“I’ve already arranged with CASA to send their rescue helicopter out at first light tomorrow, so we should hear something about seven…seven-fifteen.”
“Shall we come to the airstrip about then?”
Philip paused before he answered her. The possibility of bad news was very likely under the circumstances and he had no wish for them to hear that in the operations room. It would be far better if he collected all the information first.
“No, don’t do that. I can’t tie CASA down to an exact time. I’ll ring you.”
“All right, Philip…thank you.”
Jennifer replaced the phone and Kate grabbed her hand, covering her mouth to prevent herself crying again, with her other hand.
“Well…what did he say?” Kate asked.
“The plane looks okay. They even set up a sunshade, would you believe?”
“Did they come out when the plane passed over?”
“No, Mum…but you can’t read anything into that. The Lear is very fast, it was almost dark and they may well be too exhausted to leave the plane.”
Adam joined in. “She’s right, Mum. At least they know where they are.”
Kate left them and made her way upstairs to her bedroom.
There was no discussion about the helicopter arriving in the morning; no questions about what else Philip had said. It was as if Kate already knew.
Adam shook his head and wandered into the lounge where the television was playing to itself. Jennifer was a little more concerned about her mother’s state of mind and followed her upstairs. She walked into her bedroom. There was no light on. The sun had finally disappeared on the other side of the Indian Ocean, but there was still an orange glow radiating from the horizon; enough to light the room.
Kate was standing in the eerie light with her back to the chest-of-drawers. She was holding what appeared to be a present.
“What’s that?” Jennifer asked.
Kate turned her head with a vague expression.
“Pardon?”
“It looks like a present.”
Kate continued fondling the package wrapped in silver paper covered with little drummer boys. “It is… It’s your dad’s birthday present.”
Surprise crossed Jennifer’s face. She had obviously forgotten.
“Sorry…I forgot,” she said. “When is it?”
Kate turned round and put the present back in the top drawer. “This Friday.”
“Oh dear…how old is he?”
“Fifty-five,” she answered, and let out a low chuckle.
“I was worried about the wrapping paper; it was all I had after wrapping young Stephen’s present last week. I was worrying for nothing.” Kate sat back on the bed, and there was a whimpering sound as if she was trying to stifle her cries.
“Dad’s going to be all right, you’ll see…he’s a survivor. And when he gets back we’ll have a big party with a cake and fifty-five candles. And believe me, he’ll laugh at all the drummer boys.”
“Maybe so, but no candles. Your dad has a thing about his age.”
Jennifer took hold of her mother’s hand, “He’s not the only one.”
By seven-ten the following morning the Sikorsky Rescue helicopter arrived at the Cessna’s coordinates. The pilot spotted the crumpled silver cross covered in the blue tarpaulin. He circled several times expecting someone to come out of the plane and wave their arms skyward, but there was no sign of life.
“I don’t like the look of that,” the pilot said, turning towards his co-pilot and giving him the nod.
Helicopters, especially ones as big as the Sikorsky, had a problem landing on soft surfaces; their rotors created a downdraft that lifted the dust, or sand as in this case, into a swirling cloud that obliterated the landing site. So it was his co-pilot’s job to open the door and stand on the rail to inspect the site and guide the helicopter down to the surface.
“Out you go, Baz,” the pilot shouted over the intercom.
“Oh, I hate this bit. Can’t you just set down here?”
“What and end up like them, and wait for someone to come and get us?”
Baz unhooked his harness from the seat, worked his way across to the large door and hooked himself to the frame. By now the pilot had found a likely spot a few metres in front of the plane on the gravel of the dry riverbed. He switched on the green light above the door and Baz slid it open.
As the helicopter hovered over the chosen site, the loose material began to rise in the downdraft and Baz stepped out on the side-rails to guide him down.
“Three metres…two metres…one. Hold it…left a bit…a bit more.”
As they dropped lower the rotors formed a spiral of swirling sand. This was the bit Baz hated: not hanging out of the door on his harness, but being surrounded by masses of flying stones and small fragments. The dust got in everywhere, despite his sealed helmet, overalls and gloves.
“Okay, you’re down,” he shouted, watching the heavy bulk settle onto the ground; he unhooked himself and jumped down.
As the cloud of sand settled and Baz slid shut the door, the pilot switched everything off, opened his hatch and climbing down the rungs he jumped down beside him. Their first priority was to walk around the helicopter to make sure it was secure and ready to take off when they had completed their mission. Satisfied everything was in order, they made their way to the crash site.
They’d landed on the damaged side of the plane so they were curious to see it leaning badly to one side with the crumpled wing covering the door. They continued on around the nose. Baz touched the propeller and ducked under the good wing.
“This side’s all right,” the pilot commented.
As they reached the door they were surprised to see how fogged the windows were. But not as surprised as the shock they got when they opened the door. The smell hit them first; it made them step back and almost retch. It was a familiar smell. A sweet, stomach-retching smell that often made them consider if they were in the right job; until they realised this was why they were in Rescue.
The knowledge that there was a dead body inside was bad enough, but when they realised it was their good friend, Joe, and he was still sitting in his seat; it made them turn away and move under the wing.
