Fire Cult

by R. B. Shaw

  Flying on one engine, Fang made an emergency approach and touchdown at Port Moresby. He taxied the Invader off the Jackson’s strip and headed straight for the Avmar hangar. A precautionary fire truck followed. Aircraft landing in emergency conditions were routinely monitored until the crew were clear. Though difficult to steer on one engine, Fang powered the Invader straight into the empty hangar and shut down the left engine.

  Jan ran from her side office at the thundering sound of the radial engine. She stood hands on hips as Fang lifted the cockpit canopy. ‘Fang! You bloody idiot. You could kill someone doing that!’ She then noticed that the Invader had been holed by at least a dozen bullets. Oil covered the right engine and tail. The lower fuselage, nacelles and landing gear doors were dented and abraded. Crushed foliage was wedged in notches and crevices. ‘What the hell happened? We thought you crashed!’

  ‘Sorry, love. I’ll explain later. Don’t want no one to see this baby up close. Quick, grab a roll of aluminium tape and cover them holes. I’ll head off the fire officer outside.’

  Jan quickly taped over each bullet hole, while Fang explained his faulty engine and the dangerous entry into the hangar to the fire officer. Fang’s sweat stained jeans and large open necked shirt clung to his muscular build. His long sandy hair and beard were slick with sweat.

  The fire truck drove away as a government station wagon screeched to a halt. Airworthiness surveyor, Ian Collins, stepped from the wagon and swaggered into the hangar. ‘Gotcha this time, Mitchell,’ he sneered at Fang as he eagerly inspected the Invader and noted the obvious damage. ‘This heap o’ shit is grounded! Don’t fly ‘er again until I’ve seen proper repairs.’

  Fang grunted, unconcerned. ‘Don’t need it for a while, so I couldn’t give a rat’s arse.’

  ‘I know what you been up to,’ Collins retorted. ‘If I have my way, it ain’t gonna fly again, ever. You can tell Stark I’m doin’ a surveillance on Avmar’s aircraft next. Lookin’ forward to that.’ He smiled, then symbolically tore off the defect report and stuffed it roughly into Fang’s shirt pocket.

  Fang restrained himself, hands balled into tight fists. ‘Think you’re a bigshot? You’re just a wart on the arse of progress.’

  Jan had to ease the friction. Fang was getting more hostile and deeper in trouble. ‘Fang! Leave it. Dave’s going to sort this out.’ She turned smugly to Collins. ‘Dave will be contacting you shortly with some special requests.’

  Collins laughed aloud. ‘Fat chance, sweetie!’

  ‘You under-estimated Dave Stark once before,’ Jan stared back confidently. ‘I suggest you think twice before tangling with him again.’

  Collins smile vanished as he tried to counter Jan’s withering stare. ‘Smart-arse bitch. Take a good last look at your pilot’s licence. It probably won’t be renewed.’ He stormed off to his wagon without further comment.

  Fang closed the hangar doors, still mystified. ‘What the bloody hell was that all about?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. What happened in West Irian?’

  ‘Dave was right. The Indonesians were waitin’. I’m gettin’ outa this game and lyin’ low for a while. Is Dave around, or still repairin’ that crashed Fokker?’

  ‘No. Got it out okay. Now he’s in the Finisterre Ranges. Two Japs chartered the Lead Sled and crashed up there near a place called Zawan. They got out okay, but the Sled’s a write-off.’

  ‘Great news. Been tryin’ to sell it for years,’ Fang smiled. ‘Now insurance should pay us out.’

  ‘Not necessarily. He’s been waiting to talk to you. We’re onto something very special. He’s still on site and should call back this afternoon.’ She leaned closer as though to convey a secret. ‘With your contacts, have you ever heard of a Japanese man named Kendo Harada? He’s ex-military with quite a sinister background.’

  Fang hesitated, a spark of recognition. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s one of the men who chartered the Lead Sled. Dave will tell you the rest.’

  ‘My contacts can tell us all about him. I’ll chase it up later.’ Normally Fang would have been more inquisitive but his thoughts were elsewhere. ‘Where’s Bianca?’

  Jan busied herself with office work. She chose her words, uncertain what to say. ‘Sorry, Fang, she left yesterday. Said she won’t be back. I did try to explain things to her.’

