The Queen of Shangri-La

Of course, those instant impressions were secondary to the furious sexual tension in the room. Maggie was panting, almost gasping, her huge eyes focused on me with the intensity of a lioness on the hunt. I didn't bother removing my T-shirt. I just slid between her legs and up her body. As I did that, she seized the thing she desired most and guided it into the hottest, slipperiest five centimeters on earth.

Maggie uttered a surprised, "Unhhhh!" Then, there was a moment of total clarity. It was like the joining filled all of the vulnerable places and made both of us whole. Maggie's eyes went wide with the recognition. She'd sensed it too.

Then, our passion took over. We were Adam and Eve getting in touch with that most basic of human imperatives. Maggie's nearly golden eyes rolled up in her head, her pelvis elevated, and she began to frantically hump her lady parts against me. That lasted for perhaps fifteen seconds and then she erupted into a volcanic orgasm. I had never experienced a woman coming like that.

I was barely getting started, which made me wonder that the rest of our lovemaking session would be like. I paused, while Maggie rested for a second. Then she slammed her heels against my butt saying in a strangled tone, "More!!" I'm an ex-Master Sargeant... I obey orders.

What ensued was a mating event that might have been more apropos on the Animal Planet. Maggie Hastings might be tiny. But she was a moaning, scratching, and occasionally biting wildcat as she thrashed herself through a couple more orgasms.

I was about to reach the end of the road. So, I flipped her little body over onto her hands and knees. My first thought was of the brave little thing trying to crawl her way out of the jungle. Maggie made a sound of utter delight and arched her back to present buns that were legendary. I almost wept from the vision. It was like seeing a Van Gogh masterpiece.

The hormonal smells, the moans, and the fact that Maggie had grabbed one of the pillows and was ravaging it with her teeth like a terrier with a rat, tipped me over the top of a high mountain. I slid down the other side into a valley of total bliss. It wasn't Shangri-La. It was far superior to that. We took some time to recover. I'd shrunk out of Maggie and was lying on top of that exquisite ass almost crosswise.

Finally, we scrambled back around to the classic man-woman position where I was on one elbow looking down at Maggie, who was lying there, still panting, and experiencing the occasional aftershock... And you don't understand our relationship if you think that there was anything sentimental going on. Maggie gave me her usual sassy smile and said, "You've learned a lot, Cowboy."

I said, smiling back at her, "You aren't so bad, yourself, Squirt." We both descended into gales of laughter.

Then, it was time to be serious. Maggie said, "So, do we have a partnership of equals, or not? You'll never own me. But you will never have a reason to doubt me either. I will be your comrade through thick and thin, just like we were back in Shangri-La." Could anybody expect more from their life partner?

I took a lingering look at Maggie and extended my right hand to shake. Luckily, it wasn't the one trapped under her sweaty, but exquisite, back and said, "Comrades for life! That sounds good to me."

*****

It was a promise Maggie kept for fifty-nine years. We married and I built a career at a little airplane shop in the town of Bethpage, on Long Island - where I was a lead engineer for the F-14 Tomcat. Maggie was an executive at the Waldorf. She never wanted to stop working. To her, it was an essential part of maintaining her freedom.

Maggie would commute into the city on the LIR, while at the same time, raising a boy and a girl. It was tough at first. But Maggie was always there to soothe, support, and kick my ass. She never grumbled or complained. That was the woman she was, smart, tough, and realistic. Whatever we achieved in life... we did it together. Just as we'd agreed to do on that auspicious day in Owego.

We had friendly acquaintances, and we did all of the Nasau County suburban stuff. But Maggie and I had what the sociologists call, a binary relationship. Meaning, I only needed Maggie and she only needed me. It was a partnership forged in fire and nurtured in a community of headhunters - and it was unbreakable. We had each other.

We learned to sail. A marriage is never boring if your wife is your first mate. We kept a 32-foot Beneteau in a slip in Oyster Bay and we spent summers exploring the Sound, sometimes all the way up to the Vineyard. Maggie aged gracefully. But she never lost her feisty spirit - and we grew old together.

