Island in the Sky

by R. B. Shaw

I chuckled. “No wonder Father James got a bit stroppy.”

  Fang ignored my comment, deep in thought. “Anyway, what’s hepatitis got to do with drinking?” he enquired.

  “No booze for six to nine months. Otherwise you bugger up your liver again.”

  Fang was shocked. “Shit, that must be the world’s worst disease!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jan and Fang left at daybreak, with a guide and bearers to shoulder their equipment. After they left, I looked around the quiet churchyard. A cold mist obscured everything beyond the staked perimeter fence. The presence of Tepsugl village was evident only because of the sounds of early morning—dogs barking, logs being chopped and babies crying. Not the slightest breeze stirred the clinging vapour, its opaque shroud muffling even the noises from the village.

  Then, like ghosts, a group of Digendi warriors armed with bows and arrows materialised from the mist and marched along the trail towards their hunting ground. Even for hunting, they were elaborately attired, in arse-grass and head-dress of Bird of Paradise plumes. Sadly, their traditional livery had been contaminated by European influence. Two warriors wore trade-store sunglasses, and a small transistor radio swung from a third warrior’s waistband, his traditional dog-teeth necklace replaced by one made of beer bottle tops. As the wraithlike figures again faded into the mist, I realised our helicopter would not be able to land till the dense vapour cleared.

  Once more I rechecked my equipment: salvage gear, tool box, survival kit and food in case bad weather should isolate us high on the mountain. At three, Jake rushed onto the verandah and announced that the vibrating patter of rotor blades could be heard. I leaned over the verandah railing and saw patches of blue sky. The staccato throb grew louder and soon a bulbous aircraft was visible over the road to the south.

  The noise from the excited villagers drowned the sound of the yellow helicopter as it circled the sports field. Within a minute hundreds of inquisitive sight–seers had formed a living fence on the edge of the field. The chopper hovered and gently lowered its load, a light rope cargo net containing two fuel drums. The pilot jettisoned the sling and landed.

  A few moments later and I had introduced myself to the pilot—Derek Bullivant, a happy-go-lucky Englishman.

  “Still enough daylight left to do a brief check-out on the wreck?” I enquired.

  “Yeah, no worries, but you won’t have time to do much else.”

  “I’ll load my gear on now and we can leave it up there overnight. That way I should be able to take my assistant Jake with us tomorrow. Fair enough?”

  “Sounds okay. If it’s over eleven thousand like I’m told, then the most I can lift is about 180 kilos. That’s with a half hour of reserve fuel.”

  Derek had brought his own fuel and the cargo net would simplify lifting the parts of the dismantled aircraft if the need arose. We rolled the drums out of the net and loaded our salvage gear and rucksack, then connected the load to the helicopter’s cargo sling hook. Derek slipped on his fur-lined flying jacket. “It’ll be bloody freezing up there, mate,” he said. I followed his example and donned my oilskin anorak.

  We lifted, rocked gently, then Derek centralised the chopper over the cargo net before rising and taking up the slack in the sling. The load was off the ground and the tail lifted as we began to creep forward. Speed increased as we climbed, the sports field rushing away from beneath our feet. The view from the bubble cockpit was amazing; except for two narrow door frames and a small central instrument cluster, there was unrestricted lateral vision. Vertical vision was from floor level up to an opaque green sun screen glued to the perspex overhead.

  Five minutes flying up the mountain and we saw a line of people traversing a stream—it was Jan and Fang and their bearers returning. As we flew overhead, I recognised Fang in his striped poncho; Jan was nearby, waving furiously. The dramatic change in foliage and terrain was noticeable as the jungle and the matted beech forests slipped behind. The vegetation was thinned by tall grasses and patches of dark bare rock. As we climbed higher, so it grew ever colder.

  The tree line was a distinct contour formed by the upper edge of the forest. Some clumps of trees trespassed higher but clung precariously to the shallower slopes of the sharp ridges. We turned and headed west at the two picturesque Pindaunde Lakes, one fifty metres higher than the other and joined by a cascading waterfall. We crossed two saddle ridges, each climbing to the bare rock peak of Mt Wilhelm, now looking like the battered spire of a cathedral.

