Island in the Sky

by R. B. Shaw

  The surface levelled. We were now on the airstrip proper, but the airspeed indicator still didn’t register at such a low speed. It was difficult to steer; the prop-wash acting on the locked-up elevators kept the tail down and nose high. This caused the nose strut to lock centre, so turns could only be gradual, using the rudder.

  As we neared the proposed launch point, I reached through the broken window, unscrewed the final threads of the drain cock and let it fall. A highly flammable stream of 100-octane fuel as thick as a finger was picked up by the slipstream and blown back across the ground, rear fuselage and tail. The small campfire was about a hundred metres to my right. The five alerted soldiers stood up, momentarily confused at the approach of one of their own aircraft.

  We had apparently reached the end of the strip, so I switched off the tail-light, the pre-arranged signal for Jan to turn and line up for take-off. I switched on the landing lights and turned the aircraft to bring the brilliant beam directly on the surprised group of soldiers running toward me. As I stopped, there was the twinkle of a muzzle flash and bullets crashed noisily into the forward part of the aircraft. The second muzzle flash was well off to the right, but there was no impact. The vague shapes of soldiers dropped to the ground as Fang returned fire and kept them pinned down. The soldiers couldn’t hear Jan’s plane over the noise of my 206 and couldn’t see it because of the blinding glare of the landing lights.

  Opening the throttle again, I turned the 206 so the landing lights illuminated the distant ammunition dump and heaped drums of fuel. I pulled on the park brake, just enough to let the aircraft creep forward slowly, picked up the Owen gun, then stepped out behind the pilot’s seat. With the left-hand fuel drain removed, another jet of fuel saturated the surrounding grass. I leaned forward over the seat and thrust the throttle fully open.

  The engine screamed and the airframe trembled in sympathy with the sudden power thrust, the locked wheel brakes skidding savagely on the loose gravel. I released the handbrake and forced the door open against the high-speed slipstream. A brief glimpse showed the aircraft still basically on line; it couldn’t miss from this distance. Before the 206 accelerated, I jumped clear, the deafening noise of engine and wind blast drowning all other sound. The 206 accelerated away, the tailplane scything overhead like an oversized meat-chopper.

  Everything seemed so peaceful after the violent exit from the thundering 206. I looked up; it was still too dark, cloud obstructing the eastern sky. The 206 was barely visible as it accelerated onward. Sporadic gunfire chattered as the engine screamed in a futile attempt to reach lift-off speed. The soldiers fired on the 206, thinking the plane was occupied and under control. I lay prone, the gunners unaware of my position. A long brilliant flash and the distinctive staccato pounding of an Owen gun erupted from behind a piece of machinery, well off to my right. The prone gunners ceased firing, reluctant to disclose their position with gun flash. It was a relief to know Fang was nearby.

  The aircraft suddenly bounced, pitched nose up and then jumped the ditch, slamming through the mesh fence as though it was fly-wire. There was a tremendous din as the 206 collided with a huge pile of fuel drums and cartwheeled into a wall of boxed munitions. The shrieking noise of impact ceased and the engine of the 206 cut out as the wrecked aircraft came to rest, tail high among the drums. To my horror, there was no explosion, not even a flame. The fuel-soaked dump and aircraft had uncannily failed to ignite. The whole area reeked of fuel from the 206 and the ruptured drums. One hardy landing light was still illuminating the tangled wreckage with a ghostly internal glow. In the distance, I heard an aircraft engine.

  The dim shape of the floatplane was just visible, the engine idling. Jan was waiting for enough light to take-off. Panic-stricken figures were running towards the dump, some carrying extinguishers. A jeep started and headlights flicked on, throwing twin beams across the runway. As it turned toward the demolished dump, the headlights briefly caught the distant floatplane. The jeep suddenly stopped, a cloud of dust drifting in the light beams; they had seen Jan’s plane. I had to divert their attention somehow. The jeep hesitated and turned slightly, directing its headlights on the lone aircraft. Our carefully laid plans seemed to be crumbling.

  It was now or never. I searched for a match, but had none, so held the carbine close to the fuel soaked-ground and moved clear. A shattering burst tore the silence abruptly, the immediate area starkly lit by muzzle flash. The world exploded in flame, erupting all about me, my nostrils accosted by the pungent burnt odour of my own singed hair as I rolled clear.

