~ Brogan's Bella ~

by

Kev Richardson

Isabella Maldonado had been there before.

And it was no déjà vu for the ache in her wrists and back, having been now bound some four or five hours, the pressures that riddled her body for having lain in the dark on bare concrete, thirst and hunger pains wrenching at her throat and guts, all contributed to shock and fear.

Brogan was no less uncomfortable, conscious of her doubtlessly reliving the drama of her abduction in Lima, what was it, four years ago?

It seemed a lifetime had passed since.

~ * ~

Brogan pondered their destination being French Indo-China.

Why then, all this additional fuel? So much, that surely the Catalina is now carrying its maximum payload?

He twisted his head to peer back.

At least whoever secured it made a good job of the trussing. Laden drums breaking away would quickly have us in mortal trouble! Surely if Vietnam or Cambodia is our destination...

But sudden pandemonium shattered the monotonous drone of engines.

He and Bella occupied front seats one side of the aisle and the hijackers the other, so the only men forward were pilot and navigator.

One captor had been standing by Howard, who suddenly jumped up to grapple with him while Athol simultaneously attacked the other. In the next instant the four were locked in wrestling, shouting and grunting.

Howard and Athol had for the moment abandoned concentrations on needs of the flight, hoping for sudden success. The pistol of one hijacker struck the floor with a clatter and Brogan would have snatched it up except that it lodged where no passenger handcuffed to the arm of his seat could reach.

Bedlam reigned for what seemed many minutes that were more likely seconds before the second thug fired. All were shocked into silence, eyes darting from one to another of the four, to discover whatever horrible consequence.

And horrible indeed was the sight of Howard reeling forwards, relinquishing his hold on his man to crash chest first across the control panel, arms flailing, fingers intuitively clutching at anything to break his fall, blood gushing through his reddening shirt where he had been shot in the back.

Even as he fell, hands still groping at the control panel, the Catalina reeled, slipped sideways off its course to slide into a dive. His flailing fingers had obviously flicked some significant switch.

Only Brogan realised this would have been the automatic pilot.

Every other passenger screamed in helpless anguish as Athol released his hold on his man to grab firstly at the falling Howard, only to quickly change priority, to grab at the controls, wrenching with all his might to pull the plane out of its frightening dive.

“I cannot fly a plane,” he yelled in desperation.

To which Brogan yelled louder than most, “Let me out of these bloody handcuffs,” conscious even as he tried to shout over the screams of everyone else, that the hijackers could not understand a word.

“Liberez mon mari,” Bella screamed, “il est pilote!”

And fortunately she struck on words the hijack leader understood for he quickly recovered from his shock of the moment to grope for keys.

During the fleeting seconds it took for Brogan to find his hand free, he was conscious of the fortuitous fact of Indo China being for so many years ruled by the French, as Bella had obviously realised.

He threw himself into the stricken Howard’s seat.

Athol tried both to make room for Brogan yet continue to try pulling the aircraft out of its drunken dive, yet even as he did so, Howard rolled onto his back, blood now slowly dribbling from his mouth as well as continue to gush from the terrible wound the emerging bullet had left in his upper chest.

Screams subsided into breathless gasps as all aboard urged in their minds the aircraft to respond, to feel a sense of relief, of hope, as the dive slowed, the plane beginning to right itself.

Through Brogan’s mind flashed, in the matter of seconds, not only the righting of the aircraft but if the lashings on the fuel drums would hold, and whether Howard’s wound were less serious than the spurting blood indicated.

And where did that bullet go?

He glanced across the control panel in search of damage but all there seemed clear.

If it’s punctured the wall or floor, however, more hours in the air could well find the rent widening--and to try to land this monster in open ocean could easily spell disaster if the ocean is choppy.

He had never flown such a large floatplane. The basics of flying were the same of course but here he now had in his hands, for the first time since flying Smithy’s Fokker Tri-Motors on the Sydney-Melbourne-Brisbane runs some years back, responsibility of so many people at his back.

All here have been through enough trauma in the last two days and none, hijackers excepted, of bloody course, deserve this added fear.