  Fang snorted as he stuffed the large bundle of money from his gun run in his pack, pretending he didn’t care. ‘Easy come, easy go,’ he shrugged nonchalantly, then angrily tossed his pack into the aptly named Thunderbox, a modified V8 powered Landcruiser. It was another of his favourite toys, second only to the Invader.

  Fang felt depressed as he forced the orange Landcruiser around the tight bends of Koki Point and past picturesque Ela Beach. The tormented oversized tyres squealed as he sped into Port Moresby. He parked in front of his apartment overlooking Fairfax Harbour, slammed the Landcruiser door and trudged inside. His first priority was to stash his pistol and valuables.

  As he dried off from his first shower in four days, the doorbell chimed. Fang wrapped himself in the towel and opened the door to an exquisite vista. ‘Bianca!’ he blurted out, surprised. Though appearing innocent enough, he knew she was totally corruptible. He hoped his wallet, chequebook and credit cards were out of sight. ‘Don’t stand out there, come in.’

  She beamed a heart-stopping smile of brilliant pearly teeth. ‘I heard you were back.’ Bianca moved with confidence, knowing her white dress, shoes and stockings were the perfect compliment to her milky skin and waist-length platinum hair. ‘It seems I owe you an apology. Jan called me after I left and explained about your brother and why you’d never get involved in drugs. I still don’t approve of your support for the rebels over the border, but you did say it was your last run?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s gettin’ too damn dangerous.’

  ‘I missed you,’ Bianca closed the door behind her and came straight to the point. ‘Did you do well this time?’

  ‘About sixty grand, less expenses,’ Fang bragged, as if it was another day at the office. He cursed himself silently for unwittingly revealing his newfound wealth.

  ‘Wonderful. I hope you have a gift for me?’ she pouted with soft red lips. Her blue eyes sparkled. ‘I have something for you.’

  It was their same old game. She knew what he liked and Fang smiled in anticipation as he played along. ‘Show me.’

  Bianca unzipped her dress and let it fall. She wore only white stockings, suspenders and satin briefs. ‘I’m sorry if I misjudged you, Fang,’ she whispered as she unhitched his towel, slid one arm around his neck and kissed him lightly. Her other hand gently toyed between his legs.

  ‘No worries. Just like old times again,’ Fang muttered with satisfaction and studied her trim figure. Her high heels accentuated her shapely legs. She deliberately teased him and made a show of sliding off her satin briefs to remind him she was a real blonde.

  Fang quickly embraced her, revelling in the warm smoothness of her pale skin and the delicate flaxen strands of her long straight hair. She was the most erotic woman he had ever met. Fang often jested he was a lover, not a fighter. In fact the opposite was true. It was almost perverse the way she craved his rough lovemaking.

  Bianca was insatiable. Even Fang found her demanding despite the punishment she endured, even savoured, from his big build. She gasped as Fang’s bulk entered, then clung to him, writhing and urging him on. They rolled frantically around on the rug, still only two paces from the front door. Fang had thought he would never see Bianca again. He now fought unsuccessfully to control his lust and suddenly reached an ecstatic crescendo.

  Bianca revelled in her sexuality and did not let him rest long. She repeatedly slid her smooth hands across his tanned chest, her lips teasing the most sensitive parts of his body. When his renewed arousal was obvious she straddled him. Her hips began a selfish driving pulse, intent on using his manhood to satisfy her own need. Fang again climaxed quickly. Bianca arched her slim body b
ack and braced her slender arms on Fang’s legs. Suddenly she convulsed and slowed, moaning like a beast, her exertions coating her pale skin in a moist sheen. For some time they both lay silent and satisfied on the rug, savouring the renewed intimacy.

  ‘Fang, the crime problem in Port Moresby is worse than ever. Raskol gangs on the prowl, bars on the windows, security guards and razor wire. I hate it here now. I know the money’s good, but it’s like living in a cage. We have enough money to leave and start a new life together. I know a lovely unit in Sydney overlooking the harbour. You’re a qualified pilot. You could get a job with the airlines.’

