Another Day on the Wall

Their shoulders brushed together as they strolled across the courtyard lawn of 'old' Nanjing Hotel. An enormous, archaic floodlight threw a dim, yellow glow over a fountain in the centre of the garden. Of course, there was no water.

"It's buggered - compromised." Smouch spoke in a neutral, matter-of-fact tone. He looked tired. Did he appreciate the implications?

"Are you sure? I could have been wrong."

"Oh, Christ, Terry... just look at this place. You were right. They were watching. Have you noticed that we're the only 'guests'?"

Instinctively, Terry's gaze rested on shadows.

"And, I bet you that there's only one ve-ery friendly bloke at the bar and two, exactly two, beauties serving the beer."

No laugh.

"Well, am I on?"

"No way. You've done this before."

"Wimp. You can have the man."

Terry stopped and stared at the grass near his feet. It was short. He'd never seen a lawn mower in China and there was no tell-tale shit on the lawn. How do they do that? Scissors? "Where d'you think he is?"

Smouch scoffed, "Stuffed if I know. I know where he was but buggered if I can think of a way to get to him now. He'll have to find us."

Smouch had spoken to a friend on the phone when he was in Hong Kong. They hadn't seen each other for fifteen years, or was it longer? His friend sounded older but she said that he sounded mellow. "It's strange, you were always so wild as a kid. Now you're ... I don't know, softer. Gentle."

"Are you saying that I'm boring?"

"No. It's good. Sounds like you're at peace with yourself."

He wasn't. He knew what she could hear. He had been humbled. Not by anybody, nor by any incident. By everything. The world. All of those years. By mortality. He wasn't going to lead humanity out of darkness. No one was. He, they, everyone - condemned to stay here amongst the filth, the loneliness, the lies and cheating, the greed and the hate. Especially the hate. He hated more than he ever did as a young man. At night, in Sydney, he would walk the Cross hoping that some young idiot would pick a fight. They wouldn't. That isn't the way nature works. Smouch was solid. He looked mean. No, they would pick on a small guy or a woman. Probably a woman. Damn, he'd kick them and keep kicking until he'd kicked away forty years of pent up screaming.

She had never believed him. What was love anyway? She was right not to believe. He had sex with other women, or used to. Now, he couldn't see the point. Meaningless. Physical. Work. His vision blurred.

"Want another beer?"

"No." Where did this voice come from? So deep, so mature, adult, controlled. A man. "I've had enough. This place is giving me the shits."

"You ok?"

"No."

Terry looked around. They'd moved outside and were sitting on a low brick wall in front of the hotel. The street was poorly lit. People, so many people. Don't they sleep? Bicycles clanked past. Occasionally, a person would look at them.

"How long do we have to hang around?"

Smouch stared straight ahead. He was somewhere else.

"Smouch?"

"Until...", until when? Until wealth can sleep at night? Until he drove his car into a pole?

"Sorry?"

"Until the day after tomorrow. If he hasn't made contact by then, it's time to cover our arse. I'm goin' to bed. See ya."

Terry stayed on the wall. Smouch was a good bloke and the most experienced guy in the section, but man, he was moody. Sometimes it seemed that he just couldn't be bothered. Terry tasted the memory of good coffee and his thoughts drifted back to Carlton and Fitzroy, Wendy, happiness. He smiled. It's all still there. Won't be long.

Max Herriman

A Stitch in Time

(Most of the dialogue for this story was written on 17 January 1991, the morning [Australian time] that the Allies began bombing Iraq.)

Rain blew against the glass in vicious pelts - tiny, cool drops that smashed uselessly onto the panes and trickled to the ground like tears. Wind and rain reeled, then swept across the lawn. Inside, men scarcely noticed that a storm had begun.

"It's a God-send." A knowing smile escaped the immaculately-dressed, junior assistant standing to the right of Mr Baker. The Secretary of State continued, "You know that we have been concerned about this megalomaniac ever since they put a hole in USS Stark. Frankly, it would only be a matter of time before someone sold him the technology for nuclear weapons."

Bush looked through gold-rimmed spectacles at the briefing sheet in his left hand. He no longer noticed that, under artificial light, the lenses caused white paper to take on a pinkish hue. Three ridges of frown between his eye-brows flattened into a smooth curve that ran to a receding, gossamer hair-line. His cheeks and neck succumbed to gravity, sagging as a frame around determinedly drawn lips, and his tilted head over-emphasised the aquiline nature of his nose.

"Would have? What the hell are you talking about James?" He scanned the clever young men who always seemed to accompany the Secretary these days. Not long ago, he was like them. Their eager eyes betrayed a desire to smirk knowingly. He knew they didn't understand.

The two men settled into chairs either side of the President's imposing desk. The Secretary's assistants remained standing on a rug near the door. They were armed with dossiers and several nights' reading - ready to answer questions and impress those who have to be impressed.

