Screw study; have an update!
XI. We Have No Rebellion
It was the worst thing you could do
You don’t know what you put me through
That’s why I’m telling you
This is what I saw through
I’ll turn away as you close the door…
“Now Rob Muldoon and Rowling
They haven’t made a hit.
They’re ruining the country
More than just a bit.
And if they keep on the way they’re going
We’ll all be in turd…”
- Fred Dagg
Taihape, Rangitikei
February 29, 1984
The townspeople had done their share of whinging after the Government closed the railyards at the tail end of last decade – at least, in that way peculiar to rural New Zealanders which involved a lot of “they’ll regret it, you know” and “bloody idiots” and “too right, mate” – but in contrast to the times that happened in most other circumstances, here the people of Taihape had been vindicated slightly when the Government reopened the shifting yards in a tearing hurry around the start of the year. There had hardly been time to brush the dust off the padlocks on the sheds before the trains from Wellington began arriving via Palmy, and throughout the month the number of people flocking north to disperse through the countryside had ballooned, reaching a fevered pitch around the 21st before the abrupt cutoff last week.
Since then things had calmed down only marginally; the Railways were dredging up every piece of rolling stock they could to move food and people about to and from the burnt and shattered cities, which was how Gus found himself shuttling a DB-class to the Port of Napier and back on these hot autumn days, towing all the cargo from Down South it could and damn the length limit.
He’d pulled a twenty-eight hour shift before returning to Taihape via Palmy to finally knock off for what could be considered a half-civilised smoko, but like everyone else around him Gus got on with the job with only the standard murmur of complaint about “bloody cityboys,” with that tongue-in-cheek country tone of someone helping out a mildly careless yet likable neighbour. A quick pint in the refreshment rooms helped; from the looks of it most of the other workers thought so, much as they always did.
“How’s the folks, Wiry?” asked Gus of Wiremu, the big Maori bloke sitting down the bar from him.
“Oh, alright, eh?” he said as he gave a shrug like plate tectonics. “Got some family up from Porirua at the moment, so they’re back home eating everything before I can get there.” Wiremu finished that thought with a sip of beer (rationing such a vital resource was an alien concept to rail workers; the barman had the common sense to not try and enforce the rules too stringently) and looked at Gus. “What about you, mate, any cuzzies come camping just-for-the-hell-of-it-and-nothing-to-do-with-the-war?”
Gus, less susceptible to irony than the trains he drove, nodded over a handle of DB (after all, it’d take a damn sight more than nuclear war to stop good beer reaching the pubs and ale-houses of New Zealand) in response.
“Yeah, wife’s family are up from Wellington. Reckon they’ll be with us a while.”
“Shit, sorry to hear that mate,” said Wiremu, which elicited a shrug from Gus.
“Could be worse, least they came up in time. Kids still think it’s a bloody holiday, so we’ll see how long that lasts. What about you, mate, anyone back south?”
“Nah, all in Porirua or out in the Hutt, so they’re probably all alright, eh. Haven’t heard much from the cuzzies up Auckland way, but I mean nobody has, so what’re you gonna do?”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re the same at ours. Our cousin Daryl lives out West, so reckon he should be alright. Jealous of me brother though, he lives down Christchurch way so reckon they’re doin’ alright for themselves. Ah, well.”
Another pensive sip as a few other men joined in their conversation. News was recycled a lot in these parts; a nuclear war merely gave the local gossips a new dimension to explore on top of the usual who’s-who, and they pressed Gus and Wiry and the rest of them for information only slightly more than they always did.
In other words, business as usual carried on. Oh, a bit sleep-deprived perhaps, but things would turn out alright in the end. They always did.
I never thought you’d break my heart
I should’ve known it from the start...
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“We did all we could…we invested in the wellbeing of this country, protected our industries from foreign predation…and for all of it one New Zealander of every ten was killed by the Russians. My God, I only hope they can forgive me someday.”
- Former Prime Minister Robert Muldoon’s last official interview, February 1985.
