C. Winspear

Parchment

Thu, 20 Aug 2026 14:04:32 +0000

Presenting at Worldcon: Future design/manufacturing.

Mon, 10 Aug 2020 15:29:42 +0000

I recently spoke at Worldcon about the future of design/engineering and manufacturing, along with Curtis Chen, Dr Deborah Munro and Dr Mark English. Needless to say, I felt very intimidated by the other intellects in the room!

Afterwards some people had follow up questions and also the recording went missing, so I figured I’d put all the answers and my notes in one place in case anyone is curious in the future.

3D Printing and how it will change things:

I have a more day-to-day relationship with 3D printers and manufacturing in general, as opposed to someone who’s developing new technology. My experience is more in practical applications than in experimental projects, so everything I’m about to say comes from that perspective and please know it’s just my opinion, there’s plenty of other conjecture out there.

The excitement of 3D printing is that the cost of making five similar parts is the same as making five identical parts.

This is against our traditional mass-manufacturing model, in which you make ten thousand of the same part to keep costs down. Being able to affordably produce unique parts has already opened up a huge swathe of opportunities for designers.

Also, the developments of 3D printing software came to influence other CNC manufacturing. So now 5-axis lathes and even very old 3-axis mills can be programmed much faster than before, making it cheaper to produce individual pieces or small runs for items that aren’t 3D printed.

Finally CAD (design and drawing) programs themselves are becoming increasingly scriptable, so everything is becoming more integrated.

This means that you’re looking at a potential future where instead of going to Ikea, you use an app to visualise furniture in your house (Pokemon Go style) and then you pick from a huge range of online designs. You pick the timber and enter the dimensions. These are fed into scriptable CAD, which feeds it to the CAM (computer aided machining), which programs the machines. Then the workers just have to feed in materials, finish the parts and pack your order like any other.

This is already possible. Whether it takes off will depend on marketing. Your iphone is sexy because Apple spent billions on marketing to make it sexy. The possibilities of customisation are there, but it will depend on business whether it becomes cool to have furniture that makes actually sense for your home or whether the whole world will continue to have the same IKEA dining table.

In summary: The next 30-40 years will see a bit of development, but it’ll mostly be guided along the same market forces. In the end, 3D printings greatest contribution may be software developments which have also influenced other CNC techniques, making smaller runs and customisation more viable.

3D Printed Food:

I wouldn’t want to be the first to taste it.

Why would you want to do this anyway? 3D printing is not inherently better than any other method of making something, in fact it’s generally worse. A 3d printer might put nice icing on a cake or layer up a pyramid of caramel, but I don’t it making complicated food anytime soon, and I certainly don’t see it becoming an efficient cooking method for many many years.

That said, there’s an amazing story which explored the concept of making fake steak: A Series of Steaks by Vina Jie-Min Prasad

http://clarkesworldmagazine.com/prasad_01_17/

Multi-component printers:

If you zoom out, a factory is a multicomponent printer. Products are cut at one station, they are pressed at another station, they run through a die-cut at the next, then they go through finishing, etc. I’ve never been amazed by the concept of one machine which could do everything. It’s far more practical to simply put a series of machines in a conveyor system which some simple robotic arms and then use that to make what you want. After all each machine is a collection of parts, so the difference is pretty academic between “this is one machine” vs “this is a collection of machines.”

At the moment we substitute in human labour because it’s cheaper than robotic arms, and there’s always some cleaning out of off-cuts and topping up of oil etc which is easy to do manually than to automate.

In terms of size and traveling, maybe this factory stays packed up until its needed.

In terms of presentation, you can put a box over this automated factory and call it a Universal Fabricator, whalla, to the user’s point of view you have one machine that does everything.

As technology improves, the amount of individual machines you may need in your factory would decrease, along with its overall size and weight, but never to nothing, and the overall concept would remain the same.

New designs, making what we couldn’t before:

Biology grows things in a way which 3D printers come close to imitating. I’d say in the next 30-40 years, you’ll see people stealing from nature and using 3D printers to manufacture things we currently can’t.

An obvious example is the porous but very strong structure within bones. 3D printing a structure member like that is possible, but you don’t see it much. The reason is because our most accurate 3D printing methods (SLA and SLS) use a medium which is left stuck inside the bone. In SLA’s case this is the unhardened fluid, in SLS it is the unlasered powder. You’d have to put holes in the bones to remove this excess material and then that ruins their strength.

You can use FDM printers to make bones, but then you’re stuck with thermoplastics.

A precise CNC welder might be the most exciting way to go, creating metal bones. At the moment CNC welders are very messy but that could change, or maybe these bones are massive structure members used to hold up a building, so the messiness of the welds gets absorbed by their scale. We’ll have to see what we manage to get away with.

Sending fabricators into space / self-replicating probes:

It doesn’t have to be a magical machine. A colony is a fabricator. It will eventually be able to self-replicate – as long as it doesn’t die first.

You just need to give them (humans or drones) enough resources to survive up until the point their self-sufficient, then they can start mining and manufacturing whatever tools they need. They’ll be a certain minimum required to mine and smelt and make the first bits. Beyond that, the more advance tools you can bring, the faster they will get back to the tech level of the planet/station they left from.

This is true historically too. A colony landed, struggled, became self-sufficient, and then gradually got to the stage where it could also build ships or found new towns.

Future of Factories:

Essentially I see automation becoming increasingly more affordable, and human error and labour becoming increasing more costly, to the point where factories employ less and less human staff. This is simply a continuation of what’s been happening since the industrial revolution.

Beyond that, it’ll be much easier to make custom and bootleg items. You’ve heard of fake handbags. You can expect some fake iphones appearing soon.

I wouldn’t be surprised if you get fake pharmaceuticals too. America as portrayed in the Peripheral by William Gibson is the most believable near future world I think I’ve read in a while.

Thanks

That’s all my notes. Any questions please flick me a message. I hope to be able to present in more cons in the future.

My lost letter to J.J. Abrams about Rise of Skywalker

Sat, 25 Jul 2020 17:00:10 +0000

I just watched Star Wars: Rise of Skywalker for the first time. There's a history here. A few years ago, J.J. Abrams actually wrote to me with his concerns about the script. I was pretty frank with my criticism and my feedback, which offended some people in his writer's room, and so none of my suggestions were taken on board. Seeing the movie now, I really wish I'd gotten through to him, but Hollywood has a way of corrupting people.

If you're curious, I think enough time has passed that I can share this with you all. See below

(Contains Spoilers)

Hi J.J,

I can see why you’re concerned about Star Wars: Rise of Skywalker. But don’t get yourself down. The ending only needs a slight tweak and everything will be okay, J.J.

As always, no need to credit me for the attached adjustments to the script. Seeing Hollywood produce fine films is reward enough.

First of all, I’ve added two lines of dialogue to explain why they needed to launch a ground invasion on the communications tower when they could just shoot the damn thing from the sky.

“The tower is protected by an incredibly powerful shield, so we’ll need to take it down with a ground assault.”

Problem solved. After they decide they have to land on the flagship instead, maybe add a little extra clarity for the kids. Something like:

“They’ve diverted the shields to protect the tower. It’s up to you, Finn.”

Done.

The second change is to do with your main issue: the Emperor vs Rey and Kylo Ren showdown.

I believe this is how it goes at the moment, to be honest I’m a little confused:

Rey says she wants to “destroy the Sith”, which we assume means defeating the Emperor, for no other manner of destroying the sith is presented.

Emperor says he wants to be defeated by Rey! It was in fact his grand plan all along, because if she strikes him down the Sith spirits will somehow possess her. (Why a grand villain would explain his schemes to the one hero who can stop them is the greatest mystery of modern cinema, and I appreciate your desire to add to this classic Hollywood trope. After all, if we don’t remind our American audiences to turn their brains off, they might start voting sensibly).
Emperor says the only way you can save your friends is by shutting up and doing what I say. You’re gonna kill me so I can possess you and we’ll rule as Empress (?)
Kylo Ren appears on the scene and is halted by some sith cultist baddies.
Rey looks like she’s about to submit but instead passes one of her sabres to Kylo Ren.
Kylo Ren reaches Rey, wooo, now they can face the emperor together.
(At this point I can see you got yourself a little stuck, J.J.)
Emperor uses powers to suck life force out of Rey and Kylo Ren and make himself into a big powerful emperor. It appears his powers are so villainous he doesn’t even understand them himself, as he gives a completely contrary infodump to what he said about his grand plan above. He flicks Kylo Ren down a well. While he makes it clear he doesn’t need Rey anymore, he doesn’t kill her but decides to let her have a nap.
This is all very convenient because now Rey can rise up, hear the voices of all the jedi and destroy the emperor.
She falls over and dies from exhaustion (at this point the audience has learned not to question why)
Kylo Ren crawls out of the well and saves her.
They kiss (yay moment!)
Kylo Ren falls over and dies from exhaustion (How Post-modern of you to immediately counteract the yay moment with this downer. But I understand it would have difficult to write the ending scenes with Kylo around. He’s so emo.)

May I instead suggest the following:

Rey says she wants to “destroy the Sith”

Emperor reveals that if you destroy the Sith, you also destroy the Jedi. One has no power without the other. This is what it means to bring balance to the force. (Big epic reveal, this is the crux of all 9 movies! Fan’s go wild.)
(option) If you want to delve a little more here: Emperor reveals that he wanted Vader to balance/destroy the force. Something like “As emperor of the galaxy, the force was the only remaining threat to my rule. But Vader was too weak, and now I am a shadow of my former self.”
Kylo Ren arrives on scene and fights sith cultists baddies.
Emperor urges Rey to accept control of the big bad fleet and rule as empress. The emperor will sacrifice himself for her sake. Kylo Ren will be eliminated momentarily. The force will be balanced/destroyed. Her rule will be undeniable. Oh by the way, if you refuse all your friends die (same shot of the rebels losing, alongside shots of Kylo losing).
(Option) Could back this up with illusions of what the empire would be like under Rey. Maybe even nice images. Oooo the Temptation. The Emperor regrets he cannot rule himself but having one order in charge of the whole galaxy was the end goal, and she is a Palpentine after all.
Kylo begins to lose and is about to die to the cultists. Emperor get ready to sacrifice himself and win.
Can still use the cool shot where Ren raises her sabre to strike Emperor down, passes a sabre over to Kylo.
Kylo and Ren destroy emperor and cultists.
Kylo and Ren get together / stay friends. This is another version of balancing the force: the dark side and the jedi living in harmony.

