by R. R. Irvine
She peered out her side window, straining to see land, but there was nothing but angry water. Leaning across Coltrane gave her a similar view on his side of the plane.
“Where’s the island?” she shouted.
“To port, I think. On my side.”
“You think?”
“I saw it for an instant while you were in back, from the top of a high swell.”
“And now?”
“Now,” Coltrane said through clenched teeth, “I turn to port and give her everything she’s got left. If we’re lucky, we hit land.”
In one piece? Nick was tempted to ask but bit her tongue.
Gingerly, Coltrane began maneuvering the plane. Once he completed the turn to port, the wind was at their back and they picked up speed quickly. As a wave crested beneath them, Nick saw land dead ahead. Coltrane’s navigation was perfect, except for the fact that Balesin was rushing at them at an alarming rate. Nick suddenly felt as if she were riding a surfboard.
“Look for someplace soft!” he shouted.
She leaned forward, straining to see between swipes of the wiper blade. Her breath misted the glass. She wiped a hole in the mist.
“Anything?” he said. He, too, was leaning forward over the yoke to get a closer look.
“Not yet.” She wiped the Plexiglas again. “My God, Lee, there’s land on both sides. We must be heading for Balabat, not Balesin.”
“I don’t think we have a choice.”
“It’s one of John Frum’s sacred places.”
“Well, he’s going to have visitors. Now look for someplace to land.”
Nick knew that wasn’t likely. Her first overflight of the islands had shown her that. While Balesin had tourist-white beaches, Balabat had trees growing close to its shoreline.
Nick blinked. Were her eyes playing wishful tricks? No, there was a strip of beach, not deep certainly, but with enough sand to cushion their impact. She pointed it out to him.
He nodded. “Say your prayers.”
But all Nick could think about was how mad Elliot was going to be if she got herself killed in what he called, “One of her damned airplanes.”
“Brace yourself!” Coltrane bellowed.
Balabat couldn’t have been more than fifty yards away. A wave rose beneath them and they rode its peak like a surfer. Only then did she see the cauldron of frothing white water that made up the last twenty-five yards.
For an instant the froth subsided, exposing Balabat’s teeth, outcroppings of sharp coral close into shore. She screamed a warning.
“Christ!” He revved the engine trying to veer away, but it was too late.
The Widgeon shuddered as the coral ripped open her belly. The impact threw Nick forward against the yoke but she’d managed to keep her hands in front of her face.
“We’re hung up!” Coltrane yelled. He jammed his hand against the throttle. “We’ve got to get her loose.” The engine screamed.
Metal screeched. Beneath her, Nick felt the Widgeon tearing itself to pieces. Water was pouring inside.
“Lee!” she shouted over the roar of the engine. “We’ve got to get out.”
He shook his head violently. “We’ll be torn to pieces on that coral.” He cut back the power, but only momentarily before returning to full throttle. The Widgeon rocked, or maybe it was more of a wallow, Nick decided. He kept at it, adjusting the power and rocking the seaplane. And all the while Nick could hear metal scraping against the deadly reef.
Then suddenly, the Widgeon slid to one side and was free of the reef and heading for shore, where she hit nose-in and slowly began to sink.
Coltrane cut the power just as the Widgeon’s belly touched bottom. By then water was sloshing knee-deep inside the cockpit.
“Christ!” he shouted, banging his fist on the yoke. “She’s a write-off.”
“All she’s got is a hole in her bottom. She can be salvaged.”
“Maybe,” he conceded. “But if this storm gets any worse, she might not stay put.”
He was probably right since the Widgeon, as water-logged as she was, creaked and shuddered as each incoming wave crashed against her.
Coltrane took a deep breath and ran his hand over the control yoke. “Come on, Doc,” he said finally. “Let’s get out of here. And watch where you step. That coral’s as sharp as glass.”
Nick eased into the water. By the time she was waist-deep, her feet touched a soft bottom. Squinting against the wind-whipped rain, she looked up at Coltrane, who was kneeling in the doorway.
