“Get what you need and meet me down by Bast in ten minutes. If you’re not there, I’ll leave without you.” Not really. In fact impossible, but it did sound good and awfully satisfying.
Chapter 27 A Boating We Will Go
Peter was trembling as he slipped out of the camp. That session with Lampie had been really flipping intense and not in the way he’d dreamed. Staring into her eyes over the rifle barrel, for a few seconds he could have sworn she’d pull the trigger. Flip, flipper and flipping hell! He only came out here to excavate a site, not get involved in one of Sid’s weird or nefarious schemes, though considering Sid’s track record, it was blindly optimistic to think that he’d follow the straight and narrow. He must have been pretty low from the Limberlost Terrace visit to even consider taking on a Sid directed commission! At least Lampie had agreed to get out of here. That was the best part and once away he’d see what she thought about the rest of the information. This secret was too large for him to hold on his own. Castles and tombs in Australia! By his sainted aunt, just how was he to find those without experienced local knowledge?
After slinging the pack over his shoulder, Peter moved quietly back to the camp. It was unusually quiet, no Bluey or Rob, not even Uncle Bill. That was one extremely long beach barbeque. Well at least they weren’t here to trip over. That was a small blessing, so he grabbed a few items from the site tent and stuffed them in a spare back pack. Since Sid had done the deal with Wallace, he needed to salvage a few key pieces before they disappeared. Then with his loot over his shoulder, trying not to feel like a site ripper, he slipped down to the estuary and out to the ketch, keeping a nervous watch for any of his scaly fangy friends.
Lampie gave him a suspicious glare as she pressed the uncooperative starter switch for the third time. It failed to live up to its name. “Pete, are you absolutely sure you didn’t touch anything in here?”
He threw up his hands and shuffled back slightly in the open cockpit. Since the rifle incident earlier, he didn’t want any further excuse for Lampie to get upset. This was one girl living on the edge! “I only came in here to use the internet for five minutes. I didn’t touch a thing! Not a switch, a cable or any contraption!”
The glare continued for several seconds with him sweating every instant. “Yeah,” Lampie appeared to look him over speculatively, fingers drumming on the cockpit cowl, in a rhythmically intimidating beat. Peter had the distinct impression he was being weighted up. His subconscious hinted that considering Lampie’s current frame of mind, it could be a croc bait scenario. She finished the tapping and frowned. “Know anything about electrics?”
When the question finally came, Peter almost sagged in relief. Lampie’s anger was being channelled elsewhere! “Flipping hell no. I’m an archaeologist and historian, remember?” He gave that reply a little more stiffly than intended.
Apart from a raised eyebrow, Lampie ignored it and continued her quizzing. “Computers?”
“Sorry, apart from ‘garbage in, garbage out, not really my thing.”
“Nav sat systems?”
“A what what?”
“Never mind. What about motors?”
“Sort of. I’ve stripped an old Land Rover and rebuilt it. Does that count?”
“Did it work afterwards?”
From the tenor of that question, he could tell that Lampie was trying to politely rephrase ‘what level of disaster did you create?’ Peter felt slightly insulted. He hadn’t spent all his life at university. He had actually done a lot of things apart from study history and most of them were heavy in the practical field. Thus his reply was a good deal stuffier than he’d intended. “Yes! It was a farm wreck when I found it and passed MOT after. Still driving around last I heard.”
“Yeah, I suppose that’ll do,” Lampie sounded very reluctant to concede him mechanical credibility. However she still passed him a torch and pointed to the floor behind her.
“Those are the hatches to access the engine. They flip up. Have a look an’ I’ll check the electrics.” With that brief instruction, Lampie slipped down the ladder into the cabin. It had been a little cramped in the cockpit before that, not space wise no – more like the prickly boundaries of suspicion rubbing up too close and added to that was the ghostly presence of a third. Good old Sid, the cause all their current problems. Oh yes, even when not present in the flesh, Sid had a way of leaving a lingering malaise of difficulties wherever he went.
