Not all allied world powers hold the best intentions, especially when precious resources are at stake. Just ask Maggie McCoy who has borne loss upon loss at the hands of Australian officials on her native Norfolk Island, a 14-square-mile territory in the vast Pacific Ocean.
A former scientist-turned-tour guide, Maggie becomes the de facto leader of Norfolk’s fight for independence in A Nation Born, a female-driven literary thriller that reads like the love child of Tom Clancy’s Red Storm Rising and Norman Maclean’s A River Runs Through It, if midwifed by Andy Weir’s The Martian.
The story follows Maggie and her enablers through an independence struggle that evolves from protests to total warfare with the most powerful militaries on earth. Through that lens, the story itself evolves from a vignette of a broken family healing itself into a comprehensive lesson in "being careful what you wish for."
Before the mass graves and funeral pyres, the chief exports of Norfolk Island were passion and civility.
At just fifteen square miles, the South Pacific island is small enough to not even show up on most maps. Almost five-hundred miles of ocean stretch between Norfolk and the nearest landfall in New Caledonia. The rugged cliffs, bucolic dales, and stately pines seemed to have chosen the best shades from Mother Nature’s own palette. It would be easy to imagine the island as the love child of tropical Tahiti and the windswept British Isles. A lineage that mirrored the ancestry of the majority of Norfolk’s citizens.
The island’s birthrights were struggle and sorrow, but the people had the heart of a hopeless romantic. In the days before the Rift Valley Fever, worry was a rare commodity. Locals welcomed tourists into their homes for dinner. A week long holiday on the island sometimes ended with a drive to the airport in the company of a new lifelong friend.
For native islanders, even simple airport goodbyes seemed more tragic because they were done so well. Local families would turn out en masse to see loved ones off. Their tearful parting was followed by a mad scramble to the other side of the runway to wave goodbye signs at the departing flight.
While goodbyes were always a sight to behold, the welcome for unwelcome newcomers was equally impressive.
“Go to hell, Clarke!”
Just on the other side of a fence surrounding the newly arrived Qantas flight 179 from Sydney, a large group hurled insults as well as the occasional farm fresh egg at a government van awaiting its passenger.
“Go back to Canberra. We don’t need you here!”
From a picnic table near the protestors, Maggie McCoy saw the target of the vitriol, Harold Clarke, the newest Australian-appointed Administrator of Norfolk Island. The protestors amped up their fervor at his sighting. Having assumed power at midnight, Harry was seven hours into his first term and two minutes into a bad day.
A similar scene played out for every new island administrator, but rapidly dissolved into a low-key version of benign neglect. Norfolk hated having no self-determination, but not enough to interfere with time at the beach.
Maggie rolled her eyes. “These yobbos woke up before sunrise for this. It would be sad if it wasn’t so funny.”
“Mum, it’s not funny. We’re prisoners here. We’re the convicts,” said Sam, her youngest son from across the table.
“Oh, settle down.” Maggie shook out her umbrella as the driving rain of early morning resolved into a misty drizzle.
Clarke paused halfway down the air-stairs and grimaced up into the gray sky. He was making a good show of ignoring the hatred and impotent anger displayed before him. He shrugged his messenger bag up his shoulder as an egg landed directly on his forehead. Clarke hurried down the rest of the steps and walked briskly to the green van with Australian Government plates. As the van started up and headed for a back exit, a few of the protestors started loudly singing “God Save The King.”
“Such a shame,” Sam said. “Our Australian overlords provide us with first world healthcare and well-sealed roads. They deserve more respect. Without them we might, you know, actually survive a light fever.”
“Enough. Enough, now.” Maggie let an edge slice through her motherly tone to shut down further conversation. Losing her husband Matthew to what should have been a treatable virus rocked her to the core. She wondered if being reminded about him would ever not sting. She gazed downward, as if the table offered some salve. With nothing new there, she straightened the Morayshire Tours name badge on her formfitting khaki shirt. No good in showing tears to her tourists.
