Cave Diver

by Jake Avila

  ‘I don’t have definite proof, but I’m worried all the same.’

  Singkepe observed her closely before nodding.

  ‘Moses, wait outside the door. No one is to enter.’ He nodded at Mia. ‘Let him know if you need anything. I will pass on your concerns to Lieutenant Kaboro.’

  Closing the door, Mia leaned against it for a moment and took several deep breaths to compose herself.

  Has it really been just two days since I left Jayapura? What have I got myself tangled up in?

  This alternative reality was fast becoming a waking nightmare, and she was nowhere near the border.

  Mia did the best she could to clean up Goki’s wounds using bottled water and antiseptic. Clipping away the hair with surgical scissors, she closed the ugly split on the back of his head with adhesive strips, then wrapped his head in a bandage as gently as she could.

  Goki groaned softly as she finished the taping up.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ Mia asked in ragged Indonesian. ‘You’ve been in an accident. Shall I get Sura to translate?’

  On hearing that name, Goki flinched. He groped clumsily behind his back for a moment, then the effort overwhelmed him and he slid back into unconsciousness.

  Mia realised he’d been looking for his knife.

  One quarter of the stricken Albany was fully aground, and the several metres of exposed red waterline at her bow indicated the challenge they faced trying to get her off.

  ‘What do you think?’ Nash asked Kaboro, who was gauging their depth amidships to stern with a lead line. ‘Is the channel deep enough?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he frowned. ‘Our draught is 1.75 metres. If we unload the cargo, we might get her off tomorrow on the last vestiges of the high tide. But if the propellers or their shafts are damaged, we’re going nowhere.’

  Nash nodded. Going nowhere was not an option. Not with God only knew what trouble brewing. While the chopper was an escape route, it could only take four at a time, and he was not keen on abandoning 175,000 dollars’ worth of high-tech dive gear. Kaboro had said the boat would be picked clean within twenty-four hours once the locals found it.

  He looked down at the murky water and tried not to dwell on what it contained.

  ‘I guess there’s only one way to find out.’

  Thanks to Kaboro’s lashings, Nash’s gear was mostly secure, but the Indonesian’s scattered, jumbled equipment was blocking access to his rack of scuba tanks. Working together, Nash, Kaboro and Douglas began refilling spilled crates and stacking them out of the way.

  ‘What do you need pumps in a cave for?’ Nash stopped to ask, as they heaved the second of two high-pressure models to one side.

  ‘Not to mention a couple of hundred metres of heavy-duty PVC pipe.’ Douglas indicated the heavy rolls, still wedged in the angled bow cavity. ‘Are they planning on pumping the bloody Hoosenbeck out?’

  There was a trunk holding heavy 1500-watt portable lights; another contained truck batteries, two generators and a plastic barrel full of cables. When they uncovered the oxyacetylene kit, the growing doubt in Nash’s stomach ballooned into a fully fledged conviction.

  ‘They’ve been having us on. This was no film shoot.’

  Douglas wiped the sweat from his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘High-def cameras they’d keep in the cabins, but why aren’t we seeing stuff like tripods, sound booms, underwater lighting rigs and camera housings?’

  ‘What’s all this shit for, then?’

  ‘My guess is salvage.’ With the bitter taste of disappointment in his mouth, Nash turned to Kaboro. ‘You want to explain what the hell is going on here, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Mr Nash, honestly I have no idea.’ Kaboro sounded as aggrieved as he looked. ‘My orders were only to take you to the mouth of the Hoosenbeck.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  Kaboro thought for a moment. ‘Yes, aside from awaiting further instructions from Sir Julius.’

  Nash picked up the welding mask. ‘Then I suggest we see what Sura has got to say for herself.’

  They found her in animated discussion with Boerman on the sloping main deck, utterly oblivious to the tender sweeping the river for the victims of their stupidity. Such arrogant indifference summed up everything wrong about them, and Nash felt a surge of rage balling up in his throat as he marched up, holding the welding mask.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’

  Sura flinched as if he’d slapped her.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘There’s no film equipment in the hold, just a shitload of salvage gear. I guess it explains the lack of a script.’

  Sura took a step back, the pink end of her tongue darting out.

