Island in the Sky

by R. B. Shaw

  “Case two?”

  “Kundiawa—a pilot was pre-flighting a 206, turned the prop to check a stone chip and the engine started. The plane jumped the chock, hit a tree and was badly damaged. The pilot was fortunate not to lose his arm or even his life. Later we found the switch wiring to both magnetos cut cleanly. As you’d know, this renders both mags live and leaves the prop in a very dangerous condition.

  “Case three was at Simbai—the left brake of a Twin Otter failed on landing. Quick thinking by the pilot saved the day when he used engine reverse thrust and then ground looped the plane. All he did was damage the wing tip on an embankment. Investigators found the left hand-brake line had been filed through till the hose was very thin. It burst as soon as heavy braking pressure was applied.”

  Our conversation was interrupted as Fang surfaced and signalled for us to help him reach the embankment. Once on shore, he removed the heavy scuba gear and we all anxiously watched the mass of bubbles on the surface.

  “Well Fang, that air’s leaking out too fast. I think you’re going to have to go through your drum routine again.”

  He didn’t answer but grudgingly turned to Jacob. “Jake, lash the nets over two of the drums, then put ‘em in the river and fill ‘em with water.”

  I’d picked up a can of fuel to top up the compressor when Fang slapped me on the back. “Dave, something’s happening. Look at the securing rope.” The rope was twitching and then suddenly sprung as tight as a bowstring. The tension whipped a fine spray of water from its length.

  “We’ve got her,” Pete shouted. “It’s centering on the snatch block.”

  The surfacing of the Loch Ness monster couldn’t have impressed me more. The buoyant aircraft leapt from the water in a surge of turgid brown froth, before settling back with wings and engines submerged. The sleek, aerodynamic shape of the large fin and rudder helped centre the 402 perfectly on the cable and snatch block so that it was pointing into the current. The majestic Tarangau eagle’s head motif on the fin again stood proudly above the water. The abstract symbol was totally incongruous, surrounded by muddy water and a jumbled mass of encroaching multi-layered jungle.

  A loud cheer resounded from our labour gang and the audience from nearby villages. They thought the event was some sort of magic and showed their appreciation with vigorous hand clapping and thigh slapping. The impromptu response had Fang flourishing his battered and stained Stetson low to the ground in a mock bow. He then stood erect and shouted. “For my next trick …”

  I laughed and started shouting orders. “Right, let’s get it secured before it does another nose dive. We’ve got two hours to sundown.”

  It was a balmy tropical evening, so we opened both tent flaps to allow the light breeze to refresh us. We lit a fire anyway; it made a lonely campsite more homely, while the breeze carried away the insects and smoke.

  We relaxed after our hearty meal and little was said as we lay back lazily on our sleeping bags, sipping coffee. Fang was deep in thought as he stropped the razor-sharp blade of his puma whitehunter across the leather uppers of his worn blundstone boots. The sherpa pattern soles were still full of dried clay from the day’s efforts at the riverbank.

  Pete tore open a parcel marked ‘Engineers Lubricant’ and we knew what it was straight away; a chilled carton of South Pacific beer. “Compliments of Tarangau. The boss paid for it.” Pete said ripping open a can and taking a long guzzle before tossing us one each.

  Pete and I were discussing spare parts to be ordered when the Patrol Officer stepped into the firelight. “Good evening, gentlemen. I thought I heard a can pop.”

  Fang gave him a disbelieving look. “You’ve got bloody good hearing if you picked that up from the other side of the river.”

  Bill laughed, accepted an open can and sat down near the fire. “I haven’t been over there yet. I’ve been on patrol to the north. I don’t like crossing the river after dark, so I thought I’d join you for the night if you’ve room for another bedroll.”

  By the time Bill had eaten and made himself comfortable, we had halved our liquor supply. He wasn’t surprised that we’d found the Jap Zero in his area of jurisdiction, but asked Pete many questions. I asked Bill to relate the story of the gold the natives were bringing out of the hills to the south-east. Jacob and Pete listened in as Bill retold his story, and, tanked up on beer, he did so with gusto and much embellishment.

