The Java Gold: Book Two: Winds of Fortune

By Robert Kingsley

"Winds of Fortune" is the second volume of "The Java Gold", a multipart series describing the quest for a load of pure gold that went missing just after the outbreak of the Pacific War.
It is early 1948. The war is over but there is no peace in South East Asia. Nations strive for independence and fiercely resist the return of their former colonial masters. The few survivors of the gold flight are caught in this ground-swell of violence, betrayal and murder. Misfortune and disillusion follow them when, independent of each other, they attempt to retrieve the lost gold. And at the same time they are pursued by dangerous enemies that are now on the trail of the treasure.
The story takes the reader all over South-East Asia and Australia and plays against an exciting and tumultuous background. The Indonesian struggle for independence opposed by the Dutch and threatened by political and military conspirators. Murky plots hatched by foreign intelligence operatives. And shady companies with doubtful airplanes flying emigrants into Australia and smuggling out gold from the outback...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Kingsley
• Release date: Feb 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310651700

Robert Kingsley

About me: I am a Dutch- Canadian author who currently lives in Europe. I work as an independent ICT consultant out of the magical city of Amsterdam. I have a son and a daughter, both talented professionals in their own right. And very recently I became grandfather to a lovely grandson. About my books: First of all I am immensely proud to have reached the semi finals of the "2016 Adventure Writers Competition" with "The Odyssey", the first volume of "Java Gold" series. This multi-part historical fiction story will take the reader all over the world and through half a century of recent history. I have combined my life-long interest in aviation and military history (especially World War 2) with local, on-site knowledge, gathered during my travels all over the world as an internationally active ICT consultant. The first two volumes of "The Java Gold" are largely set in the former Dutch East Indies. Not many books have been written about the turbulent post war years in that area and especially Indonesia. The Japanese invasion, the post-war struggle for independence and the general unrest in South East Asia serve as a fascinating background to the story. The idea for the book was born during a "steak and beer" dinner in a California micro-brewery. I had just come across a number of highly intriguing facts and events that had happened in Indonesia during and after the 2nd world war. 'I could write a thriller around them' I said and one of my closest friends dared me to do so. And so I did... I originally intended to write a short "action" novel based upon the loss of a planeload of pure gold. But the story took over; love, tragedy and political complications somehow managed to sneak in and now I am busily working on Book Three of a multipart series... For those of you who want to browse the background to the novel, please do me a favour and visit my blog. There, you'll find all kind of information that was too detailed or to unrelated to fit into the story but too interesting to discard.

Book preview

Winds of Fortune

The Java Gold

Book 2

Robert A. Kingsley

Copyright ©2019 Robert A. Kingsley

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery are models and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Version TJG2_V8

Revision date: October 2019

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For My Daughter Gemma

Book One: a summary.

It is early 1942 and the invading Japanese forces are at Java’s doorstep. The Dutch government frantically ships out everything of value, but a ton of pure gold is left behind. To fly the gold to safety in Australia, a damaged airliner is hurriedly repaired, and a scratch crew assembled. But bad luck haunts the flight. A malfunctioning engine strands them on a small strip at the north-Sumatra coast and local insurgents kill half the crew. The survivors hide the gold. Reaching Ceylon, they learn that they are posted as deserters and thieves of an airplane full of gold. They hide and fly ‘The Hump’ over the Himalayas under assumed names. When the war ends, the hidden gold casts its spell over them. Risking their lives, they manage to retrieve it but discover that converting gold into money is a process fraught with danger and violence. Their ship sinks during a violent storm near the Portuguese coast, taking the bulk of the treasure with it. Peter, sole survivor of the shipwreck, and pilot of of the gold flight, makes a living by ferrying war surplus airplanes. Picking one up in Australia he is reunited with his long-lost wife. On his way to Europe, he makes a refueling stop at Batavia (Jakarta) and is recognized by the flight engineer he has left behind in a Ceylon hospital. The engineer asks prying questions about the gold and the pilot hurries off, worried about who else knows about the treasure.

***

Chapter 1: High hopes

Kemajoran Airfield, March 1948

Willie Pattinama watched the shabby Douglas DC-5 taxi slowly toward the holding point at Kemajoran’s east-west runway. He thought about the short and strained conversation with his old pilot under the wing of that ominous plane. It had been unpleasant; the little Peter Vandervoort had told him could never have covered three years of war-time flying and two more years of uneasy peace. He had said little about himself or what he had done all that time; nothing about the hidden gold, avoiding it as if he had something to hide. Feeling disturbed and suspicious, Willie had volunteered little in return.

