Blue Streak

By Michael Toomey

Mark Wyles fell hard as a policeman, demoted, and sent to the isolated Hawker Station on the fringe of South Australia’s Flinders Ranges. However, a missing person creates a surprising opportunity to regain detective status when he and rookie policewoman Katherine Cooper follow a trail of disappearances from outback Hawker to Adelaide. The unlikely pair make a formidable team and unearth a plot involving a network of Communist sympathisers seeking intelligence about British missile tests at Woomera. However, to prevent the intelligence from escaping to the USSR, they must stop a ruthless killer.

“Blue Streak ticks all the boxes of suspense.” Krystyna Duszniak, Lost Histories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035845262

Michael Toomey

Mike has a long history of educating and storytelling. He taught English and history at various secondary colleges for thirty years and was a regular educational reviewer for Melbourne’s Herald Sun newspaper. Mike frequently presented to English teachers for the Victorian English Teachers Association. Adolescent literature is a special interest and Austin Macauley published his first adolescent novel Dig, in 2022. ‘Dig’ was commended for its subtle exploration of themes like war and masculine identity by Dr Mary Purcell, Melbourne University: ‘Young secondary readers would connect with Michael’s engaging characters.’ (VATE, 2022). Mike also has an interest in Cold War history, so it’s not surprising ‘Blue Streak’ is a Cold War thriller. He is currently preparing a sequel to ‘Blue Streak’.

Book preview

About the Author

Mike has a long history of educating and storytelling. He taught English and history at various secondary colleges for thirty years and was a regular educational reviewer for Melbourne’s Herald Sun newspaper. Mike frequently presented to English teachers for the Victorian English Teachers Association. Adolescent literature is a special interest and Austin Macauley published his first adolescent novel Dig, in 2022. ‘Dig’ was commended for its subtle exploration of themes like war and masculine identity by Dr Mary Purcell, Melbourne University: ’Young secondary readers would connect with Michael’s engaging characters.’ (VATE, 2022). Mike also has an interest in Cold War history, so it’s not surprising ‘Blue Streak’ is a Cold War thriller. He is currently preparing a sequel to ‘Blue Streak’.

Dedication

For my great supporters: Ewa, Caitlyn and Stephanie and my insightful editorial team: Denise, Ian, Ivan and Tricia.

Copyright Information ©

Michael Toomey 2024

The right of Michael Toomey to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035845255 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035845262 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I thank Chris, Ian, Ivan and Tricia for their insightful suggestions.

Foreword

The nuclear arms race is like two sworn enemies standing waist-deep in gasoline, one with three matches, the other with five.

Carl Sagan

From the 1950s to the 1960s, there was an arms race between the United States, its allies, and the USSR. The development of hydrogen bombs in the late 1950s and the capacity to launch land-based intercontinental ballistic missiles made the threat of all-out nuclear war more real. Despite the extreme devastation threatened, fittingly described as ‘Mutually Assured Destruction’, USSR and United States military hawks planned to execute ‘First Strike’ attacks to knock out enemy missile defence systems. The tension between both powers was so intense that the world feared nuclear war, and schoolchildren practised what to do in the event of a nuclear attack. Throughout the Cold War, spies and spy planes attempted to steal an advantage from the enemy or uncover missile deployment.

Unknown to most Australians, Australia was heavily involved in the arms race. Prime Minister Menzies offered Australian soil for testing British weapons, and during the late1950s and early 1960s, they tested hydrogen bombs at Maralinga in South Australia and missile technology at nearby Woomera. The British had high hopes for the ‘Blue Streak’ intercontinental missile, which was pivotal to British Cold War defence. Its progress was top secret and still classified under the Official Secrets Act.

Chapter 1

Wrong Turn

Hawker, Flinders Ranges

March 1961

After the hum of shearing season, the red roads were free of opportunistic brown falcons looking for roadkill, wandering emus were safe from sleepy drivers and Hawker’s Public bar returned to the regulars. On the lower ranges, it was as quiet as a cemetery. Constable Mark Shorty Wyles, faced with fewer cases of wanton law-breaking, slipped into ironic resentment. Three months in a lonely station was enough to consider his wrong turns.

A call from Whyalla on the two-way ordered him to cruise up and down the lonely Stuart Highway to check truckies for contraband. It seemed a token effort by South Australian Police (SAP) following embarrassing media reports about indigenous drunken violence up north. SAP expected a lot from one lonely cop to stem the flood of booze to Aboriginal Reserves. Still, long dusty drives kept his mind away from the bottle of Teachers sitting on the kitchen table; an idle cop quickly became a drunk and he had a bucket full of excuses.

