Jed stares at her, amazed.
“I like food,” she says. “Have to keep the brain cells ticking over.”
“You certainly have a healthy appetite!”
Alexander picks up her glass, tilts her head, leans back in her chair and looks coyly up at him from under the sweep of blonde waves. “Aha, so now you’re saying I’m fat.”
Jed runs his eyes down her throat and breasts to her waist. A protest rises to his lips but dies away unspoken when he sees her wide grin. She’s playing him like a fish on a hook! This is a different woman from the one he first met. He looks into her laughing eyes and decides not to front the challenge they offer. Deflection is the best and safest response. Abruptly, he changes the subject. “How much do you know about World War II and the Japanese push to Australia?”
Putting down her glass, Alexander leans forward with her elbows on the table, resting her chin against her locked fingers. “Before we start,” she says, “we need to get one thing straight. I may be blonde, but do not at any stage treat me like an idiot.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “My grandfather flew the B-25C Mitchell, a five-place, twin-engine medium bomber, named after General Billy Mitchell, who was court-martialled for his insistence that airpower was the way of the future.”
Jed opens his mouth to speak but before he can get a word in she’s off again.
“By sheer chance, or perhaps fate, it carries the same name as you. I draw no conclusions from that.”
Jed winces, but this time makes no attempt to interrupt. He’s learning his lesson, and fast!
“It had a wing span of sixty-seven feet seven inches and a maximum take-off weight of thirty-four thousand pounds,” she continues.
Hell, she’s spitting out facts and figures like an automaton, beating him at what he thought was his own game.
“It had a normal range of one thousand five hundred miles with a bomb load of three thousand pounds,” Alexander goes on, “and was powered by two fourteen-cylinder, twin-row, air-cooled, turbo-charged Wright R2600 Cyclone engines, rated for one thousand seven hundred take-off horsepower. Considered one of the most successful medium class bombers of the war, it was very flexible and was adapted for many other duties, including advanced trainer and attack bomber, mapping, photography, reconnaissance, transport, radar and as a control bomber to hunt and destroy submarines—”
She’s good, bloody good. No doubt about it. Jed tries not to let her see how stunned he is.
“Do you want me to go on?” Alexander asks, clearly enjoying having wrested the advantage in this undeclared war of the sexes.
There’s a lot more to this woman, he thinks, perspiration threatening to wash over him again. “I get your point about the research you’ve done,” he says at last. “I’ll fill you in on what I’ve come up with. Interrupt and ask any questions you like.”
“Go for it,” Alexander replies, with a smug smile.
He pours two glasses of the Pinot, taking a restorative sip. “On April 11 1942, eleven Mitchell B-25 bombers landed in Darwin. They were accompanied by three B-17 Flying Fortresses and led by an American, General Ralph Royce. At that time, General MacArthur had escaped from the Philippines and American troops were still holding out on the Bataan Peninsula. They were on their way to the Philippines with three objectives—to fly behind Japanese lines and strike shipping and airfields, evacuate an exclusive group of key personnel and generate publicity by striking back at a stage when the Japanese were overrunning most of Southeast Asia.”
“Understood,” Alexander responds with a tone of efficiency that flashes an image in Jed’s mind of the Borg humanoid Seven of Nine on Star Trek. He wisely doesn’t put it into words. “That would be about the time of the Doolittle raid on Tokyo,” she adds.
“You’ve got it. If the Doolittle raid hadn’t happened, the Royce mission would have made front page news. MacArthur was after a morale boost and thought it so important he asked Royce to lead the mission, even though there were many other demands on his generals. They got to the Philippines, harassed the Japanese with some success and made it home. However,” he pauses dramatically, “there weren’t eleven Mitchells but twelve!”
Alexander leans back and sips her wine thoughtfully. “At that time the Americans, Dutch and Australians were scrounging for any aircraft they could lay their hands on. Record keeping and ownership must have been difficult to sort out.”
