I'm up long before the sun touches the horizon.

In the pre-dawn hours, even Sydney is taking its time stirring to life. Breakfast hasn't yet been laid out in the hotel dining room, so I head into the streets in search of the strongest coffee I can find. My train north doesn't leave for a few hours so it's the perfect chance to make good on yesterday's intention to hit the Uppers.

The walk over to the nearest lift sets me in good spirits. Outside, the morning air is crisp and invigorating. There is something to be said about the break of dawn in any great metropolis, how the dull wash of first light through empty streets feels like a reset on the sins of the night.

After wandering over to Pickford Tower, I pay the fee at the lift base-station and am soon rocketing skywards with a handful of fellow early risers (or perhaps late revellers?).

Exiting out on to the broad promenade is a mesmerising experience. Three stories in height, it feels cavernous, like a giant scoop has been taken from the corner of the tower. The skyways, which give the illusion of floating out over the city, cause the mind to marvel at the engineering complexity involved in their creation. If you've never been to a city with a skyway system, I can't recommend the experience highly enough.

It's busier up here than I'd expect at this time. Joggers stride past taking advantage of the uncongested space, tourists are heading out to snap the perfect sunrise selfie, and vendors prepare their stalls for the new day to come.

I get chatting briefly to one of the vendors about the upcoming commemoration. Despite not being open yet, he takes sympathy on a weary traveller and sorts me out with a fresh cup of brew.

Now with some kick in my veins, I wander out along the eastbound skyway, stopping on occasion at viewing platforms to take in what Sydney has grown to become over the past several decades.

While Sydnersiders do love to impress with the modern and well-functioning scale of their home, few care to admit the city was once intended to serve as the de-facto capital of a planned pan-Asian-Pacific empire in the southern hemisphere. It was largely the influx of BEMS migrants throughout occupation alongside significant Chinese investment that saw the necessary upgrade of critical infrastructure upon which Sydney now profits from enormously.

From the heights of the skyways, one needs only glance out to see that where the suburban sprawl refused to give way to redevelopment, city planners went up instead, inspiring a whole new generation of skyrise accommodation and commercial floor-space, though not all were impressed.

One critic claimed the rapid construction boom was 'giving Sydney the real-estate boost it needs at the expense of style', while another less-than-inspired observer said the city was 'on a journey to becoming just another generic pin-cushion metropolis with a fancy bridge.' Needless to say, such criticisms are rarely heard these days.

Just last year in November, at only the second post-oc Asian-Pacific Trade Forum (hosted in Sydney) at which China and Australia have shared a table at, the Chinese Trade Minister wryly asked the Australian delegate when Beijing, despite past hostilities, might expect a measure of recognition or recompense for its undeniable role in the city's impressive growth.

It was former British Prime Minister and current U.K ambassador to Australia, George Pyrmont OBE, who unexpectedly jumped in to field the question, suggesting, with a rather coy grin, that such recognition might materialise perhaps after Britain heard a word of thanks from Beijing in return for Hong Kong.

The war of words from that incitement continues four months on.

With my time to enjoy the splendid view and morning calm running out, I need to hustle if I'm to make my train, so turn back for Pickford Tower at a clip. The lift is much fuller on my return trip to street-level as people have lives, jobs or beds to get back to.

After ordering a single seater shuttle, I spend my final few minutes at the hotel wandering the lobby exhibits one last time, taking note of some previously unseen works whose history I'd like to research later.

The shuttle gets me up to Central Station in good time. After barging my way through the surprisingly busy crowd - leaving me to curse myself for poor time management as always - I arrive to find my train thankfully still docked in its station-cradle, stretched out to the far ends of the platform in each direction.

This track, originally the country's first mag-lev line, was constructed as a means of rapid connection to Canberra during the war, after grave fears among many upper-echelon government officials that Axion-armed insurgent groups operating on the mainland would target the air route between Sydney and the capital.

Post-oc, the Victorian state government voted to extend the mag-lev line south to Melbourne - a project delivered nearly a decade late after being plagued by enormous budget overruns and construction issues while facing heavy criticism that the cost/benefit ratio couldn't be justified given the pre-existing rail connection and affordability of air travel.

Environmental groups also claimed that chains of heavy concrete pylons used to elevate the track would 'uglify' the natural landscape, prompting one Victorian minister to suggest implementing 'flora-frameworks' around the pylons to encourage growth of native foliage that would conceal them. That idea was quickly shot down by the project's lead engineer, who pointed out that 'high-speed trains and natural debris don't typically mix well.'

Given the distances involved, the national mag-lev lines are closely monitored by intelligent surveillance systems. Unique in Australia, as a redundancy, the trains themselves are preceded just several minutes in advance by scout drones whose job is to automatically stop the train upon sensing debris, track damage or signal failure that could lead to catastrophe, as occurred in the Kenyan high-speed rail disaster some years ago.

There are three high-speed runs to the Triesto military superbase each day, but only the early train (or at least, a section of it) continues on north to station at Arlincoe, the border town which serves as the primary gateway into the ECR. It later returns to link up with the evening train making its run back to Sydney.

The front five wagons are those which will disconnect at Triesto, so I head in that direction weaving through dozens of young men and women in military fatigues with duffel bags slung over their shoulders and lining up to board the remaining cars - all heading back to Triesto after pre-commemoration leave, I suppose.

Just before stepping on to the train, I witness a light commotion further back down the platform. There looks to be a small media-herd gathered around someone saying a few words to the cameras. With Triesto a regular stop for high-profile individuals in the government and industry, it's likely to be a politician enjoying a little publicity.

Triesto, once the bastion from which SADR operated its war against the Esterlands, is today a joint-branch military/intelligence establishment divided between Australia and the ECR. It is the largest military complex in the southern hemisphere, providing neutral ground for defence discussions, training operations, and formal diplomatic events between the two regions, while also hosting multinational coalition contingents working closely alongside Australia's armed forces.

Right on time, we depart from Central Station with the slightest jolt, snaking at low-speed between the rows of inner-city housing before we go under the harbour, after which there is a kick as the train winds up to immense velocity over the mag-lev track.

Relaxed and settled in for the journey, I take out a notepad and pen (yes, some of us still employ those ancient artifacts) to jot down some thoughts from the morning so far. Little do I know that a simple train ride north is about to take a dramatic departure from the norm.

