Juggernaut

I too stood up, and as I did so Mick McGrath came over. We knew instantly that something was wrong; he looked like thunder.

'Mister Wingstead, there's trouble,' he said. 'You're about to receive a deputation.'

Five other men were approaching with the dogged stomping walk you see on TV newscasts featuring strikers in action. They appeared to be having an argument with a couple of soldiers in their way, and then came on to face us. I wasn't surprised to see that the ringleader was Bob Sisley, nor that another was Johnny Burke, the man who'd been heard to speak of danger money some time past. The others were Barry Lang, Bob Pitman, and the fifth, who did surprise me, was Ron Jones. They walked into a total silence as we followed Wingstead's lead. I'd handled industrial disputes in my time but here I was an outsider, unless the Wyvern management invoked my aid directly.

Sisley, naturally, was the spokesman. He said, ignoring Wingstead for an easier target, 'Mister Kemp, these Yanks say that the bridge up north has gone, right?'

'That's right.'

I wondered how Burns liked being called a Yank, though he was free enough with derogatory nicknames himself.

'Seems we can't take the rig on, then. You planned for us to go down to Lake Pirie, before we ran into all this crap with the sickies. What's to stop us going there now? You said we could get across the border into a neutral country.'

I felt a wash of disgust at the man, and I saw my thoughts echoed on other faces. The odd thing was that one of those faces belonged to Ron Jones. Kemp still said nothing and Sisley pressed on.

'You've broken your own contract so you can't hold us to ours. We say it's getting dangerous here and we didn't sign on to get involved in any nignog's bloody political duff-ups. We're getting out of here.'

'With the rig?' Kemp asked coldly.

To hell with the rig. We're in a jam. A war's something we didn't bargain for. All we want is out. It's your duty to see us safe, yours and the boss's here.' He indicated Wingstead with an inelegant jerk of his thumb. He may have been a good transport man, Wyvern wouldn't hire less, but he was a nasty piece of work nonetheless.

Wingstead took over smoothly.

'We're taking the rig and all transport back to Kodowa,' he said. 'Including the hospital patients. Once there, we'll reassess the situation and probably, all being well, we'll start back on the road to Port Luard. If we think that unsafe we'll take the secondary road to Fort Pirie. We are all under a strain here, and cut off from vital information, but we'll do the best we can.'

But calm, reasoned argument never did work in these affairs. Sisley made a face grotesque with contempt. 'A strain! Oh, we're under a strain all right. Playing nursemaid to a bunch of blacks who can't take care of themselves and baby-sitting a rig that's junk worthless while the food runs out and the country goes to hell in a handcart. Christ, we haven't even been paid for two weeks. You can fart-arse up and down this bloody road as much as you like, but you'll do it without us.'

'What exactly is it you want?' Wingstead asked.

'We want to get the hell back to Fort Pirie as we planned. With or without the rig – it makes no difference.'

'You didn't plan anything, my friend.' I knew I should stay out of this but I was livid. 'Your boss has run a hell of a risk coming up here to join you, and he's the man who does the planning around here.'

'You keep out of this, Mister Bloody Mannix.'

Wingstead said, 'Bob, this is crazy talk. How far can any of us get without the whole group for support?'

'The group! Christ, old men and babies and walking dead, mealy-mouthed nuns and God knows who else we're dragging around at our heels! Now we hear you're bringing a bunch of damned foreigners into it too. Well, we won't stand for it.'

None of the others said a word. They stood behind him in a tight wall of silent resentment, as Sisley gave full rein to his foul mouth and fouler thoughts. At his reference to the nuns McGrath's breathing deepened steadily. I suspected that an outbreak was imminent and tried to forestall it.

'You can argue shop floor principles all you want with your boss, Sisley,' I said. 'But leave out the personalities, and don't foul-mouth these people like that.'

He rounded on me. 'I told you to shut up, you bigmouth Yank. Keep the hell out of this!' He cocked his arm back like a cobra about to strike. I took a step forward but McGrath grabbed my arm in a steel grip. 'Now, hold it, Mister Mannix,' he said in a cool, soft voice, and then to Sisley, 'Any more lip from you, my lad, and you'll be shitting teeth.' I think it was the matter-of-fact way he said it that made Sisley step back and drop his arm.

For a moment the whole tableau froze; the two groups facing each other, the Lat-Am men and several other Wyvern people crowding up to listen, Atheridge behind them, and myself, McGrath and Sisley in belligerent attitudes front and centre. Then from nowhere Ben Hammond's voice broke in.