Did I ever doubt her?... NEVER. Maggie poured all of her exceptional energy into being the best person she could be -- that had been her mantra for as long as I'd known her. So, you can imagine what happened when some idiot mistook Maggie's outgoing and flirty personality for permission to proceed. My wife may be tiny. But she's ferocious, and the red line she enforced was downright medieval.

Maggie wasn't making any kind of point to me with all of the slapping and berating. Those actions were purely self-motivated ... her way of maintaining her sense of pride - and god knows, she had plenty of that quality. Maggie's fearless approach to confrontation also applied when she was protecting her husband and kids... pity the poor fool who messed with Maggie Hastings.

Sadly though, even Maggie couldn't beat time. It was the number one killer of women... breast cancer. They might have been able to do something if they'd caught it earlier. But Maggie was too tough. She never complained. Hence, it was far too late by the time she did.

Maggie fought it as valiantly and determinedly as she did with every other challenge. But fierce resolve won't delay the inevitable. The reality of going through the rest of my life without my life partner was devastating. But those are the cards that every couple will eventually get dealt -- unless they go together. I wish I'd been first.

The wind was kicking up and it had begun to rain. So, I knocked out my pipe on a porch pillar and went inside to finish cleaning out the place. I wouldn't be needing it anymore. Hopefully, I wouldn't need anything much longer... God willing. But I had one more chore to do. My daughter Laura was going to pick me up before dawn for a flight out of JFK. Maybe that would give me the peace I craved.

EPILOG

The Trigana Air ATR 42-300 circled and then dove between the high mountains. It leveled out and touched down lightly at Wamena airport. Both pilots had made that approach hundreds of times. But landing in the Baliem Valley was an adventure due to those encircling peaks.

The twin prop plane rolled to a stop in front of the little terminal and the passengers began to disembark. A very old man was the last passenger off. He made his way gingerly down the boarding ladder with the help of one of the flight attendants. His only luggage was a tattered World War Two Army backpack, with a few clothes and an odd, shaped urn.

He stopped at the bottom of the ladder and gazed around in wonder. It was as if the city of Wamena astonished him. The old man had expected native huts, not western style buildings sprawling from the river, almost to the highlands. The Trans-Papua Highway, built in the 1980s, had opened up the Baliem Valley to commercialization.

The old man gazed off to into the distance, toward a low rise at the edge of the surrounding jungle. It was covered with neat farms and modern buildings. He shook his head in wonder, muttered, "Times have changed, Squirt." Then he walked into the air-conditioned terminal.

The old man had cleared Indonesian passport control when he'd landed in Jayapura, which, much to the irritation of the Indonesian passport control officer, he kept referring to as "Hollandia". He wasn't carrying any luggage other than the backpack. So, he walked straight through the terminal building and hailed one of the ubiquitous cabs outside.

The ancient Ford Escort trailed blue smoke for two blocks to the Baliem Pilamo Hotel. The old man was wealthy and the Pilamo was the top hotel in the area. The old man dropped his frayed olive drab backpack in his room and meandered down to the luxurious bar, where he ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon. The bartender had never heard of that beer. So, he suggested a Storm pilsner.

The old man was staring into his beer when a beautiful woman slipped onto the stool next to him. She didn't think the old man was likely. But there were just a few people at that hour. So, it couldn't hurt to try. She said lightly, "Buy a girl a drink?"

The man turned studied her. The woman noticed that he was still good looking, even if he was older than her grandfather. She plumped up the girls speculatively, as she leaned toward him. He gave her a sad smile and said meaningfully, "A lot has changed. But some things never do," as he gestured to the bartender to pour the lady whatever she desired.

The woman said, Champagne," which the bartender knew meant ginger-ale. He reached for the special iced bottle that was kept under the bar and poured the lady a twenty-dollar flute. She raised her glass in a thank you toast to her benefactor and sipped it as she said conversationally, "So, what brings you to our beautiful valley."

He gave her a sardonic smile, and said, "I was here once before. Now, I'm back to get in touch with a few old friends and fulfill a promise."

The woman was intrigued. She said, "When were you here?"

The old man laughed sadly and said, "A very long time before you were born." Then he stopped and added, "Do you folks play baseball?"

