The Curiosity Machine (17 page)

Shadows closed around him as he neared his initial target. Gerald slowed to a pantomime creep through the trees, lifting his feet and placing them down again in the leaf-littered sand with extreme care. He got to within twenty metres of the clearing and dropped to his haunches behind a large boulder. The day's light was almost gone, but Gerald could still make out what he was looking for: a dozen steel drums in a tight stack on the far side of the clearing. In the distance, on the beach, he could make out the glow of the campfire and some battery-powered lamps on poles in the sand. The area around Sam, Ruby and Felicity's tent was lit up like a maximum-security prison.

Gerald cursed to himself—this was going to be a lot more difficult than he had hoped. He waited till he was sure no one was lurking near the clearing, then made his way around to the steel drums. He dropped to his belly and commando-crawled to the nearest barrel, and sniffed. He nodded to himself and smiled. He may have been a billionaire with his own air wing for less than a year, but he knew the smell of jet fuel. And that clearing in the palm trees had all the hallmarks of a makeshift landing zone. For whatever reason, Ursus was setting up
a helicopter refuelling station.

Gerald peeked around the fuel drums towards the beach. Three men sat on camp chairs by the fire, eating from enamel bowls. Gerald slapped a hand to his growling belly to muffle the noise. His mouth watered. Was that beef stew he could smell? He rattled his head to refocus his thoughts: rescue first, eat second.

Gerald perched on his knees and removed the T-shirt he still had wound around his head. He placed it over the cap on the closest fuel drum, and turned. The cap came off in his hand with a soft
pop
. A strong aroma of jet fuel wafted out. Gerald twisted the shirt into a long wick and fed it into the drum to soak it in fuel. Then he pulled it two-thirds of the way out and let it flop down the side of the barrel. He emptied his water bottle and placed it on the ground beneath the wick so fuel would drip in to it. There was an even dozen of the barrels, and one by one he removed their caps.

Once he had collected enough fuel, he screwed the top back on the water bottle and set off towards the four storage shelters. The moon would begin to rise any minute and Gerald needed to get everything prepared before the beach was bathed in its silver glow. His plan was really quite straightforward. The ultimate goal was to rescue his friends, capture the motor yacht and power off into the night. Then they could use the high-powered radio on board to call for help and let the authorities know that the
Archer
had been hijacked. The first step in
the plan was to set up a diversion on the beach to draw the guards away from the tent. That bit was easy: Gerald would set fire to all the food supplies. But there would also be men on the high-speed jet boat anchored next to the yacht—he had to get their attention as well. That was where the inflatable runabout came in to the plan. While the guards were battling the fire, Gerald would sneak to the beach and drag the runabout to the water, jam the throttle on full and point it straight at the reef wall. Any guards on the jet boat would think Sam, Ruby and Felicity were on board and making a run for it, so they would set off in pursuit. That left only the guards on the motor yacht, and that's where the real fun would start. Gerald would race to the tent, free his friends, then shoot a flare right into the dump of open fuel drums. The resulting explosion would bring the last of the gunmen ashore, leaving the way clear for Gerald, Ruby, Sam and Felicity to swim out to the yacht and escape into the night.

Easy!

Gerald just had to do it all before the moon lit the beach like a Broadway stage. He dropped behind a fallen tree and waited. When he was sure that no one was looking, he vaulted the tree trunk and raced to the shelter of the closest stack of supplies. He ran his fingertips across the labels on the sides of the cartons: tinned peaches, self-saucing chocolate puddings, beef stew, baked beans, tomato soup, cans of lemonade, chewing gum…

Gerald groaned. He would give anything to tear
open the box of puddings just to inhale the contents. But there were heroics to attend to first. He had to find something that would burn, and tomato soup did not look helpful. His hand paused over the carton marked chewing gum. He would need something to jam open the throttle on the inflatable runabout. Chewing gum would be perfect.

Gerald carefully lifted down the box. The whir of the night insects from the jungle provided enough cover for him to ease open the top and fill his pockets with packs of spearmint gum. He popped three pieces into his mouth and chewed. He had to brace himself against the stack of cartons at the sudden flavour burst that exploded on his tongue. He searched through the supply dump until he found what he needed: toilet paper. Rolls and rolls of toilet paper.