Maggie watched Sam snap a small branch off of a nearby pine and roll it between his hands before lifting it to his nose for a deep inhale. His father’s habit, she recognized. “So connected to this little patch of land.”
A loud noise to the east of the airport drew their attention. A small fighter jet made a speedy landing, with an identical jet flying along side. While one fighter rolled to a stop, the other executed a tight circle setting up for its own landing. The protestors momentarily let their pasteboards droop as they absorbed the spectacle. Both fighter jets taxied up to the terminal, joined by a fire truck.
“Wow,” Sam exclaimed. “We’ve got an impromptu airshow.”
“A bit odd, isn’t it?” Maggie added before returning attention to the terminal exit, waiting for her vacationing customers. Out of the corner of her eye Maggie saw the mayor of the tiny island, John Adams, bounding towards her from the parking lot. John was also a friendly competitor to her tour company and an old friend. She tried to look busy with her paperwork.
“Watawieh, Sam?” asked John, taking a seat at the picnic table.
“Watawieh yuu tampali?” Sam asked with a self effacing laugh. “My Norfuk is no good, Mr. Mayor. I haven’t been practicing. Sorry. You gonna take my mutineer descendant card?”
John’s paunch shook with laughter. “No worries, Sam. Wataweih, Maggs?”
“We’re good, thanks, John.”
“Beautiful day, eh? Chamber of Commerce weather,” John joked. “How many you got today?”
“It is beautiful, John. No rain, no rainbows, right? We’ve got six customers. Two retired couples and two newlyweds this week.”
“Ah, yes — the newlywed and the nearly dead. They oughta be able to catch up on some sleep.” John exploded in laughter, clearly impressing himself with his humor. “Honestly, I’m just happy to have tourists again.”
Maggie could handle her old friend John in small doses but quickly grew weary of him. It wasn’t a product of his relentless cheer and bad humor. Too much of John’s voice put Maggie right back into memories of a dying island and all that she had lost.
“When is Nate’s speech thing happening?” asked Sam, snapping Maggie out of her reverie in an instant.
Maggie looked at her watch. “Two more hours. He sent a live stream link. We’ll watch it over breakfast.”
Maggie beamed with pride, but Sam shook his head and gazed away.
“Speech?” John asked.
“Rice University asked their very own Professor Nathan McCoy to introduce their commencement speaker. Can you believe it? Nate gets to share the stage with the President of the United States.”
“Wow,” John exclaimed. “You did a great job raising these two lads, Maggs. I’m not surprised at all.”
Sam threw aside the pine branch he’d been fidgeting with and glanced at his watch. “I’ll catch the replay, Mum. The tide is moving about the same time. I’m going up to Trumpeter Reef to see how the marlin are running.”
“This is a big moment for him, for our family,” Maggie said. “Please don’t carry this burden forever, Sam.”
John leaned closer to Sam. “You know the reefs are closed to islanders, lad. Fisheries Management and the Navy are patrolling, and they are taking boats. Why do you have to test it?”
“Fuck them, that’s why. Our home, our fish. The fisheries aren’t theirs to sell to the Japanese.”
Maggie gave a weary sigh. “Oh Sam, let it go. The government has already taken too much from us. Don’t give them reason to take our boat, too.”
“Your mum is right. Besides, the Aussies are importing nice tinned scrod for us these days.” John was the only one chuckling.
Sam grimaced and spit in the grass.
“Oh no, lad, I’ve seen you catch your fill down at The Jolly Roger. Se moosa bus,” John said, using the slang for ‘you ate your fill’ in the local dialect. “You look well on it.”
“Our tourists can still afford New Zealand lamb and Australian beef, thankfully,” Maggie added. ”Just think of canned fish as a diet, Sam.”
“Some diet — it’s Australia starving the excess weight of fishermen and ranchers off of the island,” Sam growled. “What will they regulate out of existence next year?”
Maggie tapped her lips with her index finger, imploring Sam to stop. “Save it. I won’t have our tourists overhearing your negativity. I’ll drop you by Kingston Pier on the way to the breakfast event. Be safe out there, Sam.”