He was using a straight blade to shave the three-day beard when the voice of Constable Peacock called from Command in Whyalla, ‘5434, come in.’

He put down the ivory shaving brush, wiped the cream around his lips on his shirt sleeve, and walked to his office in the next room.

‘5434 reading.’

‘MP John Leishman.’

‘Last seen? Over.’

‘Opal prospecting, Mount Brown. Over.’

‘Description. Over.’

‘5.9 stocky and ruddy complexion.’

‘Missing, how long? Over.’

‘Two weeks. Report to Sergeant Hingston.’

‘Roger, Whyalla.’

At 7.45 am, Wyles gunned his Land Rover and covered the small cream cottage in a cloud of red dust. He had at least a three-hour trip on unmade red roads before he reached Mount Brown, hoping to arrive at the mountain before a tormenting sun began burning his freckled skin. He prepared by wearing long sleeves and bringing his broad Akubra hat, small Zeiss binoculars, and Winchester shotgun.

Driving southwest, the tail end of the Flinders Ranges appeared on the horizon like old blue teeth above the ochre-coloured plains. He speculated on what had become of Leishman.

There were so many ways for a prospector to disappear. Opal mining was one of the most hazardous occupations on the planet. Leishman could have fallen, suffered a fever, been buried by a cave-in, died of oxygen starvation, or even been unlucky enough to get a fatal bite from a tiger snake hiding in the cracked clay. That’s not to mention the constant risk of heat exhaustion. He could still be alive and injured and suffering from acute exposure. Hell, the isolation alone would test anybody’s resilience.

Maybe Leishman had chosen to be invisible. Wyles knew of miners trying to escape something in their past lives. He catalogued possible excuses into three groups: unwanted memories, unwanted pregnancies, and unpaid debts.

There was no use making a mess of himself speeding on a corrugated track; without any backup, he’d avoid unnecessary risks. Ideally, he’d swiftly pick up Leishman’s trail when he got to Mount Brown; otherwise, his delicate skin would be fried in the midday sun.

The mountain was so remote, with not a single vehicle on the road. The scrubby landscape offered little to the tourist till he got closer to the rugged blue ranges where Mount Brown was a significant peak. He grew tired of the wash of red dust and the splatter of insects on his windscreen. So Wyles tried to help the red miles pass by singing and tapping the steering wheel to the beat of Eddie Hodge’s hit.

I am going to knock on your door, ring on your window, call out your name, tap on your window too.

He was mainly a fan of light rock, especially Johnny O’Keefe, but the old song had a great beat. Over and over, he repeated the lyrics he could remember. It worked like a mantra to smooth out his anger with his superiors, who sent him outback as a reward for good city policing.

Two hours later, the green forested rise of Mount Brown appeared. He slid into the gravel next to a clump of bush boys. Local wags claimed they looked like Aboriginal boys because of their fuzzy tops. It was typical bush bullshit because he’d never seen an Aborigine with fuzzy hair in Adelaide lockups.

Crunching over broken red clay, he wondered what had happened to the Aboriginals who lived here. The locals called them the rock people. Looking up at the rugged quartzite ridges, he imagined rock art hidden behind the woodland and scrub. Up there looked like a good setting for corroborees and bush dances. But any man would be tested in this harsh terrain.

He’d find something interesting with time to roam around. It was quiet too, apart from some screeching galahs. He guessed there were some rock wallabies hiding somewhere. Probably, plenty of wildlife is hiding from the sun. He imagined Aboriginal blood was shed over contested hunting grounds many years ago, and the settlers came with guns. Apart from the crunch of his boots on gravel, there was no sign of human activity except sleeping ghosts.

Wyles took his binoculars, Winchester, water bottle and hat from the back seat and headed up the trail. He guessed Leishman would be found near his mine and was looking for tell-tale mounds of chalky excavated earth.

Halfway up the summit, he took a break and a sip from his bottle. He used his binoculars to scan the woodland for signs of Leishman’s digging. It was thick with forest cover.

‘Leishman,’ he called through cupped hands. ‘Leishman.’

At the summit, he looked down into a heavily forested canyon.

Nothing.