  The flames moved with lightning speed along the vaporous trail of fuel and, with a final brilliant leap, reached the dump. The enormous explosion rocked the surrounding area violently, lighting the camp with a blinding sheet of flame. Gyrating fuel drums were flung high in the air in fiery arcs. The immense power of the explosion shot the burning 206 into the air like a spinning toy. The flames glowed and curled in fiery globules, backed by a dense mushroom of smoke and cinders rolling skyward.

  I turned to watch Jan in the floatplane. There was enough light now to take off, but the aircraft could be seen quite distinctly. The landing lights flicked on as she began to accelerate. The jeep, now ignoring the blazing inferno, darted off in pursuit. The engine of the floatplane reached a high-pitched crescendo as the jeep raced onto the runway, well behind the aircraft. As it accelerated, someone in the rear of the jeep frantically prepared the rear-mounted Browning machine-gun.

  The jeep momentarily came alongside the floatplane, then muzzle-flash and a clatter of sound came not from the jeep, but from the aircraft. Jake had seen the would-be assailants and had swept the jeep with gunfire. The driver manoeuvred directly behind the floatplane as it approached lift-off speed. The gunner on the jeep brought the mounted Browning to bear too late. At that moment, Jan hit the JATO switch and a finger of noisy flame thrust the aircraft into the air.

  The bewildered jeep driver broadsided, caught unawares by the sudden rocket blast. He barely managed to save the jeep from rolling over, as it careered sideways on two wheels. Jan climbed sharply away to the east, silhouetted now by a clear sky. The JATO noise died, replaced by the sound of the powerful Continental engine under full throttle.

  Concealment was no longer easy, as the whole area was lit by the gigantic fire, blazing and exploding fuel drums acting as huge airborne torches. The dawn twilight exposed an enormous pall of black smoke, high above the flames and drifting along the runway. I moved stealthily at a crouch toward the crude hangar, to rendezvous with Fang near a pile of machinery. Figures were still running towards the fire, but it was hopelessly out of control and moving swiftly toward the ammunition dump.

  Gunfire was crackling in the camp area near the river bank—at last the PLM had begun their attack. I was halfway to the machinery, when the ammunition dump detonated with cataclysmic violence. With an eye-searing flash, it fragmented; the thunderous noise numbed my senses and for a few moments I was deaf. Shrapnel and exploding bullets peppered the area.

  The momentous blast had forced a large cloud of rubble and dirt skywards. It hung there, like a gargantuan tree shedding its excessive load of fiery foliage. A cloud of dust was elevated briefly above the surface, exposing the shock-wave as a tangible wall of ferocious energy. Spellbound, I watched it move swiftly across the ground, the percussion struck me with a breathtaking impact, knocking me off my feet.

  There was a shocked silence in the wake of the blast. Gunfire ceased, no-one raised their voice as the rumbling echo slowly faded. Activity returned as large pieces of wreckage crashed to the ground, featureless silhouettes dived for cover and comparative safety under jeeps, nets and trees.

  I saw Fang crouched near the machines and moved over to join him. “Jake and Jan got away okay,” I said.

  “Yeah, they cut it pretty fine though. I thought the jeep had them for a moment.”

  “How many guards are left on the 402?”

  “I counted four so far. The others are checking on
the gunfire on the far side of the strip. They’re not trying to control the fire.”

  Fang shook his head as he surveyed the destruction beyond the hangar; rolling flames still leapt hundreds of feet into the air. “Well, Blossom, you certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest with your runaway 206!”

  An explosion near the headquarters forced the confused soldiers to fall flat on the ground as earth and debris cascaded over them. I clearly recognised Hans and Lance together, organising troops to retrieve the gold and other treasures from the fire-threatened security building. Another bomb burst put them to ground again; machine-gun fire rattled out from the mock huts near the river bank.

  “We’d better move fast,” I said, “The PLM are using mortar bombs. They’re after the treasury buildings.”

  Fang signalled acknowledgment. “If I take care of the guards, can you concentrate on getting into the aircraft and preparing it for take-off?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. The cargo door’s open, and it’s got switch start. No keys needed.”

