The Lost Flying Boat (28 page)

Bad luck, I muttered on our way back to the dinghy, till the others, realizing that anguish shared is anguish doubled, asked me to belt-up. How much bad luck can you have when two people die for no good reason? ‘Maybe we'll have more.' Rose walked along the beach with me. ‘And that'll be worse.'

I wanted to outpace him, but he kept up. ‘We'll batten the hatches and have some respite against the island, even if the kite sinks under us, or falls from the clouds when we take off.'

‘Respite!' he shouted, burned by the word. A lone bird lifted from a rock as if to take a bite out of the sky. No birds can penetrate the flying boat, or compete once we get into the air. We're impervious to their evil eye. Bennett laughed at such logic. I was close, but he wouldn't respond. Appleyard pressed my arm. ‘Hold off, or he'll kill you. He's no more responsible for what he does than you are for what happens to you. Shake yourself back into one piece.'

Rocks and tussocks were alive. When I turned, a king penguin, out from the rookery, wondered who I was. His white breast blocked my way. I stood bemused, then stepped aside at the smell. The others laughed as it waddled away grumbling.

I went in the second dinghy with Appleyard. ‘Row hard. Pull your guts out. It's the only thing to do.' The air was soft, no breeze. Each oar met its own image as it touched water, the boat sliding along the surface of a mirror. ‘Accidents happen, Sparks. You see a good many down the pit. And you never get used to them. There's little you can do. That was a nasty one back there, though. Can't say I've seen anything as bad. But such pictures rub off. Like those transfers we used to put on our arms as kids, that we thought would stay forever. Everything goes, sooner than you think. You don't even know it's worn off, and that's the truth. I thought I'd had my chips this morning when I went into the drink after Wilcox, but I feel bang-on now.'

Back at my wireless, half the day had gone. The Heaviside Layer was a band of spinning water, and I was a babe new born with a deafening overdose as I sensed a storm towards the prevailing wind. I told Bennett that weather could hit us within the hour.

He poured a glass of brandy, which I drank straight off. ‘Shouldn't bother us, in this anchorage. A few ups and downs. It might blow itself out before it gets here. Or change its mind at the last minute. Such things have been known.'

‘We'll be carrying less weight back. Of the human sort, anyway.' He pressed a clutch of fingers at his forehead, and on taking them away looked relaxed. Two men were dead, but the gold was aboard. What else mattered? ‘Stop worrying. Bull and Wilcox were careless. Luckily they only harmed themselves. I'm sorry, believe you me, but we can't let their deaths interfere with our purpose.' He pointed to a chair. ‘I've got more radio gen for you.'

‘Will we be able to take off with so much weight, and more than a full load of fuel?' I couldn't let the topic alone.

His left eye was bloodshot, and his smile became a scowl. ‘Has Rose been talking? A good navigator – who's losing his grip. He's been tainted by four years of civvy life.'

I sat down. ‘So have we all. But he got us here.'

‘Too true. And he'll get us back. We're a team, Sparks, and I need you all, because a hundred things can go wrong – though there's no reason why they should. The task is straightforward, but the execution is complicated. There's no mystery. When the goods are delivered we'll set up a pay parade, and everyone will be on a first class boat back to Blighty. Or you can hitch the flying boat service – if you still have the stomach for it!'

I topped up the next glass with water. ‘I suppose you wanted Wilcox's grave to be visible for miles, as a decoy? The seaplane looking for us yesterday was after the site of the gold diggings. And now they might assume that's where it is.'

He laughed. ‘Any ruse in a storm. You're right, Sparks. A man after my own heart. They may think we haven't got the stuff out, and concentrate on that spot rather than on us. Wilcox wouldn't mind. With a bit of luck, such as bad visibility for another fifteen hours, we'll be up and away.'

‘And if the weather clears?'

