Another expensive transoceanic silence.
Harry said, “Nothing you can say, Jerry, could be worse than what I’m telling myself.” He slammed down the telephone.
The doorbell rang. Harry grabbed a towel to cover his nakedness and fetched his breakfast tray.
As he ate, Harry mentally ran a basic travel check. All his tropical shots were up-to-date and his passport was stamped with a permanent visa to Paui.
He finished breakfast, pulled on beige tropical shorts and shirt, long beige socks and light boots. He took a lightweight jacket. He would carry a canvas, lock-up shoulder bag. No use taking more luggage; they were a light-fingered lot on Paui, and anything he let out of his sight would be stolen.
Methodically, Harry started to assemble his gear; he always dumped stuff to be packed on an old-fashioned country farmer’s chair with wooden extending arms to fling your legs over after a hard day’s riding. This piece of furniture stood oddly among the low beech tables and the tan leather and chrome Mies furniture in his functional and expensively furnished, but impersonal, sitting room decorated in black and cream, with a good collection of modern Australian paintings that included a self-portrait of Sidney Nolan belligerently chewing a cigar. Harry’s home could be left at a moment’s notice. He just handed over the spare key to the apartment manager and left for whichever trouble spot needed him.
Onto the farmer’s chair were thrown six pairs of bush socks, six pairs of undershorts, one spare bush shirt, two pairs of sun-glasses, a Pidgin dictionary, a spongebag, a roll of toilet paper, Harry’s passport and letters of accreditation. He bent to pick up a pair of long, tropical socks that had fallen to the floor beneath the farmer’s chair, and carefully placed them back on the small pile of luggage: Harry was very neat and couldn’t stand disorder in his surroundings, any more than in his thinking.
He removed his gold watch and strapped a cheap, waterproof watch to his wrist; he opened the wall safe behind a swing-out kitchen cabinet, placed his gold watch in it, and took out a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38 Chief’s Special, which was as powerful as possible for a small revolver. He shoved it in his trouser waistband: it would be out of sight under his safari jacket.
He had pulled out his shirt and was just strapping his money belt around his waist, with the zipped pocket facing inward, when the doorbell rang. That would be Jean.
* * *
Harry leaned back in the seat of the executive Lear and allowed himself to relax, looking out of the window as the aircraft soared into the brilliant blue of infinity. Harry closed his eyes to avoid the glare, and instantly felt the pain again. It was like an old war wound that always ached, and sometimes unexpectedly hurt hard, as it did now.
Two important things had happened shortly after Harry’s twenty-first birthday: the Scott family had moved from their bungalow in Cronulla to the more gentrified surroundings of Wahroonghah where his mother could, at last, plant an English garden, like the one she’d had as a girl; and Harry had won a Nexus scholarship. Every year ten graduates were recruited worldwide to undergo three years’ training in Pittsburgh. The scholarships were recognized as a shortcut to managerial posts within the company, and the trainees rarely left Nexus.
Harry had flown to Pittsburgh, feeling shy and gauche, to find himself working in the Accounting Department, under a Mr. O’Brien, who, one warm September evening, took him home for supper. As the Oldsmobile drew up, the front door had been flung open by a redheaded girl wearing a black sweater, a wide, black elastic belt, a flared emerald-felt skirt, black stockings and ballerina flats.
Later, playing chess with Annie, watching her frowning in concentration, her pale freckled hand hovering above the board, Harry had felt sharp-edged and alive. He knew that he had met what his mother would have called “the right girl.” He had met the love of his life.
Harry remembered his bewilderment when Annie married Duke. Of course, he’d understood the situation when the baby arrived. He had expected his infatuation to fade, although he felt like punching that complacent windbag on the nose every time Annie had another baby. But his feelings had not faded, and he resigned himself to being stuck with his obsession for life. He had never married, he had always drawn back just before the point of no return. He had been accused of lack of feeling, heartlessness and latent homosexuality, but Harry knew in his heart that he couldn’t feel totally committed, couldn’t love and cherish anyone who didn’t match up to his memory of redheaded Annie plunging down a glacier in her pale blue ski suit, boldly taking the fall line in a way that she never seemed able to achieve again in the rest of her life.
