Fire Cult

by R. B. Shaw

  The salvage site was in the Trobriands, a remote island group in the Solomon Sea off Papua New Guinea’s east coast.

  A light aircraft landed and Dave waited for the arrival of Jake Porowefu. Jake was a stocky New Guinea highlander, his best onsite foreman. His versatility and loyalty were unmatched. Despite their different nationalities and background, they shared a mutual respect. Dave glanced at the progress of repairs to the crash damaged Fokker F28 jetliner, then turned on the radio to listen to the headlines.

  ‘… The earthquake was most devastating along the north coast. The Madang province has been declared a disaster area, with volcanic eruptions and tidal waves reported on Manam Island. Karkar Island volcano is still venting lava after previous eruptions. Two vulcanologists monitoring eruptions are reported missing, feared dead.’

  Dave had felt the quake. It had been bad even here at Kiriwina in the Trobriand Islands, seven hundred kilometres from the epicentre.

  Jake arrived, threw down his pack and shook hands. ‘What’s going on, Dave? We got plenty of work. Why salvage this heap?’

  ‘Too good a deal to miss, Jake.’

  In reality, Dave also needed to get away from his tedious business schedule in Port Moresby. The primitive challenge of field repair work away from bureaucracy was like an elixir.

  Jake studied the damaged New Guinea Airways jetliner. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Flew into a hailstorm. As you can see, it’s hammered in the wing leading edges and destroyed the nose radar. The windscreens were so bad they could only just see out.’

  ‘Why didn’t they fly on to Port Moresby?’ Jake asked, eager to practise his new skills with English.

  After paying for Jake’s education with profits from a recent venture, Dave paused in admiration. His English was now excellent. ‘The hail almost snuffed out the jet engines and this was the only landing strip in the area. The crew were nearly flying blind, but did a great job of force landing in torrential rain. Saved the lives of seventy passengers.’

  ‘They must have known it was too short for the big airliner?’

  Dave glanced at the Fokker jetliner. With the nose on the ground and the four huge main wheels bogged to the axles, the tail was thrust unusually high. It towered over the nearby coconut palms. ‘No choice, Jake. Over-ran the strip, through the native garden, then the nose collapsed in that patch of bamboo.’

  ‘Where’s Fang? We could do with his help,’ Jake suggested.

  Dave knew exactly what Fang was up to. ‘Said he was too busy.’ He wished he had his assistance, despite their frequent clashes.

  Jake thought the jetliner looked destined to become a very expensive chicken coop at the end of Kiriwina’s airstrip. He also knew of Dave’s legendary persistence and tenacity in the face of adversity. ‘This one looks impossible,’ he quipped, almost as a challenge.

  ‘Nothing’s impossible, Jake, subject to three parameters: cost, time and logistics.’

  Jake pushed his point. ‘Is it worth it? They reckon it’s the oldest plane in the fleet.’

  ‘I know. The aircrews hate it. New Guinea Airways were eager to write it off as an inaccessible crash site. I was just as quick to scoop up the salvage rights.’

  ‘They think you’re crazy in Port Moresby.’

  ‘We’ll make a good profit on the wreck, if I can get it flown out.’ A radio call interrupted further comment.

  Jake took the call. ‘It’s Jan. She wants to talk to you.’

  Her voice was indistinct with static. ‘Dave, there’s two Japanese men here who want to charter a plane for two weeks. They want to discuss some arrangement with Fang.’

  ‘Why Fang?’

  ‘They seem to think he’s the boss.’

  ‘Two weeks. Great. If Fang’s back, get him to ferry them around in the Beechcraft.’

  ‘No, they want to fly themselves. One’s endorsed to fly in PNG. They want to charter a high wing aircraft. Fang has some dubious friends but these guys are strange. The older one is slim and athletic. The other is a brute of a man. Quite muscular for a Japanese, a nasty looking character.’

  Dave hesitated. A request for a high wing aircraft could only mean they wanted unobstructed vision for a ground search. ‘No problems, Jan. Let them have the old Cessna 207. No one else wants to charter the Lead Sled anyway.’