  Fang was spellbound thereafter and any attempt to change the subject was blocked as he probed relentlessly at Bill’s story. It was at this stage that Bill, in a placid stupor, produced a small leather pouch, opened it and poured the shiny contents onto the spread sleeping bags. “My private collection. Know anything about them?” The gold coins rolled erratically to a stop and we each picked up one and began inspecting them. Bill continued. “These eight are Dutch. I collected them around the Ramu this year.”

  I recognised the coins immediately. They were identical to the one Bill had dropped near the riverbank. Each 1926 vintage coin carried a woman’s profile stamped inside the wording KONINGIN WILHELMINA and GOD ZIJ MET ONS. The reverse had a standing lion holding a raised sword and a sheaf of arrows. On the left of the lion was a figure ‘10’ and on the right the letter ‘G’. The nationality of the coin was evident by perimeter embossing: KONINGRIJK DER NEDERLANDEN.

  “They’re Dutch alright,” I said, “And the ‘10G’ must stand for ten guilders. But how did you get hold of them?”

  “Well, in my capacity as Kiap or Patrol Officer, I act as treasurer in the area on behalf of the government. You wouldn’t believe the variety of currencies I’ve seen. Pre-First World War German Marks, New Guinea shillings with the centre hole, Japanese occupation money, Australian pounds, US dollars and even monopoly money. I accepted a couple of these as payment purely as a curiosity. The others, with the holes in the rim, were on a necklace interspersed with muruk bones hanging around the neck of a warrior over at Tribala. I traded the necklace for a small battery shaver I used to carry on patrol.”

  Fang was riveted to every word. “Where did they get them? Didn’t you ask?”

  I butted in. “Obviously traded in from over the Indonesian border—relics of the Dutch East Indies.”

  “No, each one I questioned pointed south and indicated that he had traded with tribesmen from the Ramu-Bismarck foothills.”

  The conversation dragged on, only losing momentum as Fang’s insatiable curiosity was gradually appeased. The Tilley lamp exhausted its fuel and the light was partially replaced by the last glowing embers of the fire. Bill and Fang were still speculating on the origin of the coins as Pete, Jake and I crawled under the mosquito nets and into our sleeping bags. We half-heartedly re-checked our strategy for swinging the 402 across the river next day.

  I was awakened by Fang and Bill. They had been to the river bank to check the two aircraft and were deep in discussion over how to barge the Zero down the Ramu River and on to Madang. Fang was using his knife to carefully ream a small hole in the end of a raw egg. I left Pete and Fang to organise the ropes and winches while I made the regular morning check call on the radio to Goroka. Jacob, bush-knife in hand, was slashing at the new growth of rapidly advancing vegetation at the perimeter of our camp—the jungle was always anxious to reclaim lost ground.

  The radio call ruined my day. Adrian Foster, my boss, had recalled me to Goroka, so the final stage of the salvage would be up to Fang and Pete. Foster dropped hints about unusual circumstances regarding the Tarangau aircraft and said he would arrive on the afternoon flight for a quick inspection before accompanying me to Goroka. Disheartened at having to leave a near completed salvage operation, I protested that I was the only person licensed to sign out the aircraft for a ferry flight permit. Adrian countered by suggesting I return to do my inspection when Fang and Pete had the 402 ready to fly.

  Reluctantly I packed my personal things and had them set to cross the river with Bill the Patrol Officer, who was now preparing a motorised lakatoi for the crossing. I
informed the men of the situation and in the ensuing discussion we agreed to leave Fang in charge of the salvage operation. Pete would control the temporary repair of the aircraft.

  “Why does Adrian want you back in Goroka?” Pete queried.

  “I don’t know. Seems troubled. I wouldn’t mind betting it’s got something to do with this sabotage and your missing 206.”

  I probed Pete for further details and he said the Tarangau Cessna had been missing for four days. Apparently the pilot had become disorientated in bad weather, climbed above the cloud mass and eventually crash-landed after his fuel situation became critical.

  I asked Pete how all these facts had come to light, as the wreck was, as yet, undiscovered.