This will do nicely
, Gerald thought. He took three rolls and stuffed one into the waistband at the back of his pants and unwound the other two in a flurry of paper, trailing in, around and through the stacks of cartons. Then he unscrewed the top from the water bottle and splashed jet fuel onto the tarp and around the boxes of supplies. He grabbed the roll from the back of his pants, tied one end to the most fuel-soaked carton and trailed the rest back into the jungle, dribbling the last of the fuel from the water bottle along it as he went.

Gerald crouched at the end of the toilet roll and peered back towards the beach, planning his path. The
horizon was beginning to glow; moonrise was not far away.
Okay
, Gerald thought,
time to save the world
. He pulled the compass from his pocket, slid out a striker pin and hit it against the flint. One, two, three times.

Pockets of sparks burst onto the toilet paper and a ribbon of blue flame raced through the trees. Gerald didn't wait to see the result—he took off for the beach, keeping low and hoping the dark background of the headland would camouflage his arrival on the sand. He dived headlong behind a line of boulders and poked his head around the end. Three guards were relaxing by the campfire about fifty metres to his right. Their faces were just visible in the soft light of the flames. They were playing cards. The dim light burst into a violent orange flash as the supply dump went up with a colossal
FOOM!

Gerald flinched at the sound. A burst of heat rolled out of the jungle. If that was the result of half a bottle of jet fuel catching fire, what was going to happen when twelve drums of the stuff went up? Gerald could hardly wait.

He looked back to the campfire. The three guards were on their feet, staring at the enormous blaze that raged in the jungle. They looked at each other for a moment, confused. One rushed into the tent and emerged a second later with a fire extinguisher. Then all three disappeared into the trees.

It was time for Gerald to move. He sprinted out from
his hiding place down to where the inflatable was parked nose-first on the sand. He clamped both hands onto the stern transom by the outboard motor and heaved. The boat barely shifted a centimetre. Gerald gritted his teeth and pulled again, his shoulders straining. The runabout slipped in the sand and Gerald landed hard on his backside. In the jungle, the fire raged on. Shouts echoed out from the guards trying to get it under control.

Gerald scrambled back to his feet and through sheer determination managed to haul the boat to the water. He spun its nose out towards the reef wall, and pulled up a rope that had fallen over the side, bundling it back on board. The gum in his mouth was now a chewy blob. Gerald grabbed the throttle on the outboard motor and wound it fully open, then jammed it in place with the wad of gum. All he had to do was start the motor and it would take off like a champion greyhound. But first, to rescue his friends.

He turned and went to run up the beach to the tent. But the tangle of rope by the side of the boat lassoed his ankle, tripping him up and sending him face first into the sand with a jangling
twang
. Gerald lay stunned for a moment and wiped the grit from his eyes. But then a thunderous roar had him turning around—the outboard motor had somehow sprung to life. The rope must have pulled taut across the starter switch; the propeller was spinning furiously in the shallows, spitting up a wet slurry of sand. Then the prop bit into the water and the
boat took off, pulling Gerald behind it.

He was belly-dragged feet first into the bay. The runabout was doing exactly what Gerald had wanted it to do: churn straight and fast towards the reef—only he had not planned on being towed behind it like the world's worst water skier.

Gerald spun through the bay, tugged and buffeted in the speeding boat's wake. His head emerged into the air for a second and he sucked in a watery lungful before disappearing back beneath the surface. All he could think about was what the coral reef would do to his bare back when he hit it at top speed. He tried to drag his hands to his tethered ankle, tried to free himself from the rope that snarled about his leg, but the force of the water was too much. Gerald strained to get his head back to the surface, desperate for air. The roar of the motor filled his ears and the water plugged his nose. His backpack, still strapped to his shoulders, was working like an underwater parachute, dragging him deeper and deeper into a smothering darkness. He had to free himself.

