by Jake Avila
In contrast to the day before, Nash was warm and dry. Giving Boerman a thumbs up, he gently depressed the thumb speed control and cruised forward. Moments later, Boerman shot past like Wile E. Coyote on an Acme rocket, veering dramatically up and down, until he got it under control.
They steadily descended, switching from air to trimix, reducing the oxygen percentage to suit increasing partial pressure. At 100 metres they reached Hartono’s line and hovered in the green void. No sign of the bottom, nor the dinghy at the surface. It felt like outer space – the sensation was enhanced by the fact that rebreathers shed no bubbles.
They’d reached 140 metres when slabs of calved-off limestone appeared out of the gloom like giant footsteps stacked haphazardly. Nash arrested their descent with the pale limestone floor visible fifty metres below. There was no time to waste. Every minute spent at this depth would cost them twenty-three minutes of decompression.
At maximum speed, they set off. With the floor of the cave unfolding in the glare of their brilliant lights, it was like flying through the world’s biggest swimming pool, and Nash almost forgot the weight of water above him.
They were traversing the rear wall when a powerful downdraught of frigid pressure struck like an invisible hand and shunted them below 155 metres. Nash circled around to find the cause was a jagged fissure, no larger than a single-car garage, which marked the inlet of the Hoosenbeck. The immense power could only be explained by a charged passage, something like the intake for a hydroelectric generator on a giant dam. Nash realised the water column must extend for hundreds of metres above their heads, all the way to the top of the gorge and the mountain catchment. A secret vertical river, which, quite likely, was inexplorable.
Nash kept nervously rechecking his computer as he guided them towards the front of the cave. Seven minutes. Already, that was two and half hours of deco, and they had seen nothing for the whole 200-metre stretch.
Nine and a half minutes.
Traversing the front wall of the cave, all they found were giant heaps of boulders.
Eleven minutes.
The front left quadrant. As the distance unravelled, Nash knew that unless the submarine had sunk vertically, or had broken into two halves, it simply wasn’t there, and thus his usefulness was about to come to an end.
Boerman was anxiously swinging his head from side to side. At any moment, the big man was going to come to the same inescapable conclusion. Against three, Nash knew he stood no chance, but against two, with the shadows of the cave at his disposal, he might yet find a way to escape and save Mia and Frank.
Boerman was far too strong for direct physical confrontation. Nash considered cutting the big man’s rebreather hoses, but entanglement at this depth would probably kill them both. And should Boerman engage his buoyancy control device, his body would surface.
The back of the Afrikaner’s unprotected head was the solution. Abruptly pulling into a steep climb, Nash gained height before angling back down. At full speed, the nose of his scooter would crack a human skull like a soft-boiled egg.
Nash was almost at maximum acceleration when something on the floor of the lake came into view – a cluster of streamlined tubes. At the last second, he aborted, sweeping around in a tight circle to rejoin the excited Boerman, who looked around and waved a triumphant fist.
It was a seaplane, lying upside down, and in such good condition that it might have been sunk last week. Twin floats stared mutely at the surface, and the red circles underneath each wing were unmistakably Japanese. Nash recalled they had developed a gigantic submarine which could carry several aircraft. How this one had got in here was a mystery. He could only assume someone had flown inside the mouth of the cave – an astonishing feat.
Ascending at nine metres a minute, they reached Hartono’s line and stopped for just two minutes at a depth of 108 metres. It was the start of a complex five-hour-plus decompression sequence, to purge themselves of the dissolved nitrogen in their tissues.
Long deco stops were usually best treated as meditative spaces, but here every minute ticked past interminably as Nash tried to figure out his next move. A seaplane was all well and good, but finding the submarine that had launched it? It could be anywhere, including a thousand kilometres of muddy Sepik river bottom.
At long last, they surfaced next to Hartono, and cruised back across to the ledge where the midday sun streamed prettily into the cave mouth. Hartono helped lift the scooters out and hook them up to the generator to recharge, while Boerman went into a huddle with Sura.
