Island in the Sky

by R. B. Shaw

  We were interrupted as the securing chain was dragged noisily through the loops. Hans entered the cage cautiously and ordered us to sit cross-legged at the far end of the cell. The Indonesian General trained an M3 carbine on us at all times. They made themselves comfortable in folding canvas chairs supplied by the guards. Hans finally spoke.

  “Any more foolishness like the episode this afternoon will conclude with equally unpleasant results, Mr Stark. We regret the loss of your friend, but he cancelled his own future.”

  “That’s a neat definition of murder,” I replied.

  “You waste your words and my time. Where is my Dornier and its contents?”

  “It was never yours. You were just carrying out orders.”

  Surprisingly, Hans remained calm, despite my angry outburst. “That may be true, Mr Stark, but the former Dutch colonial government is now defunct. Tharis and I were the only survivors of the crash. We therefore claim the gold on behalf of the Dutch and Mollucan people betrayed and persecuted by the Indonesians. The gold will be used to further our cause, the liberation of Dutch New Guinea and the Mollucas from the ugly claws of the Indonesian regime. The financing of munitions and equipment is imperative at this moment.”

  “The colony of Dutch New Guinea was given to Indonesia over twenty years ago. It’s now officially West Irian.”

  Hans shrugged. “It doesn’t rightly belong to Indonesia. Even in the former colony of the Netherlands East Indies, Dutch New Guinea was separate. It was granted by the Sultan of Tidore in 1909, to remain under the control of the Mollucan Government. In 1946, following the confusion of World War Two and the sudden Indonesian uprising, control was transferred to Hollandia on the New Guinea mainland—not to Batavia, or Djakarta as it is now called. By a strange twist of fate, Tharis and I are together again. We plan to save this last relic of the Netherlands Crown and return it to the Mollucan people as an independent nation, free of Indonesian rule. The Mollucans are well aware of Indonesian expansionism and are tired of seeing any wealth discovered in the region being bled off to Djakarta.” It was easy to see that Hans was genuinely fired by his own fanatical words.

  “Impossible!” I sneered. “Indonesia already has control of West Irian. In the United Nations referendum of self-determination, they voted to join the Republic of Indonesia. How do you account for the results of the referendum?”

  Hans’ eyes were blazing. He stood up suddenly and began pacing the cell. “The referendum was a farce. The United Nations representatives were fools who allowed themselves to be unknowingly, but cleverly, manipulated by Indonesian officials. Back in 1963, the moronic idiots granted Indonesia temporary control of Dutch New Guinea, pending the results of the self-determination referendum to be held five years later. The Indonesians grasped the advantage, immediately declared ‘West Irian’ their seventeenth province, and began rapid nationalisation. Over thirty thousand immigrant Indonesian families were then transplanted from Java to Dutch New Guinea each year. It didn’t take long to reinforce the pro-Indonesian vote. A large proportion of the voting population were primitive bush people who were beyond contact. In fact, many had never seen a white man. Other tribes were warned, at gunpoint, how they were to vote. Most Dutch expatriates by the time of the referendum had been forced out of business or deported. Their assets and properties were nationalised or confiscated.”

  There was a lot of truth in Hans’ words. I remembered the media at that time condemning the poor United Nations attitude and the outrageous Indonesian bluff. “But what about the native Melanesians? They were here long before any other race. Unquestionably this country is culturally, geographically and ethnically Melanesian, not Asian or European. Surely the rebels of the Papuan Liberation Movement have a justifiable claim and will be a thorn in the Indonesians side for a long time. The PLM guerillas already refer to this land as ‘Papua Barat’—West Papua and hope to form one nation with Papua New Guinea, the length of the island.”

  Hans gave me a shocked look of scorn before he answered, livid with rage. “Never! They are backward savages, some still obsessed with headhunting and cannibalism. They have done nothing to advance this land. Only the Dutch and Mollucans made any sort of attempt at development and progress. I can assure you the Melanesian influence will soon be extinct. We, not the Melanesians, will form a prosperous new nation consisting of the Mollucas, Iran Barat and Irian Timur.”

