by Jake Avila
Most so-called ‘bottomless’ lakes were rarely more than 100 metres deep, but there were exceptions. Boesmansgat, a bottle-shaped cavern in South Africa, was a shade under 300 metres. Zacatón, where Exley had died, was around 320 metres. The recently discovered Hranická Propast, located in the eastern Czech Republic, was reputed to be an awe-inspiring 400 metres deep. At such depths, even a minute of bottom time would require something like fifteen hours of decompression, not to mention managing HPNS – high-pressure neurological syndrome – with its associated tremors, dizziness and reduced acuity.
Already, Nash’s fingers were wooden in the intense cold. Laboriously, he and Boerman finned back to the mouth, then returned to the far end again, each pass ticking off a 20-metre-wide swathe. After twelve minutes of immersion, Nash was shivering. Boerman was agitated and aggressively gesticulating towards the bottom, but Nash shook his head. Risking a long decompression for a non-existent submarine was insane. At least this way they could determine if the whole floor was beyond eighty metres and live to tell the tale.
At the end of the fourth pass, in the middle line of the cavern roughly forty metres below the cave mouth, Nash spotted what he believed to be the exit passage for the Hoosenbeck. The hole was a ragged trapezoid some fifteen metres across, which steadily narrowed as it drilled into the rock. At a guess, fifty to sixty cubic metres of water per second had to be flowing through this funnel – a force incomprehensible because it was invisible. Once, it would have tempted Nash to explore the hydrology of the system. Now, he just wanted to get the hell out of there.
Reluctantly, he turned to warn Boerman of the danger and was shocked to find the big man wasn’t there. Thinking he must have baled, Nash looked up. By the time he looked down again, the Afrikaner was six metres below, blithely swimming into the hidden vortex.
With Sura’s threats ringing in his ears, Nash went after him. Every extra metre descended meant more decompression, more time in the frigid cold. His calf muscles were tightening – a precursor to cramp. Fighting it off, he kicked harder. He was just two metres behind Boerman when the Afrikaner stopped swimming and tentatively stretched out his hands. Nash knew it was the periphery of the vortex. Then he felt its clutches, too.
Adrenaline pumped energy into his exhausted muscles, as he kicked savagely for the surface. Suddenly, he felt the big man grab his ankle.
They grappled in a desperate tandem, and then Boerman got hold of his weight belt. One look at the Afrikaner’s terrorised eyes told Nash the man would never let go, so he stopped fighting and encouraged Boerman to swim with him. Doggedly, they swam up as the gaping mouth yawned. But, for every metre gained, the vortex gobbled two.
Too late, Nash felt the acceleration in the pit of his stomach.
Bang!
He grunted in shock as his rebreather slammed against the rock of the exit passage. They tumbled together for another three or four metres, until a ledge brought them up short with a bone-jarring thud.
It took Nash several moments to comprehend what had happened. He was pinned, upside down, with Boerman lying just below him. Like enemy soldiers in the same trench, their eyes met in a temporary truce. Above their heads was instant death. No bullets or shells hurtling past, just a subterranean torrent, ready to snatch them if they left this protective lee of rock. It was as if they were stuck in the throat of a sea monster, and beyond, cruelly framed by its jagged mouth, was the pale, inviting green of the cavernous lake.
Somehow, they had to get back there.
Nash made a climbing motion with his hands. When Boerman shook his head, Nash angrily drew a cutting motion across his throat. It was a simple equation: climb or you’re dead.
Twisting himself around, Nash braced against the ledge and extended forwards, flattening himself against the rock. The vortex was buffeting his rebreather, transmitting force to his shaking knees. With his legs fully extended, he reached tentatively out with his right hand and found a handhold on the rock. Keeping his left leg flattened, he drew it up almost ninety degrees, until he located a ridge below his heel. It was the moment of truth. If he couldn’t make the next step, all hope was lost.
The effort was like climbing a wall with a person strapped to your back. But fear lent Nash a desperate strength, and he fought his way upwards to secure the next handhold. With each metre gained, the mouth of the passage widened and the force of the water diminished. By the time he reached the mouth, he was able to see Boerman right behind him, and climbed around the lip to reach the haven of still water.