Of course this is just a suggestion. You can do pretty much anything other than what’s currently in the script.

A few other missed opportunities:

The Empire Spy, instead of getting found out and shot, could survive to lead some empire forces to change sides in the middle of the final battle. This was thematically set up with all the ex-stormtrooper characters. Regardless, his motivation should be something more thought out than simply hating Kylo Ren.
Fix the romances. Who is with who? Just make a decision and go for it.

Thank you again for reaching out, J.J. I’m sure you’d figure it out even without my help. After all this is 275 million dollar movie, and script writers are so very cheap. Simply harness the amazing talent of writers out there and you’ll create a film worthy of critical acclaim, a worthy finale in this chapter of the Stars Wars universe.

Lots of love,

C. Winspear.

Aladdin is good storytelling

Thu, 26 Mar 2020 23:33:46 +0000

Why would anyone want to review Aladdin? The film came out years ago! Not to mention it’s marketed for children. Well the simple reason is: Aladdin is awesome (a fact we’ll soon find irrefutable). More to the point, realising why Aladdin is awesome will prove useful for any writer or artist wanting to make their work awesome. So let’s look at a couple things that make this animated kid’s film a classic.

Every scene advances the plot: Writers are creative people. However this creativity can backfire when biased minds justify scenes that, actually, have nothing to do with the story. So, for the sake of us poor self-deluded writers, we’ll be more precise and clarify: Every scene advances the plot quickly. The Sultan’s difficulty with marrying off her daughter is conveyed with three curt lines of dialogue as the insulted Prince Achmed leaves with his torn pants. We get it. Never in Aladdin is time is wasted making sure we get it, or even expressing character emotions longer than a single scene/song.

Nothing is just a token: The story can move fast because there’s actually a lot to cover. Not that the story is complex, it’s just that the handful of relationships and character desires are carefully and often reused. The film is so familiar that we forget: The power of the lamp is not revealed until half way through the plot. Before this point the lamp drove the plot simply as a token, a thing Jaffar desired (similar to how the Rabbit’s Foot drives Mission Impossible 3). Unlike many stories however, this Holy Grail becomes real and directly affects the story. The impossibilities and resolved relationships set out by earlier turns of events are now vulnerable to the genies’ three all-powerful wishes. This allows, without the addition of more characters, the Arabian tale to carry on afresh.

Opportunities siezed: Jafar is at odds with the Prince Ali but the sultan is clueless: This is an opportunity for humour. The genie can do anything: This is an opportunity for some excellent design by the animators. Jafar becomes Sultan: this is an opportunity for the Iago’s dreams (stuffing crackers down the sultans throat) to become more than characterisation.

When pure characterisation does occur, it often does so with joint purpose: The genies intro explains why we’ve been after the lamp. The rug’s slow paced intro gives a sense of depth to the epic Cave of Wonders. Every story gives opportunities to create more out of itself. Aladdin uses them well.

Moral to the story: When Aladdin finds himself a magical lamp, surely that’s the end right. He has to win. Of course it doesn’t turn out to be that simple. As the plot develops we learn even the power of a genie cannot help grant us the courage to be ourselves. So like every good kid’s story, we have a presiding moral to the story. However, Aladdin treats the moral in a very mature way. If you were to stop watching the film 15 minutes early, the film would have been a tragedy.

[Is it too late for a SPOILER ALERT? Look if you’ve never seen Aladdin then you should do so immediately. You’ll personally affiliate with Aladdin, who also never had a TV.]

You would see Jafar raining supreme, Aladdin rocketed out of Arabia, and Jasmine enslaved along with her father. All this because Aladdin was pretending to be something he wasn’t, and he broke his promise of freedom to the genie (which actually is an extension of not being himself – observe his early generosity of a piece of bread to the children –back when he had nothing). Aladdin teaches us to be ourselves the way Macbeth teaches us not to be greedy or ambitious, the way Othello teaches us to chill and not get jealous, and the way Hamlet teaches us to hurry up and kill our step-dad.

Flaws? It would be hard to pick apart such a classic. Perhaps the greatest weak point in Aladdin may be its villains. Their motivation is extremely simple: more power. And they have little redeeming qualities. To stay within Disney: Hades at least was dealt a bad hand amongst Olympus, stuck with being god of the underworld, and has a sense of humour. Claude Frollo would probably be the most humane villain. After all he brings up the hunchback, only turning completely evil after being corrupted by lust. Jafar is just a powerful bad guy whose qualities, defeated by cunning alone, exists only to make Aladdin a greater hero.

The villains are ok though, they serve their purpose as the fast moving story shuffles back and forth. It’s fortunate you’ve read this review, for you’ll have little time to analyse the film as you are flung from scene to scene and song to song. The character’s great, the plot is amazing, there’s no chaff in the story: It’s a classic and deservedly so.

Foreign Aid and Cultural Damage

Wed, 15 Jan 2020 00:55:54 +0000

I have a somewhat controversial view that much of foreign aid is either fruitless or in fact damaging to the recipient. I mean this even beyond the well-known dangers of a recipient becoming dependent on the aid. My belief is that unwarranted aid to a country development is alarmly close to the coloniser’s efforts to “civilise” savages who were not living the way Europeans lived. Although often full of good intentions, much charity to communities is given with the arrogant assumption that our way of life is simply better. There are certain circumstances where aid is helpful, of course, in particular after a disaster or breakout of war. The general rule is that the aid has to be asked for and any desire to develop must originate from within the country itself. Otherwise there is a real danger of causing cultural damage to the local community.

Allow me to explain where my views may have developed. In 2009 I spent 6 months in South America, the majority of which was spent volunteering in the neighbouring towns of Calca and Lumay, near Cusco, Peru. Through my experiences, I quickly realised that the third world is not full of sad malnutritioned children. If anything, it is full of happy children, and they have rice everywhere not just in Asia.

I went there when I was only 18 and my intentions were to widen my little bubble of privileged experience and to help people less fortunate than myself. I succeeded in the former but became confused about the latter. I found that there were kids everywhere (the actual proportion of youth to aged is different than developed countries). I also found, to my surprise, that there were very very poor people who were also marvellously happy. In that small town in the Andes I discovered a similar spectrum of grungy souls and content souls as one would in Australia. However there was a generally greater reliance and appreciation of relationships, particularly with psychical neighbours. There was also there was less emphasis on work and more on the frequent town fiestas. Life was different but no one could say that it was bad.

Then I walk down the street here in Sydney; I am assailed by the various volunteer or commission paid individuals who collect donations. They show you pictures of frowning children. They tell you that the price of your grocery bill will permanently “improve” the life of a stranger.

It is unnatural, let alone impossible, for a population to exist beyond its means. Such cases must be attributed to changes of circumstances, both gradual (climate change, corruption), or sudden (natural disasters, war.) Charities can do little to prevent the systematic causes to gradual problems. Indeed “Supporting a community” is an extremely simplistic and erroneous treatment of the third world. At best, these charities may offer a framework to deliver aid to help with sudden shifts (for instance as a response to a natural disasters).

That’s not to say disaster relief itself, in isolation, isn’t an extremely worthy cause. It is natural for neighbours to help out others suddenly in need. It is particularly natural for a community to assist when a disaster has affected its members. Today’s community is global. Disaster relief is the most effective and humanitarian of all international aid or charity. Although it can be polluted with stipulations or vested interest, at its core it often seeks to simply restore a community to how it was. Since the goal is to restore (as opposed to change) the local society, there can be little danger of forcing an unnatural cultural change.

It is other forms of aid that are problematic. They rely upon the observation that people are living worse than us, that their life could be improved. But who are we to say that our form of life is greater than theirs? There is an implication that the development of a country is simultaneous with its Westernisation.

Even the simple, often well-intended, English language education that comes with the development of a country is an example of Westernisation. It is true that one proficient in English may study abroad, if given a scholarship, but more often public education only provides enough English to give directions to tourists. Yet even this humble level of English class succeeds in sublimely installing an idealised insight into the Western life. Moreso, the models of education themselves are often directly translated from 1^st world exemplars rather than appropriated to local culture. This leads to a situation where (anywhere in the world) if you ask a child to draw a house, they will draw the same square image with a gabled roof, 1-2 windows and a door.

Globalisation is inevitable, but Westernisation of the world can be managed. Communities must be allowed to develop at their own pace and in their own manner. Otherwise there will be a potentially dangerous disjoint as people are learning one thing at school and through the TV, yet living another way in their daily life with the community. Cultural damage is not just the loss of art and local customs; it is when a community becomes dysfunctional as its people are caught between their traditional culture and another heavily-pushed (modern) way of living.

If a community finds a way to preserve or appropriate their social structure and customs in a rapidly developing environment, such would be a natural progression of the community into a globalised way of life. Damage is caused when people suddenly find themselves unable to live as they did before and are not permitted the necessary time to adjust or appropriate their culture to a new context. Essentially, cultural damage is caused when people are forced to live in a way that is alien to their own culture.

For a country to modernise and yet keep its culture, the desire to develop must come from within the country itself. It is right for other countries to support the development only if this is the case. Soft loans, for example, can be a great benefit in giving opportunities to small groups of people wanting to start small businesses. In these cases outside help assists a country to propel its culture into a new stage of itself.