RNZAF Base Ohakea
February 29, 1984
As far as weeks went, this one had been a bit of a shit. The corner of Muldoon’s mouth quirked upwards at that thought (for all the good it did; at best it turned his frown into a grimace) while it lasted. Yes, this was definitely worse than any other week he’d been through; no way to talk past the cameras – there was still no way to broadcast with the TV network still off the air – and if he’d found that blowhard Lange hard to argue with it was even more difficult to negotiate with a nuclear weapon.
The Prime Minister had been stunned by the start of the war. Oh, he’d gone on giving orders and doing plenty of shouting during the evacuation, because what else was a leader for? Why would the Russians bomb New Zealand, after all? Ever since Wellington was hit he’d been operating on autopilot in many ways: there was work to be done and he would make sure it got done. That was what he did. And if he had to maintain control during that time, what of it? He was meant to lead and there was no fit alternative that he could see; George Gair’s defection had convinced him solidly of that. They weren’t traitors, quite, but if they couldn’t see the truth in front of them…
That little voice of self-doubt in his head, a formerly unknown feeling which had been growing steadily since the shooting started in Europe and he wondered in the pit of his stomach what this country had got into –
why go to war when we have wool lying unshipped and meat going off in cold storage? – begged to differ, as it had since he saw the flash and the cloud hovering over Wellington like a 30,000-foot tombstone. Muldoon had slept perhaps two hours a day in the last week, reading reports and staring blankly at casualty figures and lists of roads, hospitals, schools wiped out a week ago, trying to figure out what to do.
Nobody else can do this. Nobody else should do this.
The news from Wellington yesterday had sent him further into despair. The city was a mausoleum. They were trying to scrounge up a radiation suit from somewhere but this country was simply not equipped to send men tramping into the open-air reactor core which had been the capital. But it was the report of Flight Endeavour on the situation in Kilbirnie –
two thousand more dead there Robert you could have sent planes why didn’t you think of sending planes I was too busy trying to organise the ones who’d already escaped but you know that’s no excuse but the report said how many of them were dead already that’s no excuse Robert – that had convinced him just what had been wrought on this country. It was staring death in the face.
For the first time in his life, or at least as long as he could remember since entering politics, Robert Muldoon didn’t know what to do. And for the first time since Italy, forty years ago, he was scared.
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David Lange had worked all night on what he wanted to say. Several of his colleagues in the Emergency Government – colleagues and counterparts alike – had dropped by the cramped office he had appropriated to offer their support, and he’d politely (at first) and then impolitely (after Roger had come in for a
third time to blether on about the need for liberalisation of the disaster management response it’d have taken the patience of a saint
not to tell him to fuck off) told them to leave him alone.
Nobody else could do this.
He’d been in Parliament long enough to see how Muldoon could bully people into seeing things his way, which ruled out any of the Nats – good God, if he was chewing out old Gentleman George, he doubted if Thea Muldoon herself could disavow him of his current path – and he’d clashed with Muldoon often enough to know that nobody else here from Labour could debate with the man when he no doubt started going on about how inherently superior the PM’s methods were for dealing with burn victims and drug shortages and blackouts and the other million problems which Muldoon insisted on managing personally, despite the fact the four dozen MPs already in Ohakea were having trouble organising things, despite working together. So no, it was all on Lange to talk the man around.
Or down off a ledge, if need be.
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Muldoon had managed to dredge up a secretary from somewhere, and trust the old bastard to have the luck to find a pretty young thing who looked like she was fresh from typing class. ‘The Prime Minister will see you soon,’ she had assured Lange, and he found himself casting his mind back to the last draft – those hurriedly scribbled pages, at any rate – of what he would say. Oh, doubtless Muldoon was champing at the bit to see him; after all, they’d exchanged so many tender words over the last seven years. Right now it sounded like he was just as eagerly seeing someone else; you could almost make out the sneering tone through the wall.
After what may have been five minutes or five hours – time moved like treacle these days – and the talking abated, the secretary went into the office and returned, nodding briskly at Lange and standing aside to let him through the door. Credit where it was due, she was cool as a cucumber when confronted with two men who’d eaten veteran journalists alive.
