Fire Cult

by R. B. Shaw

  Though intrigued by Jan’s message, Dave’s thoughts drifted to past moments with her. He pictured her lively brown eyes, classic face and petite nose, then mentally scolded himself. They were well off and did not need this fabled gold. He made an instant decision to drop the search if no further clues were found by the time they reached the coast.

  Four hours later the sound of a Continental Aero engine overhead announced the arrival of the airdrop plane. The flight had been delayed while Jan organised the unusually large quantity of ten toea coins. The supplies were dropped and the aircraft turned for a second run. Ten heli-boxes were shoved out the door in line astern. They spun at high speed with a muted buzz, looking like a squadron of miniature descending helicopters. A simple and ingenious device, the hardy cardboard boxes were designed with four foldout lids. These acted as preformed rotor blades, secured by strong cord. The preset angle ensured their fall would be restrained by the simple aerodynamics of autorotation.

  The porters carried in the boxes and Dave paid them up for the day. Jake sent off the first line of porters carrying the engine accessories and control surfaces. A second group followed carrying the wings to the next preselected airdrop site almost three kilometres downstream. Jake retrieved the mailbag and Dave opened Jan’s confidential letter, eager for an update on her research.

  ‘Dave, after fifty years, official secrets act policy has released a lot of classified information. I could find no record of naval operations on the date in question, but there is a mention of a secret “Operation Stopgap”. It appears to have been a coordinated aerial attack on the barge and the destroyer it was to rendezvous with. The barge was then deliberately forced into the shallow waters off an island and was last reported sinking.

  ‘Details are sketchy; I could only confirm that the island was volcanic. Apparently a special forces American Ventura bomber was sent out on a search and reconnaissance from Port Moresby to find it. The aircraft never returned. I’m chasing up details of the Ventura and crew. Their last report said they had a fix on the barge and were returning with aerial photos. No one knows for sure what happened to the plane. It’s thought that it was shot down or that it simply crashed in the northcoast ranges in bad weather. The last radio call was twenty minutes after leaving the site of the barge. Tell Frazer his son is okay but still in a coma.’

  Dave found another sealed envelope tucked inside with a message. He read briefly, then swore aloud, crushed the note and tossed it in the fire. Containing his anger, he turned to Fang, who was resting nearby. ‘Jan reckons the barge started sinking off a volcanic island. It tallies with Ted’s memories.’ He filled Fang in with the details.

  Fang scanned a mental map of the Bismarck Sea. ‘There’s a lot of volcanic islands—Manam, Karkar and Bagabag. That barge has gotta be on one of ‘em. Get her to chase up more details of war records in Port Moresby.’

  ‘This Ventura bomber is an odd twist. If we could find the wreck, it’d be easy to back plot a course from Port Moresby through the crash site and out to the islands. There can’t be many Ventura wrecks. War records might help there too.’

  Fang agreed. ‘I got a feelin’ it didn’t crash in the sea. Twenty minutes headin’ south in an old Ventura would place that last radio call over 150 kilometres from the volcanic islands. It musta gone down over the mainland. If it was a direct flight, a range and course from the wreck could tell us which island. Dave, we gotta dump this heap o’ shit and head for the coast.’

  ‘No, we have to go on. The wreck’s high priority now.’

  ‘Shit, Dave!’ Fang erupted. ‘We’re wastin’ our bloody time out here.’

  ‘Fang! Shut up and listen.’ He glanced around to check no one was listening. ‘There’s another message from Jan.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Fang responded quietly, judging Dave’s sombre mood.

  ‘We’re broke. Remember the accountant at the Boroko bank?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He’s skipped the country after cleaning out a few major accounts, including Avmar Charter and Salvage.’

  ‘You’re jokin’!’ Fang stared with disbelief. ‘That’s the bank’s problem!’

  ‘Nope, we’re cleaned out. Those transfer forms you signed gave him full access to our account. Jan said the bills are backing up already. All we got is the insurance value of this shitbox and salvage rights for a cheap rebuild … if we get it back.’

  Dave rarely smoked. He paused now and lit a small cigar.

