Traveller Probo

“Honestly Gary, this has turned out to be an absolute, unmitigated disaster,” exclaimed the Honourable Tony Arnold, New Zealand’s Minister for Defence. He strode purposefully to the office window and looked out to the streets of Wellington. Even though it was early autumn, most pedestrians wore jackets and scarves as the infamous winds had just kicked in, making temperatures plummet. However, it was doubtful Minister Arnold was at all interested in the plight of the common worker. He would be more concerned about his own political future. Like many of the nation’s politicians, he had hitched his career on the unprecedented boon of the Transporter and New Zealand’s success in being the first to capitalise on the Transporter Lottery. How could anyone predict it could have morphed into a poisoned chalice?

Defence Chief, General Gary Smythe, sat uncomfortably in one of the office lounge chairs. This project had so far cost the lives of eight New Zealanders. Eight! It was obvious none could have realised the real risks. They had learned too late that there were just too many variables to accurately predict what would happen when you sent a team one thousand years into the past.

“Who could have known that the media would’ve found out?” General Smythe replied grimly, not for the first time. He carefully watched his boss. Minister Arnold was a small, pot-bellied man who strutted about his office like an agitated bantam rooster. General Smythe knew there was nothing as dangerous as a cornered politician and Minister Arnold was showing signs of approaching his breaking point.

“That media!” spat the politician, using the word like a curse. “They interrupted a police signal and decided to intercept the injured members of the team at the hospital. Just their luck, they arrived just in time to catch footage of the Maori savage being brought down by the Taser. Not only that, they caught footage of dead citizens, including that little girl. To make matters worse, our Government didn’t even know a damn thing about it until it was splashed all over the news!” He looked wide-eyed and frantic which, to General Smythe, was not a good sign. “The national Maori groups are already in a jolly frenzy, not only about that murdering villager being brought back but about the Taser attack on yet another .... Cuz, and a venerable ancestor to boot.”

“Sir, my men are professionals and did what they knew to be correct,” General Smythe reiterated. “Two of our men died in what was obviously a very touchy situation.”

“But to bring a native back?” Minister Arnold gritted his teeth and shook his head.

“I’m still in the process of getting the full report sir but our team was attacked. We have only the head of Sergeant Marcus Brown to show for it, like it was a trophy. His head was thrown at our troops by the very warrior who fell with them through the Transporter. Sergeant Elkington is dead!” His voiced cracked at the emotional strain.

“But to have the man taken to a public hospital for goodness sake!” responded Minister Arnold angrily.

General Smythe shook his head in frustration at having to repeat himself. “Sir, the police had their procedures, which was to take any injured person to the emergency ward and, as you know, we honestly didn’t expect for a local villager to follow our team through the Transporter. We didn’t expect them to kill two of our Special Forces troops either. Our lads were fighting for their lives while the police simply did what they were supposed to do. We still don’t know how the warrior got free. He was supposed to be drugged. The medicos thought they had it under control.”

Minister Arnold nodded and closed his eyes a moment. “Dear God, what a mess! Those poor people. I hear he was utterly barbaric. He even killed an elderly woman by … by smashing her face into a wall. Dear God above! That poor, poor woman. How many civilians were killed? Six? And the episode was witnessed by innocent women and children.”

General Smythe nodded sadly. “Like you, I haven’t even received the full report as yet. I have some images for you but you won’t want to see them or the CCTV footage we have collected.” He didn’t wish to mention how the father died defending his daughter, the little girl sprawled on the tiled floor. She had been in hospital with an asthma attack. Now, she was dead. A brave police officer had also been injured trying to defend the civilians. It was a miracle that he hadn’t also been killed.

Minister Arnold closed his eyes and shook his head, “No General, what I’ve seen is enough. I’ll wait for the final report.” He turned to look again out of the window. “So, what do you suggest is the best course of action? How do we best manage this … this fiasco?” The street lights sparkled as a thin drizzle fell and while some of the foot-traffic hurried, others, well used to the fickle Wellington weather, simply opened umbrellas.

General Smythe knew what was really being asked; whose heads should roll? He cleared his throat nervously and simply said, “Tell the truth!”

Minister Arnold nodded. “Some of it you mean.”

“Well, how a local villager from the 11th Century was accidentally brought back because he was engaged in a battle with our heroic troops. We need to maintain the obvious sensitivity of the situation and stress how he was in hospital to have his battle injuries humanely treated before we sent him back. But he escaped and, in his panic at being in a strange place, murdered innocent New Zealanders,” suggested General Smyth, his face flushed and angry.

The Minister looked up sharply, and then shrugged, resigned to his task. “You’re right. That has to be said, though we can emphasise that all Transporter-based historical research is fraught with danger. With the arrival of our visitor, the police were none the wiser and just followed their procedures.” Minister Arnold obviously felt the government had to make them look good and create some heroes. “They weren’t to know. You said that one of the police was nearly killed?”

