Today's feature is the first book in The Java Gold series:
The Odyssey
by Robert A. Kingsley
About Robert A. Kingsley:
Robert
Kingsley is a Dutch Canadian author who currently lives in Europe. Since his
early youth he has had a keen interest in aviation and its influence on modern
history – especially World War II.
During
his travels all over the globe as a lifelong ICT professional, he has gathered
first-hand, local knowledge of many countries and places. He has drawn on this
knowledge to write “A Rude Awakening.” He has also published a full-length
multipart novel titled The Java Gold, of which The Odyssey and Winds
of Fortune are the first volumes. Robert is married and has a son and a
daughter.
When
not busy with his consulting business, he spends a lot of time travelling and
doing research for future books.
Connect with Robert A. Kingsley:
About The Odyssey:
The story
begins during the Second World War, as the Japanese invasion sets South East
Asia in flames. At the last possible moment, when the Japanese are already
launching the final assault on Java, a planeload of pure gold is hurriedly sent
off to safety in Australia. A malignant twist of fate intervenes and the gold
is lost.
For years,
the hidden treasure casts its spell on the surviving crew members. Misfortune,
violence and death follow in their wake when they try to retrieve the gold
after the end of the war.
Their
bloody treasure hunt plays out in the Dutch East Indies, a restive place
despite the war’s end. As the story continues, their expedition takes them
across continents, spanning India, Australia, Europe and North Africa. Their
exciting exploits and sizzling romances are juxtaposed with historical
developments of places scarred by war and colonialism, the racism of corrupt
societies and the emerging threat of terrorism. The tale is replete with
danger and treachery as the pursuit of “The Java Gold” shows the treasure
hunters that human life is the price of greed.
This
volume marks the beginning of a series of books following the treasure-hunting
rogues. Kingsley blends kinetic action with meticulously researched factual
details, infusing the work with his own passion for aviation and the Second
World War, giving readers an exhilarating literary experience that’s part
historical fact, part pulp fiction and all adventure.
Purchase Links for The Odyssey:
Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo
Excerpt:
(Author's Note:
This part fits in after the flight
has gone wrong and the gold has been hidden, The survivors have fled to Ceylon
and discovered they are wanted by the authorities for the theft of an airplane
and a load of gold. They make it through the war under new (false)
identities and survive three years of flying over the Himalaya's as part of the
"Hump" operation. When the war is over, they want to settle
somewhere. Their only trade is flying and they lack money to buy an airplane.
So they decide to retrieve the hidden gold. They find passage as "working
passengers" on board of an Irish registered tramp coaster, about to
set out for Sumatra. They have told the captain they're looking for abandoned
arms dumps on that island.)
Colombo (Ceylon), October 16, 1947
The barge chugged
noisily around the stern of the anchored coaster. It carried off a crowd of
jabbering people that had been crawling over the ship all morning. They had
lugged sacks, cartons and crates up and down the ladders into the hold and
other places under the direction of the mate and the cook.
Leaning
over bridge rail Peter had looked at them. Their ceaseless motion was like a
stream of ants, swarming up and down ladders and steps, seemingly without a
discernible pattern. Never ceasing, never resting.
It
frightened him a little.
Somehow
it symbolized the East, he thought. Uncountable masses that swarmed and
multiplied, until they had occupied every last bit of space and finally would
burst into other continents. He shivered and went back into the little radio
shack behind the bridge where the captain was bent over some navigation charts.
They were large-scale charts depicting the eastern part of the Indian Ocean and
the north Sumatra coast.
‘I guess they’re ready,
at least they shoved off’ he said.
‘They bloody well be,
it took them all morning’ said the captain without looking up.
‘You seem to have taken
a lot of stuff on board.’
‘Neither a ship nor a pub should run out of grub’, is what they say
where I come from,' grumbled the captain.
Peter nodded. The real
reason was suddenly obvious. When you’ve got a questionable cargo on board, the
last thing you want to do is put into port and risk a customs inspection.
The captain put his
charts away and stretched his back. As he lighted a large briar pipe he looked
at Peter and asked bluntly
‘Mind if I stick my
nose into your business?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Why
the hell should we go and lug a load of guns all the way to Europe, when those
Indonesian Nationalists are clamoring for them just around the corner? Wouldn’t
those poor bastards want them, as they’re fighting for
their independence?’
‘Yeah, you said the
right words; they’re POOR bastards
indeed, they have no money.’
For a while the captain
thoughtfully pulled at his pipe.