  “There she is.”

  There was no need for Derek to point. The crumpled red, yellow and white colour scheme stood out starkly against the drab rocky surroundings. It was just as Lance had described, upside down in the midst of the sheared off alpine ferns. The port wing was detached, the rear fuselage bent and torn open.

  I photographed the wreck from the air as Derek circled and released our load nearby. We landed and Derek ran the engine turbo-charger down. The engine was idling fast; the heavy blades slashed noisily overhead.

  “Stay low under those blades,” Derek warned.

  The air was frigid as we approached the inverted wreck and took photos from various angles. Instead of finding a bullet hole in the forward fuselage as Lance had predicted, the skin of the panel had been pierced, either deliberately or possibly in the accident. No mud, wood splinters or impact scratches surrounded the hole. After clearing the coffee beans away and finding the cabin roof pierced like the forward fuselage skin, my suspicions were aroused. I placed a pencil in the earth through the hole in the roof, aligning it with the other hole in the fuselage. I probed till it slid full length into a shaft in the earth. There had been a shot fired, of that I was now certain, but someone had tried to destroy the evidence.

  After inspecting the aircraft and photographing every expensive wrinkle, we made notes, then stowed the Polaroid camera in the helicopter. The 206 was a write-off, suitable only for cannibalising.

  There was still plenty of time to assess the compass. The alcohol had drained out but the magnetic rotor turned when influenced by a steel screwdriver. I removed the suspect compass and held it parallel to the serviceable compass in the helicopter for a rough check. It was disappointing to find that the readings on both compasses were near identical. I stowed my salvage and survival gear inside the 206 wreck for protection from the elements and took a last look at the scene of desolation. Both of us were trembling with the cold; a chilling wind permeated our clothes as though they were non-existent.

  The late afternoon sky was colourless and cloudy as we lifted off from the salvage site. The return flight to Tepsugl was uneventful, except for the raw thrill of the rapid descent as we closely hugged the contours of the mountain face. It was an invigorating sensation, sitting in the expansive bubble cockpit as we dived over cliff edges, traversed sheer ridge faces and burst through lacy cloud banks.

  Fang was first to the helicopter at Tepsugl. “How does she look, Blossom?”

  “Like a write-off, but there’s a lot we can bring out. We’ll assess it off the photos and notes later tonight.” I handed him the photos for perusal, then unpacked my camera gear from the Bell.

  Father James and Jan were watching; Jan waved and smiled. She looked more ravishing than ever, her slim waist accentuated by form-fitting jeans and white sleeveless blouse.

  Fang studied my Polaroid shots.

  “Engine okay?”

  “Yes, I think so. Prop’s buggered and engine mounts sheered off, but there’s no visible damage and it still turns over all right.”

  “By the way,” said Fang, “Tarangau Airlines dropped some more mail—one each. Mine was advice from CAA. As there’s no hint of aircraft malfunction, they’ll accept our photographic record and report on the incident, but they do want to check the compass. This telegram is for you.”

  The telegram was addressed to me care of Tarangau Airlines.

  Regret serial number quoted never on Australian or New Zealand register Stop Traced to US registered Bell 47
helicopter owned by Nevcal Oil and Exploration Co operating Malaysia 1984 Stop Last known flight from Kuching Borneo to inland drilling site with two persons on board Stop Never seen again missing presumed crashed Search called off after one week Stop Regards Daniels Bell Records

  I handed the telex to Fang. “Well, it didn’t crash, that’s for certain.”

  Fang agreed. “Malayan Borneo. That map Lance took from the helicopter had Malay jottings.”

  I walked back to the mission, satisfied with the information gained from the telegram. The helicopter had existed and I was confident Lance had told the truth.

  Fang caught up with me. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of anyone else, but after CAA heard Lance’s statement, they decided to ground him until further notice.”

  Without evidence to the contrary, who could blame them for thinking Lance was temporarily deranged?

