Michael Crichton owns his characters and numerous other things from this story, the rest of it is mine. Without further ado...
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They say that any landing you can walk away from is a good one. In that respect, I suppose that this was a good landing, but I certainly wouldn't want to give it any more credit than that.
I had just landed my P-51D Mustang on a pseudo-runway cut out of the middle of the jungle by natives who thought it would be a waste to clear the extra two hundred feet that was actually necessary for a plane the size of mine to land. To compensate they had built the runway on a nearly twenty degree uphill slope. As you might expect this adds more problems than it rectifies.
Dr. Cross would later tell me that most of the natives were against a runway built at all. For thousands of years they had moved from island to island by boat. Why should they now depend on the planes?
To this question I had no answer, but as I began to realize just how difficult it would be to take off from this position, I recalled the gut instinct that had told me to bring the PBY Catalina instead of my "tank buster". A four-mile hike from the lagoon to this meeting place would have been well worth the trouble, considering my present predicament.
The weight of the jungle atmosphere pressed down on me as I scanned my surroundings for any sign of a welcome party. Several birds flew overhead, doubtless they were returning to the serenity of the trees that the noise of my custom Rolls Royce single prop engine had so recently disturbed. Not being overly familiar with sub-tropical flora and fauna, I couldn't readily identify them, and began again to listen for the sounds of human activity.
Within a few moments Cross accompanied by five native men of average height and build, came upon my position. Cross looked out of place among the other stern faces, which undoubtedly sizing me up should trouble arise, with his ear to ear smile and bright eyes.
"Eric, so glad you could make it. Jolly good to see you old chap."
Despite my slight annoyance at his youthful exuberance that my forty-three years and I have trouble reciprocating, I was glad to see that his years of study in this forsaken place hadn't taken the "Brit" out of him.
Cross continued, "Hell of a landing it must have been. Too bad I missed it right old boy?"
I briefly debated making a quip about the inability of his native workers to clear an extra two hundred feet, but looking over five expressionless faces changed my mind.
"Not bad, though I should have brought the Catalina."
"You'd have had just as much trouble I'm afraid, sport. Seas are pretty rough this time of year even in harbor."
Cross's incessant tendency to address anyone he was speaking to by "old chap", "old boy", or "sport" had annoyed me since before the war when we studied together at Oxford. At times, I was convinced he was trying to agitate people.
"Even so, old chap, you're here now. Let's get you squared away."
_________
Dinner was not as exotic as I had feared it might be. Thanks to Cross, and his unwillingness to eat anything new, the island had a small chicken population, which the natives had readily accepted into their diet, supplementing the already plentiful pork and fish.
I began to take notice of a few oddities, besides the apparent lack of facial expression among the natives. There was no idle talking, no laughter that wasn't quickly stifled. The children all appeared to be worried as they clung close to their parents.
Just as the meal began, Cross summoned one of the younger natives and spoke to him in a tongue I could not decipher. When finished the boy gathered a few of his friends and went off swiftly into the jungle. Cross sat across from me, his face still consumed by his sizeable grin, and passed me a drumstick.
With the sun appearing to fall steadily into the western ocean, I stood on the dock stretching out into the harbor near Cross's village. Here the noises of the jungle were not so over-powering, as the pounding surf washed them into the background.
The native language of this place may have been unknown to me, but the fear in the air around the village was impossible not to notice. The fear was a tangible thing clinging to everyone on the island I had met so far. And the thought that something here troubled them all so much put me ill at ease as well. As the night descended rapidly around me, I heard Cross walking towards me.
Seeing that he was alone, I thought it best to get everything out in the open. "What's going on here Devon?"
To my great pleasure, while explaining himself he dropped the British accent and mannerisms.
"They found something, Eric. Something that falls into your area of expertise more than mine…"
I started to walk off in disgust, planning to board my plane and leave immediately.
"You'd never have come if I'd asked you straight out."
"That's right Devon, and now I'm leaving before you ask me straight out," still walking into the jungle towards my plane.
"You can't leave, Eric."
"How are you going to stop me?" As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realized that he had.
