Island in the Sky

by R. B. Shaw

  After the meeting broke up, Fang drove us all to the airport to inspect the 185 Amphibious floatplane. They had leased a little-used hangar from a mission group and the engineless aircraft was evidently undergoing a thorough inspection. The floats were enormous and held the fuselage over six feet above ground level. Tiny wheels supported the floats and could be retracted for water landings. Fang’s workmanship was impressive, especially the engine and turbo installation. I noticed some heavy bracing and brackets attached to the lower fuselage between the floats.

  “What’s this for? A bomb rack?” I joked.

  “Attachments I’ve manufactured to fit two JATO units for emergency use.”

  “Jet-assisted take-off, eh? Where’d you get them?”

  “Haven’t got them yet. I’ve got four on order from the States, six hundred dollars each. I made the fittings from drawings I requested via the post.”

  Lance enquired about their operation.

  “They’re forty-five pounds of solid fuel, duration of blast thrust about twenty-five seconds. You only need one, the other is a back-up. Anyway, check these performance charts. Completely disposable, but once you’ve fired it, you can’t stop it.”

  “Wow,” said Lance as he studied the performance charts. “Fantastic at sea-level. I hope they’re as effective at 11 000 feet.”

  “I’ve only ordered them for emergencies, in case you can’t get enough airspeed or lift to get off the lake. Lift this toggle, put the switch up and hang on. At six hundred each, it’d cost a fortune every take-off.” Lance smiled and nodded. “All the same, it’ll be nice to know they’re there.”

  With a concerted group effort, the 185 floatplane was rapidly made ready. After an uneventful test flight and a few minor engine adjustments, Lance was ready to attempt a landing and take-off on the lake. We were jubilant after the successful lake operation and questioned him on arrival.

  “I reckon we’re limited to about one hundred and ten kilos on take-off, aside from pilot and fuel.”

  “So you won’t need a JATO each take-off?” said Fang.

  “No, but I had my finger on the switch.”

  “How much can we take in each landing?” I queried.

  “Not over two-seventy kilos, in case I have to abort and turn around. It’s a chilling sight, flying straight at that gigantic rock-face. Once I cross the lake threshold on approach, I’m committed to put her down. There wouldn’t be enough power to turn back unless the JATO was used.”

  Jan was talented with a brush and she emblazoned the side of the fuselage with the motif ‘Scriptair’ and ‘Scripture Aviation’ across the fin. As Jan was unfamiliar to the people of Goroka, she gave the impression she was a missionary on purchasing drives to supply proposed out-stations. No one seemed to query a new mission among the forty others already in the Goroka area, eight of which operated their own fleet of aircraft, including floatplanes.

  All too soon, it was time to set up camp at the lake. Most of the equipment needed was on hand, so Lance could begin shuttling the piles of equipment, stores and personnel. The best time for our first shuttle was when the Bismarck peaks were usually free of cloud in the morning. This first flight would carry Fang, Jake, an inflatable dinghy and a small tent. Thereafter, four more shuttles would be required to deliver a mass of gear, including camouflage tents, sleeping bags, clothing and food.

  By the end of the day we were all exhausted, Jan and I loading in Goroka, Lance continually in the air, and Fang and Jake unloading and setting up camp. Lance said the campsite Fang and Jake had prepared was well-camouflaged—a searching helicopter would not find it from the air. All the time the floatplane was on the lake, it too was covered by camouflage nets as a precaution.

  The next morning, Lance flew Jan and I up to the lake. It was awe-inspiring as the limestone streaked bulk of Mt Wilhelm loomed ahead. Lance held the plane steady, extended flap and powered the floatplane onto the smooth lake in a cloud of spray. The drag of the large floats arrested our forward momentum rapidly. Fang and Jake were in the dinghy at the edge of the lake waiting to paddle us ashore. We had not expected it to be so cold and shivered involuntarily in the bleak, frigid surroundings.

