Wake of the Hornet

by R. R. Irvine

  WAKE OF THE HORNET

  R. R. IRVINE

  WRITING AS VAL DAVIS

  To Cassie Goddard

  Copyright © 2000 by Val Davis. All Rights Reserved.

  First ebook copyright © by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  Trade ISBN: 978-1-4821-0218-5

  Library ISBN: 978-1-62460-681-6

  Cover photograph © iStock.com.

  CONTENTS

  Author’s note

  The Island of Balesin

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Author’s note

  Cargo Cults are real and have been active in Melanesia and New Guinea since the nineteenth century. “Cargo” means “foreign goods possessed by Europeans.”

  The cult of John Frum came into prominence in the 1940s. John Frum, or sometimes Jonfrum, is a messianic figure that is sometimes described as a man with blond hair and clad in a coat with shining buttons. He promised the natives of Tanna, an island in what was once the New Hebrides, that if they would get rid of all their money they would become as rich as Americans. He also directed them to build runways and airplanes to attract cargo.

  While the cult of John Frum is real, the island of Balesin is not.

  CHAPTER 1

  April 18, 1942

  The North Pacific

  His wife was cheating on him. He could tell. It wasn’t so much in what she said, but he could read between the lines. The time between letters was stretching out and she no longer included those little tidbits about her girls’-night-out with the other wives. The letters were still all about how she was spending his dough, the new curtains, the washing machine on layaway and how difficult rationing was. But she’d stopped mentioning what she did with her time.

  What did he expect? He’d guessed that she was a party girl, a tramp. They’d only known each other a few days before they got hitched. The war did that. It taught you to move fast and not ask too many questions. But still it rankled. He felt the anger rise up in his gut.

  If he made it back home, he’d take care of things. He didn’t like being made a fool of.

  He folded up the letter. It was almost coming apart at the creases. It had been over a month since he’d received it and there hadn’t been another since. He’d waited each time mail call had come around, holding his breath, waiting for the final insult, the “Dear John” letter giving him the brush-off. It might never come, he told himself. After all, she had a good deal going. She could spend his money and do what she liked. And if she was lucky, she’d soon be a widow.

  He thrust the thought aside. He’d been trained to kill, and he’d been trained to survive.

  The great aircraft carrier pitched and rolled but he’d gotten used to it. He turned over in his bunk to go to sleep. He’d need all his wits about him in the morning. If he had any sense he’d be afraid, but it wasn’t fear that kept him awake. He had murder in his heart.

  CHAPTER 2

  July 12, 1999

  The South Pacific

  Taking off, the Widgeon bounced from wave to wave for nearly a mile before one final ricochet sent it lumbering into the air. Nicolette Scott, hanging on for dear life, clutched the wobbling armrest of her seat and muttered, “Elliot, I’m going to get you for this.” Although her famous father was seated right behind her in the cramped cabin she was sure that he hadn’t heard. The roar of the seaplane’s twin engines was too loud.

  The call from her father had come less than twenty-four hours ago.

  “Nick, this is your lucky day,” Elliot had said without preamble.

  “You sound like you’re in a tunnel.”

  “I’m on a radio phone.”

  “Don’t you mean cell phone?” she said.

  “Where do you think I am?”

  She hated it when he teased her. Her academic degrees and all her years of hard work slipped away and she was a small child again, waiting for him to come home from some impossibly faraway place. In exasperation she said, “I’ll bite, Elliot. Where are you?”

  “Do you remember me telling you about Curt Buettner?”

  Nick started to say no, then caught herself. Elliot and Buettner had gone to school together. Snapshots of the two of them filled several pages of Elliot’s scrapbook.

  “Isn’t he the one you call Crazy Curt?”

  “That’s him. Only he isn’t as crazy as I used to think.”

  That wasn’t the way Nick remembered the stories. One in particular had fascinated her. Buettner had faked the discovery of a Zuni artifact during an archaeological field trip, earning himself a top grade. But when his sense of humor got the better of him and he’d finally owned up to what he’d done, the instructor was too embarrassed to admit he’d been bamboozled and refused to change the grade. Shortly after that, Buettner inherited money and gave up grad school altogether to sail around the world.

  “Your stories made him sound crazy,” Nick reminded her father.

  “He’s come up with a theory about the Anasazi.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “First, you ought to know that we’re three thousand miles east of Hawaii at the moment, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Floating off an island called Balesin, to be precise.”

  “Elliot, I seem to remember you telling me not to call you for the next two weeks, that you were on deadline and didn’t want to be disturbed because your manuscript is overdue. I think you also mentioned something about having spent the publisher’s advance already.”

  “If you were awake in my classes, daughter, you’ll remember that my Anasazi started dying out during the great drought at the end of the thirteenth century. That’s the accepted wisdom, anyway.”

