by R. R. Irvine
“Shit!” That’s what he got for using a quaint old-fashioned barometer that had markings like stormy, rain, and fair weather. Still, the damn thing was usually right.
Shaking his head, he tried the radio again, but five minutes of fiddling with the frequency got him nothing but an earful of static.
After that, he locked up the office and headed for the Dai-Ichi Bar on the coast road overlooking Tumon Bay.
As usual, Bob Norris was bellied against the end of the bar, pretending to be drunk. But Coltrane knew, as did all the charter pilots flying out of Guam, that the boilermakers lined up in front of Norris were nothing but near-beer and apple juice. They were part of his act, as were his disreputable beachcomber clothes. He claimed it was his way of coping with all the abuse he took as a weather forecaster, but Coltrane knew that Norris was a reformed hell-raiser who was too proud to admit that an island girl had domesticated him. He flaunted his past only when out of her sight. Despite such quirks, he was still the best weatherman on the island, and most pilots, Coltrane included, trusted him with their lives.
“Still flying that albatross?” Norris asked with an exaggerated slur as Coltrane slid onto the stool beside him. On occasion he’d been known to slump off his stool entirely, pretending to pass out, when he had tourists for an audience.
Instead of taking the bait, Coltrane grabbed one of the shot glasses, downed the whiskey-colored juice, made a face and said, “No more for me, thanks. I’m flying today.”
Norris raised the eyelids he’d been keeping at half-mast. “Even ducks wouldn’t fly in this weather,” he said, the slur slipping somewhat.
“Is that a reference to my trusted Widgeon seaplane?”
“I wouldn’t go up in a 747, let alone some kind of moth-eaten bird.”
“In case you haven’t looked out the window lately, the rain’s stopped. There’s blue sky overhead.”
Norris let out a deep breath. With it went all pretense of drunkenness. “What you’re seeing is nothing but a sucker hole, a big one to be sure, but a sucker hole just the same. That rain squall that came through earlier was nothing but a shill for the big one to follow. Kind of like a stand-in warming up the audience.”
“How big a storm?” Coltrane asked.
“Like I said, I wouldn’t fly anything in the weather that’s heading our way.”
Coltrane thought that over. He’d known Norris a long time, long enough to know the man never joked about his weather forecasts. “How soon will it get here?”
“I’m a weatherman, not a psychic. Late tomorrow, the day after, it depends on the winds.”
“Shit! I’ve got clients on Balesin.”
“We’re not talking tidal waves here and even in a worst-case scenario, there’s plenty of high ground on that island.”
“I’ve lost radio contact.”
“In this climate, it’s probably the batteries.”
“That’s what I figure. That’s why I’ve got fresh replacements on board and ready to go.” Coltrane shook his head, remembering Buettner had also taken a generator along.
Norris leaned close. “It’s not like you to play nursemaid to a bunch of tourists.” “Tourists on a place like Balesin? You’ve got to be kidding. They’re scientists.” “Then, they ought to be smart enough to take care of themselves.”
“You’ve heard the rumors about the natives on some of these islands.”
Norris grinned. “The only rumor I’ve heard lately is about a good-looking lady archaeologist.”
Coltrane shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
“I’d know that sappy look anywhere,” Norris said, leering. “I saw it in the mirror the morning after I met my first two wives.”
“If I leave at first light, do you think I’ll have time to fly in, pick them up, and fly out again?”
Norris shook his head.
“Then I’ll beach the Widgeon and stay over.” Coltrane spun off the bar stool and headed for the door.
“I hope she’s worth it,” Norris called after him.
Coltrane waved, acknowledging the comment, but kept going. He wasn’t flying in bad weather just for Nick Scott, he told himself. It was his duty; it was an obligation he had to all his clients.
He grinned. Like hell.
CHAPTER 25
Nick awoke to bright sunlight stabbing through chinks in the rattan wall. So much for Lily’s predicted storm, she thought, and sat up, feeling rested and grateful for a bug-free night. For the first time since leaving Berkeley, she felt free of jet lag.
