Whilst the children were relaxing on the promontory above the forest, Rick and George had spent a very uncomfortable time dragging themselves up the gully onto the lower slopes of the volcano.  Rick’s idea to follow the gully had been a good one, they had managed to remain concealed, although it came at a cost: George had struggled to force his way through the dense foliage that blanketed the gully.  He was pale faced and shaking whenever they stopped, his chest heaving as he rasped down lungfuls of thick, moist air.  Rick was not sure how far George could go on, even though the big islander constantly reassured him that he was alright.   He was worried, they needed water and they needed to rest but they were no nearer to finding the children.  In addition, he had no idea how far behind his pursuers were.  All in all things could be better, he mused to himself as he hummed snatches of ill-remembered songs to himself, sweat stinging his eyes, as he forced his weary way up the gully.

Eventually they ran out of gully.  However, the land around them was changing too.  The slope towards the volcano had got a lot steeper, the ground a lot soggier and the forest became more like a jungle.  They had headed several kilometers in a winding, northerly direction.  If they had simply walked that distance on the flat, beside a road, then it would probably have taken less than an hour to cover.  However, pushing through the jungle, struggling over broken black volcanic rocks, double-backing every now and again to check whether their pursuers were catching up, had taken their toll on the day.  The sun was heading to the distant, western horizon and it looked like they would have to set up a bivouac somewhere, before night fell.

Coming to a decision, Rick paused their progress.  “It’s no good, George.  We are going to have to stop for the night.  You need a break and we can’t work our way through this mess,” he gestured at the thick rain-forest, “When it’s dark.  We’d break our legs.”

George propped himself up against a tree.  He had been weaving unsteadily for a good half hour as they trekked up the gully; his stealth long since left behind in the adrenalin fueled escape from the mercenaries’ camp.  “The children?”  he gasped, unable to say more.

“The children?  They’ll be fine!”  Rick reassured with forced cheeriness.  George did not need to hear that Rick was worried sick right now.  He needed to know that the children would be OK and the only person who could tell him that was Rick.  George appeared to be sliding into a semi-delirious state and Rick knew that the one thing he could do, apart from look after George’s physical well being, was to strengthen his mental resilience.  Reassurance was what George needed, not worry.  It would help him rest, which would assist his recovery. 

What would the children do?  He knew that George had taught Carmen an awful lot about bush-craft and survival techniques but he knew next to nothing about Charlie.  Key to their success would be whether Charlie deferred to Carmen on this.  Rick was not so sure that Charlie would do this, after all Carmen and he had not hit it off at all. Their relationship so far seemed to have been based on mutual antagonism rather than co-operation.  Not only that, spending the night in such difficult terrain as that on Solitude would be no picnic for children of their age.  If you added in the other ingredient in this poisonous concoction - the mercenaries - then Rick felt like gagging on such a toxic brew.

However, there was no way he could continue the search at night with George in his current state.  It would be suicide.  He had to see to George and evade capture as well.  His imagination was playing hell with him, preying on the skin crawling anxiety he felt for the children’s safety but the hardest part of any survival experience was remaining motivated enough to cope with the stress.  Focusing on his and George’s immediate needs would help him clear his head enough to think about how to continue the search in the morning.  With great reluctance, he began to look around for a place that they could lie up in for the night.  He settled on an area of level ground at the top of the gully itself, which was largely clear of big trees.  From here, when there was light, they would be able to see a good distance.  He began to wish for a large machete or parang to use, since it would help with the chopping of saplings and small branches that would help make a comfortable shelter.  Their divers’ knives had been taken away from them when they were captured and he couldn't have missed them more.  It would be hard work to break the branches by hand, or snap the saplings.  He began to look around for something to help him with this work.  Perhaps he could rig a small axe or hammer using a broken branch and a small chunk of the black volcanic rock that littered the slopes of the volcano?