"While we were eating, I had a few men dismantle your plane."
___________________________________________
They say that any landing you can walk away from is a good one. In that respect, I suppose that this was a good landing, but I certainly wouldn't want to give it any more credit than that.
I had just landed my P-51D Mustang on a pseudo-runway cut out of the middle of the jungle by natives who thought it would be a waste to clear the extra two hundred feet that was actually necessary for a plane the size of mine to land. To compensate they had built the runway on a nearly twenty degree uphill slope. As you might expect this adds more problems than it rectifies.
Dr. Cross would later tell me that most of the natives were against a runway built at all. For thousands of years they had moved from island to island by boat. Why should they now depend on the planes?
To this question I had no answer, but as I began to realize just how difficult it would be to take off from this position, I recalled the gut instinct that had told me to bring the PBY Catalina instead of my "tank buster". A four-mile hike from the lagoon to this meeting place would have been well worth the trouble, considering my present predicament.
The weight of the jungle atmosphere pressed down on me as I scanned my surroundings for any sign of a welcome party. Several birds flew overhead, doubtless they were returning to the serenity of the trees that the noise of my custom Rolls Royce single prop engine had so recently disturbed. Not being overly familiar with sub-tropical flora and fauna, I couldn't readily identify them, and began again to listen for the sounds of human activity.
Within a few moments Cross accompanied by five native men of average height and build, came upon my position. Cross looked out of place among the other stern faces, which undoubtedly sizing me up should trouble arise, with his ear to ear smile and bright eyes.
"Eric, so glad you could make it. Jolly good to see you old chap."
Despite my slight annoyance at his youthful exuberance that my forty-three years and I have trouble reciprocating, I was glad to see that his years of study in this forsaken place hadn't taken the "Brit" out of him.
Cross continued, "Hell of a landing it must have been. Too bad I missed it right old boy?"
I briefly debated making a quip about the inability of his native workers to clear an extra two hundred feet, but looking over five expressionless faces changed my mind.
"Not bad, though I should have brought the Catalina."
"You'd have had just as much trouble I'm afraid, sport. Seas are pretty rough this time of year even in harbor."
Cross's incessant tendency to address anyone he was speaking to by "old chap", "old boy", or "sport" had annoyed me since before the war when we studied together at Oxford. At times, I was convinced he was trying to agitate people.
"Even so, old chap, you're here now. Let's get you squared away."
_________
Dinner was not as exotic as I had feared it might be. Thanks to Cross, and his unwillingness to eat anything new, the island had a small chicken population, which the natives had readily accepted into their diet, supplementing the already plentiful pork and fish.
I began to take notice of a few oddities, besides the apparent lack of facial expression among the natives. There was no idle talking, no laughter that wasn't quickly stifled. The children all appeared to be worried as they clung close to their parents.
Just as the meal began, Cross summoned one of the younger natives and spoke to him in a tongue I could not decipher. When finished the boy gathered a few of his friends and went off swiftly into the jungle. Cross sat across from me, his face still consumed by his sizeable grin, and passed me a drumstick.
With the sun appearing to fall steadily into the western ocean, I stood on the dock stretching out into the harbor near Cross's village. Here the noises of the jungle were not so over-powering, as the pounding surf washed them into the background.
The native language of this place may have been unknown to me, but the fear in the air around the village was impossible not to notice. The fear was a tangible thing clinging to everyone on the island I had met so far. And the thought that something here troubled them all so much put me ill at ease as well. As the night descended rapidly around me, I heard Cross walking towards me.
Seeing that he was alone, I thought it best to get everything out in the open. "What's going on here Devon?"
To my great pleasure, while explaining himself he dropped the British accent and mannerisms.
"They found something, Eric. Something that falls into your area of expertise more than mine…"
I started to walk off in disgust, planning to board my plane and leave immediately.
"You'd never have come if I'd asked you straight out."
"That's right Devon, and now I'm leaving before you ask me straight out," still walking into the jungle towards my plane.
"You can't leave, Eric."
"How are you going to stop me?" As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realized that he had.
"While we were eating, I had a few men dismantle your plane."