THE MOZAMBIQUE CHANNEL
Abilio Batalheiro steered his Hummingbird north along the Madagascar side of the channel. The twenty-year-old copter was cruising five hundred feet above the waves at a comfortable one hundred miles an hour. No need to climb higher over open water like this.
Toliara lay behind to the south. And ahead … who knew?
Abilio had learned to fly in Mozambique’s Air Defense Force, and after an honorable discharge in 2011, he had invested all his savings plus some borrowed cash in this used Hummingbird. Now he eked out a living making express deliveries and ferrying passengers—mostly government officials—up and down the central coast.
Over the years he’d flown some strange charters, but this might be the strangest: the three passenger seats full—one with a human, the other two with heavy aluminum canisters—all headed nowhere.
Well, not exactly nowhere. The passenger had given him GPS coordinates, saying they would find an island. But Abilio knew the names and locations of all the islands of the Mozambique Channel, and knew they’d find nothing there. Granted, he’d never flown this area of the channel, but why would he? Why would anyone? The Madagascar coast held little of interest along these latitudes. No one came here because it offered nothing but open water.
His fare, a thin, gruff, bearded Afrikaner named Jeukens, had shown up late yesterday afternoon at Inhambane Airport looking to hire a helicopter he’d heard was available for charter. He’d arrived by taxi after ferrying across the baia from Maxixe in a single-sail dhow. With three kilometers or so by boat versus a roundabout sixty-kilometer car trip, most chose the water route. He wanted to be flown to an island at a specific set of coordinates. Abilio had assured him there was no island there but the man had insisted.
No point in arguing. The man was paying cash, and an all-day charter like this was rare, so Abilio shrugged and took his money. You wish to charter a flight to nowhere? Bom. Abilio will take you.
Jeukens had arrived on time at first light this morning, but not in a taxi. He’d driven the long way around with the two canisters in the back of his SUV. Abilio had asked him what was in them but he’d brushed him off, saying they were part of a scientific experiment that he wouldn’t understand. No matter. Cash was cash.
Abilio helped him load them aboard and strap them into the rear seats. The Afrikaner sat in the front passenger seat with his backpack on his lap, his skinny arms tight around it as if loaded with gold.
They’d taken to the air and flown directly into the sunrise, straight across the channel to Toliara on Madagascar’s west coast.
Officially Abilio’s Vertical Hummingbird 260L had a range of 375 miles; by moderating his speed he could squeeze 400 out of the tank if need be. Toliara was a solid 500 miles from Inhambane Airport, however. No way could he make that with the Hummingbird’s standard equipment.
But years ago he’d fitted his bird with a twenty-gallon auxiliary tank that extended his range an extra 130 or so miles. So, after topping off both tanks in Toliara, he and the Afrikaner had headed north.
His passenger’s voice crackled in the little speakers of Abilio’s headset. “There it is. What did I tell you?”
The unmuffled roar of the Hummingbird’s six-cylinder engine along with the chop of its whirling blades made normal speech impossible. Even shouting was only sporadically effective. Headsets connected through the dashboard were the only way to go.
Directly ahead of them an island that should not exist had appeared on the horizon. Well, live and learn, they say.
“My apologies, senhor. I have learned something today. We are over a neglected corner of the channel. I had no idea this place existed.”
“And now that you’ve seen it, find us a place to land.”
“I do not see a place on this side. We’ll fly around the island and see if we can find a beach that—”
“I’ve been all around it and there is no beach worth mentioning! We have to find a place to set down inside.”
Abilio wasn’t sure that would be possible. The closer they got, the more greenery he was spying beyond the upper edge of the wall.
He pointed to the blades rotating above. “Those span thirty-three feet. I have put this craft down in a fifty-foot courtyard, but that was under still conditions, and was not easy even then. We do not know what sort of updrafts and downdrafts and crosswinds we’ll encounter inside.”
“‘The world little knows or cares the storms through which you have had to pass. It asks only if you brought the ship safely to port.’”
“Pardon?”
“A quote from Joseph Conrad. Now … get me on the ground.”
Abilio descended toward the island. The closer they approached, the greater his dismay. Yes, a volcanic island, but its caldera appeared choked with greenery—not brush but trees. That was bad enough, but then he recognized the unique configuration of the branches.