  One Indonesian guard was alert, but in a state of nervous panic. The action beyond the hangar and the explosions at the burning dump had his complete attention. Another mortar bomb burst nearby and the guard turned away from the sudden explosive impact. Fang’s commando tactics were still all too familiar; he grasped the guard from behind with a forearm round the neck. I’d seen mock attacks in the army, but the ferocity of Fang’s attack was frightening to witness. No simple grip of the neck, but a determined swing of the forearm. The guard’s feet lifted from the ground by the violence of the blow. Had it been a blade, the guard would have been decapitated. Fang dragged him backwards, before throwing him heavily to the ground, and stepped on his neck. With a sickening thud, the butt crashed heavily into the stricken guard’s head.

  We crept into the half-light of the hangar. Another sentry was pacing nervously around the tail of the 402. As Fang moved deftly behind a nearby cargo trolley, I hid and waited for a chance to gain entry to the aircraft. The action was swift as the guard moved cautiously past the trolley. Fang appeared from nowhere and dropped the unsuspecting victim with a savage blow of the Owen gun. Unwittingly, Fang had exposed himself to another guard, lurking in the shadows; as he turned, the surprised Indonesian lifted his machine gun.

  I jumped into the open, gun ready, and this confused the guard. He hesitated a fraction too long while choosing targets. I aimed at his right hand and pulled the trigger. There was a loud clatter and the Owen kicked up to the right. The raucous bullets threw him to the wall and stitched a pattern of ragged holes diagonally across his chest. In the dim light, the pulsating muzzle flash lit the guard’s horrific death dance with a macabre eerie gleam. I directed a silent apology toward the poor bastard, but Fang just waved his thanks and moved on past the crumpled corpse.

  The gunfire may have attracted attention, so I left Fang to cover me as I ran for the aircraft and clambered aboard. The wide oval cabin was stripped of seats and a neat stack of rough boxes were lashed to the floor behind the crew seats. It had to be the gold, but I wouldn’t have a chance to check them properly. I released the rear lashing of the restraint harness and lifted one of the small wooden boxes. For its size, it was incredibly heavy. It could be nothing else but the gold bars, probably two to a box.

  Another burst of familiar Owen gunfire told me that Fang had more assailants. A heavy battle raged beyond the front of the hangar. I belted myself into the pilot’s seat and flicked on the master, fuel and magnetos, then set throttle and mixture before cranking the starboard engine. The turbo-charged engine purred into life with a smooth whistling roar. I started the port engine, anxiously awaiting Fang, who was pinned down by gunfire.

  An explosion shook the makeshift hangar as the PLM lobbed mortar bombs at random, then the rough chatter of machine-gun fire as Fang ran frantically through the entrance, heading for the rear door of the 402. I released the brake and we rolled slowly forward, as Fang latched the air stair door.

  “Is it safe to taxi out?” I shouted.

  Fang bashed a full magazine into the machine-gun. “Stuffed if I know. That last mortar bomb shook the shit out of them. Just gun the throttles and get us out of here. I’ll keep their heads down.”

  I took Fang’s advice and thrust the throttles wide, accelerating the 402 out into the open. We were now fully exposed; the sun had cleared the horizon and revealed the devastated camp. As promised, Fang fired a concentrated barrage from the rear hatch, filling the cabin with noxious cordite fumes. The area near the hangar was clear, but the fighting for the treasury building had developed into a pitched battle. The PLM were making an all-out effort to get the gold; machine-gun fire rattled on, backed by the percussion of exploding mortar bombs and highlighted by the pyrotechnics of the ammunition dump fire. An acrid cloud of smoke drifted across the wild and hectic scene.

  So far so good. Everyone was too busy to notice the movement of our aircraft. The rear hatch slammed and Fang clambered forward into the co-pilot’s seat beside me. We taxied swiftly towards the top of the strip, trying to keep the dense plumes of smoke between us and the soldiers, somewhere on our right. The track leading to the airstrip funnelled between a culvert and a clump of bushes. Through the swirling clouds, I saw a lone figure run to the centre of the gap and stand fast.

  We both recognised Lance, even at a distance. Through the smoke we could see he was livid with rage and determined to prevent our escape. His teeth were bared, grimacing like a cornered animal. Lance held a Luger and aimed at the cockpit of the 402.

