"Yep. Used to be a Jap bomber base; I was there a few times back when I was doing this and that in my old Goose. This was before Pearl Harbor, but they'd have normally shot any American who set foot there- especially a spy".
"You were a spy?"
He laughs. "Not exactly, but I was an American, and an ex-Flying Tiger, to boot.... not that I ever told them that! They liked me, 'cause I always showed up with things they wanted... like girls, for example. And they used to tell me I could hold my sake better than any gaijin they'd ever met...which is funny, as most of 'em had never even met one!!"
Cutter starts roaring again; he pounds me and Briggs on the back and orders another round. Then he suddenly grows somber, mumbles something about the folly of war, and lifts his glass.
"A toast", he nearly shouts, "to all the young fools who've ever died in war!"
Briggs and I nod and solemnly drink.
"That's some story", I admit, "but what about the 'ghost' thing?"
"Well, now", he says in a near-whisper, "thing is, Keneru was destroyed just after the war. They did an H-bomb test over there, and the bomb went off too low, cratered the island and triggered an earthquake, and down it went, into the sea. Never seen again."
Briggs half-smiles and clears his throat loudly.
"Well, actually", old Cutter says, "I've seen it since then, but nobody believes me... about 30 years ago, I was up that way enroute to the Marshalls, and I started picking up the old Jap NDB signal. Seems I'd tuned my receiver wrong- Keneru was 250, while mine, at Gora Bora, is 252. But the dial said 250. I figured at first it was out of whack; that transmitter's been silent since the '40s. But it was not the Morse ID for Gora Bora, it was for Keneru".
He pauses, and searches my face for a reaction. I have none.
" It seemed crazy, but I had to follow it. I had enough fuel to divert, so...then I saw it. Just as I remembered it; the grass runway, the pagoda-style buildings. I even flew a low pass right over the runway, to make sure. It was Keneru, all right- real as this bar!"
"Shoulda taken a picture, Cutter", Briggs says, smiling.
"But I didn't have a camera, did I, smartass?" the old man replies, annoyed.
I don't quite know what to make of this story. He's got some nerve badmouthing Hollywood writers, I think- he's tossing it with a pretty big shovel himself.
"Did you land there?"
"You crazy? Land on a phantom island? Hell, I wouldn't even land in the lagoon there, let alone on the runway! Whatever you do, sonny boy, if you happen to pick up that signal, don't follow that beam. And don't land there, even if the ship's on fire- you hear me?"
Briggs laughs, orders the old man another drink, and tries to change the topic. Cutter wishes me luck, and begins regaling Briggs with another tale. I gather my charts and excuse myself. Got to get some sleep...
The next morning brings more fair weather and following winds. Again I'm not taking a full load of fuel; just enough, more or less, for the 2373-nm flight to Babullah, a small uncontrolled field in Indonesia, by the Molucca Sea.
Next: Underway!!