  Fang stared at her without comment. Bianca spent his money as fast as he earned it. Thanks to his past transgressions with an air company, he’d never be able to fly commercially in the South Pacific again. He studied her pale Nordic beauty and the intense blue of her eyes. He was crazy about her. But she didn’t fit into his nomadic Spartan lifestyle. She was demanding in bed and just as demanding generally. He had no desire to leave Papua New Guinea for the city life.

  Bianca interrupted his thinking. ‘We should set a timetable and make a commitment.’

  Fang baulked initially. He hated that word. ‘I’ve still got one more job to do.’

  ‘What!’ Bianca bristled. ‘More gun-running?’

  ‘No way. Dave Stark wants me to help him with a salvage job at Zawan. He reckons it’s very special. For him to say that means he’s onto somethin’ big.’

  Bianca fidgeted, lit a cigarette and started dressing. ‘Stark! All you two ever do is argue.’

  ‘I know, but somehow we work well as a team. He’s my safety valve. Often stopped me from blowin’ my stack and gettin’ in deep shit. When he needs a partner for a risky or tricky job, he pays big. He calls it a symbiotic relationship, whatever that is.’

  ‘Fang, you can’t just pack up and take off every time some obscure mate calls!’

  ‘Dave’s cool, not some obscure mate. We’ve been through hell together. Cambodia, Angola, Mozambique, El Salvador. This guy’s got a nose for money.’ As his last word echoed through the room, the sound of the telephone overwhelmed it.

  Dave Stark waited patiently on the mission station radiophone. Someone answered with a distinctly heavy Indian accent.

  ‘Bombay railway station, Moustaffa speaking.’

  ‘Fang. Cut the crap!’ Dave knew Fang had a contempt of telephones and often pulled such pranks. ‘I need your help to salvage the Lead Sled.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I’m going to salvage the Lead Sled.’

  ‘You’ve really lost your marbles now, Dave. We’ve been trying to get rid of that heap of underpowered shit for years. You finally get an excuse for an insurance write-off and you wanna salvage it!’

  ‘Just shut up and listen. What’s your favourite colour?’

  Fang calmed. ‘Gold. No secrets there. Why?’

  ‘This could be really big, Fang. Can’t say much on the phone. There’s someone else already on to it. I need your bush skills and particularly help with the local dialects. My Pidgin’s fluent, but it’s not enough here. Bring all the equipment and salvage gear over to Madang in your Invader.’

  ‘Invader took a few hits. Gonna need some repairs. Collins took one look and grounded it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Collins. I got him by the nuts. Get some quick temporary repairs done and fly to Madang. Jan’ll drop you and the gear at Zawan with the chopper.’

  6

  Kendo Harada moved silently along the jungle trail. His muscular build easily filled the oversized khaki uniform. Not quite musclebound, his rolled up shirtsleeves were pulled tight around huge biceps. A small bandage on his right arm was stained with blood. Narrow sunburnt brows were sandwiched by spiky black hair and dark circular sunglasses. Harada was familiar with the jungle. A stint with the Japanese Air Force and secondment to the US Marines to learn anti-terrorism had given him many skills.

  He had knocked Seiji Sugano unconscious and left him to drown so it would look like an accident but had underestimated his former partner’s tenacity. He had thoroughly searched the wreck of the Cessna for the diary but it was nowhere to be found. The small amount of gold he had dug up afterwards was not even enough to finance an onward search. His digging had then been disturbed by the arrival of strangers in a helicopter. Top priority now was to question the old Australian soldier, Ted Frazer.

  Harada had carefully planned every detail of his journey. He knew exactly which trail led to Frazer’s coffee plantation and reached it without trouble. It was obviously harvest time. Labourers busily picked plump red beans and dropped them into buckets on their backs. Frazer’s plantation house was a simple timber cottage with an iron roof. A store shed adjoined the main building and the doors were open. Inside, an old Ferguson tractor lay in pieces, surrounded by tools and farm implements. Harada hid and waited awhile to see if anyone was home.

  Eventually a young man of mixed race came out of the house and walked into the shed. He was far too young to be Ted Frazer. The youth jacked the front of the tractor and began working on the axle.

