After escaping from Winthrop-Smythe, Rick and George had continued their helter-skelter dash through the forest, trying to head towards the beach in a wide circle.  They gasped and panted as they slipped and slid between the trees, ducking beneath fallen trunks, twisting under dropped palm fronds, trying not to disturb too much ground in their headlong flight.  As they ran, Rick could feel the itch between his shoulder blades get stronger and stronger.  He could swear that grim Frenchman, Jean Boucher, had his sights trained on his back as he ran.  Was the flickering red dot of a laser sight trained on him, wavering over the back of his torn and grubby shirt as he weaved between the foliage?

Rick knew they had to get as far from the camp as possible, as quickly as possible.  Pursuit would not be far behind and Rick needed time to lay up, to look at George’s injuries and think his next move through.

After about an hour of travelling in their wide circle, he guessed that they had probably covered about three kilometres.  The forest where they were was quite open, more like a palm plantation than the rainforest that was higher up the slopes of the volcano.   Fallen palm fronds crunched beneath their feet as they sought a place to stop.  They soon found one when they came upon a wide slash in the ground about twenty metres across that was largely hidden from view, overgrown as it was with fern and banana.   Jogging to a halt, they paused to take their bearings at the lip of this gully that cut through the forest, heading straight downhill in an almost straight line.

“A wash?”  said Rick.

“Certainly looks like it with all that green stuff in it.  Can’t hear anythin’ though,” George wheezed, holding an arm across his ribs.

“Better check,” Rick panted.  “I could do with something to drink right now.”

“I’ll keep watch,” George grunted, “I don’t fancy heading down there less I have to.”  He nodded towards the steep sides of the dry gully which met at the bottom in a thick mass of green.

“OK, big guy,” Rick agreed.  “I’ll head on down.”

George knelt just below the lip of the gully and concealed himself behind an extra-large fern, facing back the way they had come.  Rick lurched down the unstable slope, his feet slipping through the dry earth as he almost skied down to the bottom.  Once there, he quickly searched beneath the foliage for evidence of running water.  No luck.  The earth was damp and there were plenty of plants; he could dig for the water which he knew would be down there, inching its way downhill, trickling sweetly between the grains of dirt, unseen.  However, he knew he did not have the time right now.  George and he needed to keep moving until they could find a way to make sure that they lost any possible pursuit.  He knew from their flights overhead that Solitude was not a big island but even on an island this size there would be plenty of places to keep out of the way of their pursuers.

Not only that, they had to find the children.  Goodness only knew where they had got to but one thing was for certain, Winthrop-Smythe didn’t have them.  At least, for now.  Where could they be?  From the sound of the shelling earlier then the children had probably headed north off the beach, but west of the mercenaries’ camp.   Rick assumed that they had gone straight inland; it seemed the only likely course that a pair of panicked children would take. George and he had gone north then east from the camp themselves.   Their course had taken them in a curve that matched the contours of Solitude. If they could somehow double back and cut across the children’s possible path then they would be in a much better position to try and link up with them.

With a start of realisation, he looked at the gully.  It went straight uphill in a north westerly direction.  If they took this gully uphill then they could have a trail that was under cover at the very least, so long as the mercenaries hadn’t found it too and posted a sentry.  If it went up and to the north of the camp then they could cut west after a while and intercept the children’s line of march.   Rick shrugged to himself, what was life without a little risk?  He had to find the children.

“George!”  he hissed.

The big Tongan turned his face to Rick.  “Water?” 

“No, but we might have a way to get back to the kids.”  Rick went on to explain his idea.  George nodded agreement and staggered down the slope gingerly.  He’s beginning to stiffen up, Rick thought.  How does he just keep going?

Before they could cut north they had to lay a false trail.  Anyone following them was bound to find the gully, and if the two pilots had gone the way the way that they intended first then they would be pretty quickly back in the bag again.   

