Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery)

by Gregory House

  As predicted, the small boats had patrolled up and down the southern side of the basin until Peter had stashed the computer and mobile, then, as if obeying an unseen command, they headed towards the inlet. What do yeah know, Pete was right. They’d lured in the whalers. Score one for the Great White Whale. Moving closer, they watched them split onto two groups. The first checked their radios and, under the leadership of that buzz cut yank, moved off up slope into the bush. The second didn’t. They hung around the parked boats and one was hers! The boat guards swivelled their heads staring off into the early evening twilight. Lampie suppressed a curse. Great, they had a choice, preferably her inflatable, but not if that pair of goons hung around. Maybe if they shifted closer to the water’s edge using the cover along the shore line.

  She put her mouth close to Peter’s fern covered ear. “Pete we’ve got to edge along the shore.”

  A pair of very wide eyes swung towards her followed by a hissed question. “What about the crocodiles? You said before this place was packed with them.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about the salties, Pete. Not here.”

  “Really? Didn’t you say that mangroves where their natural habitat?”

  “Yeah that’s mostly true. Here’s fine.”

  “Why? Was this one of the regions cleared by croc hunters?”

  “Well yeah it was, but that’s not the reason.”

  “Ohh?”

  “Well, in this stretch there aren’t any salties, cos the sharks ate them.”

  “Sharks! What sharks? You didn’t mention anything about sharks!

  “It’s all right. This time of the evening’ll be safe enough.”

  Peter’s reply reeked of suspicion. “Pray tell why!”

  “The larger ones will be busy with the fish caught in the tidal surge. We only have the little ones in this part of the basin.”

  “How little?

  Lampie gave a shrug. “Only five to six foot.”

  “Only Aussies would call a six foot, sharp toothed, top range predator little!” Having got that pointed assessment of Australian character off his chest, Peter subsided into a few whispered mutters.

  Shaking her head over the peculiarities of Poms, Lampie began to move down to the water’s edge. The guards, as guards do after their superior disappears, relaxed and swapped tales about the rest of the team. They appeared very certain this job was damned close to a holiday. Lampie ground her teeth as she overhead their considered appreciation of that ‘blonde archaeologist’ over there in the bush and their deep mutual regret over not gettin’ the chance. Then the conversation moved onto other more useful issues.

  “How long y’reckon till the yank’ll finds them two, Red?” The twitching shadow let out a low groan and the sound of slowly rupturing fart echoed down toward the creeping Lampie and Peter.

  “Cripes! Arrgh! Sorry about that Sammy.”

  “Man, you gots ta’ lay off those chillies.” Sammy stepped away and waved his hand in the air while his companion made awkward stretching noises before replying in a strained voice.

  “Fuckin’ soon mate! Didn’t yeah hear him promise Mr Wallace. He stood straighter than a fuckin’ flagpole snapped off that yank salute and said ‘Yesirr I’ll get’em or my name ain’t Staff Sergeant Larry H Carlew Sirr’. Mate it a was fuckin’ parade!”

  That got a braying laugh from the taller Sammy. “Y’know I can see that! Larry may think he’s some big shot Marine, but I reckon he gets seasick when he steps in a puddle. Yer see him yesterday in that swell? Man, it was red bucket time for hours! Yeah, sure I reckon he was a marine, in the Nevada Coastguard. Man those sand swells are murder!” That appraisal, followed by a waving motion of the hand, set them both chortling, only terminated by a resounding rearward concussion, that trumpeted stomach ache into the Kimberleys evening.

  “AGGGHHH Christ!!”

  “Bloody hell Red, get away! You’d kill a croc with that one!”

  “Uhhhh, Jeez! Sammy I got the fuckin’ cramps. Me gut’s killing me. It’s that bloody Pad Thai whatever we had for lunch. Mate can yeah hold the fort mate? I’ll be back.”

  “Sure Red. Just do it up slope mate. Remember what Barrie reckoned about the fuckin’ crocs here? Too close to water mate an’ they’ll snap that white arse o’ yours clean off!”

