Island in the Sky

by R. B. Shaw

  The helicopter flew directly to the scree and eventually hovered above the burnt-out wreckage of its sister-ship. Thereafter, it systematically searched the area. At no stage did the helicopter move over the wreck of the buried Dornier, three hundred metres up the gully from the charred remains. It seemed that the frantic helicopter pilot, killed in the grenade blast, hadn’t managed to complete his urgent message.

  As soon as the Bell 47 left the scene, Lance jumped out onto the 185 float and rolled up the camouflage net. “Okay, let’s go! I don’t want to lose him.”

  We said farewell to Jan and Fang, then Jake and I roped the dinghy back and paddled out to the floatplane. Lance had the engine running as we boarded and taxied down the lake, while we clambered in off the float struts. We buckled into our seats while Lance carried out a run-up check. I began to feel quite nervous about the lake take-off.

  As we turned around near the waterfall, Lance thrust the throttle forward and the roar built to a crescendo in unison with the scream of the turbocharger. I watched incredulous as the manifold pressure gauge indicated a massive overboost—an unmodified engine would disintegrate, overstressed by such forces. The airspeed rose slowly, and we bounced on the small waves from the erratic taxi-run.

  In mid-lake, we skimmed the surface correctly, but the aircraft refused to lift off. Lance’s finger flicked the JATO switch up. The response was slow, at least three nerve-racking seconds before ignition.

  There was a sudden roar and we blasted steeply from the lake, as though propelled by a massive hand behind our seats. We flashed past the waving figures of Jan and Fang and then turned west as the JATO spluttered and died. Lance made some correction to the controls and we levelled out at twelve thousand feet, closely following the contour of the mountain. Within seven minutes, we sighted the Bell 47 and settled into a slow-speed configuration, well astern of the unsuspecting helicopter crew. What lay before us was anybody’s guess.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lance evidently knew where we were, but I was dis–orientated once we left the familiar Bismarck Ranges. The long-range helicopter weaved through the nameless peaks of the Western Highlands, on its predetermined course, until finally I recognised the aptly named Hindenberg wall. This escarpment of the Star Mountains was nearly ninety kilometres long and topped with numerous jagged peaks climbing to over twelve thousand feet. It divided the mainland of New Guinea, North and South adjacent the West Irian border. The upper face of the wall was lost from sight in dense cloud, giving the impression that we were flanked by a vertical wall of sparse vegetation and limestone.

  “Don’t cross the border, Lance,” I ordered on a sudden impulse.

  “What? We’ve come this far. Why not follow him over? We’ve got plenty of fuel, but he’s probably scratching by now. It can’t be far from here.”

  “No, turn back when you think we’ve reached the border. I thought I glimpsed a distant plane to the north heading the opposite way. Could be an Indonesian transport or mission aircraft. We don’t want to get into the spotlight with an international border incident. Might be some embarrassing questions.”

  “We’re just about on the West Irian border now—that’s Mt Scorpion to our right in the distance. It’s about four kilometres from the Indonesian side.”

  Lance reluctantly began a slow turn to the south, away from the helicopter. We were surprised as a sleek Beechcraft Baron moved inside our bank, preventing us from completing the turn.

  “That’s a Tarangau Baron, isn’t it?” I queried.

  “Got the right colour scheme. Doesn’t seem familiar though. There’s something odd about it.” Lance studied our escort with a concerned look. “I’ve flown all Tarangau’s Barons, but that one’s unfamiliar. Far too old and in terrible condition.”

  The Baron levelled alongside, and the pilot waved, pointing to his radio earphones.

  “He wants to talk,” I said.

  Lance was still staring at the sleek aircraft. “That bloody thing has a gun sticking out of the emergency exit window, pointing straight at us.”

  Lance ceased speaking and listened intently to the earphones, his pallid features frozen and alert. “Well, fellas, we’re being hijacked. I’ve just been given a compass heading to follow into West Irian—the Baron will be right up our arse. Any deviation from course and they’ll spread us all over the sky!”

  I gave a nervous twitch at hearing Lance’s words. “Do exactly as they say.” I then explained the circumstances to Jake, and his interest in the Baron turned to uncertainty.