About halfway into the journey, a man in a crisp dark suit enters the carriage and makes his way down the aisle in my direction. There is a certain manner in his appearance and the way he moves that suggests he's a member of the security services. With so many politicians aboard agents are to be expected, so I assume it's simply a routine sweep of the train but am somewhat surprised when he stops directly in front of me.

"Mr. Hadley?" the man states more than he does ask, to which I simply nod. Uninvited, he takes the seat opposite, introducing himself as Kurt Lydon, a 'federal security officer'. I'm treated to the flourish of an official ID which, if fake, I couldn't tell anyway.

"What branch are you with, exactly?" I ask him.

"Sir," he says, packing his ID away and simply ignoring the question, "it's my understanding you're travelling through Triesto and onwards to Arlincoe this morning, where later you intend crossing into the ECR, is that correct?"

"It is," I reply heatedly, "but then, so are fifty other people in this car, so perhaps you can tell me what this is about?"

Lydon seems unfazed by my defensiveness. "It's just that we have a number of high-profile individuals on-board today, sir, and this is just standard procedure when a person-of-interest is travelling in such close proximity."

Person of interest. That does take me by surprise, as it's often the language used by security forces when referring to a possible threat. Lydon, however, reads my expression and raises his hands in a calming manner.

"Perhaps poorly phrased," he says, attempting to disarm my concern. "If I considered you a problem, Mr. Hadley, I wouldn't be alone, nor would I be seated. In fact, you wouldn't be on-board at all."

I lean forward a little, feeling both relief and a rising sense of aggravation. "And to which of your VIPs am I of such interest?" I ask Lydon rather acerbically. He leans back in the seat, steepling his fingers together.

"William Pershing," he answers, almost laying the words out like bait as he watches closely to observe my reaction. I think back to the commotion of the press junket on the platform in Sydney just as I boarded.

For those among you unfamiliar with Australian politics, William Pershing is currently leader of the opposition tipped to win the presidency by a landslide in the coming election. He is also a staunch supporter of the campaign to abolish the ECR state and reunify it with the mainland, which might seem odd given that Pershing himself is former Esterlani, having survived both sieges at Harburg.

Lending greater fascination to his success in politics is that his father was Gary Pershing, the architect of an infamous war-time plot to surrender Harburg to the enemy - a treachery which came a hair's breadth of losing us the entire conflict. The Pershing family was later forcefully exiled from the ECR, a banishment that William did not take lightly.

Lydon's eyes are still fixated on me in a way I find unnerving. "Were you aware the Mr. Pershing would be on-board today, sir?" he asks.

I shake my head slowly. "I'm here on a personal matter. Mr. Pershing's travel plans are not my concern, nor are his politics if that's what's troubling you."

The agent raises an eyebrow. "As someone who fought in Harburg, it doesn't concern you that Gary Pershing's own son might soon be able to affect national policy that could have detrimental consequences for the ECR?"

It's clear from the way he emphasises Gary Pershing's name that Lydon is trying to push my buttons and provoke some outraged response. For the life of me I'm not sure why, nor am I willing to play his game, so instead I just shrug.

"The man is not his father," I reply calmly. "No man is unless he chooses to be"

Lydon drums his fingers thoughtfully. "Some in the ECR can't make that distinction," he says.

"Well," I reply, "he can breathe easy since last I checked, Esterlani aren't eligible to vote here." I fix the agent with a hard stare. "That, Mr Lydon, is the end of my patience with all this. If I can't help you with anything more pressing today, I'll wish you a safe and pleasant journey."

Lydon relaxes his shoulders a little. He steeples his fingertips again, tapping them together as the hawkish intensity of his gaze turns contemplative. After several moments of what seems like internal debate, he stands up, rolling his shoulders to re-adjust the fit of his jacket.

"Mr. Pershing has asked to speak with you privately in the forward state car, if you should feel inclined," he says unexpectedly.

Lydon must see the way my eyebrows take a sudden hike north. He leans in. "Just a chat, as I understood it, not a bare-knuckle boxing invitation," he says.

I look at him perplexed, certain there must be some mistake. "You're aware of our family history, yes?"

"Of course," Lydon replies, studying me with curious amusement, maybe considering whether a fistfight between the country's future president and myself is something he might actually have to intervene in.

"And should I feel disinclined?" I ask.

Lydon gestures as if he's got better things to do than play school-yard messenger. "Then I'll wish you a safe and pleasant journey, Mr. Hadley," he replies coolly. His tone suggests I have about three seconds to decide.

I'm not sure what a 'quick chat' between myself and Pershing might entail, or accomplish, but decide impulsively it would be foolish to turn the invitation down, however baffling the circumstances. I get up and follow Lydon's directions, moving back through the wagons while quietly contemplating what could had led to all of this.

At the connection leading to the first state-car, Lydon presses his thumb to a security pad. The door slides open and we step into the space adjoining the wagons. Before opening the second door, he points down at the watch around my wrist.

"Can I assume you're running BlackBox software?" he asks. I hold up my wrist and waggle the device.

"I am, but I can deactivate it," I offer. "I've got a decent memory."

Lydon pouts and shakes his head. "I'll leave that to Mr. Pershing's discretion," he states, then opens the second door without another word.

I'm ushered into the first of two private state-cars reserved for travelling complements of government officials, ranking military brass and various titans of industry who warrant the privacy.

It's a minimalist business-style layout; muted tones and more spacious than the standard cars, with a little more polished wood and leather thrown in. At the end of the car is a small standing cafe bar with a glistening chrome espresso machine as its centrepiece and various patisserie delicacies on display in front of fridges filled with exotic juices and bottled water infused with such-and-such and so-and-so.

There are maybe two-dozen people in the car, most of them ministerial or military types in sharply pressed suits or ribbon-studded uniforms. Some are seated while others are gathered around the bar picking out pastries and sipping coffee.

My appearance draws a few curious glances - quite possibly the well-worn brown jacket, scuffed shoes, and creased polo-shirt - but then they spot Lydon over my shoulder, directing me forward and not tossing me out by the collar. His inaction puts them at ease; I'm not an uninvited guest, I'm not an invader to their system.

Of the faces I see, some are familiar to me. It's not just Pershing's crowd, but a mixed congregation from Canberra no doubt heading to Triesto for a public display of political unity. In light of commemoration, this would not be a wise time for demonstrations of disharmony.

William Pershing himself is standing about halfway down the car in discussion with two colleagues who, as I approach, are quickly dismissed. He turns, fronting himself to me as I stop just a couple feet away. Lydon steps past me and talks quietly into Pershing's ear before moving several paces further onwards, far enough away to give the illusion of keeping respectful distance, still close enough to be wholly dangerous if need be.

