‘I’m sure you have all the relevant information regarding the actual mutiny itself,’ Pete continued. He knew he was taking a punt using the term – he hadn’t heard the word ‘mutiny’ applied – but surely that’s what it must have been if road blocks had been set up to prevent the Negro troops entering the city. He could see from the steely look in Johnson’s eyes he’d hit the right chord. ‘I mean all the military information of course, material that’s hardly available to me.’ He gave a disarmingly humble smile that might have worked had the time and the recipient been right. Neither were. Johnson remained unmoved. So Pete decided to lay off the charm.

‘There’s been trouble here in Townsville among black and white troops for some time, Commander,’ he said. ‘Things have been covered up naturally, but there have been so many precedents leading up to this latest disastrous event, that quite frankly the military should have seen it coming.’

He had Johnson’s full attention now and he knew it.

‘Trouble’s been brewing with regard to black soldiers throughout the whole of North Queensland,’ he went on. ‘Of course, the Australian Government’s demand that Negro troops be kept away from major urban centres hasn’t helped,’ he added cynically, ‘but the US military’s failure to provide their black soldiers with adequate recreational outlets has openly courted disaster. I believe the mutiny to be a direct result of all this.’

‘You seem to have made quite a study of the situation, Mr Vickers,’ Johnson said.

‘Yes, sir, I have.’ The very opening he was after. ‘I’ve written reports about every incident that’s occurred in Townsville over the past several months.’ He held out the folder. ‘It’s all in there, Commander.’

Lyndon accepted the folder. ‘What do you expect me to do with this?’ he asked.

Pete wasn’t going to push his luck by voicing his hopes out loud. Not yet anyway, not until the man had read the contents of the folder. ‘Whatever you see fit, Commander,’ he said. ‘I believe my report will speak for itself.’

‘Very well.’ Lyndon was most certainly intrigued, but he was not about to have his day spoiled. ‘I’m going for a walk, I need some fresh air,’ he said abruptly, ‘I shall read this sitting on a park bench.’

‘An excellent idea, sir.’

‘I’ll get back to you in due course, Mr Vickers.’ And with that, Lyndon Johnson turned on his heel and marched out of the hotel.

Once outside, he crossed the road and started to walk briskly up The Strand, admiring the view; to his right the glistening sea and far in the distance the mystery of Magnetic Island, and to his left, towering above the township the rust-red edifice of Castle Hill.