Cave Diver

by Jake Avila

  When he reached the bridge, Nash was shocked to see the squat form of Goki at the helm. Jaap Boerman was sitting beside him, one huge bare foot resting on the control panel as he drank from a mug of coffee. Behind them, Ricki Hartono was relaxing with his feet up in the navigator’s chair. They looked like a bunch of amateur fishermen on a weekend charter.

  ‘Where’s Kaboro?’ demanded Nash.

  ‘He’s been relieved.’ Boerman did not turn around.

  ‘What? By whom?’

  ‘Do I look like his fucking secretary, Nash? Go ask him yourself.’

  Through the windscreen, the long bow of the Albany was groping through the mist. The sight reminded Nash of circling a foggy runway in a jet, and he appealed to Hartono.

  ‘You’re a pilot. Can’t you see this is nuts?’

  ‘We have radar.’ He insolently flicked the screen beside him. ‘This is what it’s for.’

  Radar provided no protection in a river full of submerged hazards. Realising his warnings were futile, Nash took the stairs three at a time and found Kaboro slumped in the mess, before a coffee he did not appear to be drinking.

  ‘Sir Julius called last night,’ he explained woodenly. ‘I’ve been relieved of command.’

  ‘For God’s sake, why?’

  ‘Obstructing progress and exceeding my authority.’

  ‘That’s insane.’

  Through the porthole, tendrils of mist were spiralling past. That the defence minister of a sovereign nation could place a foreign national in command of his own personnel was extraordinary. Equally horrifying was Kaboro’s passive acceptance of the situation. The man seemed to have given up.

  ‘You are responsible for our safety,’ Nash told him harshly. ‘Surely you can see the Indonesians are dangerously inept. You must take back control of the ship.’

  Kaboro shook his head firmly. ‘As a military officer, I am obliged to obey orders. PNGDF personnel remain under my command, but Goki has the ship.’

  Nash stabbed his finger at the porthole.

  ‘Take another look out there, Kaboro. How many men will you command if we hit a log and sink?’

  Daniel Yanos stepped nimbly into his new canoe and let momentum glide them out into the mist. For the past month, he and his brothers had laboriously carved the dugout canoe from an eight-metre-long, dead-straight kwila log, purchased upriver where the great trees fought for the light. Towing it home, they’d hauled it out of the water and made a huge fire. The red-hot coals scorched the wood and aided the hollowing-out process, done by hand with sharp steel adzes.

  Daniel took his first stroke with the long paddle. A fishing canoe is prone to capsize while hauling in loaded nets, thus symmetry was vital. The other essential was an even hull thickness to ensure no bias, which could prove disastrous in the squalls and waves encountered on the wide river. To achieve this, Daniel and his brothers had used notched strings stretched along each side of the canoe to mirror curvature and thickness. After several stokes, Daniel knew the canoe was perfectly balanced. He felt a glow of satisfaction and hope for the future. A well-made canoe would last half a lifetime and feed many children.

  In the forward seat, his son, Nathan, beamed back at him. This maiden fishing trip was his reward for helping to cut and carry tons of firewood. Looking at the smooth skin on Nathan’s back, Daniel was reminded that his son would soon undergo the ritual of scarification. The agonising process involved slitting the skin with shards of razor-sharp bamboo, then packing the wound with tree resin to create a raised lump. When the multiple cuts healed, the scars became the scales of the crocodile, like those adorning his own flesh, and those carved on the canoe’s exquisite crocodile-head prow.

  Over a metre long, it was the canoe’s crowning glory. The crocodile was not just a symbol of great power. It represented shared ancestry, a direct lineage between his people and the great reptile. Daniel had carefully repainted the prow with natural pigments, instead of cheaper house paint. The eyes of his crocodile were white and staring, to guide him through the mists that so often shrouded the great river. Between triangular carved teeth, the mouth was cerulean blue, so that the canoe would drink deep of the waters and feast on its bounty of fish.

  Instinctively knowing they had reached the middle of the river, Daniel stowed his paddle and gathered up his lightweight net. In the old days, they wove them from rattan, but now they bought synthetic nets from the traders, which were stronger and easier to use. Daniel skilfully cast the net into the silken water. It was an auspicious start, for he immediately drew in six struggling bass, the best single catch he had ever made. Nathan helped position the wriggling fish, so they could be dispatched by a blow from Daniel’s stout club. They stored the fish under a cover of broad taro leaves to protect them from the sun, which would soon appear once it had burned away the enveloping shroud of fog.

