Читать книгу Through the Devil’s Eye - C.R. Cummings - Страница 7

Chapter 1

THE GULF COUNTRY

Sixteen-year-old Willy Williams stared through the front windscreen of the Cessna 172 and shook his head with wonder. As far as the eye could see—and from five thousand feet that was a long way—the country was flat. Not a single hill broke the horizon. The only features were the lines of dark green trees that grew along the numerous watercourses that seamed the landscape. Otherwise everything was a dull brown or cream colour, even grey in places. It was the last weekend in November and the region had experienced a particularly fierce and prolonged dry season.

Willy had flown over the Gulf Country before but only once and during that flight he’d been preoccupied with the vintage aircraft he was in and the clouds. But there were no clouds today. The afternoon sun blazed with an intensity that made him glad of the tinted windows and the sunglasses he wore. Now he was getting both tired and bored and the beginnings of a headache were starting to niggle at the back of his eyes.

The aircraft had been airborne for nearly two hours since leaving Miranda Downs Station. Beside Willy on his left sat the pilot, fifty-seven-year-old Ken Drew. Mr Drew was Willy’s instructor on this flight and was testing Willy for the navigation phase of his unrestricted private pilot’s licence. Luckily Willy did not have to pay for the day’s flying. Mr Drew was taking part in a charity air race and was happy to allow Willy the chance of logging some more hours and of honing his navigation.

The air race was being run over a weekend and had begun on Friday afternoon. Seven aircraft were taking part along with support staff including fifteen air cadets. For Willy and his friends that had meant a rush home from school and then to the airport. Willy had then flown from Cairns westwards over the coastal mountains for sixty kilometres to Mareeba. Then, after refuelling, they had flown west for over a hundred kilometres to the tiny town of Muldarga where they had met up with their ground team and race control. The ground team included Willy’s girlfriend Marjorie Morton and her brother ‘Stick’, both air cadets. They had spent the night there, camped beside Mullock Creek near the end of the airstrip

On Saturday morning the aircraft had flown north for several hundred kilometres to land at Laura, a small town on the Peninsula Development Road. From there they had flown southwest for a similar distance across the rugged hills of the Palmer Country to Dunbar, a cattle station on the south side of the mighty Mitchell River. After lunch they had flown on southwards across the vast plains of the Gulf Country to Miranda Downs, another cattle station homestead. Now they were heading back to Muldarga where the aircraft were scheduled to spend the night.

Willy had been at the controls for more than half that time and a pleasant fatigue was now making him wish the flight was over. Once again he looked out, hoping to see a landmark to assist with his navigation. The aircraft had satellite navigation instruments and radio direction finding equipment but Mr Drew had these covered so that Willy was forced to use the old-fashioned methods of chart and compass and do calculations to cope with the magnetic variation and the estimation of dead reckoning and errors caused by wind speed.

Below them there was nothing but the seemingly endless plains that stretched for hundreds of kilometres in every direction. These were the Gulf Lowlands, that vast flood plain area of hundreds of thousands of square kilometres that stretched west all the way to the equally huge swamps and salt marshes along the coast of the Gulf of Carpentaria.

Willy knew that they had crossed the Red River—although it had looked just like all the others—and that the Staaten River was one of the distant lines of trees away to the north. But otherwise there was a worrying sameness to the terrain. The hundreds of small creeks and gullies and even the few rivers (except for the Mitchell) had all looked the same. They had little or no water in them, being just a bed of dry sand or pebbles. All had trees lining both banks. Between the watercourses was the yellowish-grey of savannah grassland or savannah woodland, dotted with scattered trees.

A few minutes later Willy noted a dark line of vegetation that crossed their route at almost right angles. Seeing those trees caused him to let out a secret sigh of relief. That’s the Lynd River, he told himself, placing his pencil point on the map where the pencil line denoting their planned course crossed the Lynd. Anxiously he scanned the country ahead searching for any prominent landmarks. The country changed abruptly at the river to tangled masses of small hills and dry gullies but there were no obvious peaks to help with navigation. Only the fact that to the south of the aircraft the river curved away to the east told Willy that they were close to being on their correct course.