  ‘Get Jake to organise some men to dismount the balloon tyres. They’re badly cut, but if we line them with tough canvas and stuff them firmly with rag, grass and leaves, they might last a coupla days till Jan airdrops some more.’ He hesitated, deep in thought. ‘There’s no turning back on this gold now, Fang. It’s all or nothing.’

  Fang felt responsible and did not comment further. As he sat silent and morose, he reamed a hole in the end of a raw egg with the blade of his Puma Whitehunter. Instead of savouring the contents, he threw the egg and it smashed against a tree trunk. He stared at the dripping mess and imagined the accountant standing there. A quick flick and the Whitehunter suddenly flew at the tree and sunk half its blade deep in the soft beechwood. He then strode angrily over to the fuselage of the wreck and began removing the slashed tyres.

  The sluggish progress of the fuselage over the uneven rocky ground slowed the porter line. The pace quickened along the river when depth allowed. In retrospect Dave wished he had left it to be lifted out by chopper later. However, that action might have demolished the necessity of their trek in the eyes of the authorities.

  Later, Dave’s search team broke away from the porter line. Ted again led them to an old campsite, but they found no buried gold. They rummaged for clues, anyway, foraging amid the old abandoned weapons, ration tins and munition boxes.

  Seiji cautiously questioned Ted as he scrounged. ‘You met my father during the war. What was he like?’

  ‘He looked exactly like you,’ Ted replied. ‘Only his face was badly knocked around.’

  ‘Though I never met my father, I know he was a decorated veteran of Manchuria and wounded in the face. All his upper teeth were missing, replaced with gold, and he had a glass eye.’

  ‘That’s the guy all right. At least he was more compassionate than the other pricks,’ Ted added. ‘He made sure the orderly stitched up my face and then reprimanded the bastard responsible.’

  Fang overheard the discussion and interrupted sceptically. ‘That’s gotta be bullshit!’

  ‘It’s true,’ Ted insisted. ‘Some of ‘em tried to help.’

  Still in a bad mood, Fang tossed an old ammunition box aside. ‘You’re always so pissed you wouldn’t know fact from fiction. My ol’ man told me what the Japs were like.’

  ‘You gotta real problem with that mouth o’ yours, fella.’ Ted stopped searching. ‘If I were thirty years younger, I’d beat the livin’ shit outa ya.’

  ‘You?’ Fang scoffed. ‘You were probably an alco’ even then. You’re so bloody skinny you don’t cast a shadow. If you stuck your tongue out you’d look like a fly zip!’

  Dave broke up the confrontation. ‘Fang, cut it out. We don’t need this crap!’ Dave knew about Japanese wartime atrocities. He felt much sympathy for the proud old Aussie soldier.

  Seiji felt insulted by Fang’s outburst and persisted. ‘. And I suppose your days in the military were by the book—no brutality or atrocities?’

  Fang grabbed Seiji’s shirtfront. ‘I don’t need no shit from Jap arseholes!’ He whipped the trenching tool from Seiji’s grip. ‘One more word outa you and I’ll shove this so far up your arse you’ll choke on it!’

  ‘Fang! Cool it!’ Dave shouted, then whispered as he pulled him aside. ‘If the bank don’t make good our account, Seiji’s our only source of finance. There’s no gold without him.’

  Fang threw his pack on his back without comment, then stormed off along the trail to rejoin the porter line.

  The wide river course provided an easy
route for the porters and a relief from the jungle as they laboured downstream in warm sunshine. Dense and vivid foliage towered over both sides of the river. The lush green banks were brightly decorated with orchids and other tropical flowers. Flame of the Forest blossoms hung from the trees like giant scarlet chandeliers. In the tranquil jungle understorey, the endless ringing birdcalls sounded like steel tubes clinking together—some near, some far.

  Dave noticed the agitation in the porters. ‘Jake, are we in Nokopo territory now?’

  ‘Yes, this is disputed land. It is also unknown country for most of the Zawan. Many are insisting that some form of demon is angry with the trespassers.’

  Dave needed something to placate them. ‘Tell them each man that reaches the next campsite will be rewarded with a handful of salt.’ He knew remote villagers rarely saw this extravagance.

  After Jake relayed the message, he did a quick head count. ‘Too late, Dave. Three porters have already deserted.’