It was at this point that it occurred to him to look in the flight case that he had stolen from the mercenaries’ camp.  He had dragged it around on Solitude all day but had never felt the time was right to fiddle around with the contents.  Hopefully it would contain some tools, food or even a weapon.  A weapon would be good.  When dealing with people like Winthrop-Smythe, a weapon improved his negotiating position immeasurably. 

Feeling like a child at a school fair, delving their hand into a lucky dip, he snapped back the stainless steel catches on the flight case and opened the lid. Would the contents be useful or would they be so much dead weight?  Trembling slightly, Rick gazed down into the flight case.

Securely packed in individual receptacles, carved from a foam inlay, were two lines of five black egg shaped objects.  Grenades!  He had picked up a box of grenades!  What on earth was he going to do with grenades?  Negotiating whilst armed with grenades was a delicate business and he didn't fancy it at all.  He couldn't eat them, or use them to build a camp for the night, and he sure as heck would not be using them for the purpose they were intended.  Too many things could go wrong using grenades. He could end up hurting a lot of people, which was something he had no intention of doing, even if they were complete and utter garbage like Winthrop-Smythe.

            With a sigh, he closed the lid.  About the only thing he could think of doing with the case was using it to collect water, or use it as an impromptu table.  He told George to rest up and set about preparing a camp for the night.  Without a blade to use, apart from the scissors they had stolen from the mercenaries’ first aid kit, he made slow progress.  George prepared some vines, tearing them lengthways into more manageable strips, whilst Rick struggled to harvest some long enough poles to create a shelter that would raise them off the forest floor.  It was almost dark when they finished.  Rick had managed to rig a triangular platform, strung with thick vines to make something to lie on.  It was raised far enough off the ground that he did not have to worry too much about insect life crawling over him in the dark.  To keep off the rain, George had quickly woven several palm fronds together and tied them to a simple frame made of lightweight sticks, overlaid on one another like slates on a roof.  As soon as he had shelter, Rick made George lie on the platform, which creaked ominously under the big man’s weight.  Despite this, it held and Rick smiled to himself, still got it.

            George groaned as he shifted himself on the vines to find a more comfortable position. 

            “You OK, Big Guy?” Rick asked.

            “Sure, Rick.  Never felt better.  This bed you've made could not be better!”  George said quietly.  “Now perhaps you’d like to run me a bath.”

            “Yeah, and maybe I could iron the newspapers for you too, M’Lord!”  Rick bit back.  He was anxious, tired, dirty, hungry and thirsty.  He was not in the best of moods.

            “Don't fret so, Rick,” George placated.  “It’s fine!  I was only joking!”

            “I know, George.  It’s just been a long day, that’s all.”

            “Yeah, I know so.  We’d best rest up.  It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.”

            Rick suddenly felt very guilty.  He had no right to get snippy with George.  George had not complained once all day, despite his injuries.  Instead he had stoically plodded on, one foot in front of the other, following Rick on the interminable journey up the gully.

            “You’re right there, George.  Look, I’m gonna find us something to drink, maybe something to eat too.  Take it easy, close your eyes.  I’ll wake you when I’m back.”

            Now they had shelter, thirst was the most pressing problem.   His head was pounding from dehydration.  Without something to drink, he and George would soon collapse from heat stroke.  After that, without some kind of medical intervention, death was the most likely outcome.  Weirdly, even though he and George had trekked up through rainforest, they had not stumbled on any running water.  He supposed it was due to it being the dry season at the moment, which made rain a much more unpredictable phenomenon.  No matter, Rick thought to himself, when he found what he was looking for.  He had a few tricks up his sleeve still.

            Half an hour later, when it was almost dark, he made his way back to George.  Clutched in his arms was a precious haul of green treasure that he would not have swapped for glittering emeralds.  Fresh coconuts and one large, ripe breadfruit had been given up by the forest.  The coconuts were full of a fluid that was mostly water and was packed with electrolytes making it a kind of natural sports drink.  The breadfruit was a Polynesian staple found on most islands, wild as well as cultivated.  It would certainly fill the gap that his grumbling stomach told him he had.   Restraining the urge to whistle a happy tune, Rick prepared the evening meal, waking George when he was ready.

