VI. There Are No Teeth In Our Heads
VI. There Are No Teeth In Our Heads
“Want to stop the crying, want to stop the crying
She’s laying there dying
How can I live when you see what I’ve done?
How can I live when you see what I’ve done?”
… --- …
The assembled members of Cabinet had touched down a park at the north end of Featherston, their Air Force minders attempting to get their radio rig working once more after the blast had interfered with it. In the small town the scene was a world away from the ominous fatalism of Wellington and the Hutt, with the only signs of any disturbance being the cars which sat parked in driveways despite the fact it was quarter to eleven on a Wednesday morning. On this side of the Rimutakas the summer heat was more obvious, the dry nor’east breeze causing MacIntyre’s combover to waver like the comb of an elderly rooster.
For the last twenty minutes the Prime Minister had been sitting on a field roller, abandoned in the middle of pressing a strip of turf for cricket, staring silently towards Wellington, or rather, where Wellington had been. The mushroom cloud had reached its full height some time ago, and the high-altitude winds were slowly tugging at it and sweeping it towards the southwest. MacIntyre and the other two Cabinet members, all equally out of place in their rumpled suits in the middle of a quintessentially Kiwi small-town sports field, were concerned at this similarly jarring change in the Prime Minister. Even throughout the chaos of last night he had been as verbosely bellicose as ever, issuing directives even as news of the losses of London and Paris and the rest of the Old World’s greatest cities were relayed to them, struggling underneath Parliament with a weight on their shoulders the like of which nobody in this country had ever had to bear. Right now, in the middle of the eerily quiet countryside with the smell of fresh hay wafting from a nearby paddock and the song of a tui faintly audible below the muttered cursing of the Air Force men, the difference was unsettling in more than one regard.
“D’you think we should say something?” This from McLay, who stood awkwardly and sweated as he spoke.
“Daresay we shouldn’t,” replied Gair stiffly. “He’s the Prime Minister, and he shall let us know when he has decided upon the best course of action is.” Yes, that was Gair, stiff upper-lip, Armageddon or no.
It came down to MacIntyre then, thought the Deputy Prime Minister. Looking at the other two he repressed a desire to sigh (he hadn’t sighed in North Africa; damned if he’d do it in front of a pair of worried old men), surreptitiously fiddling with the pipe in his jacket pocket while he ruminated on the matter, before saying in a moderated tone “We’ll get to Ohakea first, let him rest. He doesn’t need to be pushed any further, not in the middle of the Wairarapa where there’s nothing to be done about it.”
McLay and Gair murmured uncomfortable agreement while Muldoon continued to stare to the southwest, a study in contemplation. As a truck rumbled up the road from town and three of the most powerful men in the country peered towards it, desperate for a distraction from their thoughts, the cloud over Wellington drifted to the south.
I wonder, thought Muldoon, what it’s like in Nelson today?
… --- …
From Disaster, Deprivation, and Deliverance: A History of New Zealand in the 1980s (Palmerston North: Massey University Press, 2009).
…In the immediate aftermath of the Exchange, New Zealand was in a state of barely-coherent panic. As fires raged in the North Island’s two greatest cities with the fire services either unable to access them through ruined roads (particularly in Wellington, where the few appliances unaffected were unable to get to the central city through collapsed tunnels) or forbidden to do anything by government officials fearing further attacks and the invisible threat of fallout (as in Manukau, where City Council authorities refused to allow them to go into Auckland proper), the rest of the nation fled for cover. In Christchurch it was taken as gospel that the city would be targeted for the same nuclear destruction, scenes of chaos unfolding on the highways to the north, south, and west as news of Wellington’s destruction became common knowledge around half past ten, as relayed by phone from observers in Blenheim (from which the great mushroom cloud over the capital was clearly visible).
This news was verified by the pilot of a light aircraft which had touched down in Nelson at 11:48, an insanely fortunate individual who had flown out of the deserted Wellington Airport forty-five minutes earlier, having decided the destruction of the central city made the prospect of flying north rather unpalatable…
…nonetheless it can be confidently said that the situation in Christchurch by noon was one of organised chaos, a far cry at the time from what was later to emerge from the Town Hall.
Kaiapoi High School
20 kilometres north of central Christchurch
4:25 pm
Hamish Hay had been Mayor of Christchurch for just gone ten years now, and the prospect of having his city immolated as some kind of grim full stop to his career was unappealing, to put it mildly. Although he had had to be physically pulled out of City Hall yesterday when the Council elected to move to a safer location (pile of nancies, he’d thought at the time), Hay couldn’t help but feel a bit grateful at the moment for that decision. Wellington had been properly knocked for six, and even though the belt of cities around Auckland was so big that a few people were probably still alive, nobody had any idea how many were dead or dying in the North right now. More to the point, nobody had any idea if the Ivans had fired a missile at Christchurch, and the windows had been hastily boarded over in case the impossible happened.
Although the Kaiapoi Borough Council and Eyre County authorities had displayed a little small-town impertinence at the city boys riding in and setting up shop in their neck of the woods the grim news from Europe, then Australia, and finally the North Island had brought them into, if not a genuine spirit of civic cooperation, a grudging willingness to help coordinate evacuations and preparations for what might lie ahead. Rough estimates put the number of evacuees from Christchurch City above fifty thousand (possibly a hundred), and reports said the roads were crowded as far south as Darfield while they were certainly full this far north.
