Fire Cult

by R. B. Shaw

  ‘Sounds reasonable.’ Tiana responded as she stood and began dressing.

  ‘Some day I’m gonna challenge him to train a flea to knit a Centurion tank outa steel wool usin’ flagpoles as knittin’ needles. Trouble is, if there’s money in it, the cagey bastard ‘d work out a way to do it.’

  ‘Sounds like an interesting man,’ Tiana replied as she touched up her make-up in a mirror.

  ‘He’d never admit it but he’s an addict hooked on nature’s purest drug, adrenalin. He taunts death on the job and on his leisure time. Have you ever stood on the lip of a big drop and felt the ache of fear in your legs? For him that supercharged rush is ecstatic. On our mountain trips, I’ve seen him teeter with his toes over the edge of a sheer precipice, savourin’ the adrenalin rush.’

  Tiana glanced at her watch and changed the subject. ‘Chris, can we go back and meet them now? I don’t want a late night.’

  24

  Fang’s arm encircled Tiana as they strolled back into the bar. He held her close and smiled broadly as they approached Dave and Jan’s table. One spare chair remained at the table. An Asian man had taken the fourth chair. He sat almost back to back with Dave in the crowded bar room. Without hesitation, Fang turned to another man nearby, told him he had a phone call at the bar and immediately took his chair as the stranger moved away.

  ‘Dave, Jan. I’d like you to meet Tiana.’ Fang beamed proudly. They exchanged greetings and the cuddling couple sat down.

  ‘Did Fang show you around the Lahara?’ Jan enquired, looking beautiful in an aqua tropical shift but definitely suspicious of the new guest.

  ‘Yes, a lovely boat, very luxurious, but what did you call Chris?’

  ‘Fang,’ Dave replied. ‘It’s a nickname. Hardly any one calls him Chris.’

  ‘Why do they call you Fang?’ Tiana enquired with a disarming smile.

  ‘The lithe and graceful way I move and walk,’ Fang explained quickly. ‘Like a jungle cat.’

  Tiana frowned, puzzled by the reply, as Dave choked on his beer and Jan attempted to stifle a belly laugh. Fang still stared at Tiana, a boyish smile locked on his face as he admired her.

  ‘Your salvage work sounds interesting,’ Tiana stated innocently.

  Dave flinched and glared at Fang but it was a waste of time. Fang drifted in another world, still smiling at Tiana. ‘Yes, it is. Do you live locally, Tiana?’ Dave tried to change the subject.

  A native waiter interrupted their conversation. Dave checked with Tiana first. ‘Same again, plus a Scotch and dry for the lady … and a sledgehammer to take the stupid grin off my friend’s face,’ Dave ordered angrily.

  The comment missed its mark. Fang still seemed remote as he casually stroked Tiana’s glossy black hair. ‘A can of swamp piss …’ Fang corrected himself. ‘… A can of SP, South Pacific lager, thanks.’

  The puzzled waiter asked Dave for the last part of his order again but Dave waved him off.

  ‘I hear you’re looking for a wartime bomber, Dave,’ Tiana enquired sweetly.

  ‘Bombers, fighters, warships—they’re all over Papua New Guinea and will be for hundreds of years,’ Dave replied evasively. ‘Some have good scrap value.’

  Tiana sensed his hostility and backed off, questioning Jan instead about local tours and artefact stores.

  As it grew later, Tiana excused herself. ‘Chris, I must go. As I said before, I do have an early start.’

  ‘Let me drive you home.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ll take a taxi.’

  Fang escorted her to the foyer. ‘Leave me your phone number. I’ll give you a call.’

  Tiana again refused. ‘It would be better if I call you at the hotel.’

  ‘In case I’m gone, that’s my Port Moresby numbers.’ Fang handed her his business card. ‘You will call?’

  ‘I promise. Within a few days.’ Her passionate goodbye kiss and longing look of affection withered Fang’s tough exterior. He walked back to the bar a confused man and ordered another beer.

  ‘Hey buddy, wanna be careful,’ the barman warned. ‘That chick is one of Bruno Kless’s girls.’

  Fang hesitated. ‘Who’s Bruno Kless?’

  ‘A mixed-race plantation owner and pimp from Karkar,’ the barman replied. ‘He’s tough and he’s strange. The only time he’s well balanced is when he’s got a chip on each shoulder.’