She grabbed a towel, a change of underwear, and limped to the shower tent, which Axelrad and Tracy had moved into position last night. Thank God for student labor, she thought as she stood under the trickle of cool water, recalling her own years of slave labor. In some ways, she was still a slave, shackled and untenured.
The slow drip was a far cry from yesterday’s invigorating dip in the surf. Tomorrow she’d make the walk to the beach and bathe there again, no matter how many bystanders turned up to stare at her red hair.
Nick cut off the flow, such as it was, to lather up. After that came a quick rinse to conserve water, since it had to be hand-carried from the river. Even slave laborers got tired.
Once dressed in lightweight jeans and a workshirt, she slipped her aching feet into their Goodyears. By then, Axelrad and Tracy were waiting outside the tent, with towels draped over their shoulders and wicked grins on their faces.
“We thought we’d save water by sharing,” Tracy said the moment Nick ducked under the modesty flap.
“I’m jealous,” Nick called after them, joking. Yet even as she’d spoken, Lee Coltrane had come to mind. She wondered what he’d look like in the shower.
She shook her head sharply. Now wasn’t the time, she told herself. Stick to business. Stick to airplanes. They might crash and kill you, but they never cheated on you or lied.
Coffee was waiting when Nick returned to the house. There was a note under the cup. Curt and I have gone for a swim. After that we’ll be working in the village. Don’t forget to take lunch with you. No doubt the lunch Elliot had in mind was one of the packets of freeze-dried trail mix stacked next to the butane coffeemaker.
Grimacing, Nick loaded half a dozen of the packets into a lightweight backpack. Next, she zipped a small camera into the pack’s waterproof pouch, along with extra film. That done, she tore open one of the packets and munched trail mix, washing it down with coffee. It wasn’t exactly a square meal, but it would do.
Nick was on her second cup when she heard a commotion outside. The moment she stepped outside she saw Henry Yali’s platoon double-timing away from the flagpole, counting cadence. Children scattered out of their way. When the platoon reached the communal house, Yali barked an order, which Nick couldn’t make out. His men dispersed quickly and stacked their “rifles” in front of the porch, where Lily was watching their every move.
The military display was far from reassuring. If Nick was going to succeed in her quest for the origin of John Frum’s airplanes, she needed Henry as a peacemaker, not a soldier.
Yali, sounding like a drill sergeant, shouted another sharp order. Instantly, his men were on their way again, still double-timing, though their formation was now somewhat ragged as they disappeared into the jungle.
So much for Henry guiding her to his sacred airfield, Nick thought and started across the square. Lily met her halfway, at the base of the flagpole, where the American flag hung limply. There was no breeze, no sign of a storm. The sky was a blinding blue, the temperature as steamy as ever. Already, Nick felt as if she hadn’t showered in days.
“What was that about?” Nick asked, nodding in the direction of the platoon’s disappearance.
“Your father has persuaded Henry to look for your missing friend. Henry likes to do things in a very organized way. But don’t worry, dear. He has given his blessing to our expedition, but only as far as the old Japanese base. The mountain is forbidden.” Lily smiled. “It will be better this
way, just the two of us.”
Nick sighed with relief.
“I’m ready to leave now if you are,” Lily said.
“Just let me get my things,” Nick replied before hurrying back to the house to retrieve her shoulder pack.
When she returned, Lily took her arm and led the way across the square to where the Mission Highway began. For the first twenty yards, it was broad enough to justify its name. After that, the road shrank to a jungle path no more than six feet across. Its surface was reasonably firm, considering the amount of rain that had fallen in the last twenty-four hours. Even so, mud clung tenaciously to the treads of Nick’s Goodyears. Her protesting feet felt leaden, while Lily seemed totally unaffected.
Without her Goodyears though, Nick would have been completely incapacitated.
Well, that was a debt she owed Todd Parker. To show her thanks, maybe she’d buy something at the man’s store, perhaps gifts for the children if such things were available.