Over a hot, sweet coffee, which stung his swollen mouth, Nash warmed himself up in a patch of sun while Sura and Boerman analysed the survey images on the laptop. Clearly, they were just as confused, and after a short, muted argument, Boerman swore loudly and walked a short distance away to begin throwing stones down the dry river bed.
‘Mr Nash, would you come over here?’ Sura indicated that he sit on a plastic crate and smoothed her shapely thighs. ‘We have a conundrum. There is an Aichi Seiran torpedo bomber down there, which proves my submarine was once inside this cave. My question is – where on earth has it got to?’
Nash blinked at her expectant girlish stare. Did this entitled, self-obsessed maniac expect him to just pull a treasure map out of his arse?
‘Sura, I’m a cave diver, not a psychic. All I can tell you is water runs downhill, so my guess is somewhere downstream.’
Her expression darkened. ‘While you were down there today, I walked for nearly two kilometres along the dry river bed until I reached the resurgence of the river – a crystal-clear pool in which I saw brightly coloured fish swimming along the bottom. And I saw not a single shred of wreckage. Yet we have it on excellent authority the submarine was here.’
Nash stared at her curiously. ‘How can you be so certain?’
‘Because the mooring arrangement fits exactly, as does the seaplane left sitting on the catapult. You see, half the bullion was removed a few years after the war. But when they returned for the rest in the 1950s, the submarine was gone.’
Nash was growing interested despite himself.
‘And you’re certain it’s the Hoosenbeck Cavern? You’ve seen for yourself the lay of the land – there could easily be other caves.’
‘I can assure you we would not have come all this way otherwise.’
‘Maybe you should reconfirm with your source?’
‘No point.’ Her eyes were flat. ‘We don’t make those kinds of mistakes.’
A nerve pulsed in Nash’s jaw. He assumed that meant the source – whoever they were – was dead. Dry-mouthed, he licked his swollen lips and reminded himself that playing devil’s advocate was not in his best interests.
‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’
She nodded and reached into her bag. ‘I have a fragment of a historical transcript which provides details on the submarine and its last voyage.’
Nash glanced at the title – Being the truthful account of Dr Jürgen Fürth (George Ford) – and began to read.
(Date unknown – Monday, 11th June?)
I have been locked up for days now in the stifling heat, and I fear I am losing my mind. The submarine has not moved for many hours – possibly a whole day. I suspect we have reached the end of the navigable river. I have heard sounds of much activity – chains, boots, shouting – but for hours now, silence. I keep banging on the door, but no one has come. Perhaps they have left me to die?
I think we may be under attack! There have been several huge explosions. Thank God it must be over.
(Date unknown – Thursday, 14th June?)
Several days have passed, perhaps more, and we are moving again. I don’t understand it. Are we going back downriver? I did not feel the submarine turn around. I am crushed. Beyond despair. This will be my final entry. I can go on no longer.
(Date unknown – Friday, 15th June?)
She came to me today! My darling. I heard a light knock and then I saw her fingers through the mesh of the d
oor. Kissing them, I bathed them in my tears. ‘Dearest Juju!’ – she called me her pet name, and I cried even harder because I felt I was no longer a human being. She told me there is a plan to kill Heider. The SS suspect he will abandon them and steal the gold. He told me the submarine is hidden inside an enormous flooded cave. Ilse told me to be ready to move at the sound of gunfire. She will come for me when the mutiny starts. She does not trust anyone. We will escape together!
The moment Rob Nash read of the mysterious explosions and the lengthy delay, the fate of the I-403 stood out as starkly as the cluster of dead trees he’d seen from the helicopter. More importantly, it suggested a plausible means of escape!
‘That’s one hell of a story,’ he said, handing the document back to Sura. ‘I’d love to know how it ends.’
She looked at him expectantly. ‘Well?’
‘If you’re ready, let’s go.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘If my hunch is right, your submarine is no more than a ten-minute walk away.’