  ‘I’m shakin’ in my boots,’ Fang drawled sarcastically.

  ‘So ya should. He’s nasty. Runs guns, drugs and hookers. She’s one of his favourites.’

  Fang turned on the barman angrily, grabbed his shirtfront and dragged him halfway across the bar. ‘What are you suggestin’, arsehole?’

  Overstressed buttons from the barman’s shirtfront gradually popped away. They bounced off the bar top as if they had a mind of their own and tried to escape what might happen next.

  ‘She’s a hook … she’s a professional girl, a regular here,’ the barman mumbled nervously.

  ‘I got a blade in my boot sharp enough to shave with.’ Fang exuded cool malice. ‘The other edge is serrated. In four hacks and four seconds, I’ll have your heart beatin’ on the bar.’

  ‘Fang, let him go!’ Dave’s voice boomed across the room. He recognised the same old scenario. What Fang termed an instant face reversal would be next. Dave had seen Fang’s bar room brawls from Sydney to Saigon, from Nairobi to Nassau. Fang’s twice broken nose was the only legacy of his rare losses.

  Remarkably, Fang calmed down and let the man slide back to his side of the bar. ‘I know that’s bullshit, pal. Watch your mouth or learn to eat through a straw. It’s the only way with a busted jaw.’ He slammed his empty bottle down on the bar, stamped aggressively back to Dave and Jan and sat down.

  ‘Fang, tame your bloody temper or Pete’ll have us thrown out,’ Dave ordered angrily. ‘Next time you pick up a bargirl, keep your mouth shut about what we’re doing! Particularly that one, she’s too inquisitive.’

  Fang remained at flashpoint from the barman’s comments, and he turned on Dave with a vengeance. ‘Listen pal! On the job you can tell me what to do, otherwise it’s none of your bloody business. Anyway, she’s harmless.’

  Jan listened intently, familiar with Fang’s poor track record with women. They were usually wild exotic types, Polynesian, Asian or fiery continentals. ‘You said that about the Cook Islander and the Malaysian girl.’

  ‘Yeah, but this time it’s different, Jan.’

  ‘You’ve only known her four hours,’ Jan scoffed. ‘What about Bianca?’

  Fang evaded further comment on his love life, ordered another round of drinks, then coaxed Dave to change the subject back to planning their search.

  Jan opened a sheath of papers and a small map of the region. ‘This is what we have. An American Ventura bomber was sent out on reconnaissance. Its mission was to find the position of the damaged Japanese barge. Coastwatchers positively identified barge 282 as carrying Aussie prisoners and the gold dust. Operation Stopgap was the codename for the attempted pursuit and retrieval. The Commanding Officer, Keith Steper, was on board the missing Ventura with most relevant documents for the search. Their last message stated they had found the barge and were turning back. The Ventura never returned.’

  ‘So where is it?’ Fang mumbled through a mouthful of crisps.

  ‘In 1948, the crash site was located,’ Jan explained. ‘A team from the American War Graves Commission visited it and removed three bodies, and little else, due to terrible weather. It appeared the bomber was simply in cloud when it crashed straight into the mountains.’

  Dave topped his beer. ‘Sounds feasible. The mountains were uncharted then and most wartime maps of Papua New Guinea showed only estimated spot heights. Few were marked over 10,000 feet, when in fact, some were over 15,000. With the map errors, it’s not surprising there’s a lot of wartime wrecks above 10,000 feet.’

  Fang considered the bomber a waste of time. ‘So let’s get back to the barge and the gold dust.’

&
nbsp; Jan paused, then continued. ‘Their description of the barge location put it somewhere around the volcanic islands. Without further leads, our search has come to an abrupt dead-end. We’ve got to relocate the Ventura crash site. It’s very likely still visible from the air. It’s possible the wreck may still contain clues, maps or instructions that could lead to the barge. All we have is this map which roughly shows positions of wartime aircraft crash sites. It’s very vague, with rough distance and bearing from major towns.’

  Dave put forward his plan. ‘Okay. While we begin eliminating wreck sites from the air in the Invader, Jake and Seiji are ready to take the Lahara out and start searching the offshore islands. If any of us spot a likely wreck or barge, Jan will be ready to take us in for a detailed check with the chopper.’