Cautious confidence returned in many minds as the Cat began to respond yet Brogan was experienced enough to realise how tenuous, still, was his sense of control. His eyes roved the unfamiliar dials, hands and feet practised deft manoeuvres, sorting each into appropriate crannies of the mind. He likely had three or four hours yet to maintain concentration, cope with any further untoward incident so he must remain constantly alert. Hopefully soon, now, Athol at the moment seeing to Howard’s welfare, could resume his navigating, acquaint Brogan with essential details, where they were in relation to their goal.

And he would have to land this monster. He had flown small floatplanes for years, landed on the mighty Amazon and tributaries hundreds of times, so landing on strange waterways held no fear for him in a familiar aircraft.

But this cat, by comparison, is a monstrous lion.

~ * ~

Two months later in a jungle camp, Thanh and Ho sat facing each other, cross-legged on cushions, a bamboo tray with beakers of jungle whisky on a wicker table between them. They were alone in the village meetinghouse, a raised structure comprising only floor and thatched roof, on bamboo poles. So they conversed in full view of village inhabitants, the guerrilla soldiers and their families, all of who kept a respectful enough distance that the conferees could be sure they were not overheard.

Whilst the posture of neither illustrated tension or uneasiness in the presence of the other, certainly tension and uneasiness contributed to some detraction in the placidity of each.

The air was probably, however, less strained than cautious.

They had much to discuss despite neither alluded even by innuendo to Ho’s fallacious indictment of the Nationalists, resulting in Thanh’s name heading the Most Wanted list. Thanh saw it non-productive in the purpose of this meeting to air even that he would never forget such callous disrespect, by Ho, for Thanh’s very life; and Ho, in the spirit of the moment, remained smugly aware that Thanh would so refrain.

So more than a little unexpressed turbulence reigned in the meetinghouse air.

“It was an impressive arrival, Thanh.”

“The Catalina was piloted by one raw village student and navigated by another. And to name the teacher, serves no purpose.”

He failed to report however, that ‘the teacher’ had taken the controls for the actual landing. As they had approached the venue, Thanh informed all the crew that he wanted the arrival before the amazed Ho to be utterly flawless in execution.

“It is essential that Ho sees we Nationalists are further advanced in our joint bid for freedom than anything his Viet Minh can lay claim to.”

So Brogan, realising that considerable one-upmanship was to be aired at this meeting, took the controls to swoop low into the deep ravine of the river, some twenty metres below a rustic swing footbridge, to then taxi up to the village’s bamboo jetty. Brogan then locked himself in the toilet while goggle-eyed Viet Minh soldiers jostled for turns to peer through the bubble-windows. Lucky ones were allowed in, but only to offload cargo.

From Thanh’s point of view, all was staged as an impressive ‘bravado show’, an all-Viet demonstration.

First ashore were the spare parts for the Zeros Ho had ‘confiscated’.

“With the aircraft now stationed in the north,” Thanh told Ho, “spare parts no longer serve a purpose in the south.”

They then offloaded, to illustrate how useful this aircraft could prove in ferrying supplies, some hundred cartons of canned food, crates of Coca Cola, first aid and medical supplies, folding stretchers and many other items useful to fighting a ‘war in a wilderness’.

“Such can be delivered at call on a cash basis, to any waterway in the country,” he tossed off with unaffected nonchalance.

In his inimitable style, however, Thanh did not later disclose the detail of his discussions with Ho despite they were seen as extensive, deep and considerable, lasting near three hours. Yet over time he referred to both agreements and disagreements as pertinent matters arose in general discussion.

During the flight home, however, Thanh assured all that he and Ho were in complete accord that the primary objective for all Vietnamese people must be to work together towards defeating the French.

“It is likely our victory will not declare itself on the outcome of some final major battle,” he explained, “it will more likely come from the French simply facing the fact that there can be no easy road for them in stealing our resources. They will simply admit defeat, pack up and go home.”

Which brought rousing cheers from all aboard.

“So our main direction in the south is to sabotage French efforts in stealing that wealth. We will sink barges coming down the Mekong under French guard, dynamite warehouses, learn to limpet-mine their ships once loaded, in fact attacking everything possible--not openly where their force of armaments must cause us heavy losses, but secretly. We shall sneak upon them and stab their every endeavour in the back.”

Ho had offered to enlist Chinese help to teach the tricks of this trade to the southern Nationalists.