As it was after dinner, Sam Kelly had no objection to some of his ‘Raiders’ playing an impromptu game of cricket outside the fence. He even showed up to spectate in his running shorts and a pair of rubber thongs, in true Australian style.
“Good grief, what a moon tan,” he remarked, looking at his legs under the last rays of sunlight.
“Mine are no better,” shrugged Casey. “Too long behind a desk. Only sheer force of will and a hellish exercise regimen have kept me from growing a big ol’ paunch.”
“Reminds me, I have to really ramp up my own training if I want to wear the Tridents again.”
He had been missing the familiar weight of the badge on the front of his shirt, a pair of crossed tridents behind an old-fashioned diver’s helmet; the badge of the Naval Special Warfare Commando. Recon Marines had the maroon paratrooper beret, Marine Special Operations Group had the sherwood green beret of a commando unit, SAS had the sandy beige beret, and Naval Commandos wore the Tridents.
A helo was approaching from the rough direction of New Melbourne. As it got closer, more and more people stopped what they were doing and looked up at the darkening sky. It was hard to miss the little helo, with its running lights flashing and popping away.
“We expecting anyone?” asked Casey.
“Now that you mention it, yes.”
The LUH-12 light utility helicopter, nicknamed the “Lewie” by troops, is a five-seater model adopted from a widely popular civilian design, favoured for a punchy little engine and easily removable doors. Many variants had been produced, ranging from scout helicopters to artillery observers to VIP transports. The 12M variant—as this particular helo was—is usually seen without doors and with three folding jump seats at the back, plus several bolt-rings and mounting points for safety harnesses and machine guns. The ‘Lewie M’ is often used by sniper teams to provide a roving platform to fire from. The little Lewie kicked up a cloud of dust as it settled outside the front gate. There was a woman in the back seat, who jumped out and threw a nod of thanks to the pilots. She appeared to be wearing a white shirt with black neck tie and trousers, carrying a jacket over her arm. The helo left the ground as though made of feathers, and winged away again into the gathering dusk. The ginger-haired woman lowered the arm that had been shielding her face from the flying dust, and spotted Sam and Casey.
“Oh, bugger, I forgot about her,” muttered Casey.
She stormed angrily toward them, drawing looks from the cricketeers. Without so much as a by-your-leave, Scarlett O’Maera walked straight up to Sam and punched him hard in the stomach. Casey got away with a box around the ears. Sam managed to gasp “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Ye bastard! I’m away rotting in a cell, and you’re out here in shorts playing cricket!”
“I’m not playing, the lads are. You were out of my hands, you know that. The moment I handed you off to the Bureau, it was entirely their problem.”
“Their problem? I’m a ‘problem’ now?”
“For CCIB, yes, you are. Defectors are always a touchy subject, because it’s an equal bet that they’re really badly disguised sleeper agents, so the problem—yes, problem—for them is finding out whether you’re legit or not.”
She hissed a few sharp-sounding Gaelic phrases and started swinging punches at him again. The punches soon turned to sobs, and she collapsed against him, shaking like a leaf and clutching the front of his shirt. Kelly, arms still shielding his head, looked over at Casey, who shrugged.
“Don’t look at me, Sam, this one is all yours.”
Sam patted her gingerly on the back. “I’m sorry it took so long.”
“I was so, so scared, Kelly. POW camps are no’ exactly the most hospitable of lodgings. Ugh, I were scared I’d be dropped into some black hole and forgetten about, y’know?”
“I’m sorry, Scarlett. We didn’t forget you.”
Casey made some rapid gestures behind her back, as though to say ‘don’t involve me in this’. O’Maera sniffed and cleared her throat, backing away from Sam.
She wiped her eyes with a knuckle. “It’s good to see a familiar face, is all. Sorry about the waterworks, eh?”
“Not a problem. C’mon, let’s find you a billet and some clothes.”
As they walked in through the fence, he noticed that her youthful face had become drawn and tired in the three months she’d been a ‘guest’ of the Intelligence Bureau.
The Q-store was still open, but not for long. Staff Sergeant Bourke had to wedge himself under the roller door as it came down, and he forced it back up again with a grunt. “Sorry about that, sir, didn’t see you coming.”
“Thanks, Bourke. Is Captain Potter in her office?”
“I’ll just fetch her.”
A minute later, Crash poked her head around a stack of ammo crates. “Sam? Oh!”
She ran around the stacks, out the door, and crash-tackled O’Maera with a hug.
“I was starting to think they’d forgotten about you!”
“Aye, and so was I.”
“You think she’ll fit some of your old clothes?” asked Sam.
Crash cocked her head to one side. “We’re about the same size, yeah.”
“I’ll get Mum to send some up. Maybe put Miss O’Maera in some of that junk you used to wear in high school.”
“It wasn’t ‘junk’, Sam, some of that stuff was expensive. I had a… phase,” she explained to O’Maera.
“Phase?”
“Wore a lot of black, lots of petticoats and lace, some kind of Gothic Lolita thing. I dunno, got bored of having to spend an hour getting ready in the morning. Mostly wore cargo pants and men’s shirts after that.”
“Not going to lie, you’re adorable like that,” chuckled Sam. “Reckon we can borrow some of your civvies for now?”
“Of course, just pull them out of my seabags. ‘Scuse me, I have to close up shop for the night.”
Life on the Fringes 