  With no one else in sight, Harada made his move. He knocked lightly at the front door of the house to ensure no one else was around. He waited briefly, then moved directly to the shed and walked up to the busy young mechanic. ‘I’m looking for Ted Frazer,’ he said.

  The young man was startled by the sudden appearance of the Japanese stranger at the remote coffee plantation. ‘Not here, Mister. He’s out supervising the harvest. What can I do for you?’

  Harada hesitated. ‘Personal. I’ll wait for him. Who are you?’

  ‘Richard Frazer, his son.’

  Harada glanced around the shed. The usual untidy assortment of tools, spares and containers. A locker nearby had ‘EXPLOSIVES’ stencilled on the door. Sacks of superphosphate were piled in the corner. ‘When will your father be back?’

  The youth was becoming suspicious. ‘Could be days. He often camps overnight during harvest.’

  ‘Can you tell me where he is?’

  ‘Listen, Mister. I don’t know what you want, but this is private property. Unless you got a good reason for bein’ here, I suggest you leave a message and I’ll see that he gets it.’ He moulded a firm intrasigence into his features, then continued working on the tractor.

  Harada stooped abruptly, picked up the jack handle and swung it firmly across the side of the young man’s face. The youth shouted in pain and grasped his shattered cheek. He stumbled, in shock, then lunged at Harada and tried to wrestle the weapon from his grip. Harada revelled in inflicting pain. He sidestepped deftly and swung the bar again, breaking the youth’s wrist.

  Frazer’s son screamed in agony. ‘What the hell are you up to, Mister? We ain’t got nothin’ here!’

  Harada shoved the end of the jack handle into the young man’s stomach. ‘What do you know about the gold?’

  Though in pain, he was obviously bewildered by Harada’s question. ‘What gold?’

  Harada sensed he was telling the truth. ‘Where is your father?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know!’

  Harada quickly swung again, hitting him painfully across the ribs. ‘Where is he?’

  The young man rolled across the dirt floor. As he tried to stand Harada again lashed out and shattered his kneecap.

  ‘Last time! Where is he?’ Harada shouted as Richard crumpled to the ground and remained silent. Harada unbuckled the prone man’s belt, took his knife and keys then lashed his shattered wrists behind his back. The youth was in a rage and attempted one more lunge. Harada simply stepped back and struck him a violent blow that split his brow and flooded his eyes with blood.

  Harada glanced at the explosives locker. ‘Key to that locker on this keyring?’

  Frazer’s son nodded vaguely.

  As Harada opened the locker he was surprised to find a loaded Remington rifle inside. He bundled the sticks of gelignite into his backpack and searched unsuccessfully for spare ammu
nition. The young man’s face was now swollen, bruised and bloody. Harada grabbed his head by the hair. ‘Any more bullets?’

  ‘No,’ he moaned feebly. ‘Ran out last week.’

  Harada dropped him and spent over an hour searching the house for ammunition, cash, clues and documents. Finding nothing of interest, he stormed back into the shed. He shook Richard as he lay face down in a puddle of blood. ‘I can’t wait any longer, junior. If your old man’s supervising the harvest, he must be on this plantation somewhere.’ He then tossed a sack of superphosphate on the ground next to the youth and slit it open with the knife. White granules spilt out across the ground. Harada forced a few sticks of gelignite into the pile of phosphate. ‘Ah, like candles on a birthday cake. All we need is something to light it … after I’m well clear.’

  Harada glanced around the shed, selected a four-litre bottle of diesel oil and removed the lid. He stood next to the prone and battered young man and laughed. ‘It’s going to get very hot here shortly. Hope you enjoy the fireworks.’

  Frazer’s son had lapsed into semi-consciousness.

  Harada grunted and poured the oil over the superphosphate, ensuring the granules were saturated. He knew it was now only a matter of time. An exothermic reaction would occur and the unstable mix would violently explode. He could have easily splashed fuel around and lit it with a match. The little sideshow appealed to his sense of humour.

  He wanted to witness the result of his concoction but he could hear the sound of an approaching vehicle. A quick glimpse revealed a tractor and trailer bouncing up the track carrying ten native workers. Frazer was not among them. He cursed and kicked Richard in the face. Harada then picked up the rifle and hurried off in search of Ted Frazer through rows of ripe coffee bushes.