Part 2 (1/2)

As we studied the pictures and charts, Stimson briefed us on the course of action.

”Your first objective is to find out what they're doing in that crater.

Are they building some new weapon, or training an army, or what. You'll have Geiger counters and a krypton a.n.a.lyser of course, although the a.n.a.lyser is no guarantee in detecting fissionable material production.

Then we want to know what their plans are, particularly in the next few days or weeks. Finally, just who is involved in it? Is New Buddhism entirely Asiatic, as they claim, or has Russia cut herself in too?”

”You will be landed on the west coast of the island just after sunset.

The east, with its cliff and entrance channel is undoubtedly too well guarded, but on the west side, with four miles of flat country, they may depend on defense in depth, so that you'll have a better chance of getting past the beach. The plane will come in low, make a landing just off the breakers and drop you off in rubber swim suits. It will then taxi to the north of the island and make a fairly long stop, to divert attention, since it will certainly be picked up by radar. Your job will be to swim ash.o.r.e, bury the rubber suits, and make your way east to the crater. If you reach the rim, see what you can, and report by radio at any hour. If you don't make it to the top, observe as much as possible on the island, make your reports, and rendezvous with the plane at your landing point at 2400 the next day. If you miss that time, a plane will be back daily at the same time for four days. After that, we will a.s.sume that you have been caught.”

We were driven to the harbor in the same disreputable taxicab which had brought us to the consulate a few hours before. Time was a little past three in the afternoon as the seaplane roared down a lane in the swarm of junks, tramp freighters and wars.h.i.+ps of the Indonesian state. We hoped that we were not too well observed; there was no way of knowing until we arrived on Yat, and the learning might not be too pleasant.

The flight northeast from New Maca.s.sar was uneventful. We pa.s.sed over a blue tropical sea, dotted with island jewels. For a time the low coast of the great island of Celebes made a blue haze on the eastern horizon, and then we had the ocean to ourselves. At dusk there were still two hundred miles between us and Yat, a flight of about forty minutes.

Pulling down the shades, lest the cabin lights reveal us to a chance Indonesian patrol, we busied ourselves with packing the portable radio equipment and putting on our watertight clothing.

The last fifty miles were made on the deck--in fact, once or twice the hull actually touched a wave-top. The pilot extinguished the cabin lights and we peered ahead for a first glimpse of our objective. The sky was clear, but the moon would not rise until nine, so that the only indication we had that Yat was at hand was a slight deepening in the tropic night ahead and to the right, which the pilot said marked Mount Kosan, the ancient crater. But no sooner had we gotten this vaguely orienting information, than the flaps were lowered, the plane slowed to under 100 miles per hour, and we touched the water. The co-pilot opened the side door, and we crouched together peering out. The plane taxied over a choppy cross sea toward the shadow of the island, while we squinted through the salt spray. Presently the engines dropped to idle, and the rumble of surf became audible.

”Practically dead calm tonight,” said the co-pilot rea.s.suringly. ”Wind usually dies out at sunset. You won't have any trouble getting through.

Just watch your step when you're ash.o.r.e.”

”That's always good advice for sailors,” remarked Baker.

As the plane lost headway, the white line of surf and the silhouettes of cocoa palms took shape. Evidently the plantations came right to the water's edge at this point, a circ.u.mstance for which we were all thankful. I was just turning to Martin with some remark about this when the pilot called softly and urgently. ”We're as close as we can drift safely. Jump, and good luck.”

”Righto, and thanks,” came Baker's voice, and then a splash. I was next.

I took a deep breath, and clutched my rubber covered bundle of radio gear. I leaped out into darkness. An instant later I was gasping for air beside Baker. Two more splashes in quick succession and then the engines picked up speed, the dark shape of the wing overhead moved off, and we were alone.

For a moment we swam in circles, getting our bearings. Baker had removed his gla.s.ses for the jump, and so we depended mainly on Martin for directions. There was really no need for worry, however, for it soon became apparent that a strong onsh.o.r.e current was bringing us in to the breakers at a good clip. The line of phosph.o.r.escence marking their crests was now hardly a hundred yards away.

With Martin in the lead we began to swim. Presently one of the swells picked us up quite gently, moved us forward, and then suddenly exploded into a foamy torrent which tossed us head over heels and left us gasping and spitting sand on the beach.

As quickly as possible we got into the shelter of the first ranks of trees. Here we dug a hole at the base of a great cocoanut palm and buried the rubber suits and cases of radio gear, along with a small vial of radium D. This had been provided for us, along with the Geiger counter, by the thorough Mr. Stimson as a means for locating our cache when we returned, if we should miss our bearings.

It was 7:45 when this ch.o.r.e was completed. We had an hour and twenty-three minutes to moonrise.

Turning inland, we walked in silence through the grove for a few hundred yards, and then came upon a road. This we recognized, from our map study, as the main coastal highway. We hurried across, rather elated at the progress we were making and a little surprised at the lack of fences or other protective devices on the island. Things seemed just too easy.

On the other side of the road we encountered a rice paddy, which made the going a good deal more difficult. But after about ten minutes of slos.h.i.+ng through this, we came to a diagonal road, or rather path which seemed to be going our way. Thanks to this, by 8:45 we felt the ground rising underfoot and sensed a darker bulk in the shadows ahead, which could only be Mount Kosan itself. Here we came to our first fence, an affair of steel posts and barbed wire, which appeared to be a guard against cattle, but hardly more. After inspecting one of the posts for signs of electrification, we crawled under the bottom wire and started up the slope.

”Are you sure we're on the right island?” asked Chamberlin. ”From the security measures I don't think we're going to find anything more secret than a copra plantation.”

Baker shushed him, and whispered back, ”We're on the right island, but that's the only thing that's right. This is simply too easy to be true.”

”Well,” said Martin, ”Stimson could be all wet. Maybe they're just sculping a king sized Buddha after all.”

The slope had now steepened considerably, and further conversation died out in the effort of climbing. The volcano was heavily forested all the way up with mahogany and gum trees, and a dense undergrowth of vines and ferns entangled our feet. Twice we came upon rapidly flowing streams.