The sun was at ten o’clock. It would be right above him in a few hours. He decided to follow the ridge around and rewind up clockwise to view the other side of the mountain. He trudged on over the broken bark and through the spear grass which constantly grabbed hold of his legs. Walking down a slope, he stumbled over loose bark and pushed out to use a granite boulder to break his fall. His arm stung from the jar of his sudden stop. He looked down over the slope. A steep field of boulders waited menacingly below. It was a warning to take his time and measure his steps.

An hour later, he saw a break in the trees to his left about fifty yards down. He held up his Zeiss binoculars and brought the view into focus, and the dusty green looked impenetrable. But to the right, the trees appeared thinned. He adjusted his stance and made out a smeared, brown line of a track. Someone was determined to make their mark out here, and it took guts, which Wyles thought was the better part of madness. Much better out here than frustrated anger directed against a partner or yourself.

He ensured his balance and followed the rough trail down the canyon to a dry creek bed where piles of earth announced, Leishman’s mine.

‘Leishman,’ he called again. Wyles scrambled further down, and cicadas filled the air with their cacophony. ‘Leishman.’

There was a small clearing, and a white and orange mullock heap signposted the shaft. Wyles approached cautiously, aware of the risk of a cave-in, and he prodded the stony ground with his boots until he was at the lip of the shaft. There was a rope ladder and a bucket attached to a windlass. He looked down the shaft, trying to read the sides. It took a few minutes before his eyes could make sense of the darkness.

‘Leishman,’ he called down.

‘Eish-man,’ the shaft called back.

He looked down at his shotgun. It would be awkward going down. But he’d be forever damned for leaving it behind if something went wrong. The police adage, Never leave your weapon unsecured, rang in his head. Well, it might come in handy to butt a snake.

He attached the Winchester strap over his right shoulder and began a dusty climb down Leishman’s ladder. It was two yards across at the top, but after ten steps down, it narrowed to less than a yard, so he had to squeeze his way down. Carefully, he eased the barrel away from the rough wall, and several steps further, he slid onto a narrow white clay chamber.

It was circling dust, but there was just enough light from above to make out a small grey vein of potch in the clay wall. He pushed across and looked closely. Some of it was multihued with purple, white, green, and pink fire. Opal! Wyles thought nobody would willingly abandon this mine. But no sign of Leishman. He climbed back into the blue heat with a pair of blowflies circling.

He brushed off the clay from his moleskins and walked around the perimeter of Leishman’s stake. He stepped out of the clearing and back into the trees. There, amidst a chorus of cicadas, was the telling stench of death. Wyles held back the desire to vomit when he got closer and covered his mouth with his Akubra. A few yards away was a fallen peppermint tree and a body facing down in the dirt. Flies and ants were still active around his legs. Some animal had attacked the fingers on his left hand.

Wyles examined the clothes. It was a quick search of work overalls with deep pockets to secure small tools. He reached into the right pocket and found a car key and a wallet containing 50 pounds. Well, that eliminated theft. The wallet had a licence for John Leishman. A Maritime Workers Union membership card was also valid until December 1961. So, he was a wharfie, which might be important.

Unionists had won some cushy conditions, which they were determined to protect. However, stevedores wanted cargo containers. Such a change to port culture would require fewer wharfies to load and unload and threaten traditional livelihoods. People killed for much less. Leishman’s death might also be related to smuggling. But he was way ahead of himself. He’d seen no evidence to show Leishman died unnaturally.

When he found Leishman’s camp, Wyles expected to make more sense and guessed it would be near water. He swept his glasses over the canyon and located a dry creek bed. He followed the bed downhill and soon found the camp sheltered by a black oak. There was a pair of tents, one for sleeping and the other a stretched tarpaulin giving shade and cover for supplies.

The camp supplies included a pack of Rosella baked beans and three ten-quart water bottles. He also found a car radiator with hoses connecting to a burnt kerosene can resting on a tree stump. Wyles sniffed at the kerosene and the radiator, and a scent of burnt corn and alcohol inflamed his nostrils. He gave his raw nose a pinch.

It seemed like Leishman had found another way to die by drinking homemade whiskey; he’d heard they were fond of making ‘moonshine’ out of old car parts in the Appalachians. Wyles suspected lead in the radiator had taken its toll on Leishman’s liver, kidneys and brain. Leishman’s union membership posed more questions. Wyles had to find Leishman’s car.