The Lynd River itself was almost completely dry. It had a wide, sandy bed with braided flood channels and tree covered islands in its tree lined bed. Only one stagnant pool was briefly visible.

A typical stream for this region, Willy thought.

For the next ten minutes the aircraft flew on across the maze of small hills. These were seamed with hundreds of dry creeks and gullies with no obvious pattern and the whole area was still covered in a thin scattering of trees and dry grass. A couple of larger creeks helped Willy to keep track of where they were but in all that vast region he only noted one thin vehicle track winding its way across the landscape.

Turning to Mr Drew, he said, “It would be no fun having a forced landing here.”

“Too right!” Mr Drew replied. “You always want to keep scanning the country ahead and on both sides to note any possible emergency landing areas.”

“Have you ever had to do any forced landings sir?” Willy asked.

Mr Drew nodded. “Yes, I have. Two. But I’ve been lucky. In the first one I was able to put down on a straight stretch of country road. The only tricky bit was avoiding the power lines beside it. The second was a bit hairier but even then I was lucky. There was lots of open farm land and apart from tipping up on the nose and bending the prop there was no damage done.”

They discussed forced landings for the next few minutes. Willy had known Mr Drew for several years but they had never flown before. Mr Drew was obviously impressed by Willy’s enthusiasm. “What are you going to do when you leave school Willy? Are you going to be a pilot?”

“Yes sir, if I can,” Willy answered. “I’m going to join the Air Force.”

“You are an air cadet, aren’t you?” Mr Drew queried.

Willy was and was very proud of the fact. “Yes sir,” he replied. “I’m a sergeant and in my fourth year.”

Mr Drew shook his head. “The Air Force, eh? What sort of pilot’s job did you have in mind?”

The question embarrassed Willy as he was shy of revealing his private ambitions, but now he said, “A fighter pilot, if I’m good enough.”

“Fighters, eh? I hope you don’t have to kill anyone,” Mr Drew said.

Willy was surprised and shocked. “Oh, no sir. It’s not like that,” he replied.

“Oh yes, it is!” Mr Drew replied with a vehemence that quite amazed Willy. Mr Drew went on, “What do you think happens if a fighter pilot shoots down an enemy plane?”

Willy knew and had given it some thought but the glamour of screaming around the sky in an F18 and the thought of being able to tell people (girls!) that he was a fighter pilot had overridden any serious consideration of what the job might really entail. He understood in a general way that fighter pilots might be ordered to shoot down other planes—and possibly kill the people in them (Or get killed themselves) but he also knew that it had been more than half a century since the RAAF had been called on to do that. Now the idea lodged uncomfortably in his conscience.

“It would only be in defence of the country,” he replied.

Mr Drew snorted. “You hope! What if you got sent overseas, to bomb places in Afghanistan or Iraq or wherever the government said to go? You might not only kill enemy soldiers but also innocent civilians: little kids and old women and the like.”

That was an awkward thought and Willy grappled for an answer. Could I kill another person? he wondered. The idea that he could fly transport planes came to him but that was not his dream. And the notion of flying the Airborne Warning and Control planes did not hold up either. They direct the fighters so they are just as guilty, he mused. And the Maritime Reconnaissance planes are there to sink ships and submarines.

Mr Drew spoke again, saying, “Its not as simple as you thought, is it? It… Hey!” He stopped speaking as the engine suddenly cut out, then burst back into life, then began to run with an uneven rhythm.

Quickly Willy scanned the engine revolution counter and other instruments. “Heating up a bit,” he commented.

“Yes. I don’t like it. We might have an oil leak or something like that,” Mr Drew said. “How far to Muldarga?”

Willy used his ruler and notepad and quickly gave him an answer. “About fifty nautical miles,” he answered.

Mr Drew grunted and again anxiously studied the gauges. Then he peered ahead and Willy saw his jaw set as he settled to flying.