Peter wrestled open the catches and, one handed, levered up the covers. The other held the small recharged torch. Its beam paly illuminated the engine space. Considering their current situation, the ketches’ lights had been left off and for her work Lampie was using one of those windy LED torches with the cabin blinds drawn and hatchway closed. Shielding his light, Peter lowered himself into the engine compartment. Not a lot of room – he was sure his great grandfather had the same complaint while working on ship’s steam engines.
According to the embossed label, it was a Lees Ford diesel engine. All right, he had an even chance of sorting out the problems. While he could strip a petrol car engine and definitely deal with a two stroke, diesel motors were a more specialised field. In his territorial training he’d done a driver’s course that included basic servicing. Not field stripping a gearbox or anything wildly complex – more like if the beastie breaks down find the fault and fix it enough to get it running. The two really basic areas to check were the electrics and the fuel supply. He remembered that the most common problems with the old diesel trucks they’d had in the training depot were fuel line or filter blockages. So that was as good a place as any to start. Peter traced the lines and didn’t like what he found. Recently someone had moved along the tube and crimped it every three or four inches, probably with a pair of pliers. The scoring marks from the jaws were still fresh. Ahh flipping hell this was bad! Praying that it wasn’t so, he went over the rest of the engine, every line and every wire. Other more serious problems emerged; the filter was loose, cracked and slowly dripping fuel and worse the cable leading to the glow plug had been broken and the plug itself unscrewed and missing. Even if you fixed the rest, without the glow plug to warm the fuel, it wasn’t going to start. None of this could be anything like accidental, even with an apprentice, so that meant sabotage. Peter left the engine bay and slipped down the ladder into the main cabin, closing the hatch behind him. The vessel’s captain had an interior panel open with a mess of wires spilling out. “Lampie we’ve got problems!”
She turned to him with an unhappy scowl. “Y’ not tellin’ me anything new Pete. Some bastard’s gutted this – half the cables have been cut!”
“Well, they’ve also played fast and loose with the engine. The fuel lines are stuffed amongst other problems.” Peter watched Lampie lock the panel back in place. His boating knowledge was limited to time with Fiona at Cowes and a few spins across the channel and back. As you would imagine, he was thinking of other non-nautical matters like seasick tablets and, when in port, furious sessions of ahh non-nautical pursuits. So unlike his great grandfather, he had very little knowledge of what you needed to get a vessel ship-shape. Even so, he figured that this ketch wasn’t hitting the ocean waves anytime soon. Unless…? “Lampie can we use the sails?”
You could see the consideration flashing across her face, first the shock and then surprise at a known landlubber and Englishman coming up with the idea, then the flash of hope, followed by thoughtful consideration and frowning problem sorting. It was looking good. Peter felt a leap of, of … crushing disappointment as Lampie sadly shook her head “Sorry Pete, that isn’t going to work. The sails may be okay, but we’re pretty screwed for navigation and radio. No GPS and no weather reports and if we got into any problems, no motor.”
“So that’s bad is it?”
His companion in attempted escape gave a very dry chuckle and shook her head. “Pete, y’ know most of our work was checking out wrecks that’d suffered very similar misfortunes. With no motors or sails, poor charts and change
s in weather, the Kimberleys coast is a very unforgiving place.”
To Peter, this situation looked really bad, skirting close to absolute catastrophe. After the fortuitous arrival and the interesting discussions at the dinner party, he knew Wallace wasn’t a man to muck around as it where. Lampie’s vessel had been trashed while they were being entertained on the cruiser and everyone else was safely occupied elsewhere. The only suspects could be Wallace’s assistants, since the Kimberlys was a tad light on for gangs of wandering vandals. So by this action Wallace had made it very plain, he knew what he wanted and was determined to ensure compliance. As far as Peter could see, this action was no different to one of the infamous Kray brothers hinting to a minion that a knee job would make the publican of the Duck and Drake more receptive to an ‘arrangement’.
As a message, it said Lampie and he were useful, but don’t think you’re going anywhere and if there are any problems dot, dot, dot! However in the best stand over traditions, if they were helpful little archaeologists their new patron would flick a few crumbs their way and Sid would be simperingly grateful. But if they wanted proof of the true extent of the discovery, they had to leave now before records got ‘rewritten’.