“Will there be time to shop at Mr. Parker’s?” she asked.
“If we stop there, we’ll have to pay our respects at the church. Knowing the reverend, that could take more time than you might want to spare.”
“Airplanes first, then,” Nick said without hesitation.
Lily nodded and picked up her pace. Nick was hard-pressed to keep up.
The Reverend Innis and his wife, Ruth, were waiting outside the church.
“Sometimes I think the man has radar,” Lily murmured while she and Nick were still out of earshot.
What he had, Nick saw, was a watchtower. It was perched on the top of the church, whose entire structure came as a total surprise. She’d been expecting something more traditional, something in the vein of the village’s communal building, only with a steeple topped by a large white cross. What stood before her was a metal Quonset hut, original World War Two equipment by the looks of it. Its only modification was the raised, rickety-looking watchtower that had been attached to the hut’s rounded, igloo-like roof. The tower had a small platform at its top, a one-man observation post. The only cross in sight was a small one, not much bigger than a crucifix, nailed over the door.
The island store, another corrugated Quonset, was separated from the church by a narrow path, an extension of the Mission Highway that turned north. The store had been painted green once, or perhaps a mottled camouflage color. With the passage of time, the paint had eroded away until only a few spots of color clung to the corrugated crevices like mold. A bright plastic sign, CLOSED, hung from a nail on the front door.
“We never close,” the reverend said when he saw Nick eyeing the notice.
“It’s not like Mr. Parker to lose business by closing this time of day,” Lily observed.
“He’ll open up when our children arrive for school,” the reverend’s wife said, peering expectantly back along the trail. “They should have been here by now. Did you pass any children on the way here?”
“I wouldn’t count on them coming today,” Lily replied. “Henry’s called an alert.”
Nick blinked in bewilderment. Why hadn’t Lily mentioned that before?
“I knew it,” the reverend blurted. “It’s always the same when planes come here and disrupt our lives. I had a dream last night. In it I—”
Ruth laid a restraining hand on the reverend’s arm, silencing him, and said, “Is there a problem we should know about, Lily?”
I hope it’s not me, Nick thought to herself. But if she were the cause of the alert, why would Lily be acting as her guide?
“Henry hasn’t told me,” Lily said, “but he’s very upset.”
Innis nodded. “Do you think I should offer Henry my help?”
“Let’s hope it’s nothing,” Lily answered. “Probably it’s best if we all just go about our business, and not worry about things we can’t change.”
Suddenly, staring at Lily, Nick realized how little she understood the Baleseans. On the one hand, they sought to emulate America; they spoke English; they attended the Reverend Innis’s church when it suited them. On the other hand, they worshiped John Frum and were as alien as visitors from another world. She took a deep breath. That was the trouble with being an archaeologist instead of an anthropologist. She preferred dealing with the dead, not the living.
“Whatever it is,” Ruth said, “I don’t see why the children shouldn’t be in school.”
Instead of answering, Lily put her hands to the small of her back and stretched, squinting up at the dazzling sky. “When John Frum sends one of his great storms, perhaps it’s best that we all stay close to home.”
Both the reverend and his wife looked up at the sky and nodded.
“How soon will it arrive?” Innis asked.
“Soon enough so that Nick and I must be on our way if we’re to see the airplanes ahead of the rain.”
Innis’s eyes widened. “You’re taking her to the airfield?”
At Lily’s nod, Innis’s mouth dropped open.
“If I were you, I’d get ready for the storm,” Lily said, then took hold of Nick’s arm and guided her along the path that ran between the Quonsets.
“I was here a year before I saw the airfield,” Innis called after them.
“Stop by for tea on your way back,” his wife added.
“Don’t forget your shutters,” Lily said over her shoulder. For Nick’s benefit she whispered, “There’s another way home from John Frum’s airfield. We’ll take that route.”
