by R. R. Irvine
“I know how they felt, Doc,” Coltrane said. “The whole damned place spooks me, but it must have been a lot worse back in those days. Hell, if you weren’t military, the only way in here was by boat, unless you wanted to parachute.”
Nick hugged herself. “Look around for something to make a fire.”
“I already did that. There’s nothing, unless you want to break up these crates.”
“Not a chance. They’re artifacts.”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
“Not mine, John Frum’s.”
“I guess we’re going to have to eat cold food, then.”
“What have you got?”
“Spam and energy bars.”
“I’m not that hungry yet,” Nick said, and went back to reading to herself.
After a few minutes, Coltrane said, “I’m getting tired of standing here holding these lights for you.”
“Sorry, I lost track of time.”
“Well, take a break and rest your eyes. We ought to rest the batteries, too, at least in one of the flashlights. God knows how long we’ll be stranded here.”
“We can inflate your life raft as soon as the storm passes.”
“Sorry, Doc, but the coral cut it to pieces.”
Nick put down the notebook and sighed. “You can switch them both off for a while.”
When he did, she realized it had grown completely dark. In the darkness, something else struck her. Rain was no longer thundering on the roof; it had become a gentle dripping.
“The storm’s easing,” she pointed out.
“It figures. This time of year, they don’t last long. But in the monsoon season watch out. That’s when I dry-dock my Widgeon for safekeeping. Or did,” he added sadly.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself and switch on the light again,” she said.
Coltrane grumbled but complied.
“There,” she told him, waving the flashlight, “don’t you notice anything?”
“Like what?”
“Light attracts bugs and there aren’t any.”
They’d probably been blown out to sea, she thought, or flat-out drowned. Either way, they ought to have a couple of days’ respite before the next batch hatched out.
“That calls for a celebration, Doc.” He dug into one of the cases and handed her a limp energy bar. “You better eat, whether you’re hungry or not. We’ve had a rough day.”
Holding the flashlight for herself, Nick ate while she read. Because of the bar’s consistency, it stuck to the roof of her mouth like peanut butter. But she forced it down and immediately began to feel better. All she needed now was a hot shower and a real bed. For a moment, she thought about taking off her clothes and standing in the rain, but that would be a bit provocative considering the circumstances. She glanced at Coltrane, who grinned back as if he’d been thinking about the romantic possibilities when a man and woman find themselves alone and stranded.
She forced herself to read on. Two pages later she hit an entry that needed sharing. “Listen to this, Lee. My wife and 1 have spent many weeks gaining the confidence of the people here. Today, our hard work finally paid off. They have agreed to take us to one of their holy places, the airfield on their sacred mountain. There, they say, John Frum himself landed during the war. We begin to believe that John Frum may have been a real person after all. If so, identifying him would be an important milestone in the history of the Pacific lslands. Unfortunately, we are not allowed to take a camera with us. We have also been sworn to secrecy and not to reveal what we see. As scientists we feel such a lie on our part is justified.”
Nick paused to think that over. Over the years, Indian tribes in America had learned not to trust anthropologists with their secrets. As a result, many Indians had started making up myths and stories, until now fact and fantasy were often impossible to separate, making scholarship virtually useless.
“We’ve also been told that we can’t take our son, George, with us,” she read. “He must stay behind in the care of the village women.”
“I’ll be damned,” Coltrane said. “You were right. That is the reverend they’re talking about.”
“It seems likely,” Nick said, and went onto the next entry. “They have shown us pieces of a real two-engine warplane, or what’s left because of battle damage. The pieces have been carefully collected and appear to be in the process of being moved. Our guess is that the shaman intends to build a shrine somewhere. In any case, we are told this is the airplane that brought John Frum to Balesin. He came disguised as a flier, they say, but he was mortally wounded, so that he could die and be resurrected again.”
Coltrane interrupted. “Those people sound a little nuts to me. But then a place like this would do it to anyone.”
Nick turned the page. It was the final entry in the notebook. “We must break our promise and return to the site alone. We intend to document it with photographic evidence. With luck, we’ll be back in the village before anyone misses us and no one will know we have broken their most sacred taboo.”
Nick sighed and put down the notebook. “Apparently they were found out. The diary ends here.”
“The islanders killed them, you mean.”
“Who else?”
“I wonder if the Reverend Innis knows,” Coltrane said.
“I don’t think we should be the ones to tell him,” she replied. “It all happened more than fifty years ago, so chances are that whoever killed them is long gone.”
“So what! I’d still want to know, if I were the reverend. Besides, aren’t you forgetting something, Doc? History’s repeating itself on this damned place. Three more people have died wandering around where they shouldn’t have.”
He had a point. Even so, annoying as Yali was with his obtuse shaman-speak, she couldn’t imagine him as a killer. Chief Jeban either, for that matter. And Lily was unthinkable as a suspect.
“I think it best that we keep quiet about this journal until we find out more.”
“No way. These bastards are killers.”