  ‘To be expected. We’ll just have to continue with what we have.’

  Dave hurried the porters along the exposed river course. Harada could now be waiting, armed with Fang’s pistol. ‘Jake, get two men, grab machetes and take up station at the end of the line of porters. Pass the word along that each man must stay in sight of those front and back of him. We’re gonna set up camp soon.’

  As dusk approached, Dave picked a clearing well above waterlevel for the overnight camp. The weary porters set down their loads and relaxed as Kumo selected helpers to prepare the evening meal.

  Fang stood knee deep in water as he washed near the riverbank. He signalled to Dave, obviously agitated.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Fang pointed. ‘Look here.’

  A native’s naked body lay near the embankment, snagged by tree roots. It floated face up in the shallows, bloated and grey from death and immersion.

  ‘Shit! One of ours?’

  ‘No, don’t recognise him.’ Fang scanned wide lifeless eyes and features frozen with terror. ‘Looks like a Nokopo.’

  ‘What happened? Crocs?’

  ‘No, look at his neck. A perfect circle, cut deep and badly bruised.’ Fang brushed away hundreds of carnivorous Kurukum ants already gnawing gaping flesh wounds in the body. ‘He’s been garrotted. One of Harada’s favourite toys. Read about it in his background report.’

  Dave glanced back at the unburdened Zawan warriors. ‘If the porters see this they’ll panic.’

  ‘No worries,’ said Fang, checking the porters were busy. He then pulled the body free and let it float downstream at the whim of the river’s current. ‘Woulda been better if we had time to bury ‘im. You realise the scent of the dead body’s gonna bring out the ‘crocs downstream?’

  14

  The overnight camp provided a comfortable and uneventful stay. Dave ensured two sentries guarded every approach. After breaking camp, progress slowed along the deeper river. The fuselage swung violently as the wheels dipped into holes invisible beneath the surface.

  Fang moved out ahead, waist deep in water and with a dual purpose. As he probed the shallowest course, pole in hand, he carefully scanned the riverbanks for wartime clues and crocodiles.

  They finally reached open savanna and river flats at the prearranged airdrop site. With no trees to shade them, Fang and Dave relaxed in the scant comfort of the aircraft cabin to avoid the direct sun.

  The drop plane’s roaring engine disturbed the serenity of the site. The Cessna sparkled in the sunlight, then climbed steeply and almost stall-turned towards them. It approached slowly at 300 feet into the wind with flaps down and power back, lining up for the drop. The harnessed dump-master waved from the doorless rear hold. His falling marker trailed a four metre orange ribbon and landed squarely on a gravel levee, well clear of the jungle. This marker now established the target drop point.

  The pilot applied power, turned and made his approach run for the load drop. A large sack fell rapidly, fluttering flag-like throughout the plunge. A second quickly followed it down.

  Seiji watched with concern. ‘Won’t the bags burst on impact?’

  Dave monitored their fall. ‘The inner sacks are meant to burst, the loose outer hessian sacks contain it. It’s a simple technique for airdropping rice and vegetables,’ he explained, though worried that if any dropped in the jungle, it would be too dangerous for the porters to retrieve them. He watched the porters carefully, making sure they were well clear. Porters had been killed before trying to catch fifty kilo bags of rice.

  The next fly-past resulted in a small blue sack dropping to earth, followed by some live chickens. With their legs tied, they fluttered and squawked leaving a trail of feathers.

  The blue sack from Jan contained a folder of business documents for Dave’s attention. A large envelope of photocopied war records included details of Operation Stopgap. While the porters rounded up the drop sacks and boxes, Dave avidly read Jan’s latest report.

  ‘Dave, we have identified three possible wreck sites in the Finisterres. One appears to be a Ventura bomber. Still chasing up all details of any wrecks, particularly Venturas and all deceased or surviving crewmembers. We still can’t find any clues to the barge after it was seen leaving Saidor. A visit to the plane wrecks in the mountains might be our last resort.

  ‘There have been some men here looking for you and Fang. Some were creditors. We’ve been put on thirty days notice. I’ve put them off, saying you’ll be back next week. Collins has been checking on the progress of your trek. I told him all is going as planned. Richard is still in a coma at Madang hospital.’