Within a few steps, the jungle closed in around them as if the Quonsets had never existed. At that point, the path could no longer claim to be a road. It was a game trail, wide enough only for walking single file as it snaked through the trees. Nick had a sense that they were gradually winding their way north, though that could have been an illusion since the thick foliage overhead kept her from using the sun as a reference point.
“Stay close to me,” Lily told her. “I know what to watch for.”
“Nothing carnivorous, I hope.”
Lily laughed and kept going.
According to Professor Ohmura’s book, there were no indigenous poisonous snakes inhabiting islands in this area of the Pacific. So the worst that might happen was treading on a coconut crab.
“There are false trails all over this part of the island,” Lily said. “We have to be wary of them.”
That seemed to imply a system of deliberate deception, Nick thought, but why the laying down of false trails might be necessary on such a remote island she couldn’t imagine.
“Lily, how many tourists come to Balesin every year?”
“You are the first in a long time. And none of you are what I would call tourists. You ask more of us than a tourist.”
Lily halted and turned to face Nick. “Your eyes reveal you, child. They tell me that you are much like Henry. Like I was, too, when I was younger. You have great faith in your work.”
“Have you lost your faith, Lily?” Nick asked cautiously.
“I think maybe you can restore it, child, if anyone can. I pray that’s why you’ve come. Or else . . .” Her eyes glazed over and Nick had the feeling that Lily was now focused on some inward vision.
Suddenly the woman shook herself, as if to cast off her thoughts. “Come. John Frum’s base is just ahead.”
“And the Japanese and their base?” Nick risked.
“Oh, they’re still here all right. They will never leave us.”
Lily, as if invigorated, hurried forward. By now, Nick’s feet felt like they were on fire. More than anything, she longed to soak them in cold water. Or any kind of water.
Minutes passed. Lily’s “just ahead” stretched into a quarter of a mile, maybe more. Nick checked her watch. Though supposedly waterproof, the crystal had steamed up, totally obscuring the hands.
Nick caught a glimpse of the sun. It had yet to reach its zenith.
Abruptly, Lily broke free of the jungle. For a moment, Nick thought it was only a small clearing. But when she moved forward to stand beside Lily
, she realized that the trees had been felled all the way to the sea and that they were standing on the runway itself, the one she’d seen from the air.
The runway was half a mile long, perhaps longer. Its unpaved surface sprouted ankle-high grass. Considering the lushness of the vegetation and the year-round growing season, the runway had to have been mown quite recently.
“This was the main Japanese landing strip on the island,” Lily said. “They built two when they first arrived. They had great expectations, but they never had the need for more than one place to land airplanes.”
“Where is the other strip?” Nick asked, expecting confirmation that it was the one she and Coltrane had flown over on the slopes of Mount Nomenuk.
“Swallowed up by the jungle long ago,” Lily replied as she laid a hand on Nick’s arm. “Child, let me give you some advice. Sometimes it’s best to let the past die.”
“Looking for the past is my job.”
Lily sighed deeply. “I know that. It’s why I brought you here. But I want you to remember that to me this past was once my present. And it wasn’t a happy time.”
Lily pointed south, toward the sea. Nick could see the remains of a man-made structure. “You see that lighthouse. It’s abandoned now, but more than fifty years ago, the Japanese built it to warn their fleet of the reefs that surround our island. But it was a wasted effort. Their ships never came again in great numbers after that first landing, not even to evacuate their soldiers at the end. They were left here to die.” Lily shook her head slowly. “It is a terrible thing to die alone and abandoned. Let us hope that such things never happen again.”
Staring at the lighthouse, Nick realized that it looked in remarkably good condition. “Is the lighthouse still used?”
“There’s no need for it. The only ships we ever see know better than to come in close. They anchor offshore, beyond the reefs, and send in small boats. Mind you, the Japanese knew what they were doing, building the lighthouse there. It marks the most sheltered cove on the island. That’s where they kept their shallow-draft landing craft. In the end, they were sunk there, too, not by the weather but from bombs.”