“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Baobabs.”
Jeukens jerked forward and stared through the windscreen. “What? Are you sure?”
“I believe so.”
As they flew closer, all doubt disappeared.
“You’re right,” Jeukens said. “And not just any baobabs—Adansonia grandidieri. Imagine that. They’re endangered on Madagascar, and yet here…”
“Yes, your island is full of them—packed with them.”
Jeukens glanced at him. “My island … if only it were so.”
Abilio knew then that his craft would not be landing on that island.
This baobab—this Adams grandi or whatever the Afrikaner called it—was like no other tree in the world. Its big smooth trunks, thick as the concrete columns supporting a highway overpass, grew to a height of eighty or ninety feet, with all their branches splayed at the top. Looking down now, Abilio could see nothing but broad, flat leaves forming a thick canopy over the entire caldera, obscuring everything beneath.
Jeukens pointed. “There! An opening!”
Abilio saw it. A hole in the center of the canopy. He approached, slowed, and hovered over it. And then he saw the reason: a lake.
It made sense. The low point of the caldera was near its center, and all the rain eventually collected there. And of course, since the baobabs couldn’t grow in water … an opening. But with no pontoons, not useful to him.
Abilio moved on, and in no time the Hummingbird had traversed the small island. He banked around for another pass, slower this time. But no help. No place to land.
“No,” Jeukens said, his voice hushed but audible through Abilio’s headset. “This can’t be. It can’t. There has to be—” He twisted in his seat. “You have a winch. We can use that.”
“That is for rescues.”
As one of the few private helicopters in all of Inhambane Province, his Hummingbird was often called on to aid in sea rescues when Mozambique’s Naval Command was delayed or simply not available. He’d often used the winch to haul up shipwrecked fishermen.
“Excellent. It’s going to rescue this trip. How do I get into the harness?”
“Senhor, you cannot do this.”
“I certainly can. You’ll lower me to that wide section of the rim, and I’ll climb down to the base of the caldera. Then you’ll lower a canister through the branches to me at the point where you last saw me. I’ll release it from the harness and we’ll repeat the process. Simple.”
“Simple” was not the word for it. Simpleminded, maybe. Insane was much more accurate.
Despite Abilio’s protests, Jeukens started to unfold the harness.
“It will be easier without your backpack,” Abilio said.
“Oh, no,” the Afrikaner said with a quick shake of his head. “This stays with me.”
Abilio glanced at the fuel gauge. The main tank registered half full.
“Listen to me, senhor. We can spare maybe thirty minutes here, but absolutely no more before we have to head back.”
“Thirty minutes should be fine.”
“It will have to be. I know of no place to refuel between here and Toliara. So set your watch. I will sound my air horn when it is time. If you are not on the rim when I blow my horn, ready to be hauled up, I will leave without you.”
Jeukens blinked. “You’ll abandon me?”
“I will have no choice. We cannot escape the fact, senhor, that if my chopper ditches because it has run out of fuel, we both will die.”
Jeukens looked at his watch and nodded. “No escaping the cold equations, I guess. All right. Let’s get to it then.”
He removed his headset and hat, then slipped into the harness. Sliding back the door on the passenger side, he clutched his backpack and eased out of his seat until he was standing on the landing runner. With his bare scalp gleaming in the sun, he glanced down at the narrow rim of the caldera. A sick-scared look slackened his features and Abilio felt a surge of hope that he’d lost his nerve and changed his mind. Abilio couldn’t blame him. The top of the ledge was uneven and only three meters across at its widest.
But by the time he raised his head, his expression had hardened.
His lips moved as he pointed down. Abilio couldn’t hear him, but the meaning was clear. He started the winch. Jeukens spun slowly on the way down. When the winch line played out—it didn’t take long since it ran only fifty feet—Abilio had to lower his craft. Finally Jeukens’s feet touched down on the rim. He released the catches on the harness and gave a thumbs-up.
Abilio hit the up button on the winch and watched Jeukens start to pick his way down the inside of the island wall. When the harness retuned to door level, he pulled it inside.