  “Has something changed?”

  “What if they didn’t die out? What if they migrated?”

  “To where?”

  “That’s where Curt comes in. He’s been sailing the Pacific and following the trade winds for years. Sort of a Thor Heyerdahl with a yacht instead of a raft. Anyway, he thinks it’s possible that the Anasazi abandoned the Southwestern desert and worked their way to the West Coast, where they built rafts and sailed away.”

  Nick sighed. “Have you and Curt been drinking?”

  “Curt’s gone legitimate. He went back to school and took his doctorate at the University of Hawaii. He even teaches classes there on cultures of the Pacific. That’s how he happened to send me photos of a gourd pot he found in the Caroline Islands. It has an elaborately painted design that’s quite reminiscent of late Anasazi artwor
k.”

  “Are you telling me you flew all that way to look at a pot?”

  “Nick, it could have been important to my research.”

  “Was it?”

  “Okay, so it’s not Anasazi, despite the similarity in design,” Elliot said. “But Curt paid my airfare. And I needed a vacation from that damned manuscript of mine.”

  “Where exactly is this island?”

  “West of Borneo, north of New Guinea, south of Japan. You won’t find it on your standard atlas at the moment, but we can change that, Nick. Together we can make the place famous.”

  “Where are you really?”

  “Like I said, floating offshore.”

  “On Curt’s yacht?”

  “In a seaplane.”

  Nick sighed. When it came to the Anasazi, her father had been obsessed as long as Nick could remember. In fact, her earliest memory was of her mother, Elaine, complaining that Elliot cared more about long-dead Indians that he did his own family.

  “Elliot,” she said, “how does this involve me?”

  “We’ve visited the island, and there’s more than gourd pots involved here.”

  “Such as?”

  “Airplanes. World War Two airplanes.”

  Nick caught her breath. She’d been in love with World War Two airplanes as long as she could remember. They’d filled her room as a child; they’d flown above her bed, suspended on nearly invisible black thread. And they’d helped her spirit fly away when her mother’s black moods became too much to bear.

  “What kind of planes?” Nick asked her father.

  “That’s your field, daughter, not mine. But it gets better. We’ve found a culture that seems to worship airplanes. Curt’s mounting an expedition to prove his Anasazi theory. But he’s also offered to fly you out as our airplane expert. If you remember, he inherited more money than sense.”

  “The fall semester is coming up.”

  “Do you actually believe that Ben Gilbert is going to reinstate you?”

  Nick had been placed on “academic leave” by her department head for becoming involved with a plane crash in the New Mexican desert. The fact that a highly placed government official wanted to avoid any publicity had prevented Gilbert from being able to fire her outright. However, the entire episode had prevented Nick from publishing any paper that year. Gilbert had leapt on that excuse to suspend her.

  “Come on, Nick. The start of school is nearly two months away.”

  “There’s a little matter of my department chairman.”

  “So what’s Ben Gilbert going to do, fire you? That would be the best thing that ever happened.”

  “I was on my way to see him when you called. I’m about to add my name to one of the lawsuits pending against the university. I’m looking forward to seeing the look on his face when I tell him. Of course, he may have gotten wind of it ahead of time, since he was too damned polite on the phone when I asked for a meeting.”

  “Take my advice, Nick, and stick to old airplanes. Living in the past is a lot safer than lawsuits in the present.”

  “I’ll call you after I talk to Gilbert.”

  “Curt says to tell you that a ticket will be waiting at the San Francisco airport. First class. I’ll call you at your apartment in, say, two hours, and you can tell me what Ben had to say.”

  Ben Gilbert didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he grabbed her hand like a long-lost uncle and pulled her into his office. But there, already waiting, was Assistant Chancellor Janet Bombard. She was seated in the one comfortable chair in Gilbert’s office, leaving Nick to occupy the same kind of straight-backed metal chair she’d had in her own, smaller office. The straight-backs—known affectionately among the faculty as Spanish Inquisitors—were designed to keep student visits as brief as possible.

  “Good of you to come, Nick,” Gilbert said at last.

  Bombard nodded. As always, she looked perfect. Her pin-striped Anne Klein suit didn’t show so much as a wrinkle. Her dark hair was set to perfection, and the thigh- high slit in her skirt was revealing enough elegantly hosed leg to cause Gilbert’s eyes to shimmy. Everything about her contrasted with Nick’s own appearance. Having no classes to teach, she’d come to campus dressed more like a student than an assistant professor, wearing jeans and a Cal Bears sweatshirt screaming for a Maytag.

  “On the phone I asked to meet with you, Ben,” Nick said, keeping her eyes on Bombard.

  “This is strictly informal,” he replied. “The chancellor’s presence is just a coincidence.”