  ‘Mr Nash, you are jumping to conclusions. Why don’t you calm down so we can discuss this?’

  ‘Stop lying!’ Nash exploded. ‘You lured us here under false pretences and it’s just cost two people their lives.’

  ‘You’re way out of line, Nash,’ the big man growled, but the threat rang hollow, and his eyes kept darting between Nash, Douglas and Kaboro.

  ‘I’ll bet you didn’t even bring a camera.’ In the ensuing silence, Nash gave them both a knowing smile. ‘The expedition is over. You might as well spit it out. Why are we here?’

  ‘I do not answer to you.’ Sura’s voice was thick with hatred.

  It has to be money, thought Nash, keeping his eyes fixed on hers.

  But if their purpose was salvage, what did they need him for? Perhaps what they were looking for was in the Hoosenbeck after all.

  He turned to Kaboro. ‘Lieutenant Kaboro, are you back in command?’

  ‘Affirmative,’ he boomed authoritatively. ‘From now on I will make all operational decisions.’

  Sura’s lips drew back, reminding Nash of a cornered snake.

  ‘My company owns this ship.’

  ‘But you don’t own us.’ He smiled grimly. ‘And until you come clean on what your real purpose is here, you’re going nowhere except the closest police station to make a statement.’

  ‘Fuck you, Nash!’

  Unable to contain himself, Boerman muscled forwards.

  ‘Stop right there!’ barked a loud command.

  Singkepe was on the quarterdeck, aiming the FN machine gun at the big man’s head. Nash hoped to Christ it wasn’t on full auto.

  Sura clamped a hand on Boerman’s tree-trunk arm and hissed, ‘No, Jaap!’

  Tense seconds passed before Nash nodded.

  ‘Whatever you’re up to, I’d put money down that it’s something illegal. What say you, Lieutenant?’

  Kaboro cleared his throat. ‘Ms Suyanto, there are serious matters regarding the nature of your business that may require further investigation. Our priority, though, is securing and recovering this ship. Mr Nash will conduct an underwater survey to see if it is possible to refloat her, and I will then decide on an appropriate course of action. Until then, you will kindly restrict yourself to your cabins and the mess, and follow my orders.’

  ‘You overreach yourself,’ said Sura icily. ‘Your role was made abundantly clear to you yesterday evening.’

  Pursing his lips, Kaboro hooked his thumbs over his military belt.

  ‘I am sure Sir Julius will understand that circumstances on the ground have changed.’

  Balanced on the edge of the sloping helipad, Nash strapped the scuba tank to his bare back. It was going to be a shallow, muddy dive, which is why he was wearing a pair of shorts and a weight belt. Clipped to his forearm was a sheath knife – not that it would be much use against crocodiles and bull sharks. For these, Kaboro had posted sharpshooters around the ship, while Singkepe covered the bow with his machine gun in case of wantok attack.

  ‘Watch your back down there, laddie.’ Douglas was staring down at the murky water.

  Nash hesitated before pulling on his mask. ‘Is Mia OK?’

  In the haste to get underwater, he hadn’t had time to check.

  ‘Honouring her Hippocratic oath with t
hat stupid arsehole, Goki. And don’t worry about Sura and Boerman – would you believe they’ve confined themselves to quarters?’ Douglas snorted derisively. ‘Two of Singkepe’s finest have been posted outside their door to make sure it stays that way.’

  Nash grinned and stuck the regulator between his teeth. Taking firm hold of the mask, he took a big step and splashed into the tepid water. A moment later he landed on the muddy river bottom, to be instantly enveloped in a dense cloud of silt.

  Feet buried in the mud, he reached up and located the square bulk of the stern. Its steel plate was covered in rough anti-fouling paint, and the sensation was eerily like searching for an exit in a silted-out cave.

  By increasing the volume of air in his lungs, Nash floated free of the bottom. The silt soon dispersed in the current, leaving visibility at around an arm’s length. Rolling on his back, he found purchase on the thin welded ridges between the hull plates and manoeuvred his way around the twin rudders. Although still locked at forty-five degrees, they were undamaged. Behind the rudders were the twin propellers. Running his hands over the big bronze blades, Nash hoped Douglas was right and Boerman was nowhere near the start button.