A gentle breeze was flowing out of the southeast, and the updraft from the island wall was minimal—helpful, really. Abilio steadied the chopper with his knees while he wrapped the harness around one of the canisters. He wondered what it contained. Some sort of liquid, certainly, but what?
No matter. A scientific experiment, Jeukens had said. Abilio wasn’t into science—beyond aeronautics, of course.
He pushed the harnessed canister out the door. He had an instant of panic when it made a crazy tilt and he feared it might slip free. But no, it held.
He began lowering it over the spot where he’d last seen Jeukens. When it made contact with the top of the rim, he eased the chopper forward and let the canister descend through the baobab leaves. When the winch cable reached its end, he descended until his skids were just above the leaves. The downdraft from the whirling blades set them into furious motion, clearing a view to the ground below.
Abilio was shocked to see that the caldera was much deeper than he’d expected. The outer wall was maybe twenty feet from sea to rim, but inside was easily three times that. The canister dangled close to a smooth, thick baobab trunk, but a good thirty feet off the ground. Abilio could descend no farther, and the trunk offered no branches for Jeukens to climb.
And where was Jeukens, by the way?
He waited. And waited.
What could he be doing? The fuel level was reaching the critical stage.
Movement to the right caught his eye. Jeukens was standing on the rim, waving for Abilio’s attention. He looked furious. He kept making angry downward motions which Abilio took to mean Lower it closer to the ground. Abilio responded with gestures of helplessness and then slapping his hand against the winch cable.
Finally Jeukens seemed to grasp that the cable had played out to its end. His shoulders slumped in defeat for a few seconds, then he motioned Abilio to come closer. Abilio took this to mean Bring the canister to me.
Leaving the winch cable fully out, Abilio ascended slowly. The last thing he wanted was for the canister and its harness to become snagged on a branch. Once it cleared the leafy mantle, he eased it toward Jeukens, who was able to grab it and free it from the harness.
With the canister sitting on the rim, the Afrikaner began making wind-up and wind-down gestures while pointing to the copter. Abilio finally got the message: Lower the other canister.
No problem. Let’s get this done and head back to Toliara.
As the cable wound up, Abilio wrestled with second canister. Damn, but it was heavy. When he started fastening the harness, he came face-to-face with an area where the paint had been scraped away, revealing …
His mouth went dry as he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then looked again. No doubt about it … the biohazard symbol.
What had he got himself into?
He scraped away a little more paint and saw a chemical formula he didn’t understand. But he did understand the two letters printed beneath it: VX.
He almost dropped the canister. He’d heard of VX. Back in 2010, the U.S. Army had come in for joint military training operations and he’d spent half a day listening to lectures on chemical weapons. Among those mentioned was a deadly neurotoxin known as VX. The name had stuck with him because of its simplicity.
With sweaty, shaking fingers he tightened the last strap and pushed the canister out the door. Immediately he jabbed his thumb against the down button and watched with relief as it descended toward the waiting Jeukens.
What could the Afrikaner want with such a huge amount of neurotoxin? What was he planning? Certainly not mass murder—not out here on a deserted tropical island.
He held his breath as Jeukens grabbed the canister, eased it to the ground, and freed it from the harness.
What now? Was he going to try to carry them down to the bottom of the caldera?
Apparently, yes. Jeukens moved one of the canisters to the edge by rocking it back and forth on its rim. He lowered himself over the edge, then tried to hoist the canister onto his shoulder—and almost fell backward in the process.
The man was mad even to consider carrying that deadly poison down the cliffside or anywhere else on his back. Jeukens appeared to come to the same conclusion. He scrambled back up to the rim.
A glance at the fuel gauge showed the tank reaching the point of no return.
Abilio grabbed the air horn, held it out the window vent, and pressed the button. Its deafening blare could be heard even over the roar of the rotors.
The Afrikaner’s head snapped up. He waved Abilio off—he needed more time.
Impossible!
Abilio sounded the horn again, longer this time.
Below, Jeukens went into a rage, stomping about in fury, waving his arms at the trees in the caldera and shaking his fists at the hovering helicopter.
Suddenly, to Abilio’s shock, he kicked the nearer canister, sending it toppling into the caldera. Then he turned the second onto its side and rolled it over the edge where it disappeared into the leaves.
