Blood Brothers Page 7

  “How did it go with Hubbard?” Philip asked.

  “You know, that man sits in his plush office in Dallas without the remotest idea of what’s going on in the field.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Philip replied sarcastically.

  “What? Oh yeah. Anyway, he wants a detailed report emailed through to him by two o’clock. Who would be the best to do that?”

  “I thought he asked you.”

  “I don’t know all the details…you see to it.”

  Philip screwed his face up and nodded. As he leaned across his desk and picked up the phone to call Bryce, he noticed Elsie walking across the car park with a distraught-looking Kate.

  He returned the phone and turned to Larry. “Looks like Mrs Dexter is about to arrive. Do you want to see her? Tell her about her husband?”

  “Me? Oh no. I can’t get involved at the moment. You explain the situation to her and I’ll drop in and see her later.”

  “We’ll be in the VIP lounge,” Philip said, as Larry left the room.

  Elsie brought Kate into his office. He jumped up from his desk and walked over to her. His instinct was to take her in his arms and let her cry it out, but he settled for his arm around her shoulder.

  “Martin knew something was going to happen,” she said, wiping her eyes with a tattered-looking tissue. Elsie pulled off several from a nearby box on Philip’s desk and passed them to her. “What’s happened to him, Philip?” she continued.

  Philip took the used tissue and threw it into his waste basket then guided her towards the door. “Not here, Kate. Elsie will take you to the VIP lounge; you’ll be more comfortable there. I’ll join you in a few moments.”

  As he left his office he told Elsie he was going to call in at the operations room to see if they had any more news; then he would join them.

  Kate was sitting nervously in one of the easy chairs clutching onto a mug of tea Elsie had made for her when Philip entered the room. She eagerly searched his expression for a glimpse of good news.

  “Have you found them yet?” she cried out.

  Philip glanced at Elsie with a pleading expression and they sat down either side of Kate. Elsie took hold of one of Kate’s hands that had been tightly clenched together on her lap.

  “I’m sorry I had to ask Elsie to bring you here, but I thought it would be the best place to explain what’s happened. We’re still trying to gather information. We don’t know much, but I’ll tell you what we do know. And let’s hope we hear something before the day’s end.”

  Kate wanted to scream her head off at someone. She picked up her mug from the coffee table and clasped it for a moment and then took a sip.

  Elsie took it from her hand and stood up and said, “I’ll freshen that for you.”

  Philip felt uncomfortable. Normally, once he grasped a situation, he could pass the information on in every detail. But once an emotional element entered the debate he found himself going over the content in his mind looking for the simplest approach. By the look on Kate’s face, he guessed any information would satisfy her need. So a formal account would be best.

  “Right…as I’m sure you already know, the storm front was not due over Broome until around eight-thirty. That way Martin’s plane would almost certainly have made Site 21 before it arrived. Unfortunately a cyclone suddenly appeared in the Timor Sea, collided with our storm and turned it into something far worse.”

  “What do you mean, ‘far worse’?” Kate interrupted.

  “Just let me finish, Kate, and it will all become clear,” he said kindly. She nodded and he continued. “This connection made the storm much stronger, meaning it was able to catch up to the plane around seven. We know that because Joe radioed in to find out what was happening. He was advised to climb above the storm. Around seven-thirty we assume he returned to his original height so that he could see the ground and fix a new heading. That’s when he ran into a flock of birds.”

  “Oh my God! Is that what brought him down?”

  “We don’t know that, Kate. We received a garbled radio message saying he had a bird-strike and nothing else. No information on where he was or what condition the plane was in. The radio just went dead.”

  “You mean the plane fell out of the sky,” she cried out. “Go on…be honest with me…they’re dead…aren’t they?”

  “No, Kate. Calm yourself. The Cessna would not have fallen out of the sky, even if the engine stalled – which is what we think happened. It was quite capable of gliding to the ground. What we think is the radio or some part of the electrics was damaged when the birds hit the plane and were probably sucked into the cowling.”