  “Get down, Fang, he’s got a gun,” I shouted and hunched lower behind the panel. Fang made a futile effort to aim the Owen gun through the storm window, but Lance realised we couldn’t aim forward. It was too late to turn, I opened the throttles and charged the aircraft at him, all the landing lights on, hoping to dazzle him and put off his aim.

  He managed three shots, one tore through the windscreen on my side, the second ripped the fuel gauges out of the upper instrument panel. The third shattered the co-pilot’s gyro horizon, spraying Fang’s face with needle sharp glass splinters. Fortunately, his head was down, so his eyes escaped injury. Even inside the cabin, we heard Lance’s abbreviated dying scream; we felt the thud and momentary drop in revs as the port propeller struck him. The aircraft lurched crazily as the wheels passed heavily over the mutilated body of our erstwhile friend.

  Fang’s face was a mask of blood and his shirt front shredded and torn. Dark liquid was dripping from his chin. “Never mind me, Blossom, just keep this heap of shit heading in the right direction. We’ve got company.”

  He pointed to a distant jeep with a rear-mounted Browning machine-gun bouncing across the strip towards us. When I looked forward again I was horrified at the bloody sight outside the port window. The left wing and nacelle were spattered red with Lance’s blood, the window tinted by a rosy froth.

  I taxied swiftly toward the strip and saw another explosion to our left. Someone had tried to start a Baron with catastrophic results. A wing was tumbling through the air, while the crumpled remains toppled into the fiery cauldron, the remaining wing pointing forlornly at the sky. Fang was jubilant despite his bloody face.

  “What the hell happened there?” I shouted.

  “I fractured a fuel line, then stripped and jammed electrical wires against bare metal. All it needed was a turn of the key.” Fang chuckled.

  The jeep driver slowed as a nearby 402 collapsed jerkily onto its belly, like a nesting hen. A second 402 gradually retracted its nose-leg and dropped its nose to the ground, like an ungainly bird foraging for a worm.

  “More of your devious work?”

  “Yeah,” Fang grinned smugly. “Crossed the undercarriage safety switch wires and then pulled the retract handles up. In the panic, they didn’t notice, turned on the power and look at that, they fell on their guts!” He was still laughing loudly as he caught sight of the jeep and wedged the barrel of his Owen gun through the storm window in readiness. T
here wasn’t time to ponder Fang’s dubious handiwork and the dramatic consequences; I bounced the aircraft onto the strip and slammed the throttles open. We accelerated briskly across grass and gravel toward freedom.

  The jeep was a hundred metres away now, moving on a converging course. It leapt over the perimeter verge and onto the strip, streaming a cloud of dust and momentarily levitating its occupants. The smell of burnt cordite again pervaded the cabin; the sound of the Owen gun in the cramped confines was deafening. But Fang couldn’t steady the gun in the bouncing aircraft.

  The jeep driver was now clearly visible as Hans. He was weaving the jeep erratically to avoid Fang’s con–centrated fire. The unpredictable movements of the jeep and our own irregular bouncing made it almost impossible for Fang to aim. The same could be said of Tharis, the gunner in the jeep; he had difficulty standing and found it a herculean task to aim the heavy Browning. The jeep had the edge on us for speed, and Hans swung in front of us, before we could accelerate beyond them.

  I veered left abruptly in an attempt to accelerate around them, Fang’s field of fire obstructed by the right propeller arc and the starboard wing. We watched helplessly as they maintained position ahead of us, Tharis preparing to fire. The jeep bounced and a short burst of bullets stitched a seam of holes across our right wing and rear fuselage. The noise was terrifying; now I understood the term ‘fright fat’—it was sweating from every pore of my body.

  “Hold on, Fang, I’m gonna put the wind up them,” I shouted and in mid take-off run, swung the 402 back towards the jeep.

  Tharis stood transfixed, hands frozen to the grips of the Browning, staring uncertainly at the spinning expanse of the advancing right prop.

  Another five knots would lift us off the strip; I experimented, pulling back on the elevators. The 402 lifted to the full extent of its undercarriage shock struts, but refused to take the air.

  “Lift off, you stubborn bitch!” I screamed.