There we stand, Pershing and I, studying one another intensely for several moments - two men who've never once met face to face, yet are bound by a dark and complex history that has left its mark on both our lives since the war.

Pershing is only three years my junior - the same age as Nell in fact, but whereas I bear my age and life's trials upon my shoulders for all to see, he's retained a youthful vitality that would be the envy of many. He carries himself well - a man who understands the importance of good posture, appearance, and the fit of a well-cut suit, with sleeves rolled up like a working man because that's what appeals to workers who vote.

Beneath a head of impeccably groomed dark brown hair that's dashed with salt and receding a little at the temples, he owns a nose that's been broken more than once and a scattering of faded shrapnel scars across his jaw line and forehead - a stark reminder that he once served on the lines in Harburg.

All-told, Pershing has a hard but honest face that makes clear he'll tell you whatever he feels is the truth and damn your feelings otherwise. In an occupation rife with professional vote-panderers, it's a trait that's won him much admiration, as did his ability in steeling himself against an onslaught of ridicule, slander and abuse suffered during his early political career.

Since his father's devastating betrayal of Harburg, Pershing has been no stranger to the hatred of others, but just as he shoulders the ill-will borne upon him for the actions of another, so too does he possess primitive reasons to feel aggrieved by my own heritage. It was my brother, after all, who executed his father, Gary Pershing, at the Mar for treason.

Perhaps now you can understand why, even twenty-five years later, a Hadley and a Pershing being on the same train has tripped some flags with the security services.

After a slightly awkward hesitation from both of us, he offers me a hand, which I take.

"Nice to finally meet you, Michael," Pershing says with unexpected sincerity and a firm but respectful grip. "I appreciate this might seem odd, but I realised this was the first chance, maybe even the only chance, we'd ever have to meet in person."

"Odd to be sure," I answer honestly, "but happy to talk if you have something on your mind."

"Great to hear it," he exclaims pleasantly. "Let's grab a coffee, shall we?"

Never one to turn away a caffeine hit, I nod and we head over to the bar. Perhaps people have been forewarned or maybe it's something they just sense, but those standing at the counter suddenly decide their conversations can be continued elsewhere.

The moment we're settled I begin searching for the kind of words that start conversations, but Pershing beats me to it.

"Lydon says you're running BlackBox," he says curiously. I again hold up my watch which is indeed running software that records and transcribes audio from my near surroundings to a file in a constant overwriting loop (as per the law regarding the use of public recording devices), like the technology used in aircraft.

"Would it make you more comfortable turning it off?" I ask him. A thin smile stretches across his face.

"You're a writer Mr. Hadley, I assume you might make mention somewhere of our discussion and what is said here?"

"I'd say it's a good possibility," I admit, to which Pershing makes an ushering gesture.

"Then leave it running, please," he advises. "A misquote in politics can be as deadly as a misfire on the battlefield."

Now it's mine turn to smile. I begin adjusting the watch around on my wrist, now just as conscious of the fact it is constantly listening in. Glancing over at Lydon, I'm certain Pershing could have the security services scramble or erase anything recorded during this meeting if he felt it compromised him.

"To be honest, I'd rather not use it at all," I confess. "But ever since the death threats started, I figured it was a small measure of security, or at least potential evidence, in the worst-case scenario."

"Time does not heal all wounds," Pershing remarks soberingly. "Still a lot of anger out there about the war and some just don't know how to deal with it. Books like yours just give those people a target to focus at. Once you've seen enough of it, you realise it's just a sad form of catharsis for the disillusioned."

I'm impressed by this simple and elegant evaluation from a man who has probably received more death threats over his lifetime than most would care to know about.

"Beyond the Mar," he says out of left field. "That's your new one, right? Haven't had a chance to read it yet, but you lifted that from K.J Sallow, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes, I did, in fact," I reply a little sheepishly, surprised Pershing seems familiar with my current chronicle project. He's right in that its title is lent from the wartime poet K.J Sallow's short but well-known verse, The Dark Earth Between Us.

If you're unfamiliar, The Dark Earth Between Us was a passage written by Sallow in grief after learning from his sister - serving with 7-Lgn defending the breakers at the Mar - that his youngest nephew had been killed in Harburg.

Sallow, a signaller with 3-Lgn out of Fortuna, spent the war keeping a personal journal of poetry and other works, much of which was later published to some acclaim. The poem itself reads:

Unyielding hold the Breakers at the break of new dawn
Defended by mothers, stained faces, who weep
Beneath scorched earth, life gifted them, born
Children of war, eternal they sleep

Strikes the hurricane raging, come winds that will scar
That blood sodden bastion, that crucible of pain
Hold! wretched Legion, hold fast beyond the Mar
The mountain moves not for the storm or the rain

Should this cruel beast unravel and crumble around us
Bled, cut and broken, soul slain from the fight
May its shadow that darkens the dark earth between us
Retreat as we rise forth into the light

While simple in prose, it instantly became Sallow's most recognisable piece after a journalist friend in England had it published. It then came as great surprise when George Pyrmont, the U.K's then-Foreign Secretary, later recited the poem during a response to his being asked whether Britain shouldn't seek to withdraw from the PaCC alliance.

At the time, the ongoing August-Dread Offensive appeared likely to succeed in overwhelming Harburg's defences given that SADR forces were gaining momentum in their push to capture the city, and with the ECR's future in doubt, some in Westminster felt it was perhaps time to reassess the country's foreign strategy.

As expected, Pyrmont's words drew the ire of Beijing's ambassador to the U.K, Chen Kok-Ki (then-anglicized as Charles Kok-Ki, giving rise to his nickname among us exiles, Cocky Charlie), who angrily declared that the recitation of insurrectionist propaganda from a member of the British Cabinet was entirely unacceptable.

Pyrmont, a vociferous critic of Australia's JSAC government who later served two terms as Prime Minister, in response then had The Dark Earth Between Us appear on the landing page of the Home Office's official website, a move that was praised throughout the Esterlands and among exiles abroad. At a time when coalition moral was fading, it reminded many that the ECR still had the support of its allies, however grim the outlook.

