by R. B. Shaw
Fang ignored Dave’s outburst. ‘Give it a break. How the hell would we get the chopper back up again for another try, anyway? It’s lighter than a Volkswagen, but that’s a mean slope.’
Jan assessed the problem and made a suggestion. ‘Why can’t we drag it up with its own winch?’
Fang interjected. ‘Wrong angle and too high. Probably drag it over on its side, even if it don’t flatten the battery.’
Dave did not respond. He walked to the winch on the side of the helicopter cabin and inspected the A-frame mounting. Without a word he began releasing the mounting pins from the brackets above and below the doorframe.
Fang watched, bemused. ‘What the hell are you up to now, Dave?’
‘Jan’s idea will work, with a few changes. Disconnect the wiring loom cannon plug and drop it through the flare chute on the floor. Jan, unhook the spare seat belts and toss ‘em out here. With a bit o’ luck, we can drag the chopper even further upslope than before for a longer take-off run.’
Jan stayed defiant and insistent. ‘If we do this, Dave, I’m going to fly it. You’re only a few kilos lighter than Fang and not as experienced, so what chance have you got? Fang nearly made it. With it further up the slope and less weight, I guarantee I can get it off.’
Though Jan made sense, Dave did not reply. He lashed the electric winch securely to the forward frame of the landing skids using the spare seat belts. He pulled the power lead down through the belly flare chute and plugged it in. Fang disengaged the winch clutch and hauled the cable up the slope. Finding a suitable anchor point proved to be a problem. Eventually he hooked it around an engine mount of the Ventura wreck, confident it would take the load.
Jan did not wait for a decision. She climbed in, started the helicopter again, then gave it full power while reeling in on the electric winch. The strategy worked as planned. The little jet engine provided ample power for the rotors to relieve the weight. The generator also supplied winch power without flattening the battery. In a stinging blast of debris from the rotor wash, the tiny helicopter gradually inched its way up the uneven incline, bumping and jerking as it slid.
The Hughes sat ready for another attempt, now twenty metres higher up the slope. Jan shut down the engine. She stubbornly refused to leave the cockpit as the two men removed the winch, then turned the chopper around.
Jan hid her anxiety. ‘I’ve never tried anything like this before. What’s the worst that could happen, Fang?’
‘Roll yourself up into a flaming ball,’ Fang replied tactlessly.
Dave glared at Fang as he helped strap Jan in. ‘You’ve got to force it down the slope. Forward translational speed’s critical.’
Jan’s temper flared. ‘Don’t patronise me! I did plenty of sliding take-offs and landings when I was training. It’s the lift I’m concerned about. Will it handle any different?’
‘It’ll feel odd—you’ll only have half the normal lift.’
Jan calmed and briefly assessed Dave’s explanation. ‘Right, let’s do it.’
Dave realised Jan might try to push the lift-off attempt too far. The result then might be just as Fang described. ‘Okay. I’m putting a marker down near the edge. If the skids don’t clear the ground by the time you reach it, pull off power and let her slide to a halt. If it’s not airborne by the edge, you’ve got to abort or risk dropping over the edge of the escarpment and hope you’ve got enough lift.’
‘What about power?’
‘It’s all downhill to Madang, keep your power up and try to maintain altitude.’ Dave was more nervous than Jan. He tried to hide it with banter and a reassuring smile. ‘Weight’s critical, Jan—the jeans and blouse have gotta go.’
The remark relieved the tension between them. Jan smiled, exposing perfect teeth and a sparkle in her amber eyes, ‘Not now darling, but watch out when we’re back in Madang.’ She kissed him on the cheek, then hit the starter button.
The noisy jet engine again whistled up to a screaming crescendo. Dave and Fang moved down slope to monitor the tricky take-off. The helicopter built up rotor speed, making an incredible din amid a thrashing ocean of grass and dust.
Jan coaxed the chopper forward. It slid slowly down the slope, the weight on the skids reducing as speed increased. It looked ungainly, bouncing and jerking as it built up forward momentum. Halfway to the edge, the skids momentarily cleared the ground.