Otherwise, forced attempts at development are fruitless and akin to the efforts made by early colonisers to “civilise” who they considered savages. Afterall how is us educating and building infrastructure in Africa any different to the education and placement of Indigenous in reservations? Both come from the good willed but arrogant assumption that our life is better and the Indigenous are simply ignorant. Who are we to say who is ignorant, or who is happier?

Even introducing the idea that “the modern life is better” can be dangerous to a community. It installs the melancholic mindset that they live a second-rate life. They may believe that the material possessions (the most obvious and concrete difference between 3^rd world countries and developed countries) are some sort of producer of paradise. There are innumerable studies indicating happiness plateaus after one is over the bare poverty line, but I will state that I personally saw many a happy illiterate Peruvian farmer where I now see a stressed and overworked Australian office worker.

Indeed the benefits of modern Western life are often marketed without its negatives (For example: higher rates of stress, suicide, the decay of certain relationships…) This can lead to a fervent desire for material goods installed within a society unaccustomed to consumerism. Such affects can be dangerous, creating greed and corruption within a society of individuals hungry for this material paradise.

What I saw in Peru in 2009 distressed me. There was just enough Western influence for many urban people to see westernised lives on television and wonder. The visiting gringos themselves became a symbol of a higher class which apparently goes around the world doing nothing more than pleasuring itself. It would be only natural for locals to be envious. Perhaps this is the source of the “gringo tax”: A condition where everything costs more if you’re foreign and people are unashamedly dishonest if it helps them scrounge an extra few soles off you. The greater danger is that this image of materialistic success drives corruption and dishonesty between the locals themselves.

If I wanted to emphasise anything in this rant, it's that we need to have greater appreciation for different ways of life and stop assuming that western freedoms and wealth are the only path to happiness. It is hard to picture that unemployed people in adobe huts are happy if you’re using western eyes. But it's the bonds between people, the things they do for joy with the people they love, that creates happiness, not fancy houses. The whole world plays soccer. If disaster strikes it is vital that the world lends a hand. But there is should be no urgency to go turn the whole world into the modern western country. Globalisation means we are all connected and influence of modern technology is particularly unavoidable. Rather than teach the third world to restructure everything just like our societies, communities should be allowed to take technology and let their own cultures adapt. Every culture, after all, is constantly changing and shifting. All I suggest is that we allow poorer nations to change their lifestyle of their own accord, and only provide assistance if it is asked for.

Is:

Sat, 20 Jul 2019 13:24:12 +0000

I breathe, and realise: There is no reason at all. It just simply, is.

Winter in Japan

Tue, 19 Mar 2019 01:04:39 +0000

The bells still ring, battering

The precious sculpture I carved

For her, or the next lover

And tearing the pages of scripture

Yet to be written, aborted now

As a high-school accident

Still ringing, still ringing.

Open mouthed and closed eared

I shriek till the toll is paid

The wood still stands, snow

still falls in my closed eyes

temple , fires, music, the forest

a dear and a yakuza girl

I wished to know more.

The way it works:

Sun, 17 Feb 2019 23:36:19 +0000

Hither and thither

Fly with a flutter

Approach your jury

Upon a stutter

Until you’re sent

And chained

To forty houred misery

Or a gutter.

Hello world!

Mon, 28 Jan 2019 09:00:40 +0000

Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start writing!

The rich and homeless

Sat, 28 Sep 2013 22:15:56 +0000

In the 80’s a middle aged man came to the bar and asked me who he should talk to about US military support, noting freely that he had two million dollars available. I replied that I’d never seen someone look so sober and yet speak so high, and told him not to take anymore of whatever he had. The man shook his head, introduced himself as Oscar Mielniczuk, said he was from the Falkland Islands, represented a small group of interested parties which wanted to avert the conflict about to happen there. I told him that his name didn’t sound very Spanish. Those were my last words to him, before Jerry swooped in.

You had to feel sorry for the old Argentine. He was from a different world: somewhere where you talked to people with promises and cash and things would get done. He’d honestly thought he could meet some general, or even the Secretary of State. It was easy for Jerry. He just had to tell Oscar the truth: No one was going to give a damn. Then Oscar would talk about how little time there was, how the island would be bombed –nothing would be left of it. He thought the money would get him heard. Nope, that money wouldn’t attract one ounce of attention here, except from swindlers and crooks.

Jerry was a professional downer, as in he was actually employed by the local casino to get guests drunk and depressed, so much so that they’d throw their money onto a roulette table with three zeros. I wasn’t in a place to judge, or to do anything about it; so I largely ignored him. He moved blurring fast that day. I guess not even his ears often heard “two million’ said before the word “dollars”. Ditching his earlier, half-baked target, Jerry crushed every hope and dream poor Oscar had ever had, starting with a chain of Long Island Ice Teas.

Just before it was time to announce last drinks, Jerry picked what was left of Oscar out of his seat and trotted him off towards the tables. I heard later what had happened, how the casino night manager –Jerry’s boss- had to push for Oscar’s ID to work with his bank book. But sure enough, Oscar got his chips. Normally even that table had a maximum bet, but the manager and Jerry gave the nod. And so Oscar had two million dollars, every penny his homeland could muster, sitting on number 24.

“Why’d you choose number 24?” jerry asked, trying to distract the Argentine before he changed his mind.

“It is the birthdate of my mother.”

The croupier swung his hands horizontally, looking Oscar in the eye as he announced that betting was closed. He spun the wheel. The manager began laughing, congratulating Jerry on his achievement. Jerry smiled, looking forward to his ten-percent cut and not working for the rest of the year, but even he had the sense to be quiet while the wheel was still spinning. Unabated, the manager turned to Oscar, telling the Argentine that he’d made the right choice: The US would make far more selling bombs to the Brits than his island could ever pay. Oscar sighed, turned from the table drunkenly, and watched one of the TV’s that hung from the ceiling. Even the TV in America was not what he had expected.

Then the drunk Argentine heard something. Actually: It was that he couldn’t hear something that got his attention. For everyone at the table and everyone in the small -but rapidly building- crowd around it had stopped breathing. All they could hear was the last clicks of the roulette wheel. The manager jumped over the table and tried to stop it, but there is something sacred about the last moments of spinning and the moment the wheel comes to rest on a number like 24.

Still the manager tried his best to get out of it, highlighting that the bank book hadn’t been properly checked. However the commotion, uncharacteristic past midnight on a Tuesday, had raised an old detective from his favourite machine. The cop saw that Oscar got his money, and in return Oscar gave him ten thousand dollars. That had all cycled back into the casino by the end of the year.

Two nights later, Oscar came back into the bar looking exhausted. He said it had been a hell of a process to get the money into his accounts, and repeated his question about who he could see about US military support, noting he now had a bit over fifty-nine million dollars. I lowered my head, unable to say anything to the man, unable to believe how he hadn’t heard. I poured him a drink, saying it was on the house and paying for it myself. Then I turned on the TV. The news was still cycling: UK forces had just bombed the Falkland Islands.

Officer Campbell (Anzac Day)

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 21:44:04 +0000

My father has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. The symptoms were all there of course. We just didn’t want to admit it. It’s a fact though and it’ll only get worse. He tells the same stories two or three times in an evening now. Sometimes they’re second hand, other times they are from his experiences when he was younger. We have heard a whole library worth of exaggerated tales that originated from our grandpa. Of those, there is one story that dad repeats often. It is a war story. It rarely changes and it stays with me more than any other.

Pa used to talk about an officer who “saved their lives by blowing a whistle.” He was along the trench in the Battle of the Somme. The story goes he was facing the single worst patch of No Man’s Land along the whole front. They had orders to advance. They got about half way until the mud reached their waists and the ra-tat-tat of the enemy grew to a climax. It was then they heard the 3 whistle blows and knew to turn around. Pa lost a third of his platoon that day. He used to insist that the rest were saved because of that man. Later the superiors tried to have the officer court martialled for cowardice, but they couldn’t find anyone to bear witness against him. The officer’s family name was Campbell.

Yet strangely my father doesn’t stop there. He jumps to a different day, an earlier day, Pa’s first in the trenches. They had just arrived after months of training and being ported through Egypt, England and now to France. They were excited. They were instructed to listen to a private who had been serving on the front longer than anyone else.

The shell-shocked Private Mackenzie explained in a tired and lengthy manner that it was crucial that they keep the trench as tidy as possible. They also ought to take great measures to ensure they kept their socks dry. To this end, Mackenzie showed them the most effective way to balloon their pants. Everyman was to be vigilant over his own shovel, as other platoons would sometimes take them. If you lost your shovel you would be severely reprimanded.

“We didn’t come here to watch shovels. We came here to kill Jerry!” someone shouted. He inspired an enthusiastic yelp from the rest of the green platoon. In some versions the man is apparently still drunk from some rum they had stolen the night before. Sometimes the young man’s name is Kerry, but more often it is Gary.

Mackenzie was unamused. He said nothing for a while. Then his face turned white. He muttered something about keeping ammunition dry.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Officer Campbell apologised to the speaker. He had been overlooking from a mound to the side. “But I think these men will need a more direct presentation.” He turned to Gary. “So you want to kill Jerry do you private?”

“It’s lance Corporal sir,” Gary responded.

“Oh! Lance corporal. Ah, I see, there’s your chevron. You must be proud,”

“Quite sir,” Gary carried on despite his officer’s mocking tone. “I was promoted in training. I’m the leader of my section.”

If Campbell’s smile ever had some genuine glee behind it, it had been lost long before that day.

“Well Lance corporal, come with me. Let’s give you that chance to kill Jerry.”

Campbell led the fresh platoon past the kitchen and the latrines to the trench proper. They passed a few wounded men lying in stretchers. These were men shot through flesh or suffering from a bad burn, wounded enough to be taken off the front line but not enough to warrant the trip to hospital. They proceeded through the secondary trench, which was mostly used as storage, and entered a narrow communication trench that led to the front line. Pa noticed the explosives set all along the connection. He was also smelt the horrid odour of a dead horse.