Sam nodded and added his best impression of a relaxed smile to his face as several tourists ambled down the sidewalk towards them.
“Here come mine. Seeya, Maggs.” John turned on the charm for his group. “Good morning, weary travelers. All bound for the world-famous Fletcher Christian Resort join me over here. Welkam tu Norf’k Ailen.”
Maggie rose from the picnic bench and held up her Morayshire Tours sign. “Welcome to Norfolk, everyone. Morayshire is right over here. Leave your bags to the left, we will load them up for you.”
As Sam loaded bags into the lower compartments of their twenty-passenger bus, Maggie noticed one of the fighter pilots exiting a side gate out of the ramp area. An airport fireman was talking to him and pointing directly at Maggie. The pilot patted the fireman on the back and ran towards Maggie in a relaxed trot.
“Mrs. McCoy? That gentleman told me you might have a room available.”
“Yes, yes we do,” said Maggie, wondering what an American pilot was doing so far below the equator. “I’m Maggie McCoy, mister…”
“Colonel Andrew Bowman, but call me Drew, please.”
“Pleasure to meet you Drew,” said Maggie. “Exciting morning, eh? Everything okay?”
“Nothing too crazy,” Drew said. “My wingman had a fire warning. False alarm, fortunately. The Aussies are sending a team tomorrow to check both aircraft. I was just happy to find an airport in the middle all of that ocean. We had another nine-hundred miles to reach Australia. I’ve been to a lot of out-of-the-way places, but you guys redefine remote.”
“Just staying with us for the night, then?” Maggie asked.
Drew laughed. “Not sure how to answer that one. My separation date from the Marine Corps is officially tomorrow. This was just supposed to be a ferry flight for the Australians and then a nice little Sydney retirement vacation. I’ll have to get a hold of my squadron and… anyhow, details. Can we call it one night with the possibility to extend?”
“Absolutely,” said Maggie. “Sponge up as much island time as you can. We have plenty of space these days.”
Maggie gestured her guests, plus one fighter pilot, into the bus. Once all were settled in, Maggie started the bus and put on her headset. Like most busses on the island, it was equipped with speakers so that it could serve the dual role of a point-to-point conveyance and tour trolley.
Maggie slowly drove towards the airport exit. She gazed at her group in the rear-view mirror, trying to ignore all of the empty seats. Maggie forced a smile. “Welcome, everyone, to our lovely little island. I hope everyone enjoyed their Qantas multi-course breakfast.”
All of the tourists shared a laugh at Maggie’s well-practiced humor.
“What? They didn’t feed you? Don’t worry. I know it was an early rise for all of you and we’ll get you fed. We’re headed straight to our Leagues Club for your first package event, breakfast as a convict. One of our local reenactors will treat you to some island history and a five-star brekkie. I promise, no prison food.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie caught Sam miming her welcome script word for word. She playfully shook a fist.
“I will promise that you are going to love your week on Norfolk. When Captain James Cook claimed this treasure of an island for Great Britain, he described it as paradise on earth. We have it all here: a tumultuous history, pristine beaches and friendly locals.”
“Unless you are an incoming Australian administrator,” shouted one of the tourists.
“Too right, Mr. Harris. So sorry you had to see that little display, friends. We do get passionate about our politics here.” Maggie laughed nervously and tried to get back on script. “We love our history, even though this paradise has at times been hell. When Australia was established as a penal colony, they sent the worst of the worst to Norfolk Island. The jail was so awful that the Queen had it shut down in the mid-1800s. A few years later our ancestors, descendants of the HMS Bounty mutineers and their Tahitian wives, settled here. At breakfast, we’ll learn more about all of that history. We’ll also hear why the ruins of the old jail are described as one of the most haunted places on the planet.”
“Scary place at night. I saw the ghost of Prime Minister Fraser’s hairline there once,” said Sam, drumming out a rimshot on the seat in front of him.
“Forgive my son, Sam. I keep telling him to stick to his day job as a longshoreman. He’s eligible if you know any nice ladies off of the island. Way off the island, hopefully.”
