Island in the Sky

by R. B. Shaw

  “There’s some movement near our floatplane too. Looks like it’s being refuelled. I hate to say it, but I think the PLM might be too late—this mob look like they’re preparing to move out.”

  As if to confirm Fang’s theory, fuel drums were rolled to the only two helicopters on the airstrip. They were then fuelled using a primitive hand pump. Fang was deep in thought, then suddenly turned to me. “Dave, you’ve got a pilot’s licence?”

  “Sure, but I haven’t had much experience on twins.”

  “What about you, Jan? Dave told me you’ve done some flying?”

  “Forget it. I’ve only a private pilot’s licence with forty hour’s experience. I’ve never flown an aircraft with two engines before.”

  Fang’s gaze returned to me. “You’re it, Blossom.”

  “Looks that way. What’s your plan? Sneak out tonight with Jake’s help and then the four of us bump off the guards on the 402 and fly out, taking the gold with us?”

  “Right on.”

  “Sounds shaky. If Lance is taking all that trouble to weigh his cargo, it means he’s worried about overload. It would all depend how many passengers are going as well. The only other alternative is to unload some of the gold.”

  Fang was appalled. “We could drain off fuel and strip out weight.”

  “We won’t have time for all that.”

  “All right then, they’ve got to have a pilot anyway. That’s three people, say two thirty kilograms extra we’d have to dump, whether it be gold, fuel or equipment.”

  Fang deliberated for a few moments and then made a drastic alteration to his plan. “Hang on! If Jan can fly, she and Jake could fly out in the floatplane or one of the others. Us two could handle the guards, as long as we have the element of surprise.”

  “There’s too many ‘ifs’. Wait till tonight and we’ll know more about the PLM attack from Jake.”

  Later we were visited by Hans again, this time without Tharis. He informed us that tomorrow we would be given supplies and clean uniforms. We would then be transported downstream by helicopter and left to our own resources. By the time we reached civilisation, they would have moved to a new base. This, he explained, was a regular practice to prevent confrontation with the Indonesian military, or the fiercer opposition of the PLM. It sounded feasible; we’d seen the helicopters being refuelled.

  Jan broke angrily into the conversation. “Why is Lance roaming around free out there? He’s joined up with you, hasn’t he?”

  Hans hesitated, smiling slyly before answering. “I’m glad to say he has. He’ll never regret it, for his rewards will be more than financial.” Hans took the opportunity for another ill-inspired monologue regarding his hopes of West Irian independence.

  “Forget all that crap,” I said. “What did you pay him?”

  Hans looked very surprised. “You can be very mercenary, Mr Stark. Lance will be given two gold bars and a bag of guilders, total value over $200 000.”

  “And what does he have to do to earn his blood money?”

  “Ferry myself and six hundred kilos of gold to a disused wartime airstrip on the North Australian coast. From there, he can have his freedom if he so wishes, or continue on in my employ. This will save me hiring another pilot for the return flight. He has already expressed an interest in the latter. On my arrival in Australia, I am to meet businessmen who are ready to convert my gold into supplies and munitions. My hopes have been realised; at last I will have the military power to begin the first steps toward liberation and expansion.”

  “What’s going to happen to our floatplane?”

  “It has been requisitioned. In due course, it may be returned.” Hans replied curtly, without looking at me.

  “Fat chance of that,” Fang mumbled.

  Hans ignored Fang’s comment, gave us a sarcastic thanks for finding the lost gold for him and bid us farewell.

  Late that evening, we waited anxiously for Jake to arrive. I constantly checked my watch, as the pre-arranged time approached. We kept quiet, mumbling softly on occasion so the guard, if awake later, would not be suspicious of our hushed conversation with Jake. There was a tap on the grille and the butt end of a machine-gun was carefully manipulated through the gap in the wire mesh. I passed the first gun to Fang, then helped Jake to ease the second unit noiselessly through the narrow aperture.