“Have we any word at all from Wellington?” he asked for the umpteenth time. The man in charge of communications, a young chap who’d come down to see family before the war broke out (Mike Robertson or Robinson or some similar name, if he remembered correctly), shook his head glumly.
“We made a call to Dunedin since you last asked – Skeggs refused to clear out, so at least we didn’t have to hunt for him in some town hall in Balclutha – and they haven’t heard anything.”
“Have you tried asking Palmerston North?” asked the Treasurer, a kindly-looking old duffer in spectacles. Mike shook his head again.
“We tried, but they didn’t answer; can’t tell if the lines through Wellington are down or...anyway, we’ve sent a fella on a bike to Burnham to see if the Army’s got any idea what’s going on, but he’s having to go out round the Uni first and see if the roads are less mad past there.”
Hay gave a quick hmph. “Can we at least try – ”
A knock came at the door, opening to reveal a bright-faced fellow who’d run from the staffroom and was clutching a piece of paper in a white-knuckled fist. Before anyone could ask his business, he shouted “New Plymouth!” at which every face in the room drained of colour.
“You mean they’ve been hit?” squeaked a red face under a hard hat.
“No, no! They got a phone call from Australia over there; it’s the only place they could reach by phone, and – ”
“Wait, whereabouts in Australia?”
“Hobart, sir, I think – they called New Plymouth to see what was going on over here.”
“Who called?”
“State government, I think. They had news from their end – Adelaide’s still in, and word from Launceston is that there’s no sign of anything hitting Melbourne.”
Hay blinked once or twice as he realised he’d stood up in mounting excitement.
“And what did they have to say about the rest of the country? New Zealand, that is? Or Australia: has anything else hit? Have the Russians stopped shooting?”
“Not a clue, sir,” said the messenger, a chap in his thirties who, from the looks of it, was attached to the County rather than the City. “Just passing on the news: we were pretty fucking pleased to – I mean, uh, we were happy to hear that someone across the ditch was still going.”
Hay nodded while a manic smile pasted itself on his face. “Of course it’s good news,” he said, “wonderful news!”
“Oh, we’ve heard about other places up North, too: Napier and Hastings are alright, so’s Hamilton, and Palmerston North’s in one piece – the bloke up New Plymouth reckoned his mate in Palmy had seen a heap of Army trucks moving south, towards Wellington.”
Hay nodded, sitting down slowly as the room exploded into excited chatter. While conjectures were flung across the room, he mused on what to do next. So most of the country outside Wellington and Auckland is fine, and we’ve got direct contact with Dunedin, New Plymouth, Nelson, and Invercargill… “Wait, who’s in charge in New Plymouth?” he barked at the messenger, who consulted his piece of paper as the Treasurer hushed the room.
“Ah…City Council, though the local MP’s taken charge. Least I’d reckon he’s the local MP: who else is staying there?”
“That chap Peters?” ventured one of the more worldly councillors. Hay shook his head as he recalled the returns from the ’81 election.
“No, he’s the one who lost away up North, isn’t he?” asked Hay. “Face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle, you know the one…no, New Plymouth’s man is Bolger, I think. You know, looks like a spud with charm to match; one of Rob’s Mob.”
Although the more rurally-inclined members of the group winced, a couple of heads nodded. “So, we have a grip on what’s going on in the provinces, anyway, and we’ve got a name to work with. Any idea what’s on with the Government?”
The messenger suddenly looked a little less exuberant. “Not sure, sir. We figure those who’ve made it are probably headed to Waiouru, where the Army and Air Force are, though there’s been no contact from anyone claiming to be central government so far.”
Hay sat back again with another small hmph, tidying his cuffs while he thought. Eventually, the Mayor cleared his throat and spoke.
“Right, get a call made to Ohakea and check to see if we can get through to anyone in charge there, and see what MP’s around here are home in their electorates. Charlie, write up what we know for sure and see if there’s any way of getting it across on the radio – I want people to know something, cool the panic a bit and see if we can’t get folks off the roads.”
“Are…are you sure the Russians aren’t getting ready to…?” asked a councillor from Cashmere or somewhere else in the south, inviting a sigh and a terse response from Hay.
“Look, we’ve been sitting here pissing ourselves since sunrise, and it’s been all day since we lost Wellington and Auckland. If Melbourne and Adelaide haven’t been hit by now, I don’t think we’re liable to be atop the list of priorities. Alright? Alright. Oh, Charlie, another thought: let’s call Dunedin and Nelson. I want to talk with the folks in charge there, see if we can get some sort of organisation back up and running. If we can’t keep in proper contact with the North, we’ll bloody well have to do what we can down here.”
As a bustle of activity started up again, Hay looked once more at the communiques littering the teacher's desk in front of him, as a thought began to crystallise in his mind. If he remembered correctly, Geoff Palmer was somewhere in town. Maybe it was time to give him a call as the local MP for Christchurch Central, give the local emergency administration some legitimacy. Of course, it was unfortunate that Palmer wasn't a member of the party nominally in charge of the country, but desperate times, thought the mayor with a tiny smile, called for desperate measures...
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