Cave Diver

by Jake Avila

Ignoring the sarcasm, Kaboro formally welcomed Sura aboard. He was then subjected to what seemed to be an unnecessary interrogation about his organisation and refuelling.

  ‘That will be all for now.’ Sura dismissed him. ‘I must get my luggage out of the sun.’

  ‘I will supervise the men.’ Kaboro moved forward.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ She shooed him away. ‘I will see to it myself.’

  Douglas spat as they watched her round up the sailors. ‘Friendly, ain’t she?’

  ‘Indonesians think we’re no better than pigs.’ Kaboro’s voice was flat. ‘Small wonder the Papuans fight.’

  Nash knew the PNG government was scared of antagonising its powerful neighbour while struggling with a growing sense of Melanesian solidarity across the South Pacific.

  ‘Do you have any contacts in Papua, Lieutenant?’

  Kaboro shook his head. ‘Despite our proximity, it might as well be the far side of the Moon.’ He lifted his cap to mop his brow. ‘The Indonesians have locked up Papua to exploit its resources, and those who get in the way are disposed of. The world knows this – it just doesn’t care.’

  For the next two hours, the chopper ferried in cargo at its maximum lift capacity of 900 kilos. Kaboro’s sweating men lugged it below. Suyanto’s hectoring instructions bordered on racist bullying, but the fact the sailors treated it as a joke decided Nash against calling it out. Sura then got in a fight with Douglas about failing to procure the brand of iced tea she had mandated, then made Kaboro radio through an order to Jayapura for three cartons.

  With the tropical sun dropping quickly on the western horizon, Nash joined Douglas for a beer on the stern. The old pilot was sucking down cigarette smoke as if it was too precious to waste.

  ‘You all right there, Frank?’

  ‘After a day like today, I can’t wait to retire.’

  ‘I thought you liked them small and demure?’ Nash guffawed at Douglas’s black expression.

  ‘Yeah, go ahead and laugh.’ Douglas flicked his bottle cap over the side. ‘But I’m going to buy myself an old shack somewhere in far north Queensland and just fish. No bloody mobile, no bloody computer, no bloody razor wire . . . just me, a rod and a decent boat to fetch more beer.’

  ‘Sounds good, Uncle Frank.’

  Nash didn’t begrudge the man one cent of the fee he had earned for signing him. Beyond endless stories of his colourful life, Douglas had little, and on his last visit, Nash had been shocked by his run-down apartment in Moresby. Although a Royal Australian Navy pension went a long way in Third World PNG, Douglas had a long list of failed business ventures, most notably a seaplane joy-flight operation written off by a cyclone where, naturally, he’d been uninsured.

  They heard the distant whup whup whup of the chopper. Its final delivery was the Indonesian team, and Douglas lobbed his empty over the side before Nash could stop him.

  ‘Let’s welcome the rest of our happy campers.’

  From the quarterdeck, one of Kaboro’s men directed a spotlight onto the pad. With beacons flashing red, green and white, the Jet Ranger touched down, turbine whining like a banshee. The front-seat passenger was clearly gigantic: all knees and elbows filling the cockpit. Sensibly, he waited for the rotor to stop before egressing, for, even bent double, he would have been decapitated.

  The big man crossed the pad, lugging rigid film equipment cases in each hand. Dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, his massive arms were covered in an eclectic array of tattoos. On his right bicep was a yin-yang symbol the size of a dinner plate. Below this, lines of Sanskrit trailed down to his wrist. On his left arm was a shield with a dagger, which appeared to be a regimental badge. He was about 30, with a heavyset face, softened slightly by shoulder-length blond hair and a short beard.

  ‘Jaap Boerman,’ he announced, towering over them.

  Nash gave him a friendly smile. ‘G’day, Jaap, you must be the camera operator. Maybe we can share a beer once you’ve settled in? We’ve a ton of stuff to get through.’

  Boerman pointedly ignored him.

  ‘Where’s Sura?’ he asked Douglas.

  ‘Captain’s quarters. Upstairs.’ Thinking Boerman had mistaken Nash for crew, Douglas attempted to introduce him.

  ‘I know who he is.’ With measured contempt, Boerman looked Nash up and down. ‘The legendary Robert Nash. I hear you’re quite the hero, except when it comes to the ladies, hey?’

