Flying to Pieces

by Dean Ing

  Keikano and Merizo flanked the big man, whose jaded glance said volumes as he took the tapes. Then Reventlo explained that there was much, much more of the same inside the plane, and at Keikano's translation Jean-Claude began to smile but remained rooted to that spot. He wanted it all. Now.

  The unloading took an hour; a Goose's lone hatch behind the wing needed a raft for the job. In that time the B.O.F. crew learned that a small ship was under charter, easily capable of taking a pair of the Tojos and possibly the Betty on its deck. A small leased Kubota bulldozer would be aboard. That was the good news. The bad news was, it wouldn't reach.

  Fundabora by way of Port Moresby and Yap for two weeks.

  When at last the Grununan was properly moored and Jeanclaude's precious porn carton had been hauled away with his other loot to the council house, Reventio accompanied his friends with their own boxes of cargo to the big maintenance shed. Item one, an unmarked box toted by the tired pilot himself, was a case of Thai beer still chilled from its ride in the Grumman's nose. "Singha," Lovett breathed as he used the opener of his Swiss Army knife. "Consider yourself kissed, Cris." And for a few minutes they all simply relaxed, sharing excellent beer and the Aussie equivalent of potato crisps, toasting one another.

  The C-47's owner, said the Brit, was so happy to see his property in Alice Springs he forgave its tardiness. "I'd already put our Nakajima in storage in Darwin. Handlers' eyes were big as saucers; they knew what it was before I told them. Still have a mate or two in Darwin; lived there for dingo's years, y'know; and hired an agent to round up our needs. By the time I got back there from Alice Springs the rumors were flitting about like bumblebees. I'm afraid you're all part of the mythology now, mates." It was remarkable, Lovett thought, how a week or so in an Australian port city could infect Reventlo's accent again.

  Benteen tended to think more strategically. "I gather you got hold of Cuffan Quinn," she prompted.

  "How else could I have funded that charter boat, not to mention our Grumman.,, He eyed Lovett shrewdly but Lovett didn't bite on the Benny Hill line this time. "Ah, Victor. Quinn got a rocket from your editor, fellow named Beacham; imperative you call, he said."

  "Shit. Thinks it's a wild-goose chase, no doubt."

  "Not anymore, I daire say. I called New York. Told Beacham you were'unreachable, marooned on an uncharted island with gun and camera and a lovely half-caste, guarding a secret squadron Of priceless warplanes from a hidden saboteur." The others were smiling now, half embarrassed at this description straight from a supermarket tabloid, but realizing that none of this was actually misleading. And by the time Myles got through with it, the story would be embroidered like Irish linen. Benteen groaned, put fingertips to her cheeks and shook her head as if waking from a nightmare.

  Myles, of course, was unembarrassable. "That's about right. Beacham liked it, did he?"

  "Gibbering with excitement, Victor; simply gibbering," he said, with a turn of his head and a wink that only Lovett caught. "Oh, and your flash camera is in one of those cartons."

  "Thanks," said Myles and nodded toward Lovett. "Only I don't think we're gonna need it. We know fucking well who our saboteur is, but Wade let him walk."

  Reventlo let his eyebrows ask for details, and Lovett supplied most of them with some help from Chip. Before they had finished he was grinning in amazement. "Ohtsu, you say? Now there's a chap I'd like to meet," he said. "Hasn't shown up since?"

  "Not that we've noticed. We're still pulling sentry duty and since the little fella knows that, his old gram pa prob'ly does," Coop shrugged.

  "You know, I'll bet Keikano Puts a lot more miles on his sandals than he wants anyone to know," said Reventio.

  He gets around," Chip said. "Did you bring the books and medicines for him?"

  "In a ten-kilo carton with his name on it," said Reventlo, searching among the taped cardboard boxes. "But I don't see it. If that god damned sumo wrestler's taken it," he began darkly, then sighed and shrugged.

  "Well, time enough to track it down tomorrow. It's not as if they cciuld read." He began to cut into the cartons. "Some of this is pricey stuff, and weighty as remorse, but I've even brought a filter for our water.

