Whilst Charlie and Carmen had been arguing on the Catalina, things had not been going so well for their fathers.  Detained by Winthrop-Smythe, they were now under guard by the kitchen, or as the guards called it, the cookhouse.

George groaned and sat up.  He felt awful, his head pounded like a drum whilst his ribs pulsed with a deep and unpleasant throbbing.  When he tried to put his head in his hands he found that his hands were bound in front of him with thick, white cable ties.  Memories of Jones standing over him smiling lightly before the beating came back to him.  Gazing around himself with bleary, blood crusted eyes he could see he was sat on a bench by a metal folding table by the cookhouse tent.  He could see Rick sat on a similar metal bench several tables away, his hands tied behind him.  Swearing to himself and lamenting the day that he ever hooked up with Rick all those years ago, he swung his legs off the bench and twisted round to lean on the table.  George groaned again, a burning pain blossomed in his ribs as he moved.  Feeling quite nauseous, he leant over and rested his head on the table.

“Ah, baby’s awake is he?” a hard voice sneered.

“Leave him alone!” Rick snapped. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“I dunno, I think Jonesey can always hand out another smackin’!” one of the other men ordered to guard Rick and George mocked.  “I’d really like to see it.”

The two men laughed horribly and glared at Rick.

“At least get him something I can bind round his chest,” Rick pleaded, “Or something to kill the pain.  I’m going to need a co-pilot that can do his job when you guys ship out.  He’s won’t be able to do that if he can’t reach some of the flight controls.”

The two guards looked at each other. “Check it out with Jonesey!” one ordered the other.  “I’ll keep an eye on them.”

As the guard walked away into the camp to hunt for his superior the other wrapped his left arm into the sling of the AK47 assault rifle that he casually pointed at Rick.  “Any funny ideas and I’ll put the big guy to sleep!  Permanently.  Understand?”

Rick nodded.  He was worried about George, who was still slumped over the table, gasping.  It wasn’t like the big man to suffer like this.  What would he do if George had a punctured lung?  He would need more than a Band Aid and paracetemol.  If George had a serious injury then he would need proper medical attention at a hospital, and soon.  There was no breeding ground more perfect for infection to take root than a moist, tropical island climate.

Not only that but Rick was consumed with worry for the children.  The thought of them being kidnapped by people like Winthrop-Smythe and Jones made his skin crawl.  Visions of violence being meted out to the children, similar to the beating George had received, made his heart race with anxiety. His mind churned.  How could he get George, Charlie and Carmen out the mess he had created by his impulsive behaviour?

            He had been searched fairly thoroughly when the Winthrop-Smythe’s men had brought him to the cookhouse and bound him.  However, he had been left with his watch and diver’s compass.  Checking the time, Rick was surprised to see that it was almost dawn.  Looking up he could see that the sky was lightening up above the clearing.  He wondered what the children were doing. 

            The guard returned, rifle slung and smiling, carrying a first aid kit as well as a couple of plastic water bottles.    He dropped them heavily and theatrically by George’s head on the metal table, the noise of which boomed across the cookhouse.  George groaned loudly

“Hey!  C’mon, man.  Give the guy a break!”  Rick protested loudly.

The guard turned and grinned at Rick, smiling unpleasantly when he saw the pilot glaring.  His colleague walked over and high fived him, “Go for it, Chalky!”

“Shut your mouth, Bravo!  Or I’ll shut it for you!”  The guard called Chalky said, “Now sit still. Jones’s is OK with you seeing to your mate.  All you need, and all you’re getting, is in the kit there.  Don’t make any funny moves or I’ll take you down, all right?”

Chalky walked behind Rick, knelt down and snipped through the plastic bindings that held his hands fast with a multi-tool that he had taken from a small pouch on his belt.  Wrists suddenly free, Rick gasped and rubbed them with his hands to get some feeling into them. 

“No funny business, Bravo.  Mind yourself!”  The other guard said.

Rick moved over to where George was and sat down next to him.  Resting his hand lightly on George’s back he leant over and whispered, “How’s it going, Big Guy?  You trying to get a day off school?”

George groaned again and tilted his head to look up at Rick through half closed eyes.  “Rick?” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Stop being a dumbass.  Get my ribs bound but leave things slack.  See if you can get these cuffs off.”

Rick patted George on the back to show that he had heard him, then reached over for the first aid kit. He opened it and searched through the contents for long bandages.  Unrolling one he made a play of searching through the kit for some scissors.  However, he had already quietly and quickly palmed these when unrolling the bandage.  Whilst he scattered the contents of the kit across the table, he covertly dropped the scissors under the bench near George’s right foot.  Shifting slightly, George slid his foot over them.

