Cave Diver

by Jake Avila

  ‘M. H.’ Her father read aloud the familiar initials on the oiled blade. He looked at her with a sparkle in his brown eyes. ‘Well, well. Have you solved the mystery, my clever girl?’

  Her heart skipped a pathetic beat. All her life she had thirsted for his approval as dry earth does rain. Suddenly she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

  Having set the lure, she needed to keep these rare and unruly emotions in check, if she were to reel him in. If years of negotiating General Wijaya Suyanto’s affections had taught her anything, it was that they were transient and insubstantial. She must never let herself forget that he was as hard as Javan teak, deadlier than a pit viper.

  ‘It was a hunch, Father. Do you recall that find of Nazi weaponry in the upper Sepik last year?’

  ‘Of course. It was in all the papers.’

  She explained how it had inspired her to search thousands of American and Australian military records, looking for a link to the dagger – and, hopefully, an explanation.

  ‘Sura, I checked already.’

  ‘Yes, Father, but you were looking at the war years, 1939 to 1945.’

  She recounted finding the report on a deceased SS officer, filed by an Australian patrol boat in 1946; how the trail had led her to a clerk who had pocketed the artefacts and taken them back to Australia, where they stayed in a drawer for years, until he died. From here, they were sold by his son to a wealthy militaria collector, who had only reluctantly surrendered them to her for an astronomical sum.

  Her father’s canny eyes glowed. ‘And you went to all this trouble for me?’

  She held his gaze. ‘I did it to make you happy. But in the process I have discovered something so incredible, and so valuable, that I could not share it with anyone but you.’

  From her bag she placed a dossier on the desk and extracted a grainy photo.

  ‘This is the I-403, a 120-metre-long Japanese Sentoku submarine, which left Kure Naval Base more than seventy years ago for the Nazi port of Lorient. It was carrying a large consignment of gold and raw opium, payment for German uranium oxide which was to be its return cargo. With it the Japanese planned to construct a so-called dirty bomb.’

  Her father studied the picture. ‘I recall they found the wreck in the Atlantic some years ago, but at two miles down were unable to salvage her.’

  ‘That was actually the I-52, a cargo submarine.’ Sura said this delicately, as her father hated being contradicted. ‘As defeat loomed, the desperate Japanese launched several of these Yanagi, or trade missions, using every submarine type capable of the range. Only one ever made it. The rest were presumed sunk.’

  ‘But what’s this got to do with M. H?’

  She pressed on quickly. ‘The I-403 sailed on the twentieth of April 1945. Two weeks later, her mission ended because Hitler killed himself. But she never returned to port, nor was she reported sunk.’ Spreading out a map of the South China Sea, Sura pointed to an island on the southern tip of the Philippines. ‘A US coast watcher on Jolo Island spotted her on the surface, early morning on the fifth of May, bearing south-east.’

  ‘Away from Japan?’

  ‘It’s the last confirmed sighting.’

  Her father raised his eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t sound very Japanese. They would have fought to the last man, woman and child, had Hirohito not conceded after Nagasaki.’

  ‘You are right, Father. But it wasn’t only Japanese personnel on board. The gold was escorted by a detachment of elite Nazi troops, none other than the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler, stationed at the German Embassy in Tokyo.’ She placed a black and white photograph on the desk. ‘And this was their commander, SS Standartenführer Martin Heider.’

  Her father hissed between his teeth. ‘M. H.’

  Heider was classically handsome, his face dominated by a straight blade of a nose, a powerful square jaw, and well-defined lips. He might have been attractive, but for his eyes, which were frighteningly devoid of emotion.

  ‘You’ve found him, Sura!’ The general’s quick eyes latched on to hers, then widened. ‘You think he stole the gold?’

  She nodded eagerly. ‘With a king’s ransom there for the taking, why would Heider and his men willingly surrender, only to be executed for war crimes?’ She placed her finger on the map and began tracing a line. ‘Assuming they commandeered the submarine, they would have headed east to dodge the US invasion fleet. Across the Celebes Sea, past Halmahera Island, along the northern coastline of New Guinea . . . looking for somewhere to hide.’ She tapped her finger on the mouth of the Sepik River. ‘Somewhere no one would ever think of looking for them.’