  Anyone fallen afoul of the dreaded gyppy tummy from the sludge you've been drinking?"

  No one had, and they rummaged among their new goods like kids around a Christmas tree. Batteries of several kinds with electrolytes, cable, fuel additives, even a chainsaw; and a carton of chocolate bars that disappeared into pockets within seconds.

  Junk food and Singha stoked them through a spate of story swapping but finally Lovett declined a third bottle with, "But save it for me. It's my turn in the big dark barrel again, so to speak.

  "Aw, Pop. Does anybody really think that's still necessary?"

  "Folks I don't trust are still out there in the too lies," said Myles, and treated them all to a ripe baritone belch.

  "Folks I don't trust are still around nearer than that," Lovett rejoined, and waved as he pocketed radio and pistol. The perimeter road was now beaten into submission, star patterns serving him as a narrow' directional bearing overhead as he walked. After a full day of hard work and the hours of excitement that followed, he found himself curiously buoyant. Guess I'm getting whipped into shape, he mused as he trudged upslope to the cave. They were all in far better shape than they had been two weeks before; Mel Benteen was cinching her belt two notches tighter, which didn't hurt her silhouette any. Even the big belly on Myles had hardened, ridges of muscle showing faintly now when he stripped to the waist. And as for Chip: well, the kid was-the only apt word was beautiful.

  Lovett rigged his cable alarm again, knowing damned well he'd fall asleep in a Tojq cockpit. When the secret of the cave was known to all, they might have to double up on sentry duty.

  Reventlo was plainly delighted when he arrived with the crew for work.

  Mango-smeared, biting into a cookie the Brit had brought him from their new stores, Lovett strolled with him down the old airstrip. "Think you could goose your Goose in here, Cris? I've noticed the prevailing wind is pretty dependable."

  "Not with those little times," Reventlo said. "Rough water is one thing, but it wasn't designed for this kind of abuse. Tojos couldn't make it either, I suspect. The Betty, now but we'll have time to build a scaffold and pull her wings; that should make it an easy tow job with that Kubota tractor. I'm thinking that's our next step: crowd the Tojos so that we can move the Betty forward, set up the scaffolding, and remove her wings. Oh, yes, and that god damned monstrosity suckling under her belly. That'll have to go. They aren't rare in any case. After all, who in his right mind wants to fly them?"

  This was a job to challenge any mechanic. They spent the morning in the cave, measuring clearances and discovering that the old bomber couldn't be moved to the entrance until one of the little fighter craft had been rolled outside. "Look," said Coop, who would shoulder most of the responsibility for doing it right, "I've never taken a Japanese plane apart, and they didn't put 'em together the same way we did. I'm not too gung-ho on starting with the big one. Why not pull the wings on that Tojo we've gotta move first, before we roll it out? We can rig supports easy, and the six of us should be able to lift a Tojo wing."

  He got some heavy arguments on the idea but one fact would not go away: better to risk a mistake on one Of four small identical planes than on the lone, priceless Betty.' Sol while Coop spent his afternoon poking into the guts of a Tojo wing, the rest of the crew set about demolishing more of the wall. It was Benteen who suggested dragging that long workbench into position below the wing of the Tojo. in one respect, they were in luck: only the outer halves of a Tojo's wings could be removed.

  Since the wing cannons and landing gear were mounted solidly on the inner segment, they could still tow it, and each outer panel was less than ten feet long. Excitement built as Coop called on Lovett for help; then Reventlo, then Myles. Finally the entire crew abandoned their other work until, in late afternoon, they lowered One al
uminum wing by hand onto the mat-padded workbench. It was only minutes before they carried it out of the way and repositioned the bench.

  "You guys take off. I've got sentry duty tonight," said Coop, squinting at that other wing. "I can have this sucker almost ready when you yuppies show up tomorrow."

  "The adult gwnes have already started," Benteen reminded them. "Don't you want to watch awhile?"