When he checked his watch, Nash felt even colder. Thanks to the Afrikaner’s stupidity, their maximum depth had touched fifty metres, and their run time was almost half an hour. Now they were going to have to decompress for at least a quarter of an hour.
Nash was borderline hypothermic, but it was better than getting bent. With every added metre of depth, nitrogen became exponentially more dangerous under pressure. Coming up too fast was like shaking a bottle of Coke. Millions of tiny bubbles, tearing their way out of capillaries, was not only agonising; it could lead to permanent paralysis or death.
It was so bone-achingly cold that Nash’s teeth felt brittle on the mouthpiece. In contrast, his numb extremities felt as if they belonged to somebody else. His body was shaking uncontrollably. After three miserable stops at twelve, nine and six metres, it was time for the last and longest: eight minutes at just three metres, with the surface tantalisingly close. Halfway through, Nash realised his violent shivering had stopped. A tired laziness crept over him as his central nervous system began shutting down. Signalling to Boerman, he called the dive. It was the lesser of two evils. They had to get out. Boerman was literally blue, and nodded assent.
Hartono and Sura had to drag them out of the water and take their gear off. They had lit a large fire inside the cave mouth, but additional heat worsened the impact of nitrogen diffusion, so Nash got into his clothes as fast as his unresponsive fingers would let him.
They had none of the milder signs of decompression sickness: skin tingling, joint pain or dizziness. Yet, they could not be complacent. Surviving a close call was no guarantee of getting away with it in the future.
Predictably, Boerman glossed over his own stupidity, and tried to take credit for their escape. At this, Nash simply burst out laughing. Sura frowned and checked her watch.
‘Mr Nash, we take off in five minutes. Jaap will stay here while we ferry up your equipment.’
Nash shook his head. ‘Threaten all you like, but I’m borderline bent, and I’m not adding altitude for half an hour.’
Sura conceded, and it was a significant moment: Boerman had proven himself to be a liability underwater, and she was smart enough to know it. Nash figured he had just bought himself time – at least until they discovered the submarine wasn’t there.
Chapter 27
In just four hours, the terrifying spread of veins across Frank Douglas’s body had retreated by a third. The witch doctor’s strange poultice had cauterised the entry wound, allowing phagocytosis – the healing process whereby white blood cells engulf damaged cells, bacteria and pathogens – to begin. Having lost his deathly pallor, Douglas was breathing steadily in a deep, healing sleep.
Singkepe squatted beside Mia as she pulled the blanket back over Douglas.
‘Powerful magic, eh?’
It was. But how could a filthy handful of charred organic matter mixed with human blood and saliva achieve this?
They heard the Jet Ranger returning to the Albany. Three quarters of an hour passed, and then they heard it again. She ran outside, hoping that Rob was on his way, but the Jet Ranger was headed back upriver, the machine gleaming like burnished copper in the rays of the setting sun. With a heavy heart, Mia went back inside and begged Singkepe to tell her what was happening.
‘I’m sorry, doctor, but I really don’t know.’
The obvious sympathy in his eyes was so frustrating.
‘Well, do you care, then?’
Looking hurt,
he went back to cleaning his machine gun.
‘Soldiers must follow orders.’
‘But what if those orders are wrong? I don’t need to tell you these Indonesians are a bad business. Not after what they did on the river. And I don’t think you like helping them.’
He paused to consider this. ‘They are bad people,’ he agreed. ‘Very bad people.’
‘Then help us,’ she pleaded. ‘We should report them to the police. They can investigate what is going on here. Surely that is the right thing to do?’
Singkepe looked uncomfortable. Eventually he gave a small shrug.
‘Oh, come on,’ Mia snapped in frustration. ‘Why can’t you –?’
He cut her off angrily. ‘You don’t understand, Doctor Carter. This is PNG. If you’re a big man in this country, no one messes with you – not even the law. I got a family. Three kids and a wife. I know you want me to help you, and I feel sorry for you, but what’s going to happen to them if I stick my neck out? Did you ever think of that?’