As we stand at the bar discussing Sallow's poem, I see a haunted look flash across Pershing's face. By that stage of the war, his father was dead by my brother's hand and his remaining family was under severe scrutiny of having been involved in the plot - a claim Pershing has always refuted. It's understandable he doesn't recall Pyrmont's famous agitation tactics in support of the Esterlands with the same uplifting sentiment.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sharp looking barista who avails himself. I order a double-shot long black, as bitter as it comes. Pershing, with the makings of a smile, holds up two fingers to indicate he'd like the same.

Our barista nods curtly before turning to his duties, and we both just stand there for a bit, observing the way he works with a clean, measured efficiency and flair. As the big machine finally starts to rumble and hum, streams of espresso begin filling the two cups.

"Not quite the way we brewed it in the tunnels," Pershing says amusedly, "but it'll do in a pinch I guess."

"If you'd prefer, we could ask your man here to filter it through a few old socks instead," I fire back, playing along.

"Ah yes, the socka-mocha," he recalls fondly. "I'll assume you've kept alive that precious art form all these years. Is it still as good as I remember?"

I shrug. "Depends how long you've been wearing the socks."

Pershing grins broadly before glancing over at his fellow ministers and shaking his head sorrowfully. "I tell you, these Canberra folk just don't appreciate a good mug of bunker-burn like we old rush rats do."

I'm genuinely taken aback that Pershing is actively looking for common ground we can relate across. I'm still not entirely sure why he's asked to meet but decide to let the conversation develop naturally without forcing the issue.

The barista lays our drinks on the counter with a slight flourish and I lean down to smell the aroma. Satisfied its contents could strip paint, I lift my cup in a form of salute. "If you want to dodge rockets..."

"You need rocket fuel," Pershing finishes, raising his own cup in reply. In that moment, any residual tension dissipates, and I can't help but smile that something as simple as coffee has managed to do that.

If not life, war will make you an addict of something. For many who experienced the conflict in Harburg, that something was our daily coffee ration. I still remember huddling in the tunnels throughout the winter months clutching a steel mug of cheap, instant brew we called 'bunker burn', almost high off the pungent aroma while embracing the heat of it warming my numbed hands through thin gloves - a moment of bliss before facing the hell of the streets above each day.

We rush-rats often joked of it being our 'death-row meal' before leaving the relative safety of the bunkers on a run. For some, sadly, that joke would prove a grim reality.

With the ice now broken, Pershing and I spend the next ten minutes making easy small talk, the kind of roundabout chatter that is often a customary precursor on the path to substance. He asks about life in London and the exile community, and I in turn about political life in Canberra, even nudging in a cheeky suggestion that rumours of a relationship with Rachael Rodkins, his pick for Cultural-Arts Minister, might be true. This earns me a smile that says no comment and mind your business all in one. Fair enough.

Our discussion eventually turns to Daniel Dewar, the retired nationalist leader whose death just last month has caused a serious headache for Canberra. Dewar is the man who almost clinched the presidency against Dom Graceford in the first elections after the fall of the JSAC government - a victory that would have set post-oc Australia on a vastly different course.

Pershing and I chuckle heartily as we recall the terse relationship Dewar had with so many of his peers during his tenure in Canberra.

"The man knew how to make enemies," I profess, "You have to give him that. Never minced his words, never apologised for them either. Stood behind everything he said, down to his final breath."

"No kidding," Pershing replies. "And he said a lot. Dewar was raging against Chinese expansionism when we were still playing chasey around the school yard. Not the first one, mind you, but he was monstrously charismatic, which let him get away with things that would have buried most politicians. Instead, they just pushed him to the fringe and hoped he'd choke on his own venom."

I nod in agreement. "Except it turned out he was right all along."

"Exactly, which is why he appealed to so many people after the war. To this day, I still don't know how Graceford beat him to the post."

"It was too soon," I point out. "The language, the way he spoke, the rousing semantics. Reminded people too much of Li, or Tim Mensari before her. They didn't vote against what Dewar stood for; it was a vote against what they feared he'd become. Same reason the ECR didn't endorse his campaign; they recognised an old demagogue when they saw one."

Pershing smiles. "Still a few of those about, don't you worry."

In the wake of Dewar's death, Australia's current president, Andrew Sturgess, declined to attend his funeral. The two men had never been on good terms, having clashed numerous times over the years regarding the nationalist manifesto.

That decision not to pay his respects has proved costly for Sturgess, who badly misjudged the enduring popularity of the notorious firebrand, perhaps given it was also Dewar who helped shape Australia's post-war Asian-Pacific strategies which many believe rescued and secured the nation's economic future from ruin.

In Dewar's final interview last year, he attacked Sturgess's recent decision to approve the gradual re-introduction of Chinese state-backed investiture in Australian utilities.

In his typically caustic manner, he labelled the president a 'spineless cuck presenting symptoms of beaten-wife syndrome' - an inciting comparison to women who return to abusive partners on the false promise of change.

I ask Pershing if he agrees that Sturgess has been too quick in trying to normalise the economic relationship with Beijing.

"Look,' he says, "Andy has to be applauded for what he's done in office. He delivered a budget in surplus against expectation, and it's no secret that with Beijing, he's keen to rebuild the house that once stood. At some point, we're going to have to accept we need them more than we don't."

Pershing pauses, picking out his next words carefully.

"The unavoidable fact, however, is that patience will be the key factor in the way our two countries move forward. Progress has been made, sure, but this is going to be a slow, slow dance, and some just feel Andy is rushing to put up the walls of his temple on a foundation that hasn't properly set yet."

In the minefield issue that has come to plague Australian politics, Pershing has minced no words of his own on how to confront the so-called 'China Problem'. Speaking plainly of a necessity to mend ties, he openly maintains that an ongoing blood feud mentality towards China will only hurt Australia in the long run.

This is not to say that he doesn't recognise the potential dangers involved, and he takes a firm stance on the side of economic reconciliation beneath a wide umbrella of caution.

Once asked during a debate whether Beijing could ever be an ally if kept at arm's length, Pershing quipped, "Make it a tentacle, and we should be fine." His answer, puzzling to some younger viewers, was a clear reference to the controversial Ian Gershon cartoons from the pre-occupation era.

These comics, published in the months leading up to the elections which put Tammy Li in power, often depicted China as a giant squid wrapping up the country (caricaturised by a dim-witted kangaroo named Frank) in what it called a 'very much big friendship' embrace. Meanwhile, its other tentacles would be pilfering resources and paying off politicians to espouse pro-Beijing sentiments.

The Gershon cartoons, which sparked protests against the syndicates running them, are now considered an unofficial national treasure, with the originals in their entirety on display at the National Museum.