  Kate’s expression turned from panic to resolve. The thought that the plane could have survived the fall and Martin was still alive gave her new hope. It also provided her with a new fear: how long would he survive the heat of the desert before they were found?

  “Have you sent planes out to find them?” she asked.

  “They left as soon as the storm was declared over. It should take them about an hour and a half to reach the area they’re in.”

  “So you know where they are?”

  “No, but we’ve calculated a small triangle where we think the plane came down. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Oh God…now we wait,” Kate said. Elsie handed her the fresh mug of tea and Kate smiled for the first time and nodded her thanks.

  Philip was expecting Larry to walk in any moment, but he was conspicuous by his absence. A timid knock on the door alerted Philip. He went over to the door and opened it. It was Josh; he looked uneasy, not wanting to enter the room and Philip asked what was up.

  “Sorry boss, but I’ve just had a radio ham on. He asked if we’ve lost a plane.”

  Philip was speechless at first. Contact with the plane was what they were waiting for, but not from some amateur radio ham.

  “Kate, something’s come up. I won’t be a moment.”

  She nodded; never thinking for one second it was about Martin.

  On the way to the operations room Josh told Philip as soon as he noticed the incoming transmission was an unusual frequency he decided to record it. It was just as well. When he attempted to re-establish a connection, all he got was static.

  “How was that?” Philip questioned, as he pushed open the door.

  “It’s not unusual. The waveband is a freaky place. You can be on a scheduled frequency one minute and suddenly get music from Indonesia. In this case I think we were lucky…or it was a message from God. I was surfing and there it was.”

  “Good…let’s hear it.”

  By now the others had gathered around Josh’s small enclave as he switched on the recording. “Calling AMINCO CENTRAL. This is HRT 700 out of Port Hedland.”

  He went on to say he had picked up a bad transmission from a crashed plane in the Sandy Desert, copied its call sign and the last heading before it stalled.

  Philip listened to the recording several times, noting certain details, “So we have the last heading, the time of transmission and a new coordinate to add from Port Hedland. How good is that, Bryce?”

  “Say no more…I’m onto it,” Bryce said, and dashed off across the room.

  After several tries the radio sounded as if it was getting weaker with every attempt. Joe seemed to have lost interest and Martin sat sweltering in the midday heat, watching the little red light flutter.

  He decided to switch the radio off in the event they might need it later on or it hopefully may renew its strength with non-activity. Joe seemed asleep, the best thing in his condition, and Martin decided to check the box of emergency rations.

  Suddenly Joe started speaking. “Do I look Italian to you?” he said.

  Martin glanced in his direction. His eyes were still closed, so he thought he might be dreaming or worse, hallucinating. He asked the question again as if it was serious and Martin had no idea how to answer him. It was like one of those questions when someone asks if you think they’re fat.

  “A
ustralian Italian…I’d say,” was Martin’s reply.

  Joe started laughing and Martin joined in. It seemed appropriate at the time until Joe began coughing again. Martin offered him a drink. He refused with a wave of his hand. “No use wasting water on a dead man,” he said.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Martin shouted. “You’ll be dead if you don’t drink.”

  Joe was oblivious to Martin’s comment and continued the discussion. “It’s all right you saying that with your blue eyes. All my brown eyes got me was a derisive ‘Wog’ everywhere I went. All I got was ‘Wog Boy’.”

  Martin tried to look amused.

  “That’s nothing. When I arrived in Australia they called me a ‘Pom’.”

  They laughed again and Joe coughed again, only this time Joe’s anguish was far worse. He seemed to be drifting into the bad elements of his life.

  “I wish I could help you, Joe,” Martin said, “but I can’t. I don’t know anything about medicine. I’m an engineer. Now if you had a broken pump—”

  “Don’t worry, Martin,” he interrupted. We needed an engineer when you fixed the battery relay. Look… we made contact with a radio ham. He’s sure to contact AMINCO for us. They’ll have a better idea where we are now.”