  An hour later, Jake and Seiji joined them in the bar. Something looked seriously wrong as they walked toward them. Seiji approached wide-eyed and angry, teeth clenched. He suddenly broke into a run straight at Dave with fists ready to let fly. Dave stood up puzzled, ready to take him on. Seiji shouldered Dave aside, then knocked the glasses and baseball cap off the man behind them. He grabbed the big Asian by the shoulders and shouted in Japanese. The rest of the bar fell silent with the sudden noisy confrontation. No one understood as the two Asian men shouted and jostled each other, knocking over chairs and tables as they argued.

  Seiji briefly turned to Dave. ‘That is Kendo Harada! He was sitting behind you, spying on you!’ He shouted and before he could turn back, Harada high kicked him in the side of the face.

  Both men circled, probing for an opening, each skilled in oriental martial arts. A deadly conflict of flying feet and a withering barrage of punches followed. Though lightly built and older than Harada, Seiji’s dexterous fighting skills hammered Harada into a corner. Harada wavered, still weak from other injuries. He used his left arm sparingly and was hindered by a limp.

  A curtain of dangling bamboo ellipses strung on nylon line shielded the rest room area. Fang took his opportunity, picked up Harada bodily and threw him to the wall through the elaborate bamboo ring curtain. Harada recovered quickly. Before Fang could catch him, he limped into the toilet and locked the door. Fang and Jake kicked at the door and it splintered as Seiji and Dave ran outside to block Harada’s escape. They arrived too late. He had slipped through a window and away into the night.

  Dave searched in vain, troubled that Harada must have overheard all their plans.

  25

  Jake and Seiji left Madang in the Lahara early next day. Their exhausting task would lead them to over fifty known wrecked wartime barges along the coast of the offshore islands. Dave arrived at the airport helipad, ready for their air search. Jan had parked Fang’s Invader alongside their helicopter so that both were within sight of the hired security guard. She stood on a work stand, busily pencilling lines along the nose of the Invader, a sheet of paper in her hand.

  ‘What are you up to?’ Dave queried.

  ‘Fang wants the nose painted up like this.’ Jan smiled and handed him a set of photocopies.

  Dave recognised Kittyhawk fighter planes of Lee Chenault’s famous Flying Tigers, distinctive by the large shark’s teeth and eyes painted on the nose. It made the sleek wartime aircraft appear positively evil. ‘What the hell does he want that for?’

  ‘He gets annoyed when he leaves the Invader at primitive strips and the inquisitive locals tamper with the plane. He reckons if it looks like a monster, their superstitious nature will keep them away.’

  Dave checked his watch. ‘Probably right. Is he here yet?’

  ‘Yes, down at the tower flight planning. Should be back shortly.’

  ‘Hope he’s okay. Bianca’s gone for good and he’s upset he can’t track down the pretty Thai bargirl he met the other night. I’m glad in a way. She was asking too many questions. Fang hit the booze pretty hard last night.’

  ‘Eight hours, bottle to throttle?’ Jan warned.

  ‘Knowing Fang he’ll have the throttle in one hand and the bottle in the other.’

  As if on cue, the Thunderbox idled noisily into the carpark near the helipad. Fang stepped out and sauntered over. ‘Okay, we’re all clear. Let’s go.’

  ‘Right,’ said Dave. ‘Re-locate the wreck site you saw yesterday and we’ll follow. Keep your speed down or we’ll lose you.’

  ‘No worries. There’s a clearin’ right alongside the wreck. Get Jan to land the Egg and drop you off. Let me know what you find. While I’m waitin’, I’ll keep searchin’.’

  Fang enjoyed the thrill of flying low over the water. After taking off and losing sight of the tower, he dropped the Invader down close to the swells of the Bismarck Sea. Jan followed closely in the helicopter, revelling in the sensation as the wavetops sped past just below their feet. The white Lahara stood out on the blue waters near the coast. Dave called on the radio and Jake reported no problems.

  They followed Fang across the coast near Saidor then headed southeast. The jungle of the coastal plains revealed foggy glimpses of silver serpentine rivers reflecting up through the dense foliage. The steep mountain foothills looked like gigantic spread hands. Finger-like ridges resembled clutching talons embedded in the emerald jungle plains.

  Jan hesitated—something caught her attention off to the port side.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Dave as he stowed the microphone.

  ‘Thought I saw another plane off to our left.’