  The vicious-looking weapon was recognisable immediately, even in the half-light—an Owen 9mm machine carbine. Although now obsolete, there were still large numbers available on the black market. An incredibly hardy Australian design, the Owen was prized as a souvenir by servicemen from World War Two, Korea, Malaya and Vietnam. It had an ugly, yet somehow deadly grace. The carbine’s performance and reliability under the harshest conditions was legendary.

  I nursed the comfortable Owen by the two notched hand grips. It had a distinctive top loading magazine, the only machine-gun with this innovation. I had used it many times in the reserves as a ‘weekend warrior’, prior to gaining experience with more modern weapons in Vietnam. Jake handed us spare magazines through the wire and we immediately latched one on each gun.

  We motioned to Jake that we would attract the guard’s attention so he could take him from behind. We hid the guns and called the guard; he didn’t speak English, but we kept him occupied. Jake crept up stealthily behind him and crashed the butt of the Owen into the back of his neck. The guard crumpled forward and fell to the ground; Jake went hurriedly through his pockets, searching for the keys. Finding none, he scoured the area surrounding the annex.

  “No got keys.”

  We were stumped by a simple error, having taken it for granted the guard would have them. “Jake, the guard’s jeep—there should be a rope or sling.”

  Jake hooked a rope from the jeep to the cage door, drove forward suddenly and a link of the chain sheared.

  We were free and together again, armed with three Owen machine-guns. Jake also carried a shoulder pack full of spare magazines. The guard was regaining consciousness, so we tied him up with the rope. I turned back to Jake.

  “When is the PLM attack, Jake?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Too late,” I explained. “They’ve got to attack tonight. This mob will shift camp tomorrow.”

  “Do the PLM know about the gold?” Fang asked.

  Jake explained that he had not mentioned how much gold there was. They were under the impression it was simply takings from a prosperous private claim.

  “Do they know the 402 is loaded with gold and ready to fly out tomorrow?”

  “No,” Jake replied, surprised.

  “Okay, don’t let ‘em know. The 402’s cargo is going to be ours. They can have what’s left in Hans’ treasury over there.”

  Jake explained that the PLM mission was to completely destroy the camp and annihilate all opposition. No prisoners would be taken, any valuables and munitions seized. We were disturbed by a groan from the Indonesian guard, so I slapped him awake.

  “What time are the aircraft due to take off?” He didn’t understand English and we couldn’t speak Indonesian. Suddenly Fang interjected. “Hey, I heard him talking Pidgin to one of the local natives yesterday. Try him with that.”

  As it happened, the soldier had a limited knowledge of Pidgin. He was terrified and quickly informed us that the 402 was leaving at 0730 on the mission Hans had described. He said our amphibian was to leave at nine o’clock and all traces of the Dorniers and our camp on Mt Wilhelm were to be obliterated. The floatplane would be found later in a shallow bed of the Wahgi River. It would appear we had misjudged a landing, crashed and all aboard drowned.

  So Hans’ claim that we would be allowed to walk to safety from a remote drop-sight was a con.

  “When the helicopters drop us in the jungle, the crews will gun us down?” I said in Pidgin.

  The soldier explained that this wouldn’t be necessary. Our landing site, less than fifty kilometres away, was inhabited by primitive pygmy headhunters, cannibals who had rarel
y seen white men. The savages were continually harassed by the Indonesian military and shot on sight, so that they now detested and killed any uniformed man they caught. Almost certainly the body of the victim would be eaten. American mission pilots refused to wear any clothing resembling a uniform while flying over West Irian, as it was a guarantee of death. The offer of fresh uniforms and supplies was simply a devious plot to eliminate us. Any vestiges of respect I still felt for the Dutchman now withered away.

  “What are we going to do?” Fang enquired.

  “We’ll gag him for a start,” I indicated the soldier. “Jan, you could fly the 185 floatplane. You’ve sat up front with Lance at least four times?”

  “I don’t think I’d have trouble flying a standard 185,” she replied. “But I’ve never flown a floatplane before.”

  “Not much different. It stands a lot higher, so allow that much extra when landing. Are you willing to try, and take Jake?”

  “Okay,” was her reluctant reply. “But why not take one of their single engine aircraft.”