  “He radioed in when he thought he was lost, saying his compass was misreading. He later gave out a Mayday signal and explained he was attempting a landing on the only visible terrain, at about 11 500 ft.”

  “Who was the pilot?” I enquired.

  “Lance Rudd. Do you know him?”

  “When I worked in Goroka we used to share a few drinks and a game of snooker.”

  By mid morning, a small diameter rope spanned the river. Laying it was a tricky operation and the small lakatoi took an hour to drag the 300 metres of buoyed twine across the current. A winch anchored to trees near the airstrip hauled back the twine and the attached heavy rope for swinging the 402 to the far bank.

  A few simple calculations established the rope required to beach the 402 on the other side. We connected the swing rope to the planes snatch block and attached a drag line to retard the pace across the river. Pete, Jake and eight men waited on the far bank while Fang and I, aided by fifteen others, held the drag line. I fired two shots from my Colt and heard a similar report from the opposite bank, indicating that Pete was ready.

  Our concentration was suddenly disturbed as a loud roar made us all look skyward. The Tarangau aircraft banked steeply, the inquisitive pilot obviously checking our salvage of his aircraft’s lost sister ship. The shrill whistle of the turbo-chargers was predominant as it passed overhead, on its approach to the airstrip. The tail motif stood out proudly, a red abstract silhouette of a Tarangau eagle’s head splashed boldly across the entire surface of the swept, shark-like fin and rudder.

  The blade of Fang’s whitehunter flashed as he hacked roughly at the securing line. The river current would coax the plane to the far bank. The line parted and snaked through the air as the full buoyant weight of aircraft and current force transferred to our drag line. At first we had little trouble, but as we fed the line out, the 402 began swinging away into the stronger current.

  It was then that the clay bank collapsed under us and two of the forward natives tumbled into the river. In our panic, the line slipped through our fingers, any attempt to restrain it resulting in rope burns. Fang grabbed the loosely coiled rope to our rear and ran it around a tree stump. The Cessna now raced uncontrolled toward the far bank at the whim of the central current.

  The rope reached the coiled section on the stump, but instead of retarding the 402, the rope slipped till smoke plumed from the super-heated bark. Fang threw more coils over the capstan-like stump and the rope movement began to slow. Luckily, the aircraft had now reached the slower waters near the opposite bank. It took twenty minutes of cautious releasing before we heard a pistol shot from Pete, confirming that the aircraft was secured with a mooring line.

  Fang and I stepped into a lakatoi and headed over to the 402. We left instructions to break camp and to transfer all our gear to the airstrip campsite. Pete, wet and in shorts, was already on the floating aircraft ensuring the undercarriage was still down and locked. The 402 was now ready to pull from the water using the council tractor.

  I was surprised to see my boss Adrian pacing up toward the crowd. He had arrived from Goroka on the aircraft we saw landing.

  “Everything seems to be going well, Dave,” he shouted. I explained our progress so far with the 402 and, changing the subject discreetly, asked who he thought would want to sabotage the Tarangau Airlines aircraft, and why?

  He checked no one was listening before responding. “We want you to find out.”

  “Who’s we?”

  Adrian’s temper flared a little. “Tarangau’s Managing Director Alf Campbell, Civil Aviation Agency, the Police, myself, Boyds Insurance, the pilots, the travelling public and anyone else you care to name who might be affected by this ridiculous situation.”

  “Alright, Adrian, don’t get off your bike. I’m just asking.”

  “Sorry, Dave, didn’t mean to bite, but while you and Fang were here in Prinzberg, I’ve been the meat in the sandwich between Tarangau Airlines and the insurance companies. Campbell’s screaming for his claim cheques and Boyds want more details before payout. Campbell is too worried to claim on some smaller incidents in case Boyds wipe their whole policy. The CAA is at Tarangau’s throat after having four incidents in two months and Campbell wants the police to find the reason behind the sabotages. But they threw the ball back into our court, saying we’re the aviation insurance agents and investigators, so they’ll act when we make a positive decision.”

  “But surely if it’s criminal action, then it should be up to them to find out who and why!”