‘We shoot our way out of trouble. Take off on a wing and a prayer, if need be. But that's speculation. I've no time for it. Our fuel ship should now be near the northwest corner of the island, at 48 45 South and 69 15 East. The schedule was worked out three months ago. It's a single deck 600-tonner built in 1928, 145 feet long, manned by the captain, two mates, chief engineer, nine sailors and a radio operator. It's carrying the best aviation juice money can buy. The master will bring it through the bay at 4 knots, on a zig-zag course for 24 nautical miles, and then he'll do 2 knots for 96 minutes while negotiating the tricky bits – before picking us up on his radar. It's the smartest piece of navigation in uncharted waters without a pilot as any captain who's lost his ticket is ever likely to undertake.'

‘What's the ship called?'

‘My memory seems to have gone for a Burton.'

‘Where's it registered?'

He gave that Dambuster smile. ‘Where hasn't it been registered? The last name painted on its stern was the
Difda.
Not much of a star, but we'll call it that, shall we?'

Dizzy from the brandy, I pressed my eyes back into alertness with such force I thought they would stay stuck to the plates of my cranium forever. When they shook loose I looked at him. ‘Do you want me to give him a call?'

‘This is what you'll do: send the letter K every hour on the half hour, on 425 kilocycles. If you don't hear the answering letter L, tap it out again after five minutes. But if there's no response don't bother for 55 minutes. Carry on till you get something back. But no call signs. Nothing except that single letter. When you finally get an L in answer to your K, send nothing for another hour. Then send K again, and wait for the answering L. When you get the first response, let me know. And tell me, on the hour, when the other answers come.'

‘What if I don't hear anything?'

He gripped my shoulder. ‘We're in trouble. But we'll talk about that if it happens.'

10

There was a while to go before the half hour struck, but I knew that the bell had gonged for Bennett. The barren world had a more human aspect than the wilderness in him. I felt dead in his presence, and alive out of it. I did not expect him to tear his hair or cover himself with ashes about Bull and Wilcox. We were beyond that. No deaths could interfere with a dream that had turned real. It was easy to understand. The presence of an alien metal aboard the flying boat infected us all. I glanced at the boxes as if each held human remains, musing that a few more dead would make no difference as far as Bennett was concerned.

Rose bent over his chart, working out a course for Perth.

‘Do we have the petrol?'

‘We will.' He closed his dividers. ‘Though without Wilcox to work his fruit machines we'll be lucky. And that old wind god will have to blow hard at our tail.'

From the astrodome I looked east to the steep-sided channel in which we had landed. Like a fly in a bottle, could we get out? A kelp patch lay under the southern cliffs. Where the throat widened, the waters were mined. The north-south channel which we could use for take-off was hidden by a headland. Mist swirled along the water. Bays, capes, glaciers and mountains were weather-pots continually boiling. When a squall peppered the glass I got back to my radio and listened so intently for that bit of short-long-short-short squeaking that I heard it coming when it wasn't there. Would I recognize the sounds if they suddenly turned up? I sent the letter K five minutes later, but at no answer leaping back I stayed by the set as if my sanity was bolstered by the glowing button of its magic eye.

The mist protected us but, after an hour, showed us up for miles. The starboard float, suspended from the wing, was the last man-made object between us and India. Mist turned into rain. I put out my hand to feel the patter. No one could speak without being heard. A cough or heavy breath was audible. The world beyond my earphones was a tap of footsteps on aluminium ladders, a spanner falling, a garbled song, the call of seabirds, a clatter of tins from the galley. Water slopped and gurgled at the hull. The peace was accentuated because I no longer felt unsteady underfoot.

Damp air swept through open hatchways, and Nash at the draught called for wood to be put in the hole. Appleyard threw a cigarette end into the water. ‘When the weather clears we'll be spotted because of this cloud of birds. They'll do for us yet, if we're not careful. They're like flies over a dead cat, a beacon that can be seen for miles.' He claimed to distinguish between cries of skuas, penguins, petrels and seals. He would guess at their distance, saying that while some were across the water, other sounds carried from far off.

I felt a pang of desire for sight of the sun as I went to my radio for the next schedule, wondering how high one need go to reach blue without limit. I wanted to be airborne and away from this sub-Antarctic envelope. Checking the time with Rose, and hoping I was spot-on frequency, I sent the letter K. Perhaps the other man was not listening, or our signals lacked strength to cross the void. The laws of power and distance were inexorably fixed, and maligning the operator of the
Difda
for laxity had no effect. Maybe the 600-tonner was swamped already – the SS Maelstrom with its berserking crew caught in the switchback of the Roaring Forties. Perhaps it was a postage-stamp picture of Bennett's imagination and didn't exist at all. Nothing seemed real or possible in this world of the anchored flying boat.

