Island in the Sky

by R. B. Shaw

  Fang crawled through the co-pilot’s window and in turn assisted Jan. As an amateur anthropologist, Jan was familiar with piles of bones, but she was obviously shocked by the grotesque remains in the wreck. Fang moved up beyond the radio bay and the crushed human relic within.

  “C’mon Dave, where’s that bloody light?” he shouted, he moved to the centre of the cabin and kicked furiously at the sealed boxes which had broken loose and crushed the forward area. The task of forcing them open was hopeless without proper equipment, so Fang upturned the box of grenades and rummaged through the pile.

  “Careful, Fang, they must be bloody unstable by now,” I warned.

  The box of ammunition was next. Together we gradually turned the box over, thousands of bullets cascading down the sloping floor. We spread the bullets wide and sieved them through our fingers, but there were no gold coins.

  “This one’s got pistols in it.” Fang grabbed one end of the open box and I the other. We strained, trying to turn it over, but only moved it fractionally across the floor. It was far too heavy. Jan was holding the lighter; its tiny rays sparked a suspicious glare in Fang’s eyes. We released the end rings and started frantically unpacking the pistols. After removing them all, it was plain to see the case had a false bottom.

  Fang and I were feverishly excited now, our hands shaking and fumbling as we slipped our fingers into the cut-out slots at each end and pulled the heavy metal plate clear. Jan was holding the lighter, staring down with eyes of liquid amber. Her lovely sculptured features, lit with a reflected gilded aura. Although it was cold, a fine sheen of sweat covered our faces as we peered down on a wall-like layer of golden bricks. We were all silent, our throats dry, staring at twenty ingots of five kilograms each, four rows of five bars. No wonder we had had trouble lifting the case; the gold alone must have weighed well over one hundred kilos.

  Unconsciously, Jan was making swift calculations and mumbled, “There’s over a million dollars here!”

  “We’ve got it! By Christ, we got it!” screamed Fang.

  I attempted to lift out one bar, but the task was beyond me due to the minimal gaps for a firm grip. We were joined by Lance, who was reluctantly followed by a terrified Jake. Somehow Lance had managed to persuade Jake to follow him—probably the lure of the gold.

  Lance had brought the tools and the torch with him. He handed the torch to Jan who was having trouble holding the hot lighter. A chisel soon levered the edge of one bar up. We studied the shiny untarnished ingot, rectangular in shape, with rounded corners, a hollowed top surface and ridged edges. The familiar Dutch Royal Stamp graced the centre of the top face, and another commercial stamp, probably a trade mark. In the bottom corner a weight stamp indicated 5.01 kilograms. In the opposite corner was stamped ‘99.2 fine’, an indication of the gold’s purity.

  We passed the bar around the incredulous group. Jake was still nervous and uncomprehending until Fang enlightened him.

  “Nearly seventy thousand dollars there, Jake!” Jake’s head was shaking as he studied the ingot. Fang suddenly grabbed the tools and moved aft; we followed and began tearing away rotting tarpaulins and crumbling cargo nets. I removed the chain which secured the boxes to the tie-down rings in the floor. Anxiously Fang pulled the securing chain back through the rings and tugged at the first box. It moved easily.

  Fang dismissed it at once. “You can forget that one.”

  We freed another case and realised that it also was too light.

  The third box was immovable, so we concentrated our attention on it, first scraping away a wax sealant around the lid. We chiselled through a few tack welds on the joint line, then levered the latch off with the crowbar. Frantically, we tossed the neatly stacked Lugers to one side and lifted the false bottom to reveal another flooring of golden splendour. Twice more, we repeated the rough process; the third opening revealed a fortune in carefully wrapped ten-guilder coins. They were beneath a heavy layer of hand grenades in excellent condition. No rust tarnished the fluted chunky surfaces.

  After opening all the heavy boxes at the rear of the fuselage, we moved forward to the cases which had broken loose and crashed forward on impact. Altogether, from fore and aft, we found two boxes containing masses of ten guilder coins and six boxes containing gold ingots. I began tallying the value of our efforts. “One hundred and twenty five-kilogram gold bars at seventy thousand dollars each,” I halted momentarily, stunned by a sudden perception of the wealth involved. “We’ve got about eight and a half million bucks’ worth here.”