Recently, Harry had once more started to have hopes. Social habits had changed in the past quarter of a century. Years ago, he’d assumed that Annie was lost to him forever, but as he saw the marriages of his friends crash or dissolve in the identity and relationship struggles of the seventies, he persuaded himself that there was a chance that he and Annie might one day be together. Bit by bit, he persuaded himself that Annie secretly felt as he did. Surely she must, when his feelings were so strong? Surely Annie must realize that after your fortieth birthday you had to grab what you wanted or you’d never get it?
The solidly built frame of Pat, the chief pilot, appeared from the flight deck. “We land in seven minutes, Harry. We’ve hired an amphibian—only a two-seater, though. Guy who owns it works for the Department of Human Biology. He’s based at Goroka.”
He noticed Harry’s frown. “Sorry, but amphibs aren’t lined up at ’Moresby in rows like Hertz cars waiting for us to hire them at two minutes’ notice. Neither of the rental companies has anything suitable that’s immediately available; the privatehire pilots have Cessna 185’s or 336’s, or twin-engined Cherokees, stuff like that. Not amphibians.” He shrugged his shoulders. “My mate up at Jackson is still working on it.”
* * *
Jackson’s Field Airport is always jammed with travelers during the midday period, when most flights arrive and depart.
Harry sat in a stuffy private waiting room while his chief pilot checked on the seaplane. A native steward served locally-grown peanuts and fresh lemonade as Harry waited for the radio news and wondered whether he was overreacting.
His thoughts were interrupted by a news flash. Transmission had been resumed on Radio Paui when, at midday, General Raki had announced to the nation that the Defense Force had taken control of the island on behalf of the Nationalist Party. The Defense Force would be temporarily in charge of the island, led by a military council (headed by himself) until free, democratic elections could be held. Mr. Obe, the corrupt and depraved Marxist leader of the Democratic Party, was dead. Life would now proceed as usual. Martial music had followed the short speech.
Harry swore. That would really complicate the mining negotiations. Raki would make Nexus pay through the nose, to compensate for those eighteen special payments that he hadn’t received. Damned accountants! And damn Jerry Pearce, his penny-pinching and his unrealistic attitude toward special payments. Had Jerry never heard of Lockheed? Did he think that was an isolated case?
On the other hand, at least with Raki, Nexus was dealing with the devil they knew, a devil who understood the extent of the power and wealth that lay behind Nexus. Raki was unpredictable and unreliable, but he was undoubtedly more efficient than anyone else on the island, which might be important to the Nexus party at Paradise Bay.
Again, Harry wondered if he’d overreacted to the possibility of danger, as he absently listened to the current-affairs discussion that followed the news flash. A couple of political journalists, hastily yanked into the studio, were recalling that over forty heads of state had been assassinated in the last forty years and dozens of other leaders had survived attempts on their lives. Today, being a successful politician seemed to be a risky business….
Business!
Suddenly Harry wondered whether Raki knew of the recent Nexus finds.
Some executives operated on a system of total delegation, but Harry wasn’t
one of them; this was one of the reasons why people liked to work for him, and it was also one of the reasons why Harry would never be president of Nexus. He knew this, but he could only operate in his own way. He would never be purely a boardroom executive and he didn’t want to be. He liked to be in touch with everyone in his area, and to know everything that went on in it—particularly anything that was being kept from him.
Harry had his own simple method of making sure that he knew a lot more about Ed’s work than Ed realized, including the chromite discovery. You couldn’t keep so volatile a discovery secret in a small mining community, and, as usual, the company bush pilots had quietly reported all prospectors’ gossip directly to Harry. It never seemed to occur to passengers that the pilot had two functioning ears, and a brain.