  Lance started up and taxied toward the far side of the lake. He fish-tailed the aircraft at high speed, deliberately making waves on the surface to assist his take-off, turned near the waterfall and without hesitation opened the throttle wide. As he raced across the lake, two small bow waves built up rapidly until, halfway across, it was planing swiftly ahead of a large cloud of spray. It roared overhead, dropping a trail of vapour as it passed. This would be the last flight of the day—Lance would just have time to return before sunset.

  We breakfasted before dawn, anxious to begin the search that could make us all rich. Lance and Jake remained in camp unloading and securing the reserve fuel drums and extra equipment. Fang, Jan and I moved carefully down the huge conical slope to the torn-off tail section of the Dornier. Our study of many photographs and drawings had made recognition simple. The wing and engine further down the talus slope were also readily identifiable and confirmed by construction plates.

  We then split up, searching for the fuselage of the aircraft, which would be close by, as the wing section was not extensively damaged except on one tip. If it had separated in mid-air, then the impact would have savagely buckled the wing and tail. Yet more of the wreckage lay nearly a half kilometre away, beyond the saddle across the Digendi sacred battleground. After a few hours of fruitless searching in the vicinity of the slope, I decided to cross the saddle and resume the search there. Jan was aghast at the hideous remains of the native boneyard and Fang eyed the area with bewildered interest. Jake, to avoid the area, took the long route over the saddle and met us on the other side. The skull and spear warning sign had been demolished and scattered, probably by the searching Indonesians.

  The wreckage of the aircraft here was indeed shattered and widely spread, some sections also showing evidence of fire. I wondered if it had broken up in mid-air and the fuselage had smashed to pieces in the immediate area. We followed the trail of wreckage to its highest point on the gradual slope. As we climbed higher, we passed the two rusted and battered Cyclone engines seen on my last visit, and more torn and mutilated metal fragments.

  At the base of the sheer limestone face, there was a rubble of burnt and smashed aircraft parts, indicating that the impact must have been above us on the cliff face. Indeed, on scrutinising the rugged face, I could see further fragments trapped on rocky outcrops. Jan and Fang were busily sifting through the aircraft remains when Jan called. In her hand was a shiny gold ten-guilder coin. Fang studied the coin and began rummaging through the wreckage with renewed vigour. We had acquired seven of the coins before the find petered out three hours later. Evidently either the Digendi warriors or our Indonesian adversaries had taken the majority of the spilled bullion.

  We spent a further two days searching the surrounding terrain and sifting through aircraft wreckage. Results were disappointing; we found only two more coins, but still no trace of the main fuselage and cockpit. Fang suggested a search of the forest below, starting at the vegetation line and working our way down. I agreed, but first explained another plan.

  “Feel like climbing tomorrow?” I pointed up the cliff face.

  “You’re joking!”

  “Not straight up. We’ll take the easy slope above the lake and move across at varying altitudes till we find no further wreckage. That way we should be able to establish the initial point of impact.”

  “Okay, while we’re up there I’ll get some photos with the zoom lens,” said Fang. “They might reveal a clue.”

  Early next morning, we camouflaged the camp and floatplane and left Lance and Jan to carry out further investigation of the wreckage near the lake. Fang, Jake and I set off up the slope above the lake, well rugged up for the expected low temperatures and equipped for an overnight camp, high in the mountains. The few days spent in the rarefied air had prepared us for th
e breathing difficulties we expected. Even so, it was extremely tough going over steep and broken ground.

  On numerous occasions, we were forced to retrace our steps, searching for another route toward the face. Small pieces of wreckage were still to be found around us and eventually a tangled mass of metal, including seats, radio and a smashed section of a wing. Here we discovered a few more coins, but someone had thoroughly scoured the area already—either the natives of the Ramu or the Indonesians. To our surprise, we could see more wreckage still higher, so once again moved back, searching for a better way up the mountain.

  Again I feared that the aircraft had disintegrated in mid-air, scattering its cargo over a vast area, especially since we had found what appeared to be the compacted cabin section. Above 13 500 feet, it was difficult to breathe, for every ten paces toward the summit, it became necessary to stop and rest. We panted raggedly, I had lost my voice, my parched throat allowed me only a forced croak in answer to Fang’s laboured questions.