  Coop loosed one of his raspy laughs. "Listen, this Alaskan has been there, done that, ate the T-shirt. Every Seventeenth of May in Petersburg, they celebrate Norwegian Independence in ways Fundabora couldn't touch with a ten-foot Swede. I've seen guys so lubricated they tried to steal a Viking longboat off a trailer, pilots shanghaied right off a commercial airliner by ladies carrying booze and spears, naked women sashayin' past the post office-I don't suppose these guys can top all that for sheer celebration. You go on; I've oh-deed on weirdness with the folks who invented it."

  So only five of the crew showed up in the village plaza in time to see the finals of the spear-toss. Jean-Claude, splendid in a feathered cape, lumbered a full step across the line before hurling his javelin, yet no one seemed willing to complain. His toss was mighty though, Lovett noticed, his trajectory was too flat. Rongi looked like an Olympian and put his superbly muscled torso into a higher toss that soared six feet further. The crowd cheered him as if the contest were already decided.

  Until Pilau, all knobby joints and intensity, began his run. Lovett expected good-natured laughter from the villagers but, he realized, they apparently knew something he didn't. After all, Pilau didn't have a gram of fat on him, and he couldn have reached the finals by incompetence.

  The usually ungainly Pilau did not advance with his javelin held high in a warrior's threatening position as the others had, but held it by his side, big feet flapping harder, gradually accelerating until his pace surpassed that of the tnusclebound Rongi. With every step Pilau looked less inept and, gathering as if for a leap like a long-jumper, he brought his lance up, his long slender arm flashing forward, in a toss that sent his missile up in a perfect ballistic arc.

  Pilau's javelin soared as if rocket-boosted. Evidently his long skinny arms were a real advantage, and the whoop from the villagers told the story. Pilau had won by four arm-spans, and Lovett thought he saw moisture glistening in the man's eyes as, with great dignity, he allowed himself to be carried around the winner's circle. Those casual practice tosses he'd been making with poles at the airstrip hadn't been so casual after all.

  When the footrace contestants lined up, the visitors thought they were hallucinating. Each contestant selected a net bag of stones, the bags seeniing roughly of equal size. Most of the men chose to sling the bag around their shoulders so that the loads fell like huge brassieres at their sides. Pilau was one of those, hands gripping the loads to. keep them from swaying. Rongi carried his high around his hips, forearms curled at his sides to support the load. Jean-Claude simply slung, his one-handed over a shoulder as if it was an overstuffed pillow. Each of those loads had to be over a hundred pounds.

  "I don't believe it; Jean-Claude's load is the same as everybody's,"

  Lovett muttered to Reventlo, watching some of them stagger around. "Now there's a handicap race with a difference."

  Benteen broke off her pidgin with a woman nearby. "Just dd wait," she urged wryly. "I'm told it gets better-or rather, worse."

  "That would be a tall order," Reventlo said, just before Merizo dropped his fly whisk.

  And they were off. One poor bastard, not built for carrying such stuff, was well and truly off from the start, managing only a few steps before he was jostled by another man and went careening away to fall in a heap.

  Rongi took an early lead, swinging his weights with forearms so that his hips moved like a woman's, surviving one effort to trip him. In the pack, Jean-Claude moved in a fast graceful shuffle, and God help the man who lunged within reach because that man-two, in fact-took an elbow the size of a tree stump in the gizzard and promptly lost interest in further proceedings. The others surged safely around Jean-Claude, using those stone weights like bumpers among themselves. Lovett decided with some regret that it wasn't fair to single out the gigantic Jean-Claude for curses when everyone else was cheating just as hard, tripping, jostling, head-butting with abandon. Everyone except Rongi, who'd had the physique and the good sense to lunge out alone in the lead.

  At the halfway mark, contestants were strewn along the path like victims of a highway wreck, the determined Pilau well behind Jean-Claude who had moved into second place through sheer attrition. Somehow Pilau was slipping along among his fellows while staying clear of trouble. But Rongi's stylish sway had begun to look more like a gallop now; he was tiring, yet Jean-Claude plodded behind, inexorable as a battle tank and gradually gaining ground. Within twenty paces of the finish line, Rongi's stride faltered. He struggled to regain his rhythm, knees buckling.