Dave shouted encouragement as Jan handled it perfectly. The chopper powered forward. He watched the tail rotor, hoping Jan would level out if it looked like hitting the ground. Jan corrected and suddenly the chopper became airborne. No hesitation, she soared straight ahead off the edge of the escarpment and headed for Madang.
Both men stood spellbound, watching as the buzzing insect shape dwindled and merged with the mountainous horizon.
Dave tuned his radio to the Madang tower frequency. ‘Okay Fang, let’s set up camp near the shelter of the Ventura. We’ve a few hours of daylight left to check out the rest of the wreck.’ He left the radio turned on as they set up the tent, waiting patiently for the message that Jan had arrived safely.
They scoured the tundra slope and wreckage thoroughly, looking for personal effects or documents. An hour later, a call from Madang interrupted their efforts. Dave grabbed the microphone and responded. His face broke into a grin as he heard the news. ‘Jan made it, Fang. She’ll get the blades re-fitted overnight, then pick us up tomorrow morning sometime.’
Fang still rummaged inside the wreck, tossing aside rotted canvas sling seats. ‘Great, but look in here, Dave—there’s an old aerial camera mounted in the rear fuselage.’
Dave peered inside. ‘Is there some sort of instructions or document bag with it? The plane was on a reconnaissance flight.’
After levering away buckled skins and frames, Dave saw an old leather map satchel attached to the side frames. He attempted to open it, but the rusted tin plate catches crumbled and broke away. Under the leather flap was an assortment of maps and documents. A large metal canister revealed glass photographic plates, some still sealed.
‘Reckon they’d be undeveloped negatives?’ Fang asked.
‘Probably, but I doubt they’d be much good after fifty years. Still, we’ll take everything back with us.’
28
The freezing night on the mountain drove them into the limited comfort of their special tent. The cold breeze dropped, making it possible to light a small campfire. With the lack of activity, Dave read some of the old documents that were still legible. One was the old brittle map. Time and exposure to the elements had totally faded the folded outer faces. Intriguingly, ancient pencil course lines crossed the folded inner legible pages but disappeared with all other detail when reaching the time-bleached outer page. Obviously this critical page was the one in use at the time of the accident. Finding nothing of interest, he turned to the wallet from the corpse under the torn-off wing.
‘You wanna risk opening it here?’ Fang muttered with concern.
Dave realised he might damage the contents. ‘We can at least unfold it and find out why it’s so bloody heavy.’
Dave carefully spread the two halves of the old wallet. It had been burnt to the shape of a large thick butterfly. An old coin dropped out, a 1935 US silver dollar, tarnished yellow with age. An American five-cent followed, then a tarnished silver eighth guilder coin from the Netherlands East Indies, dated 1942. Finally, a Philippine one peso coin shook loose. Any further attempt to separate the fragile layers in the charred wallet caused it to crumble. Dave gave up until they could use better equipment back in Madang.
At sunrise, the sky was cloudless. A frigid breeze returned, aggravating the bitter cold. The sky turned royal blue, the ragged mountainous horizon highlighted by a golden yellow dawn. It merged with the dark sky above to form a wide expanse of pure cobalt blue. The silence seemed tangible, every breath and movement amplified. Clothing rustled and the brittle frozen grass crackled as they prepared a fire. With no timber in the area, they used hexamin
e tablets to start the fire. They feasted on ham and eggs, then savoured a cup of tepid coffee each.
Dave rinsed his mug and started breaking camp. ‘We better get movin’. If Jan got the chopper repaired overnight as planned, she could be back soon.’
Two hours later they thoroughly rechecked the trail of wreckage. No further clues surfaced as to the plane’s 1942 search for the gold barge. Fang looked bored as he again rummaged through the torn open cockpit and forward fuselage. ‘Listen pal, we’re wastin’ our time. We’ve turned the site upside down. Let’s face it, we’re not gonna find any more clues up here.’
They both settled into a sullen mood, rummaging half-heartedly, more intent on listening for the telltale patter of approaching rotor blades.
‘Dave, look at this. There’s somethin’ wedged under the engine nacelle near the wing.’
They both crouched to examine a strange weathered black box with tiny windows and corroded levers.
‘It’s an old Brownie box camera!’ said Dave with genuine surprise.