Sadly, Ian Gershon numbered among the many who were 'disappeared' during the darkest days of occupation, when agents from the feared National Intelligence Administration (NIA) saw those opposing Tammy Li's rule snatched off the streets in a campaign of terror to silence political dissidence and seditious behaviour across the nation.

To this day, families of the disappeared - Ian Gershon's among them - continue pushing for answers as to the fate of their loved ones, often considered Australia's ongoing war. It is still a very delicate issue at home, and while Sturgess has been drawing measured concern for his push to repair the fractured Sino-Australasian relationship, Pershing's seemingly off-hand but sly reference to Gershon's cartoons played well in his favour.

While the remark caused some disgruntled rumblings in both Canberra and Beijing, the public's reaction was overwhelmingly positive, further boosting his profile and reputation as being progressive towards the idea of economic reconciliation, yet realistic in the need to keep the superpower's influence in check.

Pershing shoots me a wry grin. "And what about you, Mr. Hadley? You think we should keep our little Cold-War going forever?"

"To be honest, I'm less worried about your intentions with the Chinese than I am about your stance on the ECR."

Pershing presses his lips together to hide a shrewd smile. "Ahh," he says with a deliberate air, signalling a natural shift in the tone of our conversations as it sidesteps to a more personal level.

"I take it I don't have your vote?" he says amusedly.

"Undecided," I reply, "though I imagine the ECR is watching the polls with growing concern."

"Polls aren't always a measure of accuracy."

"They are when terms like 'insurmountable lead' are being thrown about. I'd be surprised if Sturgess didn't already have his concession speech drawn up."

"Defeat can always be snatched from the jaws of victory," says Pershing grimly. "Ask SADR's old boys about that."

It's a comment we both sit and chew on for a few moments before I press him further. "Ok, but let's say they are right, and now you're the president. You don't really think reunification is a possibility, do you?"

Pershing shrugs. "Probably not during my career, but the road has to start somewhere. I think we can soundly agree the Esterlands won't be forced into doing anything against its will, but I genuinely believe we make for a stronger nation together than apart."

His suggestion the ECR be ratified as an 'eighth state' that would ultimately answer to Canberra is something ECR leaders have baulked at, insisting the current system should remain in place.

The backbone of that system defining the ECR/Australia relationship is the so-called 'diode-policy', a non-reciprocal agreement allowing ECR citizens a freedom-of-movement right to travel, work or settle across the border on the mainland without restriction.

It is this policy Pershing claims has been exploited in providing means for clandestine Esterlani intelligence units to conduct illegal operations on the mainland. Among these allegations are the physical tracking and monitoring of corporate/industrial leaders, political espionage, the theft of classified defence information, and attempts to sabotage or influence trade relations.

Pershing plans to put end to the diode-policy by establishing a hard border between the ECR and Australia, a strategy that has caused a minor uproar.

"Well," I say, "slamming the door shut seems like an inspiring way to win their hearts and minds." It comes out more sarcastically than intended, though Pershing brushes it off.

"Shutting the door isn't the same as locking it," he resolves. "We want to regulate movement between states, not stop it. Besides, the assumption we have no right to govern our own border is a little sanctimonious coming from the other side."

In addition, Pershing also wants to implement a scaled reduction of armaments at the border, deepen intelligence sharing, and to construct access for a national east-coast freight way utilising the ECR's existing roads.

If these proposals are rejected, he has threatened to dismantle many of the existing bilateral agreements between the two states. This would include placing import/export tariffs on all existing trade, and even suspending war reparations still paid to the ECR.

With Australia's economy once again growing at an impressive rate, it possesses renewed strength to influence an expanding base of trade partners. It's not hard to envision Pershing exploiting that power to detrimentally affect the ECR's own alliances and trade relations if he can't achieve his objectives diplomatically.

Perhaps his most optimistic goal - full reunification notwithstanding - is the demand for the extradition of ECR citizens involved in the period of retribution killings that lasted nearly a decade after occupation ended.

It is this objective giving fire to the accusations of Pershing's detractors, who claim he is merely leveraging his political position to exact vengeance on the state which killed his father.

Pershing dismisses the charge, of course, arguing that Australia has a moral duty to pursue justice for past atrocities if the democratic value system is to be honoured, the most prolific example being the infamous bridge massacre which occurred some two years after the JSAC government was overthrown.

On that day, nineteen former JSAC ministers, SADR commanders and NIA deputies, hunted down across the globe by the legions, were shot in the middle of Sydney Harbour Bridge in a brutal act of public retribution not seen in the streets of the West since the end of World War Two.

The massacre remains one of the most damning moments in Australia's history, and no event did more to undermine confidence in the authority of Graceford's floundering interim government after national police and military forces refused orders to intervene.

As so perfectly captured in Peter Sachin's It Ends Upon the Bridge, the horrific nature of that mass execution will eternally stain what should otherwise have been a nation's struggling yet proud push towards a more prosperous future.

Amid a furious international outcry, Graceford understood his reaction to the killings would largely determine the country's future, for waiting in the wings was Daniel Dewar, heading a coalition of united ultranationalist parties - rebranded the Nationalist League - and riding a tsunami of popular support.

In that era of political instability, Graceford knew going after those responsible would be the downfall of his already fragile coalition as provoking the Esterlands could motivate its endorsement for Dewar, a blow that would have assured the Nationalist League's ascension to power.

Hoping it would serve as a gesture towards ending further hostility, Graceford compromised by signing an amnesty proclamation absolving those involved in the bridge killings of criminal responsibility. In return, the ECR agreed to hand any futher prisoners captured by its militia units over to the Australian government for prosecution.

Graceford's diplomatic solution would see him rebound to strengthen his coalition and defeat Dewar by a narrow margin in the elections. Nevertheless, he would retire from politics a deeply unhappy man, known better for his polarising amnesty and less so his more notable achievements over a storied career resisting occupation.

Pershing is now leading the charge to have Graceford's amnesty proclamation legally rescinded, arguing that its terms were immediately dishonoured by ECR militia units who maintained a covert campaign of retribution killings for years afterwards. If elected to the presidency, many believe he wields enough influence to push this agenda through the Supreme Court, and while very unlikely to receive cooperation from across the border, any attempt at retroactive prosecution will drastically alter the tone of future Australian/ECR relations.

"I understand Graceford's need to compromise back then, I do," Pershing confesses, "but no government since has had the courage to condemn those killings, and that is a silence I intend to rectify."