Campbell announced to the old hands that reinforcements had arrived. He had Pa’s platoon form around him in a semi-circle, or as semi-circular a form as the trench would allow. He then singled out Gary to come forward.

“See that line over there corporal,” Campbell pointed into the distance beyond the barbed wire.

“I think so sir.”

“That trench is two-hundred and six yards away. We know because it used to be ours.” Campbell sighed. “In there is Jerry son, and he’s waiting for you.”

Gary swallowed. “I’ll give it to him sir.” Pa’s whole platoon was ready to be brave.

“I know you will. You’ve got your rifle, yes? Throw down your pack and take out your bayonet, you’ll need that. And your thickest blanket, you’ll need that too.”

Gary frowned. “What’s the blanket for sir?”

“Don’t worry, you won’t be sleeping with Jerry.” No one laughed, least of all Officer Campbell. “The blanket’s to help you get over the barbed wire, I’m not cutting it for you, and neither will Jerry.”

Pa’s platoon looked at each other with confused and fearful faces. The iron that had been a subtle undertone in Campbell’s voice now fortified his every word. It would be easier to catch a live shell than to argue against that voice.

“Are we attacking now sir?” Gary asked.

“Well you are. I, however, can’t afford to lose men. I can only afford to lose one arrogant fool who won’t last a week here anyway.”

Gary finally realised what was about to happen. “Just me sir?”

“It’s your chance lance corporal. It’s what you trained for, your chance of glory. Come back here with five Jerry helmets and I’ll promote you to full corporal before the day’s done.”

Gary put his pack down: taking out ammunition, a bomb he had made from gasoline and tar, his thickest blanket, his bayonet, his canteen, his matches. He retied his shoelaces. Then he took up a place with one foot on the ladder that led out of the trench.

“I won’t blow the whistle for you. Try and sneak up on them,” said Campbell. Gary looked at the enemy line. He looked again at Campbell. “Go on,” Campbell insisted. “We’ll watch you from here.”

Gary took two deep breaths and then scaled the ladder. He treaded carefully through the friendly barbed wire. Mackenzie whispered advice to him. Then he was off into No Man’s Land. All of Pa’s platoon jumped up to take a look. As the silence extended, even Campbell ascended the ladder to watch. Gary dropped his blanket just before the German wire. He quickly turned back and picked it up, then threw it over the wire and tried to leap over it. He got caught. Pa saw him struggle. Pa saw him reach for his rifle and take aim. There was a crack when Gary shot and more when he received shots in return. Gary’s uniform was struck red. Then the German machine gunner finally noticed what was happening and the ra-tat-tat started. Little of Gary was left intact or unbloodied. The Germans would leave him there until sundown.

The front was silent again. Pa felt sick. His friends slid back into their trench.

“Welcome to western front,” said Campbell. “Do us a favour and try and last the week.”

Pa then listened very closely to everything the private McKenzie had to say. McKenzie said they had learned an important lesson today, and that actually it might save them. He also told them the obvious: Never to fuck with Campbell.

That night Pa went to sleep cursing the officer he would later claim “saved their lives by blowing his whistle.” If it was the first time I had heard it, I would assume they were two different men and that the storytellers had somehow muddled the officers together. Yet I can’t help but believe they must have been the same man. That’s why my grandpa and Dad always told these stories as one.

I often wonder if Officer Campbell was truly the saviour Pa (according to Dad) believed him to be. Maybe he knew that half a green platoon was expected to die in the first month, and sacrificed one arrogant whelp to save the rest of them. Or maybe Campbell was a proud beast, punishing insolence and furious that he had lost a trench line. Maybe he blew that whistle to save them. Maybe he blew it to save himself. It is something that has blurred with time, as oil decays upon a portrait.

It worries me. I am getting old myself now. Every year the stories seem to become more important to me. There is no way I can know whether my Pa talked of a real hero or a monster forged by war. So what, then, if my children or grandchildren bother to ask me one day about the officer who blew his whistle? What should I tell them?

Yet I must say something. Lest we forget.

I have often wondered how great a sin it would be if I changed the story myself. I know there is a moral behind Campbell’s story. And I know that for those who died, stories are all we have left of them. But surely there is something more beautiful to remember than barbed wire. Maybe the story is no longer about Campbell. Maybe it’s no longer about Pa. Maybe it’s our story now.

So, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to tell it differently:

“Come back here with five Jerry helmets and I’ll promote you to full corporal before the day’s done,” said Officer Campbell.

“I won’t blow the whistle for you. Try and sneak up on them,” the officer suggested. Gary looked at the enemy line. He looked again at Campbell, but with a cheeky grin on his face.

Campbell took no notice. “Go on,” he insisted. “We’ll watch you from here.”

Gary took one deep breath and then scaled the ladder. He then stealthily searched up and down until he found a weakness in the wire to crawl through. Campbell crossed his arms. Gary turned around to the rest of the platoon and pointed, so they too would know where the hole in the fence was. Then he was off into No Man’s Land.

All of Pa’s platoon jumped up to take a look. Mackenzie was about to shout advice but Pa told the old hand to be quiet. As the silence extended, even Campbell ascended the ladder to watch. Gary almost dropped his blanket just before the German wire. He tossed it ahead of him and leapt as high as he could. He got caught. His rifle tumbled out of reach. Pa saw him struggle. The whole platoon was leaning forward on their toes. One of the men started praying. Gary was free! He picked up his rifle and slid into the German trench.

Pa’s platoon watched as the silence dragged on and on. Campbell sunk back down. A few of the men were saying that Gary must have been caught in a bayonet fight.

Gary reappeared with something in his hands. He slowly and carefully threaded through the wire where his blanket was. Then he ran. Finally a few Germans saw what was happening. There was the crack of a rifle. Gary dropped something. He didn’t turn around. Campbell couldn’t believe his eyes.

There were more cracks and Gary was running as though hell was behind him. The rat-tat-tat of the machine gun started just as Gary was about to reach Pa’s trench.

Everyone pointed to the weakness in the friendly wire. Gary tossed the metal things he was carrying and dived into the trench. He landed on dozens of friendly hands. Pa and the others lowered him. Not a bullet had nicked him. Even as everyone cheered, Mackenzie picked up one of the metal things Gary had been carrying. It was a German helmet.

A smile crept across the old hand’s face. Pa used to say that seeing Mackenzie smile was like seeing flowers after a decade of winter. The cheering carried on and on. It only stopped when Gary, after being thrown from mate to mate, somehow ended up before Officer Campbell.

“Sir.” Gary saluted. “I’m sorry sir, I dropped one. But there’s four of your five helmets. Jerry had ‘em sitting in a pile for me. I can get the other at sundown, if you insist sir.”

Campbell just stared. He didn’t talk to Gary. One does not address omens or miracles directly.

“Private Mackenzie?”

“Yes sir.” The old hand stood at attention.

“In the Q store you’ll find some spare Corporal badges. See that this man receives one before dawn.” Campbell turned to go.

There were the beginnings of another cheer but Campbell turned and stared it down. “Know this. A certain man was only promoted today because he had the good sense to not pick up the one he dropped. I will try my best, but if you fall off the boat we will not swim to get you.” He turned, saying “Welcome to the Western Front.”

Pa didn’t remember much else of that night. He did recall a lot of cheering and a bottle of rum. Somehow they ended up in the town’s field hospital. Then they talked a few of the nurses into coming and seeing the trenches. For the nurses, it was dry that night and the platoon’s enthusiasm gave the trenches a mysterious air. For the men, the artillery had started again. Campbell wanted them nearby in case anything happened. Although Gary had survived, the men had still learned to never cross their superior. Later he would save many of their lives.

So it was that they had a little gathering in the secondary trench. Some old hands joined in. One man had borrowed a violin. Gary went around showing his new patch with two chevrons. He proposed to one of the nurses. Pa danced with a few but would never go any further with the details. That night was legendary to him. Although Gary wouldn’t make it through the winter, although over half of them wouldn’t make it through the war, that one night they danced like there wasn’t a thing wrong in the world.

This is my little story. It is not historically accurate, if Pa’s original telling had ever been accurate. But there is still the artillery in the background. There is still the warning against violence. There is still the mystery of Officer Campbell.

It is not a story for the dead. But it is a story for those who have heard about the shelling and who know about trench foot and who want to hear something more. It is a story for us. I hope you don’t mind. This is my way of making remembrances this Anzac Day: by making my grandfather dance with a French nurse, as with the rest of his smiling platoon; all to the melody of an old hand playing violin and to the rhythm of the distant guns.

Two planes out of Sydney

Wed, 13 Mar 2013 23:40:47 +0000

We met at the Commonwealth on the corner of George and Pitt. Felt like smoking. Been ten years but standing there, awkward as fuck, and I feel like smoking.

When she rocks up she’s on the phone. She just taps me on the shoulder and we go round the corner. Scoffed my jacket on sandstone. I felt like hugging her: Not good. But, yeah, maybe I put my arm round her when she finally got off the phone; said hey. She was looking older, all official with a long lovely coloured jacket and a flat brush of make-up –with eyeliner, short hair. She wasn’t smiling like before, or as gorgeous as last time we met, but still pretty.

I asked something about something. She talks about Hong Kong, the new job, her friends and family are stoked. I’m going back to Geelong soon, back home. I aint stoked. But act happy for her.

We get to the place and she already knows which floor it’s on. Up we go and before you know it we’re sitting in front of some guy. There’s other people in the room. This is a cheap -no big deal- public operation evidently. He’s surprised. We’re too young to be signing these papers it seems. Whatever mate. Don’t need this from you too.