Chapter 29
Where were the children swinging dizzyingly on the ropes beneath the generous shade of a massive fig? The happy families in brightly coloured clothing, chattering and laughing as they arrived for immunisations, treatments and prenatal checks? The mission had become a ghost of itself. The ropes dangled abjectly, the buildings were devoid of life, and Paul’s plane lay marooned in long grass by the hangar, where even the windsock hung limply.
Mia was edging closer when Paomente froze.
‘Stop,’ he whispered. ‘Bikpela snek!’
She had just been about to step on a Papuan taipan with a girth the size of her calf.
The massive grey serpent reared and hissed, its black eyes intelligent and alert as it swayed within easy striking distance of her face. Paomente was holding a machete, but they both knew the snake was faster. Mia stood stock-still and hoped its innate aggression was tempered by the early hour. Thankfully, the taipan decided to save its venom, and slithered away towards the forest margin. As they watched it vanish into the thick grass, Paomente muttered that it was a bad omen.
‘You can wait here if you like.’
‘No, Dokta Mia.’ He took her hand. ‘Yumitupela go.’
A sea of twinkling glass covered the wide veranda of the new clinic building. Bullet holes were punched through the weatherboards. An air conditioner had been blasted at point-blank range. Senseless.
‘Hello!’ she called out. ‘Is anybody here?’
Inside the foyer they encountered the first of many large bloodstains, and Mia’s spirits sank further. The reception was destroyed. Shot-up filing cabinets looked as if they’d been used for target practice; desks were overturned, and papers and files were strewn over the floor. A nurse’s white shoe lay beside a clipboard. A blood trail led to the staff kitchen and a table covered in yet more blood. The fridges had been ransacked, food and drink thrown on the floor. The power was off; rotting food made the place stink like an abattoir, and the antibiotics she had come for were all spoiled.
Mia couldn’t understand the devastation. Whatever Sura had thought Paul had of value, nothing could explain this level of hatred. In the ward area it continued. Beds were abandoned, sheets lying all over the floor. Bullet holes riddled the ceiling. The destruction was so wanton that she was surprised the place hadn’t been torched.
The house had been ransacked, too. Paul’s precious books, thrown into piles. His files, strewn and dumped. Paintings and photographs were torn out of frames, photo albums ripped to pieces. Even the carpets had been pulled up, loose boards jemmied.
Then Paomente tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Lookim.’
Mia turned around to see a tiny elderly woman in a ragged green floral dress hugging herself with stick-thin arms. Mia stared, aghast. The old housekeeper’s face was a criss-cross of ragged pink scars. Both nostrils had been slit, and her right ear appeared to be missing beneath a dirty bandage. Repairing the damage was going to take extensive reconstructive surgery.
‘Millie? What have they done to you?’
The old woman wept as they embraced.
‘You’ve come back. Oh, thank God, Dokta Mia, I’ve been waiting and praying someone would come.’
Millie led her outside, to a circle of massive European oak trees which Paul had told her were planted more than seventy years ago by his father. In the centre was a sandstone pillar with the name FORD carved in prominent Times Roman. At its base was a pile of raised red earth.
‘My nephew laid him to rest.’ Millie sniffed. ‘He put Dokta Paul there, good and deep.’
Mia began crying. Funny how it took a grave to make it real. She put her hand on the stone and traced her fingers over the names chiselled in italics: Elizabeth and George. Curiously, there were no dates. Paul’s mother’s name was more eroded by the decades of rain. All Mia knew was that she had died when Paul was very young. He had told her it was too painful to talk about his parents, so she had let it be.
Who would carve Paul’s name on the stone now? Mia wondered. Because the bereft and emaciated old woman beside her was like a living ghost among the death and destruction.
Mia put her arm around her. ‘Paul loved you so much.’
‘It’s OK.’ Millie’s hand felt like a small bird’s wing as it patted her forearm. ‘God has answered my prayers. You’ve come back to run the mission for Dokta Paul!’
‘Oh, Millie . . .’