Then I heard a callsign loud and clear, which I read but did not recognize for what it was. The volume startled me, each beat scraping my eardrums with brash familiarity. The sender requested that I get in touch with him. My false call sign from what seemed years ago had come home to roost. He had sensed I was listening, as if my transmitter created sounds I didn't know about. I was checking the leads when he called again, confident and close – but how close I could not know. A bearing put him due south, while the
Difda
coming to refuel us should be northwest.

He seemed to know where I was, or at least that I was
there,
and I fought not to rap the key and make contact. Radio silence was a negative weapon, but our one salvation. I waited for him to come on again, but heard nothing, so closed down and told Bennett of the rogue transmitter.

Out of the hatchway, Appleyard in the dinghy held a rod over the water. Two fish were already flapping in the bottom. He made a motion of silence, pulled another into the air and took the hook from its mouth. ‘I thought we needed fresh grub. The water's full of them.'

‘You'd better emigrate.'

‘I wouldn't starve, and that's a fact.'

He threw his cigarette-end towards the float. ‘I found this gear in the survival box. No point not using it.'

I asked where the other dinghy was.

‘Armatage slipped ashore with a butcher's knife to get some meat. That was hours ago, but Nash gave permission. We'll have fish and fowl for breakfast.' He gutted the fish with his black-handled service knife, and slopped the pieces overboard. A bird flew between the struts of the float and gobbled them, then returned to its perch to wait for more.

‘I hope he comes back.'

He laughed. ‘Armatage will be all right.'

‘I'm glad to hear it.'

‘After he left the mob he worked on trawlers around Iceland. Coalmining's a picnic compared to that job. And this one's a Sunday School outing. Bennett contacted him at Hull when he was at a loose end, so he was all gung-ho for this operation. He'd come back out of hell itself, though I expect you'd see the scorch marks. Not that there's anywhere he can go on shore, unless he finds a nice cosy settlement with a few women and a barrel of whisky inside. Armatage was pissed on every op we went on, and nobody knew where he got the booze. Out of the bloody compass, I expect. Didn't stop him doing his work, though. He was a gunner we could rely on.'

He recognized the noise in the sky sooner than I did and, netting his fish, leapt back inside and trod on my foot as he went by. ‘Action stations! Get moving!'

The pilot of the plane was scared to come below the mist and risk hitting shore or water. They'd obviously studied the chart and noticed that the area was good for concealment. Nash took the rear turret, and Appleyard climbed to the mid-upper.' ‘No gun to fire without good cause,' said Bennett. Clutching his computer like a packet of sandwiches during an air raid, Rose came down the ladder and went to the front turret.

The high-pitched engine seemed directly overhead, but there was another at a greater height going back and forth above the northern side of the fjord. Bennett was on the flight deck, and I tuned my receiver for any signals. Perhaps they were hoping to pick up some from me. Nash's voice came over the intercom:

‘Can't see 'em, Skip.'

‘They can't see us, that's why,' growled Appleyard.

‘Shut up, and look,' said Rose.

‘No talking,' Bennett ordered. Would their radar pick up the
Difda
steaming towards us in the next fjord? ‘They don't have it,' I was told.

When the time came I didn't send my one-letter call sign in case the
Difda
returned the contact and gave the game away.

‘We're up shit's creek,' said Nash.

‘Without a paddle,' Appleyard added.

‘Pack it in,' Bennett called.

The engine roared as the plane flew above the water. ‘Bloody good altimeter,' said Rose. ‘Can't be more than a hundred feet.'

After two more runs the engine noises diminished, and went silent.

‘Be dark soon.'

‘I hope so.'

Bennett ordered stand-down. Appleyard imitated the wail of an all-clear over the intercom, then went to the galley and lay out fish in the big pan. ‘They must have got our number.'