The tour bus lurched to a stop as it rounded a tree-lined corner. A brown and white mottled cow straddled the centerline of the road with a calf poking its snout underneath its mom, hoping for some breakfast.
“Look at this. Our detour to the pier has given all of you a chance to meet some of our other island citizens. Cows have the right-of-way here on Norfolk. Let’s give them a second to clear out.” Maggie carefully edged the bus towards the pair of bovines, waiting for them to lose interest in the center of the road.
“Looks well fed enough,” one of the tourists remarked. “I’ll bet she grinds out some tasty groceries.”
“Yeah, no. Our milk and cheese are all imported at this point. As you may have heard, a couple years back, a virus attributed to our cattle caught us pretty hard. Invasive mozzies or a sick visitor seem a more likely source to most of us, but our cattle are still working their way back from a cull.” Maggie gripped the wheel and looked away from the rear-view mirror. “That’s all behind us now. We like to say our best export is happy memories.”
As the bus started back up and pulled into Kingston, a tourist leaned over Drew’s seat. “Nice little aircraft you have there, Colonel. What’s the F-35 like to fly? Does it have short legs like they say?”
Drew pulled his attention from the window and inspected the gray-haired pensioner. “No, it’s a great aircraft. Pretty comfortable for a long hop, actually. That’s a savvy question about fuel, though. You a pilot?”
The tourist beamed with pride. “I’m former Australian air force. I flew the F-111 back in the seventies and eighties.”
Drew returned the smile. “An Aardvark driver, huh? That must have been a hoot.”
“It was, but we called it ‘the pig.’ I have to ask, Colonel, you look familiar. Are you the fighter pilot that was talking to Congress about the Lightning program a few years back?”
Drew’s eyes narrowed behind his lightly tinted sunglasses. “It was televised in Australia?”
The tourist laughed. “There’s not much demand for American defense subcommittee programming Down Under. We live-streamed it at the Returned Services League back home in Bundaberg. You have admirers among some of us previous RAAF types. Many of us are no fan of the F-35 program either.”
Drew shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked around to see who else may be listening. “Actually, the congressional session was about a training exercise that I led, not the F-35, though I know it may have seemed to be the focus.”
The tourist nodded understandingly with an expression that carried few hints of understanding.
Drew waded back in to close the gap. “It’s not that I’m not a fan of the aircraft. The biggest critics of the F-35 always seem to be those farthest away from the program. That day words were put in my mouth. I just believe that no one weapons program deserves to be the most expensive in history in light of other more pressing needs.”
“That’s exactly how it played out in Australia. We have a capable air force with very few capabilities we might actually need, and everyone else fights for scraps.”
Drew nodded and pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m a scientist at heart. I can’t hear hyperbole without trying to poke a few holes. When I ran the exercise, I hoped to illustrate exploitable weaknesses so they could be patched. Wasted breath, mostly.”
“The representative from Texas really had blood in his eyes," The tourist’s bushy eyebrows arched and he made a silent whistle.
“He was only defending the second largest employer in his district. Not sure I can blame him.” Drew said. “Look, that dogfight is behind me now. I’m off the clock.”
The former RAAF pilot smiled and patted Drew’s seat. “Fair enough.”
Drew made eye contact with Maggie in the rear-view mirror. “Can I get some prison food too? I’m starving.”
Maggie laughed and shook her head. “We’re fresh out of stale bread, but I think we can accommodate you. Sam, get him the extra jump suit. Come be a tourist with us for a bit, Colonel.”
“Why not?” Drew spread his arms wide with a Hollywood grin. “What else is an unemployed Marine to do?”
“If you dress right, the warden fella will let you double up on gruel.” Sam handed Drew a white jumpsuit garishly covered in black chevrons.
Drew pulled the tag out of the jump suit. “Aw, Sam, this is a medium. No bueno, sir… I’m at least a large.”
Sam laughed. “Lucky for us you’ll blend right in. Your flight suit reminds me of prison jarmies.”
Drew pulled the squadron patch off of his shoulder and handed it to Sam as a gift. “You and me both, Sam, you and me both.”