  ‘And you think they took it all the way upriver to Papua?’ He looked doubtful. ‘You said the submarine was 120 metres long.’

  ‘Where else could you hide something that big? This report states the body of Martin Heider was found in a seaplane float. And a Sentoku submarine carried three in a waterproof hangar!’

  He nodded slowly, wanting, yet not quite able, to believe. ‘But surely after all these years it would have been found?’

  ‘You know what that country is like upriver, Father. You could hide twenty submarines up there and no one would ever know.’

  She saw distaste in the set of his mouth. General Suyanto had loathed his years in Papua – the jungle, the insects and, most of all, the people, who were primitive savages.

  ‘The Sepik is vast,’ he agreed. ‘Do you have a specific location in mind, my darling?’

  Sura spread out the topographical map upon which she had marked known German weapons finds, including the village where Wijaya had traded the old man for the dagger. Taking a pencil, she drew a circle around each of the four crosses.

  ‘These locations are less than seventy kilometres apart. Notice how every valley or tributary stems from the Hoosenbeck Gorge? Like branches from the same tree, the survivors fanned out looking for escape routes.’

  ‘My God, Sura, I think you’re right.’

  ‘Of greater interest is the Ford Mission.’ She pointed to its location. ‘Construction began in the late 1940s, and unlike similar organisations it is self-funded and has sister hospitals across the world. When I researched the founders, I discovered nothing. They seem to have no past, no explanation for their incredible resources.’

  General Suyanto looked thoughtfully at the gleaming Knight’s Cross in his hand, then back to her.

  ‘An incredible story, Sura. But if you are right . . . How much gold was the submarine carrying?’

  ‘Four metric tonnes, Father.’

  There was a loaded silence. General Wijaya Suyanto was one of Indonesia’s richest men, a billionaire, but the idea of 280 million US dollars’ worth of unclaimed gold and opium just sitting there for the taking was having the tantalising effect she had anticipated. To her surprise, he suddenly embraced her tightly.

  ‘You are truly my daughter. You have steel in you . . . like me.’

  When he pulled away, eyes bright with emotion, she guessed it was as much grief for her brother, who would never amount to much, as it was pride in her achievement.

  Seizing the moment, she launched into her case for leading the recovery.

  ‘We can do it under the guise of a documentary film. The Hoosenbeck Cave is world renowned and largely unexplored – no one would suspect a thing! Let me be a part of this, Father, let me see it through, you know I have experience in the field. Please, I beg you.’

  His face went blank, and she knew she had crossed a line. Picking up the dossier, he deftly tucked it under his arm.

  ‘This will need careful handling. That region of Papua is controlled by Kopassus special forces who will do anything to jeopardise my career. I need to gather intelligence, starting with the Ford Mission. It is quite likely that the answers we seek are there.’

  Sura nodded slowly. We. It wasn’t much – a tiny shred. But it was still an opening all the same.

  Chapter 3

  Ford Hospital Mission, Papua, Indonesia, two months previously
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  Using the distinctive forked peak of Mount Mosapua as a marker, Doctor Paul Ford smoothly banked the twin-engine Beechcraft King to line up on a swathe of mown grass on the plateau below. It had been a good flight from Jayapura, without the usual roller coaster turbulence, first dropping off a heavily pregnant mother with complications, then picking up surgical supplies and a few staples like his favourite Macallan Scotch. Nothing beat an icy tumbler after a long day in clinic.

  Looking down on the cluster of buildings surrounding the long white roof of the hospital, the mission appeared as an island in a sea of endless green. In a very real sense, it was. To the east lay the Papua New Guinea border and the stultifying heat and swamps of the Sepik flood plain, while to the north and west, impenetrable jungle stretched for hundreds of square kilometres. To the south, lowland rainforest ran for some fifty kilometres, before colliding with the stone feet of the Jayawijaya Mountains. The snow-capped 4000-metre peaks loomed above the horizon like some vast trompe l’œil. In these humid tropics, it was a dramatic juxtaposition he never stopped marvelling at. There were no roads or railways. The closest river was ten kilometres away. The only direct route to the mission was by air.