  We spent the next two days laboriously unloading the gold from the Dornier, bar by bar. On the morning of the third day, we woke in a jovial mood; today we would complete the task of moving the gold to our campsite. It had been a unanimous decision to hide the gold in the lake, near our camp. It was submerged, below the surface near an obvious landmark and disguised with stones should the water-level drop and expose our prize.

  We were preparing to move down to the Dornier, when we heard that all too familiar pulse, the heavy beat of helicopter rotor blades. The noise resonated from the rock wall beyond the cirque lake.

  “Quick! Take cover!” Fang shouted. “We’ve got visitors. Throw the camouflage net over the tent, Jake! Is the aircraft still covered up, Lance?”

  “Yeah, the net’s over it.”

  We watched the drab helicopter appear high above the lake, and circle the area slowly. It hung motionless for a moment near the scree and then climbed beyond the spur heading west.

  The noise subsided and we were moving off on our predetermined plan, when a call from Jan disturbed us all. “Dave, look! The dinghy wasn’t camouflaged when the helicopter flew over!”

  “Who used it last?” I queried.

  “I did,” said Lance. “Forgot to cover it this morning, I guess. I wonder if they saw it?”

  “A bright orange dinghy, floating in a sky blue lake, in these dark surroundings? Of course they bloody-well saw it. You can bet they’ll be back with reinforcements, thanks to you, ya stupid prick,” said Fang.

  “Up yours, blubber guts, you’ve made a few blues in your time, too,” Lance responded.

  “Stop fighting, you two! Cover the dinghy and let’s get out of here.”

  Finally, we each returned to the shrine-like fuselage and then prepared to carry the last load up together, one bar each—five in all. Fang checked to see if we overlooked anything of value, but each box contained either pistols or grenades. We had no intention of burying the remains of the Dutch crew members. They were now frail crumbling skeletons and shrivelled flesh. For nearly half a century, they had manned their last action stations and here they would remain.

  The dark cavernous confines of the Dornier’s buried fuselage were hauntingly claustrophobic. Even so, we deliberately dawdled, reluctant to leave as we silently took our last look at the grim scene. The Dornier’s gold had been the subject of our intensive search for over two months—now we possessed a fortune. Suddenly we heard the sound of a helicopter circuiting the wreck site and then hovering overhead. The fierce steady beat ebbed and died with a whistle. I noticed the cloud of dust outside whipped up by the rotor blast.

  “The bastards! They must have been watching through binoculars from the top of that ridge all morning!” I shouted.

  “We’ve probably led them right to the wreck,” said Jan nervously.

  With a reverberating clatter, a violent burst of machine-gun fire stitched its way through the forward fuselage, cockpit and radio bay, raising a veil of dust. Jan screamed and we all dived for cover.

  A high pitched voice called out to us in broken English. “You will come out with hands on heads.”

  “Fang, you’ve got the Colt?”

  “Yeah, but it’s only got ten shots. I haven’t got the spare clip.”

  “Fire if you see one of them, and shoot to kill!” I ordered.

  “Where did the chopper land? It seemed fairly close,” said Lance.

  “Probably on the kunai flat below the t
alus, where we walked through on the way up to the camp,” I suggested.

  Fang crawled carefully into the ravaged cockpit, colt in hand. It was too dangerous to peep over the panel, so he ventured a long glimpse through old bullet holes in the hull. In the distance, two uniformed men were partly visible. He took careful aim through a larger shrapnel hole and fired two shots. The response to the puny colt was immediate. A fusillade of gunfire tore new bullet holes amid the old and further violated the crumbling corpse of the co-pilot. Fang fired two more quick shots in retaliation, to cover his hasty retreat and rolled back to the safety of the buried fuselage.

  “Only six shots left, blossom,” he said dejectedly.

  Jan turned and pointed at the spilt contents of the boxes. “What about the grenades and Lugers, Dave?”

