by R. B. Shaw
That afternoon, the airdrop plane delivered a bundle of rope to the northern bank.
Fang paddled the light guide rope over with the canoe. He returned disappointed, as the porters hauled the heavier main rope across. ‘It ain’t Manila hemp. This nylon shit Jan sent is gonna stretch too much.’
‘It’ll have to do,’ Dave replied simply, as Jake handed him the airdrop mailbag from Jan.
Using binoculars, Jake surveyed the opposite bank and found suitable anchoring points just downstream from the bridge. The binoculars caused a stir among the primitive natives. Fang allowed each porter a turn, causing many looks of shocked disbelief.
While Fang reluctantly secured the flying fox primary rope and rigged it as tightly as possible, Dave reviewed Jan’s letter.
‘Sorry about the nylon rope, it’s all we could get on short notice. Hope it will do. We’ve identified the Commanding Officer in charge of Operation Stopgap. His name was Keith Stepers. Bad news is that he went on board the Ventura reconnaissance flight searching for the barge and was never seen again. He is still listed as missing in action. Good news is that the American War Graves Commission in Honolulu advised three bodies were removed from a Ventura wreck in 1948. The names on their dog tags tally with the crew list of the Operation Stopgap flight. It must be the right aircraft. The old report said other bodies were irretrievably tangled in wreckage, so were left behind due to very bad weather. All indications are that the Stopgap Ventura is still up there somewhere in the Finisterre ranges and some of the crew are still with it. Locating it might be a long shot, but if there is a clue to the barge on board, it’s our only hope. With no results out on the islands, I’ve commenced exploratory flights into the Finisterre Ranges.’
Dave felt exasperated by the mystery. The quantity of gold they had found so far must be just the tip of the iceberg. As Jan stated, the crashed wartime bomber might end up being their only lead. He glanced back at Fang and Jake as they worked. They had fitted the sliding sling rope over the primary line ready to haul the loads across.
Fang returned and interrupted Dave’s thoughts. ‘We’re ready. Reckon this is worth it, Dave? We can still dump the fuselage and engine here and reach Saidor today.’
‘Two days ago I would’ve agreed but we’re flat broke now. We don’t even know if the insurance will be paid out on this wreck. We need every penny we can get.’
‘What about the Egg?’
‘Not paid for. I only put down a deposit on the chopper until we assessed it operationally.’
‘There’s always the Lahara. It’s worth at least half a mil’?’
The Lahara was Dave’s private yacht; a fifteen-metre cruiser moored in Madang and often chartered out with Jake as captain. Fang owned a small share but it was Dave’s pride and joy. ‘Only as an absolute last resort. We’re so close, it seems a shame. The truck’s sitting on the other side waiting for the sake of a couple of hour’s work. We’ve carted it this far—let’s give it a go.’
‘Okay, but this is gonna be dangerous,’ Fang warned.
The porters on the far bank tugged the engine across the river with ease. They then wheeled the fuselage in position under the flying fox rope.
Fang saw Jake’s signal and advised Dave. ‘They’re ready.’
‘Return the signal and go for it.’ Then the fuselage dropped like a stone, smoke pluming from the sliding sling. ‘What’s happened!’
Fang staggered as he shouted back. ‘It’s too heavy. The nylon rope’s stretchin’. Give us a hand. We’re havin’ trouble holdin’ it back.’
Four men fell as the runaway fuselage plunged into the water in a cloud of spray. As the current surged around it, the overloaded rope deflected downstream.
‘Pull, you bastards! Drag it out of the current!’ Fang bellowed at the team on the far side.
The rope looked rigid as an iron bar, causing strange amplified groans. Other porters joined the heaving mass of people on the dragline.
‘They’ve got it Fang!’ Dave shouted with elation. ‘The fuselage is clear of the water.’
A tumultuous cheer erupted from the excited horde as they hauled the dripping fuselage onto the far bank. Except for the wings, everything waited safely on the other side of the river.
Fang rested after successfully organising the first wing across the bridge. ‘The wing was light enough, Dave, but awkward. It was a hell of a job gettin’ it up the uprights and out onto the span.’
‘I realise that, but there’s only the one wing to go. Get the porters to cross back over here, then carry it back. Did Ted and Seiji find anything?’