"The rest of the world didn't stay silent," I remind him, "and some of the loudest voices were PaCC member states. I'd say Cosh was lucky his alliances didn't break around him."

Pershing waves away my thought dismissively. "Scripted outrage, and you know it. That's half the game in politics - condemn publicly, condone privately. You think the legions dragged Troy Casavedes and Marin Scovic from a bunker in the middle of rural Croatia without help from their allies? What about Marcus Birchek in Durban? What about Li in Singapore?"

He swirls the last of his coffee around the cup and downs it before fixing me with a hard look. "They claimed outrage, sure, but who do you think was pointing Cosh's kill-squads in the right direction? And don't think for a second they didn't know what was coming. Perhaps not the method, but the end game they all knew."

He starts rapping a finger on the bar. "Those killings weren't just vengeance, they were a message on behalf of the whole alliance, a threat to every agent of subversion throughout the West that said, hey, what happened in Sydney today can happen to you here tomorrow. And it worked. Set the communist agenda back decades, so not all bad news, even if the Singaporeans are still pissed."

"Yeah, well I hear the asylum-for-cash business was pretty lucrative until Li got snatched," I reply. Pershing shrugs as if to say, not our problem. I then ask him if stirring up old resentments by dragging such issues back to light is really advantageous to either side.

"Look," he says, "despite what people think, I'm not on some crusade to get back at the ECR, nor do my sympathies rest with Tammy Li or the others who died on that bridge."

Pershing begins subconsciously tracing the shrapnel scars on his forehead. "You think I didn't spend my nights wanting those bastards to hang? Do you know how many friends I buried? Do you know how many friends I couldn't?"

He stops tracing his scars and makes a fist with the same hand. "Li terrorised this nation and killed thousands of our people in that damn war - thousands."

He thumps his fist on the bar with governed restraint, taking a deep breath to compose himself before going on.

"However justified it felt, though, the whole world watched an Esterlani death-squad murder nineteen men and women on that bridge - prisoners - in broad daylight, on Australian soil, in peacetime - and dollars to doughnuts it was Cordahl himself who pulled the trigger on Li."

It's impossible not to recall the massive print of Sachin's famous shot hanging in the hotel lobby, that whole gruesome tableau vivid in my mind; the faces of the legion fighters concealed behind their maw-masks, the striking figure at the forefront - almost certainly 7-Lgn's formidable commander, Alexander Cordahl - with his arm outstretched, pistol still in hand as the limp body of Tammy Li tumbles to the bloodied road among eighteen of her former compatriots previously gunned down.

I remember the day all too well.

Admittedly, I'm not entirely sold on Pershing's seemingly noble motivations - call it an inherent distrust of political idealism.

"The country has put this whole thing to bed and wants it to stay there," I warn him. "Look around you. The economy is strong, people are happy again, mostly. I admit the road taken wasn't smooth or pretty, but it got you here. Go digging it up and you may find more than just bodies. You prepared for that kind of fallout?"

"I'll step on toes if I have to," he replies, "but waving our hand and saying 'let the past be the past' can't be how we confront this anymore."

"You said yourself that holding onto the past is disillusionment," I put to him. "You, me, Cosh, the whole ECR, we all helped pull Australia out of the grinder, and you want to go back sifting though the mess for what, atonement? There are nearly a thousand people still missing since the war ended, probably dead and buried in some secret Myanmese labour camp, and you really think this is the issue that needs confronting?"

"It does if we want to be taken seriously in matters of foreign policy. How the hell do we denounce tyranny in foreign lands when we won't pursue justice for atrocities that happened here in our own backyard? Short answer is, we can't. Our hypocrisy invalidates any position of moral superiority, and so how do we hold others to account?"

Pershing has been pushing this argument since first elected to office. On the surface it makes for a solid point, and given the wave of support in Canberra for a government whose message of accountability is resonating across a new generation, it's little wonder Andrew Sturgess is being called 'the last friend of the ECR'.

Having said that, Pershing overlooks that Australia was hardly a prime example of functioning democracy in those early years, and not just due to the retribution killings. South and Western Australia were threatening secession, there were various power struggles in Canberra causing hell for Graceford's transition plan, half of the country's law-enforcement were turning a blind eye to the nationalists running amok, and the other half were probably card-carrying members.

The whole country was desperately seeking some state of equilibrium, but there was too much anger still. Too much suspicion. Too much division, all of it underscored by the missing victims of JSAC's ruthless purge to protect its regime.

"I'm not saying it was right, nor am I saying it should be ignored," I tell Pershing, "but you have to consider the national state of mind when it happened. The concept of rationality, of humanity even, was warped beyond recognition at that point, and because Li and the others ran, there was no closure, no visceral end to the nightmare they caused."

"That's what prisons exist for," asserts Pershing. "Quite frankly, the idea of Tammy Li shovelling down cold porridge in a cell each day for the rest of her life is more satisfying to me than the quick send-off she got."

I think back to my own sense of rage and loss back then - of those I loved who were taken from my life, and quite suddenly experience a rush of emotion through me the likes of which I haven't felt in many years. "Humans have a complicated relationship with vengeance," I say quietly. "You and I understand that better than most. It was never going to be over until Tammy Li got what she deserved."

Pershing pulls an exasperated face. "Christ, man. They blew her head off on that bridge with half the goddamn city watching. Half the world at that. The fact she deserved it is beside the point. The war was over."

"Was it over for you?" I ask him pointedly. "Is it over for you? Or is the anger still there, and you just learned to hide it better?"

Pershing's eyes narrow. "Are we talking about Li, or my father?"

"You tell me, Will."

For the first time since we started speaking, Pershing doesn't have an immediate response. He massages his jaw, like a chess player mulling over their next move.

"You know," he finally says in a sombre tone, "it's no easy thing having a dad famous for all the wrong reasons. I could go to sleep and wake up a hundred years from now, someone would still want to spit in my face."

His remark makes me consider what it must be like having to face that kind of undeserved animosity every day. It is innate within us humans, an oddly seeded cruelty perhaps, to look upon the children of the damned and wonder how far the apple has truly fallen. Whatever good William Pershing may do in this world, the sins of his father are a burden he will carry for life.

"For the record," I tell him, "I don't agree with what happened to you and your family after the war."

"They did us a favour," he says with indifference. "We never could have stayed in the Esterlands anyway, not with our surname. At least being exiled by force meant we didn't have to creep away in the night like we were guilty too."