  The wide grin magnified the inference of cowardice, and Nash was struck by a loathing so visceral that he unconsciously balled his right fist. Only a sense that Boerman was eagerly waiting for a punch prevented him from throwing it.

  ‘I suggest you take that back,’ said Douglas tightly.

  ‘Or you’ll do what?’ Boerman sneered.

  Further comment was interrupted by the dashing helicopter pilot.

  ‘Ricki Hartono.’ He gave them each a brisk handshake.

  There was another man with him, who’d escaped notice in the back of the chopper. Mid-forties, stocky with a bullet-like head, he was dressed in a green T-shirt and camouflage pants and stank of clove cigarettes.

  ‘Goki is our producer,’ said Hartono. ‘He doesn’t speak English.’

  ‘Selamat malam,’ he said, with dead eyes and hands in pockets.

  Shaken, but still trying to stay friendly, Nash offered to help them unload. Boerman cut him dead.

  ‘We’re sensitive about our gear. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘It’s raining arseholes today,’ Douglas commented when they reached the opposite end of the ship. ‘That Goki gives me the creeps, too.’

  Nash was churning in a way he hadn’t since Jonathan had come for his pound of flesh. It didn’t make any sense; if they didn’t value his services, why pay him so much to be here?

  ‘Frank, what just happened back there?’

  ‘He’s testing you out, trying to rattle your cage. Don’t take it too personally, Robbie.’

  ‘Frank, you know he meant Natalie.’

  Douglas nodded slowly. ‘Blokes like that thrive on finding your weakness, so don’t give him anything.’

  Nash wished Douglas’s old-school counsel provided more comfort. He was a professional diver, not a brawler, and cave diving required trust. How was he supposed to take on the Hoosenbeck with a fuckwit like that?

  ‘Hey, how about a nightcap?’ Douglas lit up a cigarette. ‘I’ve got some decent Scotch in the old kitbag. Let’s take the edge off.’

  ‘Thanks, Frank, but I’ll pass. Goodnight.’

  Back against the rail, Nash stared long at the waning crescent moon. He could hear the leathery flapping of foraging fruit bats, thousands of insects shrilling unseen. The jungle was getting on with the unceasing business of survival, which amplified the sense he was out of his depth and didn’t belong. For a moment he flirted with the idea of telling Shangri-La where they could stick it in the morning. But then, getting his gear home would consume a sizeable chunk of the advance, which was the only thing letting his sister worry about herself for a change, Douglas wouldn’t get his fishing shack, and he would be right back where he started.

  ‘No way,’ Nash muttered.

  Because if he was brutally honest with himself, Boerman’s crude jibe had found a weak spot. The Octopus was an aberration that needed to be excised. He needed to prove to himself that he still had what it took.

  Chapter 11

  Saturday, June 2nd, 1945

  We are on a huge river. I’m sure of this as there is no longer any ocean swell and mosquitoes have begun to appear, even in this airless hell. Hartmann thinks it must be New Guinea. We travel on the surface at night and sit on the bottom by day. Last night, we hit something heavy and I heard it grind along the hull. The temperature is so hot, we are all suffering. Hartmann is very sick again; he can’t seem to hold anything down.

  Sunday, June 3rd, 1945

  My worst fears are realised. Ilse has been taken from me. We both knew it was coming but I beli
eve my heart is broken. The smirk on Unterscharführer Müller’s face tells me all I need to know. Can you bear it, my darling?

  Thursday, June 7th, 1945

  The day has ended in tragedy. When they told us to go on deck, I shook hands with Hartmann because we believed it was the hour of our execution. Outside the stars were shining, and Hartmann and I just stood there sucking in the precious air. A spotlight illuminated the dark water ahead. There were crocodiles by the hundreds and huge insects everywhere. The submarine moved very slowly. The guards let us walk up and down the deck. After twenty minutes they told us to return below. I couldn’t believe we were going to live. Then Hartmann suddenly turned on Heider. As an upper-class Prussian of the old school, he expressed most eloquently what he thought of him. His last words were: ‘You are a disgusting coward without honour.’ Heider shot him through the forehead. I think Hartmann just couldn’t bear going back below. He was a brave man.