Fang tried levering the wreckage higher without success. He instead dug the earth away under the camera. Finally, it pulled free. ‘Bugger me, it’s still in good nick!’
Dave inspected the leather covering. It had protected the old camera from the elements. ‘There’s a small plate riveted on the back. It’s engraved.’
‘What’s it say?’ said Fang.
‘NO.2 BROWNIE, USE FILM NO. 116; MADE IN U.S.A. BY EASTMAN KODAK COMPANY, ROCHESTER, N.Y.’
Fang studied the small one-cent sized orange window. Obscure figures were visible inside. ‘The camera’s still loaded with film. D’ya think it’d be any good?’
‘Nah, but don’t open it. We’ll take it back with us.’
As they studied the old relic, a distant pulse echoed through the mountain wilderness. It faded and returned again louder. Dave scanned the northern sky and then smiled with jubilation as he saw the helicopter flying directly toward them. Two minutes later, Jan landed on the lower slope.
Dave and Fang lashed the old blades on the landing skids and loaded their gear aboard.
Jan looked concerned. She shouted above the rotor din. ‘The helicopter’s developed a rough vibration, even with the new blades.’
‘We ain’t got no choice. I’ll check it on the way back,’ Dave advised. They took off with the cabin stuffed with equipment. The vibration did seem more pronounced, most instruments an unreadable blur. ‘The rotor strike must’ve damaged the gearbox. We better have it thoroughly inspected before further flight … assuming we reach Madang, that is.’
29
A fierce sun followed a sudden afternoon storm, the steamy humidity overpowering. Jan retired early, tired from her organising and flying. Dave and Fang hurried a late lunch in the Madang Hotel restaurant. They purchased some cheap medical instruments and contact paper, ready to open the old wallet. Despite his big hands, Fang handled the scalpel delicately, like a surgeon. Dave handled the forceps, tweezers and a fixed spotlight. He carefully peeled away the crumbling layers of brittle paper and transferred them on to contact sheet. Gradually they exposed cross sections of a dead man’s life. Each thin sliver and veneer added another clue, untangling the puzzle. Answers to the enigma built up and they began reading documents unseen for fifty years.
Fang peered impatiently over Dave’s shoulder. ‘Whatta we got?’
‘A Filipino five pesos note. An eye test report and a prescription for glasses.’
Fang simply grunted at the poor results.
‘The printing’s faded and almost unreadable on all the documents.’ Dave continued. ‘Four charred US one dollar notes, an obscure photo and some faded food ration stamps. This one looks interesting, a military insurance policy.’ The printing on the old document was just readable, the old ink handwriting almost invisible. He handed it to Fang.
‘Can’t read it,’ Fang gazed at the yellow page. ‘The ink’s faded. I’ll darken it on the photocopier.’
The copies darkened, the handwriting became clearer. ‘It’s working, put it through again,’ Dave suggested.
‘That’s as good as we’re gonna get—any darker and it’ll be absorbed by the dark background.’ Fang bent over the page. ‘It’s still hard to read. Pass me the magnifying glass. I’ll read—you write.’
‘Yeah, call it.’
‘Name, Keith Steper!’ Fang let out a loud whoop and continued. ‘Address, 1471 Lynors St. Denver 6, Colorado, USA. Next of kin, Eva Sheridan Steper. Sum insured, $10,000. Charge, $64.00.’
A silent elation prevailed. This is what they wanted; positive identification of the man who had vanished searching for the gold-laden barge. Finding the leader of the Operation Stopgap mission also confirmed the Ventura wreck as a major breakthrough.
Fang gave the wallet a final search. ‘There’s another scrap of paper folded in the back.’ He found it scrawled with pencilled numbers. ‘430146. Makes no sense!’ He shrugged and put it aside.
Dave needed results. ‘I’ll spend some time going through these documents. What about ‘phoning the Kodak technical support department about the old photos and camera?’
Fang found the number and was soon speaking to a specialist at Kodak in Melbourne. ‘Chris Mitchell from Avmar Salvage in Papua New Guinea. I’ve got a hypothetical question for you.’
‘Yes Mr. Mitchell, how can we help you?’
‘We found an old box camera, been layin’ around for fifty years. It’s still got film in it. It’d be stuffed after all this time, wouldn’t it?’