  Dave scanned the sky and saw nothing.

  As they neared the foothills, the rivers became more distinct. Their colours changed frequently due to algae and the local mineral content. Some flowed clear, others green, brown or black. Some simply disappeared into huge sinkholes, negating the old adage, all rivers lead to the sea. Fang selected climb power to reach the tall peaks of the aptly named Finisterre Ranges—the mountains at the end of the earth. The heavily forested foothills and ridges gave way to thinner clumps of cedar, pine and beech. Above 10,000 feet, unique stunted tree ferns and cycads dotted the smoothly rolling tundra. A sprinkling of rhododendrons, gentian and buttercups coloured the sub-alpine grassland.

  Fang almost stalled the Invader as he held back the speed to allow Jan to keep pace. The Invader was purpose-built and unsuitable for aerial ground searches. Its large wings and huge radial engines restricted search capability to forward vision and limited side views.

  As Jan trailed the helicopter behind the Invader, Dave searched the monotonous tundra slopes for other likely wrecks. Eventually Fang’s Invader crossed the tall saddle that linked the higher ridges of the Finisterre Ranges. It then turned sharply down and began circling a ragged mountaintop. The peak looked like the remains of a crumbling castle in the sky. Dave and Jan scanned the grey rocky slopes but neither could distinguish the wreck site that Fang had obviously re-located.

  The radio crackled into life. ‘Down to your left, about 200 metres from the summit,’ Fang announced.

  ‘Got it!’ Dave responded and pointed it out to Jan. The corroded grey aluminium blended with the dark grey rocky escarpment.

  Jan hovered the helicopter carefully above a suitable clearing then set it down on the cold bare slope, only fifty metres from the suspect wreck.

  Dave scrambled out into the chilly rarefied air. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes. Keep the engine running.’ He glanced up and saw Fang’s Invader heading off on his predetermined search pattern around other suspect sites.

  As Dave walked carefully across the rocky slope, he felt like a trespasser on hallowed ground. The plane had been pulverised on impact with the bare, unforgiving rock face. No vegetation grew here, only grey rock assaulted by tenacious scabs of white and green fungi. He searched through corroded aluminium frames and a litter of verdigris green cartridge cases.

  The wreck did have twin tails like the Ventura but this looked bigger, with four engines. The battered lumps of eroded engine castings bristled with rusted steel studs and components. The forces of impact had curled the abraded prop blades into disto
rted ribbons of aluminium. No one could have survived the destruction in the mutilated cockpit. Most placards and plates were unreadable but he saw enough to identify it as a Liberator bomber.

  Dave’s ragged breathing in the rarefied air almost drowned the distant whine of the idling helicopter and he returned in less than five minutes. ‘We can forget that one; four engines. Looks like a Yank Liberator. Check it on your map.’

  Jan scanned the unreliable map. ‘Yes, but it’s about four kilometres out. First located in 1976. B-24 Liberator in poor condition near ridge top. It states the remains of ten American crew were removed.’

  ‘Right, let’s look at a few other sites and check what else Fang mighta found.’

  Jan lifted the noisy chopper off in a cloud of dust then turned steeply down the southern face toward another site notated on the map. She caught sight of a possible wreck and as she suddenly banked toward it, another following aircraft came into view then turned sharply away.

  ‘Other traffic!’ Dave warned, in case Jan missed the plane.

  ‘Got it,’ she responded.

  ‘Who the hell was that?’ Dave demanded. ‘Call Madang tower!’

  Jan spoke to Madang tower while Dave monitored the tiny shape of a strange twin-tailed plane. ‘Madang tower advises the only other traffic this region is Fang’s Invader. Someone’s flying illegally, Dave.’

  ‘Here it comes again. I bet it’s Harada! I don’t know where he got the plane, but it’s a Cessna Skymaster, the odd one with engines front and back. See if you can shake him off.’

  The Hughes helicopter was as simple as an airborne Jeep. It spanned less than nine metres from forward rotor tip to tail. Jan utilised its extremely good manoeuvrability to climb then roll into steep banks like a veteran fighter plane. She weaved the chopper through the peaks of the Finisterres, but with a top speed of around 130 knots, the Skymaster followed like a shadow.

  Dave pointed down at the contorted foothills and deep ravines to starboard. ‘Get ‘er down in amongst that lot—that’ll sort him out!’