"He's becoming too powerful. The last thing we want is a fanatical Arab to fill the vacuum left by the Soviets. Hell, we'd be better off with the Russians. But you know all this; we've talked about it at length." The leather chair creaked gently as he rested his weight on his elbow. "Well, what can we do about it? If we pick a fight with him or move in to neutralise the threat, they'd drag out Jane Fonda, and all the bleeding-hearts would bash down our door."

"The Israelis haven't done anything foolish, have they James?"

"Ha. I hope not! No. Nothing that we're aware of." Baker spoke softly and unhurriedly. His words flowed across the desk in a reassuring melody, "They know that the entire Arab community would unite behind Saddam Hussein if they made any move. Their 'non-attributable' operations are always so obvious, if only because they're so effective." The Secretary's advisers smiled, glanced at each other, then looked at the floor. "No, it's not that. We think Saddam is going to make a mistake that will provide us with a window of opportunity."

A dramatic pause. The Secretary had always been a skilled negotiator. He knew the importance of atmosphere. "Mr President, the Defence Intelligence Agency has advised that Iraq is massing forces for an invasion of Kuwait. The State Department agrees with that assessment."

The President showed no expression. "So, you believe he's looking at more than the border problem? This briefing sheet from Brent Scowcroft suggests that the Iraqis are really interested in," he flipped to the front page, "Bubiyan and Warba Islands and the Rumaila oil field."

"Brent wanted to join me here this morning, but he thought it best to finish his assessment. He's hoping to brief you fully early this afternoon. Events are unfolding pretty rapidly. He agrees that his earlier position is redundant. We believe that it's more than a border situation. Tanks, troop movements and diplomatic intelligence all indicate a full-blown invasion. This is not an exercise. We estimate that he plans to move in less than three weeks. A blatant breach of international law that will be condemned around the world. We'll have people begging us to kick him out."

"What's the latest on his nuclear capability? He has a whole pile of chemical weapons."

"We know that he doesn't have nuclear weapons, yet. Give him another year though... As for the other problem; well, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs has assured me that he could destroy most of the chemical threat before it could be used. Apparently, the Iraqis have some problem with delivery. Their missiles are old."

The young men stood in awe. Secretary 'Velvet Hammer' was asking for permission to act out one of his greatest foreign policy strokes. He didn't have to say anything more. Indeed, to have done so might have spoiled everything.

When the President spoke, he chose his words carefully. "You're suggesting that we do nothing until he rolls over the border; we feign surprise and indignation, then move in - aaah, at the request of the Kuwaitis - to restore the legitimate government. In the process, we inflict sufficient damage to neutralise the growing Iraqi threat."

"That's about the size of it. Of course, we can't move in straight away. Better to make a lot of noise about human-rights abuses and violations of international law. We'll try 'every avenue' of diplomatic persuasion and sanctions. The Saudis will feel uncomfortable with Saddam on their doorstep. We could exaggerate the threat of Iraq's imminent wave of conquest but probably won't have to, the media will do that for us. Pressure will rise to the point where the world demands that he be removed. That will also allow us time to get our people on the ground and hopefully bring other Western nations into the operation. Good guys versus the bad guys, and we'll unquestioningly be on the right side."

"The alternative?"

"Play your cards too soon and you might frighten him away temporarily, but only until he's developed the necessary weaponry. Then, we would probably not be able to do much about it, or if we have to, it will be a lot more bloody. Personally, I think we'd still have to take him out. You know, with Kuwait in his possession he would control a large proportion of the world's oil supply. He would grow increasingly powerful. We'd have another stand-off. It'd be the Iron Curtain all over again. No, I don't think we have any real alternative."

Bush crossed his fingers on the table and studied his knuckles. The room suddenly felt warm, too warm. He inhaled deeply, as if to announce a decision, then noisily released the captive air. A wave of raindrops rushed against the window to fill the silence with suicide patter.

"I have to tell you James, I'm torn between the prospect of another Vietnam and the desire to do what's right. You know, in the small office off my bedroom there's a painting of Lincoln conferring with his generals. He proved his greatness under fire." The President rolled his head back and to the side. His gaze fell upon a vase of fresh flowers, but he didn't see them. "How much pain is this thing going to cause us?"

"Weeks, not months, and not a lot of casualties - if we act now."

"Okay. Have your department prepare a brief on the matter please James. Give me until this afternoon, say three o'clock, then bring Dick and Brent back here with you. I want a Defense perspective on this. Also, have a draft series of speeches made up. Let me get a feel for the flavour of it. They will have to be strong enough to offend Saddam but not so much that I look too eager for a fight. The last thing we'd want is for him to pull out while we're moving into position. Demand that he makes an unconditional withdrawal, no negotiation. You know the sort of thing. That way he would lose too much face to comply. The whole thing would be very delicate. If we get it wrong, it could really screw things up. Congress would be a pain in the butt. Are your people up to it?"

"Well, it's a fairly straight forward spin. We'll be ok. It would be a very popular victory for the West, and ... um, would take the heat off of this 'savings and loans' problem." No-one looked at the President.

Max Herriman