He begins in a tone as official as his suit. He might as well have been speaking Italian. Me’ ex understood. I was, all of a sudden, completely out of it. Mostly when he was explaining -he must’ve realised I was lost- cause he was looking at her. He’d leave it to her to translate for me. I look ahead anyway, cause the worst thing is I looking at her and she looking at the bloke. That’s shit. So I look ahead and try not look at her, cept when she translates from gibberish to normal English. And I realise the whole thing was stupid. Sign, this, pay for this, show ID –but that’s not even why it was stupid.

It was a joke; sitting there, getting that stuff done. Tried not thinking about anything. Tried not to remember the fighting or the good not fighting. Did remember the ticket I had bought that morning. Jet Star: It’s alright I don’t mind standing. I suppose she’d have had a ticket for a while now, with a different destination written on it. Left that thought there. Focussed on the furniture. But then we’re outside and I ask her almost automatically if she wants to grab a coffee. I just didn’t want to end it like that. End in pens being passed around and signing and this bastard in his suit. He smiled when we left! What a dickhead.

Yeah I wasn’t gonna end it like that so we went round to a cafe. Actually I don’t like coffee. I grabbed some water and bought her a caramel laté or whatever, a farewell present. And sitting down we can look again in eachother's general direction, which is a nice improvement. She goes on about her friends reactions. She talks about the flight later that month. Hong Kong. I tell her what I know bout Hong Kong, hot in summer –cold in winter, kinda dirty. Nice tall buildings with this neon light mesh between. She didn’t know anything about Geelong. Don’t blame her. She suggests I visit her someday. Wish she hadn’t, cause I might just end up considering that someday.

I say she should visit Geelong, I bitch about it a lot but actually it’s alright. She humms.

“If I have time,” she says, looking down into the coffee.

I figured she’d be off soon, and then it becomes hard to talk. Like a had a lump in my throat.

“So this is that last time I see you before you go?” I managed to say.

“Mmm maybe. Maybe we can grab lunch next Tuesday.”

I nod. It was a stupid suggestion of hers. But I understood. I hate goodbyes too.

“Hope it work’s out, Hong Kong. I really do.”

“Yeah, you too. Hope the family’s well.”

She finishes the coffee and we exchange the warm cafe smell for the dusty exhaust pipe of the CBD. She’s off to one of those fancy places under centrepoint, I’m heading for the train. We separate at the corner near Town Hall. Kiss her goodbye, almost aiming for her lips by instinct. She notices, smiles at me and fake slaps me. Yeah. She says cya next Tuesday. I say good luck.

Then I walk down those dirty marble steps and into Town Hall station.

El Toro Blanco

Wed, 13 Mar 2013 00:02:12 +0000

I am a bull in the arena of Madrid.

As they stick needles into me

This magnificent structure, with the

Universe behind, exists only to watch me die.

They come again, I leave the stinger in.

I let the poison gather in my arms

And sit. Even if I knocked a picador

Another would take his place at my throat.

So I sit and let the wasps sting

Let the matador march up with

His cape, his sword and his applause.

I am a bull in the arena of Madrid.

Retreat (Hemingway imitation)

Tue, 12 Mar 2013 00:28:51 +0000

Travis dealt the cards out so that they had twenty cards each and three left in the kitty. Sue drank some of her water before picking up her hand. She was still exhausted from the walk here and from the pastor’s sermon. She had learnt that the rules were ten cards were left on the table in pairs, half of each pair face-down. The other ten cards became your hand. The cards were all well-used.

“Six hearts,” she started the betting.

Travis studies his prospects. He noticed the twos, threes and black fours sitting in the red cardboard case beside his tea with the elevens, twelves, thirteens and one joker. Brandy was preferable to tea but he didn’t like being the only one drinking. Sue followed his glance and continued looking around the room. An old fan battled the summer heat from the corner. The only other thing to look at was the battered double bed by the window. Sue didn’t want to look at it yet.

“Misere,” said Travis.

“Are you serious?” said Sue.

“Yep, we should finish the game. Let’s play this hand and let that be all,” he said.

They began to play. When he got excited Sue thought he must have had more than two hands. Travis fancied Casanova was also good at card games. He lost all the tricks until he found the other joker amongst his face-down cards. They both threw down the remains of their hands.

“You won by over three-hundred points,” he said.

“Woo,” she said.

They stood up. Sue put the glasses away while he shuffled the cards back into their box. Then he began to unbutton his shirt. She stood there looking nervous so Travis kissed her as he had many times before. After a while he began to take Sue’s skirt off as he had tried many times before.

“I didn’t want to do this until we were married,” she said.

“I know. It’s strange there was only a double-bed left,” said Travis

Sue studied the bits of clothing spread across the dirty floorboards. With her foot she slid his pants away from an exposed nail. Sue moved away and lay face-down upon the bed.

“I hate that smoke smell,” she whispered.

“Is it bad? I can’t even notice it,” he said. Travis moved and set himself next to her. He took one breath before he rolled onto her side to face her. She was beautiful. She was probably the most beautiful girl he would ever sleep with. He’d defiantly never spent so much effort on one girl.

“Look, you know we’ll get married. We’ve been a talking about it for a while. I’ll start looking for a ring when we get back,” he said. She turned over and smiled at him. Then Sue ran her hand through his shabby hair. Travis came closer. Their lips were just not touching, like two cards separated by another. In this way he made her kiss him.

He turned off the light and they didn’t talk for a while. The pastor’s son in the next room scoffed and turned his radio up. Afterwards Sue felt no need for a blanket. They were still too hot. The little fan would never cool the room down again. All it did was add its rattly tune to the orchestra of crickets outside. She fell asleep against his chest. He whispered that he loved her before nodding off himself.

Half way through the night Sue woke up to the sound of him putting his belt on.

“Where are you going?” She said. Sue sat up in bed.

“I desperately need a smoke,” said Travis.

“Oh.” Sue sank back onto the mattress. “Go on then.”

When he finally had gathered his things he looked back from the open doorway to see how she was.

“I’ll miss you,” Sue said. She could see the brilliance of his smile.

Outside he huddled under a lamp along with all matter of insects and parasites. The crickets were louder than the city traffic. Travis laid two papers in a stranger’s windowsill and sifted the tobacco in two neat files within them. After rolling them he put the paraphilia back in his pockets. There was something else in his left pocket. He withdrew the church bulletin and noted the highlighted gospel.

Mark 14:29 Peter declared: “Even if all fall away, I will not.”

But Travis knew how the story ended. He wanted to throw the paper to the floor but he folded it back into his pocket. He’d had been listening to sermons for three months and he still did not understand what any of it meant. He thought of Sue’s face, lying in their bed. Leaving one rolled cigarette on the windowsill he struck a match and lit the other. The smoke rose out of him, past the light and into the heavens. You could see the stars easily out there.

Travis stamped out the first cigarette and lit the second. After inhaling, he made an oval with his lips and puffed out in bursts, feeling a motion within his throat. The shapes that came out were flimsy clouds, a line, a tail but not a ring. He breathed in again. He tried to remember what his friend had taught him. At last he puffed what may have been considered circular and sacred. It was hard to tell in the light.

He was still smoking the last of the cigarette when he past the pastor’s son’s door. It must have been three in the morning but the man was saying Hail Mary after Hail Mary. Travis shook his head and crushed the cigarette in the doorway. The door to their own room creaked when he entered.

“I was afraid you’d never come back,” she said. Travis quickly removed everything he was wearing and lay down beside her.

“So was I,” he said.

He put his arm around her waist and held her close. Sue held his arm lightly. She stayed awake awhile just to feel his touch and listen to the crickets.

Advocate Chapter 1

Tue, 12 Mar 2013 00:09:32 +0000

Lightning from an unseen cloud.

The stars were truly beautiful out at the station, far from any town or city. The silence too, was remarkable. It wasn’t the absolute vacuum of sound that you found in the desert, but the natural music of branches dancing with the wind. Even the smell of the air was not of a farm or a city but of the way the land wanted to be, at peace. All of this only accentuated the desperate swearing of the Australian conscripts.

“We have to do something,” declared 2^nd Lieutenant Tom Jacka. A young man, 22, he didn’t stand out in the unpainted metallic armour of the drafted Australian rifleman. Less than two years ago he had been studying history in the University of Sydney. History was telling him to lay down and die.

Jacka intended to disobey.

“What can we do?” asked the computer officer at Jacka’s side. Corporal Blish didn’t take his eyes off the incoming aircraft crawling across his screen. He was in that short-lived state of a shocked man seeing an inevitable death not in fear, but with curiosity. “Command says we gotta take it, we gotta take it.”

“Command hasn’t contacted us for hours,” Tom asserted. “Besides, we’re the ones about to cop it.”

The comp officer didn’t reply. The missile base, only built two years back in 2033, had some fifteen glistening SAM launchers. The red signals all over the display were the American fighter jets approaching like a storm. If he didn’t do anything the enemy aircraft would jam them, swarm their counter-missiles with an oversized attack and destroy them. All the Australian SAM stations to the north had been destroyed in this way about two hour ago. Tom’s pacing back and forth did little to contain his panic.

“Shut them down,” he more suggested than ordered.

“What? Are you insane? If we do nothing then they’ll get even further inland.”

“We’re not going to nothing. We’re going to shut them down and see how they react. When they get closer we’ll bring them up again. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

“I’m contacting the colonel.” Blish reached out for the radio.

“No,” Jacka insisted, grabbing his subordinates arm. “They might intercept the message. They’re might even be a spy around. Besides, it’ll take half an hour to get onto her. This is our thing.”

“You can’t do this,” the comp officer protested. “We have orders.”

“And so do you corporal, now shut them down.” Jacka commanded.

Corporal Blish was more than ever regretting failing the strict officer’s course he’d attempted last year. Tired of listening to Lieutenants such as this young Jacka, he had decided to try and become one himself. However, Blish lost his chance at rank when he’d allowed himself and all those on his watch to drink on picket duty. Back then war and battle were for video games and it was madness to think the US would ever attack their old ally.

