Phantom Pearl

by Monica McCabe

  He still didn’t answer, just stared at the screen and shifted until his back faced her. “That way.” He pointed a few degrees east of their current position. “Let’s keep moving.”

  She didn’t argue. Instead, she chomped the last of her mango, wiped her fingers on her pant leg, and grabbed her pack. She wiggled into the straps as they walked.

  “Freedom from what?” she demanded again as she fell into step behind him.

  “It goes back years, a lot of years. If he hasn’t told you yet, it’s because he doesn’t want you to know.”

  That didn’t help. Her friendship with Kai had spanned thirteen years, and they talked constantly. About current events, job details, memories of her father. It was an endless stream of conversation that had given little in the way of knowing the man.

  “Is Kai being blackmailed?”

  Craig kicked a fallen branch off their path. “More along the lines of extortion, I’d say.”

  Anger bubbled up—at herself for accepting the status quo and never questioning, and at Kai for all his damn secrets. All she knew was that her father and Kai had been friends, Kai had been there the day her father died, and the Yakuza was responsible.

  Riki grabbed Craig’s arm, halting their forward progress. “What kind of trouble is he in?”

  He sighed and dropped his head. “It’s a long story.”

  “We’ve got time.”

  “Right you are.” He turned to get moving again, but then suddenly froze.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Do you hear that?”

  She held perfectly still and listened. Birdcalls rustled in the thick foliage. She closed her eyes and focused. Then she heard it.

  Helicopter blades. Distant, but unmistakable.

  “Someone is searching for us,” Craig snapped. “Flamin’ heck, Maddox. You’ve got a target painted on your back. First Cairns, now here. You get a lot of attention for a koala.”

  Challenges were nothing new. She’d faced plenty of worthy opponents in her line of work. With a prize like Phantom Pearl, she expected heavy competition, but not at this level. Someone brought in a chopper. What the ever-loving hell.

  Nothing about this job was normal. Not one thing.

  Being hunted from the air was a first. Talk about going all dead serious over winning. It could be Dallas Landry. He had a lot to lose. The more likely candidate was Ken Cho. Didn’t matter. Neither one intended to let her walk away with the Pearl.

  Craig had pulled the GPS and worked on taking another reading.

  “How much farther?” she asked.

  “Maybe three kilometers.” He used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Could make it in an hour if we hurry.”

  She glanced at her watch. It was almost three in the afternoon, and they’d already hiked over a dozen kilometers. They’d been at it all day and her muscles ached. She’d sweated out every last drop of moisture in her body, and she was thirsty enough to swallow Lake Michigan. An hour ago, she’d contemplated taking a break to down a bottle of water and eat one of those chocolate chip cookies she’d brought along for sugar-fueled energy. Not anymore.

  Right now adrenaline pushed everything aside except a need for speed. They were running out of time. April in Queensland, the sun dropped by six-thirty. That meant they had roughly three hours of daylight left to pull off a miracle.

  “We have to find that plane today,” she said. “We keep going until we do. Don’t stop, don’t slow down, even if it gets dark.”

  “You’re on,” Craig said with a grin. “Race you.”

  They took off at a breakneck pace, traversing uneven ground choked with trees, poisonous vines, and thorny brush, sometimes broken by rocky outcroppings and occasional boulders the size of a Greyhound bus. The mountain range undulated, the land twisting their path up, then down, then up again as they gained elevation. The plane rested high on a slope, and the perpetual climb and punishing pace seriously strained her stamina, the effort to keep moving taking a massive toll. Not even the frequent thirty-second breaks to listen for the chopper offered any relief. Thankfully, the sound remained in the distance, but they still did their best to avoid open sky.

  Riki’s breathing grew labored. Her legs burned as hot as her lungs. Still they kept moving. Craig muttered curses and whacked at anything in their path. Shadows lengthened as the sun dropped and the trek became an endurance test, one she was losing. Her body accepted the torture, but her brain condemned her for being here in the first place.