  As instructed, Lance followed the helicopter, while I armed the Lugers in anticipation.

  “I hope you’ve got some idea of where we’re heading,” I said.

  “Can’t go wrong. That snow-capped mountain is Puncak Mandala, nearly 16 000 feet high.”

  I peered back occasionally; the Baron was following closely, slightly to our left. We were gradually moving away from the spinal massif, our course nearly due west as we drifted over the southern foothills of the ranges. Ahead lay a featureless emerald carpet, identical to the jungled flood plains of New Guinea beyond the border.

  Lance cursed and began fiddling with the radio knob; he was looking forward and below us. It seemed that he had received further instruction from our captors. He pointed to the country ahead. All I could see was the helicopter, now dropping rapidly toward a native village on the western bank of a large muddy river. Beyond the river was a large cultivated garden area. A vast expanse of burnt kunai flats reached to the lower slope of a slight ridge.

  We watched the helicopter land, Lance reduced speed and dropped lower over the village. “They want us to land here,” he said. “They reckon there’s a strip running north to south. Can’t say I can see it.”

  Only on approach did the runway become evident, defined by wheel marks across the burnt kunai. The airstrip perimeter was cleverly disguised to prevent detection from the air. By burning patches of kunai at random across the surface, the outline had been completely obscured.

  Lance was having difficulty landing; there was no windsock, cone-markers or edge-lines to define the limits of the landing area. The only clues were tyre tracks left by other aircraft. The peaceful village came to life as we touched down, two jeeps materialising from bush huts and racing along each flank, pacing the rundown of our landing roll. Each jeep carried a rear-mounted .5 Browning machine-gun which pointed in our direction, webbing belts of ammunition swaying in the breeze. As we slowed, a jeep pulled in front and a uniformed figure indicated for us to follow. As we did, the second jeep completed the file; I looked back in time to see our escort Baron on final approach for landing.

  This was obviously a major camp; uniformed soldiers patrolled beneath camouflage nets. Tents were covered in bunched grass to give the illusion of native grass huts from the air. Some large camouflaged tents were open and each contained an aircraft. I saw three helicopters, all olive drab in colour. Nearby were three Cessna 402s and two Beechcraft Barons, painted in a mock Tarangau colour scheme. On the far side of the strip under nets were four single-engine light aircraft and several disguised buildings.

  Lance shut down the engine and a group of armed soldiers moved near the doors and stood waiting. Resistance was useless, so we left our pistols on the floor. I opened the door and was confronted by a short stocky Indonesian wearing sunglasses and holding an American M.3 ‘grease gun’.

  “Get down now!”

  There was a menacing precision in his order that demanded immediate submission. We moved deftly down through the struts and bracings onto the starboard float and were ordered to stand arms outstretched with palms flat on the float.

  “Feet further back!” a voice demanded.

  I moved my feet back a little, only to receive a brutal kick in the shins.

  “Back, I said,” ordered the same voice.

  I was now completely immobilised, unable to pull a pistol even if I’d wanted to.

  We were thoroughly searched, while another grou
p of soldiers inspected the aircraft. They retrieved our pistols and ammunition, my Colt 22 Woodsman and two Luger automatics. Their findings were passed to the man with sunglasses and machine carbine; he seemed to be the Commander of the outfit.

  “You and your friends will follow me, Mr Stark!”

  “You know who we are?” I asked with mock surprise.

  He laughed aloud. “We have had your group under surveillance for some time. Unfortunately our man has lost contact while you’ve been on site.”

  “Well, I’m afraid there’s been some mistake. We are Australian citizens working on a salvage contract near the border. We were forced to cross at gunpoint by one of your aircraft.”

  “Come, come, Mr Stark, let’s be realistic! I know exactly who you are, and that you’ve been searching for the Dornier and the gold.”

  I indicated the look-alike Tarangau aircraft and helicopters.

  “You’ve deliberately copied the Tarangau livery to avert suspicion while flying illegally in New Guinea, just to watch us?” I queried.