A wave of conflicting emotions washed over Mia. She had planned to come back and work here for at least five years, open to the possibility that, with Paul’s guidance, it might become her life, but what did she know about funding and hospital administration, let alone working under the Indonesian regime?
It reminded her of Sura’s evil, and an icy resolve to get even filled her body.
‘Tell me what happened here, Millie. Tell me everything.’
Haltingly, the old woman explained how two very bad Indonesian men had tortured Paul for gold, and something else he kept in the vault, before executing him.
‘Gold, did you say?’
‘Yes. They took a box, but they said there was much more hidden.’
Mia’s head was spinning.
Why would Paul have kept gold out here? And where did he get it?
She listened in mounting dismay as Millie recounted how the Indonesians had gone on to get drunk and raped Nurse Jilly, before shooting everyone, except her, because they thought she was already dead.
It was so shocking and awful that Mia had to push the images away to concentrate on what needed to happen now.
‘These men, Millie . . . would you know them if you saw them again?’
She nodded promptly. ‘The one who cut me. Him short and very strong.’
Although she had anticipated it, Mia’s heart skipped a beat.
‘And the other?’
‘The pilot was tall with . . .’ Millie held up two circles over her eyes.
‘Sunglasses?’ Millie nodded, and then Mia pointed at her mouth. ‘White teeth?’
‘That’s him!’ Millie’s excitement abruptly drained away. ‘He’s a very bad man, too.’
Mia thought for a moment. Goki might be dead, but Hartono was a link to Sura – maybe a way to make her pay for this horror. Taking the old woman firmly by the hands, Mia looked into her eyes.
‘We’re going to Kinsame’s village. Then I will get you out of Papua. I will take you to my home in America, then you can tell the world what they did here and get justice for Doctor Paul.’
The old woman blinked several times.
‘But Dokta Mia. We must fix the hospital.’
Mia bit her lip and tried not to cry.
‘Millie, try to understand, it’s not safe here anymore. I can’t protect you.’
Paomente stiffened and cupped a hand to his ear.
‘Doktor Mia! Harim samting nogut.’
It was the dull throb of an approaching helicopter.
Not the clattering beat of the Jet Ranger – something much bigger and ominous.
‘Indonesian soldia!’ His eyes went wide with terror.
For a moment Mia wondered whether she should stay. Whatever Sura’s designs, it was unlikely the whole Indonesian army was involved in a gold heist, otherwise why bother sneaking in via PNG? Perhaps these soldiers were looking for Sura, too?
Paomente was having none of it, and he almost wrenched her arm out of its socket.
‘Ronwe nau! Go, go, go!’
Together they half-carried a terrified Millie to the orchard, where the safety of the forest lay just beyond the lines of mango trees. Halfway down a row, Mia thought they were going to make it until she glanced over her shoulder. The gigantic olive-green helicopter, with glinting Perspex cylinders at the nose and two domes for eyes, was bearing down upon them like a predatory insect. The noise drummed their flesh as it thundered across the top of them, almost blowing them off their feet in a stinky waft of avgas. At the end of the orchard, it lazily swung around.
‘Go hia!’ Paomente headed right.
Mia caught a blinding flash of orange.
Brrraaapppt!
Three mango trees in the row beside them disintegrated in flashes of wood chip and white smoke. A rain of stinging sap burned their eyes and skin. Paomente reversed direction, but this time two more trees on the other side were blown to pieces. The Indonesians were toying with them!
‘Stop!’ cried Mia, pulling them up. ‘It’s no good. They’ll kill us.’
Paomente frantically shook his head. ‘No, no! I mas go!’
‘They always kill blackpela!’ Millie shouted, her voice barely audible over the roar.
Mia knew she had to do something. Releasing them, she faced the killing machine and put her hands in the air.
‘Here I am!’ she shouted, slowly waving her arms back and forth. ‘Come and get me!’
Paomente and Millie hesitated. Then, they headed in opposite directions, Millie hobbling back towards the mission, Paomente sprinting for home.