The ship’s radio equipment was all badly corroded, but some of the components were probably salvageable. Riggs and Rodriguez would be happy just to get their hands on the resisters and capacitors. Even Bakelite knobs and insulators would be welcome. A work party entered a large compartment in the aft superstructure, just at deck level, that Gilbert said they’d never explored during their brief prior visit. Chapelle was summoned and Mallory joined him in what appeared to be a dining room or lounge of some sort. As a freighter, Santa Catalina would have had at least limited accommodations for passengers. With her cargo of aircraft, she’d probably been transporting air crews, and possibly ground crews, for the planes. The earlier expedition had been unable to even speculate upon the fate of those people or the crew of the ship. The presence of firearms, still locked in a cabinet, argued that not only had no one ever made it off the ship, but they hadn’t even known they were in danger before “something” got them. Now a little better explanation emerged.
“Say,” Russ said, looking around the ruined lounge, “that solves one mystery, anyway.”
In the center of the compartment, partially concealed beneath overturned chairs, rotting rugs, and the detritus of marauding denizens, were a number of short, still vaguely olive-drab crates. A ’Cat kicked one open; inside was nothing but a heap of crinkled brown wax paper.
“Tommy gun boxes,” Ben observed. “Ten each. And there’s four crates that size. That’s about right. These other boxes had ammo and twenty round sticks in ’em.”
“So they left,” Russ said. “Well armed. No wonder they left the civvy stuff. You know? I bet those poor guys pulled in here, ship taking water, and figured their navigation was off. They might’ve thought they missed Tjilatjap somehow and went up some other river. Maybe they set out to reach where they thought it was overland and… just didn’t find it.”
Ben gestured around. “It doesn’t look like they came back, so either they found someplace better to hole up, or something did get them.” He sighed. “Either way, at least they weren’t helpless!”
“Yeah,” Russ agreed. “Somehow that makes me feel better too. Say, I wonder if there’s any more of those tommy gun boxes around. If they were freighting them in to Java to fight the Japs, I bet they would’ve had more than four crates!”
By the end of the day, the ship’s upper works and most of her superstructure had been cleared away and Chapelle thought the Santa Catalina looked like a new ship. Well, not a new ship, of course, but certainly a different one. She was utterly hideous with rust and most of her deck was already badly rotted, but she did look like a ship again instead of just a bump in the jungle. They’d exhumed several machine guns, a five-inch dual-purpose, and a three-inch antiaircraft gun, but all had been disabled, probably by the crew before they left. The cannon’s breechblocks were missing and the bolts had been removed from the machine guns. Maybe the missing parts were hidden aboard, but it didn’t really matter. All the guns were badly corroded.
Gilbert, Isak, and Laney had poked their heads below during the day, accompanied by a heavy guard. Much remained as it had been when Gilbert was there before. The forward hold was a little more flooded and the aft hold was full to the outside water level. The engine room had more water in the bilge, but nothing serious seemed submerged. The fireroom was still full up to the bottom of the boilers. The entire salvage crew moved into the now cleared but still moldy and reeking lounge and the hallway beyond, except for two squad-size guards left outside to provide security for their generators, pumps, and other heavy equipment. It seemed like a good idea. Since all the internal hatches closed, nothing could get to them from below, and they should have plenty of warning if anything tried to crawl aboard. With nearly everyone together as the sun began to set, Chapelle decided it was a good time to determine their next course of action.
They’d arrived prepared for three possibilities. The one Mallory favored at first hadn’t involved any restorative work to the ship itself, beyond possibly getting her cargo cranes operating again. They were steam-powered, and despite the flooding it looked like they could probably return the boilers to their duty. He’d envisioned using most of Tolson ’s crew to clear an airstrip in the jungle and simply setting the crates over the side, assembling the planes, and flying them out. There were several logistical problems with that plan, not least of which being that he was the only one who knew how to fly a P-40. The other pilots he’d brought along would require extensive training just to get one of the hot ships off the ground. They’d also discovered that, of the twenty-eight planes aboard Santa Catalina, only twelve of the crates were actually in the water. It depended a lot on which ones they were-for example, if they were all fuselage or all wing crates, that was twelve planes that were almost surely write-offs to start with. If they were evenly distributed, that could mean only six were ruined. Then there were the extra engine crates, the tires, spare propellers and drop tanks… There was just too much to leave behind, even if all his pilots could fly. Best case, they’d probably get four planes out and flown to Baalkpan, and then have to ferry the pilots all the way back to Chill-chaap. Even if they managed to salvage only sixteen planes, the process might take months. The final coup de grace was administered to that plan when Ben went ashore and inspected the ground.
“What’s the deal?” Chapelle asked.
“There’s no way, that’s what the deal is. Look, even if the ground was flat enough-which it’s not-and even if we could clear enough of the jungle-which I don’t think we can-the dirt here will never make an airstrip. Even if we had heavy equipment, bulldozers, rollers, you name it, there’s nothing to pack down but a billion years of rotten loam. Even if you could pack it down hard enough to get a plane off, it would rut the stuff up so bad you’d have to start all over for the next one.”
“So basically that’s out?”
“Afraid so,” Ben replied. “The only interesting thing we found was a bunch of crunched-up ’Cat bones with a few weapons lying around.” He looked at Gilbert. “Didn’t you fellas turn Rasik-Alcas loose near here?” Gilbert nodded. “Well, it doesn’t look like he made it very far.”
“A shockin’ tragidee,” Gilbert said matter-of-factly. “An’ he was such a nice fella too. I s’pect ol’ Rolak an’ Queen Maraan’ll be plumb heartbroke ta learn o’ his dee-mise.”
Nearly everyone looked at Gilbert. Most had never suspected the “mouse” was capable of such… profound sarcasm. He returned their stares with raised eyebrows. “Hey,” he said, “he was alive an’ happy as a clam last time I seen him. What’s his name, Koratin, put him ashore with food an’ weapons. He didn’t kill-eem either.”
“Well… anyway,” Chapelle continued, “that leaves us with Plan B. We offload the crates onto barges and float them downriver. You say they’re about four tons apiece? We should be able to put two crates, a complete plane, aboard Tolson, and take it to Baalkpan. Certainly not my first choice either because of the time involved, not to mention I’m not positive we can even hoist them aboard. The heaviest thing we’ve ever lifted is cannons. The crates weigh a little over half again as much. Then there’s the trim to consider. The ship’ll be top-heavy as hell.”
“Yeah. I’m not keen on that one for a lot of reasons,” Mallory agreed. “It might be quicker than building an airstrip and flying them out two or three or four at a time, but it’s even more dangerous to a lot more people.”