous now to say that didn't immediately pick up on that come-on line, but I didn't. First, I was in a state of apoplexy, caught holding a firearm and failing to secure a classified facility. Second, I was so used to Sally's tongue-in-cheek manner that I could hardly tell the difference between when she was joking and when she was not. And last, Sally was married. Only fairly recently, too. She would occasionally mention her husband in conversion. He was in the navy, but she never talked about him in the blushing bride tones you might expect from one newly betrothed. He just seemed to be there, somewhere in her life.

After staring like a deer in the headlights for what seemed like an eternity, inspiration struck me. I blurted the only thing I could think of to defuse this situation I put myself in. Television and film were easily accessible during my childhood. Yet it wasn't the instantly forgettable mush that is produced these days. I could readily quote many films and TV that I had watched on repeat ad nauseam in my teens. Channelling my best Billy Connolly impersonation, I used his line on how he might explain being caught masturbating.

"I was, err, jus countin ma willies!"

Sally looked at me in disbelief for a second as she went red in the face. I was half expecting her to explode in rage when she burst out laughing. She laughed so hard that tears were rolling down her cheeks and she seemed to have trouble breathing. About ten seconds later, she was down on all fours and moments after that; she was holding her stomach and rolling on the floor in pain. I fared no better. A good belly ache is quite infectious, and I was soon in the same state, laughing at the laugh more than at the actual joke.

We were rolling about on the floor laughing for the better part of ten minutes before we finally regained our composure. Sally got to her feet slowly. She told me that the reason she had come in to visit me in the first place was to see if she could borrow my terminal that evening to send a few emails. She had all the correct clearances, so I was okay with her jumping on to the computer to do whatever she wanted. The bonus being that as it was her official log on, I wouldn't have to monitor her the whole time.

Keeping up my improvised Scottish accent from earlier, I replied, "Aye, lassie."

"Say that again," she said.

"Aye, lassie."

Sally rolled her eyes in mock ecstasy and smiled, "I just came over all a quiver at your accent." She picked up her backpack from the floor and turned to face me. "Never do it again." She smiled as she turned, and with that, she was gone.

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It wasn't until after dark that she returned. I had just finished eating in the mess and was walking back to my container. I was kept company by the usual crowd and passers-by chanting their all too familiar refrain of "Spooky," as I encountered them. If it upset me at all, I daren't say a thing lest I cop it one hundred times worse.

When I arrived back, Sally was waiting by the door, chatting with another member of the task-force. I could never tell if she knew all the people she was talking to-the ADF was a small organisation-or if she was just being friendly. Sally seemed to like people and made friends easily. I gave her and her companion a smile and let her know she was welcome to come in when she was ready, her companion signalling his acknowledgement with a sly, "Spooks."

I opened up my office one last time that evening and jumped on my terminal to see if there were any official messages for me to process. I also looked for any unofficial ones that I had to deliver to a member of the task-force lonely hearts club. There were a couple of messages to print off. I did that and packaged them up in the usual sealed envelopes for delivery in the morning. I had just finished the last one when Sally came in. We had a quick chat about our days and then I logged off the computer and gave her my chair so that she could set about her business.

"I won't be long," she said. "Don't go to sleep yet, though. I've bought a little surprise for after."

"Does this little surprise require ice?" I asked, hoping for the best.

"Yes, yes, it does."

I hadn't had any good alcohol in months, but as Sally was new in-country, I hoped that she still had a decent stash. I left her alone to send her emails. That was strictly against the rules, but I knew that she couldn't do anything bad even if she had wanted to. I held the key, and all the secret stuff was securely locked up. I walked over to the mess, and I picked up some ice from the newly imported ice machine and a 12 pack of coke-colas. I made the right choice. Because the first thing that confronted me upon opening the door was a bottle of Sally's drink of choice, Southern Comfort, sitting on my desk.

"How are you going?" I inquired, eager to get at the drink.

"I'm just in a chat with John. His ship is just offshore. He's very bored," she said. "After that, I have to send one more message and then we can chat."

I made us both a drink while she typed away to her husband. I poured the Southern over the ice and topped up the two plastic army mugs-needs must when the devil drives-with coke. However, I clearly didn't mix it to suit her taste because she took one large sip and grabbed the bottle and topped up the Southern again.

"What kind of cheap drunk do you think I am?" she teased indignantly. "I'm a lady!"

And with that, she burped as loudly as she could. She giggled at her own joke as drink came out of her nose, which only made her laugh more.

I topped up my drink, settled down into a chair, and started reading the next chapter in my latest book of Flashman. I had discovered the Flashman novels a month earlier and had read the first four already. I was just marking a page of Flashman in the Great Game when Sally announced that she'd finished her typing.

We started chatting about everything that we could think of; work, people, Canberra, home; and before we realised it, we had finished half the bottle. We were a little tipsy but, because of the caffeine, both wide awake and not the least bit sleepy. That, of course, only spurred us on to more talking and drinking until it was well past midnight.

We both had things we had to do in the morning. Sally especially had to be awake on time, as she was a serving member of the military. So we knew we couldn't keep on drinking until the dawn. We guessed we had probably overdone it. But, we had both turned up to work drunk and hungover before, so we knew we could soldier on if worse came to worse. Still, it was time to stop. I was looking about for my shoes so I could get ready to escort Sally home when she put her hand on my arm and said, "Do you mind if I sleep here tonight?"

I was a little drunk and I could never quite tell when she was making a joke. Added to that was the fact that Sally was very married and had just spent the better part of the night on a chat channel with her husband. He was on a warship some miles off the Timor coast at that very minute. So the ball didn't drop for me immediately and I said of course she could.

I immediately thought about pulling out my camp bed and setting it up in the other room so that I would have somewhere to sleep if she wanted to take the mattress. I rummaged around for a minute, trying to sort myself out. When I turned around, Sally had disappeared. Confused, I called out to her.

"I'm in here," she said from my bedroom, "but I have a problem. Can you help?"

Wondering if a spider had made its way inside again or there weren't enough sheets for two beds, I pulled back the curtain and entered the room. I immediately saw what she was talking about.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, standing before me, "but I didn't bring my pyjamas."