Lemuria by Burt Clinchandhill (most popular novels of all time .txt) 📗

Ireland—operated by Sulawesi Airlines, first came into service in the early seventies. With its nineteen-passenger capacity and maximum speed of two hundred miles per hour, the twin propeller aircraft, also known as the “Flying Shoebox,” simply because it looked like one with wings, wasn’t a product of modern marvel. But the small indestructible plane—with its fifteen hundred-foot takeoff and landing—the great, small plane made it exceptionally functional in the wooded Indonesian jungle.

On both sides of the plane, a row of chairs was placed, so passengers sat facing each other. Bishop looked over his shoulder, out of the small window as the plane approached the runway. The green acres below were neatly cut in squares, with no jungle in sight. As the aircraft turned on its approach, he noticed urban buildings on both sides of the landing strip as far as he could see. “There’s not much jungle left,” he shouted over the propellers.

“You’re the one who wanted to come here,” Lindsey shouted back, sitting across from Bishop with Ignatowski next to her. Ignatowski slept almost the entire twenty-four hours of flights, from New York to Juanda International Airport near Surabaya. They were the only three passengers on the thirty-minute domestic flight. “I still think that it’s quite a leap from Haeckel’s map to Trinil.” Lindsey tied her hair in a band.

“Small correction,” Bishop replied. “The only reason I came was that you extorted me with more information on the disappearance of Jennifer, should I come.”

“I’m sorry, Matthew. I really believe there’s something big going on here. And for what it’s worth, I’m thrilled that you came along. I wouldn’t have known what to do without you, though I’m still not sure what we’re doing here.”

“Well, you made your promise, and now, I guess, you need to trust me,” Bishop replied.

The Skyvan’s bulkheads cracked when the plane hit the runway with a big bang.

Ignatowski’s head rose from his chest in one jerky movement. “Are we there?”

Bishop and Lindsey laughed and nodded.

The plane stopped, and the full-width rear cargo door opened. The bright sunlight made them squint, and they quickly put on their sunglasses, took their backpacks that were stowed away under the seats and walked out over the ramp.

“Nigel Small-Fawcett.” A tiny, sweaty man with a dark comb-over, dressed in a white linen suit, white shirt, and a black and white striped tie, approached them and introduced himself in a crisp British accent. The middle-aged man looked nervous and stared at Bishop.

“Have we met?” Bishop asked.

“Sorry, I don’t think so,” the man stuttered nervously. “I’m on loan, you could say, from the British consulate, and I recognized you from your picture.” He took Bishop’s hand and shook it feebly.

“Wow, that’s quite a reception.” Lindsey shook Fawcett’s hand, followed by Ignatowski.

“I’m sent by the U.S. consulate in Surabaya to help you get on your way on our beautiful island,” the man babbled.

“Thank you. I guess you know where we’re going?” Bishop replied.

“Yes, I do. We have a taxi waiting to take you to Trinil and rooms reserved at a small local hotel. Please follow me.”

Dutifully, they followed Fawcett as he scurried across the airfield, which was nothing more than a short strip of asphalt in the middle of green fields, and walked into a large shed-like building.

“Selamat siang,” he said, addressing the two military men behind a desk, before walking through the door opposite and outside again. The three followed him to the corner of the street some thirty feet farther, where they stopped next to a street sign that read, ‘Pangkalan.’

“Here we are.” He waved to the other side of the crossing where a white 1962 Volkswagen Beetle, converted to a stretched limousine, started up. The Beetle turned around on the street and stopped in front of them, precisely beneath the sign. The driver, a dark brown young man, promptly jumped out and opened the rear door for them.

“Good morning,” the man said in a thick accent.

“There you are.” Fawcett pointed inside the car. “It’s an hour and a half drive to Trinil, so I suggest you sit down and enjoy the ride.”

“You’re not coming?” Ignatowski asked.

“I’m sorry. But I’m needed back at the consulate.” Fawcett gave him a card. “But if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

Lindsey got in and rubbed her hand over the pink plush upholstery. “That’s nice.”

“And kind of warm,” Ignatowski added.

“You need air-conditioning?” the driver asked.

“Yes, please,” Bishop answered, wiping his forehead. “I had almost forgotten how much I hated the tropic heat,” he said, sitting across from Lindsey and Ignatowski.

“Welcome to my limousine service,” the driver shouted while taking off, looking back over his shoulder. “Mr. Fawcett must like you very much since he booked you the only available limousine on the island. Where do you want to go first?”

“The museum or the hotel?” Bishop asked.

Ignatowski nodded to Lindsey.

“I think we better first visit the museum before dark. From there, we can check in at the hotel.”

“You heard the woman,” Bishop confirmed Lindsey’s suggestion.

“No problem,” the driver replied, as a honk from a car coming toward them sounded. The driver turned his head, and with a jolt to the wheel, he steered the limo back into its lane.

“I’m sorry, no problem. I haven’t had an accident in over a year,” he tried to reassure them.

“And before that?” Ignatowski asked.

“Forget that,” Bishop intervened before the driver could answer. “Just get us to Trinil in one piece, please.”

“Not a problem, sir. Please enjoy the ride.”

After a few minutes, they left the city, and the driver steered the Beetle onto the road, ‘Jalan, Bojonegoro-Ngawi.’ The road received its name from connecting the Bojonegoro district in the north to the Ngawi district south of it on Java. The old concrete road was filled with cracks, and although narrow bike lanes had been created on both sides of the road, bikes with and without motors swirled left and right across the street. The roadside scenery alternated between ceramic shops, palm trees and fields with corn and