“Yes sir, he was attacked but survived, though he’s been hospitalised. Apparently he has a broken arm,” reiterated General Smythe. “His partner brought the man down with his Taser.”

Minister Arnold nodded as he replied, “Finally, some justification for the use of a Taser by our police. Even now, some segments in the electorate will complain.” He thought a minute. “So, what d’you think, make the police into the cause of this fiasco or into heroes?”

General Smythe hated the manipulation of the public through the media but it had to be done. “I think, in this case, sir, we can clearly show how the police and our Special Forces team were nothing but the bravest of heroes.”

Minister Arnold nodded again. “Okay, agreed. I think we concentrate on lauding the courageous actions of the police as they were placed into a situation no-one could predict. We’ll need to suggest that our military were attacked when engaged in peaceful research and there’s been fatalities and injuries, details to be forthcoming. We must not mention fatalities of the villagers on the ground. That’s one thing we must keep quiet! The PM will make the announcement and I’ll be interviewed for details.” Forever the canny politician, General Smythe knew the news conference would highlight Minister Arnold as a man of action in praising the heroism of their men. Leave the bad news for the PM. “We’ll have to arrange interviews. Have some of those who can string a couple of words together get questioned by the media,” continued Minister Arnold decisively.

“They are SAS!” corrected General Smythe sharply.

Minister Arnold turned from his window-watching and glared at the soldier as he emphasised, “Yes, even one of two of the SAS need to say a few words. We have to make our troops into heroes, as you said.”

“But their identities were to be kept secure until we managed the full press release,” corrected General Smythe, clearly out of his depth in dealing with the media. Normally, much of the media management was sorted by specialists under his command.

Ignoring the older man’s discomfort, Minister Arnold strode to his desk and flicked through a departmental telephone directory. “Well it’s a bit jolly late for that isn’t it?” he replied curtly. “We have to make the best of this and hope we survive. We’ve already received international criticism about sending back a rescue team, you know. Something about being against standard Transporter Operational Procedures.”

“Who complained?” asked General Smythe curtly. “Guidelines like that are made by armchair decision-makers who never see battle. You can’t expect a commander in the heat of conflict to stand by and let his men get killed.”

Minister Arnold looked up angrily, stung by what could be a reference to him. “The guidelines are part of the agreement we signed!” he replied angrily. “Rightly or wrongly, our breaking of a basic agreement in the use of the Transporter reflects badly on New Zealand and the professionalism of our troops.”

“Captain Marshall was a bloody hero!” retorted the indignant General Smythe. “Our officers would never stand by when there was a chance to rescue one of our own. The soldier that had been knocked out of the Transporter’s Area of Convergence had lost his weapon and only had a pistol to defend himself. I understand he was ready to shoot himself rather than be caught by the locals, who would have eaten him alive. He was in the gravest danger. They are all bloody heroes and men of the highest calibre. Captain Marshall did the right thing!”

“Good Lord,” responded the Minister quietly as he shook his head sadly. “None of these facts are known!” he added wearily. “Our job is to tell the story so that we provide only the relevant facts for the public. We have to make sure our enemies; political, professional, and international, don’t have any ammunition against the New Zealand government and our international standing.”

General Smythe simply nodded, his face grim. Leave the politicking to the politicians. He didn’t yet have the full details from Professor Avery, who was the academic in charge of the Mangere location. There was also the full report to be obtained from Captain Marshall. He felt weary, for the politics didn’t stop with the politicians. There would be courts martial of course and heroes would be created or careers destroyed to satisfy the current political imperative. Already it has been whispered that he was complicit in what was considered by some to be compromised mission planning.

So, who would be the sacrificial lamb?

Sadly, General Smythe knew the only course of action that would satisfy the politicians. The old soldier, veteran of a good many conflicts for his country, sat tall and straight. He had never liked the political side of his job and decided that his small beachside bach near the tiny village of Coromandel, so far away from politics and media, needed his attention at last. He so missed his wife. Carol’s fresh point of view was always illuminating and had saved him on many an occasion. Maybe it was time for the old dinosaur to go rather than for any of his brave soldiers to be sacrificed.

Yes, it was time.

He gave a grim smile, unnoticed by the Minister as he conversed on the phone with his PR manager. General Smythe cleared his throat. Every minute delayed would make the Government look worse, so the decision had to be made.

After the prompt call, Minister Arnold looked up as the General again cleared his throat. “I may have a solution that we both can find suitable for all concerned,” he exclaimed gruffly. Before he could think twice, his resignation was offered and the politician simply nodded. Was there a trace of relief in the little man’s eyes? Who could tell? Suddenly weary, General Smythe simply stood to leave and let the experts manage their version of the truth.

He had his formal resignation to prepare.