‘Couple of months ago
the Dutch army carried out what they called a ‘police action’, occupying large
areas in Java and Sumatra. But I hear the Indonesians are still fighting back
quite well. Now where did they get weapons, if they have no money?’
‘They make money from
some oil wells they have in their territory. And the Japanese have quietly
given the nationalists a lot of weapons when the war ended; they’re better
armed than you think.’
‘You seem to know a lot
about them…’
Peter fell silent.
It was so difficult to keep your cover. Even though they
lived under assumed South African names, which fitted their accents and their
talking in Dutch every now and then. But even after four years it was still
difficult to stay away from subjects that could give a clue to their former
lives.
‘You have to, if you
want to stay alive in this business,’ he finally answered.
The captain gave him a
long look and walked into the wheelhouse.
They sailed on the
afternoon tide.
Later that night they
huddled together in the captain´s small cabin. The atmosphere was humid and
oppressive, despite a steady draught of fresh air sent in by air scoops in the
open portholes. The ship sailed at a steady 10 knots through the tropical night
and the swishing sound of the parting waves filled the cabin when the captain paused
while telling his tale.
‘Couple of days ago a
chap came to see me and offered me a lot of money to take a cargo to a spot on
the northern coast of Sumatra, near Sabang. When I said ‘perhaps’ he asked me
if I was willing to deliver the cargo just outside the three-mile limit, where
it would be collected by people with junks. I said ‘maybe’ and we talked price
and when we agreed he asked me if I could be discreet, because the Dutch would
not want this cargo to reach its destination…’
‘It sounds like stuff
for the Indonesian nationalists’ said Peter. ‘There’s a lot of fighting going
on between them and the Dutch, especially in Java.’
‘Suppose your ship is
spotted by the Dutch?’ Frank asked.
The captain shrugged.
‘There’s little risk.
Most of the Dutch navy has been wiped out during the war and the Brits have
enough on their hands elsewhere so they are turning a blind eye. It seems to be
fairly safe, especially that far up north the Sumatra coast. Java is a totally
different kettle of fish!’
‘When and where do we
pick up this cargo?’ asked Frank ‘it’s not on board yet.’
‘We’ll be meeting a
couple of barges somewhere off Galle. The transfer will be done at sea.’
‘And where do we come
in?’ asked Peter.
‘Something was not
right.’ the captain said after a moments ‘hesitation. ‘This chap paid a deposit
and assured me he would pay the rest on delivery of the shipment. He’ll board
off Galle, he said. Later, some of his associates will come aboard and they
will pilot us to the delivery point. I did not like the sound of that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Call it my Irish
superstition. That chap did not FEEL right, if you take my meaning. He was
polite, spoke good English but with an accent I could not place. His money was
good but there was something… queer about him. Something felt wrong. I would
not like to meet that guy in a dark alley.’
‘What did he look
like?’
‘European I would say.
He looked middle aged but still a tough customer. Well dressed. Narrow lined
face with deep-set eyes. Shifty, would not look you in the eye. Thin black hair
combed straight back without a parting. At one time I had a feeling he was a
cop trying to goad me in to a trap. He certainly FELT like one.’
‘Did he have a name?’
The captain laughed.
‘Sure. He said ‘call me Mr. Smith.’
‘So why did you want us
on board?’
‘I have a sneaking
suspicion you guys have done more than riding tramp freighters in the Indian
Ocean. I bet the two of you can handle guns. And I don’t like the idea of
having my ship grabbed from under me by a bunch of pirates…’
‘So you offered us
passage while at the same time you’re enlisting us as a kind of guard detail?’
Peter asked.
‘That’s about the size
of it. It may be nothing and all above board. But I do like to have a couple of
extra eyes and hands that can handle a gun if necessary.’
Peter had noticed a few
new faces on board. They were all burly, muscular sailors. ‘You seem to have
hired some extra hands with that in mind.’
‘Yeah, I need them to
man the derricks anyway. Once we’ve made the delivery they’ll be paid off in
the first port of call.’
‘Half ahead.’
The steady pulse of the
diesel engine changed to a slower, more uneven rhythm and the ship slowed down
perceptibly.
After four days of sailing without incident they had made
their landfall on the coast of Sumatra to the north of Weh Island, just off the
shipping lanes leading into the narrow Straits of Malacca.
The golden rays of the rising sun revealed a deserted
looking bay. There were some junks to the east in the channel between Weh and
Klah islands. Closer inshore they saw what looked like a group of covered
sampans huddled together.