While there was so much to tell, so many memories to share, he mused as the airliner came to a swaying stop.

He could have told Peter about his release from the Ceylon hospital in April 1942 and his recruitment by No. 321 Dutch Naval Air Service squadron at China Bay. The first class KLM engineers ‘marooned’ in Ceylon were a godsend. Desperately in need of qualified mechanics the Navy had hired the mechanics without a moment’s hesitation, as civilian technicians to maintain their Catalinas. Later the squadron re-equipped with ex-RAF B24 Liberators and was sent to the barren Cocos Islands. After the Pacific War had ended, relations between the British and the Dutch had cooled and by the end of 1945, the RAF suddenly demanded their B24’s back. No. 321 squadron had to be disbanded but Willie, as a skilled mechanic, was almost immediately snapped up by the newly established ‘Netherlands Government Air Transport Service (NGAT)’.

Never expected to see one of those again, said an elderly ground engineer as he joined Willie. They watched the DC-5 turn onto the runway. its two radial engines roared at takeoff power and the old airliner slowly accelerated. Halfway down the runway, the nosewheel slowly lifted off the tarmac and few moments later the plane was airborne.

We had a few of them at Andir just before the war but they all escaped to Australia, the older man said, gazing after the plane that slowly dwindled in the distance.

Is that so? Willie asked innocently.

Yeah, but it was an odd bird anyway. Douglas only built a few of them before they closed won the assembly line. I guess it was no big loss, he mused, still squinting at the slowly disappearing shape. Most pilots did not like it; the damn thing was too damn stable. You really had to haul at the controls to make it go up or down.

And when the DC5 was finally out of sight, the old man turned to Willie, The boss wants to see you.

Hi Willie, take a seat, cried Dick Scheffers, the maintenance manager.

He was a big, blond Dutchman in his late forties, an excellent technician and a strict but fair manager who always had a word of praise when a job was well done. Willie liked him.

I guess you heard about the plans the company has? he asked as soon as Willie sat down on one of the hard, wooden office chairs.

You mean this idea about making the East Indies operation independent from KLM? Willie asked innocently, or the idea of a Pacific network, including a direct line to Los Angeles? The big one Versteegh is always talking about?

Both spot on! But that’s not all. I’m talking about the plans for this area. Scheffers picked up a folder and briefly glanced at its contents before he continued.

This here says that the big brass not only want to extend our coverage of Sumatra and Borneo. No sir, they want more flights to islands in the east and more remote places such as Celebes and New Guinea. Of course, most of those places cannot be served by land-based aircraft so they want us to deploy more amphibians.

Closing the folder with a snap he looked knowingly at Willie. It all sounds fine but there’s a snag; they are short on current local information for all those places. So they ordered me to make a DC3 available for what you might call an exploration flight. Nothing dramatic; just take a few head-office types to a number of places. They can check out the facilities; talk to local parties and find out how feasible those new routes might be. Find out how much cooperation we might get – or maybe the reverse…

Willie silently waited for Scheffers to come to the point. This longwinded introduction was not his style.

"Our senior management is also aware of the fact that in some of those areas there are certain … political difficulties as they phrase it. And they think it might smooth our negotiators path if we crew that DC3 with native born Indonesians. And to be honest I must say I agree. So far, I have signed up Wiweko as captain and Melati as co-pilot. And I want you as a flight engineer on this trip to Sumatra."

Who else is going?

Daud and Masuparto, from head-office; they’re to act as observers and negotiators.

Willie had met them; both were mid-level administrators with a background in operations.

Any idea how long this trip will take?

My guess is slightly over a week. Here, have a look at the schedule, Scheffers said, producing a bundle of freshly typed papers.

Your first stop will be Palembang and you’ll stay there for the night. Next day you’ll fly up to Medan and stop over. After that you’ll go up to Kota Radja or Banda Aceh as they are calling it now. There you’ll have to stay over because Friday is their day off – it´ll give you a chance to do a checkup and service the machine. Then down to Padang and after that, back to base.

Willie looked at the itinerary and thought for a moment. He could not think of a real reason to refuse Scheffers request. But the thought of flying into Aceh made him feel uneasy. Aceh was the most fanatical anti-Dutch area in the whole of Indonesia. And he remembered all too well what had happened to them in that place…

Won’t we be asking for trouble when we fly a KLM plane into Aceh? he asked.