“We’re through. The reef’s behind us,” he said, grimacing. “Just my luck, though. I have to hit the last piece of coral.”
“You saved our lives.”
Shrugging, he handed her a watertight plastic container the size of a small suitcase. “Emergency supplies,” he said. “You get that one ashore.” He slid an identical case into view. “I’ll bring the food.”
They dragged the supplies onto the narrow beach and Coltrane said, “Stay here.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Nick shot back. “If you’re going to try to tie her down, I can help.”
“Don’t say I didn’t give you an out,” Coltrane said, smiling, and waded back to the plane.
He retrieved a line and the two of them began to work. It was brutal and Nick wondered if their feeble attempts to anchor the plane weren’t futile, but the effort seemed to give Coltrane some kind of emotional lift.
When they had finished, they took cover beneath the palm trees that grew close to the water. But by that time they were no match for the rain, which was pelting them with the intensity of a high-pressure showerhead.
“We’ve got to find ourselves some real shelter,” she said.
“Where? This island can’t be more than half a mile across. You saw it from the air. It’s nothing but a fly-speck.”
“High ground, then.”
He snorted. “Whatever you say, Doc. It’s going to be a short trip.”
They staggered inland.
CHAPTER 39
Farrington, his feet braced against the warship’s plunging deck, smiled at Ohmura and said, “There’s nothing like an ocean voyage.” He sucked a deep breath and gestured theatrically at the seething ocean. “Now aren’t you glad I intercepted you? You would have had to fly in. Now we’ve got shipboard accommodations.”
“What I am is seasick,” Ohmura said, holding tight to the ship’s rail with both hands.
That was part-time agents for you, Farrington thought. Soft and spoiled. “Your Mr. Kobayashi . . . ,” Farrington began, enjoying the way Ohmura bowed his head at the mention of the name, “. . . told me that he wanted to be represented on this mission and you were his choice.”
“Mr. Kobayashi is a wise man.”
“How was I to know about the storm? But don’t worry. The weather boys tell me it will blow itself out by the time we reach the island. Then we’ll catch a few rays and maybe get ourselves a tan.”
Ohmura swallowed experimentally. “How long until the sea calms?”
“Tomorrow morning. Trust me. In the meantime, though, we’ve got to coordinate our actions.”
Ohmura looked at him with ill-concealed hate.
“Did he also tell you that I asked him to keep this operation simple? Instead, we’ve got a Chinese fire drill on our hands. There are so many people involved now that the cleanup is going to look like an ethnic cleansing.”
Ohmura widened his smile, wondering if that was some kind of backhanded racial slur. Probably not, he decided. Americans were just plain self-centered and insensitive.
“Tell me how many other agents Kobayashi has on the island?” Farrington asked bluntly.
“I don’t know.”
Farrington squinted at him. “What the hell. I know old Koby likes to play things close to the vest. I’m glad you’re here anyway. This way, there won’t be any second- guessing later on.”
“Mr. Kobayashi isn’t the kind of man to second-guess,” Ohmura said, appalled that anyone wo
uld dare refer to Mr. Kobayashi as Koby.
“You’d be surprised what people do when the shit hits the fan.” Farrington winked. “That’s when our bosses start washing their hands faster than Pontius Pilate.”
Ohmura winced.
“Now tell me, have you ever run an operation like this?” Farrington asked.
Ohmura dry-swallowed a Dramamine before responding. “I am an anthropologist.”
“Of course you are. That’s a good cover too. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“I do what Mr. Kobayashi tells me.”
“I’ll take that as a no,” Farrington said.
“What about you, Mr. Farrington?” Ohmura asked, deciding to risk impertinence to gain information for Mr. Kobayashi.
“Me what?”
“Do you have agents on the island? And have you been on such missions before?”
“Sorry. That’s strictly classified on a need-to-know basis.”
Ohmura bowed his head.
Farrington clapped Ohmura on the back. “I don’t blame you for asking. Now why don’t you run along and make certain the helicopters are lashed down properly.”
“Wouldn’t your navy take care of such things?”
“It never hurts to be careful.”