Willy also looked through the front windshield and studied the country ahead. In the afternoon heat haze it looked rugged and grey in the distance. Down below he noted a couple of lines of what looked like grey stones. That stirred his curiosity and he studied the map to see if they were shown. They weren’t but another big creek flowing across their route was: Boomerang Creek. Seeing it cheered him up.

“That’s Boomerang Creek; only about forty miles to go,” he said.

“Good. I hope this engine doesn’t give out now. I don’t want to have to try a landing in this wilderness,” Mr Drew replied.

Willy could only agree. The country had changed again so that below them the whole land seemed to be parallel ridges of jumbled grey stones. These seemed to extend ahead as far as he could see and spread outwards on both sides. Most of the ridges were almost in line with their course and Willy guessed at their average length being several kilometres. The ridges were studded with clumps of dense vegetation of a dark green colour. Between the ridges were savannah woodland and numerous small dry creeks. It was the most unusual country Willy had ever flown over and his curiosity was aroused. “What are those grey hills?” he asked.

“Limestone ridges. Terrible country, all sharp rocks and scrub full of green ants. It is part of the Chillagoe Limestone Province,” Mr Drew explained. He gestured to the shimmering heat haze through which sharp peaks and knobs were now showing. “That used to be the sea bed way back in geological time. These are the remains of coral reefs. The limestone is full of sea shells and the fossils of sea creatures.”

Willy again studied the map, noting that the pattern of the ridges was now shown on it. He studied the names with interest and then noted that the pencil line of their course went across a railway line. With his interest sparked even more he looked down and almost at once his eyes picked up the winding brown line that could only be man made. “There is a railway down there,” he commented.

Mr Drew nodded. “Yes. But it hasn’t been used for years. It ran to the old mining area at Bungowong. It goes on to Muldarga and then to Chillagoe.”

Willy had been to Chillagoe so could picture the place. “Part of the old Cairns Railway then?” he commented.

“Yes, built a hundred years or so ago to service the mines. It was… Uh oh!” Mr Drew said. He shook his head and listened and then studied the gauges. “We are in trouble I think. If we don’t get down quickly the engine is going to overheat and seize up.” He bent and looked down at the map Willy had spread between them. “Where’s our nearest airstrip?”

Willy slid his fingertip across the map to the closest of the small black circles that indicated an airfield. “Here at Barrabong Station,” he answered.

“How far?”

Willy did a quick calculation. Despite feeling pressured and anxious his fingers moved deftly to side the ruler across the map and then to the scale. “About ten nautical miles,” he answered.

“And Muldarga?”

Once again Willy did a quick measurement, aware that he was sweating more than he had been and that his fingers felt stiff from nervousness. “Twenty-five.”

“Hmm. OK, we try for the closest. Give me a bearing for this Barrabong place and then start looking for emergency landing grounds,” Mr Drew answered.

As though to emphasize his words the engine gave a distinct blip and spluttered noticeably. Willy went tense and looked down, noting again how unpleasant the country looked. The long, jagged ridges of grey stone suddenly appeared close and threatening.

Tearing his eyes from the view Willy ruled a pencil line on the map and quickly and deftly used his protractor and pencil to calculate a Grid Bearing. It was the work of seconds to convert this to a Magnetic Bearing by subtracting the magnetic variation. Seven degrees east, he reminded himself. To be sure he did the calculation on paper and said, “Bearing is five degrees magnetic.”

Mr Drew did not question or argue. He at once turned the aircraft sharply to port onto the new course, and began a gentle climb. “To get some height to give us more glide distance,” he explained. He then began talking on the radio. First, he called the Air Traffic Control people in faraway Cairns and informed them of the situation and planned destination. They replied and said they would have the emergency services notified if things got worse. Then Mr Drew called the Air Race organizers at the temporary base at Muldarga. They thanked him and said to keep them informed so they could send a ground crew to help with repairs or a rescue crew if they needed it. They also said they would send the next aircraft to overfly the area to check that they were safe.

