Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery)

by Gregory House

  “You know Pete, that was a good trick of yours. Got a couple down there a mite upset over the switch. Drongos thought they were safe.” That last comment was accompanied by the most satisfied chuckle. Peter didn’t know what to make of that, he should be proud that it had worked. Instead he felt nothing – no remorse, anger or satisfaction. No, he’d deal with that vacuum later.

  Peter pulled out the SD card and plugged it into the laptop reader port. He’d modified the settings to automatically backup and compress all photos so all he had to do was attach them to the email and, bingo – send it off. Most of the important recent shots were still on it, including the key pages of Father Joachim. Now who to send it to?

  “Hey Lampie, what’s a popular current affairs news program?”

  “What, like on the tellie?”

  “Yeah.” The assault rifle steadily spat out four more rounds.

  “Well, two really – A Current Affair for commercial and the ABC has the Seven Thirty Report.”

  Okay, a quick search on Google gave him the addresses for their respective newsrooms and to be sure he added the BBC, CNN and SkyNews.

  “What about newspapers?’

  “Christ Pete, I’m busy!” Crack!

  “All right, try these – the West Australian, Sydney Morning Herald, and The Age – that’ll cover most of them!”

  Peter typed those in and added the Courier Mail for Queensland, then for good measure The Guardian, The Times and the New York Times. That pretty well did the list except for the government officials. He searched for the weblink for the Derby police and the police minister in Perth and pressed send.

  The second lot to prepare was a more detailed email to all the Australian museums and universities, even including Skaze. That one posed more of a challenge. It was getting on past twenty four hours without sleep and his eyelids felt like sand paper. The powers of academia lived in a very strange bubble of unreality. They couldn’t care what difficulties fieldworkers laboured under and would gleefully trash any report that had the slightest errors, irrespective of what horrendous conditions it was composed under. So in the midst of the siege he had to go through every report checking for grammar and syntax errors and ensuring that it all followed proscribed layout formats. Yeah like he had the time to cross reference the bibliography and footnotes!

  After the salties, the ‘Camden Harbour Death March’ and the machine gun toting goons, it was his most surreal experience of the expedition. What he felt was particularly weird was still writing in Sid’s part of this whole debacle objectively, including the initial discovery. Personally, he’d cheerfully push Sid into a tank full of Irukandji for the scam he pulled, but credit had to go where it was due, despite his feelings of being used. Unlike some in his field, he wasn’t interested in stealing someone else’s thunder. The first claim was Sid’s no matter what else he’d done afterwards. However the other motivating factor was professional survival. If, or rather when Sid screwed up again, Peter wasn’t going to wear the damage this time. While he was on that train of thought Peter had a most vindictive brainstorm. Just to rub it in, he added the address of his old faculty at Portlee. It would be very amusing to see the apoplexy of Jacobs and Dr Zupinsky when they got the news. A crucial afterthought struck him. The more the merrier and nothing serves so well to attract attention as putting in a heavy hint of historical mystery, religion and politics. That being so, he searched out and added the Vatican’s email address, as well as the Perth diocese, plus UNESCO just to ensure a good spread.

  That difficult area sorted, he moved on to the next stage. This message was larger since it contained all the shots, dig reports, scans of Father Joachim’s journal so to be sure that it didn’t crash, he put it into three parts. Flipping hell why did paperwork, even digital paperwork take so long? It may have been the fatigue or the stress of the siege, but an image flashed into his mind of the predictions of the work future from the 80’s

  “Yes with the micron 7000 computer the latest in digital processing! Complete with several thousand giga somethings of power and a memory capacity of a public library! This wonder of the modern age will do the work of several secretaries in moments. Yes an indispensable asset of the modern office giving you more time to do the things you enjoy!”

  Yeah sure, we really gained there. Now we were online and at it 24/7 because a computer could be. Flipping brilliant if you want to do without sleep, food and the rest of your life, way to go man! Oh by all the blessed saints, he‘d murder for a coffee. It didn’t help that he could Google coffee and get millions of hits. Looking at it didn’t put one in his hands. The man who invented a cappuccino dispensing laptop was on his way to sainthood and millionaire’s row.