  What Kaboro had feared most was damage to the vulnerable propeller shafts. These ran exposed for three and a half metres before entering the hull and, if snapped or bent, meant a dry dock repair. Nash did his best to sight along the shafts and feel for distortion. It seemed the Albany had been lucky. Her stern had not connected heavily with the bottom during the collision, because her flat semi-displacement hull, which gave her speed, had helped her skip like a stone. Nash began to feel heartened; maybe they could get out of here under their own steam.

  The close inspection work helped keep his mind off potential wildlife, and soon he reached the stabilisers. These rudder-like blades projected at a forty-five-degree angle, just below the waterline, to provide control when the boat was up and planing. Here, he discovered the leading edge of the port stabiliser had been dented for about half its length. While the damage was not catastrophic, Nash guessed it would create drag and affect handling, and he duly fired away with the GoPro.

  Amidships, there was only superficial hull damage – dents, scratches and gouges. Nash continued until his tank bumped the mud below. As the silt billowed up, he was reminded of ‘gardening’ the dirt-filled tunnels under the limestone of Mount Gambier, South Australia – excavating spoil to access new routes. Get too enthusiastic and you could end up digging your own grave.

  In the zero visibility, the edge of anxiety he’d been suppressing began to assert itself. A feeling of breathlessness came over him, and he was filled with a nagging sense of dread. It was time to call the dive. Exiting on the port side, Nash prayed no one up top mistook him for an inquisitive croc.

  It felt bloody wonderful to reach the surface and feel the expanse of sky overhead.

  ‘How is she?’ Kaboro was leaning over the rail, having tracked his bubbles.

  Sitting in the mud, Nash gave him a thumbs up. ‘No significant damage. But the leading edge of the port stabiliser is slightly bent.’ He held up his hands to demonstrate.

  ‘Seems we’ve been lucky, then.’

  Nash nodded. The submerged mudflat in the river had been a blessing in disguise, slowing the ship down without tearing out her bottom. After sliding across it, they’d reached a deeper channel before running aground. The problem now was the viscosity of the mud in which the bow of the Albany was embedded. Kaboro explained the friction was too much for her engines to overcome.

  ‘Can we loosen the mud’s grip?’ asked Nash. ‘Dig it away from the sides?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kaboro. ‘And lighten the ship.’

  Suddenly, there was a cry of alarm.

  ‘Crocodile!’

  Nash frantically scanned the brown river. He spotted a ripple by the stern. Was it a gust of wind, or the bow wave of an approaching two-tonne reptile? The steep bank behind him, with its impenetrable kunai grass, was ten metres away, but in the sticky ooze it might as well have been a mile. With difficulty, Nash broke the suction and stood up. The tank on his back seemed to weigh more than a man.

  ‘Take my hand, Nash!’

  Kaboro had dropped to his stomach, was reaching down. But no one alive had the strength or grip in the muddy slop to haul Nash out. He was on his own.

  Another shout of ‘CROCODILE!’

  Christ, it’s coming for me.

  As shots rang out, Nash fought to be free of the heavy tank, with muddy hands slipping on the buckles. He swore in frustration. Stuck like this, he wouldn’t even be able to shove the damn thing into its mouth . . .

  Idiot, use your knife!

  Nash whipped it out of the forearm sheath and in two quick slashes severed the infernal straps.

  Now he had a fighting chance!

  The roar of the tender’s outboard filled him with hope as it swept around the stern. The bug-eyed sailor crouching in the bow reached out his arms for the grab. Nash flung his upper body forward to meet him. His knees crashed painfully into the sides of the tender as the sailor found a grip on his weight belt. With one powerful heave, he manhandled Nash on board, where they both collapsed in a muddy embrace.

  Ensign Mohli was trying to restart the outboard, which had stalled in the mud, when there was another shout.

  ‘Belay that – false alarm!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ bellowed Kaboro indignantly. ‘Report!’

  There was a pause. ‘Sir . . . it’s a floating log!’

  Nash and his two rescuers stared at one another. Then they began to roar with helpless laughter.