  That night after dinner, we assessed the damaged aircraft and decided what was worth salvaging, besides the engine, the instruments and radio. With an early start in the helicopter, we estimated completion of the shuttles by mid afternoon. Jake and I would dismantle and load the wreck on site, while Fang unloaded at Tepsugl.

  Fang saw the sieve and shovel and queried their use on the mountain. I told him of the suspected bullet hole, Lance’s story and what I’d found so far. He was intrigued and we discussed developments over drinks for more than an hour, before Fang, tired from too many negritas, decided to hit the sack.

  I turned off the lights and carried the photos and notes to the living room. Jan was reading a book before lights out; the generator would be shut down at ten o’clock. She seemed glad to see me.

  “Fang enjoyed the trek to the lakes, but you’re steering clear of each other,” I said.

  Jan glanced at me, flecks of fiery hazel in her large brown eyes. “Yes, we had a disagreement.”

  I laughed. “He got a bit amorous, did he?”

  “I suppose every girl should take a pass as a compliment at least.” She gave her hair a carefree toss, exposing an auburn glow.

  “I’m forgetting, you’re married.”

  “I’m divorced,” she said flatly.

  “You wear a wedding ring.”

  “It keeps some undesirables away,” she said, teasing me with those captivating eyes. Her gaze lingered before she added, “Will you walk me back to the Kiap hut?”

  As we walked beneath the starry skies, she asked about my salvage work on the mountain. Her knowledge of aviation and flying was complete and, like myself, she held a current private pilot’s licence.

  It was a rewarding but platonic parting as we said goodnight. Our evening’s candlelight conversation had lasted till the early hours and Jan said she would love to visit when passing through Goroka.

  Once again, the morning was damp and mist shrouded the area as we stowed food, drinks and bags behind the helicopter seat. Jake was reluctant to get in. He kept peering at the fragile and spindly rotor head which supported the whole weight of the helicopter. He mumbled that it had no wings. “Even birds have wings,” he repeated in Pidgin.

  The mist was thin and ground-hugging. After climbing vertically for one hundred metres, we lifted above the swirling carpet into the glaring sunlight of a pristine blue sky. Mt Wilhelm towered above us, crystal clear in all its dramatic magnificence, a forgotten citadel in the sky.

  As we climbed higher, Derek pointed to the patches of snow in the higher shaded areas. It wasn’t uncommon to see the upper slopes draped with a glaring white mantle, but rarely in the wet season.

  We hit an air pocket and the buffeting brought my thoughts back to the task ahead. Derek already had the 206 in sight and was letting down accordingly. He shut down the helicopter and as the raucous throb ceased, we stepped out into abrupt solitude. The scene in the narrow glacial valley was almost prehistoric, as though a dinosaur might appear at any moment. Only the rustle of kunai grass disturbed the brittle high-altitude silence.

  Without the warmth of the sun, it was even colder than the previous day. Any exposed flesh stung painfully in the sub-zero breeze. The air aggravated our nasal passages and we quickly learnt to take slow regulated breaths in the rarefied air. Within minutes, our eyes dried out and became quite irritated, causing us to blink constantly.

  Jake and I made our way to the 206 and began cutting away the plumbing and wiring to the upside down engine. To bring the weight of the engine within the 180-kilogram limit specified by Derek, Jake removed all the heavy accessories. The mangled propeller was discarded and the three of us slid the engine out from under the aircraft and turned it right side up. It was no easy task and left us all panting heavily, unaccustomed as we were to heavy manual labour at such an altitude.

  When the first shuttle was ready, the chopper climbed and moved toward the netted engine. As Derek hovered over the load, I connected the engine and sling cable, standing under the almost unbearable rotor blast. The helicopter was labouring, the beat of the blades intensifying as the engine swung skyward.

  For the final return leg to Tepsugl, I wanted Derek to take us beyond the high saddle to the valley on the far side of the mountain. By following Lance’s trail, we might find a further clue to the mysterious helicopter.