  The sun was well up by the time he’d finished. Now it was a matter of waiting. As he’d found at Deception Bay, the upload via satellite could be slower than dial up. Oh well, it gave him some time to check over what they’d saved. As extra insurance, he began copying all the relevant files on to the spare memory sticks. In the old days they’d swallow a message to destroy it. Peter slipped over to Lampie’s latest position and tapped her on the leg. “Any action?”

  “Have a squizz.” Lampie passed him her small set of field glasses and he adjusted the focal lens until the trees below swam into focus.

  “You see that large ant mound fifty metres to the left, behind the vine covered pile of rocks?”

  Peter grunted an answer as he zeroed in on her description.

  “Keep watching.” Lampie put her eye to the rifle scope and squeezed off a shot. He could see the spray of the impact as it punctured the mound, then a short muzzle swung into view from the back of the mound and let off an answer. The bullets slapped harmlessly against the rocks a hundred metres below.

  “Good work, you’ve got him pinned down!”

  “Yeah, well it’s not that easy. There are five goons down there and none of them have made a move since this started.”

  Peter swung the glasses around to the next set of coordinates from Lampie, and once more she fired a probing shot. Apart from a brief burst of return fire from the target, the others lay quiet. Peter pushed back from the edge and rubbed his face. He felt in desperate need of a coffee and a croissant, preferably with camembert, double smoked ham and a dash of mustard. Oh Christ no he couldn’t go there! That was dangerous ground. Instead he rummaged in his pack for those chocolate bars. Time for emergency stimulus, he also deliberately ignored the kilo of taipan biltong. He passed one to Lampie. His brain had to start working! What were Wallace’s goons waiting for? They’d been up here for well over an hour – that was plenty of time to outflank them. He had to try putting himself in Wallace’s place. If I was an accomplished arrogant arsehole who’d successfully schemed and scammed my way to the top, what would I do in this situation? Well for one, the muscle was expendable, that was a given. Second, the treasure wasn’t going anywhere. Third, witnesses were inconvenient – they had to go, and the sooner the better. As for Mr Sidney Brydges, he was a good little weasel so he’d take whatever deal was offered, after that there was plenty of time to get rid of him. These other two where more problematic – they’d escaped once already and had gotten to the treasure site first. This part of the Kimberleys was remote but not isolated. Too many tourists sailed past or gas workers flew over, so time was not a virtue. The clock was definitely ticking.

  “Pete, Pete!” Lampie’s excited call drew him out of his musing.

  “What, have they moved?”

  Lampie shook her head and pointed southward. “No look to the south – I think our help has arrived!”

  Peter grabbed the field glasses. Yes, Lampie was right. He could see the distant image of a helicopter swim into focus. Rescue, rescue – thank God for Tim Berners-Lee and the Internet!! The next instant it must have been instinct that took over. They both grabbed each other and hugged in sheer relief. Instinct took a further step and transformed that into an embrace, then edged towards passionate and a good deal of heavy breath
ing groping and a meeting of lips.

  Peter at this instant thought that instinct was pretty damned good if it put Lampie in his arms. He would have rated it the number one primate attribute, until a worrying suspicion burst through the mounting euphoria and he ungrappled from a now surprised Lampie.

  “What the hell Pete!! What do y’ think you’re doing?”

  Peter ignoring the complaints scuttled over to the laptop and coaxed it back to life. He found the addresses again and composed an urgent email. Then glanced up watching the approach of both the helicopter and a now angry Lampie.

  “Listen, you Pommie wanker, I don’t take it well when a bloke cuddles, then bolts. Are you married or don’t you like me?”

  Peter was watching the screen with a desperate fixation borne of dread, anxiety and lack of coffee. So that may have been the reason he gave such an off the cuff answer. “What, oh like, oh, I like lots about you Lampie. You’re more athletic than Fiona, though almost as bright as Cindy, kiss better than Alice...” As his automatic reply continued on its gambolling path to disaster, Peter scanned the incoming emails – along with the usual offers to extend his sexual experience in both duration and size and the obligatory request to assist a Nigerian gentleman with a simple money transfer, were a host of replies to his bulk email. So many in fact that the program was stalling. Unwilling to wait, he typed up another and marked it urgent and sent it off.

