Soon Yukio is close enough to the water’s edge to plant a boot on the pool bottom and push hard with his legs while still dragging the buckle-jammed chute behind him. The young girl scrambles to land and she rushes to a canvas duffel bag and finds a small paring knife she has wrapped in an old tea towel. She rushes to Yukio’s shoulders and hacks back and forth rapidly at the chute pack’s shoulder straps as Yukio leans forward hard at the water’s edge.
The straps snap free and the parachute pack sinks into the water followed by the chute canopy and Yukio falls face-first on the soggy ground. He raises his head to give thanks, but he sees the girl with the curled brown hair moving cautiously away from him, her eyes drawn to the pilot’s waist. Not to the Miki family sword tucked inside his flight belt, but to the black Japanese army service pistol holstered at his side. She is frightened by the handgun.
Yukio’s hand moves instinctively to his waist. He will remove the pistol and holster. He will show the girl he means no harm. But then the shovel blade is suddenly inches from his eyes.
‘Don’t you dare touch that gun,’ says Greta, gripping the shovel in both hands like it’s a cricket bat and she’s set to knock the Japanese pilot’s head over the nearest boundary fence.
Yukio freezes, raises his arms, palms open towards the sky.
‘What are you doing this far south?’ Greta probes. It’s a theatrical performance. Today’s role: somebody tougher and harder than Greta Baumgarten ever was. One show only. She knows, deep down, she’ll crumble into nervous stuttering any second now.
Yukio speaks a series of Japanese words.
‘English?’ Greta asks. ‘You speak any English?’
Yukio says more Japanese words.
Greta nods at Molly. ‘Molly, get that handgun there.’
Molly crawls in close to the pilot. She unbuttons the side holster and removes the pistol with its brown wooden handle and thin black barrel.
‘Come up here with me, Molly,’ Greta says.
The girl springs to her feet and stands beside the actress.
‘Now point that thing at him but, you know, don’t shoot ’im,’ Greta says.
Molly takes a deep breath and exhales. ‘Don’t you think that feels a little aggressive, pointing a gun at him?’ she asks.
‘Him and his mates just blew up half of Darwin, I think we should feel a little aggressive,’ Greta says. ‘If he moves, shoot him in the legs.’
‘I can’t be sure I’ll do that, Greta,’ Molly replies. ‘I’ll be aiming for his legs but I’ll probably get him in the head or somethin’ and I don’t want to kill any human being, even if his mates did blow up the milk bar on Bennett Street.’
From the ground, Yukio’s squinting eyes look up into the sky as he slowly raises his hand and points between Molly and Greta.
‘Hikoki,’ he says, softly, his finger pointing towards the falling sun. He makes the hand gesture of a plane moving through the sky. ‘Hikoki.’
Molly and Greta turn their heads instinctively towards where Yukio is pointing and see nothing but blue sky, and Molly turns back just in time to find Yukio engaging her in a silent wrist bend and then a near-invisible leg sweep that lands her, in the space of half a second, flat on her back and disarmed. Yukio now stands pointing his pistol at Greta.
‘How did you do that?’ Molly asks, awed and elated. ‘That was incredible!’
Yukio points at the shovel in Greta’s hands, waves two fingers towards himself as he holds out his free left hand. Greta hands the shovel to the pilot. Yukio passes it straight to Molly. ‘Doko ni Iku no,’ he says, nodding.
Molly takes the shovel. She remembers to be graceful. ‘Thank you,’ she says to the fallen pilot.
‘You don’t have to use your manners around cold-blooded killers, Molly,’ spits Greta.
Yukio waves the gun at Molly, directing her to move back beside Greta.
Yukio stands soaking wet in his flight uniform. Goggles on his forehead keeping his dripping fur-lined flight helmet in place. Not a single line on his face. High cheekbones, and cheeks that would be fuller if he ate more. A large deep-brown freckle on his right cheek and two smaller ones above his top lip.
He points at Greta and Molly. ‘Doko ni Iku no?’ he asks, sharply. He points at them again. Then he gestures a walking motion with his left-hand forefinger and middle finger. ‘Aust . . . ralians.’ Then another walking finger gesture.
‘Where are we going?’ Molly offers, courteously.
Yukio nods. Molly nods enthusiastically. She holds up a finger.
‘You want to come with us?’ Molly asks, her words louder than they would be talking to Greta.
Yukio nods.
‘Wait,’ she says. ‘I need to show you something.’ She rushes to her duffel bag, retrieves Tom Berry’s copper pan, hands it to Yukio. He’s immediately confused by the girl’s presentation of the pan.
‘You use it to find gold in creeks,’ Molly says. ‘Look on the back.’ She makes a revolution with her finger. ‘Turn it over,’ she says. And she moves closer to the pilot as he turns the pan over and studies the writing etched on its base. ‘We’re on a great quest,’ Molly says. She runs her finger over the words. Yukio turns his eyes back to Greta, keeps his weapon on her. Molly oblivious to any possible tension in the moment. ‘These are directions and clues to buried treasure,’ she says, wide-eyed. ‘A pile of gold sitting in the ground.’ She holds her palms