One more chilling thought struck Peter. With the shivers, he’d discovered and translated Father Joachim’s gesta. Had Sid? From all the chat at the dinner party, Sid was still sure everything pointed to the Portuguese. Wallace however, kept on making veiled references to the crusading studies of one doctoral student, Peter Wilks. As that little worry took hold, Peter’s mouth dried out to a Sahara like consistency! They needed to get out of here ASAP! He gave a throat clearing sound which drew Lampie’s frowning attention. It wasn’t hard to see that the vandalism to her vessel had struck pretty hard. “Lampie I think this damage is by way of a warning. Wallace is sending us a message that he’s in charge and we leave only at his say so.”
“Yeah, got that!” Lampie was sitting at the small table with a deep scowl on her face and hands clenched. At a guess, Peter thought she was practicing for the ‘throttle Sid’ competition. If so she was a firm contender for first place.
“Well, what I said earlier Lampie, still stands. I will walk out of here before I will help Wallace or Sid.” He didn’t add the fact that after seeing this, staying put his chances of being stung, bitten or munched increased way past the survivability factor. Since looking at Sid’s laptop, he had an even better idea of Wallace’s business and the last thing an ‘antiquities dealer’ wants is a detailed list of all items he’s ‘acquired’ in hostile hands. Lampie hadn’t responded to his latest outburst and Peter was wondering how cut up she was over the assault to her boat. This looked like pretty serious wrecking and belatedly he realised he should have been a tad more sympathetic. Now he really did want to comfort Lampie, in this her hour of need, and his instincts and more rebellious parts wanted that comfort to be very close and very personal. However the more rational part of the hind brain kept on screaming about imminent threat and the fact that three times he’d been lucky, did he really want to risk a fourth even for the chance of exquisite and unforgettable rumpy-pumpy! It was a tussle his conscious was having a wee difficulty in balancing out. It could have gone on for minutes longer except that Lampie unclenched her hands and lent across the table towards him. Even in the dim light an action like that riveted the attention – it must have been something about shadows and the outline of inviting breasts.
Peter swallowed and shot off a quick prayer and Lampie lent closer, her warm breath brushing his senses and spoke in low husky tones, her lips parted invitingly. Yes this was it!!! “Y’know Pete, I gotta message of my own to give!”
“Yes…?”
* * * * *
“Shh! Keep it quiet there Pete. Do y’ want everyone to know what we’re doing?”
Peter sucked on a bruised thumb, seething with mutinous discontent. This was not what he’d expected! Then cautiously, he grabbed hold of the oar and dipped it into the water and strained. The blade bit and pulled against the current and the laws of physics threw him once more against their cargo. Only the padding of his pack muffled the metallic clink of the jerry cans.
“Flipping hell, Lampie!”
“I thought you Pommie uni types were good at this!”
“Bollocks! That’s Cambridge and Oxford and this craft is in no way a rowing scull, more like a flipping barge!” Peter regained his seat and tried the stroke again. Both oars stayed in the water this time and the vessel pushed ahead a couple of foot. Great, at this rate they’d clear the bay sometime well after dawn. He dropped the oars and bent forward towards the dim outline of Lampie, seated at the stern
“Lampie this just isn’t working. If you want speed from this, we will have to try something else.” He suppressed a curse. When Lampie had said she had a message, he was thinking of the more physically intimate sort, like united we lie, not row a lumbering raft over choppy waters in the flipping dark!
“Any ideas admiral, or do you want to attract the attention of the beach party over there?” In the low moonlight he could see her wave her arm towards the campfire on the beach to the south, and no he didn’t. However despite Lampie’s sarcastic tone, he may have had an idea.
The Rigid Inflatable Boat or RIB for short was, according to its owner, a light and versatile craft. At ten foot in length, it was easily deployed from a small vessel like a yacht or ketch and useful for ship to shore as well as up river journeys. Usually it was powered by an outboard motor clamped to the stern board. At this time of night and this close to Wallace’s battleship, the outboard was more in the way of an ornamental anvil like addition, that was increasing the drag on his rowing efforts.