  Adrian angrily stamped out a cigarette. “Yes, that’s what I reckon, but the silly prick they’ve got on the case wouldn’t know if his arsehole was drilled, reamed, bored or eaten out by white ants! Well, Dave, as I said, they’ve left the ball in our court and as we’ve no immediate work after this Prinzberg salvage, I’m getting you and Fang to work with Tarangau Airlines for a while, just to keep an eye on things and do a bit of prying. Fang can start by giving this 402 a thorough check for evidence of further sabotage. Your story will be that AVMAR is low on work and you’re subcontracted to help with the overload. Your wages will be as normal, plus a small bonus, and you’ll be based in Goroka, accommodation supplied by Tarangau.”

  “That’s okay by me. It’ll be good to settle down in Goroka again for a while.”

  Adrian had been watching the proceedings with interest and snapped a few photos as the tractor arrived at the beach site. It was towing a load of old wartime marsden matting, stripped from the airstrip parking bay. We set the men to work at once, building a ramp into the water out of the light perforated steel plates. Each plate interlocked, forming a reasonably firm base for the 402 to roll out of the shallows without snagging in potholes.

  We finally linked the tractor to the snatch block and I sent a few labourers to swim out to assist the tractor to extricate the sleek but drum laden machine.

  Adrian was at my side again, and he rechecked for eavesdroppers. “By the way, Dave, they’ve found the missing 206,” he announced.

  “Is Lance okay?” I queried.

  “They think so, but he’s left the crash site. He was nowhere near Omkalai—that’s why it took so long to find him. The search was mainly in the Kubor Ranges to the south. They found nothing there above 11 000 feet so the only other high altitude regions were around Mt Herbert and Mt Wilhelm. A chopper found the wreck at 11 500 feet on Mt Wilhelm. The aircraft was upside down, with a broken back and one wing torn off. The chopper landed nearby and they found that Lance had been living in the wreck. The first-aid kit was basically intact, so we presume he’s uninjured and is carrying the survival kit with him. Lance also left a note which said that the cold, and an attempt on his life, had forced him to try and find his own way down. They’re still looking, but I doubt they’ll find him today.”

  “Glad to hear he could be okay, but what’s the attempt on his life?”

  Adrian hesitated to take another snap of the 402. “The Doc reckons it could be the result of either shock or high altitude sickness.”

  “Or,” I suggested, “A reference to someone having sabotaged his aircraft.”

  Adrian ended the conversation abruptly with an affirmative grunt and moved over to inspect the 402.

  The damage was less than expected—mainly a
bit of reskinning needed on the wings and nose. One wing-tip tank was buckled beyond repair. The aerodynamic profile of the 402 was corrupted by nets, ropes and flotation drums lashed about the sleek form; it sat forlornly, water still trickling from numerous wounds and open hatches. I told the gang to remove the lashings and organised a second group to make the level ramp up the beach. Once off the beach a good tractor trail meandered through a coconut plantation to the airstrip. The 402 wouldn’t fit between the palms in places but our chainsaw would deal with that problem as the situation arose. Lance’s plight was in my mind, so at the first opportunity I probed Adrian for further details.

  “If it was sabotage that caused Lance to crash land, who’s the prime suspect and why?” I queried.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but I’ve established a few facts that might give us a lead.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “As you know, Tarangau operates nationally and has two international runs, but all the sabotage incidents have been centred in the highlands, around the less-established strips. There’s more that you’re unaware of—property sabotaged and pilfering of drums of aviation fuel. Two months ago, Tarangau took over operations at a lot of remote mission airstrips. It seems more than coincidental that its problems started about the same time.” The information didn’t seem to have much bearing but we discussed the incidents until we were disturbed by a messenger from the airstrip.

  It was time to go; the plane from Goroka was ready to return. I left the remainder of the salvage work in Fang’s hands, reminding him to account for any trees felled—the inevitable compensation claims would be quick in coming. The afternoon was warm and a cool breeze was blowing as we walked silently through the plantation. The palms were planted in neat precise rows, but the sight lacked mother nature’s carefree hand. The whispering rustle of the palm fronds was a pleasant sedative after the hectic morning at the river.