by Jake Avila
Nash pointed skywards. ‘It’s the mountain catchment you need to worry about. The sinkhole is filling due to back pressure in the subterranean system. Which means the level of the Hoosenbeck Cavern will be rising, too.’
‘And if it overflows the cave?’ Alatas asked this archly.
‘You mean when it overflows the cave? Then it’s going to barrel down this river bed in a raging torrent, and then you’ll have it coming from above and below.’
As the Indonesians glanced at each other, an opportunistic gambit popped into Nash’s mind.
‘You can’t stop it,’ he emphasised. ‘It’s just a matter of time, and I reckon sooner rather than later.’
‘There’s still three hours until dawn.’ Sura gave Alatas a worried frown.
‘I’d monitor the cave,’ advised Nash casually. ‘Get a sense of how fast it is rising, then plan how much time you have left.’
Boerman looked immediately suspicious, and Nash thought he’d overdone it, but then Alatas nodded.
‘Yes . . . that sounds logical. How would you do that?’
‘Construct a depth marker in the cave. It will let you estimate time and volume on the overflow.’
Nash briefly explained what materials he would need.
‘Jaap, take him up there now,’ Sura commanded. ‘Get it done.’
‘And take these men with you, too.’ Alatas nodded at the bedraggled guards outside. ‘Leave one with a radio to report on the water level in the cave.’
Clamping a paw on Nash’s shoulder, Boerman propelled him outside to a supply tent to collect the materials he had listed: timber, tools, synthetic cord, gaffer tape and a measure. Finding these under flashlight was not easy in the chaos of plastic crates, and Boerman grew increasingly irate at the Indonesians’ lack of organisation.
‘Call yourselves professional soldiers? It’s a fucking disgrace.’
At the rear of the tent was the weapons rack Nash had been hoping for. But the proximity of the guards made it impossible to investigate. Then Boerman came to his rescue.
‘Are you two going to just fucking stand there?’ he bellowed. ‘Membantu kita menemukan gaffer tape!’
As the guards began opening crates, Nash slipped to the back of the tent. His plan required a concealed weapon – a pistol or a knife with which to ambush these three en route to the cave. With the deafening thunder and the rain bucketing down, no one would hear the shots or screams. He could improve their odds and sneak back down here before dawn.
His heart soon sank. While three automatic rifles and a pump-action shotgun were perfect for their dawn attack, there was nothing remotely concealable here.
Nash glanced out at Sura’s illuminated command tent. What if he dropped Boerman and the guards fast . . . would that give him time to take out the leadership? Frank could then help take out converging guards in the chaos . . .
Nash ran a hand down the smooth barrel of the shotgun.
Pick it up and there’s no turning back. It might not even be loaded . . .
On the other hand, a better chance might not present itself. He was poised to commit himself when his fingers encountered the thin security cable running through the trigger guard. He’d almost blown it!
He was easing away when his foot encountered a low wooden box. With Boerman and the Indonesians still cursing among the crates, Nash reached in.
Jackpot!
Beneath his fingertips lay a cluster of heavy steel balls. Casually, he transferred a hand grenade to the deep pocket of his hiking pants.
He was reaching for a second when Boerman growled, ‘Come here, Nash.’
Heart in mouth, he approached, blinking in the light of the big man’s head torch. Then Boerman shoved a bag of materials and a three-metre length of timber into his arms.
‘Let’s go, genius.’
They trudged up the gorge in the rain and darkness, and the grenade seemed to grow heavier with every step. The big man led them alongside the river bed, now knee-deep in storm water run-off, with the guards bringing up the rear, but what Nash needed was a tight grouping. And what then? After pulling the pin, would he have three or five seconds? And how exactly did you even pull the pin? Wasn’t there a safety catch? He considered taking the grenade back to Douglas – it would be perfect for taking out the crowded mess tent – but the bulge looked like a baseball in the pocket of his soaking pants, and they always searched him before letting him get back inside the tent.
As they clambered up to the ledge to the cave mouth, the rain-streaked Jet Ranger appeared mournfully out of the gloom. What had Sura said just before he came in? I will fly the first load down tomorrow and send Ricki back for the second.