‘Nup, no clues. The sooner we get to Saidor the better.’
‘Okay, get ‘em to cross over, then keep Seiji out of sight.’
The bridge span hung three metres lower at its centre due to the weight of the material. Seven porters laboured across with the second wing. Slowly, they progressed beyond the centre low point and then struggled up the inclined sweep of vines.
Jake watched with concern. ‘Dave, the porters are stalled just beyond the midpoint.’
Dave monitored the porters with misgivings. The river surged by less than four metres below the struggling gang of wing bearers. ‘What the hell are Fang and Seiji doing out there?’ he demanded abruptly.
‘Look’s like they’ve run out to help.’
‘Stupid bastards! I told Seiji to stay with Ted at all times! Seiji’s risking his bloody life out there.’
A movement caught Jake’s attention. ‘Dave, there’s something moving along the bank down near the base of the pylon.’
Dave froze as he turned the binoculars on the odd shape moving through the dense bush. ‘It’s someone camouflaged with shrubbery.’
Suddenly the mysterious figure vanished. Dave scanned the bush. Another movement nearby distracted him; a small cloud of white smoke. He glanced suspiciously back at the struggling porters. The smoke at the base of the Southern pylon plumed higher, shifted by a light breeze.
Dave focussed on the smoke and swore. ‘I saw a shower of sparks at the base of the main pylon!’ His mouth went dry. ‘It’s a fuse!’
‘Must be explosives!’ Jake yelled. He tried calling to Fang and Seiji, but it was futile. The distant natives jabbered loudly as they tried to manoeuvre the wing.
Dave tossed the binoculars to Jake, whipped out his pistol and fired three warning shots. All activity on the bridge ceased as they turned to see what caused the gunfire. ‘Jake! Point at the smoke!’
Fang turned around on the bridge, saw the smoke and quickly warned the porters to lower the wing. The warning came too late. A dusty flash preceded a loud percussion as the explosive charge detonated. One of the main strands suddenly lost its tension and then jerked to a halt.
‘The support post is toppling over!’ Dave shouted, as it whiplashed, shook off a cloud of dust, then snapped. Everyone on the bridge grabbed hold of the swaying remains.
‘They’ve lost the wing!’ Jake shouted, as the unsupported wing slowly toppled out the open side and splashed into the river.
Dave caught a final glimpse of the wing as it floated downstream. It tumbled briefly before sinking into the current. ‘Don’t worry about the wing. How are the blokes on the bridge? I can’t see for smoke.’
Jake focussed carefully. ‘I think two porters fell in the river.’
Seiji scrambled along the swaying structure, attempting to reach the far side. Fang frantically dangled by one arm trying to consolidate his grip on the vines. The span stretched, still supported by a huge maze of vines back to anchor points on the bank. They laced the sky like an intricate man-made cobweb. One by one the overstressed vines snapped with the sound of a whip crack and recoiled dangerously back at the embankments.
‘The bridge is collapsing. It’s dipping in the river,’ Jake warned, as the sudden side loading caused another dozen vines to snap and whiplash skyward.
‘They’ve got to get off—it can’t last long!’ Dave realised that, with the centre of
the span submerged and arcing downstream, disaster was inescapable. The further the bridge sank, the more the current tried to drag it away. More overloaded support vines snapped, sounding like machine-gun fire; the bridge in turn sank further. The centre of the flooded overstressed span suddenly separated with a roar and tore away. Dave cursed aloud and urgently scanned the dislodged cloud of dust and water spray. Fang, Seiji and the porters could not be seen.
19
Jake watched closely with the binoculars. ‘There’s Fang! He’s swimming this way. The rest of the porters are following.’
‘What about Seiji?’
‘Something’s wrong. He’s still hanging on to the remains of the bridge. Maybe he’s tangled in the vines.’
With a shock Dave remembered why Seiji held on to apparent safety. ‘He can’t follow Fang and the others—he can’t swim.’
The surge of the river current pounded Seiji. He managed to climb higher up the disintegrating remains amid a score of unravelling vines.
More loud cracks resounded across the river. Dave assumed more support vines had parted. Small puffs of smoke drifted above the jungle upstream as natives ran for cover. Small geysers erupted around Seiji. With a physical shock Dave realised the implications. ‘There’s a bloody sniper up the slope behind us shooting at Seiji!’