‘We won’t; we´ll use one of the C47’s handed over to us when No. 20 squadron was disbanded, Scheffers said with a smile. They’re all in standard aluminum finish and Australian registered; no company logos, no air force markings, nothing."

No, I mean trouble on the ground; political trouble.

Just between you and me: that is why we have Daud going out with you. He is from that area; has already been in touch with representatives from Medan and Kota Radja. He told them that air transport will play a major role in these islands one day, just like it does now in Australia. Told them it was in their interest to cooperate if this Indonesian federation comes off the ground. It will get them in on the ground floor as the saying goes. If they play ball, they can only win.

Scheffers leaned back in his chair and lit a fresh cigarette while Willie silently considered the proposal.

All right, he said after a few moments. When do we leave?

Tomorrow morning, Scheffers said while he smiled with relief. Better go and check things out with Wiweko. He’s in the maintenance hangar right now.

*

They left Kemajoran early next morning in a brightly polished C47; unmarked – apart from an Australian civilian VH registration painted in small black capitals near the tail. Willie kept an eye on the cockpit avionics from his engineer’s cubbyhole. But when they had levelled out on their cruising altitude and everything seemed to be routine, he got up and went into the nearly empty cabin. A few rows down the aisle the two KLM administrators were sitting, busily working their way through a stack of documents. Not wanting to disturb them, Willie took a front-row seat and reclined it the few inches it would go. He lay back and as he closed his eyes he thought about last night.

You should have said no! It’s a very dangerous trip Aisha, his young girlfriend had said unhappily.

As a Christian girl born in the Moluccas, she deeply mistrusted the fanatically Islamic people from Aceh. Willie had tried to soothe her feelings by saying this trip was something special. If things went right it might mean some kind of promotion for him. But she would not buy it. Nothing he had said had taken away her uneasiness. On the contrary; she had fired off one sharp, penetrating question after another.

If you really are so valuable, why don’t they keep you here and sent someone else?, she had said in an angry voice. Has Dick soft-soaped you again? Has he talked you into a corner from which the only escape was saying ‘yes’?

And he had struggled with his answers, knowing she had been very, very close to the truth.

"Aisha is right! he thought while his hand involuntary crept toward his shoulder and his fingers furtively touched the scar left by the bullet wound. I must have been mad to say yes!"

But, deep in his heart, he knew exactly why he had accepted this crazy assignment.

It was because KLM had ordered the new model 749 Constellation to replace the leased C-54 ‘Skymasters’. Everybody knew Dick Scheffers would soon have to send two qualified mechanics to Lockheed in Burbank, California, to be trained as line engineers. And he desperately wanted to be one of them…

*

They reached Palembang around noon. The nearby oil refineries made for a brisk passenger and cargo traffic and it rapidly became clear that local business would profit by an extension of the network to Singapore, Penang and Kuala Lumpur as well as oil centers in the area. The discussions didn’t take long and afterwards they were taken out into town that evening for drinks and a good meal.

Early next morning they took off and for some hours they followed the East-Sumatra coast all the way up to Medan. Again their reception was both businesslike and friendly. Daud and Masuparto were met on arrival by the district commissioner and several members of the local business community. They too were enthusiastic about a possible extension of the services. However, a single look at the dismal state of the airport made it clear that a lot work needed to be done before it could handle any scheduled services. The current users, two Dutch air force combat squadrons, were much more interested in bullets and bombs than passenger amenities.

That evening, the five of them sat together in their guest house to discuss their flight to Kota Radja. They were all feeling uneasy about what might be the equivalent of going into a lion’s den.

I’ve met someone who gave me this, Daud said and he handed Wiweko a thick brown envelope. In it, you’ll find an updated map of the area and the airfield. And, of course, the recognition signals we have to use. The local people know our approximate ETA and at that time they expect us and nobody but us.

He looked around the small circle and added: my contact also told me they’ve got a lot of AA pieces all over the place. If they don’t like what they see, they’ll open fire and blow us out of the sky.

‘Why do we bother to go there anyway if they are so suspicious?" Captain Wiweko asked morosely.

Because we need their cooperation; Banda Aceh could be of enormous value as a forward base and a refueling field.