  We continued our climb and for the first time, saw the jagged peak of Mt Wilhelm thrusting skyward about five hundred feet above us. Far down to our left was the wreckage we had seen from the lower slopes, a jumbled pulp of metal, unrecognisable as a plane. It was spread wide and had been pulverised on contact with the rocky mountain. Still there was no actual impact point, even though there was no more wreckage above our present position.

  Fang had been quiet since our last rest stop and was busily taking photos. “I wouldn’t mind getting some shots from the top. Want to join me?”

  “It’s getting late,” I said. “We’d better find a camp-site and climb up there at first light tomorrow. We wouldn’t see much with this cloud building up anyway.”

  We soon found a suitable bluff, stowed our overnight gear and began to erect our small tent. The lake was out of sight from the summit area, due to a bulky shelf which obscured that section of Mt Wilhelm.

  Cloud eclipsed the last of the sun’s rays and, as we settled, the lack of activity made us aware of the sub-zero temperature. There was no fuel for a fire, the only vegetation, traces of coarse wet moss. At this altitude, water boiled at a much lower temperature. Our pocket stove, fuelled with hexamine tablets, provided only enough heat for a tepid cup of coffee each. The wind had picked up and was howling like a tormented soul, strumming a hideous tune on our tent guide lines and buffeting the nearby bluff. Jake was restless—should the Maselai have appeared, I’m sure he would’ve thrashed his way through the rear of the tent and the rock face behind. Such was the mood, he would’ve been trailing me.

  Fang woke me early in the morning. “I’m heading up to watch the sunrise. Want to come?”

  I grudgingly stirred into life. “Yeah, okay. Wake Jake up!”

  Ice crunched under foot as we clambered up the broken stony incline. We were all having difficulty breathing, although Jake seemed to be the least affected by anoxia. I had to force myself to plod upward and shivered in the frigid air, wishing for more adequate clothing. After a few paces, I tended to lose balance, my body twitching and the blood in my temples pulsing wildly. After a rest, these sensations subsided, only to return with the next concerted effort. We neared the apex; ropes were not needed, but the wet, slippery rock necessitated careful footwork.

  Suddenly we could not go any higher. More than ever we felt like trespassers, our conversation unintentionally whispered, as though we might disturb the Maselai of the mountain. The only relief to the pre-dawn darkness was a lurid blood-red aura in the eastern sky. On reaching the summit, we stood transfixed, watching as the multitude of colours in the sky fought for dominance. Bright scarlet prevailed, topping a thin golden corona, closely hugging the contour of the horizon.

  The terrain surrounding us could have been straight from a black-and-white photograph, the only bright colours confined to the sunrise. Ragged black pinnacles cut stark inclined silhouettes across lower misty peaks. They in turn were backed by remote and faded monoliths. White patches of snow twinkled close by, refracting the rosy tint of the pre-dawn sky. Suddenly, the brilliant orb topped the horizon, bleaching the colours from the sky and bringing the rugged terrain into intense breathtaking clarity.

  Before us was spread a panoramic spectacle; through 360 degrees, we had an uninterrupted view, from the Kubor Ranges to the south, to the Bismarck Sea just visible on the northern horizon. At that moment, we stood taller than any man in the South Pacific—in fact, taller than any man between the Andes and Himalayas. There was hardly a breeze on the summit as we saw the distant Ramu River, a golden thread fourteen thousand feet below. Fang seemed more intent on capturing the unparalleled view on film, but soon brought his camera to bear on the sheer slopes surrounding us.

  “That second lowest pile of wreckage, Fang? Did it look like a section of wing to you?”

  “It could’ve been a part of a tail section or a wing, but it definitely had an aerofoil shape to it. Why?”

  “If I remember correctly, that wing below the lake was complete and only damaged at the tip, and it’s about three kilometres from this piece.”

  “Must be part of the tail.”

  “The tail’s intact not far from the wing, below the lake.”

  “You think we have the wreckage of both aircraft and not one?”