  Soon, the canoe rode deep with its bounty of fish. Daniel was overjoyed, for he and his brothers would feast well tonight. They would buy beer off the trader man, as well as tabac brus and other useful items. But there was room for just one more cast.

  As he drew in the net, Daniel thrilled to the huge weight of fish struggling inside. With a powerful heave, he landed the haul. In the bottom of the canoe, a huge circular disc thrashed among the silver and his blood ran cold.

  ‘Look out!’ he shouted. ‘It’s a pacu!’

  Nathan immediately lifted his feet up. The pacu, also known as ‘the ball-cutter’, was an exotic species related to the piranha which had killed several men on the Sepik, fishing naked in waist-deep water. In its native South America, pacu grew to twenty-five kilograms on a diet of nuts and berries. But these transplanted fish had eaten all the Sepik’s vegetation and been forced to expand their diet. Inside their massive jaws was a set of disturbingly human teeth, capable of removing large chunks of flesh, and the pacu had developed a taste for it.

  This pacu was by far the biggest Daniel had ever seen. Already, it had taken several huge scoops out of the bass as it snapped furiously. It was an ugly, brutal-looking fish, about sixty centimetres long, extremely thick, with an undershot jaw. Many suspected the pacu were the malevolent spirits of murdered people seeking revenge. With a cry of disgust, Daniel raised the club and began to beat the evil creature to a pulp. So intent was he on making sure it was dead, that he didn’t hear the rumble growing louder in the mist.

  ‘Father!’ Nathan called urgently. ‘Listen!’

  Just as Daniel looked up, a huge grey ship materialised. Twin arcs of spray flew high from its knife-like bow. The sound of its engines was the same noise that pigs made when transfixed by an arrow – deep and high-pitched at the same time. Daniel couldn’t understand how something so big could move so fast. Seizing his paddle, he began to thrust through the water with all his might.

  The Albany was travelling at her maximum flank speed of twenty-eight knots. She would need several hundred metres to stop and, at this point, the Sepik was not much wider than that, leaving little room for error. Nash wasted precious seconds pounding futilely on Sura’s locked cabin door, because he figured it was the quickest way of stopping the madness. When she failed to answer, he decided the only option left was to take command by force.

  Entering the bridge, he was astounded to find Sura sitting with Hartono, oblivious to the crisis unfolding.

  ‘We’re going too fast!’ Nash bellowed at her. ‘Make him stop!’

  Goki looked round and snarled in perfectly good English, ‘Will you shut the fuck up?’

  Nash was registering this when, through the swirling mist, he saw a low shape dead ahead.

  ‘Look out!’

  Too late, Goki yanked the helm over. The Albany had barely begun adjusting to the new bearing when the canoe disappeared beneath her bow. The prow struck like a block splitter, exploding the canoe with an almighty bang, which they heard and felt through the soles of their feet.

  Time telescoped. Goki was still hard aport, and 235 tonnes of ship, passengers, chopper, fuel a
nd material were headed towards the left riverbank at fifty kilometres an hour. Diving across Boerman’s lap, Nash yanked the throttle levers to full reverse.

  Had he not done so, the Albany might well have been torn open when she hit the submerged mudflat five seconds later – a sickening blow which shook every weld and rivet in her body. In the eruption of water and mud, momentum carried her, bucking and slithering, until finally she buried her bow in a raised bank that was almost as tall as she was.

  Daniel surfaced with desperation in his heart. Diving deep had saved his life, but what of his son? There was no sign of Nathan, or the canoe.

  In the chopped-up water, Daniel cried out in panic, ‘Where are you, boy?’

  He swam blindly underwater with arms outstretched, hoping to blunder into him. He dived and dived again, and just when he had given up hope, there was Nathan! His boy was just a few canoe lengths away, one arm weakly raised. Blood was streaming from his head, and he looked as if he could go under again at any moment.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘I’m coming!’ Daniel screamed.