  Haunted by the thought of a mysterious Japanese barge, Dave coaxed the reluctant porters back on to the trail. Much to his annoyance, Ted was almost comatose with drink. He had taken a midday nap and raved in his sleep. Before waking him, Dave called Fang over to listen.

  Ted mumbled and turned feverishly in his sleep, disturbed by the jackhammer call of a sicklebill bird of paradise. The staccato call sounded like machine-gun fire as he again re-lived his nightmare. He woke suddenly as Dave and Fang whispered nearby. ‘What the hell are you blokes up to?’ he croaked, then reached for his silver flask. A faithful Zawan porter ensured he had adequate stock, purchased from a black market trader before commencing the trek.

  Dave checked the progress of the porter line before responding. ‘You were talking in your sleep again, about the barge, aircraft and a volcanic island. Can you tell us which island, Ted? It’s crucial.’

  ‘I dunno’,’ he drawled. ‘All I remember is the barge hittin’ a reef and startin’ to sink. The Japs abandoned ship and we all made for the island.’

  Fang’s quick temper surfaced. ‘Ya must remember somethin’ about it?’

  ‘Just a huge volcano with smoke driftin’ from the summit,’ Ted concluded, stood up drunkenly and staggered over to the line of porters. His Zawan bodyguard followed like a shadow.

  Dave waited until he was gone and turned to Fang. ‘It’s still the same nightmare every night. Each time he talks it gets clearer and he’s remembering more.’

  Fang paused from peeling a banana. ‘Better make a point of listenin’ in each night. More entertainin’ than ABC radio.’

  Dave caught up with Ted and again eagerly questioned him. ‘Ever heard of Operation Stopgap, Ted?’

  As Ted limped along, he contorted his scarred and weathered face with a quizzical look. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘It’s the code name for the air attack on the barge you were on. When the Japs abandoned the barge, did they take all the gold with them?’

  Ted shook his head. ‘Mate, it was a long time ago. I saw the Officer supervisin’ the transfer of a lot into a lifeboat. I can’t remember if they took it all.’

  Dave persisted. ‘Did it get ashore?’

  ‘I dunno’, everyone was panickin’. It’s all still very vague.’ Ted took another swig from his flask. ‘I do remember the old Jap headquarters—it’s not far downstream from here. After a battle there, they made us d
ig graves. Maybe it wasn’t for bodies.’

  Dave was sceptical. ‘Think you can find it?’

  ‘If I can just find the entrance through the cliff, I’ll be able to show you where.’

  The statement again fired Fang’s impatience. ‘C’mon Dave, let’s hurry these porters along and get there before Harada!’

  A storm approached. Ahead of them lay landscape shaded by low churning clouds, bruised with indigo. In the distance beyond, the sunlit grassy slopes of the mountains resembled brilliant emeralds sandwiched by the dark cloud base and even darker unfathomable forests. Heavy rain dampened their enthusiasm to reach the gold cache. Tall trees leaned away from the furious wind and shook off a cloud of detached leaves.

  Eventually the sudden rain front eased to fine drizzle. Though near naked, they felt like they were wearing saturated hot overcoats. The high humidity caused rising wafts of mist to form in the forest around them. The sheer mountain parapets quickly shrugged off a grey cloak of clinging cloud and blue sky reappeared in the West.

  Dave constantly monitored Ted’s reactions, looking for signs of recognition. The trail meandered through relatively thin forest country and kunai grass. It closely followed the course of the now swollen Nankina. At times the river would be a kilometre distant, sometimes in a gorge 100 metres below them. The river stones often became the only means by which the rougher terrain could be by-passed. Kumo continually blazed trees with his machete in a pre-determined code for the slashers.

  Slashing a swath through the wet jungle exhausted the Zawans. Every two hours Jake swapped the slashers and porters around to even up the workload. By necessity, the empty cabin of the fuselage had to be packed with items too heavy to share out among the porters. This tired the men hauling on the ropes and overstressed the stuffed balloon tyres. They were now fast disintegrating.

  Dave noticed Ted’s agitation and dropped out of the porter line. As they progressed closer to the old Jap base, the terrain seemed familiar to Ted and obviously evoked bad memories.