Willie nodded silently; the air route from Amsterdam to Batavia was nearly 9.000 miles, one of the longest commercial air routes in the world. And North Sumatra was a natural landfall. It made sense to have a support base and an emergency field there.

They reached Kota Radja around noon the next day and as they were circling, a sweating Melati tensely worked the radio, giving their call sign and recognition codes on the agreed frequencies. It must have been a very convincing performance, because nobody shot at them.

Cleared for landing, they set a course for the airfield and gradually lost height. When they reached it a few minutes later, they noticed that most of it was still in ruins. The Dutch marines had a put up a temporary wooden control tower and had the runway and platform patched up somewhat during their brief stay at the end of 1945. But the hangars and most of the other buildings were still nothing but bombed and burnt out ruins.

Wiweko made a routine landing and parked the C47 on the scarred platform at the foot of the control tower, right in front of a small group of men waiting for them.

I will go out first and meet our contacts, Daud said in the suddenly quiet cabin. You guys wait for me to give a sign before you come out.

Then he briskly opened the cabin door and let down the airstair. A tense silence fell in the cabin as they watched him walking across the platform.

He embraced two of the men and a sigh of relief went up in the cabin when they obviously introduced him to the others. After they all had bowed respectfully to each other, the man who seemed to be the leader of the group looked at the parked C47 and said something. Daud bowed politely again. Then he turned toward the airplane and waved at them, clearly indicating that they were to come forward to be introduced.

After the introductions, the little group had broken up. Willie and the co-pilot had gone over to the fuel store to have a look at what fuel there still might be. They found the storage tanks about half full. But no one could tell them when these tanks had last been filled and by whom. And all of the samples they took looked downright contaminated, which did not really surprise them. They only could guess at the amount of condensation and other contamination that had built up inside the unserviced tanks over the years.

I’m glad we filled her up in Medan; there’s not a drop of reliable avgas here, Willie said to Melati while the two of them were walking back to the C47.

No one in his right mind would touch that muck, the second officer answered while he frowned in disgust. He did not have to say more. They both knew all too well what contaminated fuel would do to their engines when they were running at full take-off power. They would backfire, belch and falter. Robbed of its full power, the plane would not get off the ground. It would crash into the trees at the end of the runway. And then the rotten fuel would explode in a huge fireball, killing them all.

They both shivered at the thought…

So what’s the plan for the rest of today? Willie asked when they reached their solitary C47.

Daud, Masuparto and our friend Wiweko are off to see the local governor or resident or whatever his title may be. I am to check out our route to Padang. And you are supposed to do the daily inspection. Oh, and while you’re at it, you can check and fix a few things that need attention, Melati said with a grin. He handed Willie a short ‘gripe sheet’, a list of pilot’s remarks and complaints.

And when we’re done here?

I suppose we’ll be taken into town.

Where to?

To a kind of hotel I guess; I’m sure someone will come to take us there, it is much too far to walk.

"Any plans for tomorrow?

Not really; tomorrow is Friday, their day off. They all go to the mosque and no work is done. And from what I heard from Wiweko, we’ll probably be here Saturday as well. We might even go for a swim in the Ocean; there’s a nice beach, not too far from here.

Willie found it hard to concentrate on his job in the oppressive heat. The sun shone fiercely on the cockpit roof and he had to force himself to attend to each item on his ‘gripe sheet’. He sighed with relief when he had ticked them all off and could close down all systems.

He checked the pilot’s dashboard once more to make sure all cockpit switches were in the right position and noticed a topographical map of Northern Sumatra, wedged against the cockpit wall beside the co-pilot’s chair.

‘The beach is not far…’

The remark still rankled in his head.

The beach…

How far would it be to THAT beach?

Overwhelmed by the lure of the gold he grabbed the map and quickly glanced outside. Melati was up in the control tower, talking to someone. No one else was on the empty platform. He ducked into the cabin and, sitting out of sight, on the floor with his back against the cockpit bulkhead, he spread the map upon his knees.

It took him only a few moments to locate the probable site of the Kutaradja II emergency strip. Then he checked the distance and his heart-rate jumped. The strip was right on the other side of the mountain range, about 40 miles south-east from where he was now.

The gold was so close!

"It is now or never! flashed through his head. We’ll stay here tomorrow and the next day we’ll leave. And I’ll never be able to come back!"