A small trail ran alongside the creek downhill from the camp, where it met the soft red road. Sure enough, Wyles spied a 1960 green Hudson wagon covered in red dust and leaf debris. He tried the key, and even though the likelihood of finding fingerprints was remote, he was careful to minimise his fingers straying. The Hudson opened, and he slid across the bench seat to the passenger-side glovebox. Inside was a crumpled note for baked beans, toilet paper, toothpaste, and aspirin. Behind the note, he found a fan belt resting on a map. Wyles pulled the map out and unfolded it. Leishman had circled Brown Mountain, and there was a tiny pencil mark around the Barossa village of Bethany. So, was Leishman a wine lover?

He popped the passenger door, slid out, and walked back up the road to the Landy. ‘Car 5434 calling Port Augusta. Over.’

‘Port Augusta receiving.’

‘Sergeant Hingston, re: ’MP’. ‘Brown. Over.’

‘Alive?’

‘Body! Instructions. Over.’

‘Affirmative 5434. Wait for X.’

‘Roger, Port Augusta. Over.’

‘5438, take in the scenery. Over.’

‘It’s hot as Hades. Over.’

Scenery? Wyles thought it was a typical smart-arsed remark expressed no doubt from the comfort of a tall revolving fan. It would be a long wait in the hottest part of the day.

He sat on the ground on the shaded side of the Landy and took a longer swig from his water bottle. Wyles considered his options; he’d already explored the camp and nothing was gained by returning except to be fly bait. He might take in more of what the mountain had to offer.

A wedge-tailed eagle circled high above the trees, and he opted to follow a twisted ochre-coloured syncline where the rockface was exposed. It was getting hotter. Wyles took a moment to sip his water bottle, pushed through spiky grass for about fifty yards, and followed the mountain’s perimeter clockwise.

He found he had to skirt over enormous redgum tree roots. They were proud trees that survived centuries of drought and flood and climbed up into the blue, some twenty to thirty yards above. One seemed to be a sentinel hiding at the entrance to what looked like a dry waterfall. Like the rock people, the trees were survivors in a harsh environment.

He ran his hand over the rough red bark and wondered again about the original people. Those who survived white settlement were rounded up and controlled on reserves. The newsreel at the cinema showed neatly dressed, smiling Aboriginal children looked after by devout white people, teaching them how to fit into a civilised white world. As a city cop, he’d met plenty of blacks spending time in cells after a binge on cheap plonk. But he’d also wrestled with abusive whites after pub closing time.

He took another swig from his bottle and looked back over the plains surrounding Brown Mountain. It was sheep country, but the grassland was thin and patchy, making it marginal land. There were some wheat farmers around Hawker, but rainfall was very unreliable. Anyone working the land out here had to be tough, and maybe that meant being short on manners. The few cockies he’d met at Hawker seemed slow and laconic in speech with everyone, or was it just with the new cop?

The medical examiner arrived after he had completed a three-hour circuit. Doctor Higgins was thin, bald and about sixty. It looked to Wyles like Higgins had been caught out by the call because his beard was unshaven. After parking the South Australian police wagon, Higgins gave Wyles a cursory nod and swiftly pulled out leather gloves. He looked up the hill with distaste and trudged after Wyles. After a hundred yards, Wyles heard him breathing heavily behind, shortened his pace and waited.

‘How much further?’

‘Another ten to fifteen minutes. It gets easier after this rise.’

‘Yeah, I’ll believe it when it’s over. Thanks.’

Higgins wiped his brow and waved to press on. Their backs were wet with sweat as they crunched along the creek bed to the camp.

Higgins gratefully sat under the shade of a heavily knotted box-gum. Above his head, a dribble of sap hung like a rosary bead against older, black sap. Wyles sat down next to him and tapped out a Craven A. Higgins watched and considered Wyles exhaling blue smoke.

‘I like your hat, but judging from your freckled skin, you’re new out here.’

‘Yeah. I got my first preference. Hawker.’

‘Enjoying a quiet rural setting?’

‘Rural is okay. The heat’s another matter.’

‘You were with CIB in Adelaide?’

‘Yeah.’ Wyles pulled on the side of his Akubra and wondered what Higgins heard. ‘I was.’

‘Mind if I ask what happened?’

‘I lacked people skills.’

‘Managing crims?’

‘Crims knew what side you were on.’

‘But you were a detective, and now?’

‘Hot and smelly like yourself.’

Higgins recognised a fellow private man. He pushed himself up from the rough tree. Once upright, he looked around and brushed off tiny