  “You keep going on about where we are, Joe. Surely one of those planes carrying tourists will spot us soon. And the planes and helicopters AMINCO must have sent out. They should be here by now.”

  “Not out here, Martin,” Joe replied.

  “You said that before. What do you mean?”

  “Civil airlines have corridors; this is not one of them. That’s why AMINCO chose this heading: it would be free of heavy traffic.”

  “But they fly at thirty-two-thousand feet; nowhere near us.”

  “Don’t ask me how AMINCO make their decisions.”

  That seemed the end of their discussion and Martin turned back to the box.

  It looked like one of those official boxes. The type you see on the television documentaries about UN aid in Africa. Only this cardboard box had the name ‘AMINCO’ printed on each side in black letters, along with ‘Emergency Rations’.

  Using the small knife he’d brought into the cockpit in case he needed to share out the rations, he sliced through the broad plastic tape across the flaps. As he opened them out he came across an A4 piece of paper. It was covered with instructions in the usual four translations: English, French, Spanish and Asian. The English was only short, detailing the contents: Twenty packs of ‘Hard Tack’ biscuits, ten small sachets of honey or peanut butter, a packet of salt tablets and to his surprise a large box of ‘Mars Bars’. He could have expected a block of hard, dark chocolate; the type they had in the Second World War, but not Mars Bars.

  Although there was a triangular corner of the tarpaulin draping across the windscreen, Martin could still see enough to know the sun was now directly above the plane. The sun was shimmering along the shiny aluminium cowling, working its way along the edge of one of the propellers, and sparkling highlights were dancing across tiny metal fragments scattered across the desert floor.

  Knowing that made him feel hungry and he opened one of the Hard Tack packs. He burst the sealed end open and pulled out one of the oatmeal coloured slabs inside. It appeared there were ten segments to a pack, times twenty packs, which meant he had two hundred biscuits. He nibbled one corner and sat trying to decide what it tasted like. It was too bland to come to a decision. Probably that was why it needed some honey or peanut butter to give it taste.

  He checked the packet again. There was a mass of ingredients; mainly vitamins and minerals, but little or no actual substance; except items like oatmeal, starch and rice powder.

  Martin nudged Joe. He opened his eyes and looked around him.

  “What’s happened? Has that Ham called back?”

  “No, Joe…I switched the radio off to save the battery, remember?”

  “Yes…That’s a good idea. We can try later.”

  “It’s lunchtime, Joe…would you like to try one of these Hard Tack biscuits.’

  “I see you found the emergency rations. Be careful, Martin.”

  “I know…they taste terrible,” Martin said.

  Joe tried to move. He must have been sore from sitting in the same position, but as soon as he did he let out an agonising shriek. “Oh God,” he said, falling back into his original position. “I think I’ll have another painkiller, Martin.”

  The pain in Martin’s arm had eased to a dull ache, so he decided his need was not as great as Joe’s. He reached down to the centre console and opening the box he took out a tablet and handed it to Joe. He then passed the water bottle to him.

  “Be careful with that. We don’t know how long we’ll be here. Did you find the box of water bottles in the hatchway?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Martin said, deciding this time he had better have a proper look in the cargo space behind the back seats.

  “You’d better bring them into the cockpit. There’s plenty of room.”

  “I will, Joe, after you’ve had something to eat.”

  “You have to be careful in case we’re here for a while.”

  “You’ve already said that, Joe.”

  “Did I…well listen now, in case I can’t tell you tomorrow. We’ve got to plan our meals as if the food has got to last. Not as if we’re reacting to a normal meal time. At the beginning, your body has plenty of protein and fat to sustain you, so your hunger is only a habit. Ignore it. It won’t harm you to miss a meal or two, or at least eat only a fraction of what you would normally eat.

  “Water is different. In this heat you need water. Dehydration is far worse than hunger. But drink little and often; a few sips is as good as a couple of gulps. Check how much we have first. Analyse how long a bottle lasts and then you’ll know how many days we’ve got.”