Jake scanned the jungle slopes with the binoculars. ‘Can’t see anything.’
More shots rang out. Dave gazed at the bouncing shroud of unravelling vines and water spray, relieved that it made Seiji a hard target. ‘Where’s Fang?’
‘Running along the riverbank carrying a can.’
Dave frowned, mystified by Fang’s strange actions. Suddenly flames erupted along the embankment and formed a wall of fire. ‘Clever bastard. He’s doused the scrub with fuel. The smoke cloud’s obscuring the sniper’s view.’
Dave hoped the flames would threaten the sniper’s position higher up in the slope. ‘Be ready, Jake. Fang could flush him out. Where’s Seiji?’
Jake scanned and focussed. ‘He’s safe. Took advantage of the smoke cover and crawled across to the other side.’
Fang rejoined Dave and Jake, wet and panting. ‘One of the porters has been shot. I’m gonna get that prick this time.’
Dave reloaded his Colt. ‘Jake, take a team with bush knives along the lower bank, then climb up and cut off their escape. Fang and I’ll try and take ‘em from here. Don’t play hero. You’re not armed, but they don’t know that. Just string out and block their escape!’
Fang hesitated and whispered as they crept through the bush. ‘I reckon there’s only the one and he’s movin’ back. I think he’s low on ammo.’
The sniper’s muzzle flash finally revealed his position. Dave fired back as Fang moved silently around the gunman’s flank. He stalked the sniper with jungle skills learned in Rwanda.
The sniper ceased shooting, now in earshot of the ringing machete blades as Jake’s men closed in. They shouted challenges, taunting the gunman, but always remaining out of sight. The camouflaged sniper fired blindly into the tangle of vegetation. He ran out of shots, panicked and ran upslope to reload.
Dave caught sight of him in the gloomy understorey and fired repeatedly to prevent him reloading. Fang snatched his opportunity. As the sniper tried to rise, Fang tackled him and punched him to the ground. He grabbed the pistol and pointed it at the sniper’s head. The sinewy Nokopo warrior was no match for Fang’s bulk and skills. As Dave and Jake’s team arrived at the scene, Fang simply stood on the Nokopo. The stunned warrior lay face down. One of Fang’s huge boots pressed squarely down across the warrior’s neck. The full weight of Fang’s other boot pinned the man’s wrist between his shoulder blades.
Dave cursed, disappointed. ‘No sign of Harada?’
‘No. This bloke seems to be the only one around,’ Fang responded cautiously.
Jake pulled the warrior to his feet and slammed him against a tree trunk. ‘Where is Harada and the rest of your group?’
The Nokopo warrior remained silent and spat at the ground in a gesture of contempt. Parallel sets of initiation marks scarred his chest. They indicated his bravery and inheritance of the cunning ways of the crocodile.
‘You killed a relative of the men over there,’ Jake gestured at the angry group of Zawan porters still brandishing machetes. ‘If you don’t cooperate, I will hand you over to the Zawan for tribal justice.’
The warrior sneered and remained aloof. His eyes darted back and forth from Jake to the gloating and agitated porters.
Jake continued in Pidgin. ‘Zawan payback consists of hacking off half a limb each hour. They block the bleeding stump with tree gum to keep you alive for the next cut,’ he taunted. ‘Where are the others?’
The bold warrior glanced at the glinting machete blades, then the murderous looks on the faces of the assaulted Zawan porters. They glared and waited, some with bows drawn. ‘They have all gone. I am the last,’ he stammered in Pidgin.
‘Where’s Harada?’ Fang intervened.
‘He left for Saidor as soon as he destroyed the bridge.’
‘Why?’
‘He read something in the old book. It told him no more gold would be found until he reached the islands.’
‘Which island?’ Dave questioned eagerly.
The Nokopo realised he must cooperate. ‘I don’t know. He would not say. All he said was he would not pay me unless I agreed to kill the other Japanese man you have with you. If I failed, he threatened to return and kill me.’
Fang turned to Dave. ‘What d’ya wanna do with him?’
‘Hand him over to the authorities at the coast.’ Dave replied. ‘It’ll take the pressure off us. Jake, tie him up. We’re taking him to Saidor with us.’ He then led them back to the riverbank.