  Hans’ fervour had left me behind. “I don’t understand. Where are those last two regions?”

  Calmer now, Hans deliberately hesitated with a smug smile on his face. “The language is Bahasa Indonesia; Irian Barat is West Irian and Irian Timur means East Irian.”

  Suddenly I realised the implications. “If this is West Irian, then East Irian can only mean one place—Papua New Guinea?”

  “Correct. East Irian is the Indonesian name for Papua New Guinea. It also gives a clue to their future plans. The New Guinea mainland as a whole is a desirable prize.”

  The fantastic story was now beyond me. “You can’t be serious! Papua New Guinea is still defended by Australia.”

  Hans smiled. “We’re not in a hurry, Mr Stark. The subversive groundwork for a puppet government is being prepared and clandestine operations are well underway. Yes, we have already infiltrated the political structure of the Australian defences. We will wait until well after independence before we stage our coup so that we do not have to deal with the Australian military. It may even be secured before the end of this decade.”

  I made no comment. Obviously, a lot of planning had gone into the disturbing and devious scheme.

  “This lost gold … you’ve been searching for it for over twenty years?” I asked.

  “No, we had no desperate need of the gold, although we had a pre-arranged search scheme ready for when financial backing was available. Before this, it was simply beyond our means to try and retrieve it. Our biggest problem was that we were unaware of its exact location. For months we have used requisitioned aircraft and helicopters to assist our search. Unfortunately, at this stage we must give priority to transporting our agents to and from Papua New Guinea.

  “Our airborne team has been doing aerial reconnaissance and investigation in New Guinea for some time. Our aircraft managed to pilfer fuel supplies and equipment from outlying airstrips. We discovered that some Ramu tribes had plentiful supplies of gold dust and even ten-guilder coins. Putting the facts together, we realised that they had found the wreck site and we resumed our search whenever the opportunity arose. Of course, the aircraft were painted in a mock Tarangau Airlines colour scheme to avert suspicion. They landed only at remote strips of interest, devoid of airline representatives. The helicopters transferred our men from there on search missions into the higher mountains, looking for our elusive wartime aircraft.”

  “Your group was behind the sabotage incidents in the Ramu region?” I queried.

  “Unfortunately some aircraft, especially those of Tarangau Airlines, began to disturb our search patterns, and so we arranged a few accidents. By doing this, a shortage of serviceable aircraft was created. Flights became rather infrequent to the more remote, less important airstrips. We were then free to carry on our search without interference.”

  Lance had been silent since our argument and now suddenly interrupted. “Why was an attempt made on my life on the mountain?”

  Hans was unfazed. “The helicopters on the mountain soon rediscovered the more obvious widely spread wreckage of a Dornier. It was carefully picked clean of remaining gold and coins overlooked by the pillaging natives from the Ramu. It was about this time, Mr Rudd, that your aircraft crashed on the mountain and you inadvertently saw one of our helicopters. The crew elected to silence you, but failed.”

  Hans casually brushed the incident aside and continued. “We later reclaimed some of the gold bars and coins from the villages in the Ramu; most accepted our terms at gunpoint. Our search for the second aircraft, my Dornier, has only recently restarted. I recognised the lake on which I�
��d crashlanded from photos. Aircraft wreckage below the lake confirmed this but the fuselage of the flying boat has so far eluded us. I cannot remember where the fuselage came to rest, except that I think it was partially buried in rubble.” Hans sat down again and continued, his voice carefully controlled. “I have been remarkably tolerant with your group, Mr Stark. I have gone to considerable lengths to explain the circumstances and hope you understand the validity of our claim to the bullion. I ask you now to tell us all you know regarding the gold and the site of the lost fuselage. You will be well rewarded for any information.”

  Lance and I sat silently as Hans again began to question us. The interrogation continued well into the night and finally Hans became quite irate, deciding that Lance and I should be questioned separately. He left Tharis with me and took Lance with him under armed escort. Tharis continually threatened and bribed, but I claimed ignorance. He said stage two would involve physical torture and took much delight in describing agonising Asian methods using a simple sliver of bamboo. After he left, there was nothing for me to do but worry. Lance didn’t return that night and I hardly slept at all before dawn.

