Fire Eye (21 page)

Jed finally breaks the awed silence. Slipping his knife back into its scabbard he steps forward toward the wreckage of the Mitchell bomber. Alex follows and watches Jed ponder the situation.

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

“This is a B-25C. As far as I know, the entry hatch into these is in the belly in line with the trailing edge of the wings,” he replies thoughtfully. “Later models had gun hatches on the side of the fuselage that would have been big enough to climb through. This one only has a top turret and tail guns.”

“Fat lot of good a belly hatch is when the thing is sitting wheels up in the dirt! How do we get into it?”

“Let’s have a look around,” he replies.

He bends down to get under the wing, hacking vegetation away once again with his knife. Alex crouches down to follow behind as they move toward the nose of the aircraft, buried in a tangle of scrub. They chop, slash and pull the scrub aside with their hands to clear a path.

Jed stops to inspect the side of the aircraft under the cockpit while Alex fights her way toward him. “Your grandmother was a bit of a looker.”

“What are you talking about?” Alex emerges from the tangled bush to stand beside him.

Jed points to the nose art on the side of the aircraft. The paint is faded, but still visible. A woman lying back, one hand fluffing up her hair and the other draped along her leg. Her knees are drawn up seductively and she cradles a bomb between her thighs. “And your granddaddy had a cheeky streak,” Jed adds as he points to the script under the picture—
‘Eve’s a’comin’.
He gives a devilish laugh.

“
I can read your thoughts, don’t even go there,” Alex announces. “Keep them to yourself.”

Jed starts to open his mouth.

“Don’t.”

Jed keeps his mouth shut. He moves on but mutters, “Great artwork.”

A clod of dirt scores a direct hit on the back of his head.

They work their way around the nose, under the port wing and then around the twin tails back to where they started from. Alex brushes the pieces of bark, leaves and twigs off her clothes and out of her hair. “What do we do now?”

Jed considers his reply. “This is a war grave and a valuable aircraft, so I’d prefer to respect it and do as little damage as possible.” He sees the split skin of the fuselage along the belly but it isn’t big enough for an adult to climb through. “The glazing in the nose was damaged in the impact so I suggest we squeeze you in through the framework so you can climb into the cockpit and open the pilot’s canopy for me.”

“Me! Go in first! On my own? What if there are snakes in there! Why don’t you go in? You’re the great adventurer!” Her tone is sharp.

Even in his state of anticipation and excitement, Jed senses there is something serious going on behind her response. The cogs in his brain turn slowly as he analyses the problem.
It isn’t really about snakes
, he realises. Now knowing her turbulent history, Jed thinks Alex wants to feel secure and not exposed to unnecessary and avoidable risks. She’s tough and a fighter, but also wants a man to step in and protect her. It must be a hard internal conflict to balance for a woman like her. There is also the emotional impact of finding Karl. His mouth engages, slowly and carefully. “I’m sorry about that idea Alex, it’s probably not the best one I’ve had. Let’s have a look at the pilot’s canopy and see if we can get in there.”

An apology of any kind is the last thing Alex expects. It catches her by surprise. She feels guilty about provoking the response, but Jed is already moving around the nose to the pilot’s side so she responds with a simple, “Thanks.”

Jed pulls some short, thick branches over to the aircraft and leans them against the fuselage just below the canopy, being careful not to harm the sexy woman cradling the bomb, and prepares to climb. He turns to her and says, “I should have thought things through better. Forgive me.”

Once again, Alex is surprised by Jed’s apology. It is the last thing she expects but she is secretly pleased. Maybe he is learning a few things along this journey and perhaps so is she. “Get up there!” she says, nodding agreement with a hint of a smile.

Jed accepts the response and turns to climb the branches. It isn’t that high and he braces his boots for a firm foothold, reaches down for his knife, inserts the blade into the front of the canopy frame and levers gently but firmly. To his surprise the canopy slides back far enough for him to get his fingers into the gap and push it backward. It is stiff and catches in places but eventually slides all the way back. He mentally acknowledges the discipline of the pilot who had the presence of mind to unlatch it prior to the forced landing.

He looks down into a cockpit time capsule. Insects and other creatures have colonised various corners and decades of dirt, dust, leaves and other debris have found their way in through the smashed nose glazing. He sees a 1940s cockpit with leather seat cushions, black instrument panel and instruments with white painted lettering. His eye is caught by the red emergency bomb release handle at the top centre of the panel and the red placard just under it with its speed restrictions still readable. The throttles are closed, the propellers feathered, mixture levers fully lean, master switches and fuel all turned off. Again, Jed is impressed. Karl must have kept his cool even under immense pressure.