Ed probably thought that no one else could possibly know about the chromite deposits that Nexus had discovered on Paui; the analysis laboratories were on the other side of the world, and didn’t know the country of origin of the samples analyzed. But Ed didn’t realize how the islanders compensated for their lack of education with other mysterious abilities. Illiterates often had brilliant memories; men who knew only a few hundred words of Pidgin English were fluent in body language, and news sometimes flashed around the island by bush telegraph before it was announced by radio.
With growing unease, Harry wondered whether the timing of Raki’s takeover had anything to do with the Nexus finds. At the thought that there might be a connection, Harry’s bottom teeth started to slide anxiously over his upper lip.
The door to the private waiting room swung open. The chief pilot appeared, looking apologetic. “Sorry, Harry, but your plane has been delayed. She’s bringing in a hospital patient from one of the outer islands; he had a hemorrhage just before they rowed him out to the plane. They haven’t taken off yet.”
Harry bit his upper lip again as he looked at his watch. The chief pilot knew what the delay would mean. They couldn’t arrive before sunset. They would waste a day.
Harry sighed. “You sure we can’t get a bigger, faster plane? Maybe fly one in?”
“Only if you give me enough time, Harry.”
“No, I’ve got to get there as fast as possible. You’re sure you can’t fly this plane, Pat? I’d rather deal with a pilot I know. Can’t we buy it?”
“No, the owner won’t sell, and he won’t let anyone else fly her. She belonged to his dad, who passed away last year. Anyway, I’ve never flown one. Bloody thing’s got to be forty-five years old. A Grumman Duck, ex-U.S. Navy. But I hear the pilot’s a good bloke. And the only alternative is to wait, Harry.”
Harry shook his head.
The chief pilot said, “Maybe you’d better go ahead to the Travel Lodge. We’re going to park the Lear here. I don’t want to leave this place before I see you on your way.”
That evening, over steaks in the hotel restaurant, Harry met Johno Boyd, the young owner-pilot of the amphibian. He was well over six feet tall, tanned, with curly fair hair and baby-blue eyes.
He was unusually talkative for a bush pilot. “What’s happening on Paui?” he asked. “I heard a radio report, but I didn’t understand it. Those political specialists always assume a bloke has complete knowledge of the area, and every politician in it.”
Harry said, “When the Nationalists first took over in 1975 the Paui Defense Force was run by a geezer called General Gora, who died in a jeep accident—so we were told. That was when Colonel Raki took command of the army.” Harry signaled for the menu. “Eighteen months ago, when the Nationalists were kicked out and the Democratics took over, Raki had just been flown to a Darwin hospital with peritonitis, so he missed the fun, but he was exiled anyway. He and his family lived in this hotel. Seems he’s just made a comeback, on Paui.”
Just outside the doors of the restaurant, a man was playing Cole Porter on the grand piano. Beyond the windows was a spectacular view of the town and the sea; the food was excellent and the service attentive. Raki’s exile had been luxurious.
As Harry watched the pilot dishing out a third helping of salad, he said, “The Defense Force will go over to Raki, of course—the army always goes to the strongest leader. You done this sort of job before, Johno?”
Johno helped himself to his fourth baked potato and plastered the last of the butter on it. “Yeah, I’ve done several flyouts this year. The outer islands are growing rougher every day.” He had asked for, and been given, a guarantee that he would be required to do nothing illegal, and the danger rate had been agreed at four times the usual daily charge, plus one hundred percent indemnity for pilot and aircraft. Times were tough.
* * *
Both men were back at the airfield before dawn. In the nacreous light they walked toward a small, ugly, silver-blue aircraft. With its huge float and splayed wheels, the aircraft looked like something out of a display at an aviation museum, a battered, scarred and oil-streaked curiosity. The old amphibian could land on land or sea, and she could refuel from the pumps at the Mount Ida mine, but the enclosed cabin only seated two people, one behind the other.
“Do they speak Pidgin on Paui?” Johno asked as they reached the plane.