‘No.’ She swallowed and looked away. ‘No, I didn’t. And I’m sorry your country is such a fucking mess. But this is wrong.’
As night fell, two shy native women came bearing green banana-leaf plates loaded with chunks of fire-baked fish and saksak balls made from the pith of the sago palm. Knowing how many calories they were sacrificing to feed them, Mia smiled warmly.
‘Tenkyu,’ she told the women, patting her stomach. ‘Namba wan!’
Complete darkness fell with its usual speed. The inevitable presence of the ravenous mosquitoes was somewhat mitigated by the smoky fire, which tickled her throat. Mia lay down by Douglas, who was still cool to touch. With half an eye open, she watched Singkepe. Thick smoke trickled through his fingers as he quietly puffed on a cigarette. She hoped he would soon roll over and go to sleep. At any moment, help from Kinsame might arrive, and she dreaded being the cause of further violence.
She had fallen into a half-sleep when an urgent rustling sound at the rear of the haus tamberan startled her into consciousness. The fire was low, and she searched the gloom. There was no sign of Singkepe, and she figured he must be outside taking a piss. She had just got to her feet when a man wearing green football shorts stepped through the hole he’d just made with a gleaming machete. His sweaty torso seemed chiselled out of black marble, and his feet were bare.
‘Dokta Mia?’
She felt a surge of joy. It was Kinsame’s son!
‘Tenkyu, Paomente.’ She grasped his leathery hand. ‘We must hariap, PNG soldia close!’
He nodded and gave a low whistle. Three strong young men, also wielding machetes, clambered through the hole. Together they picked up Douglas on the stretcher. They’d hardly taken a step when Singkepe entered the hut. Seeing them, his brow shot up, and he levelled his FN machine gun at their stomachs.
‘Stopim nau!’
Mia stepped between them, hands raised in the air.
‘Please, don’t shoot, Sergeant. These young men are my wantoks.’
The muscles in Singkepe’s face were clenched. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. Tense seconds passed and Mia prayed none of Paomente’s men would try anything, then, unbelievably, Singkepe lowered his weapon and stepped aside.
‘You’re a good person, Doctor Carter. I will not stand in your way.’
She wanted to hug him, but made do with taking his hand.
‘Bless you and your family, Sergeant. Please take care. And help Rob if you can.’
He nodded without conviction. ‘I will try. God bless.’
Unblinking stars studded the firmament as they slipped through the village. There was little moon, and Mia marvelled at how Paomente and his men had reached Hufi in the dark. It was a reminder that, not so very long ago, men like these would have come as a raiding party to steal women and kill warriors for trophies and meat.
Tracking the river, they used faint pathways in the rustling kunai grass. Mia could hear the guttural throb of big salties on the hunt, and hoped there were none in their path. The men maintained an effortless jog which she soon struggled to keep up with.
Inside the rainforest, the darkness was absolute, yet the men slowed only slightly. How they navigated, she could not explain, for the only illumination was occasional fluorescent patches of fungi. Above them, possums called alarms, and bats crashed and swooped in showers of half-eaten fruit. When they took their first break, a ten-minute layover underneath a forest giant festooned in glowing green mushrooms, she heard a large snake gliding through the leaf litter.
‘Longwe?’ Mia asked, hoping he would contradict her.
Paomente’s teeth gleamed, as if under black lights in a New York disco.
‘Ten pela, twenti!’
Hours later, they came to another fungal nightspot, this time by a creek. Badly dehydrated, Mia had no choice but to drink deeply. The water was delicious and cold, with a hint of tannin from the leaves carpeting the bottom. She conveyed some water by hand to Douglas’s lips, and to her surprise he drank greedily.
‘Strewth, I must be dreaming.’
He was looking up at her with a bewildered child-like expression, and she realised the fluorescence was making her blonde hair appear as a dazzling halo.
‘We’re taking you to a hospital, Frank.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Where’s Robbie?’
There was no point worrying him.
‘He’ll catch up with us later.’