Farrington smiled as Ohmura lurched along the deck toward the helicopter pad. Once he was out of sight, Farrington cracked open the sea door and entered the bridge to brief the captain.
CHAPTER 40
Half-blinded by the pelting rain, Nick thought she was seeing things for a moment. She shook herself but the vision remained. Tucked beneath a writhing canopy of breadfruit trees at the center of Balabat Island stood another Quonset-like structure built of corrugated metal. How it got on Balabat she couldn’t imagine. There was no easy access to the smaller island, separated as it was from Balabat by a shark-infested channel.
She nudged Coltrane, who, head down in an attempt not to drown in the deluge, was trudging beside her.
“I hope you believe in miracles,” she shouted in his ear.
He looked up, grinned, and replied, “I do now, if you’re supplying them. From now on, Doc, you lead, I’ll follow.”
The metal door was padlocked. The lock itself looked new, showing no sign of rust, which was unusual in the island’s corrosive climate.
She put down the plastic case she was carrying and tested the lock. The feel of it told her it had been oiled recently.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a crowbar handy, would you?” she asked Coltrane.
“I’ve got a .45 automatic in one of these cases. Will that do?”
“Have you ever tried shooting a lock off?”
“They do it in the movies.”
“They’ll know we’ve been here, that’s for sure. But I say it’s better risking John Frum’s wrath than spending the night outside in this weather.”
“I’m with you.” Using his body to shield his emergency kit from the rain, Coltrane opened the case. He took out a .45, fed in an ammunition clip, and jacked a shell into the firing chamber. “Now stand back, Doc, and let me do my job.”
Four shots later, the padlock snapped apart. Gingerly, Coltrane opened the door and peered inside. “It’s pitch-black in there. I can’t see a thing.”
“I hope you’ve brought along a flashlight.”
“I came prepared, Doc, like a Boy Scout. But let’s not dig them out here in the rain. Follow me.” He grabbed his case, stepped across the dirt threshold, and disappeared into the dark.
Nick picked up the case she’d lugged up from the beach and went after him, leaving the door open to provide what light there was. By now Nick had no idea what time it was, nearing noon probably, though the heavy cloud cover and constant downpour made that only a guess.
Inside, the rain thundered against the metal roof, creating an incessant din. Nick shuddered. Until that moment she hadn’t felt cold. But now, despite a temperature that had to be somewhere in the eighties, goose-flesh climbed her spine.
She dropped to her knees and began rummaging in the case for a flashlight.
“Let me do that,” Coltrane said, kneeling beside her. “I know where to look.”
“A fire would be nice,” she said.
“There’re matches in here too, but I don’t think we’re going to find anything dry enough to burn.”
The flashlight’s beam hit Coltrane in the face. As soon as it swung away to probe the darkness, Nick gasped, “My God!”
Bones were piled in the center of the Quonset, a pyramid of them taller than Nick. Human bones.
“Christ almighty!” Coltrane breathed. “Look at the skulls. There has to be a hundred of them. Maybe the stories are true. Maybe the Baleseans really are headhunters.”
“They’ve kept more than heads. It looks like every body bone is here. Give me the light.”
Coltrane handed it over. “I’ve got another one in here somewhere,” he said, and went to rummaging.
Nick moved to get a closer look. Headhunters, she recalled, preferred their heads intact. But many of these had holes in their skulls, some round as bullets, others jagged. She’d never heard of headhunters piling bones in pyramids. Of course, this could be a shrine dedicated to some kind of ancestor worship.
No, she thought with a shake of her head. That didn’t make sense. The holes proved that many of these people had not died from natural causes. You don’t do that to your ancestors.
Coltrane joined her, shining a second light onto the six-foot pile. “This place gives me the creeps, Doc.”
Nodding, she turned her light on the far wall. Its beam revealed a half-dozen wooden crates stacked waist-high. Their sizes varied, as did their markings. A few were stenciled U.S. Army, but most had Japanese ideograms designating their contents, whatever that might be. She suspected they all dated from World War Two. Certainly, the Japanese helmets placed in rows along the top of the cases did.