  Noise woke me from a nightmare—the resonant beat of helicopter blades would forever have a sinister meaning to me. Two of the khaki Bell 47s lifted across the river, heading directly into a pale rising sun. Little else happened for the rest of the day; the camp was quiet, the native workers involved in mundane activities. Soldiers seemed scarce, probably away on some dubious mission downstream. A great number of primitive labourers seemed to be transferring boxes of supplies and carrying out simple domestic duties. From the air, it would complete the illusion of a sleepy little riverside village.

  Some of the natives were simple savages, dressed only in the ‘Telefomin trousers’ penis gourd. The men were in terrible physical condition, with a total lack of modern medical aid. Skin diseases such as grille were rampant, while weeping and flyblown tropical ulcers were prevalent. In the midday heat, robust warriors shivered miserably, their bodies racked by malaria.

  It was a good time to draw a small map of the entire camp, identifying all buildings, hangars, fuel dumps and sleeping quarters. Near our net-covered amphibian was the gold lock-up, judging by the machine-gun emplacements surrounding it. The map kept my mind off Tharis and the methods he might use for further questioning.

  The only visitor who came near all that day was a mangy, underfed wild dog. It darted about on spindly legs, muzzling the ground for food scraps. Its mottled grey fur was virtually gone, eaten away by mites. Angry patches of raw flesh were thick with dozens of fat blue bush ticks, all sucking relentlessly at the blood of the poor withered beast. I fell into a nervous sleep, tossing and turning restlessly, concerned about Lance’s condition and wondering when the next interrogation would commence.

  I didn’t hear the choppers return late that afternoon, but was awakened by the rattle of the chain on the gate. With uncomprehending horror, I stared as Tharis, armed with his favourite M3 carbine, pushed Fang into the cage, closely followed by Jan. She was terrified and sobbing loudly as she hugged me. “Dave, I thought they’d killed you.”

  “I think they plan to get rid of all of us. They shot Jake and I haven’t seen Lance since they took him away for questioning.”

  Fang’s eyes lit up and I could see his rage was almost uncontrollable. “What happened?”

  I described the events in detail, before asking Fang how they were captured.

  “We didn’t hear the choppers. They must have landed some distance away and went straight to the spot where we’d hidden the gold. Didn’t even pretend to search for it. They loaded the gold into the choppers, put Jan in one and me in the other and here we are.”

  I was confused by Fang’s story; we’d lost our gold and now Fang and Jan were in captivity. Worst of all, as I had not revealed the hiding place of the gold and Jake was dead; Lance was implicated. I wondered if he had succumbed to torture or was simply battered senseless.

  That afternoon we were again visited by Hans and Tharis. They intended to release us in the unmapped jungle to the west, they said. This didn’t sound convincing.

  “How did you know where to find the gold?” I asked.

  “You’d left footprints all around the area.”

  I glanced at Fang, who frowned and shook his head.

  “Where’s Lance?” I enquired.

  “Temporarily incapacitated.”

  “Will he be released with us?” My speech was distorted by my swollen mouth and cheek.

  “Possibly, we may hold him a while longer. We will release him after we utilise his navigational skills for an important long-range flight. He is a sensible man; he decided that it’s better to co-operate than die for no purpose.”

  There was a solemn silence following Hans’ statement and he began laughing aloud. He knew there was nothing we could do now. Jan sat up suddenly, her eyes wide and moist. “We’re all fools, can’t you see that? There’s been enough killing over this accursed gold.”

  I put my arm around her, attempting to calm her outburst. She ignored me. “Ever since we first stumbled across the gold, death has followed!”

  Hans interrupted Jan’s sobbing monologue, wild with savage emotions. “Death—you don’t know the half of it, woman. Death has followed this gold ever since it was carried from the vaults of the Batavia treasury. How do you think it’s remained a secret for so long? Every man of the Batavian loading group died in Japanese attacks. The Australians in Lae, New Guinea, who were to escort the gold to Australia were killed, their ship torpedoed in the Huon Gulf.”