They pushed on until the birds sang of the approaching dawn. A squawking and whistling spread into whoops, caws and shrieks. Light began to penetrate the chiaroscuro kaleidoscope of the canopy. Their feet plunged through the moist litter, leaving steaming footprints in the chill air. Signs of habitation appeared: tracks and axe holds on trees; a suspension bridge made of bamboo, timber and rattan.
In familiar territory, the men began to chat happily. They came to a glade, and Mia recognised the outskirts of the village. Chief Kinsame’s house sat in the centre of thirty or so huts, interspersed and sheltered by trees, an elevated building made of rough-hewn timber-slab walls and a bark roof. It reminded Mia that they were deep in the foothills of the mountain range, with the swampy riverine flats far behind them.
Although life was short in Papua, Mia was shocked by how much Kinsame had aged. At forty-five, he was grey and emaciated, worn down by parasitic infections, especially malaria, which was rife.
He simply said, ‘Yu bilong hia.’
The words went straight to her heart.
‘Thank you, Kinsame. I would talk longer with you, but I must go to the mission first and get medicine for my friend.’
‘Misin finis.’ His face was mournful. ‘Soldia stil close.’
‘I understand. But I must go.’
He agreed that Paomente would take her once they had rested. She had known he would because, as wantoks, there was no other choice.
Chapter 28
A thin rectangle of amber sky revealed both the coming dawn and the extraordinary vertical narrowness of the Hoosenbeck Gorge. Viewed from below, it gave the impression of being trapped at the bottom of an immensely deep mineshaft, the sense of foreboding enhanced by a deep and oppressive silence.
Trussed up in a sleeping bag, Nash watched Hartono stiffly clamber out of the chopper and take a piss. Terrified of creepy-crawlies, he’d rejected a perfectly good swag, the structural integrity of which Sura and Boerman had confirmed around midnight. The lovebirds were still sleeping it off on the other side of the now-smouldering fire.
They kitted up after a breakfast of canned beef sausages, powdered eggs and Javanese coffee, ensuring time for ablutions, because once they were suited up there were no acceptable options.
Thankfully, Boerman was familiar with a membrane drysuit and needed no instruction. After squeezing his way into the insulated undersuit, the big man fought his way into the outer skin. Nash had to zip up the overstretched suit for him, because Sura didn’t have the strength. Nash was wearing a more modern suit. It
s semi-rigid matrix construction resisted compression, thus maintaining a thicker layer of warmer air between him and the outside membrane when under pressure. The closeness of the suit had never been a problem before, but now he felt smothered by what was essentially a high-tech plastic bag.
Weighed down with gear, they waddled into the cave and clambered down to the entry ledge, where Hartono had positioned the heavy-duty scooters.
The lithium-battery-powered tubes looked something like a stubby torpedo with a covered propeller. Capable of propelling a diver at speeds of 100 metres a minute for up to eight hours, they extended range and offset fatigue by a huge margin.
‘Take it slow at first.’ Nash made a point of warning his rookie offsider. ‘These things will give you an embolism before you can blink.’
The Afrikaner waved him away. ‘Stop trying to run the show. I know what I am doing.’
Nash glanced pointedly at Sura. If her bad boy screwed up, it would not be his fault.
They waited while Hartono jumped into a small grey inflatable and motored out to the centre of the lake. He threw in a coil of weighted line, which they would use as a guide and for decompression stops. Nash silently counted the seconds as the loops slipped into the water, and his bowels began to clench.
Christ, this thing is deep.
Eventually, Hartono yelled excitedly, ‘It’s down!’
‘Shit, man, what is the fokking reading?’ bellowed Boerman.
‘It’s at 203 metres,’ echoed the reply.
Boerman grinned. ‘We’ll spot it easily.’
Sura looked less confident on her rocky perch.
‘Mr Nash, repeat the plan.’
‘We’ll descend until we see the bottom and no further. That will be around 135 metres or so. We’ll sweep using the same pattern as last time.’ He looked meaningfully at Boerman. ‘No spontaneous descents. Got it?’
‘Ja, I heard you.’
Nash slid his legs into the loops of the scooter harness, pulled on his fins, and clipped himself to the machine. Easing off the ledge, they submerged slowly.