A professional silence reigned as the Kodak expert pondered Fang’s request. Then, ‘If it’s Kodak film you could probably just drop it in to your local Kodak dealer,’ he chuckled before continuing. ‘Seriously though, it’s possible to get useable images off old films and negatives. It depends on two things: what conditions it’s been kept in, and how much you’re willing to spend to retrieve an image.’
‘It could be very important,’ Fang responded. ‘We found ‘em in a wartime bomber wreck over 10,000 feet up in the mountains. We also found some of those large glass negatives used in wartime aerial cameras. Everything’s still sealed.’
‘In the jungle and humidity?’
‘No, alpine grassland. No humidity and temperature range ‘bout ten degrees C maximum, down to near freezin’ at night.’
The Kodak man fell silent for a moment, before continuing. ‘You’re on the very edge of what modern technology can handle. They’d be in poor condition now. The bigger glass negatives could possibly give a better resolution. It depends on the quality of the emulsion.’
‘What about the old Brownie box camera—will we take the film out?’
‘It’d be safer to send the whole camera down,’ the Kodak expert advised. ‘If you have a dark room, you could try rewinding it, but I think it will have gone brittle.’
‘Okay, we’ll try and remove the film. If you reckon you can handle the processing, we’ll airfreight it all down.’
‘Nobody in Australia can do it better. Are you willing to go to the expense of computer enhancement if necessary?’
‘No problem, this is urgent. Charge it to a Mister Dave Stark. You should have his account there.’
Dave waited for Fang to hang up. ‘Let’s just send it all down. We can’t risk damaging our only lead.’
‘I agree. But we ain’t got nothin’ to lose by tryin’ to open the camera.’
Dave pondered Fang’s comment. ‘It could give us a weeks head start if we develop the film here. Let’s try it. Any problems and we’ll send it off with the other plates.’
The tension was palpable as Fang and Dave carefully examined the old camera in the muted red glow of the Madang Hotel’s dark room. It looked a comical sight, like two amateurs reluctantly defusing a bomb. The room was silent except for the puppy-like barking of Gecko lizards. The lizards licked their glowing eyes and stared intently from the ceiling at the two red figures below.
Fang fiddled nervously with the wi
nder. ‘Which way do I turn the bloody thing?’
‘Film should be around the outer edge. Turn it anti-clockwise.’
Fang tried to turn the seized lever. Suddenly it released and turned free. Fang took up the film slack. It went firm again and he glanced at Dave for mutual approval to force it further.
‘Do it,’ Dave nodded. His face glistened with red beads of sweat in the subdued darkroom lighting.
Fang forced the winder. The brittle film fractured and curled with a scratching sound.
‘Shit, it broke!’ Fang shouted.
The disappointed duo did not attempt to open the camera, aware they might create more problems and further damage the film. Finally, they agreed to send the whole camera to the experts in Melbourne.
Fang fetched them a beer each and rummaged through the old documents. ‘What d’ya reckon about these numbers on the scrap of paper from Steper’s wallet?’
‘Dunno. It’s on the back of an old piece of film wrapper. Very likely written down hurriedly in flight and then stuffed in his wallet.’
‘Must have been important then?’
‘Yeah. You can forget about phone numbers, part numbers, bank accounts, safe combinations and the like,’ Dave suggested. ‘It had to be something on the spur of the moment—important enough not to trust to memory.’
‘430146?’ Fang tossed the numbers around, then wrote them down on a sheet of paper in various arrangements. It was another ten minutes before he shouted. ‘Got it! It’s a time. 4.30 on the 14th of June, the sixth month!’
Dave pondered Fang’s theory. ‘No. He would’ve used the military 24 hour clock, and being American, he’d put month before day in the date.’
In frustration they opened a current map of the region and cans of South Pacific lager. They tried various combinations, as compass courses, return headings, then as time and distance calculations. All gave various negative results, remote plots in the middle of a vast and empty Bismarck Sea.
Fang stabbed his finger on the map. ‘Don’t make sense. Ted said it ended up on a reef just offshore of a volcanic island. Long Island and Manam Island are too far away for a landin’ barge trip. It’s gotta be around Karkar island or Bagabag island.’