  Hans calmed a little, nursing his strained forehead with a trembling hand before resuming his story. “And that fateful day in March 1942, when we flew the gold out of Hollandia, was equally devastating. Over fifteen of my crewmen were killed in that conflict …”

  I could see Hans was distressed, evoking tragic memories as he finally related all details of the last fateful flight of his gold-laden Dorniers and their doomed crews.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  After Hans and Tharis left, I rested on my uncomfortable grass mattress, but found sleep impossible. Fang was asleep, but Jan could find no comfort and beat her hands at the bundled grass. I wondered if she too was thinking of Hans’ and Tharis’ dramatic tale of deadly but heroic misadventure. I felt a tinge of regret that such a brave group had died so tragically.

  My mind was lost in the past, riding a crippled Dornier high above the Bismarcks, when something hit me on the shoulder. At first I imagined the stone was another insect and I slapped at it just as another hit my arm. I was staggered to recognise Jake standing outside the cage. After the initial shock, I woke Fang and Jan. The guard in the annex was fast asleep.

  “What happened, Jake?” I whispered. “We thought they got you.” Jake explained that he’d swum downstream underwater, after pretending to be shot in the back. He held up a machine-gun, pointed to the guard and asked if we wanted to make a break.

  “Not yet, Jake. Too many Indos around. We need to plan an escape. Where did you get the machine-gun?”

  “Papuan Liberty Movement.”

  Jake had inadvertently met a force of seventy PLM rebels downstream, searching for this very camp. He had led them here and they were at this moment canoeing reinforcements up the river, closer to the camp, planning an attack. Apparently they were patriotic Papuans, anti-communist, and just as strongly anti-Indonesian. Jake had requested the loan of a weapon to help us to escape.

  “Jake, come back about this time tomorrow night. See if you can get us a gun each. We need time to figure an escape route, probably by canoe.”

  “How are we gonna get hold of the gold?” Fang asked.

  “We’ll work something out, and find Lance too. Unfortunately I think he’s either dead or unconscious.”

  There was a sound in the nearby bush, Jake signalled that he must go. The PLM by this time must have completed their brief surveillance of the camp and its strong points. Jake slipped
off into the darkness, promising to return well-armed as planned.

  After a good night’s sleep, we woke refreshed and alert, ready to begin planning a means of escape. Jan’s idea was simple, but unrewarding: leave the gold, sneak out with Jake’s help tonight and have canoes waiting to paddle us to safety downstream. Fang’s idea was more radical: lead an armed PLM attack on the camp and recapture the gold, sharing any profit with the PLM. I thought over both schemes—Jan’s was by far the most sensible, but I wanted that gold.

  Fang was hoping for too much; even if his attack were successful, there could be no guarantee that a wild troop of rebel guerrillas would be prepared to bargain. They’d be desperate men, living in the jungle like animals and probably half-starved. It was likely they would free us readily, but any debate regarding a share of the gold might add a dangerous catalyst.

  “There’s a bit of activity over there today,” said Fang. Carriers were loading heavy cargo from the guarded headquarters onto a trolley. It was being shuttled back and forth to a Cessna 402, carefully guarded in a camouflaged tent hangar.

  I looked back at Fang. “What do you make of that? The same as me?”

  “They’re moving some of the gold—looks like they intend flying it out in the 402!”

  Jan watched the busy scene and seemed to be transfixed with surprise. “Rotten bastard,” she snarled.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Your old mate Lance is out there supervising the loading of that plane!”

  Fang and I jockeyed for a position at the window and saw that Jan wasn’t wrong. Lance was weighing the boxes, supervising the fuelling and the load distribution in the 402—he seemed to be in excellent health.

  “And here I was thinking the poor prick had been tortured or killed!” I sneered.

  “So the bastard did sell us out!”

  “Never mind. We’ve got to shortcut their plans,” I said. “It’s too late in the day for a long flight, so they must be getting it loaded up for an early take-off tomorrow.”