  Nothing is worth this kind of pain…

  You were perfectly happy in Baja, relaxing by the pool…

  She pushed the defeating thoughts aside, focused on one foot in front of the other until she couldn’t any more. She needed water. Lots of it. Enough to fall into and cool the fire burning her skin.

  “Wait,” she rasped and doubled over, sucking in huge gulps of air and fighting against a dizzying wave of nausea.

  “Thank God.” Craig stopped a few feet ahead of her, his breathing just as heavy and labored.

  Next thing she knew, he’d removed her backpack and tossed it on the ground beside his, then pulled them both down to sit propped up against a tree. She closed her eyes, concentrating on slowing her heartbeat and finding a place of control as Craig dug inside his pack.

  She didn’t move, even when she heard him twist off a cap, felt him grab her hand, and place a bottle of water in her grip. “Drink this.”

  “I…can’t,” she panted.

  “Do it—you’re dehydrating.”

  She couldn’t do anything more than hold the bottle for a solid minute, all her energy focused on bringing her body back from the edge of collapse. Eventually, she managed a drink. The water was warm, but she didn’t care. It was wet, refreshing, and pure heaven. She took another long pull, then lifted her face and poured a small amount onto her forehead, letting the water trickle down her face and neck. She pulled her bandana from a back pocket and wet it, too, wiping her face repeatedly until she could function again.

  “Are we there yet?” she croaked and leaned her head back against the tree.

  “Depends,” Craig replied. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

  Her gaze followed the direction he pointed. Above them on a ledge, swallowed by the forest and surrounded by growing shadows, a dirt and moss-covered piece of metal stood silent sentinel. A muted red stripe disappeared into scrub brush, while hints of a longer fuselage peeked through the foliage.

  She stared at the crashed plane in utter shock. The rainforest had all but swallowed it in a blanket of green, but they’d found it. Was it the C-47? Only one way to find out.

  She took another long drink of water, tightened the cap, and stood on wobbly legs.

  A second wind had kicked in.

  * * * *

  Oscar whipped down a long driveway and circled a ranch-style house, then parked alongside a four-car detached garage. The truck was now recognizable, and though the urge to eat up the road toward Riki overrode every decision, common sense said it would be smart to switch. Dallas climbed out of the truck as Oscar hit the remote to activate the automatic garage door.

  When the double door opened, Dallas whistled. “Exactly how many cars do you own?” he asked.

  “A few.”

  That was an understatement. Besides the truck, Oscar had a stripped down non-descript four-door sedan, a convertible Solara, a Jeep, and a Honda Gold Wing motorcycle. But it was the Alfa Romeo Montreal that drew Dallas into the garage. He made a beeline for the sporty two-door coupe and circled the classic performance car in awe.

  “A rare beauty,” Oscar said as he opened a cabinet and selected a set of keys. “Nineteen-seventy-seven. Last year they made her. Getting parts isn’t easy, but she’s worth the extra effort.”

  “You do the work yourself?”

 
“Got to. Lost art nowadays. Electronic engines and computer driven components ruined everything. I’ll take an old-fashioned carburetor any day.”

  “V8 engine?”

  Oscar nodded. “All original. She’s a thoroughbred.”

  It took superhuman effort for Dallas not to open the driver’s side door and climb inside. “Please tell me we’re taking this one.”

  Oscar snorted. “Not a chance. Not with crazy Japanese crime lords stalking us. We’re taking the Kaiser Jeep. Nineteen-sixty-eight. Got it military surplus in Korea and named it Mr. Zippy. Don’t look like much, but he’s an off-road beast with a Chevy V8 engine and four-inch lift kit.”

  Dallas heaved a disappointed sigh. It made sense, of course. Rugged and reliable took precedence over flashy and fast, but less than four-thousand Montreal’s had been created. Driving one would be an incomparable experience.

  Then again, so would ensuring Ken Cho came up empty-handed.

  The Asian had to have a ground crew because the only place to land a chopper out there was the road. Spotting her from the air was one thing, getting to her required wheels. And boots. That crew was already moving, and they needed to follow.

