Medusa

CHAPTER 34

THE VOICE OF THE PILOT CRACKLED OVER THE CITATION X’s cabin intercom.

“Sorry to wake you folks up, but we’re making our approach to Pohnpei and will be on the ground in a few minutes. Please make sure your seat belts are buckled.”

Austin yawned once and looked over at Zavala, who could sleep through an earthquake. Then he glanced out the window at the landing strip on Deketik Island and the mile-long causeway that connected it to the main island. The sky was clear except for scattered clouds.

“Welcome to Bali Ha’i,” Austin said to Song Lee, who was rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Lee furrowed her brow, confused by Austin’s reference to the mystical island that figured in South Pacific. She pressed her nose against the Plexiglas window. The island below was roughly circular, surrounded by a thin barrier reef enclosing a vast lagoon of intense blue. Luxuriant green forests laced with waterfalls covered the soaring peak towering over the island.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“I stopped here on a NUMA research ship a couple of years ago,” Austin said. “The tall volcanic peak is Mount Nahna Laud. It inspired European explorers to call the place Ascension Island. It seemed to to them to rise right up to heaven.”

“Is there any place in the world that you haven’t been to?” Lee asked.

“If it touches an ocean, I’ve been there,” Austin said. “Look, you can see the ruins of the old city at Nan Madol on the southeast coast of the island. They call it the Venice of the Pacific. Maybe we can explore the place after we’re through with our other business. Tell you what, I’ll take you out to dinner with a water view and introduce you to sakau. It’s the local firewater that the locals make from pepper plants.”

Song gazed with curiosity at Kurt’s rugged face. He was as excited as a schoolboy at the prospect of returning to Nan Madol. The fact that he faced a Herculean task and held the lives of hundreds of thousands of people in his hands didn’t seem to faze him. His self-assurance must be catching, she thought, because she said, “Yes, I’d like that. Perhaps we could make that visit to Nan Madol sooner than later. I’ve been thinking that it might have a bearing on this other ‘business,’ as you called it.”

“In what way, Dr. Lee?”

“It’s a strange little story from the first mate of the Princess. The island the ship sailed to when the crew became sick was known to be unfriendly to whalers. So, after dropping anchor, he and the captain went ashore briefly to see if there were any natives there. They didn’t see anybody, but they did come across some ruins. The captain remarked on the strange carvings, and said they were similar to those he’d seen on a temple at Nan Madol.”

“So if we can find an island that has ruins like Nan Madol,” Austin said, “then there’s a chance the Princess stopped there.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Lee said.

“How does that help us find the lab? Don’t forget, Dr. Lee, that’s our primary reason for being in Micronesia.”

“Yes, I know. But when I was at Bonefish Key, I heard that the field lab was running short of blue medusae and that a new supply had to be found.”

“Kane said that a mutant strain had been developed,” Austin said. “Why would they need more of the original species?”

“There was no assurance at the time that the mutant would be the answer,” Lee said, “in which case other avenues would have to be explored. There was a plan to collect medusae from a newfound source. If the lab is still working on the vaccine, it would need medusae. Which means that if we find that source, the lab may be nearby.”

“Wouldn’t Dr. Kane know where this new source was located?”

“Not necessarily. He had pretty much left the day-to-day operations to Dr. Mitchell.”

Austin thought about it for a moment, then said, “I know a guide named Jeremiah Whittles who lives in Kolonia, which is the capital of Pohnpei and the biggest town on the island. Whittles took me out to the ruins the last time I was here. He’s got an encyclopedic knowledge of Nan Madol. I think it might be worth talking to him to see if he knows anything that might help.”

The Citation X circled one last time, then glided in for a perfect landing, hitting the single strip for landings and takeoffs with a soft jounce. Near the end of the strip, the jet made a U-turn, using the strip to taxi up to the terminal.

The moveable staircase thumped against the fuselage. Austin pushed the door open and stepped out of the plane, filling his lungs with warm air laden with the heavy scent of tropical flowers. It was like stepping into a steam room, but nobody complained about the heat or humidity after being cooped up for so many hours in the temperature-controlled cabin.

The pleasant-mannered customs officer stamped their passports and welcomed them to the Federated States of Micronesia. Lee had left her passport back on Bonefish Key, but a State Department call ahead to Honolulu had produced temporary paperwork that would get her in and out of Micronesia.

The lobby was deserted except for a man holding a square of cardboard with NUMA printed on it. He wore a baseball cap, baggy cargo shorts, sandals, and a white T-shirt emblazoned with an azure blue rectangle enclosing four white stars, Micronesia’s flag.

Austin introduced himself and the others in the party.