  “You seem to know all about survival, Joe. Has this happened to you before?”

  “No, but as part of my initial training with AMINCO I had to go on a week-long survival course. They dropped us off in the Durack Ranges with a bunch of SAS men and they taught us how to survive on minimum rations.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “It was. It taught us how to ration ourselves, eat the right food at the appropriate time and only eat and drink what we needed – not what we wanted.”

  “I’m in your hands, Joe.”

  “No, you’re not. They also taught us about the survival of the fittest. You have to take charge now. I’m too weak. I’ve told you everything you need to know, except one thing. Hard Tack biscuits are okay in cold climates but deadly in the heat. Up till now you’ve only nibbled that biscuit, by the time you finish it you’ll be gasping for water and no matter how much you drink it won’t quench your thirst. So leave them until the last moment. That’s when you’ll really need them.”

  “So what do we eat now?”

  “You’ll notice a box of Mars Bars in there. That was my idea. Take one out and cut it into quarters. Sucking a quarter every three hours will sustain you for a couple of days at least. It will also train your stomach; less food, less intake.”

  Martin took out the box of Mars Bars and returned the emergency rations to the rear of the plane. He opened the box. There were a dozen bars inside and he undid the wrapping on one and cut the bar into four. He popped one portion into his mouth and another he passed to Joe. He had a terrible urge to chew it.

  With his watch broken Martin had no idea how long he was sucking the piece of Mars Bar. It took a while to get through the top layer of milk chocolate, all the time slowly allowing the melted liquid to pour down his throat, but when he reached the inner core of caramel and fudge it was absolute heaven. Why he had never thought of this before he was amazed. It was the best way of savouring a Mars Bar.

  When he eventually finished he expected he would need a drink, but he was not thirsty. Altogether it must have taken him the best part of fifteen minutes to finish one quarter, which normally would have gone in f
ive. That done he decided to venture outside and see what the temperature was like so he could check the hatch again and bring back the box of bottled water.

  He opened the door and was immediately assaulted by an oppressive heat. It felt thick and searing. He took out his hankie, draped it over his head and held it down with the arms of his sunglasses. He stepped outside and quickly closed the door. It was a different world to anything he’d experienced previously. He stopped under the wing. It was cooler, but before long he knew he would have to brave the elements of the Sandy Desert.

  Strangely the heat and sand reminded Martin of a holiday he’d had with Kate in Tunisia. Their hotel had felt like an exotic oasis within a town that had not changed since the biblical times. Young boys, each dressed in a fez, waistcoat and bright blue pantaloons, swished around the pool with an endless supply of ice-cold drinks, while the energetic tourists waited for their next excursion. It had been idyllic. The Sandy Desert, he was sure, was not.

  After a few moments Martin stepped out into the blazing sun and quickly made his way around the nose of the plane, across the broken wing and back under the part that was still above the ground. He rested with his back against the fuselage. He was fighting for breath. The heat had decimated what little oxygen there was. It reminded him of his first trip into the outback; for an English pom it was terrible.

  It took some time for his body to absorb enough oxygen for him to continue. He opened the hatch and leaned forward to study what Joe had stored inside before the flight. There was the rope, of course; he decided it would be better under the wing in case he needed it later. Next was the toolbox – that could stay where it was – and several mail bags and a box of a dozen bottles of water. It felt heavy as he pulled it forward.

  Martin managed to drag the box to the edge of the hatch and then bent down and lifted it onto his shoulder. After shutting the hatch with his backside he made his way around to his door and stopped, wondering what he was going to do now. He dropped the box onto the ground, opened the door, pushed his seat forward and, one by one, placed ten bottles behind the rear seat and the other two he placed on the shelf above his feet. Joe stirred. He looked worse than ever and Martin noticed a smear of blood on his lips and cheek as he must have coughed and wiped his mouth.