  It was a good choice. The underpowered Cessna was unpopular with pilots. Its nickname resulted from a comment that the only reason it could take off was due to the curvature of the earth.

  ‘Yes, that should do them. Only have backpacks with them, and said they want your help at a later stage,’ Jan added.

  Dave pondered the strange request then dismissed the thought. ‘Right, I’ll leave it to you to organise. Remind them not to overfly the Madang province. It’s been declared a disaster area and only aircraft involved in disaster relief are allowed in. Anyway, how are you coping?’

  ‘Okay, business is going well,’ Jan paused. ‘I’m missing you.’

  ‘It didn’t seem that way when I left.’

  ‘I still can’t understand your death wish attitude. With the money and power you have you should be thinking of a more comfortable lifestyle. Instead you’re an adrenalin freak, always looking for your next hit.’

  ‘Only one who has cheated death can truly appreciate the wonders of life,’ said Dave simply.

  ‘That’s corny, Dave, and you know it. You take it too far. It’s almost a pathological obsession with you and Fang.’

  ‘Next you’ll tell me you have no psychological problem,’ Dave taunted.

  Jan hesitated a moment. ‘I just wonder where our relationship is going sometimes, Dave.’

  Dave noticed that four tractors had now arrived at the crash site. ‘Jan, I gotta go. We’re at an important stage now, almost ready to drag the jet out. I’ll see you in Moresby in a few days.’

  3

  Dave Stark had underquoted his competitors. Now a hostile situation had developed. A CAA airworthiness surveyor, Ian Collins, was on site. Creating a barrier of paperwork, he insisted that the jetliner be flown out ‘by the book’, despite the contracted deadline. Dave suspected the surveyor was in league with one of his rivals. Three days remained before his bid would be automatically declared invalid. His rival had a less ambitious and less profitable quotation to reduce the plane to spares onsite.

  Collins fidgeted with paperwork, worried by the rapid progress of the salvage and repairs. It now appeared his deadline would be beaten. ‘Stark, if you do get this shit-box ready to fly, you realise it’ll be overweight and illegal for take-off on this short strip?’

  ‘But it’s a non-revenue ferry flight, crew only!’ said Dave, angered by the petty restriction.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. If you want a permit to fly, you’ll have to get the weight within legal limits,’ the surveyor demanded abruptly.

  Despite constant harassment, Dave ruthlessly stripped the airframe of excess weight. The seats, toilets, galleys, upholstery, air conditioning and ducting were packed ready for shipping. With assistance from a paid local gang, Jake manufactured a primitive adjustable scaffold. Using air bags to take the weight, he progressively jacked the nose in tiny increments, to allow the damaged nose gear to be locked down. He helped Dave to lower the jetliner onto interlocking perforated iron plates called Marsden matting—thanks to the Americans, these wartime relics were still in profusion throughout the South Pacific. Similarly, both wings were jacked to raise the bogged main wheels. They organised the gang to build a compacted stone ramp back up to the strip and topped it with matting.

  Another call from Port Moresby interrupted their schedule.

  Jan’s voice was again metallic and distorted. ‘Dave, the two Japanese men have taken off in the Lead Sled.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Dave unconcerned.

  ‘I don’t know, nothing tangible. I’ve got a strange feeling they’re up to something illegal. For partners, I don’t think I’ve seen two people argue so much. It was
almost a punch-up all the way to the plane, one dominating the other.’

  Dave paused, deep in thought. ‘You said they paid in advance?’

  ‘Yes. Cash.’

  ‘Not our problem then. Any word from Fang?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thought as much. Maybe you could help me instead. There’s an airworthiness surveyor here named Ian Collins and he’s really giving me a hard time. Total harassment, everything I do. I’m positive he’s being paid off by a rival salvage company. Could you quietly check around and see if he’s in someone’s pocket?’

  ‘No worries. I like a bit of detective work.’

  That afternoon, following the efforts of four tractors and over a hundred labourers on ropes, the Fokker jetliner was dragged back on to the parking bay of Kiriwina airstrip.

  The surveyor, annoyed at the successful retrieval, had almost run out of excuses for refusing the permit to fly. He broke up the jovial mood of Dave’s team. ‘Stark! You’re still not within the legal weight for the length of the airstrip,’ he taunted, as he totalled the combined weight of equipment removed from the jetliner.