“Sure.” Pidgin English was first used in the sixteenth century among European and Chinese traders in the South Seas; it evolved into its present form in the nineteenth century, on the sugar plantations of northwest Queensland. Effortlessly, it spread throughout the Pacific. Some people hate the clackety sound of Pidgin, but Harry was fascinated by the way in which a few basic words were used to express complicated, modern ideas. As well as being used for whites to communicate with natives, Pidgin is used by natives from different tribes to communicate with each other.
Harry said, “Pidgin has a high prestige value on Paui, same as anywhere else in these parts; nobody can get a low-grade government job unless they speak Pidgin although of course high-level officials also speak correct English. But I hope we won’t be there long enough to do much talking.”
Johno unlocked the aircraft. Both men swung into their seats and strapped themselves in. Johno spread a large-scale map on his lap and started his pre-takeoff routine. His hands moved over the controls, checking indicators on the control panel. Then he cleared with the control tower and taxied to the holding point. He turned to Harry and grinned. “Okay balus leave place balus?”
Harry knew that “balus” was Pidgin for bird or airplane. He nodded and grinned.
As they flew over Port Moresby, Harry could see the modern, downtown office blocks. Sprawling along the hills above the harbor were the brilliant green, well-watered lawns of the wealthy. As they passed over the harbor, he could make out a transport ship that had been sunk by the Japs in World War II and still lay on its side, submerged.
The Duck flew up the rugged coastline, high above featureless bush country dotted with soft green scrub.
After about an hour they passed the tiny island of Daru on the starboard wing, and later, the muddy delta of the Fly River. Johno altered course and the seaplane headed toward the blue glare of the open sea. He traced their route on the map with his left index finger.
After five hours of monotonous flight over empty ocean broken only occasionally by the black smudge of a ship, Johno called over his shoulder, “There she is.”
He pointed dead ahead, to a dark blob where the blue of the sea met the paler blue of the sky.
The aircraft followed the railway line inland from the small mining port of Tureka, heading west for the hilly area around Mount Ida.
Wordlessly, the pilot pointed down to the small mining settlement, half a mile to the east of Mount Ida. Beyond the mine buildings was the airstrip, and about half a mile beyond it were four rows of neat white bungalows which housed the engineers and other white mine staff. The bungalows terminated in a circle of two-story houses with beautifully tended gardens of frangipani and hibiscus—the houses of the managers and senior geologists. Behind these houses was a small street with a few shops and a garage. The amphibian was flying lo
w enough to see that the shutters were closed over every window. There was no traffic and little sign of life.
“Ground doesn’t answer my signals,” Johno yelled cheerfully as he started to make his approach toward the airstrip.
They flew low over the runway. Everything seemed quiet.
“Too quiet,” Johno commented. “But we can’t go back, and we can’t stay up here.”
As he spoke, a white man in overalls appeared in the entrance of a hangar, with both arms slowly beckoning.
“No mistake,” yelled Johno. “He’s inviting us down to tea.”
He made another circle, dropped the wheels, then landed smoothly and neatly, bringing the little plane to a standstill at the end of the runway.
Both men climbed down from the Duck into a blast of heat. They shook their cramped bodies and stretched their necks. Then they picked up their gear and started walking toward the terminal hut.
A yellow Toyota, jeep-like vehicle bumped toward them over the coarse dry grass. Harry peered at it. “That’s Kerry MacDonald, the mine manager.”
As the two men clambered into the cool, air-conditioned vehicle, Harry asked, “How’s everything, Kerry?”
“Under control, Harry. The excitement was all in town.” Kerry was small and chunky, with crew-cut hair and a round, naughty-boy face.
“What alert are you on?”
“Alert two. All Nexus personnel are under orders to keep inside their homes until further notice. We’ve closed the mine, we’ve doubled up on barbed wire and we’re patrolling the perimeter.”
“Have you heard from Arthur Graham?”
“No. Of course I telephoned Mr. Graham straightaway, but the telephone’s on the blink, so I’m going to take the helicopter to Paradise Bay. That’s why I was on the landing strip when you arrived. I’ll wait until you clean up and have a meal, then we can go together.”
Savages Page 24