It was messier than the last time he’d been in, two long days ago. Evidently the administrative issues were being sorted out; mountains of paper cluttered the desk and tables around the sides of the room, with Muldoon glowering behind a sprawling pile of reports and telex printouts.
The really surprising thing was how far downhill the Prime Minister had gone in forty-eight hours. Usually you could feel the man staring into your brain like a laser, scanning for the best avenues of attack to rip you a new one and romp past you as if you were never there. He was still eyeballing Lange, but now it was more…scattered. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, and while Lange appreciated the freak divergence from his usually intimidating focus it was jarring to say the least.
“So, you’ve come to have a crack at it from another angle, have you?” burbled Muldoon, his voice a sickly shadow of even the slurring drawl he’d managed last time, catching Lange’s full attention in what might almost have been concern. Yes, definitely the eyes. Something wasn’t right inside. Whether that would make this any harder or easier, Lange couldn’t guess.
“If you mean talk frankly about what’s going on, then yes,” said Lange as Muldoon sneered.
Well, some things are staying constant, anyway.
“If you’ve come to launch a coup, you’d do well to remember the provisions for treason under the Emergency Powers Act.”
“Just as well I haven’t come to launch a coup, isn’t it?”
You little Napoleon, added his mind. “I’ve come to have a talk. Now before we start, let’s make a deal, you and I. I’ll talk. You listen. And if you hear me out, and we still disagree…”
“You’ll keep being a pain in the nation’s arse?”
“I will resign.”
That stunned Muldoon into silence; you could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he weighed up just how serious this must be. He had at least a begrudging respect for his adversary, and even he had to admit Lange was the only man in politics as determined as he was to stay in the thick of it. Leaving politics was, to either of them, the equivalent of exile to Siberia. After due consideration, he gave a single slow nod and Lange began.
“There’s a reason you’ve got so much opposition these days. Believe me when I say it’s not because anyone else wants your job; it’s a mug’s game to try and organise it these days –” Muldoon opened his mouth and Lange held up a pudgy index finger “– remember the deal – because trying to sort through everything on your own these days will kill you. It looks like you’re on the way, to be honest. Cabinet heard about the heart problems.” Muldoon’s eyes widened of their own accord at that news, and Lange nodded. “So no, it’s not that you lack the confidence of Parliament to be Prime Minister – you lack the confidence to survive
being Prime Minister. A cardiac episode today, but what will it be next week? D’you think anyone will even bother asking you about this if you have a full-blown heart attack?”
Muldoon’s expression was unreadable; somewhere between rage and melancholy and bewilderment.
“I have a letter here from the Emergency Cabinet, and all the members on my side too. It’s a formal request for your resignation. We haven’t brought Beattie into this, this isn’t a constitutional problem and anyway, he’s still at the emergency centre in Palmerston, being treated for flash burns.”
Silence greeted Lange. Silence, and a thousand-yard stare as Muldoon’s eyes gazed in and out of focus at something that didn’t seem to be there. Lange changed tack.
“Look, Robert, this is not a bloody overthrow. I don’t want you written out of this country. I believe that you, you and a whole lot of people in the National Party, have a contribution to make to get this country to recover, to get us back on our feet and up off our back.” His voice had adopted a soft tone a world away from the usual bellicose bellow he had traditionally used when dealing with the Prime Minister. “And I put it to you that
that is still something worth striving for.”
Muldoon offered neither opposition nor approval, so Lange continued speaking with that gentle intensity.
“Sir, I believe you are the man who
can lead that recovery in your party and revitalise this government, and I believe the people in your ranks are willing to be part of that recovery and that they are still willing to have you help lead them through it. I won’t spurn them, even if you do. They’re going to be part of that recovery, and when we do it, when we roll up our sleeves and go to work together, it’ll be for that hundred thousand left wounded and homeless in the greatest disaster in our nation’s history, the ones who need our help most.
“This isn’t a coup, Prime Minister. It’s an offer of partnership in that enterprise.”
Muldoon sat quietly, eyes watery with emotion, illness, and alcohol as he stared idly into nothing. Lange’s hand, the one he wasn’t using to poke the table and make his point, was clenched and sweaty. It took all of his will to stop it from shaking. After what felt like an eternity, Muldoon looked Lange in the eyes.