  Oscar unlocked what looked like a closet door and disappeared inside. A minute later, he came out with an automatic rifle outfitted with a monster-size scope. “Pick your poison,” he said to Dallas, pointing back into the room.

  He didn’t ask, just went inside. The closet turned out to be an army surplus store, a walk-in weapons locker, stocked to the gills with guns, knives, clubs, and ammo. It also had bags, harnesses, blankets, tents, you name it. He lifted a ME pouch and read the label. Beef stew.

  He stepped back to the door. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Oscar shrugged. “That’s what happens when you’re a supply officer,” he said. “You tend to collect things.”

  Dallas went back inside, grabbed a bag, and began his own collection. He tossed in a couple handguns, a meaningful supply of bullets, a serrated knife and leg holster, then topped it off with a variety of MEs. He suddenly felt optimistic over their chances of success. He had the map and knew where they were headed, had an excellent source of local knowledge with military connections, and now he was armed to the teeth.

  Dallas exited the room. “Remind me to throw a bonus in with that hazardous duty pay,” he said as he tossed his supply into the back of the Jeep along with his backpack.

  “Always knew this stuff would come in handy one day,” Oscar said as he added a first-aid kit, a case of bottled water, and a small duffel bag to the growing pile. “That should do it.”

  “We need to make up for lost time,” Dallas said. “How fast does that Kaiser go?”

  “Fast enough to break land speed records.”

  “Perfect,” Dallas said with a grin. “It’s time you knew the whole story. Let’s roll. I’ve some things to tell you on the way.”

  Chapter 14

  Exhaustion forgotten, Riki pushed her way up through the tangled brush to reach the nose of the old plane. It faced skyward, coming to its final rest atop a massive, broken tree stump, the heavy trunk knocked over and decaying on the ground. She rounded in front of mangled propeller blades and ducked beneath the aircraft’s nose. Her hands reached out to caress the aged metal, her fingertips lightly tracing a long line of rivets. An overwhelming sensation of sorrow and loss flowed from the bent and battered remains, and Riki whispered a quick prayer for those who surely lost their lives in the crash.

  She emerged on the other side and discovered the mountain’s slope was broken by a fairly even stretch of ground, a narrow shelf, and what remained of the C-47 rested on the edge of that.

  Two things were immediately evident. First were the missing wings, no doubt ripped from the fuselage during the crash. They’d spotted one of them from the air yesterday. The second was the jagged structural break that occurred right behind the cockpit, separating it from the passenger and cargo cabin.

  Riki moved far enough away from the plane to take in the length and gauge the safest point of entry. Only two real options. The severed cockpit section had a gap wide enough to squeeze through, and toward the aft a rectangular cargo access port had been lost somewhere in the plane’s destructive path through the rainforest. She’d start with the break.

  But she couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her eyes away from the haunting sight of the war bird lying silent and still on the ground. Her once smooth metal skin had dulled. Blotches of white and orange algae had spread a random pattern over her entire body, while trees, vines, and heavy brush cradled her, comforted her in death. It was eerie. A solemn end to a graceful creature of the skies.

  “My God,” Craig whispered beside her.

  During the violent break, the main cabin had rolled enough to bring a row of five windows down to a height where seeing inside was possible. Shattered glass would make the viewing treacherous, but she spotted one where the entire glass panel was missing and made her way over to glance inside.

  Afternoon shadows were settling around them, and the interior lay too dark to see much, but her initial glance revealed busted metal crossbeams dangling from the ceiling, along with wire and yards of gray metal pipe.

  “Here, use this,” Craig said and handed her a flashlight.

  She shined the light through the window and spotted several roof trusses had fallen and lay scattered about the cabin floor. Debris lay everywhere, but it was hard to tell much of anything from out here. She stepped back and joined Craig as he investigated the break.

  He shimmied out of his backpack. “Won’t fit through wearing this thing,” he said and began to twist through the opening.

  “Careful,” she warned, “the edges looked sharp.”

  To prove it, the back of his shirt caught on a spike of torn metal. “Hold up,” she said and freed the ripped cotton before bending the spike backward.