After the smell had cleared, Baz realised someone had to identify the corpse. He returned to the open door, leaned across the passenger seat and placed his fingers on Joe’s neck to confirm he was dead. At the same time he checked the tag on Joe’s leather jacket. He nodded his head: it read ‘Joe Cirano’.
“Mike…I thought there was supposed to be a passenger,” Baz questioned.
Mike was leaning against the wing having a smoke to clear the smell that lingered in his nostrils. He reached into the pocket above his knee and took out a pad with the details of the crashed plane, its occupants’ names and coordinates.
“According to this the pilot is Joe Cirano, we know that, and a Mr Dexter.”
“So where’s Mr Dexter?” Baz asked.
“Is there any sign of him in the cockpit?”
Baz looked around noticing the mess. There were empty water bottles, Mars Bar wrappings, a half-eaten Hard Tack biscuit and a tablet. He then swung round and checked the rear seats. That was interesting. He found Martin’s holdall with all his clothes inside, a crumpled jacket and the emergency rations carton.
That was it, he thought, until he picked up the jacket and went through the pockets. Nothing – they were all empty. Then, as he was about to toss it back with the other stuff, he noticed a tag inside the collar. It read Martin Dexter.
“I’ve found a jacket with his name inside, so he was definitely on the plane. And get this…so were all his clothes. He checked the holdall again.
“Anything in there,” Mike said, finally poking his head inside.
“Just the clothes I mentioned and here we are…a work sheet, a clipboard with some technical specs on it and a pair of goggles.”
“Wait a minute,” Mike said. “This is his work bag. H
e’s changed his clothes.”
“I don’t know…maybe he messed himself.” Mike finally had to look in Joe’s direction. “What’s that in his hand?” he asked Baz.
Baz reached to the small rolled-up piece of paper in Joe’s clenched fist, withdrew it and opened it out. “Well, I never,” Baz let out in surprise. “It appears our passenger was found by an Aborigine.”
“Does it say where he’s taken him?”
Baz passed the note to Mike, “No. Just that he’s out of water.”
Mike shook his head, put the note in his breast pocket and stepped out of the plane. “Okay. You see if we can get Joe out of his door while I go and radio the news to AMINCO headquarters.”
“Why do I always get the dirty jobs?”
“Because I’m wearing the wings.”
Back in the AMINCO operations room Philip was patiently waiting for news from the helicopter. He kept checking his watch. It was nine-fifteen; they should have found the plane by now. Then out of the shadows he heard Josh’s voice calling him. He walked the short distance into his small enclave. Josh turned to face him with a sombre expression on his face.
Philip stared back at him, “It’s bad news. Isn’t it?”
“A bit of both, boss,” Josh replied, handing him the message. “Joe’s dead and Martin was not in the plane.”
“What do you mean he’s not in the plane?” he shouted, snatching the paper from him. He read what it said just as Josh was reciting the words.
“An Aborigine came and took him with him.”
Philip read it twice looking for an explanation, “Took him with him?”
Josh shrugged his shoulders.
“Is the pilot still on line?”
“Yes, boss,” Josh replied, flipping a switch and handing Philip the microphone. “Just press the button and speak.”
“This is Philip Hastings, the Operations Manager; who’s this? Over.”
“Mike Spelling, the pilot. Over.”
“Good…can you expand on your last message that an Aborigine took Mr Dexter? Took him where? Over.”
“I have nothing to add, Mr Hastings. That’s all the note said. Over.”
“Have you any idea which way they went? Over.”
Before he replied there seemed to be a commotion near him. “Sorry about that. It appears there’s a weather front moving in on us. We’ll have to leave. Over.”
“What about my question? Over.”
“Oh yes…sorry about that. We reconnoitred the immediate area and came across two sets of footprints heading west – a boot and a bare foot. Over.”
“Can you check the area? Over.”
“That’s a negative. This bad weather is heading in our direction. I can’t afford to hang around. We’ll have to pick up the search later. Over and out.”
“Hello…are you there? Over.” Philip called out.
“That’s it, boss…he’s switched off,” Josh said.
“Damn, damn,” Philip cried out, walking back to the chart table to see what was west of the plane. Bryce joined him.
“I heard. This doesn’t seem to get any better.”
Philip picked out the point where Bryce had marked the plane’s position and studied the open terrain to the west. “He can’t be taking Martin to the coast.”
“I have no idea, Philip. If we can get the helicopter back up when this weather front has moved on we might spot them before they get too far away.”
“What have you got on this so-called weather front?”
“By the looks of the satellite radar it’s a broad band heading their way. I’d say it’s one of those mini-tornados. They call them willy-willies.”
“Can you have a mini-tornado?”
“They’re categorised as a spiralling dust storm actually.”
Philip sat down by the table and buried his head in his hands.” What on earth am I going to tell Kate?”
“Just tell her how it is, Philip.”
“Oh, that’s fine. Sorry, Kate, we’ve found the plane but your husband’s not in it. He’s gone walkabout with an Aborigine.”
“Look on the bright side, Philip. At least he’s still alive; not dead like poor old Joe. Now you are going to have a problem with his mother.”