For a moment he stood on the edge, hands on hips, panting. Then he grabbed the harness and started slipping into it.
Abilio felt sick and sweaty. He’d had no idea he’d been transporting liquid death. If one of them had leaked, even a little …
He was tempted to jerk the Hummingbird upward, spilling Jeukens from the harness and leaving him here. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. So he held steady until the Afrikaner gave the thumbs-up signal for ascent.
As he awaited Jeukens’s arrival, he gazed out over the island’s leafy canopy and was shocked to see it alive with life. Little monkeys clung to the branches, hundreds of them, maybe a thousand or more, all staring his way with big blue eyes.
He was aware of the Afrikaner’s arrival, mouthing incoherent curses as he clambered aboard, but Abilio paid no attention. The combined gaze of all those eyes transfixed him.
“Damn you,” Jeukens said after he’d strapped himself into the seat and replaced his headset.
Abilio pointed ahead. “Look. Do you see?”
The Afrikaner’s angry expression slackened when he saw the monkeys. “Yes, I see.”
“Did you know they were here?”
He nodded. “I knew. But I never realized how many.”
“They’re watching us.”
“They’re always watching. Let’s go.”
“And why should I be damned?”
“Because your winch has half the cable I needed.”
“It is a rescue winch. I have no need of a longer cable. And you never told me you needed to use the winch.”
“I didn’t know about the trees. If only I’d known about the trees…”
As Abilio ascended and turned the copter south, he noticed something.
“Where’s your backpack?”
“I left it.”
“I thought you said it ‘stays’ with you.”
“That’s all right. We’re coming back.”
Not we, Abilio thought. Not in my bird. Abilio wanted nothing more to do with this madman.
“No. I have no wish to come back here. It is too dangerous.”
The Afrikaner gave him a curious look. “You mean those little primates? No, they’re not dangerous.”
Should I say it? Abilio thought.
Yes, he had to bring it up. No civilian should possess VX—not even governments were allowed. He watched the Afrikaner’s expression closely as he spoke.
“I mean the toxin—the VX. You pushed those canisters over the edge. One or both of them could have burst open. Any living thing that comes in contact will die.”
He saw Jeukens stiffen, then relax. Another look, longer, less curious.
“Whatever gave you the idea that was VX?”
“I saw the biohazard symbol.”
Jeukens shocked him by bursting out laughing. “Oh, that!”
“It is not funny, senhor.”
“Well, yes, I’d quite agree if the canisters really contained VX. But they don’t.”
“How is that possible?”
“The VX belonged to Syria and its disposal was overseen by the UN. But no one wants to waste excellent aluminum canisters like those, so they were cleaned and sterilized and put to better use.”
Abilio didn’t know if he could believe him. He knew he wanted to believe he spoke the truth—the thought of being so close to death was unnerving—but wanting had never made anything so, at least not in his life.
“Be sensible,” Jeukens added. “I know what VX is. I would not be so reckless and downright foolish as to strap that sort of poison into a helicopter seat directly behind me. I value my life more than that.”
Be sensible … What the Afrikaner said sounded logical. But still …
“You had me very frightened.”
Jeukens laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sure I did.”
“But you pushed them over the edge.”
He sighed. “What else could I do? They’re nontoxic and I couldn’t leave them on the rim. A storm could knock them into the channel and carry them away.”
Abilio remembered something Jeukens had said a few moments ago. “You say you are coming back?”
“Yes. Very soon. If you won’t bring me, I have an offer by boat. I wasn’t going to take it, but now I see I have no choice.”
“This ‘research’ you are doing … does it have something to do with those monkeys?”
“Yes. That is why I would appreciate it if you did not mention the island to anyone just yet. Once I’ve finished my work, you may tell everyone.”
Abilio didn’t know anyone who’d care, except maybe as a curiosity.
“Your work … it is important?”
“Extremely important. It will preserve the course of human history.”
Preserve … an odd word to use. Most people would say their important work would change the course of human history.
Ah, well, what was important was that the Afrikaner was returning to the island. That was extra proof that the canisters held nothing toxic. No one would willingly return to the vicinity of a possible VX spill.
Well, nobody sane.