  “Un-friggin-believable,” Craig said from inside. “This old girl went on a wild ride.”

  She slipped out of her pack and dropped it on the ground beside his, then started through the opening. She made it unscathed and clicked on her light.

  Utter destruction. Whatever damage had occurred in the crash, seventy plus years of exposure to tropical heat, winds, and rain had finished the job. She aimed her light toward the cockpit and found the passageway completely blocked by a floor-to-ceiling fuse box. The cover had ripped away and fallen at an angle across the floor, while the steel cabinet of exposed fuses and jumbled copper wire remained semi-attached to a bulkhead by torn braces. It leaned precariously against the opposite wall, like one wrong move could bring it all crashing down. Japanese writing stenciled on the sides of the steel cabinet was still visible, along with the infamous red sun.

  Above her, a hole had been punched through the metal roof by a busted tree branch, and dead leaves, twigs, and forest debris littered the interior. Her light caught an old boot, its laces in tatters and the leather decaying.

  “It almost seems sacrilege to disturb this place.” Craig circled in place, his light bouncing off busted equipment. “Sort of like grave robbing.”

  “Isn’t that what you, Kai, and my father used to do?” She shined her light toward the aft of the cabin. “Archeology is nothing but disturbing the remains of the dead.”

  He went still, his light frozen in one spot. “You’re right. And it seems we’re at it again.”

  Her gaze followed the beam into the main cabin, and she gasped. Skeletal remains of two soldiers stared back at them, their dark, empty eye sockets a ghostly witness of a violent end. The two unfortunate souls were still in officer uniforms and strapped in their jump seats, one pierced in the chest with a broken strut support from above, the other’s skull bent at an odd angle.

  “Jesus,” Craig muttered as he crossed himself.

  She agreed. Their deaths were a disturbing reminder of what she
risked in this quest to enact revenge. She’d poked the dragon more than once, and he now breathed fire. It didn’t bear thinking about what price she’d pay if ever caught. Riki averted her gaze from their haunting stares and scanned her light over evidence of that fateful flight instead.

  Tossed duffel bags, cargo containers, parachutes, satchels, equipment, anything that hadn’t been tied down lay strewn haphazardly on every surface. She rolled a duffel over and bent down to unzip it. Pieces of a soldier’s life were inside. Clothing, toiletries, and a straight-razor, but no Phantom Pearl. She glanced back at Craig.

  He’d opened one of the satchels and was shining his light on a stack of papers. “They’re all written in Japanese,” he said as he shuffled through. He returned the stack to the bag and continued to rummage through the flotsam scattered everywhere.

  She moved on to an upside-down aluminum box. It was about the right size for what she sought. She flipped it over, removed the busted padlock, and lifted the lid. Inside were a pair long barreled pistols.

  “Mother of all—those are German Lugers.” Craig immediately set his light down and lifted one of the pistols from the case, carefully looking it over. “It’s a P08 if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You know guns?”

  “I know World War Two history. Those guns were prized souvenirs for Allied soldiers. Highly collectible even today.” He put the pistol back in the aluminum case and reverently closed the lid. “What I wouldn’t give….”

  “Take them,” Riki said. “The men on board this plane were Japanese soldiers, hardened and ruthless. I’ve no doubt those pistols were prizes of war. Take them and change the karma.”

  “Change the—what are you talking about?”

  “It’s like finding a penny. Heads up is good luck, tails bad. If you find a tails-up penny, the gift is not yours. You must flip it for the next person. Change the karma.”

  “I like the way you think.” He cleared a bench of stained and torn parachute cloth and set the case on top.

  She continued her search and swept the floor with her light beam. A few steps deeper into the plane, and she found a third skeleton. The lower half of him lay on the floor, while the head, ribs, and arms had sunk into a caved-in space between floor joists. Near the skull, she could make out the pale light of the outdoors entering through a hole torn by the missing wing. From the look of things, animals had worked over the bones, dragging off pieces until all that was left barely filled the drab green uniform of a private or corporal. Being the first inside a plane crash, even one that happened over seventy years ago, had a way of testing one’s nerve.