"Still..." I say, leaving the obvious hanging there. I see a strain on his face as he starts nodding.

"Yeah, it hurt me, bad," he confesses. "As if everything I did meant nothing to anyone. So yes, I became an angry young man who felt betrayed. I threw blame at everyone in my field of fire and I said angry things I'm not going to apologize for, even now."

"But then you surely understand why some people worry you're unable to deal objectively with the ECR?"

Pershing's jaw tenses. "And again, I can't see why. I don't hold them responsible, because the ECR didn't kill my father, your brother did. No trial, no mercy, just sent him and the others across the Mar and...bang." He mimes a gun being fired with his thumb and finger.

"Mercy?" I blurt out incredulously. "After how many people he got killed?"

Pershing screws up his face, and I can see the frustrated thought forming behind his eyes, Oh God, not this again.

"Look, my dad wasn't trying to get people killed," he explains patiently. "He was trying to save what was left of that city. Every day the death toll climbed, he was the one who saw the numbers. Put yourself in his position. His people were dying and starving in a war they couldn't feasibly win, and he couldn't handle it anymore. We were losing, so he just tried to lose it quicker and save what lives he could."

I hear myself choke in disbelief. "By diverting resources from where they were needed? Why do you think people were starving? By literally telling the enemy where the city's defences were weakest so they could roll over the lines? How exactly was that saving lives?"

Pershing's jaw begins clenching again. "Cordahl was a fanatic," he seethes. "He would've held those lines till SADR burned Harburg to ash."

"So the answer was to try and have him killed?" I scoff. "And if that had worked, was my brother next on the hit list? Or Hendry? Or maybe just anyone who thought the fight was still worth it? Who did your dad think was going to shake his hand for that, exactly?"

"My guess, the people who survived."

"People did survive," I almost bellow. "They survived because we won that damn war!"

"We?" Pershing sneers. "You were off at school in merry old London, mate, not dodging bullets at the Mar. And we only won because Li panicked after my dad was killed. Pushing the August-Dread in response was stupid on her part, plain stupid, but it's also the reason we won. If she'd sat on her hands and done nothing, we'd have been starved out or dead inside of two years."

I'm riled up at his taunting accusation, and it gets the better of my usually composed nature. "Right, so a little fortuitous causality and all's forgiven. Maybe your dad's even a hero for it?" I taunt, ignorning the voice inside telling me to step back. "This is why they will never trust you in the ECR, because you still see your dad as the victim in all this."

Pershing's face flashes in rage. "My dad was a hero to me before he was a villain to you," he spits. "Was he flawed? Yes, but he was my dad, so forgive me for thinking he shouldn't have been murdered without the chance to defend himself. Forgive me for thinking his body shouldn't have been left rotting in the sun out on the Mar for three weeks until goddamn SADR offered us a ceasefire to come scrape his remains off the pavement, and your brother wouldn't even allow that. Let the squids bury their own, that's what he said, and if you can't wrap your head around why that's still a problem for me, you're welcome to drag me to a bridge and shoot me on it. You people are good at that."

You people. There it is, the division between us he truly sees. Gone is the illusion of camaraderie we'd established earlier; enough layers have been peeled back on civility here to expose the rot beneath.

"Hey," I bark loudly enough that Lydon's head snaps up. I'm genuinely struggling to keep from yelling, resorting instead to angrily jabbing the air between us as an outlet. "You lost a dad because of his own cowardice. I lost half my goddamn family in that city. I took a bullet to the head for that city, so don't tell me I didn't play my part."

As I unleash, I thumb the scar running down the right-side of my head where the sniper's first bullet creased my skull. Admittedly, it was his second bullet, the one through my lung, that almost killed me, but sometimes a head wound gets the point across better.

I close the distance between us slightly, better controlling my volume but unable to keep the anger out of my voice. "My grandfather was shot down at the Red-Sticks trying to gap the holes your old man put in our lines. You think that didn't play some small part in how my brother reacted when they caught him in that bunker, with his finger on the button and enough rations down there to feed the city for a month while people were on the verge of starving? SADR dropped half the roof down on Harburg because of him. What did you think was going to happen?"

I lean in closer still. "Eric put a bullet in your old man while the people he betrayed were still being dug out of the rubble, and you want to stand here acting like it was cruel and personal in some way the rest of us can't understand? You have to be joking, mate."

I'll admit I'm ashamed of myself for losing control. I'm not usually one for emotionally driven rants, but the whole encounter has unbottled an avalanche of sentiment I didn't realise was even there anymore.

Pershing is looking at me wide-eyed like I'm from another planet. He clearly wasn't expecting that outburst - nor the conviction with which it was delivered - from my side, and I think he knows that anyway he responds will simply inflame the tension. Even Lydon is on his feet, observing us carefully while others in the car are also throwing concerned glances our way.

Then, like a referee stepping in on-cue, a voice over the loudspeaker announces we'll be arriving in Triesto shortly. Realising there is nothing more to see, people begin drifting back towards their seats to gather belongings.

It is Pershing who finally breaks the silent deadlock between us. "Thanks for the chat," he says to me quietly. I can see the fight has gone out of him as he turns to stare morosely out of the window behind the bar. There is no malice in his voice, just an acceptance there is still too much poison here. Our quick chat is over.

I step away from the bar, not knowing what to say and figuring to leave it at that. Like him, the fire has vanished from behind my eyes, but a weight in my chest remains.

It occurs to me then that Pershing, realising I would likely publish details of our encounter, probably saw meeting me as a way of connecting to a wider audience, maybe even as a renewed attempt at humanising his father - a man I have spent much of my life hating fiercely for his betrayal, yet know little else about.

The truth is that I have no reason not to believe Gary Pershing was once a good man and devoted father, adored by his children the way I adored my own. It strikes me how awful it must be having the whole world see only the crime without ever knowing what made heroes to us of those we loved.

In that moment, and despite the harsh words said, I feel an overwhelming sense of empathy for William Pershing, and I turn back to face him. "You know, I met your dad once," I confess.

Pershing breaks his gaze from the window and looks at me strangely, as if confused why I'm breaking protocol by not leaving as expected, but also curious to hear more.

"Put a medal on my chest," I continue, thinking back to the moment. "Actually, it was a ribbon, not a medal, for the Rat-Swarm Defence. He came down from the Citadel to do it personally. Made sure we all got extra rations as well."