  Suddenly, the water churned white, and a large fish broke the surface in a flurry of thrashing fins. Daniel’s heart seemed to pump in slow motion.

  Pacu.

  Nathan began screaming. He disappeared for a moment, and when he came up again, two of the huge fish were attached to his face. They wriggled demoniacally and there was the terrible sound of flesh tearing as the pacu fell back into the water.

  Daniel powered through the water like his ancestors, but, when he got there, Nathan was nowhere to be found.

  After an hour of fruitless searching, an exhausted Daniel begged the gods to take him, too, but the crocodiles would not oblige with one of their own. Slowly, he drifted to shore and dragged himself up the grassy bank.

  It was then he saw the stranded grey ship on the other side of the river. Rage spread through him like an infection, and he set off in a mad feverish sprint through the tall kunai grass. Oblivious to the cuts opening up all over his flesh, he sang to the spirits to welcome his son home.

  Here, on this earth, it was time to gather his wantoks and exact revenge.

  The impact had flung Nash all the way back to the bridge door. Thankfully, it had slammed shut, for he could easily have hit a stanchion or gone over the side. Getting to his feet, he saw the bridge was a shambles. Jaap Boerman lay sprawled in his chair, shaking his head like a heavyweight shrugging off a scoring punch. Between his feet, Goki wasn’t moving. Through the now-cracked windscreen in front of him, the elongated branch of a giant fig tree reached out like a warning hand. Meanwhile, Hartono and Sura were trying to extricate themselves from a tangle of limbs. Everything was blurry and incredibly loud, and Nash became aware that the Albany was still on full power reverse, trying to wrench herself out of the mud. She was shaking so violently that it felt as if she was going to tear herself apart.

  ‘Turn the fucking engines off!’ he yelled at Boerman. ‘The big red button!’

  In the silence that followed, the sound of the aggrieved forest outside became apparent. Birds of all kinds were honking, squawking and shrilling at the insult. High branches could be heard shaking and snapping, and leaves were drifting down in a light rain.

  Nash pulled Sura to her feet. She was pale, too unsteady to speak. Grabbing the first aid kit from the back wall, he shoved it into her hands.

  ‘Help Goki!’ With a dismissive nod at Boerman he added, ‘And don’t let that fucking idiot anywhere near the controls.’

  Kaboro had reached the quarterdeck when Nash got outside. The front of his white uniform was stained with coffee, and he was staring in dismay at the ship’s prow, embedded in the long grass of the sloping riverbank. Beneath their feet, the deck was slanted fifteen degrees to stern with a tilt to starboard.

  ‘Goki hit a canoe,’ Nash explained. ‘Two people, I think . . . before he lost control. Tell me, Lieutenant, do you have the ship now?’

  It was a cruel thrust, but Nash was angry; the expedition was over before it had even begun, and he wanted to provoke some resolve in Kaboro because they still had to get out of there.

  Kaboro’s expression was sombre.

  ‘Yes. And I give you my word that I will see to your safety, but first I must organise a search for survivors and check the ship and crew.’

  Down on the main deck, Nash spotted Mia with Douglas. She was examining his forehead while the old pilot buttoned up yesterday’s shirt.

  ‘It was Singkepe . . . I woke up with him sitting on my bloody head.’

  ‘It’s a bump, Frank.’ Mia’s face was scrunched at the stench of sweat and stale alcohol. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  The old pilot’s face fell as Nash explained the cause of the grounding.

  ‘Robbie, I’m sorry,’ he said miserably. ‘I’ve stuffed up, haven’t I?’

  ‘Forget it. You couldn’t have seen this coming. I can’t believe it myself. What the hell were they thinking?’ He glanced at Mia, who had the good grace not to say I told you so. ‘I’m glad you’re OK.’

  Her beautiful eyes assessed him. ‘Is anyone else hurt?’

  ‘Captain Goki seems to have knocked himself out on the bridge.’

  ‘On my way, then.’

  ‘Hold on a sec.’

  Nash turned and called out to Sergeant Singkepe, who was mustering his squad on the foredeck.

  ‘Can you send an escort to the bridge with Dr Carter?’

  ‘Moses, get up there!’ Singkepe barked. ‘The rest of you fan out – port, stern and starboard. Keep your eyes peeled, you hear? Stay sharp.’