“I love you, Mister Lange,” he murmured indistinctly with his expression still giving away nothing, let alone the meaning of the bizarre non sequitur. His chest heaved with a sigh, and he looked down at the desk again. “I got a full report from the Red Cross and the Ministry of Health,” he said in that slurring drawl as his shaking hands (
fuck me, they are
shaking! thought Lange.
He can’t actually
be giving in, can he?) pawed through the papers until they came to a folder marked SECRET - LIMDIS and slid it over to Lange. “Page nineteen,” he burbled before taking a snort of whatever paint-thinner was in the tumbler on his side of the desk.
Whatever Lange had been prepared for, it wasn’t this. This was a full report on the number of confirmed and estimated casualties (naturally one was far higher than the other), and Page Nineteen was filled with columns of numbers all laid out like neat rows of seats in a hall.
Or crosses in a graveyard.
A fragment here and a fragment there caught Lange’s eye has he tried to take in the immensity of the damage.
Wellington City and environs: 67,900 probable, 80,000 - poss. 100,000 within next two weeks, of which:
- Immediate fatalities in blast/within five minutes: ~45,400
- Fatalities within 24 hours from severe radiation sickness/burns: ~22,300 (within Zone A as defined above)
- Fatalities in the week to 28/02/1984 (Zones B-D): Best estimate ~44,200 [3]
- Casualties not immediately resulting in fatality in the week to 28/2/84 (that is, those surviving longer than one week: ~40,000, probably greater.
- Casualties known to have self-evacuated from the region within 24-hour period after X-Hour: <2,682
- Of the above, those succumbing to injuries/radiation sickness within one week: 1,894
[3] Discrepancies in figures incorporate likely fatalities in the 0-24 hour period; note Zone A is not included as survival in that area is estimated at <0.5% probability of survival after one week…
It was an education, at least. Lange flipped through to the pages on Auckland, which had been dog-eared and well-read from the looks of it. Muldoon didn’t even need to see Lange look at the page before he started speaking.
“Immediate deaths, one-hundred-fifty-three-thousand-eight-hundred,” he recited, “Twenty-four-hour-deaths, approximately-thirty-one-thousand-one-hundred-within-Zone-A. Fatalities-in-first-week, estimated-total-across-Auckland-metropolitan-area, one-hundred-and-ninety-two-thousand-four-hundred. Casualties-not-immediately-resulting-in-fatality-in-past-week, one-hundred-fifty-thousand-of-whom-half-expected-to-result-in-fatality-without-prompt-care. Of-those, radiation-illness-affecting…”
Lange had stopped looking at the folder some time ago, instead looking at Muldoon as he dully recited figures
How many times has he read this how many times how is he still functioning until he came to a stop, before he seemed to focus on something again and looked Lange in the eyes. Muldoon’s eyes weren’t glassy anymore: instead they held an awful clarity beyond exhaustion, of someone who has stood on the brink of the abyss and stared into an unimaginable void and seriously thought about letting himself fall in.
“Devonport, Takapuna, Northcote, Auckland Central, Parnell, Mission Bay, all gone. Castor Bay, Glenfield, Birkenhead, Herne Bay, Grey Lynn, Mount Eden, Remuera, Glen Innes and Glendowie burning out. Tamaki’s in ruins. Prebble and Knapp and Highet, all dead.” Muldoon let out a breath like a deflating zeppelin, as Lange sat enraptured. Sure, a million people had seen the Bomb go off in New Zealand, but how many could ever have claimed to see this, whatever
this was?
With an abruptness which caught the Leader of the Opposition on the back foot Muldoon spoke again. “Is the Governor-General still about? I’d like to talk with him.”
The Prime Minister’s voice had taken on a tone Lange had never heard. It wasn’t wavering or slurred, but still quiet, even without being entirely sad. Was it…was it entirely possible he was asking his permission? Dumbfounded, Lange nodded. Muldoon sighed, and started to talk again in a voice falling back into its usual drawl, enunciating every hard consonant clearly and carefully.
