Payne started to speak, coughed, cleared his throat and then tried again. “As I recall, that is the job of the POTUS regarding your operation, correct? To be instrumental in advising this...facility as to its overall mission and general objectives.”
Brognola raised a bushy eyebrow and even Price was surprised at the bureaucrat’s quotation of the document that delineated, in the broadest terms, the arms-length agreement between the White House and the Farm—an arrangement that had worked very well so far. Payne, as an adviser to the President, had access to very sensitive information at the highest levels of clearance. That didn’t bode well for Stony Man at all.
Lowering his eyebrow, the big Fed placed his cigar in the other side of his mouth. “Indeed. And what—precisely—does the President wish us to do about this situation?”
“Well...that’s the reason I decided to come here personally.” Payne looked around the room, which, while not richly appointed, was comfortable enough for those who used it on a day-to-day basis. “There has been some...disagreement over what it is that you people actually do here.”
“I’m sure you already know about my jacket with Justice, so I won’t bore you with the details. The operatives of Stony Man are professional troubleshooters on a long-term contract with the United States government,” Brognola said in a flat tone.
The answer must have satisfied Payne because he seemed to relax slightly. “That seems to be a fair assessment overall. And that is exactly what we need—a, er, troubleshooter to travel to Melbourne and look into this situation on our behalf. After all, the business of America is business, right?”
“Actually, President Coolidge’s quote is ‘the business of the American people is business,’” Price said. “It’s often misquoted, but it’s a rather important distinction.”
Her correction drew what passed for a glare from Payne. She barely felt it. If this was the best the White House could dredge up, she mused, the government just might be in worse shape than she thought.
“Regardless, we want you to send one of your people down there to reassure Martin and take a look around, try to find out what’s really going on there. Supposedly your people are discreet, which is of importance in handling this matter. All the necessary details are in the report we’ve forwarded to you,” Payne said as he rose from his chair. “And I’ll be checking in with you on the progress of this mission on a regular basis.”
“We look forward to coordinating our resources with, uh, you. I’ll walk you out.”
“No need—I can find the way.” With a brusque nod at both of them, Payne began striding out of the room.
“That’s all right, I’m heading back that way myself.” It was more than professional courtesy Price was extending—she didn’t want him roaming around the farmhouse for a second.
She escorted the President’s adviser to the front entrance where he got into a vehicle and headed to the airstrip and the helicopter that would head to DC.
Price exhaled wearily—even though it wasn’t even noon yet—and walked back to the conference room to join Brognola. He was still sitting in his chair and he raised his head to stare back at her with an expression she had rarely seen on him before.
“Tell me something, Barbara. Have I missed something or have general IQs dropped sharply in the past year or two?”
“I don’t know. Do you mean outside the Farm or that juvenile stunt that Akira and Bear just pulled?” She spread her hands and shrugged. “To be honest, I didn’t think we could sink any lower than these past couple of years, but lately it seems the world is continually trying to surprise me.”
“You and me both.” Brognola glared at the screen, then looked east, toward the general direction of Capitol Hill and the White House. “It’s not like we haven’t weathered our share of incompetents and interfering busybodies before, but this is beyond the pale.”
Price nodded, opting to remain silent on the matter. A certain amount of political turnover and renewal was often the case when the presidency changed hands, but in this most recent case, this new administration had been much more difficult to work with.
“So, give me the rundown on this Martin guy and what’s going on Down Under,” Brognola said. “There’s been no reason to even look at Australia for any real terrorist activity that extends to more than a few people, and certainly no major organized activity. Even that man who ran his car into that crowd in Melbourne last year? The final report was that he was mentally ill and trying to protest the treatment of his fellow Muslims by the government. The biggest actual thing I can remember was when Turkey’s General Consul was assassinated back in 1980. Hell, they even outlawed the majority of their guns a couple decades back, didn’t they?”
Price nodded. “That’s all correct. This situation is a bit more unusual, due to the parties involved.” She pressed a button on her tablet and another picture of the man who had been ranting on the television appeared on the monitor.
“Angus Martin is a billionaire industrialist who runs Wallcorloo National, his energy company, which is headquartered in Melbourne. He’s third generation and, while he inherited the company from his father, he’s taken it to astounding new heights, building it to among the largest companies on the continent over the last fifteen years.”
“Probably on the backs of the public, if I know his type,” the big Fed grumbled around his stogie. “Okay, so what’s his problem?”
“Over the past year, there have been several vandalism and industrial sabotage incidents aimed at various Australian companies. They’ve been mostly limited to equipment damage, although there was an incident at a copper mine involving explosives that brought down a side of an open pit. Fortunately, no one was hurt.”
Price slid her finger across the tablet and an icon of a white wallaby in a hard hat against a sky-blue background came up. Under it was the words Wallcorloo National. “Wallcorloo is involved in rare earth mineral and natural gas mining throughout the continent.”
She moved on to the next slide: a map of Australia with a small red dot in roughly the center of the continent. “The most recent incident occurred ten days ago at their automated LNG mining and refining plant on the edge of the Amadeus field, a massive natural gas deposit.” She brought up two smaller pictures, one of an older man, the other of a man in his early twenties. “Along with the on-site sabotage, estimated to delay full production by several weeks and cost more than two million dollars, two men, Logan Weathers and Connor King, were killed as a result of a clash with the saboteurs. As of this briefing, the perpetrators haven’t yet been caught.”
“And Martin thinks the indigenous population—specifically the AFN—is behind this?” Brognola frowned. “If so, that’s news to me. There hasn’t been any sort of organized resistance like that since...well, ever, as far as I know.”
Price’s eyebrows raised but she lowered them just as quickly. It wasn’t that her superior was wrong; she was just a bit surprised that he knew about the general history of indigenous protest and resistance in Australia at all. But that’s what made him Hal Brognola—behind his sometimes unkempt appearance and gruff demeanor hid an analytical mind like a titanium trap.
“Correct, Hal,” she replied, bringing up another slide of what looked like a ruddy-red cliff rising out of the ground against a white background. “Aboriginal Freedom Now was established back in 2002, and has always espoused open dialogue and nonviolent means to bring about change between the government and the indigenous population. That’s why this raised a red flag at our Australian embassy, which sent the report that I think eventually put this scenario on this administration’s radar.”
“Well, that and this blowhard spouting off about this group. Has AFN released