            They munched on the torn flesh of the breadfruit and sluiced it down with coconut water, drunk straight from the green pods. Rick could feel his body begin to rebalance itself after the exertions of the day as the starchy fruit sat heavily in his stomach. 

            “Not bad, Rick, not bad.  We have a camp, food and water.  The boys in the Regiment would be quite impressed,” George said after a prolonged belch.

            “Thanks, George.  If you’re up to it tomorrow, then you can lead because I’m all out of ideas,” Rick replied.  He knew that George was the best person to take on the challenge of Solitude, as well as the search for the children.  Twenty years before, even before he had met Rick, George had served with the Australian Special Air Service, an elite corps that trained their special forces’ soldiers in the very terrain that they were currently stuck in.  George was more than just an island pilot.  He knew how to wage jungle warfare, trek long distances over difficult terrain, work in isolation from supporting forces, engage in hand to hand combat with a variety of weapons - as well as a range of martial arts skills for when he was unarmed – and lastly, he knew how act ruthlessly, decisively.  It was not well understood back on Vava’u that George had left the island as a callow teenager, for Australia, to play rugby, and had returned in his mid-thirties as a hard-eyed, one man army, who had seen and done more extraordinary things than could properly be speculated upon.

If George was up and about in the morning, then Winthrop-Smythe better watch out because the big islander would be seeking redress for his treatment at the hands of J J Jones.

            With that happy thought in mind, Rick perched himself on the edge of the platform and prepared for a long night keeping watch over his old friend.  George, on the other hand, worn ragged by his beating and a day of intense exertion, slept, snoring softly for such a big man.

            After several long, boring hours, with nothing to keep him alert save the insect chatter of the night, his eyes drooped with weariness.  He could feel the sweet embrace of sleep begin to wrap its arms around him.  It would be all right just to close his eyes for a short while, wouldn't it? 

            A burst of machine gun fire brought him to his senses.  It was as if a bucket of water had been cast over him.  He threw himself over George, who rumbled in his sleep but remained deep in dreams.  Suddenly awake and alert, his mind raced.  Where had it come from?  How close was it?  Did they have his position? 

Another burst rattled out in the darkness.  Rick now realised that the gunfire was further out in the forest, way down the slopes below his position.  It was probably south of where they were, maybe a kilometer away?  As he was trying to figure out how much of a threat the gunfire posed, another more sustained fusillade erupted.  He sprang to his feet and tried to see where the shooting was.  As he stood there, his hand upon the bole of a nearby tree, flares of light burst like flowers from the top of the forest.  From his position, he could see above the top of the forest canopy to the stars and moon above.  Judging from the position of the Southern Cross, high above in the sky, the firing was definitely to the south.  The shooting was coming in regular short bursts, each one briefly backlighting the tree branches in the canopy in a flickering yellow glare. 

What was going on down there?  Who were they shooting at?  For a moment he wondered whether it was the children.  Would they really blast away like that at a couple of kids?  For all that he thought they were a pack of thugs, he did give them the credit of some discipline.  He found it unlikely that a group of trained soldiers would really blast away with such abandon, squandering large quantities of ammunition, when their targets were two unarmed kids. No, they could not be shooting at the kids, and they definitely were not shooting at him.  So, who were they trying to hit?  What worried him was if they were using rifles and machine guns with such ferocity then someone must have been shooting back.  Who else was on the island with that kind of firepower?  It could only be the people with the mortar. His anxiety over the children’s safety returned with such force that he gasped with breathlessness as his chest tightened.