  They hadn’t entered my mind, even though I was lying across an assortment of resurrected weapons. “The pistols might work if we clear the grease off, but the grenades and bullets would be risky after all this time.”

  I hurled a grenade out without pulling the pin. It didn’t explode, but it produced the desired effect, two horrified figures charged down the gully dreading the expected explosion. Fang fired two shots, but neither found their mark. I took a second grenade, pulled the pin and hurled it. They again dashed back, sheltering behind the embankment. We waited impatiently for the explosion, but again we were disappointed. It was a dud and they were all probably deteriorated.

  Fang handed me a well-balanced Luger, “Here’s a clip of eight cartridges. Try her out.”

  I aimed at the embankment shielding the two armed men and fired; there was a loud click, a misfire. I pulled the clip, cleared the round, with the same frustrating result. I selected a better cartridge and placed it at the top of the clip, aimed and pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening and the kick of the Luger was savage after the less impressive small-bore 22 Colt. I was jubilant and we immediately took turns at selecting 9mm bullets and preparing rows of ready clips.

  In answer to our shot, a long burst of machine gun fire tore noisily through the cockpit. We were well protected by tons of earth. A distant voice shouted to us indicating the futility of our hopeless stand and advantages of surrendering.

  “Dave, try this.” Fang handed me an ugly black grenade. “It’s from the sealed boxes up the back.”

  I moved forward, pulled the pin and tossed the grenade down into the gully. An almighty explosion caught us all by surprise. Shrapnel perforated the nose section with a tearing screech, the thunderous vibration causing a minor landslide. A curtain of dust and rock tumbled down the scree and shrouded our forward view.

  In the rear cabin, loose rock was pouring through the upper gun turret position as Fang began passing the better grenades forward. I tossed another grenade toward our adversaries who had moved well down the gully. Another ground-shaking burst, dirt and gravel cascaded through the gap in the upper turret. I fired two more shots from the Luger before it jammed again, forcing me to replace the clip.

  “Dave, look here!” Fang was indicating the torch-like shaft of sunlight illuminating the dense dust cloud in the confines of the fuselage.

  “Well, don’t just stand there! Pull the rocks aside and see if we can get through!” My words were barely spoken, when another staccato burst of machine-gun fire tore the silence. Fang and Jake had cleared the turret hole enough to escape. We would have to force our way up through a continual cascade of inflowing dust and gravel.

  Fang went first; he helped Jan from above as we lifted from below and Jake and Lance followed. Before I made my way out, I passed up grenades, pistols and ammunition. On the talus cone above the wreck, we weren’t visible from the gully. Lance and Jake took advantage of this as they led Jan across the talus to relative safety, behind a large rock outcrop higher up the trail. Another burst of machine gun fire, directed at the wreck, was followed by a stream of shouted instructions. I deduced that the leader was advising his subordinate to conserve ammunition from then on; they used only very short bursts and seemed reluctant to consolidate their capture.

  Fang and I crawled down the slope trying not to disturb the loose gravel surface. We moved to the edge of the gully, well to the right of the two belligerent Indonesians. I could see one crouching figure clearly, dressed in khaki and holding what appeared to be an old US army wire-butt M3 machine pistol. The distinctive shape of the ‘grease gun’ (as it was nicknamed) was obvious even from this distance. I took careful aim at the soldier’s left thigh and squeezed the trigger. In the brittle silence, the loud click assumed the proportions of a falling sledge hammer. The shocked soldier turned, panicked and fired a two-second burst. Fortunately, he had no time to compensate for kick-back and the sporadic cacophony of bullets ploughed up the dust behind us. The two soldiers, surprised at finding an apparent second enemy to deal with, darted down the gully heading for their chopper. Fang and I scanned the terrain for a means of cutting off the two fleeing men. “C’mon, we gotta stop ‘em before they get away,” I shouted.

  I ran along the lower edge of the escarpment, looking for a way through the jumbled rock at the foot of the slope. Fang followed closely. We stumbled over rough boulders and slid down ragged breaches in the split rock. In the distance, the engine of the helicopter burst into life, the rotor blades beginning to pulse with their characteristic heavy throb.