  His friend, Sam, gave an amused chuckle at the waddling progress of his companion into the denser bush away from the guard post. Lampie gave Peter a nudge and they slowly and cautiously slithered along the water’s edge. The cries of either strain or relief regularly issued from the dark foliage, usually answered by a helpful if improbable suggestion, from his friend by the shore. Lampie wasn’t complaining. Between the noise of these two, their muddy squelching passage rated as super SAS stealth mode, and really, really surprising, Pete crept like a pro, not even ruffling his personal ecosystem.

  That was all to the good, since Red’s intestinal difficulties proved excellent cover for their approach. She’d reached the stern of her inflatable. True her legs were in the water unlike Peter who had his so bent he looked like a frog, but y’know risks had to be taken, and they’d only past one saltie tail gouge so far. Very slowly she eased her pack into the boat, closely followed by Pete’s. It was a good deal lighter since he deposited that laptop. Her rifle stayed with her and as Uncle Pierre insisted, when he taught her how to stalk for a hunt, one bullet was in the chamber and the breach was wrapped to keep the mud out. All they needed now was for Red’s difficulties to continue. So with Peter’s assistance, they inched her boat closer to the water while listening to the alternate banter of imprecation and helpful suggestion.

  It really was true what they said about guards – no one paid them to be smart. Sammy, in that case, was a typical guard, paying more attention to the ‘troubles’ of his companion and Lampie was damned thankful for it. The RIB gently kissed the water without any betraying splash. All they had to do was move it into deeper water and out of range, then once out of sight, start up the motor and head off. Simple!

  Or not!

  Peter had just slithered into the boat looking like a weed infested mat, when Red wandered out from the cover of the trees buckling up his trousers.

  “What the…?” Red, in the shock of the moment, attempted three things at once, to do up his trews, point towards the boats and shout out. It was a gross overestimation of his abilities. Without a helping hand, his trousers succumbed to the influences of gravity. Then, as he threw his arm up, he lurched forward and tripped over the tangle of trousers and went flat on his face. His fellow guard, Sammy, reacted in the same way that anyone would when presented with a classic ‘Benny Hill’ moment. He burst out laughing and doubled over.

  Lampie didn’t need the hint – time to go! She pulled herself aboard and kicked off from the muddy bank. Peter wasn’t waiting for instructions. He’d grabbed an oar and was digging its blade into the mud for momentum.

  In the meantime Red, the stomach cramp afflicted guard, was wrestling with his priorities and trousers, as well as thrashing around on the ground, which only added to the entertainment value for his companion. Sammy had been really taken by the performance and gone from bent double to kneeling on the ground, trying to alternate between breathing and laughing in a strange wheezing cycle.

  That ‘Keystone Cop’ scene gained them thirty yards distance, until Red forsaking dignity pushed himself up and snarled out to his wheezing friend. “Fuckin’ bloody hell Sammy! Fuckin’ Sammy! The fuckin’ boat!”

  Eventually the import of his shouts got through and the gasping Sammy looked over his shoulder. It took a few seconds for him to do the number counting thing and figure they were one vessel less. It is possible that clue may have been provided by Lampie who was frantically trying to get the outboard started so it’s snorting, growling cough spluttered into the evening.

  At this point in the sequence of events, the two guards began to catch up with the progress of the game. Red had totally given up on the trouser problem and remembered
the Uzi slung over his shoulder, while Sammy had spun around and began shouting. “Hoy stop! That’s our boat, you bastards!”

  Lampie didn’t feel inclined to correct the statement. Instead she twisted the accelerator of the outboard and the RIB took off. Red must have remembered the trigger or the safety because a spray of splashes and the distinctive chatter of an automatic had both Peter and Lampie diving to the bottom of the RIB. When she had a spare moment to reflect later, Lampie felt chilled that she’d considered the rubber walled air cells as protection. They’d provide zero resistance to a speeding bullet. Maybe it was that human instinct thing.

  “Faster Lampie! Oh flipping hell doesn’t this have turbo charge?”

  “Shut it Pete. You’re distracting me!” Lampie twisted the throttle up to the max and the little craft leapt ahead of the nearing splatter of water spouts and she relaxed a smidgen.