Nash’s mouth went dry as he understood what he needed to do.
After the driving rain, it was eerily silent inside the Hoosenbeck Cavern. A silence loaded with threat. Nash fancied he could feel the vibration in the rock beneath his boots, of all those hidden tonnes of water flowing through the exit passage.
While Boerman shone his torch on the ledge they’d used as the entry point, Nash removed the roll of cord from the bag and transferred it to his pocket. The knowledge of what he was about to do made every movement feel artificial, and he was sure the guards would read his intent like a book.
‘It’s come up at least a metre.’ Boerman sounded worried. ‘What now?’
‘Carve depth marks on the timber,’ replied Nash. ‘Then stack rocks around it, so it doesn’t float away.’
Boerman stared at him incredulously. ‘We came all the way up here for that? Why the fuck would you bother, when one of these dickheads can simply stand here and watch?’
It was completely unnecessary. But Nash had guessed rightly that Sura would go for any semblance of control, and take comfort in measured increments.
He shrugged. ‘You want to go back down there and tell her, then?’
Angrily, Boerman picked up the length of timber from the ground and pulled out his combat knife. As Nash turned to go, he snarled, ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’
‘We need rocks and they’re outside.’
‘Tinggal bersamanya,’ Boerman snapped. Stay with him.
It was clear the Kopassus troopers didn’t take kindly to receiving orders from a foreign mercenary who referred to them as dickheads, nor did they fancy another drenching in the pouring rain. While they sheltered in the mouth of the cave, Nash located a large rock and carried it back inside to dump beside Boerman. After his third load, the guards lit up cigarettes and Nash seized his chance.
Scurrying over to the Jet Ranger, he rolled underneath. With trembling fingers, he pulled out a length of the synthetic cord, tied one end to the grenade’s ring pull, and experimentally tugged. It wouldn’t budge until he removed the safety clip preventing accidental removal, which took another ten seconds to figure out by feel.
Nash glanced anxiously over his shoulder. The glowing cigarette ends in the cave mouth were still stationary, but for how much longer? It was tempting to just wrap the cord a few times around a skid, but he could not risk his handiwork being discovered in daylight. At last he found a convenient niche to secrete the grenade, in a bracket weld where the landing skid braces intersected.
He had just unravelled the remaining cord when a guard yelled, ‘Di mana dia?’
Flashlights swept back and forth in the rain. Rolling on to his stomach, Nash wrapped the free end of the cord several times around a large flat rock, before tying it off with a hasty half hitch. They were almost on him now. Keeping the helicopter between them, he crawled a few metres, undid his trousers, and squatted a split second before the flashlight beams found him.
‘Jangan bergerak!’ an angry voice challenged.
‘Sorry, had to go!’
There was a pause before they averted their beams.
‘Cepat . . . hurry up!’
Nash waited a few moments, then he stood up and buckled his trousers.
‘What the fuck took you
so long?’ Boerman challenged when they returned to the cave.
‘Call of nature.’ Nash dropped two more rocks down with a thud. ‘You want some more?’
The big man had finished carving increments on the timber staff and had positioned it on the ledge. Even as Nash watched him add the rocks to the pile, the water was visibly creeping higher.
‘Enough of this bullshit.’ Boerman wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘If it floats away, one of these dickheads can go for a swim and fetch it.’
Chapter 37
‘Poetic justice,’ Douglas murmured in the gloom of the tent. ‘I like it. And if our attack goes to plan, we can always disarm your party trick and fly the Jet Ranger out of here. Would be less explaining to do on the other side of the border, too.’
Douglas was right. Not only did they have to escape from Indonesian Papua; they ran the very real risk of retribution in PNG, and could not count themselves safe until they were off the island completely.
Nash looked down at the shadowy form of Mia, fast asleep under the coarse blanket, and felt like crawling in beside her. Then he thought of all those crazy night surfs, how he had wished for death to take away the pain. Now death was staring him in the face, he realised how much he wanted to live again.