            The shooting continued on and off for about twenty minutes.  It eventually petered out, with only occasional individual shots ringing out in the dark of the night.  What ever was going on it did not concern him at the moment.  He was not going to go and investigate as he had last night.  That had lead to disaster.  He had learned his lesson.  Reason had returned.

            When the last shots had been fired, Rick made his way back to George.  As he turned to find his way back in the dark, he tripped over a branch on the ground.  He fell full length, bruising himself on his elbows as he thrust his arms forward to protect his face.  Groaning, he wondered what had caught his foot.  He sat up and twisted around, squirming in the damp earth. With his hands working around his feet he grasped the branch and tugged it out of the undergrowth.  Rustling and pulling against his efforts, the branch came free with a tearing sound. 

            Rick pulled it into his lap.  There was something oddly familiar about the shape he could feel under his hands.  Working by touch only, he realised what it was.  He had picked up a rifle.  Under the knobbly bumps of ingrained dirt and rust, he could feel the long cylinder of the barrel and the round curve of the trigger guard.  Some things you just don’t forget.  The stock seemed soft - rotten and splintery - under his fingers, and the trigger and action seemed frozen solid – probably long since seized with rust. Curious, the archaeologist in him winning every time, he got up and carried it back to the camp, placing it carefully against a tree, whilst George still snored, oblivious to the battle that had raged down in the jungle only minutes before.  He would examine it more carefully in the morning.  It already posed an awkward question that he wanted an answer to. 

Who would leave a rifle on a place like Solitude?  When would one have been left so that it had deteriorated into a solid lump of rust?  As far as he knew, Solitude had always been uninhabited.  The armies in the Pacific had not even come near it during the War.  It was just too isolated. Yet, he suspected that the gun he had found was military issue.  Which army had been to Solitude and why?  Looking back down towards the jungle, to where the fire-fight had just taken place, he somehow knew that the reason the mercenaries were here was connected too.  His head buzzing with tiredness, stress and questions, he took up his vigil and continued the long wait for morning.

            Carmen flicked on the torch from the survival kit and shone it round their temporary shelter beneath the pandanus tree.  The weak blue light from its LEDs revealed that their black hole of a hiding place was exactly that – a hole.  Partially collapsed earthen walls merged seamlessly with a damp, claggy floor.  Tree roots groped blindly down through the earth around them, emerging from the walls like pale, gnarled fingers.  The opening that they had entered the hole was framed by rotten, split palm logs that had been carefully placed to provide some form of window.  When she directed the torchlight above her head she was presented with yet more palm logs arranged side by side to provide the beams that supported a thick, sturdy roof.  A large brown centipede wriggled out of the circle of blue light and twisted itself between two palm logs.  Carmen flinched.  She could tolerate most insects but centipedes were a step too far, especially when they were as thick as your finger and as long as your hand.

            “What is this place?”  Charlie wondered.  “It’s almost like…a bunker.  You know, for soldiers.”

            “Your guess is as good as mine,” Carmen said.  “It certainly looks like one.  I saw some on a school trip that we took up near Darwin.  We went to a place where the Australians had built bunkers and machine gun nests to stop a Japanese invasion.  It was a great trip but the war stuff was a bit boring.”

            “Yeah, well it seems that we’re stuck in the middle of the war stuff.”

            “It’s definitely war stuff, Charlie,” said Trev.  “I've met the people who built this.”

            This pronouncement stunned Charlie into silence.  It took him some time to process what Trev had said and work out what it meant.  All the while, Carmen carefully inspected the corners of the hole with the torch, the pale light silhouetting her in the darkness.

            Finally he turned to Trev, who appeared to be even more ghastly with the blue torchlight reflecting weakly off his pale face.  “You’ve met them?  When?  Who are they?  Are they…are they like…are they like you?”

            “What’s that you said, Charlie?” asked Carmen, who was digging at something in the dirt floor with a stick she had found.

            “No, Charlie, they’re not like me,” Trev said, smiling like a shark.  “I’m nice.”

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