The corner of Pershing's mouth turns up. "Sounds like him. I was too young for that fight," he says ruefully, "but I know that was a tough couple days. First time on the line for you?"

"Actually shooting back? Yeah, it was terrifying."

"You even hit anyone?"

I shake my head. "Doubt it, but I sure kept some heads down. Still have the ribbon, too" I admit, patting my chest where his father pinned it there all those years ago, in a time before fear and desperation - perhaps even some genuine but misguided sense of duty - led him down a dark and terrible path.

Pershing glances down at my wrist, and I again become aware of my watch, listening in to all that has been said between us, words I've no doubt a man running for president would prefer remain private. I feel like I owe him that much.

"I'll leave all that last part out of it," I assure him, before nodding to my empty cup still sitting on the counter. "For the best coffee I've had this side of the Mar."

Despite my trying to lighten the mood, Pershing shakes his head slowly at the offer. "You should know better than that, Mr. Hadley." he admonishes mildly. "Got to stand behind what you say, so either print all of it or none of it, and I happen to think I made a few points worthy of putting out there."

Realising what he's consenting to, I exhale loudly. His PR team would probably go into meltdown if they knew he'd just waived a chance to conceal a potentially compromising interaction, and I respect him for it. "That's brave," I declare sincerely.

He grunts a laugh. "Does that mean I'll get your vote?"

"Not a chance," I reply with a half-shot grin.

Pershing almost smiles. "Keep well, Michael."

I give him a nod. "Will."

Lydon escorts me back to the doors leading to the front wagons. After the second door slides open, I walk through it alone.

"Not sure if I'd want to be yelling at the guy who might have the power to launch missiles," Lydon quips amusedly.

"I grew up in Harburg," I tell him. "I'm used to it."

Lydon smirks as the door slides shut between us, and suddenly I'm back in the real world, left to process what just happened. With the train starting to decelerate, I return to my seat, reflecting on my conversation with Pershing as Triesto comes into view around a curve in the track.

The superbase truly lives up to its name, a self-contained fortress that hosts thousands of active tri-service military personnel, intelligence and signals directorates, combat-systems research & development units, and numerous technical support outfits, to name a few.

The train scythes past dual rows of tiger-wire fences warning the general public that this is no longer civilian territory, although a large part of the base accommodates the families of service members and base-support personnel who underpin much of Triesto's wider 'civilian-street' economy.

The base itself has been massively expanded over the past decades to meet the needs of Australia's rapidly developing defence network, and while it was once the main stronghold of SADR's well-outfitted and powerful paramilitary forces, Triesto had been designed primarily as a high-command base of operations and never actually intended to withstand an attack, as discerned by the original sparsity of its fortifications.

Worse still, when Cosh began advancing south, almost the entirety of SADR's forces had been deployed into the field, leaving Triesto's final defence in the hands of a mostly inexperienced reserve battalion which had been in-country less than a month.

I can imagine the impending sense of doom those men must have felt. Kilrossy and Tamsin Ridge had already fallen, and when word came through that Cosh had crossed the LoC (Line of Control) at Arlincoe, they knew he was bearing down on them at the forefront of a veteran legion phalanx some thousands strong.

Dissention spread through the upper ranks, with a number of senior commanders calling for the reserve force to abandon the base before their last avenue of retreat south was cut-off by 7-Lgn, currently flanking their position to the west in their hunting pursuit of the fleeing 206th Regiment.

In the chaos, a mutiny broke out during which SADR's recently appointed Executive Liason Officer, Dei Fong, was shot by a senior regiment commander after threatening to have deserters tried and executed (an incident which later inspired the cult black satire, The Death of Dave Hong ).

When Cosh arrived and began unleashing his forces against the hapless defenders, the reserve battalion had been reduced to less than three-hundred men who'd remained behind, most of whom had never before fired a shot in anger. Under withering fire, collapsing defences, rapidly mounting casualties and a belief that Cosh was manoeuvring artillery into play, the battle for Triesto lasted all of ninety minutes before the white flag was raised. One survivor later wrote that it was 'like trying to stop a freight train with a headbutt'.

Much of the hardware captured when the base fell was soon transported back to the Esterlands to be repurposed for the territory's own future defence needs. Among this haul were armoured vehicle fleets, rotary wing aircraft, artillery, huge stockpiles af explosives, small arms, and sensitive communications equipment. The post-oc Australian government made several attempts to have some of the plundered equipment returned to no avail, leaving the interim defence minister to fume, "They even took the damn lightbulbs!"

After what has been an eye-opening journey, the train finally eases into Triesto station. On the left of the track is the base's sprawling quarters and facilities precinct. Here, soldiers can live, play, shop, drink and meet with civilian friends when off-duty.

On the right, some ways back from the platform, is the entrance to the actual base itself. Towering sandstone walls channel the passengers towards a broad archway supporting heavy steel gates which are currently swung open. Here, the arrivees are controlled by a rotation of watchful, armed guards.

From my window, I see Pershing disembark and head toward the crowd on the platform instead of remaining in the arrivals zone reserved for dignitaries in the state cars. Public appearances aren't effective if you're not seen in public, after all. He mingles briefly with soldiers returning to base, shaking hands, making small talk, inspiring confidence and earning votes - every ounce the politician.

Finally, he joins a congregation of upper-brass military officers there to welcome the man who will certainly become president. They escort him and his entourage straight past the heavily guarded checkpoint to a convoy of waiting vehicles which then depart quickly from sight.

Ten minutes later the front cars of the train have been decoupled and we glide away from the station to continue north for the short onward leg to Arlincoe, leaving me to deeply ponder the encounter with Pershing.

As we draw ever closer to the Esterlands, I wonder if maybe he thought our meeting today could be his own chance form of catharsis, a confrontation he seems desperate for but can't have. Given my brother will never leave the Esterlands, I suppose I'm the closest he'll ever get to facing his demons.

Several minutes underway, a thunderous roar from the sky above grabs my attention as a formation of fighter jets passes by low and loud. It looks to be a practice run for the commemoration day fly-past. On the fuselages of the aircraft I spot the blue and white roundel, each with the ubiquitous red kangaroo stamped in the center - the legacy symbol of the RAAF returned to service.

Thirty years ago, it would have been near-impossible for such aircraft to operate so closely to the ECR border. Throughout the conflict, this here was some of the deadliest airspace on earth for the JSAC government's air forces, due to the impressively lethal nature of a terrifying weapon that would turn the tide of war in our favour.

Axion.