  We could see the chopper now, building up rpm for a take-off, the pilot busy talking on the radio. As we ran into view, the second crewman aimed through the side hatch and raked the area with gunfire. The sound echoed around the valley walls, intensified by the shrill whine of ricocheting bullets.

  Fang fired a shot into the helicopter, but his second shot misfired. I took aim, then remembered that I had forgotten to clear the previous faulty round.

  Fang pulled a grenade from his pocket, and hurled it overarm in a high tumbling arc. The grenade dropped on the perspex bubble, surprisingly passing through the rotor disc and clearing the blades. It bounced off the perspex and fell behind the cabin, rolling underneath the spinning tail rotor.

  “A dud!” screamed Fang as he pulled out another grenade. Suddenly, there was an impact and flash, shrapnel peppered the area round us, shrieking like swarms of irritated supersonic bees. The helicopter lifted, partly obscured by a dust cloud and falling debris. The panic-stricken pilot corrected the blast uplift with the controls, just as the tail rotor disintegrated and shed its blades. Without the stabilising influence of the tail rotor, the helicopter began to spin.

  It was clear from the wild movements in the cockpit that the pilot could not correct the revolving craft. Foolishly, he was still attempting to take-off. The chopper spun faster now, gyrating and tilting like a stricken beast searching for its adversary. The violent rotation was totally out of control, the chopper a deranged insect attempting to sting its own tail. The fuselage hit the ground and toppled, the rotor blades lashing the earth with a resounding din. Detached pieces flew in all directions, pulping the cabin, engine and fuel tanks. There was a loud crashing explosion and the helicopter dissolved into a melting mass; all that remained was a fiery mound.

  A ball of fire curling with black smoke towered over us. We stood stunned in the silent aftermath of the holocaust, as flames consumed the helicopter and its occupants. I turned away in revulsion as the acrid stench reached my nostrils. “Let’s move the gold up! We’re bound to have more visitors now.” The task of hiding the gold was soon complete and we gazed at the still smouldering remains of the helicopter.

  “Do you think we should cover it with dirt? It’s a dead giveaway as it is,” said Fang.

  “I don’t think it matters. They got a radio message away for sure. Let’s get the gold to Goroka and keep ourselves well hidden.”

  “If another chopper does come to investigate, I reckon we should follow it back to their camp and find out where the hell they’re operating from,” said Lance.

  “Why, it’s probably well into West Irian anyway,” I said.

&n
bsp; “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got stacks of fuel here and the floatplane has long-range tanks. If the other Dornier was carrying this much gold, then the Indonesians could have it at a forward camp nearby. What do you reckon, Fang?” said Lance, gold lust in his eyes.

  “Wouldn’t hurt to check it out, Dave. They wouldn’t know we were following if we stayed well back.”

  Fang and Lance soon had Jake convinced, but Jan and I weren’t keen on the idea. After a long discussion, we settled on a plan of action, should the Indonesians come looking for their dead comrades. Jan would stay at the lake camp with Fang and pack our equipment. Jake and I, armed with Lugers, would accompany Lance in the floatplane in an attempt to follow the helicopter. The reason I decided to agree to Lance’s plan was not for more gold. I was content with what we had found, but now we were all marked men. Would the Indonesians track us down after the loss of the gold and their two consorts in the helicopter? Any information about our mysterious antagonists would be advantageous—we were all on the Indonesian General’s death list. Soon he must find the second Dornier and realise the gold was gone. I was certain that sometime, somewhere, there would be a violent retribution.

  Lance was jubilant and immediately began preparing the floatplane for a return flight to West Irian if necessary. With full tanks and three persons, we would have to use a JATO unit for take-off. We had no visitors that day, and spent our time covering the gold, and gathering an armoury of obsolete weapons from the wrecked Dornier.

  After another chilling night, we were surprised that no helicopter had yet investigated the loss of the first machine. We didn’t have long to wait though; at about nine o’clock the familiar noise of a Bell 47 could be heard approaching from the West. Lance paddled out to the 185 and camouflaged the raft, hiding under the floatplane’s net. He then clambered inside, listening for possible intercom chatter on the floatplane’s radio.