Lifting his right leg over the edge of the cockpit, Jed places it on the pilot’s seat. It reminds him of his own aircraft with its sliding canopy. He grips the edge of the canopy and lifts his left leg onto the seat, twisting around to squeeze into the cockpit, then stepping down to crouch in front of the throttle controls between the pilot and co-pilot’s seats.

Down in front of the pilot’s seat are the empty eye sockets of a dirty, yellowed skull staring back at him. It lies forlorn, surrounded by other dark bones among a dirty tangled mass that must be the mouldy, rotted remains of a uniform. He looks over to the right where a gap under the instrument panel leads into the bombardier and gunner’s compartment in the nose. Further to the right another skull stares back at him, also surrounded by an assortment of bones and rotted material. The left side of the skull is partly blown away.

As he casts his eyes over the instrument panel and the ruined compass, he can visualise the cannon shell smashing through the fuselage to blow a piece out of the co-pilot’s skull before destroying the compass. He looks back down into the empty eye sockets of Karl Kilchelski.
You did a bloody good job,
he acknowledges, giving a silent salute of respect, one pilot to another.

“What’s taking you so long?” Alex calls out.

“Sorry Alex, just looking around. Are you ready for this?”

“Why, what’s up?”

“Karl is here, what’s left of him. And the others!”

“Oh my God!” Jed’s words are like a slap to the face. She is silent for a while before responding. “This is what I came for, even though I never really expected it. I can’t go back now.” She begins to climb the log. Grabbing the edge of the canopy, she copies Jed and steps over onto the seat, squeezing through the gap and sitting with her chin on her knees facing Jed.

She sees his eyes flick down to her left and follows the movement. Staring into the empty eye sockets, stunned, Alex feels a wave of emotion begin to well up inside her. Tears run down her cheeks. There is nothing she can say.

Jed leans forward and thrusts his hand into the tangled dark mess. His fingers pick out a metal disc and chain. Lifting it clear, he spits on it and rubs it clean with his thumb. He looks carefully at the disc, squinting his eyes as he tilts it to catch the light. “Zero one nine six four seven six,” he reads out. “The zero shows he is an officer, the second digit, one, shows he is a volunteer and the third digit, nine, shows he comes from the West coast of America, which includes Montana,” Jed explains quietly. “You have found Karl Kilchelski.”

Alex continues to look down at the remains of her grandfather. A final tear runs down each cheek.

Decker is fighting the urge to drive Joe on faster. At times progress is rapid but every now and then Joe stops, then scouts around to stop again, staring at the same patch of ground. He tilts his head from side to side, steps back and then sideways and stares at the ground again. A couple of times he even walks slowly around in a circle, tilting his head from side to side. Joe is careful and thorough. Few white men would appreciate how he plays the light, looking for a bent piece of grass, a disturbed pebble or a barely discernible scrape on the surface of the rock. He maintains the direction, even past a false trail that has been laid to lead them off in another direction.

“You sure you’re on their trail?” Decker asks with barely concealed impatience. It’s on the tip of his tongue to end the question with ‘nigger’ or ‘abo’ but he is too smart for that. He doesn’t care about Joe’s feelings, or in fact anyone’s, but he needs Joe’s skills. To Decker’s mind, the skills of an animal, not a human being.

Joe enjoys Decker’s discomfort. He is deliberately drawing it out, turning the journey into a pantomime of the Aboriginal tracker. It is partly Joe’s sense of humour coming out but he wants this white fella to feel uncomfortable. It is small payback for what he has done to Little Britches. Plus, he is also buying himself time to think. “This white fella’s pretty good,” he replies, looking sideways at Decker and waving his hand at the ground. “One o’ the best I seen,” he adds deliberately to needle the white man.

That is exactly what Decker doesn’t want to hear. Joe relishes the flash of unease on his face. “You on their trail? You sure?”

“Sure man!” Joe responds, sizing up Decker’s poorly concealed concern. “You want these people pretty bad?”

“None of your bloody business,” Decker spits back. “Just do your job!”

“I can see when a man wants sump’n bad. You want ’em bad. Maybe I want sump’n bad too!” He turns to follow the trail and leaves Decker to ponder what he just said, having talked around the subject in Aboriginal fashion, not addressing it directly like Westerners do.

It takes Decker a few minutes to work out that Joe might be hinting at something. “What do you want Abo?” This time Decker can’t resist the derogatory term, but Joe doesn’t respond to it.