His mind worked feverishly while he re-folded the map and put it in his toolkit. How could he get there? He might be able to get some kind of transport in town. But that would mean involving others and he shied away from that idea. Leave it for later, he thought with a shrug of his shoulders as he climbed out of the cabin into the glare of the blazing sun. He closed and locked the cabin door and, with a tired sigh, picked up his toolkit and made his way toward the control tower, deeply lost in thought.

He was halfway across the stretch of scarred, crumbling concrete when a sudden movement in one of the ruined hangars to the left caught his eye. A couple of very young boys were wheeling out something much too big for them. As he came closer, he saw it was an army-green painted motorcycle.

It must have been hidden by the partly collapsed hangar roof and forgotten by the Japanese when they had retreated into their camps after the capitulation. And now those boys were dragging it out into the open.

Was it an omen?

The oldest of the boys climbed giggling onto the saddle and barefooted kicked the starter pedal with all his might.

Nothing happened.

He kicked again and again, but the bike simply did not start. Then he suddenly noticed Willie, standing a few feet away and looking at him.

It won’t run, the boy said and, frustrated by his failure, he aimed a last fierce, uncontrolled kick at the pedal. But his bare foot slipped off the starter and the rebounding steel pedal violently hit his ankle. Howling with pain, he slid off the saddle and, clutching his injured ankle, jumped around on one foot.

May I have a look? Willie asked while he came forward. The boy took in Willies brown face and his mechanic's overalls and his toolkit. He stopped caressing his painful ankle and nodded reluctantly.

Willie thought the motorbike didn’t look too bad on closer inspection. He guessed the BSA M20 had originally been Dutch, but a small ‘Rising Sun’ emblem on the mud-guard showed it had been used by the Japanese. Sure, it was caked with dust, its fuel tank was scratched and dented, and its tires were a bit soft. But it probably was still serviceable.

Willie slung a leg astride the saddle and repeatedly kicked the starter while he tried various ignition settings, but nothing happened. The faint tang of gasoline wafting up gave him an idea. He put the bike on the stand and, under the mesmerized gaze of the boys, opened his toolkit and took the carburetor apart. His guess had been right: both the fuel feed and carburetor nozzle were clogged by sticky, decayed gasoline. It took him only a few minutes to remove the glue-like substance from the brass parts with a rag soaked in gasoline. He cleaned and adjusted the sparkplug for good measure, convinced that he had eliminated the problem. And while he quickly reassembled the carburetor, he questioned the boys.

Now whose bike is this?

It’s ours; we found it in the shed, said the oldest boy.

I saw it lying under a pile of wood and stuff, added the younger one.

You tried to start it, Willie said, looking the elder boy in the eye. Now what if it HAD started? Have you ever driven a motorbike before? Both boys looked away, silently shaking their heads in embarrassment.

I thought so! Willie said with a stern look at his face. Now listen; when I get this bike to run, I want to borrow it for a day."

‘Why? the elder boy asked bravely, giving Willie a suspicious look.

Because I want to visit some people quite far away and I have no transport.

But how do we know we’ll get our bike back?

Look; see that airplane? Willie pointed at the lonely C47. The others can’t fly it out of here without me, so I’ll have to come back here; he said with a winning smile. It was a good argument, but the boys were still reluctant to surrender their newfound toy.

He said in a sudden flash of inspiration, You know what? I’ll drive the two of you home on the bike and talk this over with your dad. I will ask him if I can borrow your bike and tell him I will return it by tomorrow evening. Now how would you like that?

The boys looked at each other with bright eyes. Being driven home on a motorbike, their motorbike! And both nodded ‘yes.’

OK you two, sit on the fuel tank and hold on tight! He kicked the starter pedal once and the old BSA engine triumphantly rumbled into life.

***

Chapter 2: Death in the evening…

Lembang (West Java) February 28, 1948

Are you absolutely sure about this? the older officer asked. He put the document on the table and leaned back in his creaking cane chair.

I am; and what is more, I’ve got proof! the younger man said. In one fluid movement he briskly pulled a bewildering mass of bills of lading, cargo manifests, warehouse receipts, damage reports and inventory tally sheets from a black leather bag and spread them out on the coffee table. He picked up several documents and held them under the older man’s nose while he slapped the bundle of papers with the back of his hand.

Over 40 percent of this shipment from Holland has vanished into thin air, somewhere between the docks and the army warehouses! he said in an angry voice.

Come on! the older man protested. There must be some kind of error; that many simply can’t be missing.

"It is worse! They are not simply