  “Peter bloody Wilks! You absolute up yourself tosser! Next time I’ll leave the saltie to eat you, you slimly Pommie lothario!”

  Locked in the bubble of his concern Peter had lost track of the conversation and suddenly emerged to find Lampie clearly enraged and standing over him eyes sparkling with fury and hands clenched in a manner he’d seen before. That daunting, though magnificent sight, paled in to comparison with what he saw over her shoulder.

  “Oh flip, oh flip oh flip, Lampie down!”

  “I not interested in any more of that, Peter bloody Wilks!”

  Making a snap decision, he dove over the laptop. In his passage one part of his mind registered that it had better be a tough computer cos he’d just booted it several feet. A second part noticed Lampie’s wide eyed surprise as he travelled towards her. She had really cute hazel eyes just like a topaz. While a third section of the grey matter warned him to tuck his head in before…

  Thudd! Her right forearm slammed into his head, momentum and the laws of physics then kicked in. Trajectories coincided and a dazed Peter, moving horizontally, impacted with a standing Lampie. The result was both tumbled to the left behind a rocky outcrop a moment before a spurting line of small craters creased the spot where they had been.

  “Whatttt! Ohhh Godd…?” Peter tried to focus his eyes they weren’t cooperating. The world looked blonde or tan with hazel highlights.

  “Peter! Peter ahh sorry are you alright?”

  Except for the throbbing pain in his head, sore fingers, bruised elbow and knee, the just skinned forearm and shoulder, he felt fine, no pain really, only if he moved anything like an eyebrow.

  “Peter! Peter?”

  “Ahhh yeaah I’ ts’cool reeady fur the nx’t rounuund, Sergeant Graeme.”

  “Peter, Peter, the chopper, its coming in again. We got to move!”

  Yeaah sure what chopper?” A hammering sound above his head helped push back the fuzziness and once more instinct took over the driver’s seat. His vision resolved into concerned face of Lampie inches above his. Well, throbbing head or not, he kissed it then pushed up and dizzily scanned the skyline. The helicopter which Lampie thought presaged rescue was looping around the plateau for another pass. Options, Sergeant Graeme always used to say ‘laddie look arund there’s always sum’thin the other bugger forgot!’ But all that did was spin him off into a review of the Clint Eastwood movie The Gauntlet where he got chased by a helicopter, and no convenient powerlines around here. Flipping helicopters hovering up there thinking they were bloody invulnerable – it’d be different if he had an RPG like in Blackhawk Down. Those beasties would punch straight through armour. Then Peter got it and leapt out from the rock shelter. He’d have loved to have claimed it was just like a scene from Rambo, but instead more resembled one from Tropic Thunder. Scurrying or crawling, it didn’t matter, he made it to the weapons that Lampie had dropped and picked up the assault rifle.

  Sergeant Graeme’s friendly growl came back to help him.

  ‘Take it steady laddie. Check the magazine. Check yea range. Don’t want to overshoot the buggers. Check yea selector switch, an’ check yea safety. Take a deep breath an’ squeeze the trigger. Remember short bursts – didna empty the clip, it does nay good. We’re nay in a Hollywood pimp’s brawl noo.’

  Peter followed the well drilled mental prompts and knelt, sighting on the approaching ‘copter. His vision, after the past couple of days wasn’t the best, but the idiot in the air had seen his own share of Hollywood action films and came straight on. A couple of ricochets kicked up rock fragments twenty metres in front. That was the signal. Slowly he squeezed the trigger and counted one-two release, one-two release. Short bursts kicked the butt into his shoulder and he pulled down a touch on his sight line as the’ copter swept forward firing. Peter swapped mags and kept up his rate of fire. Dust and stone chips flew around him as the helicopter passed over head. The firing from above stopped as the ‘copter swung around to get a better view. He didn’t have to and slowly emptied his magazine in aimed three to four round bursts. Halfway through he achieved the result he was hoping for. Smoke started to pour from the underbelly and the machine began to weave erratically and wobbled in a southwards direction, dribbling a growing plume of grey black smoke.