  Dave had expected more obstruction. ‘So what’s your last word? I’ve complied with every request and it’s nearly ready to fly out.’

  ‘Another tonne will do it,’ Collins smiled, knowing it was almost impossible.

  Dave rummaged through his own copy of the regulations. ‘Or an extra hundred metres of strip length?’ he said referring to the official document.

  A stunned look of panic gripped the surveyor’s face and a hesitant quaver crept into his voice. ‘What … er, yes, that’s probably correct.’

  Now Dave smiled and turned to the Paramount Chief standing nearby. To the islanders the Chief was like a god on earth and none dared stand taller than him. Dave spoke Pidgin so rapidly Collins could not understand. He had secretly negotiated with the Chief and organised labourers to slash, clear and level another two hundred metres of land at the end of the runway. He paid large sums in compensation for the many trees to be felled. In this country, trees were treasured as personal possessions. Some had enormous value, revered as spiritual icons. ‘It’s organised,’ said Dave simply.

  Collins stormed off without comment.

  With the added impetus and shortage of time, Dave and Jake worked on without a break. As they installed the last wing leading edge, the new radar nose cone arrived ready for fitting. Lacking a compacter, Dave paid the local villagers to have a ‘sing-sing’ dance on the new crushed coral extension. The Trobriand Islanders needed little excuse to have a celebration and their chanting, pounding drums and stamping feet resounded late into the tropical night, producing an extremely compacted coronus surface. Coronus was readily available, a simple mix of sand and crushed coral.

  Dave busied himself with the mountain of legal documents. It seemed that the old adage, ‘the weight of the paperwork must equal the weight of the aircraft’, was all too true.

  Late that night, another call from Jan disturbed him. ‘Dave. We’ve got a lead on the surveyor. He was staying at the Lakatoi Apartments. A friend of mine works on the front desk. She said a lot of faxes were being sent between Collins and Northern Salvage in Australia.’

  ‘Great! Thought there was a tie-up. Do you know what was exchanged?’

  ‘No, but they keep records of all unclassified faxes. For a price she is going to let me photocopy every fax sent.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Jan. Look for anything that we can pin on this guy. I’ll fix you up for this when I get back.’

  ‘Sounds cosy. Are the terms negotiable?’ Jan chuckled.

  ‘Certainly are. Now be careful,’ Dave smiled to himself at Jan’s suggestive comment. Perhaps she was still trying to save their crumbling relationship and it renewed his interest.

  Next morning a light aircraft arrived carrying the two pilots, including Mal Ward, a Vietnam veteran and friend of Dave’s. Mal had no problem with Dave’s proposed take-off attempt, though it was obvious that Collins was trying to sabotage Dave’s plans.

  Ward provoked the surveyor with open sarcasm. ‘Space age technology obstructed by stone age mentality.’

  The surveyor tried to ignore the caustic remarks as he spent more time on the paperwork. ‘I don’t need smart-arse comments from a coupla stupid jumped up jet jockeys!’ he shouted, then complained about the suspect temporary repairs.

  Dave did not care. He knew he’d won and pressured Collins relentlessly. With support from the two pilots, Collins grudgingly authorised the permit to fly. This simple but precious scrap of paper was Dave’s legal go-ahead for the single risky take-off.

  It was Dave’s policy to fly as observer with any aircraft he salvaged and repaired. This time every kilo of weight was crucial and the permit strictly allowed one flight, with two crew only. The cabin would be unpressurised to reduce stress on the temporary hull repairs. With the damaged undercarriage locked down and lack of pressurisation, they would be forced to fly below 10,000 feet in turbulent tropical air. They had a slow, bumpy ride ahead.

  When the morning of the hazardous ferry flight to Port Moresby arrived, Mal taxied the patched-up jetliner onto the newly extended length of runway. The two noisy Rolls Royce jet engines screamed to full power, raising a huge cloud of sand, coral dust and loose vegetation. He released the brakes and the wounded plane thundered down the short strip and lifted off with little fuss.