The woman looked puzzled, like she didn't understand the question and said, "Baseball -- that's odd... I know what it is, and some of the Japanese businessmen follow the sport. But the people who live here have never actually played it."

The old man smiled ruefully and said, "I didn't think so."

He rose dropped a hundred dollar bill on the bar and said, "I have a long way to walk tomorrow. So, I've gotta get some sleep. Pay the tab for me, would you, and you can keep the rest." The woman gave him a thank-you smile. The tab was twenty-three bucks even with her twenty-dollar glass of ginger-ale.

The old man made his way to his luxurious hotel room. He carefully undressed and climbed between the 300 thread count luxury sheets, turned off the light, and lay in the dark staring at the ceiling. He said, like he was talking to somebody, "I miss you, Squirt." Then he rolled over and went to sleep.

The guide was waiting in the lobby after breakfast. He was recognizable by his wide smile and his Baliem Valley Tours T-shirt. The old man muttered under his breath, "The Dani may have changed. But they still have the same smile."

The old man was dressed for a trek. He had on an expensive REI Co-op Sahara long sleeved shirt and heavy cargo pants, along with a pair of substantial hiking boots and an Aussie bush hat. He walked up to the guide, stuck out his hand and said without introduction, "Do you know how to play baseball?"

The guide looked confused and then his eyes lit up with sheer delight as he said, "My grandpop taught me that when I was growing up. He had all the cousins doing it."

The old man thought, "Naaww! Too much of a coincidence." But he was pleased, nonetheless. He said, "I don't want a tour. I just need you to take me to these coordinates, and he unfolded a piece of hotel stationery.

The guide entered the coordinates in his Garmin GPSMAP 66i and whistled. He said, "That's way up in the mountains. Twenty-five miles from here on a gravel road." The old man waited for a click at the end of the statement. But times had indeed changed for the Dani. The guide spoke almost flawless English -- if a New Zealander accent can be considered English.

The guide said, "I can get you up to Rumah Makan." The old man was much taller than the Dani guide. So, he leaned over the guide's shoulder to look at his screen. The location of the drop off place was familiar. It was the first night's clearing.

The guide added, "But to get to that location from there... it's at least a couple of miles straight up through the jungle." The old man said wistfully, "I think it's closer to three." The guide gave him an odd look.

The old man smiled, "No worries... Just drop me at that spot and I'll give you a call if I need to be picked up. I'll pay you for the whole day."

With that, the guide and the old man walked out to a garishly painted, mostly yellow, Jeep CJ-7 that was parked at the entrance. The old man gently placed his backpack in the rear of the Jeep and hopped into the passenger seat, like a much younger person. Then the two of them drove off through the warren of Wamena streets toward the open countryside.

Once they cleared the confusion of the town... the old man said in wonder, "Oh!! It's as beautiful as I remember." The guide gave him a sideways glance. This geezer was one very strange dude.

They drove along on a narrow asphalt road heading roughly north. They crossed the Baliem River at the Pikhe bridge and continued along the paved portion past cultivated fields -- constantly heading toward the highlands at the foot of the mountains.

They passed a tourist attraction advertised as a Dani cave. The guide said, "Want to stop and take a look?" The old man laughed and said, "A kid named Spanky showed it to me. But that was a while back. There wasn't any of the folderol like now."

Nearly an hour later and after numerous twists and turns, the road petered out into a gravel path that had been bulldozed through the primeval jungle. That was when the ride got a lot rougher. But the old man just sat quietly in the passenger seat looking as if he was going to Sunday church.

The guide, who had been carefully watching the GPS stopped in a little clearing and said, "This is it. I can't take you any further. The coordinates that you are trying to reach are in that direction and he pointed through the wall of jungle greenery on a roughly northerly bearing. He added, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

The old man gave him a beatific smile and said, "Absolutely!! I'll give you a ring if I need you." With that, he swung himself out of the jeep grabbed his backpack and his own Garmin and strode directly off into the jungle without giving the guide a backward glance. It was like he was on a mission.

The old man climbed upward - following the virtual line of his orienteering software. The jungle was as difficult as ever, and the elevation was getting steeper. The old man would occasionally halt to take a swig from a stainless-steel canteen, which he wore on his belt Army style. The shooting pains in his left arm were getting worse. Still, he continued to climb. He muttered, "I'm coming, Squirt."