“Dead right! Aircraft were being allocated to the Dutch and Australians and then taken over by the Yanks before the paperwork could catch up. This happened over and over again. That twelfth B-25 seems to have been caught up in the confusion and was flown by your grandfather. This article has a photograph of the group at Archerfield airport on departure from Brisbane. Count the aircraft.”
Alexander looks carefully and responds cautiously. “Fourteen.”
“Have another look.”
She studies the photograph again carefully and puts her finger on a clustered group taxiing out together, counting tail fins carefully. “Fifteen?”
“That’s right. The group of three in the background are actually four aircraft if you count the tails. Remember the B-25 was a twin-tailed design. After they left, one aircraft had to return and was grounded, leaving eleven B-25s as per the official records.”
He flicks through the pages of the Flightpath magazine until he comes to a photograph. “This photo shows the B-25 crews before departure, enough crew for twelve aircraft.”
He picks up another book out of the briefcase and opens it to a marked page. “This photo is after the raid—a few less, amounting to two crews—one that was grounded and one missing in action.”
She picks up the first photograph and scans it carefully. “That looks like Karl,” she responds, her finger on one of the images. “The B-25 couldn’t make the Philippines in one flight. They would have to land or carry extra fuel.”
“The bomb bay was filled with a long-range tank that could be taken out and replaced with bombs once they reached the Philippines. You seem to have done your research Alexander,” Jed offers respectfully.
“I have indeed. At least as much as I could! When we work together you will find I am usually right,” she says with a tilt of her head and a smile. “Even if you think I am wrong, you always need to ask yourself, what if I am right?”
He ponders for a moment and responds in a measured tone, “As an educator, I hear what you say and am open to all opinions.”
“Spoken like a true principal!” she answers in a tone as cold as ice. She picks up her glass to sip the wine and stares straight back into his eyes. “We’ll be spending a fair amount of time together on this trip. It will be more enjoyable if you don’t create the impression there is a broomstick permanently stuck up your arse!”
Jed stalls in mid-thought. What the hell has he just struck? Silence descends. Big Ears sneaks a sideways look. Jed’s first reaction is defensive. She has a fucking bloody nerve to make a snap judgement about him! Perhaps he should walk away, dump his napkin and the unnecessary disturbance to his balanced life. He doesn’t need it!
He lets his brain think it through just a bit longer. Damn it, she could be bloody right! He has responded like a principal, his reactions ingrained after twenty years of dealing with students, parents, staff, department people, politicians and anybody else who think they know about education and doesn’t bother to see him as he really is. The trite language of education speak has slid smoothly and unconsciously past his lips. The language that he actually detests! In education, political correctness determines that people have ‘conversations’ rather than open debate or even decent arguments based on strongly held values and beliefs. No one has ever delivered a slap in the face so bluntly.
He wants and even needs this adventure. Putting up with this woman is a small price to pay. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and admits there is some truth in what she said. Truth hurts but he has to face the fact that after his last personal disaster he has been using his role as
a principal as a shield to hold people and emotions at bay. He takes a couple of slow, deep breaths while he thinks it through.
“I’ll give you that one Alexander,” he finally responds. Her insight has confronted him and left an uneasy feeling of transparency. Although stunned by her perception he has no intention of apologising or admitting the accuracy of her thoughts. “Maybe I’ll hammer a rubber bung into my arse so there’s no room for a broomstick!”
He sees the hint of a restrained smile on her lips. The awkwardness of the moment passes. She gives a satisfied nod and they settle into silence for a while, enjoying their meal and the wine. The atmosphere slowly clears, but both realise that something unresolved has transpired.