“Well, if you could let him know, I’d be quite grateful. I think…” he glanced at his watch “…yes, two o’clock should do. I'm sure I'll be told if I need to go to see him rather than the other way around. Good day, Mister Lange.”
As Lange closed the door behind him, he wasn’t sure what sound he heard coming faintly from the room. He would never pass on that question, and he would never receive an answer. Perhaps that was for the best.
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I never thought you’d let me down,
I never knew he’d come around…
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Southern Interim Administration Headquarters
Christchurch City Council Building
March 1, 1984
Hamish Hay was sitting opposite Geoff Palmer (who wasn’t a bad chap once you got to know him; a bit dull, but bloody well-organised) when the news came through. The bloke on the other end of the line didn’t sound like he believed himself. Hay and Palmer certainly didn’t believe it. They’d both been awake at least once in the last nine years; the only way Muldoon was ever liable to resign was if he lost an election (and having technically managed to do so twice running, neither was particularly confident in the ability of any alternatives). But as a call to Burnham and a telex to Palmerston North confirmed, the Prime Minister – the ex-Prime Minister now – had indeed agreed to step down for unspecified health reasons. The wording, noted Palmer, was almost enough to make you suspicious: the last world leader to step down for “health reasons” had been Andropov, although as Hay pointed out with a grimace Duncan MacIntyre was no Ogarkov. For one, MacIntyre was sane. Oh, modestly crooked perhaps if that Loans Board scandal a few years back had been anything to go by, but for want of a few dollars the country wouldn’t be lost.
So the two men sat in the warmth of an Indian summer and thought about what the Christchurch government could do now. Palmer was more than willing to go along with Lange if he came out on top, and the more conservative Mayor held few qualms about following suit (both Party leaders were rather unsavoury fellows in their own ways, but Lange had the decency to talk his way around his faults), so there was little danger of them decrying the coup and attempting a secession or some daft idea like that. Not that you could put anything past Quigley.
“What about the Members?” asked Palmer after a few minutes of tense thought.
“What about them? Your lot’ll follow Lange like a lamb; the other lot either hate the Prime Minister already or they’ll be stunned silent.”
Geoff gave a mirthless smile at that one. With the possible exception of Roger Douglas and the one-legged mental case from Invercargill, that was a pretty fair appraisal.
“Well, we may as well do something other than wait,” said Geoff. “Best take this to the Interim Cabinet, assuming they don’t know already.”
“I reckon so,” responded Hamish. “We may want to talk with Burnham, too; they’ll take orders from whoever’s in charge up in Ohakea now, so best to get on the same level.”
“Not that we should get distracted from the minutiae down here, either,” sighed the academic-cum-politician. “Has the latest cargo left Lyttelton yet?”
“Got a call from Napier earlier, they’re ready for it when it comes.”
“And I’ve had memos from the hospitals, who say they’re doing alright for triage cases from Blenheim but still expect more dieback in the next week regardless of whatever resources they use. So they’re…conserving them.”
A grim nod from the Mayor. It went without saying that morphine supplies – or more likely, empty syringes in particular veins – were going to be expended in significant quantity in the next few days; unsaid because nobody wanted to hear it. You did all you could do, these days. Even – especially – when it didn’t feel right.
“Well, I suppose we’ve done all we can do,” responded Hay after a pregnant pause, breaking Palmer out of his introspective tailspin. “We may as well call a meeting. I daresay it’ll be a relief to be delegated authority from central government again; absolute power doesn’t seem to corrupt so much as tire oneself absolutely.”
Palmer managed a small smile at that one, looking out the window on an absurdly bright April afternoon. If Muldoon had managed to see how much realities transcended politics, to the point where he’d actually voluntarily relinquished power, the rest of Parliament might be able to face up as well. Who knew? The country might yet muddle through all this.
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...even though I’m blue,
Even though I’m blue.
Darling, I’ll say goodbye,
Even though I’m blue,
Even though I’m blue,
Even though I’m blue.
Darling, I’ll say goodbye,
Even though I’m blue,
Even though I’m blue,
Even though I’m blue…