  Derek had completed three more shuttles before I began to lighten the largest section. Roughly we hacked at the fuselage, discarding any heavy or bulky component beyond repair. With a few heavy cuts of the machete, we severed the damaged rear fuselage. I then chopped the control cables and wiring with bolt cutters. I felt like a vandal, gouging out buckled sections of metal skin, hacksawing through twisted frames and smashing the remains of shattered windows—anything to reduce total weight. After much brutal hacking and cutting, we succeeded in detaching the complete engine mount frame forward of the firewall.

  We rolled the empty shell over, right side up, and attached a sling through the wing attachment fittings, ready for the helicopter. I climbed on the mud-stained roof and smeared the mud wide to make a smooth, flat surface, before finger painting in large white letters: “Estimate 180-200 kilos—Up to you!” I jumped down and called Jake in Pidgin. “There’s a red pencil in the ground here, Jake. Grab the shovel and we’ll dig it up. There’s something I want to find.”

  The frozen earth made digging quite difficult, but the third shovel full revealed the bullet, snub-nosed from impact with a rock beneath the surface. I placed the valuable clue in a film canister in my camera case, anxious now to complete the salvage, so we could check out Lance’s trail on the last return flight of the day. We began packing everything up and sorting it into the three remaining loads.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The chopper soared over the ridge, then dropped its cargo net alongside the prepared loads on the ground. I indicated the mud message on the roof as the helicopter hovered overhead; Derek hesitated a moment before giving me the thumbs up. Trembling from the piercing air blast, I connected the winch cable to the sling on the fuselage, then ran well back out of the freezing rotor wash.

  The resonant beat of the blades developed into a deep laboured throb. The fuselage moved, but slid awkwardly along the ground as gravity forced it to take a more central position under the straining helicopter. Again the fuselage slid, further down the slope this time. It appeared Derek was attempting to build forward translational speed while the fuselage skipped and skidded across the muddy ground.

  Disturbed by Derek’s risky actions, I watched as the fuselage finally cleared the ground. The Bell gained forward speed as Derek descended the falling slope of the valley. Somewhat relieved, I noticed that one hundred metres downhill the load had cleared the stunted foliage. The helicopter was moving rapidly forward at about thirty knots. Derek swung left in a large arc, but it was obvious he would have trouble clearing the ridge. I was hoping he would fly down the valley and around the obstacle, but on minimum fuel reserve, flying time would be critical. He was climbing sluggishly and I thought he had made it over, but there was a change in engine note and
the Bell swung violently downhill away from the ridge.

  I was horrified, though glad to see he had reacted in time. But another insidious problem had developed—pendulum action. The impetus of the sudden turn had swung the 206 fuselage wide on its cable. It was now moving in a large arc like a pendulum. The helicopter tilted, then swayed the opposite way in sympathy with its gyrating load.

  Derek was attempting to correct the pendulum on the controls. Insufficient height above the terrain made it impossible to drop forward to help alleviate the problem. The din of the straining rotor was extraordinary. The pendulum action increased to a point where the swinging load threatened to throw the unstable Bell on its side and thence uncontrolled into the ground. The inevitable happened: Derek’s only hope of saving himself and the helicopter was to dump the load immediately. He pulled the emergency jettison release.

  I watched spellbound as the two airborne craft parted. The Bell unexpectedly shooting away at a contorted angle, free of its deadly burden. For the merest fraction of a second, the 206 fuselage seemed to defy the law of gravity. Then, accelerating rapidly, it plummeted straight down, tumbling end-for-end as it fell. The fuselage careered into the steep ridge face with a hollow screeching smash, then bounced onward down the rocky slope.

  The pulverised wreck rolled to a rending halt on the valley floor, as Derek attempted to steer the runaway helicopter away from the ridge face where the drastic manoeuvre had thrown it. The chattering blade tips hit the rocks and the engine faltered. Derek reduced power and auto-rotated down onto a small section of level ground midway up the ridge. He came down heavily and switched off as Jake and I ran through the tall grass.

  When we reached the helicopter Derek was outside, inspecting the torn rotor tips. Naturally enough, he was in a terrible mood and still shaking.

  “You okay?” I said.

  “Yeah, got a smoke?”

  I lit a cigarette and handed it to him. “No fuel leaks?”