  Paul Ford revelled in the extreme remoteness. The mission hospital was a sanctuary from the madness of the chaotic world outside. Serving the needs of the local people – delivering their babies, stitching their wounds and splinting their bones – had been his father’s vision of atonement, and it had become his, too. But it was more than that. The vocation nourished his sense of self-worth, sustained him spiritually and intellectually. It had helped him bear the loss of his wife to cancer twenty years before, and the fact they had had no children.

  Dropping to 200 metres, Ford looked for the usual gaggle of kids winding their way home from school, but the paths to the village were empty. Nor was there any sign of Jackson, who was in the midst of harvesting the coffee rows alongside the runway. The sight of an unfamiliar, small olive-green plane parked next to the hangar made Ford pause. They were not expecting visitors. Then the obvious explanation struck in a rush of elation: Mia had returned early!

  Dr Mia Carter was the child he’d never had. The talented young American had come for a vocational year and stayed for two, winning the community over with her dedication and generosity of spirit. She’d brought new methods, professional stimulation and friendship, and when she’d returned to the States three years ago, it had damn near broken his heart. But after the wilds of Papua, she had found Connecticut tame, and was now set to return on a five-year contract with a view to a permanent position.

  Trying to contain his excitement, Ford corrected a mild yaw, and lightly dropped the King’s three tonnes to kiss the close-cropped kikuyu turf. Whistling cheerfully, he taxied up to the hangar door and switched off. Normally, Avis would guide him inside with a set of battered wheel chocks and a gap-toothed smile. No doubt the cheerful young mechanic was up at the house, celebrating.

  Extending the King’s retractable stairs, Ford was in such a hurry he almost forgot his precious Macallan. Just this week he had been putting together a transition timetable for Mia to take over the running of the hospital, and to learn how to fly. Of course, she would have doubts, but she was more than capable. Ford clattered his way down the bouncy steps and almost tripped.

  Calm down, you old fool, he told himself, and for God’s sake whatever you do, don’t overwhelm the poor girl.

  It was really quite selfish, the way he was mapping out her future. As well as wanting the mission to be in safe hands, Ford’s secret hope was to grow old in Mia Carter’s company.

  A loud electrical sound coming from inside the hangar made him pause. Was it that faulty generator again? Ford went in through the side door. For a moment he stared in incomprehension at the buzzing frenzy of flies. Then he realised the seething black form was a human body in a pool of blood.

  Dear God, Avis!

  The Macallan shattered on the concrete. Dropping down beside the spread-eagled young man, Ford waved away the flies. Even as he felt for a pulse, he knew it was pointless. A large-calibre bullet had punched a hole the size of a fist through the back of Avis’s blue overalls. The poor boy had been dead for at least an hour.

  Violence was a way of life in Papua. From inter-tribal squabbles over pigs and territory, to accusations of witchcraft or adultery, people tended to take the law into their own hands. But the mission had always been a safe zone where rival villages refrained from conflict. Over the years they had quietly patched up members of the OPM – the Free Papua Movement – and treated Indonesian soldiers for snakebites, gunshots and malaria, when rapid evacuation to Jayapura was not an option.

  So, who had done this?

  The olive-green plane . . .

  A stab of fear lanced through him and Ford was tempted to immediately wing it back to Ambunti to fetch the police. He dismissed the thought as unworthy. The mission staff were more than employees – they were family – and they needed help now.

  He was halfway out of the hangar door when he heard a whirring sound and his world exploded.

  ‘Wake up, Doctor Ford. Wake up.’

  Ford could taste blood. A bucket of tepid water hit him full in the face. Throbbing pain split his skull when he opened his eyes. He was now in his office. It had been ransacked, every drawer opened and flung to the ground, documents and files scattered recklessly. He discovered his hands were secured with plastic cable ties to the arms of his office chair. Before him stood two Indonesian men wearing jungle fatigues and combat boots. He wondered if they were Kopassus – Indonesian special forces – but they usually flew by chopper . . .

  ‘Who are you?’ Ford asked. ‘What do you want?’