With nostalgia for those routine days and one last burst of defiant swearing, Blish began entering the commands for shutdown.

“Turn it all off. Even radar. Make it look like we lost power.” Tom was replied to with a stolid nod. The young Australian lieutenant brought the thirty men of the station together and told them of the change of plans.

* * *

Out at sea, within the bulk one of the great American aircraft carriers, a heavy table was bolted to the floor. Unlike the displays upstairs, which were more associated with the USS Sabre herself, the screen that completely covered the tabletop showed a digital map stretching from 300 kilometres inland to the sea. Dots and wedges crawled and jumped and danced upon the map, symbolising the friendly jets and paratrooper planes and even the panicking enemies along the shore. One threatening rectangle of these opposing Australian defenders disappeared unexpectedly.

“Admiral,” called the senior sensor’s officer.

Admiral O’Brien hair had turned grey long before he surpassed the age of retirement. No one in the fleet knew more about the ships, about their operation, about the men. His mind was as compartmented as the submarine’s barracks. Half considering the jets: How to get them in the air, hit the enemy hard and get them back home. The other half thought of everything measurable: Paratrooper rations, Fuel/arms ratios, missile ranges, proximities, armour thickness, loading times, cruising speed, afterburner speed, impact probability….

Gradually, while dictating a message to another officer, he meandered towards the table.

The admiral needed only one glance at the screen-table to see an opportunity. His adrenaline began to pump. His eyes darted all around the sensors, trying to find a reason to check himself and resume regular operations. Yet that patch of darkness still stared at him like a nervous virgin.

He hadn’t felt this way since his largest operation, on that damned day many years ago. He had, admittedly, seen an opportunity like this and overcautiously delayed the naval attack. Instead it was a South Korean officer who initiated the attack from another flank and received all the credit. O’Brien would not be called one who made the same mistake twice.

“What happened? There was a whole SAM station there. Was it CIA?” he inquired.

Wherever there was an admiral there was also an intelligence officer waiting in the nearby shadows. His job was to answer such questions and to know what the rest of crew didn’t need to know. “It just shut down, completely,” the shadow answered. “We haven’t heard any notification. It could just be a power failure. Maybe one of ours had an opportunity and hit it, but couldn’t notify us.”

“Can the Hornets intercept any radio round there?” The admiral queried.

“I’ll tell them to listen in,” a captain announced.

The admiral leered lustfully over the opening in the Australian defences. “This could be a chance gentleman. If that station stays down, we can send our fighters straight through that opening, drop the paratroopers behind the SAM line, and attack here,” he pointed to large red rectangle on the map, “Fort Maraboon, by the air. We knock out that fort, there goes a major bulkhead of their forces on this front. Then their aircraft will have to refuel elsewhere, which gives us time to re-arm for another attack, on the coast. We could have Brisbane in a few days.”

“Sounds too good to be true sir,” a commander warned. In that dark, claustrophobic place full of flashing diodes and sensor screens and uniforms wearing headphones it is easy to lose track of the fact that they are responsible for real men. It looks so clean from the command centre, like a video game. Reality is dirt and mud.

“Of course, I’m exaggerating,” O’Brien read the commanders mind. “Things will go wrong, forces will move from the north to south… But the Australians are gathered in only two major forts. We knock out Maraboon today that’s a major blow to their command, numbers, supplies, everything. It’s too good an opportunity to pass.”

O’Brien turned to the returning officer. “What have we got captain?”

“Sir, a recording, one of the Hornets picked up some enemy messages.” The captain indicated one of the terminals that surrounded them.

The crowd of commanders was growing too numerous, so the admiral indicated a select few high ranking officers to follow him and sent the rest back their posts. He thought they were like excited children in a crisis.

The terminal was a digital desk with several interactive displays. The top row had several maps which would react to what was on the other screens. The bottom display, nearest the officer, was full of various lists of data from the different fighters, including several audio files. The officer tapped a file and the other screens immediately began to show where it had been detected and where it had come from.

“This was just intercepted by India squadron,” the officer explained then turned the volume up so they could all hear the captured transmission:

“I say again, Lieutenant Jacka come in. SAM station golf zero-four, come in.” The recording was of a female voice, with an obvious Australian accent and the rank lieutenant pronounced ‘left-tenant.’

“They’re now using a simple infantry code;” The communications officer explained. “Otherwise we’d have no chance of decoding it. Before this there was a lot of other unknown radio chatter heading towards the station, in those traditional channels that we can’t decode. It all seems either desperate or deliberate sir.”

All eyes turned to the Admiral.

“That proves it then. The SAM site has been disabled,” the admiral declared. “This is it. Everyone has new orders. We will still need a beach, so forces heading for objective Delta shall proceed as planned. Forces heading for Alpha, Bravo and Charlie will change course towards the failed SAM site. First the Raptors to destroy it completely, then the other fighters to cut us a hole, then finally the paratroopers can land where able. Let’s make it happen gentlemen!”

* * *

In mid-air, an army of American infantry with heavy backpacks ceased their circling and at last moved out. Three quarters of them were startled to find they had new plans and the remainder disappeared off to the north to Delta. To the infantry there wasn’t much difference. All those thousands of men wanted was to touch the ground, to again embrace the surety and safety of soil. They did not care if it was foreign soil. They just wanted to get their boots wet.

These numbered men clung awkwardly to the sides of several Boeing Y200s, a craft designed not to be fast, not to carry arms, but to cram as many of them in its hull as possible. Rows and rows of infantry halls were wrapped around a central compartment that carried the significantly wider tanks and humvies. Each of these had several hatches for soldiers to fling themselves into the naked air, one after the other, over the drop-zone. For now they were a part of these Y200 elephants in the sky. The massive grey-painted engines upon grey-painted wings seem to beg gravity to spare them as each craft was dragged through the air.

Into this scene innumerable nameless radio waves shimmered their way down off the clouds to rebound off the titanium hulls. A very small portion would bounce back more and less exactly to where they came from, reflecting again off the clouds and at last coming to rest in the parabolic curves of an Australian sensors dish. You can tell how far away something is by counting the amount of time before that reply comes back. Computers are good at these calculations and have been taught to paint a picture from these few waves. To the trained eye:

Dozens of these Y200 now head for the coast, a quarter separating from the others towards point Delta, the northernmost of the drop-zones. With the Y200 flew an escort of F-35s, the aging standard jet of both the American and Australian air forces. Also in the air group were F-22 Raptors (still the most expensive, most stealth and fastest fighter mass-produced) and the Hornet 2’s, an essential craft whose role is to jam enemy sensors.

Suddenly a whole bunch of both Australian and American consoles beeped with excitement: It was now possible to draw a straight line in the air from the American jets to Jacka’s humble SAM station without passing through the ground.

“Station Bravo is in range. We’re beginning jamming,” a Hornet 2 pilot announced. Nothing visually changed in his craft, save a few lights in the cockpit, but the fighter’s systems ignited with action. A host of random false radar signals from several fighters soon bombarded Jacka’s radar dish. For all the merit, it became impossible for the Australian computers to separate which signals they actually bounced off the jets to find their position and which ones were just sent to confuse them.

The cost, however, was that the position of the Hornets, the source of these countless signals, could easily be traced by enemy missiles. The role of the Hornet was to blind the enemy so that the other fighters could swoop in and take free pickings.

The Admiral knew that is what had always happened.

“Raptor flights Charlie One and Charlie Two, approach and destroy that station,” O’Brien’s voice came curtly over the radio. Immediately eight Raptors ignited their afterburners and flew ahead. Their pilots were already checking their missile systems and programming in their targets.

* * *

On the firm soil Corporal Blish was frustrated that none of the other Australians shared his excitement.

“Look, there’s nothing coming out of the dish!” Tom’s belligerent computer officer opened up a complicated network map showing the amount of radio waves flowing through certain vectors. The lieutenant had no idea what any of it meant, but he conceded that point of the argument.

“Right, well how come we can still see their entire fleet? Their jamming’s so thick I can hear it.”

The map hadn’t changed. The American fighters were all there, as with the frigates, cruisers and carriers that made Jacka feel like his base was battling against a floating city. It was a miracle, as impossible as a dead man walking on water. Yet Jacka was cynical and looked to Blish for answers.

“I don’t know, but it’s beautiful.” The computer officer had a devilish grin on his face. “We should start targeting.”

“Maybe…” Jacka postulated. “We must be connected to the stations still. What we’re seeing’s gotta be data from the other stations, and that data would be jammed off unless it’s a cable. Maybe it’s coming to us by cable. They can’t jam a cable.”

Blish, clearly not paying attention, pointed to the screen. Eight dots had separated from the rest of the aircraft and were approaching at twice the speed of sound, and accelerating. “Raptors. They’re coming to check it out. They’ll be in range in fifteen seconds, but we want to wait till they’re a least pass the charge line, you know that point when they can’t turn and outrun the missile.

“We’re going to wait even longer, we want to hit the whole lot of em,” Tom Jacka insisted.

By his expression it was clear that Blish consented, but not without consternation. “We can’t wait for too long, we gotta get the-” He sat up in alarm. “Incoming missiles! I’ll activate-”

“No. leave the radar off, it’s jammed anyway. Our counter-missiles will work well enough on heat and the data we have.”

The computer officer’s hands stopped hammering the keys of his console. “But… it could help. And… They’ll still attack, cause they’ll think their jamming is working.”

Tom shook his head. “It won’t help us and it’ll make them cautious. Set the counter-missiles, 4 for each missile.”

“That’s all already done, otherwise I wouldn’t be talking,” Blish snapped. “Sir,” he added when he realised his mistake. “There’s eighteen missiles,” he muttered. Tom could hear his breathing accelerating. He shook the man friendily by the shoulder “It’ll be fine ok. Now target our missiles for when they get closer. And I told you not to call me sir, it wastes time.”