He finally reached a big clearing, that was marked on the Garmin's screen by a red dot. The jungle was alive with noise around him. That was familiar... even after all those years. The floor of the clearing was where considerable excavating had taken place. But that had occurred a long time ago. Now, there were just odd humps and depressions covered by underbrush and vines.

New Guinea is littered with wrecks of World War Two aircraft. They represent all the participant nations, but the vast majority are Japanese, or American. Hence, the wreck of an American C-47 at the edge of the clearing wasn't surprising. The invading jungle had worked to incorporate what was left back into itself. But the aircraft was still clearly recognizable.

The wreck was missing both wings and the fuselage was torn open at the back. The tail section was resting a little further down the mountain. The old man walked to the fuselage and peered in through the back. He sighed and then he walked over to the tail part. He stared for a long time at the metal frame of a seat. The canvas was long-gone. But the frame remained.

He shook his head in disbelief. Then he walked over to an open spot near the remains of the fuselage and carefully surveyed the area. He selected a mound and an accompanying depression. Then he looked around. It was as if he was searching for something associated with that hole that was missing. But he found nothing. He shrugged and turned to the task at hand.

The team from the American Graves Registration had painstakingly processed the site during their 1958 visit. The old man was aware that nineteen of the bodies they'd recovered were buried at Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery in St. Louis. He knew that because he had read their names when he'd visited the grave site along with his beloved wife.

They had also visited Twin Hills Memorial Park in Muncy, Pennsylvania, to pay their respects to a brave little WAC Private named Eleanor. The old man and his wife had finished the trip at the Military Cemetery in the Punchbowl near Pearl Harbor. Laura Besley was interred there - within sight of the Arizona Memorial, where Fredrick, her eternal love rested. There were tears.

The old man sat down. It was not a graceful act. He more-or-less tumbled to the ground. But that's how eighty-seven-year-old men sit, particularly those who have a bad heart. He rummaged in his ancient knapsack and produced a World War Two entrenching shovel. He unfolded it and began to dig... much as he had done in the exact same spot, sixty-six years earlier. The arm pains were getting worse.

Once he was satisfied with what he'd dug, he lovingly removed the urn from the knapsack and reverentially laid it in the hole. It was her last wish... to reunite with her WAC sisters. His wife had suffered from survivor's guilt her entire life. Now... this final act closed the ledger for her.

The old man had fulfilled the promise he'd made to his beloved wife. Now, he lay back slowly and closed his eyes. He had accomplished what he'd set out to do -- what his love for his wife had compelled him to do. He was ready to rest.

A bit of time passed. The old man slept as still as death. Then a low sultry voice startled him, "Wake up, Cowboy." His eyes flew open, and twenty-four-year-old Maggie Hastings was standing there, in all her charismatic glory. She gave him a sexy grin and added, "It's about time, too!!"

He said with a huge smile of relief, "You have no idea how much I missed you, Squirt."

There were two other women standing with Maggie, a puppy dog cute WAC Private and a beautiful, serenely calm Staff Sergeant named Laura. The no-longer old man thought to himself, "Dang... she was right!! Our past and future all begins here."

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This is my last story in this vein. So, I decided to tie up the lives of the characters who originated in my fictional little Wisconsin town. For those of you who might be interested (in this order): Jed Sharpe, Betty Moran and Duke Williams were introduced in "The Baltimore Bitch," and Ace McClure and Maggie are from "Dulce et Decorum Est."

For those of you who are interested in the actual (not fictional) people in this story:

The real Corporal Margaret Julia Hastings raised a son and daughter and worked as an admin for the Air Force. She died at age 64 on Nov. 24, 1978, and is buried in Owego.

Staff Sergeant Kenneth W. Decker passed away on January 1, 2000, at age 88. He is buried at Cowlitz View Memorial Gardens in Keso, Washington.

Lt. John S. McCollom, whose role and exploits I shamelessly ripped off for my main character, died in 2001 at age 82. He is buried in Dayton, Ohio.

Alexander Howard Ross Cann's documentary, "Rescue from Shangri-la," is viewable on YouTube. You can meet all the real characters there.