“Dammit,” she said, “let me talk to my father and Curt Buettner first. Maybe we can figure out a way to soften the blow. Remember, these people are the reverend’s parishioners. What would happen if every time he looked at them, he saw them as killers?”
“Aren’t they?”
“Just keep quiet about it.”
“You make that sound like an order, Doc.”
“Just remember you’re working for Curt Buettner.”
“Let me tell you a story. When I was a kid, I lost both my parents. They were rear-ended by a goddamned drunk driver, who got off with a few months in jail. For years after, I dreamt about tracking that bastard down and killing him for ruining my life.”
“But you didn’t, did you?”
“I never got the chance. The bastard drank himself to death.”
Shaking her head, Nick wrapped the journal back into its oilskins and replaced it in its wooden crate. “This is an artifact, a piece of history, whether you like it or not. It stays here with everything else, at least until we sort out the situation.”
She asked, “Do you think the Widgeon’s radio is still working?”
He pursed his lips. “Swamped the way she is, I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Then we’re just going to have to swim for it.”
“Not with sharks I don’t,” Coltrane said. “Buettner warned me that the waters around here are infested.”
“When was that?” she asked, unable to recall any such conversation.
“It was months ago, when I flew him here the first time. He said the sharks were everywhere. I’d forgotten all about that until now. I flew him in, dropped him off, then picked him up a few days later.”
He walked to the door and peered out. “It’s stopped raining.”
When he stepped outside, she joined him. She looked up, expecting to see nothing but blackness, but stars were showing in patches.
Thank God, she thought, and touched him on the arm.
“It’s time we got some rest,” he said, pulling away. “We’re going to need it in the morning.”
As they went back inside, she realized he’d stopped calling her Doc.
CHAPTER 41
A growling stomach woke Nick. She’d been sleeping with her head propped against one of the wooden crates, leaving a painful crick in her neck. Bones, or maybe cartilage, crunched when she sat up and stretched.
“Lee?” she muttered, looking around the Quonset and finding it empty.
“Out here!” Coltrane’s muffled call came from outside. A moment later, the door banged open and blinding sunlight spilled inside. “I was about to go down to the beach and take a look at my Widgeon.”
Breakfast first, she thought, then remembered all they had left was Spam. Ignoring her aches and protesting stomach, she scrambled to her feet and hustled outside. The brilliant sky dazzled her. She took a deep breath. The air smelled of rich, wet earth. The temperature, though warm, was pleasant. There was still no sign of mosquitoes.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
“I’m right behind you.”
The walk to the beach, winding through palms and breadfruit trees, refreshed her. In such weather these islands really were tropical paradises. Even the sea had calmed, its breakers more picturesque than dangerous.
Coltrane planted his feet at the water’s edge, folded his arms over his chest, and shook his head at the Widgeon. He was again wearing his leather flying jacket, she noticed, zipped up despite the warm day.
“Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks,” Nick offered. “At least it stayed put.” Which was an understatement, since the Widgeon looked more like a sunken ship than an airplane. “Nothing seems to be broken off,” she added.
“Shit, woman. Use your eyes. That’s the end of Coltrane Airlines.”
He still wasn’t calling her Doc, she noticed.
“Surely something can be salvaged,” she said, trying to sound upbeat.
He squatted in a catcher’s stance, picked a piece of shell from the sand at his feet, and hurled it at the plane. “Hasn’t it sunk into that brain of yours? I’m now a pilot without a plane.”
“While you’re deciding on a new profession,” she said sarcastically, “why don’t we see if the radio’s in working order, or were you planning to take up permanent residence here?”
“When you say we, you mean me wading in and getting soaked again, don’t you?”
“Men,” she muttered, and waded in herself.
“Hold it.”
When she looked back he was folding his jacket and stowing it on the sand.
She reached the fuselage door ahead of him.
“For Christ’s sake, woman,” he snapped. “Look at her. You’re wasting your time. She’s half-full of water and her electronics will be shot to hell.”
Irritated, she tugged on the door latch but it wouldn’t budge.
“Ease up,” he said, plunging past her. “I locked it.”
Good thinking, she said to herself, since a crowded place like this had to be rife with thieves.
“It’s no good you sloshing around in there,” he went on. “You’ll just make a mess of things. I know where everything is and what to look for.”
“Such as?”
“Stay behind me and maybe you’ll learn something.”
She clenched her teeth to keep from swearing.
Inside, the water was waist-deep. Even the cockpit’s instrument panel was partially submerged. So were the seats, except for their flotation cushions that were bobbing against the windshield.
“Just stay out of the way,” he said, taking a deep breath before plunging beneath the surface.
A moment later an airtight cylinder-shaped container sprang to the surface hard enough to bang into the ceiling. A second followed, barely missing her.
Coltrane came up for air. “Flare guns,” he announced breathlessly.
“What about food? Is there anything else in here to eat besides Spam?”
He started to say something, then submerged again without a word. This time he popped to the surface along with yet another yellow plastic case. He thrust it at her. “More energy bars and some trail mix for madam. Now let’s get out of here and phone home.”