  * * *

  The modest captain’s cabin was jam-packed with luggage and equipment cases. Astride one of these, Boerman was stripping down his pride and joy, an original M60 machine gun from the Vietnam War, which he had acquired in Ho Chi Minh City after seeing Rambo.

  ‘Nash seemed to think I’m his boy. Who does he fucking think he is?’

  In a white T-shirt and black lacy underwear, Sura was lying on top of the single bed, studying her tablet.

  ‘If the Hoosenbeck Cavern is as deep as they say it is, we’ll need his services.’

  Boerman frowned as he ran a wire brush through the flash suppressor.

  ‘Nash has the thousand-yard stare – I saw it in the Legion – and I’m telling you, under pressure he’ll turn to jelly. We don’t need him or Douglas. The sooner we’re rid of them, the better.’

  Engrossed in the Ford diary entries, Sura was only half listening.

  ‘You’ll get your fun. Until then, keep your hands to yourself.’

  ‘Do you really mean it, liefie?’ he cooed, reaching over to cup her taut right buttock. Its nutmeg firmness made him want to sink his teeth into it.

  She shifted irritably. ‘Go back to your cabin. Goki will be wondering where you are.’

  As far as Jaap was concerned, Goki could go to fucking Hell, but Sura had sworn him to be on his best behaviour.

  ‘Just a quickie, liefie. I swear I’m going out of my mind here.’

  It was a question, not a statement. Big Jaap Boerman was scared of no man, yet he lived in constant fear of losing Sura Suyanto. How a grifter like him had got so lucky never ceased to amaze him. Before Sura, there was the banal brutality of a childhood in the slums of Jo’burg, petty – then violent – crime, several stints in jail, followed by five years with the French Foreign Legion in Algeria. It was a good outlet for his talents, but he’d been dishonourably discharged for beating up an officer. There followed a stint diving Nigerian oil rigs as a welder, until an overbearing foreman made him shatter the man’s skull with his bare fists. Evading justice, he made his way back down the African continent, washing up on the shark cage diving boats running out of Gansbaai.

  ‘The answer is no.’ She pushed away his hand. ‘Now hurry up and hide that weapon.’

  ‘Which one?’

  At last he was rewarded with a hearty chuckle.

  Ja, this is the gutsy Sura I know.

  The first time he’d laid eyes on her, she was calmly staring down a six-metre great white with its snout stuck in the aluminium bars of her shark cage. The massive fish was shaking it to pieces. He’d dived in, busted it on the nose, then hauled Sura and her terrified cameraman out of there. The man had refused to go back in the water, so Sura had handed Boerman the camera. That night, she came to his dingy lodgings, made him feel something for the first time in his life. Now, Jaap Boerman could not imagine life without her.

  ‘Look here.’ She sat up, excited. ‘My father has sent new images of the Hoosenbeck.’

  SUBJECT: Your holiday in Jayapura.

  Thought these might help with the documentary.

  Ayah.

  The high-resolution shots were taken from an Indonesian EADS CASA C-295 at 1500 metres. The detail was far superior to the satellite photos, and they greedily pored over key features of the terrain. The three crooked arms of the gorge had been formed by many millennia of snowmelt through a sheer escarpment more than a kilometre high. At some point in the distant past, the river and waterfall that had sculpted the gorge had vanished atop the escarpment down a vertical shaft, which appeared in the photo as a ragged black slot.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Boerman breathed. ‘It just swallows the river.’

  ‘A geological path of least resistance,’ Sura mused. ‘The subterranean river has carved out the giant cavern and the lake within.’

  ‘The perfect hiding spot for a submarine.’

  ‘But surely the Dutch should have found signs of a vessel that large?’ With her jet-black fringe low over her eyes, Sura scrolled downstream, peering intently at the twists and turns of the gorge, where deep shadows masked possible hidden caverns. ‘The diary entries are infuriatingly vague on the last days of the I-403’s voyage.’

  Boerman slid the M60 under the bed and stood up to go.

  ‘It’s there, liefie. And I know you will find it.’

  ‘Thank you, Jaap.’