  The back of Nick’s neck prickled. As far as she was concerned, the assistant chancellor’s actions were as pre-meditated as her dress.

  “Think of it as an off-the-record talk between colleagues,” Bombard clarified.

  Sure, Nick thought, fighting the urge to strip-search them both for hidden recording devices. Instead, she grabbed the Spanish Inquisitor, spun it around, and swung a denimed leg over the seat as if mounting a horse. Her beat-up Nikes came toe-to-toe with Bombard’s stylish Ferragamos.

  Nick forced a smile. “Something tells me you’ve heard from my lawyer.”

  Gilbert’s jaw dropped open. But Bombard concealed her surprise, if indeed she had been surprised. Or maybe she knew Nick didn’t have a lawyer. Nick had butted heads with the assistant chancellor before; neither one of them had come out unscathed.

  “I assume you’re referring to the rumor about a class-action suit,” Bombard said.

  “I’m not sure rumor is the right word.”

  “Since nothing has reached our attorneys, I don’t know what else to call it.”

  Nick broadened her smile. They both knew that the university had already paid out millions of dollars in public funds to female professors who’d been denied tenure unfairly. Those settlements had all contained the usual secrecy clauses forbidding the injured parties to speak out. But the payoffs had become open knowledge on campus.

  “I’m not talking about reinstatement,” Nick said.

  “Of course,” Gilbert said, “that’s why we’re here, to put things right.”

  “How can we do that if it’s off the record?”

  “We were hoping to reach a verbal agreement first, then put it on the record.” He turned to Bombard. “Isn’t that right, chancellor?”

  “I can’t speak for the administration,” Bombard replied. “Not officially anyway. But I’m sure my recommendation . . .” She smiled knowingly at Gilbert. “. . . our recommendation would be listened to if we can come to an equitable agreement here today.”

  “I’m listening,” Nick said.

  Bombard nodded. “The university is quite aware that the Scott name is synonymous with archaeology.”

  “I’m not my father.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that. You’re well-known in your own right, Nick. Still, it would be unfortunate to see the Scott name on any kind of lawsuit.”

  “You said it was a rumor.”

  “Hypothetically, then.”

  “Are you making an offer?” Nick said.

  “As I said, I’m not authorized to speak for the administration,” Bombard said. “But, again hypothetically, I think tenure after reinstatement would be assured if we could report back that you are firmly committed to the university.”

  Nick sighed. More than ever, she felt certain that their conversation was being recorded. Otherwise, Bombard’s careful choice of words made no sense. But did it matter? Nick was in the driver’s seat, even if it was called the Spanish Inquisitor. All she had to do was add her name to the lawsuit if the university reneged on the promised tenure. The question was, did she really want it now that it was being offered? And could she live with herself if she made her own, separate deal?

  “Are you making the offer of tenure to everyone in my situation?” Nick asked.

  “What offer?” Bombard said.

  “Hypothetically speaking, then.”

  “If I were you, Nick, I’d worry about myself.”

  Nick stood up. She
’d let them squirm for a while. “I’m going to need some time to think this over.”

  “There’s plenty of time to get a paper together before the next semester,” Gilbert said. “Get back on the tenure track. That’s the thing to do.”

  Nick shook her head. “I had something more immediate in mind, like joining my father on a dig tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t know he was in the desert again this summer,” Gilbert said.

  “He’s after the Anasazi, that’s for sure,” Nick answered, skirting the truth.

  Bombard shifted her position, removing her Ferragamos from harm’s way. “If we schedule you for the next semester, what assurances do we have that you’ll cooperate?”

  “I haven’t reached a final decision. That’s all I can say at the moment.”

  Bombard, her lips pressed into a tight line, turned to Gilbert. “How much time would you need to find a replacement instructor to take Nick’s classes?”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Gilbert said.

  “I’ll be back in plenty of time to let you know,” Nick had replied. She’d never been so wrong in her life.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sam Ohmura was used to being in charge. He controlled his department and he controlled his students in many subtle ways that they weren’t aware of. He was a contingency planner too. He could have been a grand master in chess if he hadn’t devoted his life to anthropology and other things.

  But he wasn’t used to panic, so his brain felt numb as he fought his way through the crowd. The shrill chattering of the tourists beat on his ears like the sharp beaks of persistent birds determined to peck their way into his brain.

  With a sigh of relief he spotted an available phone and forced his way to it with an uncharacteristic rudeness. At all times he was polite and self-effacing, except for today. He didn’t like using an open phone line, but he had no choice. His plane was going to be late leaving the Guam airport and time was precious. It might be considered an error to wait, especially if something went wrong, and errors were not tolerated.

  His fingers, damp with fright, fumbled on the keypad as he punched in the number he had so carefully committed to memory. As always, the call was answered after a single ring.