  “We don’t know their condition and the floatplane’s still got one JATO left. It will lift you off quickly if they attempt to stop your take-off,” I explained.

  Jake was not so confident. To his mind, women were meant for loving, doing the cooking and raising children, in that order.

  “Okay, we’ll take off at first light. We won’t be able to see much, but by that time, we should be able to find the airstrip. Jan, you and Jake take off first in the floatplane. I’ll lead you out and create a diversion. If you have any trouble on lift-off, hit the JATO. Jake, use your gun if necessary. Fang and I will follow later in the 402.”

  “Where do I fly to?” Jan queried.

  “Initially due east. That should take you over the border to Alice River. Circle there and watch out for us; we won’t be far behind, and will probably overtake you. Stay at about five thousand feet. If you get lost or have any trouble with weather, put down at any strip you see after you’ve been flying east for two hours. And keep your radio on, we’ll try to contact you.”

  I turned to Jake to organise support from the PLM and conversed rapidly in Pidgin. “Jake, are the PLM and canoes still waiting at the river?”

  Jake nodded and confirmed the situation in rapid Pidgin.

  “Right, go and tell them they’ve got to attack at dawn tomorrow. Tell them why, but only about the gold at the headquarters. I’ll try to blow up the fuel and ammunition dump at first light. That’s the best time for an attack, while the panic is on. They must allow two aircraft to take off, only two, no others at all. As soon as you’ve passed on the message, meet us back at the floatplane.”

  Jake made off, machine-gun at the ready; the canoe men would carry the message to the rebel camp. I hoped there was sufficient time before dawn for the canoeists to reach the main group, prepare for the attack and return.

  “We ought to sabotage the aircraft—other than the two we intend to use, of course,” said Fang. “Don’t want anyone intercepting us if the PLM attack fails.”

  “Right, we’ve got about four hours to make them unserviceable.”

  Jan interrupted. “How are you going to blow up the ammunition dump?”

  “Set fire to a jeep and let it run into the fuel drums.”

  It was a good thing we’d identified the buildings during the day, for even with a half moon, it was difficult to find our way. As we passed the fuel dump, it was obvious a runaway jeep wouldn’t penetrate the two wire fences and a surrounding ditch, unless moving at very high speed. I rearranged my plans as we moved cautiously around the back of the camouflaged canvas hangar. The gold-laden 402 stood waiting for Lance. If all went well, he’d never fly the sleek machine.

  We crouched behind some drums and as our eyes grew accustomed to the dark, we studied the layout of the temporary hangar and the position of each guard. Three of them had a small fire burning. By watching their movements, we identified five guards altogether. Memorising the layout, we moved off in the direction of the floatplane. En route we passed the two net covered helicopters, unguarded and unlocked. Fang opened the door of one, wrapped two meaty fists around the collective pitch control and, using all his strength, buckled it sideways beyond its normal limits. He repeated the process on the second machine; neither helicopter would be capable of flying for quite some time.

  We crept beneath the cover nets along the line of single-engined aircraft. Fang seized the elevators on each aircraft and forced the delicately balanced control surfaces apart. Buckled beyond repair, any attempt to fly would result in an uncontrolled and fatal roll.

  It was after two a.m. when the cloud again thinned enough to allow moonlight to illuminate the area with a barely discernible glow. The vague outline of a Cessna 206 stood alongside the taller silhouette of our floatplane.

  “Fang, don’t damage this 206,” I said. “I’ll use it to demolish the fuel dump, instead of the jeep.”

  Fang scrambled from under the floatplane’s net. “It’s unlocked, but they’ve taken the keys.”

  “Same with the 206. Is our tool-kit still in the back?”

  Fang rummaged in the rear of the cabin. “Yeah, you want the pliers, I take it?”

  “That’s right.” Fang had guessed my intentions.

  Pliers in hand, I moved to the front of the floatplane and climbed precariously onto the top nose cowl. I opened the oil filler door, reached in and severed the magneto earth wires. The magnetos were now in a live condition, a normal prime followed by a hard swing of the prop should result in instant fire-up. Unlike in automobile ignition, the magneto is self-sufficient, independent of a battery for obvious safety reasons.