Then Tom walked to the others, who stood in a circle, sharing the vacuum of confidence within them. He told them curtly. “Missiles are incoming, our counter-missiles are set. We’re going to return fire soon, so stand by your SAMs, get ready to reload with standard.”

He walked away from the men, giving them no opportunity for verbal dissent. During his training he had heard a thousand variations of what was “good leadership”. In the end he had made his own mind: What gets the job done. Preferably, you get it done calmly and with everyone’s respect, but getting the job done is always priority. That was obvious now.

Tom sat on the soil and looked into the night. Now that he had nothing to do, the concoction of fear swelled his stomach too. So he stared right back at it, right into the darkness. He stopped himself from wondering about death. Took deep breaths. Noticed how silent everything was.

“Ten seconds!” The computer officer shouted.

So soon? And that could be it. Ten seconds, my life. Gone. No last cry, no last thoughts. These, my last thoughts… Jacka’s mind raced on, drifting between home and the present and becoming less and less logical and lucid, until he heard a distant clicking and popping.

The counter-missiles had launched. About half the length of a forearm, they had only a few seconds of fuel and existed entirely to fly into the path of enemy missiles. The small explosive at their tip was only as strong as a grenade, and the device navigated itself by a small heat sensor and, if possible, information sent to it from the station that fired it.

A lot further than it seemed, a cloud of fire appeared in the air and -an instant later- an echoing boom. That was the first.

Immediately after two more missiles exploded prematurely. Then a wide spray of burning fuel illuminated the ground.

The next explosions were even closer. The first explosions had knocked the light counter-missiles awry, so immediately new counter-missiles were launched with a clicking sound that was drowned out by the booms.

The last explosion sent burning fuel into the air only a hundred metres or so from Tom. The fuel was still burning as it landed on the grass in front of the base.

Tom Jacka swore. And that was it: all the missiles had been countered. But he would have testified that he felt the heat of the last explosion even through his armour.

* * *

“Sir, it appears Beta has its missile defences up. All missiles were intercepted,” the commander of the American raptor wing reported.

Admiral O’Brien looked towards the intelligence officer, who shrugged nervously. “Counter-missiles can work well on just heat. It wouldn’t be unusual for the station to have several infrared sensors for this reason.”

“But they must have some power.” The Admiral knew.

“Yes,” the officer conceded.

O’Brien glanced towards the screen-table, noting the changes in the arrangements of certain red icons. When he had condensed his air forces he had left the other enemy Australian stations at Alpha and Charlie unjammed. Now these stations where spewing forth a steady trail of long-range missiles.

“Nothing the Hornets or countermeasures can’t handle sir,” the intelligence officer assured, following his commander’s glance. “We can also fly low if we need to, once those missiles are out of line of sight of their stations they lose the guidance of their bases. The Earth’s curvature will suffice.”

“I know Colonel. But this is our last chance to pull out of what could be the crudest air ambush I’ve ever seen.” The admiral was silent for a while. He was beginning to be irritated by this officer. “Even if we pull back now those long range missile will still catch up to those Y200 slugs.”

Leaning over a comp officer, the admiral spoke directly to the Raptor wing. “Move in and take them out. Use anything, even your MGs if you have to.”

* * *

The Raptors were descending. The comp officer pointed out their altitude reading, which was next to the intimidating reading for velocity.

“They’re going to come real close to the ground,” Tom explained calmly. “Their plan is to fire missiles at the last minute so that our counter-missiles don’t have their five seconds to work.”

“We gotta launch now then!” Blish checked the targeting. They hadn’t assigned how many missiles would be launched. They had only programmed priorities so that these missiles would first seek out the two Raptor flights, before moving on towards the rest of the air group, taking out the Hornets, then the paratrooper planes, then the escorts.

“No. Wait,” Tom commanded.

“They’ll pass our position in 90 seconds!”

“Wait.”

There was no rebuttal, Tom’s tone was too stern and it was evident he was managing his fear much greater than the other soldier.

“Are the other fighter’s past the charge line?” Tom asked, referring to that point in time in which a plane can no longer turn around and outrun a standard missile.

“Umm, no, but they close. Thirty seconds.”

“What about the paratrooper planes?”

The comp officer replied with a shrug. “No, but considering how slow they are to change direction, we might get them with a long-ranger, an Albatross’d do. Please sir, we have to fire at those raptors.” The man had the most pitiful expression Tom had ever seen.

“How long now?” The lieutenant queried calmly.

“72 seconds.”

“Boot up everything.”

Enthused, the comp officer buried his fear in his duties. Almost immediately the lights on the SAM launchers came alight. Then the hydraulics on each lifted their heavy twelve missile arsenal till they pointed towards the sky.

The men standing by were awoken out of the reveries of idleness. A steel rack stood in front of each launcher. When the launcher had depleted its stock, it would point back to the ground and the men would slide new missiles off the rack into the launcher. While the launcher was firing they would then lift missiles from the piles all over the ground onto the rack for the next shot. All this effort ensured that the launcher was almost always firing.

“How long?”

“45 seconds.”

Tom realised there would be no signal, no precise moment when he would know it was time. The others fighters would be past the charge line now, that was all he had been waiting for.

“Everyone,” Tom shouted, “Prepare for firing, stand clear.”

He looked at the computer officer, who stared back with his finger over the digital trigger.

Jacka nodded.

There was an alarming roar as the first wave of missiles took to the air. It was followed by another, then another. Soon hundreds of missiles filled the sky with trails of white dust.

* * *

“Incoming missiles. Orders?” The Raptor flight leader tried to keep his voice calm.

O’Brien was learning over the table-screen in disbelief. “Use countermeasures. Continue closing in.”

“Spread out, formation Petal-Nine,” the flight leader commanded.

The fighters made the slightest change of direction and their speed instantly caused them to separate from their comrades. The new formation, easily three or four kilometres across, gave them much more room to manoeuvre, but meant they would need to use different tactics when they fired back at the station. Up there, the pilots were encased in the familiar serenity of being in midair, where everything was so silent. Silence deceivingly seemed safe.

Already the first white trails were upon them.

“Launching counter-measures,” the flight leader reported confidently. His craft, at the very vanguard of the formation, emitted burning hot distractions into the air. Ideally the missile would be unable to tell the difference between the countermeasure and the heat of the jet’s engine. Tonight, however, the missile ignored the countermeasures, slammed through the cockpit and exploded.

“Jesus!” A voice came over the radio. In the air the fighters tried all sorts of desperate dodges, all the while sprinkling more countermeasures through the air. It was normally exhilarating, being thrown to the side by some manoeuvrer.

“I’m-” A pilot began to say before a missile slammed into his craft too. Remains of both craft and pilot splattered and melted together.

“They-” Another pilot.

“Fff-”

“Countermeasures ineffective, use-”

“I-”

“Mayday, mayday, I’m in stall.” That pilot was about to be thrown into unconsciousness by the speed in which her craft was rotating. The missile had missed her but, as it was programmed to do, it had exploded at the instant when it was nearest. The push and violent disruption of the air knocked the rear of the woman’s raptor to the side. Supersonic speed and air resistance did the rest. The craft fell into an incredible spin and then a stall. Just before passing out, the pilot ejected. A few seconds later a spare missile would slam through the derelict craft before it had hit the ground.

“What just-” one more voice came through. “The missiles just ignored our countermeasures. I’m the only one left. Jesus, more missiles. I’m ejecting.”

“Flight…” Admiral O’Brien began to speak at last. But one glance at the sensor map and he knew it was useless. Those forward flights were destroyed. He should have sent more ahead, enough to take even an active station.

“All Hornets, F-35s, and Raptors, approach and destroy that station. Y200s, turn immediately and head back towards the fleet. Hotel squadron, fly escort. I say again Y200s turn now, get out of there!” Even the admiral found his brow drenched with sweat.

* * *

“Hornets, jam those missiles, hang back and spread.” Group Captain Page, a very senior pilot, took command of the remaining American aircraft from his cockpit. “Two flights for each side head off and jam the missiles from the other stations.” While the Admiral would discuss with other officers, make discissions, craft a plan and give the orders, Page’s job was simple: Make it happen.

Page had flown over every continent in the world. He had first served in Iraq and shortly after in Afghanistan. Yet age had not slowed his reflexes and his calloused hands held the controls with precision. It was pilots like Page that had kept humans in fighter jets. Computers did not have the grace or instinct needed to dogfight like a human with a passion for nothing else than flying. In Korea, Page’s flight had taken out nearly a third of the North Korean airforce. The Australians were next.

“Juliet Two and Juliet Three will take the north side,” a squadron commander volunteered. The squad of Hornets separated and configured their equipment to jam the other Australian sensors to the North.

“India One and Two will take the south.”

“F-35 and Raptors, fall in new formation,” The group captain ordered. In his cockpit he entered a series of commands and selected a simple eagle-like formation which would still be effective with such large numbers of fighters. A box then appeared on the display of every other Raptor and all the F-35s present: “FALL IN FORMATION. UNDER COMMAND OF GROUP CAPTAIN PAGE: ACCEPT / DECLINE” The pilots each tapped the former command hovering in front of them.

Once all the pilots had acquiesced they nervously let their controls move by their own accord. The fighters had simultaneously kicked into autopilot, quickly and accurately drifting on their own accord to their place in the new formation. It was as if their jets were possessed. After the fighters had glided into position, however, the autopilots did not dismiss themselves automatically. The formation would be maintained by the perfect mathematics of the autopilots until the order came to break apart. For a time those hundreds of aircraft would be under control of one man.

Group Captain Page checked his sensors. “How’s the jamming Jacob One?”

“We need to spread further before we can sure sir. The first set of enemy missiles are blind at least. We’re trying.”

“We haven’t got time to wait for you. Use afterburners, form semicircle.” Page’s experienced hands quickly drew the dimensions of the Hornets’ future formation onto the map. His craft then calculated and sent each Hornet its new position. Seconds later Hornets flew off to the sides, while others slowed down so they wouldn’t get ahead of their brethren.