White man and black man are separated by vast differences of culture, values and experience. Both are intelligent, although they use their intelligence for different purposes. While only one of them acknowledges it, they are fronting up to each other chest to chest, doing the male thing. There is no woman involved in this confrontation, only ego, brotherly love and a clash of cultures.

“Family important to me, important to all black fellas,” Joe replies, skirting around the point in what to him is a very clear statement.

Decker has to think again while he follows Joe through the bush before he puts it together. “You talking about your brother?” he finally asks.

“You want sump’n, I want sump’n,” Joe replies.
White fella is thick as a boab tree!

Decker is by no means stupid but has to push his intellect to finally make the connection. “You want to do a trade—Brad for them?” he asks, hiding his exasperation.
Bloody dumb fuck should have said so in the first place!

“Brad’s important to me,” Joe replies bluntly, equally exasperated. “You want ‘em, I want Brad.” Now making the point as clear as day.

“What can you give me?”

Joe doesn’t respond straight away. He considers what he is trying to do—exchange his brother for two people he doesn’t know. They probably haven’t done anything wrong but are guilty in the mind of this madman. Can he get Brad back and save these people at the same time? He has no idea but family comes first. “I know where they’re going,” he offers.

Decker doesn’t take long to process that. “Then why the hell are you taking so fuck’n long to follow them! If you know where they’re going, why are we farting around in the bush!” he spits angrily.

Joe enjoys that. He got the bastard! He doesn’t show any reaction but lets time needle him a bit more before he replies. “I couldn’t be sure. Now I know. Them whiteys are go’n for a plane?” he adds with hesitation. “Never seen it meself. Heard stories! Can’t go there! Not allowed! Bad things happen if I go there,” he adds decisively.

Decker’s frustration is boiling up inside him. It is all crap to him and makes no sense. He wants to put a load of buckshot in the abo’s stomach, enjoying the groans and screams as he dies in excruciating pain, but controls himself. The battle of emotion seesaws inside him but his rational mind kicks in and reminds him he only has two rounds left. He can’t afford to waste one now, whatever the temptation. “What do you suggest then?” he asks with mock conciliation.

Joe recognises victory but hides his tentative satisfaction. It is a delicate thing he is trying to do, like catching a big fish on a light line. A black fella from the tribal past might think of it as balancing the demands of a wild man from the bush, just like in the legends of his childhood about Ungondangery. “The only way out is the way we come,” he says decisively. “To the north and south are rivers and swamps they can’t cross, ‘less they like crocs. They ‘ave to come back this way. Why chase ‘em when they ‘ave to come back the way they went?”

Decker doesn’t respond straight away. He thinks it through. The abo is making sense. Sure they could go north or south but crossing rivers and swamps is a risk. They could swim the rivers but Westerners would certainly avoid it, even blacks might make it a second option. Making a raft is a lot of work and dicey so coming back out in the same direction is a lot easier. He is forced to admit Joe has a point. “Are you saying we should sit back at camp and wait for them to walk past?” The sarcasm is unmistakeable.

Joe considers the victory dancing tantalisingly in front of him, thinking carefully before responding, “If you wait on top of the big jump-up, you can see long ways off with your glasses and catch ‘em in plenty time,” he offers carefully. “I stay in the bush and when I cut their tracks I bring them to you. Then I want Brad.”

The offer is made so decisively even Decker can pick it up. He doesn’t let Joe know he has already left Jesse on the small hill overlooking the vehicles and Brad, with binoculars and rifle. Decker has to admit the black bastard is a thinker. It is a good idea. The big hill is further away from the vehicles but commands a better view in all directions. He can see the sense of the idea. It’s a damn sight better than chasing around in the scrub. At the same time, he feels affronted that Joe has come up with a better idea. In his mind it seals Joe’s death warrant.

“Great idea Joe!” Decker replies with a smile radiating comradeship. “A bloody good idea!” he says as he almost claps Joe on the back. He stops as he looks into eyes beaming with ill-concealed hope from a weather-beaten black face. “We can do a deal on that! Let’s go back and get set up.”

“I bring ‘em to you, on that rock,” Joe says even more decisively as he points to a ridgeline. You ‘ave to get ‘em yourself. I want to see Brad under the tree there!” he points again with his finger.

Decker understands the trade the black fella is negotiating. He wants the bitch badly but also wants to do this smart arse as well. “A deal,” he agrees with conviction, because his idea of a deal is very different from this black bastard’s.

Joe changes direction with hope lightening his already light tread across the landscape while Decker follows with the urge to kill in his heart.