“What’s wrong, Bravo?  Why the mess?  Those kits cost, you know,” said Chalky.

“Chalky, isn’t it?”  Rick queried pleasantly, “There’s no scissors. I’ve nothing to cut the bandages or cable ties with.”

“There’s gotta be.  Move away, Bravo!”  Chalky ordered and gestured at Rick with the muzzle of his rifle.  “Search him, Dusty.  Make sure he’s not hidden anything.”  Chalky raised the rifle to his shoulder and took position, aiming it directly at Rick’s chest.  Rick stumbled back and raised his hands, palms showing, to show he had nothing in them. 

The other guard, Dusty, slung his rifle over his shoulder, muzzle pointing at the ground, and moved forward to Rick.   “Put your hands behind your head and turn around!” he ordered.  “Spread your legs wide and don’t move!”  Swiftly and professionally, he patted Rick down conducting a speedy, efficient search.  “There’s nothing here,” he called back to Chalky.

“Search the other one,” Chalky said.

“You’ve gotta be kidding!”  Rick protested, turning back to Chalky, “He’s barely conscious, he’s in no fit state to stand up!”

“Shut it, Bravo!  Get him up!  You can hold him while we search.”

It was at this point in the proceedings that George was noisily, and messily, sick.  Bent over and heaving, he deposited the contents of his stomach squarely between his feet.  He moaned and thumped his head down on to the table.

“For Pete’s sake!” Dusty grumbled, “I am not searching him!  I am not having that lummox puke on me!”

“Just get on with it, Dusty” Said Chalky.

Dusty pointed to Bravo and mouthed, “Get him up.”   Rick walked over to George and gently lifted him to his feet.  George stood there, eyes shut, pale faced and swaying slightly. Reluctantly Dusty stood in front of George and rather gingerly started patting him down, trying to avoid standing in the vomit beneath him.

“Do a proper job, Dusty,” Chalky smiled, enjoying the spectacle.

Just as Dusty started checking George’s shirt, the big islander shook and started heaving.  Dusty sprang back as if George was a live grenade, “I am not going near him.  If you want him searched, you do it and I’ll keep watch.”

“OK, OK! Settle down, Dusty.  It’s just a bit of a laugh,” Chalky chortled.  “You’ve done enough.  He’s not going anywhere anyway.”  He turned to Rick, “Sort him out, Bravo and get on with it!”

“The cable ties?” Rick reminded Chalky.  “I can’t sort out his ribs unless he can lift his arms a little.”

Chalky nodded and Dusty cut the plastic strips binding George’s hands with his combat knife.

Rick rushed to George’s side and helped him sit down again.    He leaned George forward and put his head down between his knees.  “Keep it up, Georgie, you’ll get an Oscar at his rate!”  he whispered.  Rifling through the first aid kit and bandages, Rick found what he was looking for.  Getting George to remove his shirt, Rick took the unrolled bandages and wound it round George’s torso, keeping it tight, but also with quite a bit of slack.  He cut and tied off the bandage with Chalky’s grudging assistance with his multi-tool, unscrewed the water bottle and handed George some white tablets.  “Get these down, Big Guy!”

It was as Dusty was putting a fresh set of cable ties onto the two pilots that chaos erupted around them.  A faint phut could be heard over the noise of the camp and the forest life.  That phut had an electrifying effect on the camp’s occupants, as well as Rick and George.

“Mortar!” someone screamed. “Incoming fire!  Take cover!”

Wherever they were, regardless of what they were doing, men threw themselves to the ground. Rick somehow got George to the ground and covered him with his own body.  A mortar? Rick thought to himself.  Who would have a mortar on this island apart from the people he was with?  The mystery of what was taking place on this tiny, uninhabited island was becoming deeper and more alarming with every hour.  Not for the first time in the hours since his capture, Rick cursed himself for a fool.

Several seconds later came the distant report of the mortar shell exploding. Oh my God! Rick thought.  That was a pretty big bang. What on Earth is the calibre of that thing?

Winthrop-Smythe’s voice rang out clearly across the camp, above the noise of the uproar that the explosion had set off in the forest, “Jones, take Pincher, Pedlar, Kurt, and Dixie.  Join the beach guard and find out what’s happening down there!”

 “The children!”  hissed George, “That came from the direction of the Cat.”

“I know,” Rick said.  He could not believe the situation they were in.  A few short hours ago they were actually preparing to be on their way from the island.  Now they were caught up in goodness knows what and someone on the island appeared to have access to heavy artillery.  Ironically, he could only hope that the children were safe in the hands of Winthrop-Smythe’s men already.  These men were seasoned soldiers; if they couldn’t cope with mortar fire then who could?