Page checked his sensors: The first missiles were ten or twenty seconds away. Slowly, he pushed forward on the joystick. His Raptor began dropping, swooping down towards the ground. Behind it, the hundreds of Raptors and F-35s in the air group sunk in precise computer-guided formation. They were more perfect than any mortal flock in the eternal sky.

The pilots held their controls warily, and some were very tempted to press the “cancel” key that would return their wings to their control. They waited though as their fighters disturbingly threw them downward on their own accord.

Flying as one, the Raptors and F-35’s dropped kilometres in altitude. The first wave of missiles, apparently blinded by jamming, flew straight over them. Page relaxed his grip on the joystick. The fact that the missile had missed them was a sign that the jamming was working. Reactivating autopilot, the senior pilot watched calmly as a dozen more waves of missiles passed over them.

“Activating counter-measures,” a Hornet pilot announced.

Of course, they weren’t aiming for us in the first place! Page’s phlegmatic calm disappeared with his jet’s exhaust.

“I’m hit! Mayday, Mayday!” another pilot cried a moment later. In the air, the Hornets span and dived to evade the steady trickle. The missiles had traced the jamming back to its source. At first, when the hornets outnumbered the missiles, many missiles flew through without catching that glimpse of heat they needed. Once a missile got close, the Hornets furthest way or to the sides of the incoming threat would take over the jamming, in an attempt to lead the missile in a never-ending circle. Yet these missiles somehow recognised when jamming switched hands, and ignored it, relying on its previous data and heat to hunt down the Hornets.

“We’re getting slaughtered here. What the hell is going on? Use evasive manoeuvres, counter-measures useless,” a leading Hornet pilot recommended.

Page watched as the numbers of Hornets dropped, slowly at first, then falling flight by flight, and soon by entire squadrons. First he fired all their afterburners, propelling the whole formation with a jolt to even greater supersonic speeds. Then he selected the SAM sites in the targeting panel.

“Firing.” His voice remained cool and crisp over the radio.

A missile launched for each fighter in his control. Hundreds of white trails heading for the ground temporarily outnumbered those passing above them.

* * *

“Incoming missiles,” announced Corporal Blish.

“How many?” Tom demanded, still recalling the curt message from his commanders: We are firing long-range missiles to destroy the paratrooper planes, you need to destroy the fighters in front of you.

“Hundred and sixty-five.” The officer was honest.

“How many counter-missiles do we have?”

“Ahh… Two hundred and, and fifty.”

“Set it so there’s one and a bit counter-missiles for each incoming,” Jacka ordered. He turned and watched his men. In complete contrast with the idleness that they stood by their machines with earlier, now the crews worked without a hiatus as they loaded the missiles into the rack. Some had taken off their sweat-drenched armour within the three of four steps to the next armament. Truthfully, they were labouring for their lives.

“Incoming, ten seconds!” The comp officer shouted. On his display the red dots that symbolised enemy projectiles had come together to form one threatening blob.

The counter-missile launchers were already clicking. Tom held his breath.

A couple of flashes appeared in the distance. And then came the delayed booming. Suddenly the flashing grew and spread and filled the horizon. The ground was not only illuminated. The explosions challenged the night itself, the clouds and whole field revealed in a strange twilight. Dust bellowed out of the ground and dew-wet grass caught alight. It was like staring into the sun, or into a fiery, smoky hell. The worst thing for the soldiers, however, was that it was reaching for them, stretching to smother and swallow them.

The explosions came closer, but less frequent, just as the deafening roar overwhelmed the crews. They all fell to the ground or into a crouch or onto their knees with their hands over their ears and their mouths open, not because the sound was loud for a soldier, but because it had come so suddenly. Dust stabbed at their eyes, making them regret leaving their helmets off to help them see what they were lifting.

Another nexus of flames sprang into existence just as Jacka discovered what was happening. So many missiles were bunched up so tightly that their explosions overlapped, causing a chain reaction that spread over hundreds of the projectiles. Tom hoped this would save them as the final surge of destruction came, and waned in front of him.

A silence filled the fields, making many wonder whether they had indeed been hit and had reached some nocturnal paradise.

“Get back to work!” Jacka shouted. “We can’t let them fire at us again. Comp officer, we’ve hit enough Hornets…”

* * *

Page swore in his cockpit. If he fired too few missiles, they would be destroyed one by one by the stations defences. If he launched too many, they destroyed each other. He would have to discover a delicate balance. This required time and concentration, neither of which was available to him.

A new wave of missiles was heading straight at them, despite their swoop to lower altitude. Meanwhile the Hornets’ numbers were thinning, their pilots struggling to maintain discipline as more missiles exponentially penetrated their defences. Page had been forced to silence all but the highest ranked Hornets from radioing his group.

“Be advised, we’re going to rise to 60, 000 feet.” Page pulled up on his joystick. The other fighters followed obediently as he rose sharply into the heavens. Subconsciously, Page looked out to the sides for his wingmen. He couldn’t see them: After all he was at the head of the formation. The great flock of titanium-steel soared upward, so far untouched but still so delicate despite their armour plating.

The missiles should have continued along their path and missed them. But a single missile received data concerning Page’s new position from Jacka’s station. Immediately the missile relayed the new data to its brethren, and within seconds the whole swarm of projectiles had adjusted its bearing.

It took awhile for Page to realise that the red marks on his three-dimensional map had followed them higher into the sky. Here we go.

“I’m returning control to you. We have incoming. In two-zero seconds, the left wing is to fire a single standard missile, then the centre, then the right. I want you to fire individually, not in flights or squadrons, but one after the other so that there’s one long line of hell heading for that station. Returning control now.”

The second after Page had relinquished control of the group, a missile came out of clouds straight at him. A fighter pilot for thirty years, he veered right just in time. A second missile was waiting for him. His position at head of the wedge evidently made him the first target. Spinning, feeling his weight quadruple, he pulled upwards, just enough so that the missile gave up the chase and pursued one of Page’s wingmen instead.

But just as Page recovered himself, not one but four missiles swooped in. Taking one disheartening look at his sensor display, he span courageously downward. Two missiles hit each other, the shrapnel and blast knocking control of the craft away from Page and into the hands of fate. Page fell into a third projectile, quick and painless and airborne; a pilot’s death.

* * *

Admiral O’Brien watched as his line of fighters was snapped in half. Flight after flight, squadron after squadron, the green symbols faded into the black of the digital map. Some had fired their own armaments back, enough to destroy that damn station. But it had been too late for them to save themselves. They were more than outnumbered by the missiles pursuing them. The enemy should have run out of ammunition! O’Brien was ashamed to see some of his men ejecting prematurely.

A handful of Hornets raced back to the carrier on O’Brien’s orders. At half way they should meet the paratrooper planes that badly needed the escort. Long range Albatross missiles had been streaming out of the other Australian stations. They would intercept the Y200’s long before the gigantic planes could reach their mothership. The only hope for the battalions, thousands of infantry, aboard was if the Hornets could jam their way out. Already O’Brien had his doubts.

Even from the large scale perspective of sensor map, it was evident that the remaining hornets were losing the race. A sensors officer had entered a quick command into the screen-table’s control and a timer had appeared, counting away the moments before the first missile hit the first Y200 and the first few hundred men spilled out. O’Brien marched back to a communications terminal, believing the worst he could’ve done was nothing.

“All Y200’s,” the admiral commanded, “you are to drop your men immediately. I say again, all Y200’s are to drop all resident paratroopers immediately.”

Even in the command centre, O’Brien was met with several defiant stares. As Admiral he didn’t have to explain himself but he also couldn’t have any delay in those cockpits.

“You all heard me damn it! Those men have more chance in the ocean than on your planes. Now get everyone jumping. You yourselves can eject when every other soul is off-board. Just leave the autopilot on when you do.”

* * *

Meanwhile, the second wave of Page’s missiles advanced inexorably towards Jacka’s SAM site. The Australian counter-missiles clicked for the last time as they launched and the night was again alight with burning fuel. They didn’t last long, the American missiles finally balanced perfectly so that they benefited each other. Each knocked away the small defenders without being so bunched that they destroyed themselves.

The first SAM exploded and moments later the entire base was in flames. It was overkill then. Every single device was obliterated. Out of the craters dust was thrown into the air. The calm and unconcerned wind soon blew it all away, as though the station had never been there. The trees shook back into their rhythm and the night returned to its symphony....

The sailor to the blizzard

Sun, 10 Mar 2013 12:01:08 +0000

I have lost my footprints in the jewl-like snow
Only finding my way back to strangers homes

Inhabited by the moving, the writhing, bedsheet

Of worms. In day beleaguered by talking screens

The apathy bars, this drugged mind, flare-following

Ever turned off itself, dough used to bake something alien

Like a bird crying in childbirth.

In the end we all face ourselves and spit

I met a guy who polished the mirror, ha ha!

Like anything makes a difference, the devil’s fixed.

If you declare bankruptcy, shave you head

And chant upon a mountain or write odes to birds

Perhaps that will save you (a poor parachute)

From the tentacled pit of melancholy that edges

Into our lives over age, like a cancer black.

Unless unless unless unless…We smile –

No! Who dares smirk in quicksand?

Though I’ve never seen anyone happier

Than a lunatic with a yo-yo.

I’ve seen upon the plains of shmucks

Weird contentment, like medicated stock

Nay, you will not hypnotise me!

No, let me have my beer bitter

My spirits unchased and unforgiven.

Let this vessel sink, its boards buckle

And the captain dive down holding the anchor.

They will drag him up one day, seaweed in his hair

And below the fish-eaten eyes, witness a scaly smile.

That is my mirth. That is my paradise

A cold plate that would depress a Spartan

But real and unlosable. My bereft mountain

Of all the places I could claim empire

I placed mine on the most jagged peak

Unconquerable, undesirable. Shit but real.