When George got to the bottom of the gully, wincing with pain, sweat dripping down his pale face, they set off downhill.  They broke ferns, trotted heavily through damp earth, leaving behind deep impressions of their neoprene dive boots, and generally made as much of a mess as they could as they headed down the slope.

Eventually the gully came to an end.  It culminated in a low crag that overlooked a bay just to the south of their position.  The men halted and took a break, concealing themselves within the thicker plant growth.  George sat cross legged in the damp earth and leant forward, grasping his side.

“George, are you OK to go on?” Rick said with concern.

The big man looked up at him and grinned weakly, “I’m all right, Rick.  Just need a breather, that’s all.  Mind you, I could do with some water.  After all we’ve done in the last few hours we’re going to need rehydrating soon.”

Nodding, Rick turned his attention to the beach.  As he looked he caught a flash of white that bobbed about a mile offshore.  Shading his eyes with his hand, he tried to see what it was.  After only a minute or two he realised that it was a boat coming into the bay and it was coming into the bay at considerable speed.  He nudged George’s feet and beckoned him over just as the boat’s engine noise could be heard over the susurrant roar of the ocean.  George crept up next to him.

“They’re coming in at a fair pace,” the big Tongan said.  “They’ll have the bottom out of that boat if they’re not careful.”

“I don’t think they’re too worried about that, they’ve got an appointment to keep,” Rick pointed to the beach where a large party of men from the camp emerged from the trees and took up loose defensive positions.

“Who’s in the boat, then?”  George asked, not expecting a reply.

Shrugging, Rick carried on watching.  The boat, a low, fast launch with elegant lines, swiftly progressed up the bay and at the last moment the helmsman accelerated into the shore.  Ploughing up into the beach, the boat came to a sudden rest just above the waterline.  From their position half a kilometre away they could make out two people - one small and one very, very tall - leaping down from the boat and stalking up the beach to the welcome party.

“Interesting,” Rick said.  “I hope you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

“If I did that they’d put me in a home!”  George quipped.

As Rick watched the beach he became aware that the soil beneath him was very wet.  Intrigued, he investigated.  He lay on his belly and leant over the edge of the crag.  Just beneath him, the water that was flowing beneath the gulley was exiting in a steady trickle from porous, volcanic rocks to the sea below.  Rick would have happily placed a bet that the rock had naturally filtered the water, removing all the nasty bugs.  Normally, he wouldn’t have risked drinking water from a wild source without boiling it first but their thirst demanded immediate attention.    Not only that but he could easily collect it relatively unseen from the beach due to an outcrop of rock that sheltered the natural spring from view.

“Refreshments, George!”  Rick said and slipped over the edge of the gulley.  He wedged himself into the crag, which was quite easy, being full of hand and toe holds.  Unzipping one of his dive boots he pulled it off his foot and held it to the trickle of water.  Within a few minutes the boot was half full. 

“George,” he hissed, “Take this!”  Rick passed the boot up to George’s outstretched hand.  After he was sure that George had it securely, he turned his attention to the wet rock face.  He pressed his lips to it and sucked at the rock, drinking down as much of the trickle as he could.  Grit, earth, and lichen all ended up in his mouth along with some pretty muddy water but it was cool all the same.  He had not realised just how thirsty he was and he was tempted to stay and drink more.  Barely two muddy mouthfuls later, he called up the crag softly, “How’s the water, George?”

“Cheesey!”  George laughed quietly.

“We’ve gotta get a move on, big guy.” 

“Let’s go then, small American man!”

Rick smiled.   There would be some kind or organised pursuit after them and Rick knew that they simply could not afford to linger.  It was past time for them to get on the move again.  He looked down.  It was a short descent to the shallow seawater that lapped at the foot of the bluff.  Perfect.

Twenty minutes later, George and Rick had climbed back onto the crag about two hundred metres from their original position.  George had struggled with both the descent and ascent but with Rick’s help he had managed to tolerate the worst of his pain.

They had completed the first step of their plan to lay a false trial.  Now they had to cut back up to the gulley and work their way round to the other side of the island.  It was time to try and find the children.

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