  “We know the wing and tail at the lake are off a Dornier. I think we’d better have a thorough inspection of the wrecked section on the way down.”

  We could distinguish the small valley where Lance had crash-landed and above it the saddle ridge which lay between the summit of Mt Herbert and the peak on which we stood. Tearing our gaze from the surrounding magnificence, we moved down to our tent for a cup of coffee before breaking camp. The chilled air stung our faces as we headed for the wreckage which we hadn’t positively identified.

  We were surprised to find that the object was further off and much larger than we had first thought. It was definitely a huge section of battered wing and we eventually found a small construction tag and levered it off. I scraped away the white corrosion deposit and without a word held up the plate for Fang and Jake to read.

  Fang smiled. “Another Dutch Dornier, eh? We’ve got both of ‘em, Blossom.”

  “The Indos found this one all right and stripped out all the bullion, probably after the natives of the Ramu had visited the place. They didn’t realise the wing and tail below the lake are off the other Dornier. That leads us to our next problem—there’s no sign of the fuselage of the second Dornier at the lake.”

  At least we had now established that both aircraft had crashed within a few kilometres of each other, one with a cataclysmic impact and the other after an extremely heavy touchdown which broke the aircraft into sections.

  “Let’s get back to the lake and have a good look at the wing and tail,” I said.

  Fang turned and led the way back across the treacherous slope of loose rubble. Our pace quickened as we moved downward, anxious to tell Jan and Lance of our important discovery.

  As we reached the edge of the bluff, we caught sight of the lake. It resembled a sparkling sapphire as it reflected the pure blue sky. We rested and, as I gazed down the limestone streaked granite, a thought came into my mind, but my thinking was slow and disjointed. I stared at the lake 2000 feet below as Fang prepared to continue.

  “You gonna sit there all day, or are you waiting for a bus?” said Fang.

  “I think I’ve found the lost fuselage, Fang.”

  “Where?” he said as he scanned the expanse of landscape beneath.

  “If you were trying to land a crippled aircraft as quickly as possible, what would you look for first?”

  Fang briefly tossed the question around in his mind. “Smooth and level ground,” he said at last.

  “Right, but what if that aircraft were a seaplane and there was no level ground in sight?”

  Fang smiled. “I’d be looking for a river or a lake,” he retorted and then hesitated, momentarily silent, contemplating his own words before slowly turn
ing around and peering at the stretch of cerulean water beneath. “You think he tried to land on the lake?”

  “What else?”

  “Jesus, you’re bloody right!”

  “He might have approached straight in and lost control just before reaching the lake, tearing off the wing and tail—or turned sharply inside the cirque and tore them off. In either case, it’s possible that the fuselage plummeted into the lake.”

  Fang was transfixed, staring at the lake, his mind obviously on the fortune that may lay beneath the surface.

  He turned suddenly as I was rising. “Let’s go! We’ll send Lance back to Goroka to get my scuba gear and secretly borrow Avmar’s side scan sonar. I think it’s still in Tarangau’s hangar.”

  In less than three hours, we reached the lake camp and anxiously explained our theory and findings to Jan and Lance. Lance immediately set about preparing the floatplane for a flight to Goroka to pick up Fang’s equipment.

  “Don’t forget, spare bottles and full wetsuit,” said Fang. He was about to continue with a list of items for Lance to bring back, when he was interrupted by Jan. She was gazing fixedly across the still waters of the lake.

  “Noah’s Ark! The Digendi legend is right,” she murmured.

  “What are you raving about?” Fang grunted.

  “Can’t you see? The Digendi heard about the Ark in Bible lessons at the Tepsugl Mission and connected it with the wreck of the aircraft in the lake.”

  “Doesn’t make sense,” said Lance.

  “At some stage, the level of the lake dropped drastically, briefly exposing the fuselage. The shape of a flying boat hull would look like a ship to these primitive people and so the legend was born.” We all pondered the obvious circumstances and Jan’s shrewd perception. Then we hurriedly resumed our preparations, motivated by this further support of our theory.