  "Shot his bolt too soon," Reventlo said. Lovett, turning to agree, saw that Benteen had opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it and only smiled to herself.

  And now Jean-Claude pulled abreast of Rongi, and Lovett waited for the big man to bowl his rival over. He was almost disappointed to see Jean-Claude move ahead as cleanly as if the Marquess of Queensberry were watching. And really disappointed when Rongi fell forward, grasping Jean-Claude by one ankle in a shoestring tackle.

  The crowd loved it. So did Jean-Claude, who staggered free, spinning around with a kick that just missed its target, then continued to trot backward, shouting encouragement or perhaps ridicule to the desperate Rongi. The resurgence of wild cheers told Lovett it was the cheating, not the race, that the crowd had come to see.

  Rongi was up again now, no longer stylish but still game. A heavyset fellow thundering along in third place butted him squarely in the back, which only propelled him a little faster, and when they tangled it was Rongi who stayed erect. The blocky man went to one knee to maintain his balance, struggling up again.

  Pilau, gleaming as if bathed in sweat, moved like a marionette but when he drew alongside the blocky man, he was grabbed. The heavier man's grip failed and he tried again. And failed again, hands slipping away as Pilau plodded ahead.

  In the end, Jean-Claude Pelele won handily, lungs heaving, and welcomed Rongi and Pilau as they arrived in a dead heat. It took all of his beef trust to carry him around the winner's circle and Jean-Claude, who could afford a show of sportsmanship now, insisted that both Rongi and Pilau be carried as well.

  For Rongi it was a problem; he was too limp for an easy carry. For Pilau it was a different problem; no one could get a grip on him. Good old stolid Pilau, who knew one very important thing, had wiped himself down with engine oil.

  Lovett edged off toward the lagoon in search of Chip as ceremonial torches were offered to the evening's winners. He saw several figureslin the gloom, guiding rafts out to the sluggish current, and knew Chip would be among them.

  Vic Myles found him at the water's edge; pulled two bottles from apparently bottomless pockets of his bush jacket. "Saved you a Singha,"

  he said, and handed one over.

  Lovett had swilled two Singhas the night before, and he could divide twenty-four by six as well as anybody. He opened the bottles, knowing that by rights they both were his, i shrugging it off. Compared to the outrageous cheating that Fundaborans took for good clean fun, Myles's little swindle i over a warm beer couldn't be viewed without a microscope The two men sat and watched the swimmers carry their i torches out to the rafts one by one, Myles grinning like a school kid as fireworks filled Fundabora's slice of heaven with bursts of light, bathing their upturned faces in delicate shades of color. Lovett found himself listening with interest at the oooh and aaahh from so many people who spoke little or no En lish. Beneath a fireworks display they sounded exactly like an American crowd. At some very basic level, he thought, perhaps the language of emotion was the same everywhere.

  At some point Lovett saw Pilau scrubbing himself down
with sand and, later, Jean-Claude in earnest conversation with little Merizo while his guards stood by. Later, he sought Chip but saw no sign of him. Keikano too was missing. Itfigures, i he told himself, strolling back to the council house with his friends. He knew Chip would come padding in late, and would be full of vim and vinegar in their room the next mommg.

  But then, in his sixty-odd years Wade Lovett had known a lot of things that weren't true.

  f Chip had returned in the night, no one saw him do it. He was absent when Lovett awoke and none of the crew could say where he was. Mostly, their gazes said, we don't want to say what you don't want to hear, but Myles reached Coor Gunther by radio.

  Coop's answer was distracted. "Naw, he's not here but I could sure use him. How long before I can get some helf dropping this other wing? It's ready."

  "Relax," Myles said. "From the sound of it, they're starting the goofiness early in the village today. I don't knoa about anybody else but I intend to play hooky and watch for a while this morning, Coop."

  Lovett agreed instantly. That had to be where Keikanc would be; and where Keikano was. He let the thought trai' off as he fell in step down the stairs. No fresh fruit had beer set out, but in the village plaza they'd have to step over pile@ of it.