  The sound of metallic clicks broke his fixation with the disappearing ‘copter. It seemed he’d run out of bullets a little while ago. Peter dropped the now empty assault gun and collapsed, staring up into the sky. It was so incredibly blue, not a wisp of cloud anywhere. That was a colour he was beginning to associate with the Kimberleys, the bright vivid tone that was so frequently lacking in British skies. He could stare at it forever and not get bored, especially now it didn’t have a helicopter blotting the skyscape.

  “Peter! Peter! Oh my, where did they get you? Where’s the first aid kit?” Lampie’s face blotted out the blue of the sky. Mind you it was as attractive to view as well, though the view could be better without the trail of damp smudges on her cheeks. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but she looked a bit like a panda. “Where did you get hit?’

  “Ahh I don’t think I was, so-o… got any water?” She wrenched the water bottle off her belt and cracked the screwtop, then dribbled some between his lips. By his sainted aunt it tasted like champagne, now if only he had some coffee. All the while Lampie was talking breathlessly and running her hands over his body, checking for injuries. Except for the parts that ached, it felt good.

  “Peter, why the hell did you take on the chopper like that? It was suicide!”

  “Hollywood.”

  “What, are you delirious? Did you get a blow to the head? Ohh of course you did!”

  “No I’m fine.”

  That was a gross overstatement but didn’t matter. Lampie however seemed close to panic and needed a touch of reassurance

  “It was Hollywood that inspired me.”

  “What, like Crocodile Dundee and Gallipoli?”

  “No a bit more like Die Hard 4.0.”

  Lampie moved her search up to his head, peering closely at all the scratches and bruises, before holding up two fingers in front of his face. “How many?

  “Ahh two.”

  She flicked up two more.

  “Now four, I don’t have a concussion if that’s what you think. Anyway the answer is still Hollywood.”

  “Peter Wilks, can you cut out that bullshit and tell me what you’re raving about or else?”

  “You watch action films like the ones with Bruce Willis and Arnie the Governorator?”

  “Yeah I’ve seen a few. Why?”

  �
��Well, in all of those you have the climactic chase scenes with the bad guys firing at the hero from a helicopter, right?”

  “Well yes.”

  “Okay, how does the hero escape?”

  “That’s easy, they blow it up.”

  “Yes that’s right, usually by ramming it with a bike or a car or by leading it into power lines or getting the other bad guys to shoot it. Ever seen anyone shoot one down apart from Rambo or the Somalis with missiles?”

  Most of Lampie’s prior answers were instant responses, the humouring kind, while she continued to search out injuries, but on that one she stopped. “Well, ahh no, I haven’t.”

  “That’s Hollywood for you. Only military helicopters are armoured. Commercial ‘copters have about as much resistance to bullets as a cheesecake.”

  Lampie opened her mouth to dismiss that flimsy evidence and stopped. She stopped for almost a minute, then… “What about the guy leaning out firing? You telling me that wasn’t dangerous?’

  Peter reviewed what he remembered. The muzzle flashes as the copter swept towards him looked bigger than a cannon. To be honest he was terrified, and given a chance would have bolted, but Colour Sergeant Graeme saw him through. “Not really, it’s an unstable platform. That’s why they always pack military copters with lots of machine guns. That way you can’t miss.”

  Lampie leant back on her haunches, and very nice haunches they were too. She was clearly sceptical of his assertion and slowly shook her head. “Y’ know Pete, I reckon you’re becoming a real Aussie. You’ve learnt to bullshit with the best of them.”

  Before he could answer that slur, a familiar Pratt and Whitney drone pulsed from the sky and Trussie’s Catalina dropped down and circled the plateau. Peter watched it swoop and wheel. He had to agree with the other Catalina devotees – it possessed a real charm and beauty and most of all, he was sure a civilised gentleman such as Ricky Truscott must have some coffee!

  Epilogue: Terra Nullius—Terra Australis Templarius