“Nice to meet you,” the man said. “I’m Ensign Frank Daley. Pardon my disguise. The locals are used to seeing Navy personnel around, but we’re trying to keep this operation low-key.”

Despite his attire, Daley’s ramrod-straight bearing, razor-precise crew cut, and chin so close-shaven that it shined all marked him as a military man.

“You’re pardoned, Ensign,” Austin said. “What do you have planned for us?”

“We’ve got a chopper waiting to take you to Search Command on my ship, the cruiser Concord.”

As they walked out to the gray Sikorsky Seahawk that had been awaiting their arrival, Austin asked Daley the status of the search.

“We’ve covered hundreds of square miles using surface and air,” the ensign said. “Nothing so far.”

“Have you dropped sonobuoys to listen for underwater movement?”

Daley patted the nose of the Seahawk.

“This bird was built for antisub warfare. It’s got the latest in acoustic detection. The info from the sensors is transmitted back to the ship and goes into a network computer system. All negative so far, sir.”

“Has the lab site been thoroughly investigated?” Zavala asked.

“As thoroughly as can be done with an ROV,” Daley said.

“I heard that there’s a NUMA ship helping with the search,” Zavala said. “I’ll see if I can borrow their submersible and give the lab site a closer look.”

Austin had been thinking about his conversation with Lee.

“Dr. Lee has a lead we’d like to pursue on the island,” he said. “Could you give Joe a lift out to the ship and pick us up in a few hours?”

“I’ve been told that the entire Navy is at your beck and call, Mr. Austin,” Daley said. “The chopper does two hundred miles an hour. We can be back on the island in no time.”

Austin turned to Zavala, who had started to load their bags onto the helicopter.

“Song has unearthed some interesting stuff about Nan Madol,” he said, “and it might have a bearing on the lab. Can you ride herd on the search operation while we take a quick look?”

“Hold on, Kurt. You go off with the lovely Dr. Lee and I muck around in the mud. What’s wrong with that picture, partner?”

“Nothing as far as I can see, partner,” Austin said.

“I’ll have to admit you’ve got a point there,” Zavala said with an easy grin. “See you in a few hours.”

He got into the helicopter with Daley. The ignition fired the twin General Electric engines to life and the spinning rotors gathered speed. The sixty-five-foot-long aircraft lifted off the tarmac, hovered at an altitude of a few hundred feet, pivoted slowly, and flew over the lagoon toward the open sea.

While the chopper carried Joe off to join the search flotilla, Austin and Lee exited the airport terminal to look for the taxi stand. A young man in his twenties who must have weighed three hundred fifty pounds was leaning against a faded maroon Pontiac station wagon paneled with fake wood, KOLONIA TAXI CO. painted on the door. Austin approached the man and asked him if he knew a tour guide named Jeremiah Whittles.

“Old Jerry? For sure. He’s retired. If you need a guide, I can hook you up with my cousin.”

“Thanks, but I’d like to talk to Jerry,” Austin said. “Can you take me to him?”

“No problem,” the man said with a bright smile. “He lives in Kolonia town. Hop in.”

Austin held the door open for Song Lee, then got in the car beside her. The driver, who said his name was Elwood, shoehorned his body into the driver’s seat, the wagon’s springs groaning and its chassis listing to that side. As Elwood pulled away from the curb, a black Chevrolet Silverado pickup that had been parked several car lengths behind the station wagon followed it across the causeway and into Kolonia, a town of about six thousand whose ramshackle Main Street had a frontier air about it. Elwood turned off Main into a residential neighborhood and stopped in front of a neat yellow house trimmed in white.

The Silverado passed the Pontiac wagon and pulled up a short distance ahead where the driver could watch in his rearview mirror as Austin and Lee went up to the front door. Austin rang the bell and heard someone inside say hello. A moment later, a slightly built man who looked to be in his eighties answered the door.

Jeremiah Whittles first smiled at Lee. Then his eyes turned to Austin and widened in surprise.

“Is that Kurt Austin of NUMA? My God, I don’t believe it! How long has it been?”

“Too long, Whit. How are you?”

“Older, but not necessarily wiser. What brings you to my beautiful island, Kurt?”

“Some routine NUMA stuff for the Navy. I’m showing Dr. Lee here around. She’s interested in Nan Madol, and I couldn’t think of anyone more knowledgeable on the subject than Pohnpei’s best-known guide.”

“Make that best-known former guide,” Whittles said. “C’mon in.”

With his pink-skinned pate, thin aquiline nose, kindly yet inquisitive blue eyes behind wire-rimmed bifocals, and slightly stooped shoulders, Whittles resembled a friendly buzzard.

“I heard you had retired,” Austin said.

