The tapping heels approached, then stopped. He pushed up onto his elbows to see who stood in front of the cell. He recognized the face of his old commander. Bald head, beak of a nose, gray eyes that drilled. "Colonel Matson?"
"Somehow I knew you would end up here. Always a troublemaker." But the smile playing at the corner of his lips softened the gruffness. "How have they been treating you?"
"Like it's the Hilton, sir. Room service is a bit slow, though."
"Isn't it always." The colonel gestured to the guard to open the cell. "Follow me, Sergeant Brust."
"It's Mr. Brust now, sir."
"Whatever," he said with a frown, turning away. "We've got to talk."
The guard interrupted. "Should I handcuff him, sir?"
Ben gave Colonel Matson his most innocent look.
"Yeah," Matson said. "You'd better. There's no trusting civilians."
"All right," Ben said, standing at mock attention. "You win. Sergeant Brust, reporting for duty."
Nodding, Colonel Matson waved the guard away. "C'mon, then, Sergeant. We're going to my office."
Ben followed him out of the prison, and after a short drive, they arrived at the Administration Building. The colonel's office had not changed. Same walnut desk with stained coffee mug circles; walls festooned with banners from the Old Guard; trophies lining the side wall. During the ride over, Ben could tell from the hesitancy in an otherwise ebullient man that something of importance was being withheld.
The colonel ushered Ben to sit, then Matson leaned on the edge of his desk and studied him. The colonel's face was stone. Ben tried not to squirm under his gaze. Finally his old commander spoke, his voice tired, "What the hell happened to you? The best of the best, and you just disappear."
"I had a better offer."
"What? Guiding yuppies with midlife crises on little thrill tours?"
"I prefer to call them 'Adventure Vacations.' Besides, I earn enough to help keep my dad's sheep station afloat."
"And earned yourself a bit of a reputation. Quite the cave hound. I read about that cavern rescue in the States. Big hero, huh?"
Ben shrugged.
"But that's not why you left here. It was Jack, wasn't it?"
Ben's face went cold at the mention of his friend's name. "I believed in the Guard. And honor. I believed in you."
Colonel Matson grimaced. "Sometimes political pressure bends rules. Distorts honor."
"Bullshit!" Ben shook his head. "The prime minister's son deserved every inch of the pummeling he got from Jack after the shit he tried with his girl."
"A prime minister has powerful friends. It couldn't go unpunished."
"Bloody hell!" Ben slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. "I'da done the same. His court-martial was a travesty." Ben stopped, swallowed hard, then continued in a quieter voice. "Jack was stripped of everything that made him a man. And you wonder why I left?"
Matson sighed, seemingly satisfied. "Then the balance of fate has shifted your way this time. Now the political pressures are aligned to help you."
Ben's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I should pretend I never received this letter. As much trouble as you caused, you sure as hell deserve a couple years behind bars."
"What letter?"
"A command from the Home Office. You're to be set free."
What joke was this? They were just going to let him walk? Ben watched a worried look pass over Matson's face. "What's up, Colonel?"
"There's a catch."
Of course, Ben thought. There always was.
"You must join an international expedition. A professor somewhere in the Americas has requested your expertise in cave exploration. Some hush-hush operation. No other details. They'll waive all charges and pay you for your services." He slid a sheet of paper toward Ben. "Here."
Ben quickly read the letter, and his eyes caught on the figure at the bottom of the page. He stared at all those zeros, daring them to change. This couldn't be right. After this, he could own his sheep station free and clear. No more shady tour operations.
"Almost too good to be true?" Matson leaned forward, his hands on Ben's shoulders. "But impossible to pass up."
He nodded, dazed.
"Something tells me you had better watch your ass, Ben." Matson strode to the chair behind his desk and sat. "The big boys are playing with you, and they have a tendency to roll over the little people. Remember your friend Jack."
Ben stared at the number at the bottom of the page, drawing a breath. Too good to be true.
* * *
Back in his cell, with an arm draped over his eyes, Ben drifted to sleep and was soon lost in a nightmare he hadn't had since childhood. He found himself, a boy again, threading his way through meter-wide columns of damp stone inside a huge cave. He knew this place. His grandfather had once brought him here to show him Aboriginal petroglyphs.
It was the same cave, but now the rock columns sprouted fruit-laden branches. Curious, he reached for a red pulpy gourd, but it was just beyond his reach. As he was pulling back his arm, he felt eyes drilling into the nape of his neck. He whipped around, but no one was there. Yet now those eyes were all around him. Just at the edge of his vision, he spotted motion from behind a large rock cylinder.
"Who's there?" he called, racing to peer behind the column. Just more empty space. "What do you want?"
The word "ghosts" came unbidden to his mind.
He started to run…
He felt something following him, calling him back. He ignored it and ran, searching for an exit. The pillars closed around him, slowing his progress. Then he sensed a soft touch at the back of his neck and heard garbled words whispered in his ear.
"You are one of us."
He screamed, bolting out of the dream.
He woke on his cot, his heart still racing, and rubbed at his temples. Bloody hell. What brought back that old nightmare? He closed his eyes, recalling that the nightmares had first started after an argument with his grandfather in an Aboriginal cave outside of Darwin.
"No, it's not true," the thirteen-year-old Ben had yelled, tears welling at the revelation.
"Yes, it is, young man. And I don't take to being called a liar." His grandfather's wrinkled leather face frowned at him. "This was once the ancestral home of my grandmother," he repeated, then poked him in the chest. "A direct relative of yours."
The implications that he could have Aboriginal blood running through his veins had horrified him. He and his friends had always made fun of the dark-skinned Aboriginal kids at school. And now, in a single heartbeat, he had been lumped in with them. He shook his head. "I am not a damned darkie!"