  ‘You were right,’ Nash said quietly to Mia. ‘There’s something dodgy going on. Don’t be alone with them, OK?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She smiled and touched his hand lightly before leaving.

  Ensign Mohli and an armed sailor arrived to mount the search for survivors. Nash and Douglas helped them climb into the aluminium tender and cranked it down, a job made awkward by the off-centre davits. After firing up the outboard, the tender motored out into the river.

  ‘Think they’ll find anyone?’ Nash asked Singkepe, who had just joined them.

  ‘We’d better hope not.’ The sergeant’s eyes were troubled. ‘If they get back to their village, we’ll have a war on our hands.’

  Payback was the muscle that underpinned the wantok system in PNG. It was why people didn’t stop after road accidents; trying to negotiate reparations with a machete-wielding avenger was a good way to lose your head.

  It was only now that Nash thought to check his mobile phone. No satellite. How appropriate for such a fuck-up that they were in a black spot. He went down to the stern to check the status of their most obvious means of escape, and found Ricki Hartono had beaten him to it.

  On the angled landing pad, the tail rotor of the multi-million-dollar Jet Ranger was now just centimetres above the water. That the straps had held, and the machine had not budged, crumpled or cracked under the impact, was something of a miracle.

  ‘Looks OK,’ said the pilot, flexing the drooping rotors, as if the circumstances of the situation were unrelated to his negligence.

  ‘No thanks to you,’ Nash told him bluntly. ‘Be ready to fly. We may need to evacuate.’

  Hartono looked surly behind his Ray-Bans, but held his tongue.

  Kaboro returned from his survey.

  ‘No sign of a hull breach,’ he reported. ‘Saworno says the engines are OK. A lot of the gear has been flung around, though.’ He led Nash away from Hartono and dropped his voice to a murmur. ‘The nearest police are in Pagwi. But there’s only three of them, and they don’t have a boat.’

  ‘And the military?’

  ‘Our closest troops are in Wewak. Currently, there is no air support.’

  ‘So, what you’re saying is . . .’

  Kaboro nodded apologetically.

  ‘We are on our own.’

  Chapter 18

  The first thing Mia saw on entering
the bridge was Jaap Boerman crouching over Goki’s prostrate form. The Afrikaner’s huge hands were clamped to either side of the smaller man’s head, and his startled expression reminded her of a little boy caught in the act of some wrongdoing.

  ‘What do you want?’ Sura was looking flushed, although the heat was yet to bite.

  ‘What do I want?’ Mia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Give me that first aid kit.’

  ‘He’s bleeding,’ reported Boerman helpfully, lightly jumping to his bare feet.

  ‘I can see that. Give me some space to examine him.’

  Sura and Boerman sullenly pushed past, and Mia was grateful for the comforting presence of Moses and his assault rifle.

  The livid contusion on Goki’s forehead appeared to have been caused by striking the windscreen, but the blood pooling thickly on the deck was from a nasty laceration on the back of his close-cropped head. Moses got Mia a fresh tea towel from the sink which she used to stem the flow, pressing as firmly as she dared because she suspected he had a fractured occiput.

  ‘I need to get him to a proper bed,’ she told Moses. ‘Do you think you could get some help to carry him down to my cabin?’

  ‘No problem, miss. Shall I ask Mr Boerman?’

  She glanced outside to the quarterdeck, where the big man was making no attempt to conceal his interest.

  ‘I think one of your own men is best.’

  Moses called down to Singkepe. Together they lifted Goki up while Mia supported his sagging head. In the process, something clattered to the floor and Singkepe frowned. Reaching down, he grabbed the vicious-looking combat knife and slid it into his boot. They carried the unconscious man past Boerman, and Mia felt her skin crawl as his eyes tried to meet hers. Down in the cabin, the soldiers carefully placed Goki on his side on the bottom bunk before Mia took Singkepe aside.

  ‘Sergeant, I’m not sure this man’s injuries are from the collision.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He frowned.

  She pointed to the back of her skull, then mimed slamming something down with two hands. Singkepe’s eyes widened and Mia suddenly felt uneasy. Had she really seen Boerman assaulting him? It was a serious accusation. One that would be hard to prove and impossible to retract.