Then the tone of the motor changed, pitching higher. Something had happened. Gerald felt the tension ease around his ankle but he was still moving through the water. His head bobbed up and broke into the night air. He opened his mouth to breathe and he saw that the inflatable had slammed into the back of the motor yacht, launching itself halfway onto the rear deck. Gerald spun forward, a victim of momentum, still hurtling through
the wash and directly towards the propeller that chopped at the water.

His eyes peeled back and he flailed his arms and legs, desperate to stop. The spinning blades sprayed water across his cheeks as his soft pink flesh moved inexorably closer to them. Gerald screwed his eyes shut. The propeller was just centimetres from his face when the rope that snared his ankle snagged around the propeller shaft and the churning blades ground to a halt. Gerald floated on and gently head-butted the pointed hub of the propeller.

‘Ouch,' he said, and blinked. He had been dragged all the way to the motor yacht. Back on shore, the fire from the burning supplies seemed to have been brought under control. All that remained was a tall column of grey smoke rising from the trees. Gerald swore silently to himself and managed to free his leg from the rope. It looked like it was time to initiate Plan B: make it up as you go along.

He climbed the inflatable like a ladder and slithered up onto the yacht's deck. Ruby's makeshift bandage around his head had washed away so all Gerald was left with was a waterlogged backpack, a pair of ragged board shorts and some squelching runners. He kicked off the shoes and pulled the pack from his shoulders, all the time watching for any movement from inside the yacht.

It was as quiet as a school in summer.

Gerald pulled the black case from his backpack and
popped the brass latches. He had no idea what Plan B was going to involve, but at least he would have a weapon. He took the flare gun, cracked open the chamber and inserted a single orange flare, then closed it with a metallic
click
. The door to the rear cabin was closed. He gripped the flare gun and moved across the deck. He put a hand to the doorknob, turned it and pushed.

Gerald stood in the doorway and aimed the flare gun straight into the room. His eyes bulged at what he saw.

Seated around a large table enjoying a feast were Ruby, Sam and Felicity. And Ursus.

Ruby turned her head and paused as she was about to shove a forkful of roast chicken into her mouth. ‘Gerald!' she said, and waved at him with a flourish. ‘Come in! There's been the most terrible misunderstanding!'

Chapter 16

Gerald did not move from the doorway. He stared in disbelief at the faces that smiled up at him from around the table.

‘You can lower the gun, Gerald,' Ursus said. ‘There is nothing to fear.'

Gerald tightened his hold around the grip. ‘What's going on, Ruby?' he demanded. ‘Tell me he hasn't drugged you all or got you sitting over a shark tank or some other bizarre stunt. Because this little scene is very hard to believe.'

Ruby placed her fork on her plate and patted the seat next to her. ‘Come join us,' she said. ‘You must be starving.'

Gerald's eyes flicked to the food on the table. As well
as the chicken, there were roasted potatoes and pumpkin, bread rolls, a mountain of peas and a bowl overflowing with sliced bananas, mangoes and pawpaw. Sam's head could only just be seen from behind a mound of pies and sausage rolls.

‘Are those sweet potatoes?' Gerald asked, his belly again growling like an ill-tempered bear.

‘Yes, and there's gravy as well,' Ursus said. ‘Have something to eat and let me explain everything.'

Gerald did not move. ‘Sam, toss me over a sausage roll and I'll listen from here,' he said.

Sam shrugged, picked up a roll and hurled it across the room. Gerald caught it in one hand and bit deep into the golden pastry. It tasted so good he thought his head was going to melt. ‘So what's this great misunderstanding?' Gerald said to Ursus. ‘It's pretty hard to misunderstand bullets.'

‘Can you please not point that thing at me,' Ursus said, nodding at the flare gun. ‘It's a little off-putting.'

Gerald almost choked on his sausage roll. ‘Off-putting?' he said. ‘You know what's off-putting? Having half a dozen armed men swarm out of the darkness and hijack your yacht. But that's what you get from Sir Mason Green and the people who work for him.'

Ursus leaned back in his seat and looked at Gerald in surprise. ‘Sir Mason Green? That murdering cheat. Whatever makes you think I have anything to do with him?'

Gerald almost choked again. ‘Are you saying that he's not your boss?'