Sunday Morning

They looked even better after an unexpected phone call on Saturday evening.

So when Moran called just after one-fifteen on Sunday Ballantyne was ready to spring a little trap.

The phone rang twice before Ballantyne answered, and Moran didn't beat about the bush.

"I'll do it," Ballantyne had replied. "But there are a couple of things I'll need from you. When can I expect to see you?"

"I'm at lunch at the moment," Moran replied, "and I've got a couple of heavyweights from down south with me."

That hardly rated as news to Ballantyne. 

He'd sighted the Shadow Ministers for Defence and Northern Development, along with the Federal Secretary on the ground in Darwin yesterday and he knew they were Katherine-bound in the morning.

"I've got to drop them at the airport for a three-thirty charter," Moran continued, "and I'll drop by after that."

"I'd suggest you drop by on the way, Brian, old son. There are things they need to hear."

"I think they've got someone they want to look up in the Officers' Mess before their charter," Moran countered.

"And I think you'll find they've already spent too much time at the trough already. In fact, if they don't get here, I can guarantee you won't like what you get to hear."

"Can't make any promises."

"So give me a call when you're out the front," was Ballantyne's curt conclusion.


© Ian Hughes 2017