  The seagull outboard on the RIB was an older style of motor, first designed for the British commandos in the Second World War. Its specs were that it had to be capable of running non-stop for twenty four hours and surviving total immersion. Ruggedness and the ability to handle extremes were essential for the kind of work expected of the Royal Marines. Up in the Kimberleys, those were valued traits. As for speed well, it had been pretty good a few decades ago. Now, let us just say that Lampie wished for speed over years of reliability.

  Lampie was really thankful they’d made their move after the full dark of night had descended. The guards had taken offence at her liberation of the RIB. The quiet of the basin was broken by the roar of the guns and slap of their projectiles as they punctured the water. Early evening or day time and this would have been a suicide run, but now the darkness gave them a useful cover, if inadequate shield. She swung the boat around the jutting peninsular and they were into the main waters of the basin.

  Peter’s voice emerged from the leafy huddle “Where are we going and can we get there soon?”

  “Jeez Pete, aren’t y’ up for a cruise in the moonlight?”

  “Lampie, it’s the moonlight I’m worried about!”

  She frowned at the reminder. An hour or so and the moon would be up. Since it was waxing towards full, Pete had picked the problem moon rise gave – illumination.

  As to where they were going, that was another good question. Just getting the damned boat had been an enormous risk. That small success opened more options than slugging through the bush.

  “Pete, where’s this bloody castle?”

  A petulant voice answered her from below “Well, flipping hell Lampie, how about I consult the National Trust Guide to Castles in the Kimberleys? Oh gosh darn I seem to have left that volume in my other coat! Oh how remiss of me!”

  “Yeah. Damned right!” Great, bloody sarcastic Poms! Lampie suppressed the urge to ‘lighten the load’. Well, unless inspiration struck she still needed to play for time. Originally the boat idea was a way not to walk fifty bloody kilometres around the basin. Pete needed to shift his thinking into gear, they weren’t on foot anymore. “What were those clues again?

  “Father Joachim reported that where their fortress was being built the harbour could hold a hundred great ships and it had two peaks!” Yeah well Camden Harbour drew a blank and this was the only other possible location, and since today, when Peter had become less secretive, the two peaks still sounded like Mount Gibraltar and Mount Trafalgar. They had to get there and it was across the other side of the basin and between them was the cruiser and more goons and they had radios. Yeah, and they covered the best route across the northern arm of the basin. If Wallace used the island of St Patrick as cover, Pete and she wouldn’t know it until they rounded the western ends of the island and snap! Taken like a rat in a trap. Freckin’ hell. All they’d have to do would be to use the other tinnies as sheepdogs and round up the stray archaeologist and surveyor.

  She wasn’t an idiot. They needed cover and space. That meant heading south east for ten odd klicks, then cutting across the mouth of Prince Regent River. The eastern shore of the basin had lots of little estuaries and creeks to hide in and then work their way west, until they hit the northern arm of the basin and voila, the two mounts of interest!

  As promised, the moon rose and shed its pale light upon St Georges Basin. Lampie gave a glance at it as the white orb cleared the surrounding ridges. She could see why smugglers picked a full moon. It must have been perfect for landing illicit cargos. For them it was a mixed blessing. She could see easier to steer. However, tonight visibility cut both ways. Luckily she’d put a silencer on the outboard exhaust for nighttime fishing and tourist tours. Otherwise those scum would hear them for miles.

  She felt a tap on her leg and then Pete’s voice. “Ahh Lampie, those tinnies that could be after us?”

  “Yeah Pete?”

  “Would they be able to have heavy duty spot lights?”

  “Maybe, I know a couple of fellas who plug them into the outboard alternator. Why?”

  “Well we’ve got one closing pretty fast behind us, and I keep seeing flashes of lights over to your left.”

  Lampie throttled down and looked behind them. Oh yeah, Pete was on the money. The one directly behind was maybe a couple of klicks or so distant but from the way the light weaved from side to side across the current they were fanging along using a broad searching sweep, while to the north the odd flash showed her that Wallace wasn’t an idiot either – he was arcing towards the eastern shore line. She’d even bet that there was another tinnie lurking between the islands waiting to pounce. Clever bloody whalers!