Douglas seemed to divine this in the darkness.
‘You’ll do fine tomorrow, laddie.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so – you’re a chip off the old block.’
‘Did you two see much action, Frank?’ Nash was curious, because his father had never spoken of the war.
‘Hell yeah. We got strafed and bombed, mostly from trigger-happy Yanks, but your dad never flinched. I used to call him the Party-Pooper, because when the bullets were flying, he was pretty much the same as when we were docked in port.’ Douglas grunted to himself. ‘The thing about your dad is he never took short cuts, and he always planned meticulously. Sound familiar? Of course, I was the exact opposite. A hothead, good for a bar fight, not so good when it came to strategy.’ Douglas chuckled nostalgically. ‘Hard to believe we were such good mates.’
‘I always wondered why you two drifted apart.’
‘Peter grew up and I didn’t. That’s why I stayed in the navy. But then I pushed it too far. Flew drunk and crashed. An airman died. Dishonourable discharge.’ In the near darkness, Douglas looked away. ‘No one in the service gave me the time of day after that. Your mum and dad, though, they kept a seat at the table . . . I just hope it wasn’t charity.’
‘It wasn’t, Frank.’
There was a long pause with just the rain drumming down.
‘Robbie, I’m so sorry I got you into this. I really am.’
‘Crazy as it sounds, Frank, I’d rather be here. When you came, I was in a very dark place. I’m not out of it yet, but I can see a chink of light. Enough to make me believe there is an end to it – and maybe a beginning, too.’
Douglas surprised him by ruffling his hair. ‘Robbie, lad, if I’ve learned one thing in this life, you’ve got to forgive yourself before you can move on. No one else can do it for you.’
Work had begun before dawn, with shouted orders and the rumble of generators powering up. Portable tower lights cast a strange yellow glow over the scene, making it look like some bleak pit mining operation from the nineteenth century. And all the while, the rain kept tumbling down under black skies.
‘Well, that’s torn it,’ muttered Douglas, peering through the tent flap at the bustle of activity.
‘Plan B, then.’ Nash was dry-mouthed with fear and anticipation.
Douglas turned to them. ‘When Sura’s chopper blows, I’ll come out firing. So, take your chance wherever you are, because you won’t get another.’
Mia looked at each of them in dismay.
‘This is not a plan. It’s going out in a blaze of glory.’ Her eyes searched Nash’s. ‘There must be another way.’
‘If there is, you’ve got about fifteen seconds to think of it.’ Douglas cocked the MP40. ‘Our friends are coming.’
He lay back down on his stretcher and pulled the blanket over the weapon.
Nash put his hand on Mia’s arm. ‘We’re out of options.’
Mia flung her arms around him, then Douglas.
‘Goodbye, Frank.’
Nash embraced him, too.
‘Don’t look back,’ Douglas whispered. ‘Fight, run . . . it doesn’t matter – just fucking survive, you hear me?’
In two gleaming yellow piles, the gold bullion was stacked on a blue tarpaulin. It was a production line: Boerman was down inside the submarine, jemmying open the stubborn drawers, passing the precious bars out to a soldier, who placed them in a steel bucket. This was carefully hauled up, ten kilos at a time, through the hole cut in the submarine’s hull, to the sinkhole edge. From there the bars were passed, one by one, along a line of soaking wet soldiers, with Sura and Alatas there to ensure none found their way down a pocket.
Kitted up in his drysuit, Nash watched on with Mia. He sensed their moment was passing. The end of the gorge was invisible in thick grey cloud, and he feared Sura would be unable to fly out.
Making matters worse, she was about to put them to work.
Clutching a walkie-talkie, Sura squelched across in an oversized poncho.
‘The Hoosenbeck has risen a metre in the last fifteen minutes and is close to the lip. You two will be roped down to help salvage the opium.’
Nash exchanged glances with Mia. This was a disaster. Frank would be left fighting on his own, and they would be trapped like rats in a bucket.
‘Take your gear for when it becomes necessary to dive, Mr Nash. Should you attempt an escape, your girlfriend will be shot.’ Sura smirked briefly at Mia. ‘Are we clear? Your fate is in your own hands.’