  “You flatter yourself, Mr Stark. Our mission in Papua New Guinea is long-term and far more important than your gold search. Incidentally, we knew you would eventually find the gold, and that it would be a simple matter of armed take-over. You saved us searching for it. We were surprised and much amused to find your aircraft following our helicopter back—it saved us a lot of trouble.”

  We were led to an elaborate complex of woven grass huts and tents. Two armed guards stood outside one, the entrance draped with a length of cloth. As we entered, we were confronted by an elderly but robust man. He was red-faced with brushed-back silver hair, bright and shining like the sheen of his immaculate, but incongruous, white safari suit. He stood and glanced at us silently for a moment or two, then lit a large cigar.

  “My name is Hans Van Der Rooke and I am a very busy man, Mr Stark. Where is the second Dornier and the gold?” His English was hesitant and guttural.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The backhander struck my left ear and sounded like a cannon blast. My head was twitching; the left side of my face seemed paralysed.

  “Our unfortunate helicopter team reported sighting you carrying objects from an obscure site below one of the lakes. They intended to investigate. The last report we received from them said that your group had entered the fuselage of a buried aircraft. Now, Mr Stark, let’s begin again?”

  “We didn’t find the lost fuselage, only the wreckage you had already searched.” Desperation in my voice.

  “Mr Stark, you are now in the presence of the only two survivors of that fateful flight. I was the pilot of the Dornier and General Tharis Naranjunga here …” He indicated the elderly Indonesian leader wearing the sunglasses. “… was a member of the escort group assigned to the protection of the gold shipment. If any two men have a right to that bullion, it is Tharis and I.”

  This news stunned Lance and I, though Jake didn’t understand; the plain English was too fast. But he understood the threatening overtones. “You were the two men who walked down to Tepsugl, in ‘42, and were later repatriated?”

  “Correct. I remember little after the incident except for attempting to land on one of the mountain lakes. I was in shock and, unfortunately, Tharis is no navigator. Due to cloud, it was hard to take bearings on any landmarks. But now you can enlighten us.”

  “As I said, we haven’t yet discovered the actual fuselage and its cargo. I felt we were close, but …” I shrugged. Hans pulled a pistol from beneath his suit jacket and pointed it at my forehead. For a moment, I physically and spiritually wilted. He dropped his arm and turned the familiar pistol toward me for inspection.

  “Do you recognise this pistol, Mr Stark?”

  “Yes, it’s a 9mm Luger automatic.”

  “A particularly rare pistol, the Luger, especially this variety. Are you aware of the production history of the PO8 ten-shot Luger, Mr Stark?”

  “No, but I’m about to find out, aren’t I.”

  A stern look of rebuke told me I’d spoken out of turn.

  “PO8, indicates a pistol designed in 1908. Quite a vintage, eh? They were little used in the Second World War, except by Germany. By then the complex Luger had been virtually replaced by the super-efficient Walther P38 and Mauser. You will notice that this particular German-designed pistol was made by the Vickers Armament Division in England. In actual fact, 10 000 pistols were manufactured under licence to supply the Dutch Military before World War II. This particular specimen came out of the arms shipment of my wrecked Dornier over forty years ago. It helped save my life and I have treasured it ever since. Now, Mr Stark, not thirty minutes ago, I saw two more of these rare pistols, the first I have seen since 1942. Where did you get them?”

  I had become so interested in his story, that I had to hesitate before replying. “We found them in the wreckage of the first Dornier up near the impact point.”

  “They’ve weathered remarkably well. Not a scratch nor a rust spot. They’re even lightly coated with grease. Let’s stop beating around the bush, eh, Mr Stark? My men scoured that slope months ago. We searched the areas immediately below all the high altitude lakes, removed all the gold and the coins we found and even the remnants of the cargo.”

  “They were in a sealed box,” I answered desperately.

  “Do you think anyone searching for gold would ignore a sealed box?” Hans shouted.

  I resisted his attempts to get the truth from me and he finally dismissed us in disgust. We would be questioned again tomorrow when other means of persuasion could be brought to bear.