  The shorter man sat on the edge of the desk. He had a bland, genial face with hard eyes.

  ‘We have much to discuss.’

  ‘Yes, we do. This is a hospital. What have you done with my staff? I have patients that need attending to.’

  Ford caught a whiff of clove cigarettes as the man exhaled. Then he punched Ford full in the face – a short, bunched right, followed by a left – which left him on the edge of passing out again. It was a vicious, controlled application of violence. Ford gasped and spat out a mouthful of fresh blood.

  ‘You will listen, all right?’

  Between Ford’s feet, he could see broken vials of morphine on the floor, which meant they had got into the wall safe behind him. Obviously, the drugs and several thousand US dollars had not been enough to satisfy them. Then, he thought of what else the safe had contained.

  It was in the second Indonesian’s hand: a gold and silver embossed Luger, engraved with the initials M. H. With a sickening start, it occurred to Ford that the thing his family had always dreaded was probably happening right now.

  ‘Doctor Ford, we know you are a very rich man. Your air ambulance cost more than four million dollars.’ The man’s brown eyes were cold.

  Ford forced a dry laugh. ‘We’re a church-based organisation. We run on donations.’

  ‘Oh? We know these donations represent only a fraction of the money your family has spent over the years, equipping this mission and others like it around the world. What is the true source of this income, Doctor Ford?’

  ‘I would need my accountant to–’

  A stiff jab to the sternum sucked the wind out of his lungs.

  ‘Stop wasting time, all right? There are no trusts. No endowments. We know the source of your wealth is gold, Doctor Ford. Japanese gold. So, let me make it easy for you. Where is the submarine located?’

  Oxygen fizzled out of Ford’s bloodstream.

  They know.

  Hearing this stranger exposing their dark secret – a secret kept safe for more than seventy years – was appalling. The ramifications cascaded through his mind. The hospitals would close. He would end up in jail. And then there was the shame, the irreparable damage to their legacy. As the Indonesian’s almond eyes bored into his, Ford fought to keep his expression
calm. No matter what happened, they must never find it. Never. And the chances of them doing so were next to none – as long as he kept his mouth shut.

  Perhaps sensing this new-found resolve, his interrogator barked, ‘Send her in.’

  For one, long, terrible moment, Ford thought they had Mia, and his heart almost burst, so powerfully did it beat. When the taller man dragged in Millie, relief flooded through his body, and was just as quickly extinguished by shame. Dear Millie had been there from the very beginning. She was his sister. The mother he’d never had. Goodness personified.

  Millie had been savagely beaten. Predictably, she shed no tears, just stood there in quiet dignity, with a bloody nose and a livid-looking contusion on her cheek. Seeing the ruined morphine on the floor, she dropped her head.

  ‘So sorry, Doctor Paul. They kill patients if I don’t tell them combination.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Millie,’ he replied gently.

  The stocky man drew a lethal-looking commando dagger with a serrated underblade and roughly shoved the old woman’s head onto the desk. Using the tip of the blade, he scooped a bleeding divot from her right cheek. The brutality was incomprehensible.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, man?’ Ford roared, struggling against his bonds. ‘Leave her alone, you bloody swine!’

  The man chuckled. ‘You care for the old monkey?’ Pulling Millie’s right ear taut, he cut it off in one savage motion and tossed the severed ear into Ford’s lap, where it lay like a desiccated mollusc, weeping blood. ‘Now I take the other.’ He wrenched her head back the other way. ‘Then we cut off her nose, all right?’

  ‘Stop!’ protested Ford. ‘For God’s sake . . .’

  With knife poised, the man waited.

  ‘There is gold in the vault . . . under the hospital.’

  Ford led them outside to the hospital entrance, where Old Max, his faithful ridgeback, was splayed at the foot of stairs, shot between the eyes. A nurse lay flat on her back. An exit wound had inflicted such terrible damage that Ford only recognised it was Frances by her lurid red nail polish. From inside the ward they heard moaning and crying. Ford identified Mrs Vuata, who was close to term, begging for assistance. Millie briefly met his eyes. Did she know, he wondered, about their dirty secret?