Philip’s panicked expression gave way to an even worse look of horror. “Oh my God,” he uttered. “I forgot all about Joe.” He turned and shouted back to Josh, “Are they bringing Joe’s body back with them?”
“Yes, boss…I thought I told you.”
“Thanks, Josh,” he replied, and turning back to Bryce, he said, “They’ll be here in no time. I’ll have to make arrangements with the morticians.”
“Won’t CASA have something to say about that?”
“You’re right, Bryce. I forgot about them.”
CHAPTER 13
It was the fourth day when Willy shook Martin. His black silhouette was standing above him with the red ball of the sun just above his shoulder. It was an amusing sight. A little more to the left and the sun would have been behind his head, making him look like a saint.
“Why is the sun so red?” Martin asked.
“Bad sun,” Willy replied, handing Martin another strip of jerky and his gourd of water. He was in a different mood this morning. He seemed in a hurry.
“What’s your hurry, Willy?” Martin said, as he was lifted onto his feet.
“We must hurry…find shelter before it comes.”
“Before what comes?”
“Before that comes,” he shouted, turning Martin around to face the wall of dust heading their way.
Martin was in no mood for more disasters. His head was aching, his arm was giving him hell and despite a full night of sleep, he felt exhausted. He suspected his afflictions were due to lying on the ground, regardless of Willy digging a bed for him.
Despite not seeing so well, there was no mistaking the swirling mass heading in their direction. Willy had already set off and Martin turned to follow him. He was setting a brisk pace, too brisk for Martin to catch up, so he decided it was enough to keep him in view. He had no idea where he was going to avoid the storm and wondered why he had left the trees, until he realised Willy was heading for a small mound in the distance. Under normal circumstances it would be insignificant, but out here, where you can see to infinity, the slightest bump becomes important.
When Martin finally arrived at a small outcrop of sandstone slabs, Willy was already digging furiously between two upright rocks. On the surface they were no more than a metre high; hardly a worthwhile barrier against the raging mass that was almost upon them. But below that, Willy was up to his waist.
Martin kneeled down, removed his hard-hat and began scraping away the sand Willy had already excavated. It had begun to fall back into the hole and Willy nodded his approval as he continued to dig.
“You pile all this sand up like a wall over there,” Willy said, climbing out of the hole and walking over to the scattered trees nearby.
Although Martin vowed he would not look at the approaching mass, his curiosity got the better of him. The swirling miasma was almost upon them and as he continued frantically building the wall he shouted at Willy, “What the Hell is that thing? It doesn’t look like the sandstorm I was in the other day.”
Willy returned with a handful of branches. “We call it a willy-willy,” he said, digging the branches into the bank Martin was making.
Martin had to laugh, despite the situation. “Don’t tell me that’s something to do with your name.”
“Sometime I’ll tell you the story,” he said, walking back to the trees.
As soon as Willy had thrust the last branch into the embankment, which now would act as a shield to protect the hole, he helped Martin into the bottom close up to the rock he had been digging against and jumped in himself. Once inside, he pulled the shield over them and they waited.
It was an agonising wait. They heard it first. An express train that Martin was sure was about to tear them apart. It seemed to have
the same ferocity as the one that had attacked the plane. But there was a difference. With the first one Joe and Martin had the protection of the fuselage to save them; here, all Willy and Martin had were a couple of rocks, a few acacia branches and each other.
At first Martin felt a suffocatingly warm blast of air that popped his ears and took his breath away. According to Willy, it was the desert air that was being pushed out of the way. Then there was a short calm and as Martin closed his eyes and prayed, the corkscrew hit them.
The sound was unbelievable. It was what Martin imagined it would be like in a washing machine without the water. Although he was not tumbled about as he had the rock to hold onto, a force beyond his description was trying to suck him out of the hole. Every piece of loose material was spinning around the hole with them. Martin had to bury his face in his free hand whilst trying to hold onto his hat. Willy was trying his best to protect Martin’s arm and at the same time hang onto his own belongings.
The willy-willies came in waves. No sooner had one passed, another followed, with the only consolation being that with each successive attack they grew weaker. They were blowing themselves out until eventually the swirling mass was reduced to no more than a normal sandstorm. That was bad enough, as Willy found out when he tried to see outside the hole.
“No good yet,” he said, spluttering and spitting out sand.
By late afternoon, when the express train had passed and the cacophony had diminished, Martin still had an irritating ringing in his ears. Willy was trying to say something, but it sounded far away and muffled. He resorted to sign language. He was attempting to get Martin out of the hole.
“Now it’s good to leave. We must make camp.”
Apart from the bottom of the hole being full of sand up to his calves, his upper body was entangled with the branches. Willy wriggled his way clear and freed Martin from the branches. He then reached down for Martin’s waist and dragged him out of the hole.
The sight was amazing. The sky was bright blue again and as Martin turned a full circle he regained his position with the sun. It was to his right, well past the overhead position but not yet heading for sunset in the west. He could hear Willy but not see him. He was rummaging about somewhere amongst the group of rocks. He had taken his spear with him and there was an occasional sound of digging.
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