All of that made Willy feel much better but he still swallowed from nervousness. Looking down he noted a single meandering vehicle track running roughly parallel to the old railway line but a kilometre or so to the north of it. But everything else was just bush and the jumbled ridges of rocks. There wasn’t another mark of human settlement to be seen.

That got him staring ahead, trying to pick out any sign of their destination in the heat haze. The first thing his eyes noted was a distinctive peak thrusting itself up from the distant jumble of hills. It was almost in line with their new course and he checked the map to see if it was named. It was and he pointed to it and said, “Mt Whetstone.”

Mr Drew grunted and at that moment the engine gave another shudder and blipped. Mr Drew shook his head. “No good. I’m shutting down. Sorry son but I don’t think we will make it. At our best angle of glide, we might make about another three or four miles at most. Start looking for a clearing we can put down in.”

He then turned his attention to shutting down the engine and then calling the Race Control on the radio to let them know what was happening. The silence that followed the shutting down of the motor caused Willy to shiver with apprehension and he had to fight down waves of emerging fear to try to stay looking calm and relaxed. Good training if I survive, he told himself. But that led to thoughts of how to survive a serious crash and of what it might be like to die.

But thinking about dying was a dark tunnel of gloom Willy had already been down several times in his young life. Two years earlier the timber thieves had threatened to kill him and only a few months before the Columbian drug smugglers had seriously tried so rather than dwell on such terrifying and morbid thoughts he made a conscious effort to think about something else. Very deliberately he made himself study the instruments. Noting the angle of descent, he began to ask questions about how best to glide an aircraft and what was the minimum safe speed before there was a danger of stalling. Mr Drew answered him a voice that sounded calm enough except for a slight edge to some of his words.

Willy stared ahead and compared the relative closeness of Mt Whetstone, now an even sharper edged silhouette against a dusty grey haze, with his memory of it a few minutes earlier. He then noted the altimeter reading and tried to estimate the distance they had travelled over the ground. He saw that they were already down to four thousand feet and he thought they had travelled about three miles.

About a mile for every thousand feet. We might make it, he mused.

As the gliding aircraft sank lower it came more and more under the influence of the heated thermals in the lower atmosphere. It began to buck and rock, dropping in sickening swoops and then shuddering up and almost stalling on the updraughts.

Mr Drew struggled to keep the aircraft at its optimum attitude and angle of glide. Beads of perspiration broke out on his brow and the cabin began to rapidly heat under the influence of the brassy afternoon sun. Willy wiped sweaty palms on his trousers and then his lip with his shirt sleeve. “Hot now the air conditioning is off,” he commented.

“Yes. You can open the side windows. We will want them open anyway if we have to do a forced landing,” Mr Drew replied.

Willy did so and found some immediate relief from the cool air that came sucking in. Then he stared out to starboard and found the view even more startling. They were below two thousand feet now and from that height the low the ridges of grey limestone appeared to stretch off to the hazy horizon in jagged and threatening rows. One obvious pointy hill out to starboard caught his eye and so did a row of sharp teeth like knolls on another ridge.

This is not good, Willy thought.

Rather than scare himself by staring at the uninviting prospects Willy bent to the map. Devil’s Pinnacle, he read. Near it was another feature named Devil’s Eye. In the hope of estimating their chances he placed his finger on the pencil line where he estimated they were and began measuring the distance to the landing ground. As he did he noted a tiny black square half-hidden by the pencil line. Next to it was the name Whetstone. A vehicle track was marked leading to it.

A hut or a house or something, he thought. It was on the south bank of a large creek. Limestone Creek, he read.

Looking up Willy pointed and said, “There is a building of some sort on the map,” he said to Mr Drew. “It might be a cattle station or something.”

“It will have to do. How far?” Mr Drew asked.

“Less than two miles. Just over the next couple or ridges,” Willy answered. He looked ahead and was shocked to see that they were now so low that the ridges ahead appeared to be almost the same altitude. From that angle they looked to be even more forbidding, two stark and jagged lines that looked very ugly.

Will we make it? he wondered.