Dave paddled a dugout canoe across the river. Fang checked over his reclaimed pistol, then fell silent and restless as he searched for his knife.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Dave as he paddled.
‘My whitehunter’s missin’.’
‘When did you last have it?’
‘I lent it to Ted when we were cuttin’ the ropes for the flyin’ fox.’
Dave paddled onward, suspicious as he guided the dugout into the shallows. ‘Where is Ted?’
‘He crossed earlier with Jake.’
After reaching the riverbank they searched for Ted. He could not be found.
‘Think Harada got ‘im?’ said Fang.
‘Don’t think so. The Zawan bodyguard’s orders were to get Ted safely to the coast road. Now he’s headed back, I’d say Ted’s taken your knife and gone after Harada on a vengeance trip.’
‘Stupid ol’ bastard ain’t got no chance with that gammy leg.’
‘I’m not so sure. Harada will follow the road. Ted knows every short cut and track direct to Saidor. Send out some trackers to see if they can pick up his trail.’
Two hours later they completed the job of loading the wrecked plane onto the Landcruiser and its large trailer. The paid out porters retreated to the nearby hillside to celebrate their newfound wealth. Dave and Fang gave up hope of finding Ted and called Jake and Seiji in preparation for the final drive to Saidor. A terrible human scream from the jungles above disturbed them.
‘Shit!’ said Fang. ‘Let’s hope that ain’t Ted.’
Dave studied the devastated bridge dangling in the river and the silent wall of vegetation around them. ‘No, Harada’s gone and he needs Ted. Better check it out anyway.’
They searched the bush for the source of the tormented scream for over an hour. Fang smelt a smouldering campfire up ahead. ‘Dave, it’s the porter’s camp. Looks like they’ve left and headed back to Zawan.’
‘Right, be careful. We don’t know what’s happening here.’
As they entered the porters’ makeshift camp they found the Nokopo sniper tied to a tree. A lashed thong cut deeply into the skin of his neck and forehead. Bunched leaves stuffed his mouth and his eyes bulged wide with pain. Rolled back pupils exp
osed muddy whites veined with red. There had been no need to tie him. Both arms were hacked off at the elbow. The bloody stumps were tamped with a primitive mix of bee’s wax, ash and sap to prolong his agony. Two blackpalm arrows pierced his stomach to deliberately cause a slow and painful death.
Dave turned to Jake, disappointed and suspicious. ‘Bush justice. You know anything about this, Jake?’
‘No. Last I saw he was tied up in the back of the truck,’ he replied evasively. ‘I’ll drag the body down to the river. The croc’s will get rid of it.’
20
Ted Frazer could not let Richard’s attacker escape so easily. He recognised the tracks of three men. Two Nokopo warriors must still be guiding him. Harada had no transport and the guides would not follow the winding Saidor road. They would lead him straight down the foot track to the coast. Frazer limped his way along the trail trying to be as quiet as possible. He used the machete sparingly to slash his way through the undergrowth. The jungle thinned out to sparse forest. Scarlet blooms lavishly decorated the huge green poincianas. He crossed a field of razor grass beneath the skeletal remains of interwoven casuarina and poincianas. As a bushman with a long-term dread of fire, Frazer could smell invisible drifts of smoke.
He approached a large timbered clearing under a huge cocoon of cobwebs. Muted light seeped through the top cover with a pale amber glow. The overhead spider colony spanned an area as vast as a football field. He knew from previous journeys that this was the entrance to a sacred burial ground.
The silhouettes of myriad colourful Orb-weaver spiders and trapped jungle debris speckled the pearly gossamer ceiling. A fresh trail led beneath the web. Bush instinct told him Harada was in there. Though unafraid of spiders, the locals rarely visited this sacred place and only entered once a year for ceremony.
Frazer took precautions. He stripped a small sapling, forced it into a half metre hoop and lashed it. He then cut a bamboo stalk, divided it into eight equal lengths and sharpened each with the machete to a lethal needlepoint. He carefully used razor grass and vines to lash a cartwheel-like assembly together. All the sharp points nearly met at the hub, like spokes. He glanced along the trail, found the perfect spot and began digging.