  Chapter 19

  Under the protective gaze of Singkepe and his two best sharpshooters, Nash organised port and starboard teams equipped with all the tools they could muster. Ladders were lashed to the sides of the ship so they could clamber down to the slop. There weren’t enough shovels, so they used oars, buckets, bowls, even bare hands, to scoop the mud away from the hull. Soon they were covered in the sticky stuff, scraping, hacking and hurling the clods behind them. It was back-breaking work and Douglas declared his hangover to be the worst in six decades of excess. Watching the old pilot staggering about with mud smeared all over him, Nash took pity and told him to take a break.

  ‘Penance, Robbie, once it’s sweated out I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Remember to hydrate, Mr Douglas.’ Kaboro offered a canteen.

  ‘Stuff that. You got a ciggie, Saworno? Left mine up top.’

  The old engineer pulled out a crumpled pack and shook one loose. Nash had insisted Kaboro keep him apart from the Indonesian contingent. Saworno could shed no light on Shangri-La’s true intentions, and Nash believed him when he said that he had been hired simply to keep the engines going.

  Pushing carefully through the long spiky grass, Nash made his way around the bow to check progress on the port side. As much as he didn’t trust the Indonesians, it would have been stupid not to accept Sura’s offer of help. He noted Hartono was already flagging, looking hard done by and stopping too often, whereas Sura was working with a will in a Gucci jumpsuit that would never look the same. Again, Nash found himself wondering what was driving her, for her output was only exceeded by Boerman, who was a human excavator, chopping out great clumps of mud with a mattock, flinging them carelessly towards Faiwalati and the other PNGDF men, who kept having to duck.

  As the sun exerted its authority, morale began to waver. In near total humidity, fighting the muck sticking tenaciously to tools and feet was exhausting. After four gruelling hours, Nash realised it would take days to make a serious impression on the mud gripping the ship’s sides. They required a mechanical solution.

  ‘We need some kind of power jet,’ he announced, over Faiwalati’s lunch of stir-fried leftovers.

  Boerman spat over the side. ‘You see an equipment hire around here, Nash?’

  ‘No, but you have pumps, don’t you?’

  Hacking away the kunai grass, they dug two level pads at the
waterline and manhandled the two massive 100 mm pumps into position. The rolls of PVC pipe became malleable in the blazing sun and, under the watchful eye of Singkepe’s sharpshooters, they swam them out to create intakes in deeper water, using rocks and plastic floats to prevent them blocking with mud or drawing air. Nash fashioned jet nozzles using spacers and reducers to concentrate each pump’s powerful flow rate into a high-velocity water jet, and incorporated a ball valve to regulate the force.

  ‘So, what were you planning to do with all this shit?’ he asked Boerman casually while tightening a fitting. ‘Pump out a sunken vessel? Locate a black box?’

  The Afrikaner made no reply, but the flexing of his mighty jaw made it clear he loathed being questioned.

  Nash had already suggested to Kaboro he should search Shangri-La’s cabins as a matter of urgency, but the lieutenant was getting cold feet. Although he agreed the Indonesians had engaged in deception, there was no proof of a crime. If they refloated the ship, Kaboro suggested they make for the nearest major port of Wewak, a couple of hours north of the Sepik’s mouth. Otherwise, they would use the helicopter to ferry all personnel to Pagwi and call headquarters. At this point Nash had laughed. If not under arrest, the Indonesians would simply fly out when it suited them, leaving two dead fishermen – and accountability for their actions – behind. But as he was learning, out here a different set of rules, or lack thereof, applied.

  ‘OK.’ He nodded at Boerman. ‘Let’s give it a test.’

  The big man fired up the left-side pump as Nash backed into the murk. Within a few seconds the flexible fire hose on the outlet went rigid. As Nash turned on the valve, the hose reared back like a giant snake, trying to flail and lash. The powerful water jet sliced through the mud with ease.

  ‘Works a treat!’ he yelled to Boerman, who was watching with hands on hips. ‘But point it the wrong way and it’ll take out your eyes.’

  Nash didn’t want Boerman anywhere near him underwater, but he couldn’t do too much damage on the other side of the ship, so he equipped them both with umbilical dive hoses running to his air compressor on the foredeck. Noting Ricki Hartono taking an interest, Nash had a quiet word with Kaboro, who posted a guard to watch over him.