‘Can you imagine this place once rivaled Singapore?’ said
the Captain ‘sailing ships stopped here for watering and provisioning. And then
the steamers came and it just sort of dwindled away. The steamers still made
their landfalls here all right, but they just continued down the straits to
Singapore and the South-China Sea.’
The mate looked thoughtfully at a small group of junks,
just visible to the south, and said ‘I wonder where our friends are,’ while he
scanned the junks for some kind of recognition signal.
It proved to be unnecessary.
A small sampan rapidly approached them and expertly
circled the freighter. Taking in most of its lateen sail it came up from behind
and slowly drew alongside. An Indonesian looking man stood up in the narrow
hull and greeted them in broken English.
‘You come for Mistah Smith?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Pliss follow…’
And with these words the sampan drew away before the wind,
in the direction of the islands and the junks.
‘I don’t like this,’ said the mate. ‘I thought we would
transfer the stuff at sea, just outside the three mile boundary.’ ‘
‘That was the idea’, the Captain said thoughtfully. ‘But
apparently they don’t like the swell.’ And indeed, a long swell was running, a
swell that could easily swamp a heavily laden sampan. It looked like they wanted to transfer
somewhere closer inshore, where the little boats stood a better chance. The captain passed his hand over his chin and
said. ‘The Indian Ocean Pilot says it is better to anchor off Lhok Kreuengraya
under Klah Island this time of the year. Obviously these people agree.’
‘Why not at Sabang?’
‘Have a look at the map. Sabang is at the Northeast tip
of Weh island, on the edge of a nice bay. And that bay is deep, 20 to 30
fathoms! Good bottom, sand and coral, so
anchoring is not a problem. But with the North-East Monsoon there’s no shelter.
The swell and the wind might cause problems when we start transferring the
cargo. And of course they also may think it is too public a place…’
‘Anyway, I won’t unload the cargo in full view of the
shore’, the captain said while he kept a sharp eye on the sampan that was rapidly
pulling ahead.
‘Follow him in, Lenny, but watch her head near the
islands. There’s a 2 knot current close inshore.’ The engine room telegraph
rang and the ship gathered speed and the Mary
F sailed majestically across the crescent shaped bay. The humpback of
the extinct volcano on Weh drew nearer and the sea became noticeably calmer
here. Their pilot in the small sampan was making straight for a number of large
sampans and junks moored closely inshore.
‘Interesting scenery, isn’t it Captain?’ said a Chinese
voice.
Feng Lin and two of his thugs had come onto the bridge
unannounced and now stood behind them.
‘Mr. Feng Lin, may I have a word with you in private?’
Feng Lin feigned surprise. ‘Why is that, Captain?’
‘In private, Mr. Feng Lin.’
Feng Lin nodded and said ‘As you wish, captain. Where
shall we go?’
‘The radio shack will do fine.’
One of the Chinese thugs started to follow them but
halted after a curt remark from Feng Lin. The thug took up his old position,
behind the helmsman and the engine-room telegraph.
The captain closed the door of the radio shack. He
silently looked at the Chinese for a while and then he said ‘Mr Feng Lin, why
are we guided into this bay?’
Feng Lin smiled. ‘There’s a good place to anchor in the
lee of the island. And there we’ll transfer the cargo into the junks.’
The captain shook his head in disagreement.
‘Mr. Feng Lin, I am not going to unload the cargo in full
view of the shore. I’ll reverse course and sail out of this bay.
‘Why is that, Captain?’
‘As you remember we did agree that the cargo would be
transferred outside territorial waters. Now you ask me not only to do so in
territorial waters but also close inshore. I have to consider the safety of my
ship and crew Mr. Feng Lin. So I will sail out of the bay and will wait for
your junks outside the three-mile limit.’
‘Captain, this is all very strange. We have a business
agreement and, in our view, this location is best suited for the transfer.’
‘I don´t like conditions to be changed without being
consulted Mr. Feng Lin. Just tell your Mr. Smith to come and collect his cargo
outside the three mile limit.’
Feng Lin looked back rather coldly.
‘If you insist captain` Feng-Lin said after a few
moments. He nodded politely and walked out of the radio shack. Before
he disappeared down the ladder he uttered a short, biting sentence in Chinese
to the thugs on the bridge. They still stood motionless but suddenly seemed to
be very alert, their black slanted eyes darting around while their hands rested
on their large Klewangs.
The sampan came alongside the coaster. Feng Lin rapidly
climbed down the rope ladder and jumped on the sampan with surprising agility.
He shouted something and the sampan swiftly sailed away in the direction of the
moored fleet.
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