  Fang repeated the wire-cutting process on the 206 and pointed toward the vague outlines of the other twin-engined aircraft. “You want me to put these out of action now?”

  “Yes. Jan and I will unpeg the nets covering the 206 and floatplane. What are you going to do to the twins?”

  Fang snapped the jaws of the pliers like a baby crocodile and gave a villainous cackle. “Just gonna cut into a few circuits here and there—might even rearrange some for fun.”

  After Fang had departed on his devious mission of destruction, Jan and I saw a shadow creeping near. We were relieved to hear the pre-arranged signal from Jake. The PLM had agreed to attack at dawn, but their full strength would not be in position before seven a.m. There would be thirty freedom fighters ready the moment we detonated the munition dump. As we’d requested, they would allow only two aircraft to take off. Any remaining aircraft at the base would be shelled by mortar fire.

  With Jake’s help, we soon had the camouflage nets unpegged, ready for quick removal. We were surprised to see Fang return after an absence of less than thirty minutes, a distinct odour of aviation fuel emanating from him.

  “Are they unserviceable, Fang?”

  “Yeah,” he replied with a fiendish grin. “They won’t be going anywhere in a hurry.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Some modifications. Should get some interesting results, Blossom.”

  “Okay, it’s two hours before there’s enough light for a take-off. Let’s crawl under the nets and plan the details of the getaway. Only two aircraft should be airworthy by dawn—our floatplane and the 402 with the gold.”

  We rested on piles of netting and contrived a simple plan for positioning the floatplane ready for take-off in the dark.

  We were all edgy as four a.m. passed. The eastern sky was perceptibly paler; it was time for me to prepare the 206 for its ramming role. I held a piece of cloth over the navigation lights on the wing tips and silently smashed each lens and bulb with the pliers. At each wing root, I loosened the fuel drains with the pliers till they were just finger tight. My cloth-covered fist soon punched a hole in the thin perspex window, near the right-hand drain, so I could reach it from inside the aircraft. After discarding the fuel tank caps from the wing tops, I clambered inside and prepared for a start-up. The Owen machine carbine was n
ext to me on the floor and my pockets filled with spare 9mm magazines. I pulled the elevator control column fully back and secured it there with the co-pilot’s seat belt. My deadly missile was ready.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The hills across the river were now silhouetted against the brightening sky, the strip submerged in a twilight shadow. It was time to go. I took a deep shuddering breath and signalled to Fang who was just visible, standing on the float cross brace of Jan’s floatplane. The prop swung a half-turn and shook to a stop. Fang swung again without result. He was having trouble reaching the prop, something we hadn’t counted on.

  Fang carefully nudged the dangerous live prop up to compression, then gave it an almighty two handed-swing, dropping his weight deliberately to the ground. The engine caught, bursting into life with a throaty cackle, and Jan throttled back quickly. The noise had attracted attention upstrip, evidenced by a bouncing torch beam moving erratically in our direction. Unfortunately, a quiet start was not to be hoped for from the powerful modified engine.

  Fang was running towards me, Owen gun at the ready. I switched on the fuel and the master switch and had the engine primed by the time he arrived. This time from ground level, Fang had little trouble swinging the prop of the 206. At the second attempt, the engine fired. Ensuring Fang was clear, I gunned the throttle and charged forward. Fang gave me a thumbs-up signal and ran to the rear of the aircraft. With the red and green wing-tip lights out of action, only the white tail-light would be visible from behind.

  I peered over my shoulder; Jan followed closely behind, the tail-light her only guide if she lost sight of the 206’s dark shape. We taxied over patches of burnt kunai, my only reference the guard’s fire burning near the hangar. Occasionally the 206 lurched over the uneven ground; I hoped that Jan was not in difficulty with the much taller and more unstable floatplane. There had been no hostile action so far—presumably Fang had silently eliminated the only guard alerted by the floatplane engine starting up.