“Look over there.” Coltrane flashed his light on the other end of the Quonset.
Bolt-action Japanese rifles were stacked carefully along the corrugated wall. The rifles, unlike the lock outside, had been allowed to rust.
“We never invaded Balesin, or Balabat,” Nick said. “They weren’t considered important enough. So our invasion forces passed them by on their way to more strategic targets. The Japanese were trapped here. They had no way to evacuate their forces, or resupply them either, for that matter.”
“So what are you saying?”
“That whoever these people were, they didn’t die of old age.”
“Are we talking cannibalism?” Coltrane asked, though his heart didn’t sound in it.
“More like some kind of massacre.”
He whistled.
“I could be wrong,” she added. “It could be an undiscovered offshoot of the Cargo Cult, though that doesn’t seem likely.”
“Even if you’re right, why make such a big deal of this place. Back then, the Japs were the enemy. Killing them got you medals.”
“Not if the war was already over.”
Coltrane shrugged. “That was a long time ago. Nobody cares anymore.”
Maybe, Nick thought to herself. But if no one cared, why was. Balabat so high on John Frum’s taboo list? Many cultures believed that unburied bones kept souls in limbo. Perhaps this was the Baleseans’ way of getting even with their Japanese invaders. There was also the possibility that they were an offering to John Frum.
“Let’s check the cases,” she said.
Together they opened the crates. All but one contained rotting Japanese uniforms, insignias, ceremonial swords, and assorted military memorabilia. The last crate held a tea box containing a small package wrapped in oilskins. With shaky hands, Nick lifted it out and waited while Coltrane replaced the lid so she could use it as a desktop. Only then did she carefully unwrap the package. Archaeologists lived for such moments, the chance to touch a piece of history.
Don’t anticipate, she told herself. Let the facts speak fo
r themselves.
Her breath caught at the sight of the old, leather-bound notebook. Except for its expensive binding, it was similar to those she and her father used to record site data. Please God, she thought, don’t let it be in Japanese. Coltrane added his flashlight to hers so she could read more easily.
Nick opened the notebook and sighed with relief. The inside cover was inscribed Balesin Island, 1947. Beneath the inscription two names were written: Nathan and Jessie lnnis.
“Who the hell are they?” Coltrane asked.
“At a guess, I’d say they were related to the Reverend Innis. But guesses don’t count in my line of work.”
Nick’s legs felt suddenly weak. The harrowing ride in the Widgeon had drained her more than she realized, that and the excitement of her discovery inside the Quonset. “I’ve got to sit down.”
Coltrane quickly rearranged the crates so she could sit on one and use the others for a backrest.
“I’ll hold the lights, Doc, you read.”
“Do you want me to read it to you?”
“Make it easy on yourself. Just give me the highlights.”
It didn’t take long before Nick realized that the notebook had belonged to an anthropologist, two of them actually, a husband-and-wife team. Judging by the date, 1947, only two years after the war, they’d been lured to Balesin by tales of the Cargo Cult carried home by returning GIs. Their analysis of Balesin’s culture coincided with many of Nick’s observations, that the society was matrilineal, with most powers, other than religious, held by the island’s matriarch. Sacred duties were the domain of John Frum’s priest, Thomas Yali. Possibly, he’d been Henry’s father, Nick decided, or at the very least a close relative of the present shaman.
Something else occurred to her. Quite possibly Nathan and Jessie Innis had been the only members of the so-called “lost” expedition. The dates were right and there was no mention of any other scientists.
As Nick turned the pages, she became more and more convinced that her assessment was correct. What bothered her, though, was finding the journal here among the Japanese dead. Were Nathan’s and Jessie’s bones also among those so carefully piled in the center of the Quonset?
As she turned a page, an underlined comment caught her eye. She read it out loud. “All primitive cultures have taboos, but those on Balesin seem extraordinary. We have been warned constantly where we may go and where we may not. John Frum is known to many peoples throughout the Pacific. But here he rules with absolute authority. A frightening authority, were tempted to say, though that would be unprofessional.”