  Dave was jubilant as the Fokker turned steeply toward Port Moresby. It had just enough fuel for the flight and an adequate reserve. The happy shouts and excited laughter of the delirious Trobriand islanders drowned out the sound of the departing jet. They knew they had played an important part in rescuing this example of jet-age technology from their sleepy backwater. Dave was watching the noisy jet bank out of sight, trailing a black smoky trail, when Jake interrupted with an urgent radio call.

  Jan was extremely agitated. ‘Dave, those two Japanese men have pranged in the Lead Sled!’

  ‘What! Anyone hurt?’

  ‘First reports say they were injured when they crash-landed and rolled. It could be a write-off.’

  ‘Bad news. I don’t need more hassles with insurance companies. Keep me posted. Can you call Fang and get him to fly in and have a look?’

  ‘I did. Still can’t raise him. His answering machine says he’ll be back in two days. I think we both know where he might be.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s no doubt flying one of his dubious missions. Where did the Lead Sled come down?’

  ‘Near Zawan, in the Finisterre Ranges.’

  ‘I know it. What the bloody hell were they doing over there? You told them it’s a disaster area since the big ‘quake, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course I did. Maybe they didn’t understand. Apparently they tried to land at the old mission strip near Zawan. The strip’s badly faulted by the earthquake. The plane hit a fault, tore out the nose strut and rolled on its back. It’s blocking the strip and CAA said only a helicopter can get in. They want the wreck cleared off the runway and a strip condition report to see if there’s room for other aircraft to land.’

  Dave thought for a moment, frustrated at not being able to take command of the situation. There were going to be some embarrassing questions. It might even jeopardise the insurance claim. ‘Jan, I’ve despatched the jetliner. Pack a few things and fly the chopper in here. Pick us up and we’ll fly direct from here to Lae, refuel, then on to Zawan. Leave a note for Fang. If you can get those photocopied faxes, bring them along.’

  4

  The weather diversion was little trouble for Jan, as she guided the helicopter through the Asaro valley. The valley was untouched by the rising sun. Lonely islands of vegetation pierced a sea of fine mist that covered the valley floor. The noise in the cockpit of the Hughes 500C helicopter made conversation difficult. As they crossed the valley enroute to the Zawan crashsite, Dave was deep in thought. He wondered why the two Japanese men had strayed so far off course into the restricted zone and then crash land
ed. Though the old Cessna was underpowered, it was in excellent mechanical order. With its many options it was worth over $100,000.

  Dave glanced outside. Flat-topped acacia trees dotted the nearby slopes. The denuded ranges that edged the valley had suffered badly in the long dry season. Usually verdant foothills were now arid and lifeless. The steep rugged contours were somehow softened, as though carelessly draped with a tawny velvet blanket. The low rays of the sun created shaded chasms and corrugated cliffs, some still haunted by lingering cloud. He turned back to Jan’s folder, studied the photocopied faxes and smiled smugly. ‘Jan, there’s enough evidence here to lay serious charges against Collins.’

  Jan was flying and had to shout over the din. ‘I thought so. Are you going to do anything about him?’ With her extensive charter experience she was now a better helicopter pilot than Dave had ever been.

  Dave schemed for a moment. ‘No, I’ll sit on it for a while. Could come in handy though.’ He turned to show the documents to Jake but his foreman looked to have fallen asleep on the back seat. ‘How do you like the new chopper?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Wonderful, far more powerful than the old one. Shame about the noise. Fang reckons it’s like a noisy egg on four toothpicks with a pencil up its backside. He’s nicknamed it the Angry Egg.’

  ‘Typical. Any word from him?’ said Dave.

  Jan hesitated. ‘No. Still not back from West Irian.’

  Jake had only been dozing and had heard parts of the conversation in the noisy cockpit. ‘Why did you pick the Hughes helicopter, Dave?’

  ‘No hesitation. Fang and I were familiar with them from the Gulf war.’

  Jake frowned. ‘I’ve heard a few sarcastic comments on them—”tinker toy technology, beer-can construction”?’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Dave snorted. ‘They’re rugged. Got a built-in roll cage and their crash worthiness is legendary. Crews have survived impacts of 38G.’