Then we came to human power, a pair of short oars that gave one the false impression of row boat like qualities. Well that may work in theory. So according to the instruction manuals, that meant engaging the manual drive option, ie oars, arms and the rudimentary rollocks, that’s those circular rings that the oars slip through to give a fulcrum point. You know like with Archimedes that Greek inventor who ran down the streets of Syracuse naked, crying Eureka because he’d discovered a new principle in his bathtub. Well, he’d said if he had a lever long enough and a place to put a fulcrum he could move the Earth. Except of course that Peter reckoned the RIB designer had taken the Greek inventor to heart, when he pulled on the oars it felt like he was already trying to push the Earth off its axis!
His efforts to date had not been a startling success, so his idea was to gain leverage, and find a fulcrum! After some muttered debate he got Lampie to wedge her feet against his to provide him with something better to push against than the low ribbing on the aluminium deck plate. Settling back into his seat, Peter tried to imitate the stance of the Cambridge rowing eight and hauled on the oars feet braced. What do you know, it actually worked!
A little later on in the night, Peter discovered two important facts. First he was terrible at keeping track of time and second his emulation of the Henley Regatta was damned painful. His shoulders made urgent complaints at every stroke, while his arms may have contributed to the furore if he could actually have felt them. He hoped that the numbness wasn’t a sign of gangrene or anything similarly nasty. In between gasps he’d asked Lampie how long they been at it. She’d spared a brief glance at her watch and kindly informed him that ten minutes had elapsed. Oh flip, flipper and flipping hell, he wasn’t going to make it!
“Hey Pete, y’ see that over there?”
In between straining on the oars, he glanced across to the seaward side where Lampie’s shadow of an arm was pointing. Flicking the sweat out his eyes helped as well. Vaguely he could discern a couple of ripples breaking the surface. “Ahh yes?” The oar bit into the water again and with a jarring strain he completed the stroke.
“Well according to the fish finder sonar I’m looking at, those ripples belong to a fishy over three metres long.”
“The what?”
Lampie gave one of those suffering sighs that sp
oke of the implied ignorance of Pommies like Peter Wilks. “Think of it as sonar system for finding fish not U boats Pete. Keeps the tourists happy when I take them for spins through the archipelago.”
Wow the wonders of modern technology! Why, were we going to depth charge a shoal of tuna? “So what about it?”
Why the flipping hell was she telling him this? It’s not as if they had time for a spot of angling. These Aussie’s could be pretty strange at times!
“Nah don’t worry, it probably isn’t hungry.” HUH? That comment suddenly gained his undivided attention.
“What isn’t hungry?”
“Well I can’t be sure, but it’s the right time of night for a shark to be cruising around the bay. Nah, I wouldn’t worry. They don’t often attack boats unless their freckin’ ravenous.”
He knew he didn’t want to know, but in any situation there was always some imperative driving you to ask the stupidest of questions. “How can you tell if its ravenous?”
“That’s easy. It starts circling, and then does a run at the boat. Like I said, they hardly ever attack. I haven’t heard of one for months.”
Why was it he didn’t feel relieved about that morsel of information? ‘Months since’, didn’t give the same measure of reassurance as years or decades since. Then with her face palely illuminated by the fish finder screen, Lampie gave another laconic instruction. “Ahh Pete, y’ might want to up the pace. That fishy looks like it wants to circle.”
At that news his shoulders, back and arms voted unanimously for self preservation and he did his best to do like a trireme jet ski. Lampie’s little updates on the fishy situation provided wonderful motivation.
It was only after they’d passed the headland and Lampie started the outboard that Peter stopped rowing and dropped to the bottom of their little vessel. It was cold and wet but he really didn’t care. His back and shoulders were in a state of mutiny. As for his arms, the feeling had come back and he wished it hadn’t. A few minutes of moaning and wincing may not have gained any sympathy, but flipping hell it felt good! Then Peter struggled back onto the low seat and tried to figure out their next stage. In the rush to escape he’d ignored the obvious question of, escape to where? Lampie had muttered something about knowing where to go, but to be honest he’d been too locked into the ‘get the hell out of here’ mode to worry about mere details. Now he wasn’t. “Hey Lampie, where are we going?
Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery) Page 35