  Tharis nodded to one of the two armed guards and we were led outside. As we stepped from the hut, I could see native canoes drawn up on the beach. The river was no more than twenty paces away, beyond a row of palms and a steep embankment. Before any of us realised what had happened, Jake knocked the armed guard down and sprinted for the river. The guard struggled to his knees, attempting to fire. I kicked him forward again, but was quickly quietened by the pressure of a gun barrel forced into the small of my back. Lance stood dumbfounded and shouted at us. “You bloody idiots, you want to get us all killed.”

  “Go, Jake!” I screamed.

  Jake seemed to be on winged feet; he made no attempt to weave or dodge, but continued with all his strength, bounding straight for the embankment. The gunner regained his feet and I winced as he fired his M3 carbine from the hip. Like most machine guns unequipped with compensators, it kicked up and to the right with a sound reminiscent of an accelerated jackhammer. The fiery burst sprayed through the palm tops and dispersed harmlessly.

  Jake leapt over the embankment, then, reaching the river’s edge, he plunged beneath the surface of the chest-deep water. The gunner ran to the edge of the embankment and this time took careful aim from eye level. The staccato burst of gun fire hit the water, causing a brief spray of geysers. Jake did not resurface. The gunner surveyed the murky river and returned smiling triumphantly. His comrade patted him on the back and they laughed.

  The soldier was still smiling as my heavy centurion boot caught him in the crotch. He folded in the middle, eyes bulging and cheeks blown. Holding his lowered head down, I brought my knee up into his face as hard as I could and distinctly heard his nose crack. My follow up double-handed king-hit to the back of the neck never eventuated. I didn’t see the rifle butt swing, but felt the impact and the excruciating pain. Everything flickered red as my right cheek bone and teeth were crushed.

  I awoke to the agony of a battered face, my head throbbing and my jaw feeling broken. My mouth seemed contaminated by teeth splinters and the brackish taste of congealed blood nauseated me. Lance must have seen me move; he helped me to a sitting position. This caused a sensation akin to pounding a sledgehammer on my right temple. A deep-rooted agonising throb made me twitch involuntarily.

  “What happened to Jake?” I managed.

  “He’s gone, Dave, never came up again. Stupid bastard shouldn’t have tried to make a run
for it.”

  “Bullshit! He had more guts than you, you spineless prick. Why didn’t you give us a hand?” I demanded furiously.

  “It happened too fast.”

  “Pigs arse! You had plenty of time to snot the guy behind me. We could have snatched his machine gun and pulped the gunman before he killed Jake. The three of us could have made it safely to the river!”

  Lance looked away. “I wasn’t going to get myself shot. If you want to risk your neck, that’s your business.”

  “Just as I always thought! Look after number one, stuff everyone else.”

  Lance elected to be silent. Shocked at the thought of Jake’s death, I concentrated on our surroundings. We were being held in an enclosed area, more like a cage than a prison. Judging by the filth on the ground, the previous inhabitants had been little more than animals.

  “How long have we been in here?” I asked. It was painful to speak, but a plan of action was necessary.

  “About three hours,” Lance replied reluctantly.

  “What hit me?”

  “Rifle butt. You really smashed that soldier’s face. A lot of orientals have flat faces, but he’ll take the cake now with that busted nose.”

  “My next move would’ve been to break his neck. Nice to see you had some feeling for Jake.”

  “That idiot risked all our lives. He dug his own grave. We’ve got the gold, we’ll be able to barter our way out of this.”

  Lance worried me; he was overwrought and I didn’t like his attitude. I noticed the armed guard at the far end of the cage checking our movements. “How do we get out of here?” I said.

  “We can’t. It’s a Dexion-iron frame, bolted together with sheets of welded arc mesh wire. The floor’s solid rock.” The ceiling was a lattice mesh, forming holes only big enough to pass a plate through and covered in sheet plastic. This in turn was covered with thatched grass, to give the appearance of a grass hut from overhead. The walls were covered on the outside with woven pit-pit. The wire was bare only at a small window. There was no door; one end wall of the cage was simply hinged. Beyond this entrance was a canvas annex to shelter the duty guard from bad weather.