It was a pantomime; they all knew this woman intended to kill them. Staring into Sura’s disingenuous eyes, Nash realised he was glad that she was going to die. A flicker of something entered her expression – some flash of intuition – and he quickly got back in character and looked down.
‘Yes, perfectly.’
With fingers clumsy from cold and nerves, Nash strapped on his preferred rebreather. Clipping mask and fins to his weight belt, he also decided to take a small pony tank of emergency compressed air. The size of a large vacuum flask, it contained just 540 litres, good for about nine minutes at shallow depth. Its purpose was to allow Mia to hide underwater, because if Sura’s numbers were correct, around sixteen Olympic-sized swimming pools were pouring into the Hoosenbeck Cavern every half an hour, and they were going to be inundated at any moment.
A powered winch had been set up to access the stern of the submarine. There was no harness; they were simply shoved into a cargo net which creakingly lifted them up.
‘The overflow will hit us very soon,’ Nash told Mia as they were lowered into the vine-shrouded overhang. ‘Whether Sura flies or not, all we can do now is buy time –’ He broke off as frigid run-off from the sinkhole edge coursed over them and made her gasp. ‘Use this pony tank and get underwater. Stay shallow and use the submarine as cover. Use the sinkhole walls, too, find underhangs to stay out of sight.’
‘I can’t stop thinking about Frank.’ He could feel her trembling against him.
‘He’ll know what to do.’
Nash felt terrible leaving the old man, too. He figured Douglas would take as many as he could to give them a chance. But would it be anything like enough?
They passed through the log pile and between their dangling feet the flattened stern of the I-403 came into view, a rusty peninsula surrounded by jade-green water. A soldier was squatting by a square hole cut aft of the deck gun with the oxy. Dense mist rose up as the water met the warmer air.
‘See how turbid it is?’ Nash said, as they swayed back and forth. ‘They won’t be able to see you underwater.’
‘But how are we ever going to get out of here?’
Mia was staring, wide-eyed, at the vertical walls and the imp
ossible spectacle of the inverted submarine. Her fear was mounting with good reason, but he needed her not to panic.
‘It’s going to fill fast, remember?’ He kissed her cheek quickly and tried not to think of water temperature and all the other variables ranged against them. ‘Just focus on staying alive, and we’ll float to the top.’
A young NCO with darting eyes helped free them from the tangles of the cargo net – no easy task at a twenty-five-degree angle. Rapping Nash’s equipment with the barrel of his pistol, he yelled, ‘No room! No room!’
Nash quickly hooked the rebreather over the breech of the deck gun and wedged his fins into a raised edge of broken plate. With a nod to Mia, he clipped the pony tank on, too.
‘You go, you go!’ The NCO waggled his pistol at the rough-cut hole. It looked mean, dark and dangerous. ‘You go, you go!’
The NCO’s voice rose in pitch. For a moment Nash seriously contemplated trying to seize the weapon, but then he saw the upturned face of another armed soldier waiting inside the submarine.
The hole was less than a metre square, and Nash had to squeeze his broad shoulders through before dropping into thigh-deep, freezing water. LED lights illuminated a steep and dangerously corroded passageway which ran on through another bulkhead. Then Mia’s shapely legs appeared. After helping her down, Nash took her by the hand, and they followed the soldier, sloshing through the water until they stepped through a bulkhead door into a vast engine bay stinking of grease which, thankfully, was still dry.
The twin engines contained within the double-height compartment were primitive-looking beasts, each the size of a medium truck, and Nash was astounded to see a second pair in the adjoining hull through the interconnecting hatch. No wonder this leviathan had been able to power its way around the world.
They stepped aside to let two troopers carrying plywood tea chests pass by. The opium within gave off a thick cloying smell that was resinous and earthy, reminiscent of hashish, although more bittersweet. Through the bulkhead door ahead, they saw another soldier hoisting a tea chest to his shoulder.
‘Ayolah!’ he yelled at his comrade who was escorting them. ‘Percepat!’ Hurry up!