Jed continues with his confidence intact. “I’ve made progress. I took all the slides and placed them in order of landmarks I could recognise. What we are looking at, I think, is a trip, perhaps long service leave, from Melbourne to Adelaide, up the Stuart Highway to Darwin then west, perhaps as far as the Kimberley. I think it was a fishing and hunting trip. See this photo here,” he says, throwing one down on the table. “Through the window of the Landcruiser you can see a rack with what looks like a Winchester or Marlin lever action rifle and a single barrel shotgun. I’d say he was fishing and hunting wild pigs. I can sequence the photos for the return trip back through Borroloola, Burketown, Normanton, Longreach and down to Melbourne.”
“That’s quite a trip. Where do you think the photos of the plane were taken? It would have to be west of Darwin.”
“Right again,” he replies enthusiastically, partly unfolding a small map of the Northern Territory. “East of Darwin, the odds of being undiscovered for this long are pretty slim. My gut feeling is that west is more likely, although we would be looking for suitable pockets of difficult to access country on the coast. An ex-student of mine looked at the botany and geology and suggested west of Darwin, on the coast, but sheltered by a headland and sand bars.”
Alexander nods.
“For some reason your grandfather was off track on the return to Darwin. We could make a guess at battle damage or equipment failure of some kind. If he had made landfall to the east, my feeling is he would have reached Darwin. If he had flown back with the main group you would think help would have been available. So my guess is they left before or after the main group, most likely after and came down in this area,” he finishes, pointing to the map spread across the table.
“And how do you expect to cover that much country without spending years in the outback? I love the wild but can’t see myself living the rest of my life out there running the risk of being snack food for a crocodile!”
“I suggest we make a flight. The photos give us some idea of the terrain we need to look for. The bad news is that you will need to pay, but on the plus side I may let you fly just a little.”
“Aah, I’d forgotten you’re a pilot. That sounds like a plan. What are you proposing?”
There are a number of things he is tempted to propose but holds back. This woman is intelligent and fun, but with clear boundaries. “I can take the last week of August as leave. With two weeks school holidays and a week at the start of the next term, we have a month.”
“Excellent! I’m on leave myself for a while so I can meet you in Darwin. It looks like being one hell of an adventure!” Alexander concludes with a burst of enthusiasm, offering no explanation of what she would be on leave from.
They finish the meal and Jed checks his watch as he picks up the bill. “Music will have started at Grape, a few doors up. Want to check it out for a while?”
She places her hand on his and slips the bill from his fingers. The warmth of her fingers leaves a tingling sensation on the back of his hand. “Thank you for a lovely dinner and the flowers, but the last time I checked you are working for me and this is a business expense. I would also like not to be patronised again. I am not a helpless woman or the enemy but an equal!”
He holds her eyes to front the challenge and nods his permission for her to deal with the bill. He recognises that beneath the feminine exterior there is strength and independence he has never experienced before. A month spent with her is certainly going to be interesting.
Chapter Six
They leave their bags and the flowers in the Jeep and walk into Grape, packed with the Friday night crowd. Between the walls lined with wine racks are heads leaning close together, laughter, yelled conversations, couples moving in their individual ways to the music, customers and bar attendants squeezing their way between the drinkers, talkers and dancers, all under the lubrication of good wines and the stimulating beat of the music.
“Would you like a dance?” he asks, in an impulsive act of daring.
“I could consider it,” she replies carefully.
“Let’s take pot luck on the next one—if you don’t like it we can get a drink,” Jed replies.
At the first notes of the music he takes her into his arms. For the first few seconds she is stiff and resists his efforts to sway to the music. Damn, Jed thinks. It’s going to be a long track! He feels the eyes of people on them and is about to call on nature for an excuse to end the agony. Suddenly she relaxes and matches his movements with a grace he considered impossible a few seconds before.
“I know this one but have never danced to it.” His mouth next to her ear, they move with increasing sensuality to the music.
“Baker Street!” is all she says. The space is tight and people keep trying to walk through the dancers. He deftly avoids five in a row to keep the rhythm flowing. She moves in total synchronicity and as the saxophone kicks in she closes her eyes and leans back with a sigh of absolute pleasure.