“My brain was still full of all the facts, like an old stew kettle, but the spine was stiffening up, and I couldn’t turn my head without some difficulty, which I need to do to point out features on the tours. Had to swivel at the waist like a wooden soldier. Then my eyesight started to go. Not much call for a half-blind guide, so I thought it best to call it quits.”

Whittles led the way through rooms filled with Micronesian folk art. There were masks, totems, and carved grotesque figures on every wall and in every corner. He settled his visitors on a screened-in porch and scuttled off to get them some cold bottled water.

In his travels around the world, Austin had seen clones of Whittles, peripatetic Englishmen who attach themselves as guides to famous cathedrals, ancient palaces, and forgotten temples, absorbing every fact, large and small, and becoming local celebrities in the process.

Austin had met Whittles during a tour of Nan Madol, and the depth and breadth of his historical and cultural knowledge had impressed him. Years before, Whittles had served as a navigator aboard a merchant ship that had stopped at Pohnpei and been entranced by its beauty and history. Retiring early from the merchant marine and relying on his savings, he moved to the island and led a monklike existence centered on the ruins. Nan Madol became not only his livelihood but his whole life.

Whittles came back with the water, settled in a chair, and asked Lee what she knew about Nan Madol.

“Not a lot, I must confess,” she said. “Only that it has been called the Venice of the Pacific.”

“Nan Madol is a far cry from the city on the Adriatic,” he said, “but it is impressive nonetheless. It consists of ninety-two artificial islets dating back to 1100 A.D. The builders rafted hexagonal basalt pillars to the tidal flats and reef off Tenwen, some of the pillars more than twenty feet long, and stacked them horizontally to make artificial, flat-topped islets. A grid of shallow canals connects the islets to one another. Because the city is so remote and mysterious, and located where nothing of this sort should exist, it has given rise to theories that Nan Madol was part of the lost continent of Mu or Lemuria.”

“What do you think, Mr. Whittles?” Lee asked.

“I think that the reality is more prosaic but still marvelous. The city was the site of temples, administrative centers, burial vaults, houses for priests and nobles, and a pool said to have been the home of a sacred eel . . . How may I help you, Dr. Lee?”

“Do you know of any ruins engraved with unusual carvings similar to those on another island?”

“Only one instance,” Whittles said. “The temple known as the Cult of the Healing Priests. I’ve heard reports of a similar temple elsewhere but have never been able to verify it.”

“What exactly was this cult?” Austin asked.

“It originated on one of the islands near Pohnpei. The priests traveled around the islands tending the sick and became known for their miraculous healing.”

Austin exchanged glances with Lee.

“As a doctor,” she said, “I’m very interested in the healing part.”

“Wish I could tell you more,” he said, “but the civilization degenerated from the effects of internecine warfare. And while there is a good chance that the beliefs and ceremonies of the cult survived in some more primitive form, most of what we know today was passed down by word of mouth. There is no written record.”

“Wouldn’t the carvings be considered a written record?” Austin asked.

“Sure,” Whittles said. “But from what I’ve seen, they’re more symbolic and allegorical than historical.”

“What do the carvings at Nan Madol represent?” Lee asked.

“I can show you better than I can tell you,” Whittles said.

He went into his study and dug through his file cabinets, returning with a brown envelope. He opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of five-by-seven photos. He fanned the photos like a deck of cards, picking out one and handing it to Lee.

“This is the facade of the temple as seen from a canal,” he explained. “There’s a hollow space under the temple’s floor that seems to have been some sort of pool. This picture shows the carvings on the interior.”

Lee stared at the photo for a moment, then passed it over to Austin, who studied the bell shapes in it and then looked up.

“Jellyfish?” he asked.

“It appears to be,” Whittles said. “Not sure why they decorated the wall of a temple with those creatures. But, as I said, there’s a pool dedicated to the sacred eel, so why not one to jellyfish?”

“Why not indeed?” Lee said, her dark eyes sparkling with excitement.

“I’d like to see this place in person,” Austin said. “Can you tell us where it is?”

“I can show you exactly, but I hope you brought your bathing suit. The platform the temple rested on got knocked around in an earthquake years ago and sank into the canal. Not too deep. Maybe twelve feet or so.”

Austin looked at Lee.

“What’s your pleasure, ma’am? Head off to our ship or check out Nan Madol?”

“I think the answer to that question is obvious,” she said.

He wasn’t surprised by her reply, given what he had seen of her determination.

Austin asked to borrow a local telephone book and within minutes had arranged to rent a boat and some scuba equipment. Whittles marked the temple’s location on a tourist map of the ruined city. They thanked him and said their good-byes, then went back out to the waiting Pontiac station wagon. As the taxi headed toward the harbor, the Chevy Silverado pulled away from the curb and followed a few lengths behind.