  Sura rarely used his name, especially not affectionately, and the familiarity hurt more than the ball of Libyan shrapnel working its way out of his left trapezius. Their relationship only existed behind closed doors, and Boerman’s conversion to the faith, which he’d done for her, had changed nothing. As a bule – a white man – he had never been accepted. He was just the muscle who got to screw the goddess when no one who mattered was looking.

  Godver doem dit.

  ‘Jaap.’

  Seeing that sultry look in her eyes fired his blood and he could barely get his pants down quick enough.

  ‘No, no,’ she chided when he reached for her. ‘Let me.’

  Gratefully he surrendered to her skilful ministrations and was almost ready to blow, when suddenly, there was a rap at the door.

  ‘Apa yang terjadi disana?’

  Boerman gave a piteous moan. ‘Fucking Goki.’

  ‘One minute!’ Sura called out, before whispering to Jaap saucily, ‘Your day just got better.’

  With a wink she plunged her mouth down to receive him.

  Goki’s eyes were flat discs when Sura opened the door.

  ‘When I knock, I expect your door to open.’

  Sura crossed her arms. ‘Oh, really?’

  Boerman was not quite ready to fight, but he mustered a growl.

  ‘We are all adults here. Why don’t you mind your own business?’

  The commando stepped inside and closed the door, filling the cabin with his clove stink and menace.

  ‘Already you risk our security, Sura. Do you think these troopers are blind to your charms? Do you think they cannot hear, or smell, what you are up to?’ His nose crinkled with distaste. ‘This is a delicate operation involving two countries. It requires discipline and tact, all right?’

  ‘Would that be the same discipline which cost us our source?’ retorted Sura.

  ‘You are a stupid and spoilt child.’

  ‘And you forget yourself.’ Sura flushed angrily. ‘My father will hear of this.’

  ‘Indeed, he will.’ Goki’s voice was silken. ‘Do not forget your father put me in charge to safeguard his interests. From now on, you will conduct yourself professionally and modestly.’ He turned to stare at Boerman, ‘And you will keep that dick in your pants, or I’ll cut it off and use it to shut your big mouth. That scene tonight with Nash was not only pathetic – you risked our mission before it has even started.’

  Boerman was itching to go for Goki’s throat, but Sura blocked his path.

  ‘You’ve made your point, Sergeant. Please go.’

  Goki gave Boerman a final dark look.

  ‘I’ll see you in two minutes.’


  When he stalked away, the hilt of a commando knife protruded above his belt and Boerman knew it was a message.

  ‘I want to be there when you take him apart.’ Sura’s low voice trembled with hate. ‘Do you hear me?’

  ‘Ja, I hear you, liefie.’

  In the blocky commando, Boerman recognised a natural born killer, and a cool-headed one at that. Taking Goki down would require precision, with no room for error. But he would make him beg for death.

  Chapter 12

  Jayapura, Papua, Indonesia

  In the unstable wake of the recent tropical storm, the Garuda 737-800 shuddered as it skimmed the lake 60 metres below. Doctor Mia Carter planted her feet on the floor and took a deep breath. She was not a nervous flyer, but Sentani International Airport was located in a natural depression, which meant a gut-churning approach to a steeply sloping runway.

  They bounced once, twice, before the tyres bit with a slight side-skid. The comforting roar of reverse thrust confirmed they were safely down. Trundling along the taxiway, steam from the recent downpour rose like smoke, enveloping the windows in a sheen of condensation. Excited to be back, Mia pressed her face to the Plexiglas, hoping to spot Paul’s plane among a gaggle of light aircraft beside the terminal.

  It was strange she hadn’t heard from him. While it often took him a week to respond to emails – he seemed to treat the computer like an old fashioned letter box – she had not received any response to her holiday snaps. And she hadn’t spoken to him on the phone since leaving the US almost three months ago. Not that she’d dwelled on it during her long lazy holiday in Cambodia and Thailand, because that was precious time for doing absolutely nothing but recharging her batteries after three intense years without a break in the ER. But then she hadn’t been able to get through to him from her hotel in Jakarta yesterday, either.

  Retrieving her bag from the overhead locker, Mia told herself not to worry. The mission’s satellite connection went down every few weeks, and Paul always noted times and dates down in his meticulous old-school longhand which put her scrawl to shame. He would be there.