While Nick chewed on a bar the consistency of road tar, he loaded a flare gun, aimed it toward Balesin, and fired. Its smoky trail culminated in a disappointing burst that wouldn’t have passed muster at a Fourth of July celebration.
“Do you think they’ll be able to see something that small?” she asked with her mouth full.
“If they’re looking for it.”
That wasn’t exactly comforting, though Nick knew Elliot would have organized some kind of search by now. The problem was, anyone in the jungle, no matter how alert, wasn’t likely to see an airborne signal.
“What about the church tower?” she asked. “Could you see it from there?”
“How far’s that?”
“Miles.”
“Only if they have binoculars.”
Nick sighed and counted energy bars. There were a dozen, eleven now she’d eaten one. “Maybe we should ration these in case help’s a long time getting here.”
Coltrane shrugged. “We’re going to run out of fresh water before we do food.”
“If we have to, seawater can sustain us for a while.”
Fifteen minutes later he fired another flare. “I think we’d better save the rest for tonight. You can see them for miles in the dark. Any objections?”
She shook her head.
While he retrieved his jacket, she sat on the sand and stared toward Balesin. The thought struck her that tourists paid small fortunes to land on tropical beaches like this one.
Behind her, she heard the metallic thud of another flare being loaded into its pistol. But when she turned to check on Coltrane’s intentions, he had a strange look on his face and his head was cocked to one side, listening.
She jumped to her feet and listened, too. For a moment she heard nothing but the lapping of waves. Then suddenly there was the distant but distinctive thumping of helicopter blades.
Nick scanned the horizon, but couldn’t see anything.
Coltrane fired another flare. A moment later the sound of a chopper grew louder.
“There!” Nick pointed out to sea. The chopper was coming in low, and not from the direction of Balesin, which surprised her.
“Buettner must have gotten the radio working,” Coltrane said.
Even if true, a helicopter didn’t have the range to fly in from Guam. She was about to say so when she saw the U.S. Navy markings on its side. Their flares must have been seen from a ship, though what the hell one might be doing out here she couldn’t imagine. Only yesterday the ocean had been like a cauldron.
The chopper hovered directly overhead for a moment, giving them time to scramble out of the way. Once they were clear, it settled slowly onto the beach. The man waving at them from the open doorway looked familiar. She was about to ask Coltrane if he recognized him when she realized where she’d seen him. Sam Ohmura’s photograph had been on the back cover of his book on Pacific Island cultures.
Head down to avoid the whirling rotor blades, Ohmura jumped out and came to meet them. Two sailors accompanied him.
“You must be Nick Scott,” he said, offering his hand. “And you’re Lee Coltrane. It’s good to see you both. We were afraid your plane had been swept out to sea.”
“I didn’t know the Navy was looking for us,” she said.
“Your father sent us. He’s waiting at the church with my partner. Come, we’ll ferry you over there.”
CHAPTER 42
“What took you so long?” Elliot demanded as Nick climbed out of the helicopter.
“Glad to see you, too, Elliot,” Nick snapped. “It’s nice to know that you were as worried about me as I was about you.”
“Of course I was worried about you, daughter. But I had the advantage of receiving Sam’s message when he
found you. And he, no doubt, told you that I was well.”
He stepped forward and enfolded Nick in a bear hug, which surprised her, it was so uncharacteristic.
“Watch what you say,” he whispered in her ear.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered back.
“I don’t know for sure. Just be careful.”
Buettner took a turn hugging her. Over his shoulder she saw a line of villagers trudging along the Mission Trail, carrying their belongings back home now that the storm had passed. Of the locals, only Yali, Chief Jeban, and Lily remained behind. With them, waiting their turn to greet Nick and Coltrane, were the reverend and his wife, and a man Nick had never seen before. Probably he was the partner Ohmura had referred to, though why a professor would need one, she couldn’t guess. Especially a partner who had a Navy officer hovering close by like an aide-de-camp. For that matter she couldn’t understand why a professor would be giving orders aboard a U.S. Navy helicopter.
“I’m Reed Farrington,” the stranger said. “Lucky for you Sam Ohmura and I came along.” Farrington wore a loose-fitting linen jacket over a bright Hawaiian shirt and rock-washed jeans. He looked to be somewhere in his mid-thirties.
Ohmura came over to stand beside him like a second aide-de-camp, smiling and nodding reassuringly whenever Nick looked his way. She didn’t really know the man, but it seemed to her that beneath the reassuring veneer there was a sense of strain and anxiety.
“I can see by the look on your face,” Farrington continued, “that you’re wondering how we happened to be here. It was luck, pure and simple. We were on a training mission.”
“In this kind of weather?” Nick responded.
“I’m not Navy myself, you understand, just temporarily attached for this mission. But the ship’s captain assured me that the storm was absolutely fortuitous. „Training can never be too realistic,’ he told me, „because you never know when you’re going to war, in which case you can’t stop for the weather.’ ”