“God, I love the sax! It’s such a sensual sound.”
They fit their bodies to the rhythm, his hand at the small of her back, her hips touching his, moving in unison. The room disappears.
When the music stops she shakes her head as if coming back from a trance. “I’d like a drink,” she tells Jed. “A light refreshing wine, please!”
They find a corner and Jed heads to the bar. A Frogmore Riesling might go down well. He checks his selection with a bar attendant, orders the wine and heads back to the little table in the corner. She isn’t there. Glancing left and right, he notices that everyone in the vicinity is looking toward the dance floor. He turns and sees her, dancing by herself to something he cannot quite place.
She is a vision, with her eyes closed and head back, her feet, legs, hips, shoulders and arms rhythmically tuned to the music. He finally recognises the raspy song as Santana’s Into the Night, its lyrics about the angel and the devil. A fitting description of Alexander’s seemingly complex personality.
And he asked this woman to dance! With her sensual wonder of movement! Still holding the wines he watches mesmerised, like every man and woman focussed on her. One man is staring intensely, his gaze boring straight into Alexander with an expression of hunger and something darker that makes Jed briefly uncomfortable. Alexander’s feet are tapping a rapid salsa staccato, her legs and hips swaying in a pulsating rhythm. Her arms arch in an emotive capture of the tension in the song and her hands communicate the passion and conflict embodied in the music. The music ends with Alexander against the glass wall by the door, the muscles of her shapely legs clearly defined, head arched back and her fingers running through her hair. She opens her eyes, gives her hair a flick and walks over to him with a smile. She accepts one of the wines.
“Sorry, I love Santana, can never resist it!” She takes a sip of the Riesling. “Hmmm, that’s absolutely lovely!”
“Bloody hell!” is all he can say.
“What’s wrong? Have I done something to upset you?”
“Not a thing Alexander! I’m just thinking that I asked you to dance… and you can dance like that!”
After an hour of music and dancing, Alexander suggests it is time to leave. “I think we’ve caused enough mayhem here. You can walk me back if you like.”
“Very happy to, Alexander
! Where are we going?”
“Not far, just over to the Grand Chancellor.”
It has the potential to be a romantic stroll; bustling crowds beside Salamanca’s sandstone buildings and along the waterfront past the fishing boats in Constitution Dock. But there is no romance, just a hovering tension between them, like the build-up to a thunderstorm after a hot and humid summer day. They walk side by side into the Grand Chancellor and take the lift up almost to the top floor. She lets him into the room and offers a drink that he declines.
He is nervous and unsure where this might end up, wary after his last involvement with a woman. He knows it has damaged him and he should let it go, but still finds it far too hard to trust. But is she ever one bloody hot woman!
“I’m going to bed,” she announces and disappears into another room, while Jed flounders at the turn of events. Before he can sort himself out she emerges in a black silk nightdress.
As she walks across to the bed, he runs his eyes down from the blonde hair, her red textured lips, a hint of beautifully-shaped breasts, a tight, flat stomach framed by curving hips, shapely strong legs and a glimpse of her damaged right foot as she slips under the covers into the king size double bed.
Moving over to the bed, Jed sits tentatively on the edge, gazing down to the curve of her neck, catching the lingering aroma of her perfume. He is completely out of his depth. He considers leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek but misses the opportunity as she snuggles down into the pillow, pulling the doona around her, announcing, “I’ve had a wonderful evening. Thank you. It’s time you left.”
Jed breathes an inner sigh of relief. The decision has been taken from him, but he runs his eye along the hidden curves of her body under the doona.
“Goodnight Alexander,” he whispers as he moves toward the door. As he closes it behind him the husky, “Goodnight,” in return is cut off by the click of the door. Jed sits in the Jeep for a while before he heads home, feeling uncertainty gnawing inside him as his previously stable life trembles on its foundations.
Fire Eye Page 4