  That left little choice in where to go. Lampie didn’t like being hunted and she knew the best way to get the prey was corner it, and that meant slipping into the estuaries was suicide. Even with such a large place to cover Wallace only had to keep them on the run until he figured out where the castles where. He had enough goons for that. She leant down and spoke quietly to her companion. “Look Pete, we’re going to cut down this river gorge and lead a few of them astray. There’s a few great places to lie doggo until this lot pass. Then we can slip back. I want you to keep a really good eye out and let me know when they get too close.”

  “When is too close Lampie?”

  “When they start firing.”

  * * * * *

  “Lampie!” The whine and zing of bullets passing interpreted Peter’s warning. She spun the tiller in a series of erratic arcs. Those bastards had speed and she didn’t. Damn, damn, damn. What could she do? The spottie tagged them briefly followed by the staccato burst of weapons fire. She ducked instinctively, though that was going to be useless in stopping a bullet travelling at subsonic speeds. They needed something to equalise the balance.

  “Pete can you use a rifle?”

  “Yes and flipping no! I was a territorial, a part timer! Not some SAS super sniper in training! For that stuff you’ve got the wrong Pommie!”

  Damn! Well no more options. She sighted on the passing gorge walls, looking for landmarks. Now she appreciated the moonlight! Up on the crest of the gorge was her first sighting mark – the line of four boab trees was pretty distinctive. If she was right they had three hundred metres until she could spring the possible surprise. First the light had to go!

  “Listen I’ll try and knock out their light. I need you to keep a steady hand on the tiller and maintain our speed. It’s a Pommie motor so you two should get on fine.” She slipped into Peter’s old position while he wriggled over her to both keep of them steady while staying down. The pursuing vessel was staying on a straight track now they’d pinned their target with the light. Yeah they had the speed, a good third faster than the RIB. Why didn’t they close in? A burst of fire carved a line of gouges in the water to her left and Peter swayed right to avoid the targeting. He needn’t have bothered – another line of shots did the same on the right side. Lampie clenched her teeth. Those bastards were playing with them, shepherding deer like a wolf pack. Well bugger that! She pulled the rifle up and checked the scope sights. They were hovering a
t two hundred metres. The spottie was clear in the scope, but she kept her eyes from fixing on it in case they swung the beam straight at her, then bye bye night sight.

  From what she could tell they weren’t bothering with too many precautions – no erratic moves, still charging down the river. Good. She tilted slightly to compensate for the rocking motion of the RIB and easing out her breath, squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle kicked solidly back into her shoulder and the flat crack snapped across the water. The spottie exploded in a satisfying shower of glass and sparks and the tinnie spun out as its crew screamed and shouted at the surprise. Lampie grinned. Bet they didn’t count on that! She tapped Peter on the leg and got him to swap places again, then gunning the throttle, the RIB leapt forward keeping a very close watch on the gorge. Then she killed the motor and tilted the outboard out of the water. The RIB began to slow down skimming lightly over the surface. Peter was about to complain when Lampie put a hand over his mouth as they glided to a bumpy stop by a low rock ledge.

  It took a minute or two for their pursuers to sort out new arrangements and settle what sounded like a difference of opinion, before their vessel once more surged forward, if the scream of the engine was any measure at full speed. To compensate for losing the light the goon in the bow began systematically shooting up the darker areas of the river. She didn’t think that was going to help. Then Lampie pulled the chord and their little seagull roared back to life and she spun them back out into the river.

  When the final surprise came, it had a certain inevitability about it. Their pursuers were roaring along at a crazy speed. It was night. They were unfamiliar with the terrain and damned eager to catch up with their disappearing targets. Police accidents reports were full of event like this, it’s just that most weren’t so well planned. Physics is no respecter of stupidity or eagerness and the Three Laws of Motion, developed by Sir Isaac Newton, come in play whether you believe in them or not. Lampie always liked that part of science when she was at school. It had a certain elegance despite the fact that, as her teacher said Sir Isaac was madder than a cut snake and if not for serious patronage, would have been a recipient of those padded jackets with the extra long sleeves and a nice comfy barred room.