Phut!  Another round was fired.  It sounded as if it was being discharged from the north, which meant that the mortar position would be deeper in the forest and further up the slopes of the volcano.   The round exploded at the beach again.  It sounded as if it was a little closer.

“It’s time to go,” Rick looked down into George’s face and saw the big man grinning up at him.  He nodded at Chalky and Dusty who lay full length on the ground nearby but whose attention was focussed on the sky above.  “Get the scissors and let’s get out of here!”

“Where are they?  I can’t see them!”  Rick asked quietly.

“In my hiding place,” George replied, and nodded towards the pool of sick.

“I can’t believe it!  I am not paid enough for this,” Rick shot back. 

“It’s OK, Rick.  You don’t pay me at all!”

Disgusted, Rick shuffled over to the bench and dug beneath it with his bound hands.  Very quickly, his fingers delved through the slimy, stinking soup and brushed over the smooth steel of the scissors.  Grabbing them he shuffled back to George and snipped his bonds.  He dropped the scissors into George’s hands and he repeated the procedure for Rick.  Hands free, they now needed to get away.

Phut!  A third round soared into the air over their heads.  Men in the camp burrowed down into the ground, trying to make the most of what cover there was.  Everyone but two looked anxiously above, praying the shell would not land anywhere near them.

The two who weren’t actively praying were currently inching their way out of sight of their captors behind the equipment store.  As the sound of the shell arriving at its destination tore through the air, Rick and George climbed to their feet and squatted behind one of the flight cases.  They took stock of their surroundings.  Men were on the ground waiting for the next round.  A few were calling out to each other, commenting on the direction and probable size of the mortar. All were guessing at something massive.  Rusty and Chalky were still looking the other way, towards the beach, muttering.

“Let’s go!” George whispered.

“Wait a minute,” Rick instructed.  He looked around at the flight cases they were hiding behind.  Most were large and awkward, not what he was looking for.  Spying something smaller, similar to the small case that Winthrop-Smythe had removed the automatic pistols from, he crept towards it.  Hands sweating and shaking, with a feeling of impending dread that made his stomach feel as if he’d swallowed a cannonball, he slipped his fingers around the handle.  Gingerly, he lifted it as silently as he could and tip-toed back to George.

“We are pushing our luck, Rick!” George said, waving for Rick to hurry. 

Rick nodded and the two quickly made their way to the perimeter of the camp, using the equipment store to shield their escape.  Every step they took they expected Rusty or Chalky to notice their disappearance.  Hearts racing, they reached the shelter of a fallen palm, the trunk almost hidden by a profusion of ferns.  Concealing themselves behind it they paused and listened for the sounds of pursuit.  George hung his head from the effort of their escape and his skin was clammy and grey.

“Can you go on further, George?”  Rick asked his friend.

“I’m fine,” he replied. “It’ll take more than a tickle from that little man to stop me!”

Rick was astonished.  A tickle?  If that was a tickle, he did not want to be around when Jones really let go.  He had not seen such a savage beating handed out in a long time.  He truly had not expected George to be able to move without assistance, if at all.

From their new position they again looked back at the camp.  They could not see Winthrop-Smythe but they could here him.  It sounded as if he was talking to someone on a cell phone, “…I’ve sent Jones and four men.  They can form a search party… What about the children?... Find them!”   Rick breathed a sigh of relief.  At least the children were free, now he had to ensure that they stayed that way.

There was still no indication of the alarm being raised.  Still not believing their luck and aware now of the guard on the perimeter, the Frenchman, Jean Boucher, they trod cautiously as they turned away from the camp and made their way further into the forest.  With every step they took, Rick half expected a warning shout from the camp to sound out, followed by the rattling chatter of automatic weapons slicing bullets into the forest.  An unpleasant itching developed between his shoulder blades.  He could almost feel the full metal jacketed round punch through his skin.  Sweating, panting, hearts pounding like kettle drums, the two men made their way as quickly and as carefully as they could, abandoning the stealthy approach that they had used to get near the camp.

It was just as they had travelled about 150 metres that the expected alarm was raised.  Winthrop-Smythe’s voice could be heard barking out a series of instructions.  The last that they could hear was, “…and make sure those two jokers are secure!”  Uproar followed. 

“Can you go any faster, George?”  Rick asked.

“Go faster?  I am a lion!”  George replied and took off at speed, weaving between the foliage with more agility than a man in his condition should be able to.  Rick could only follow, shaking his head and grinning. At last, something was going right.  Now they had to track down the children.  Making off through the forest at pace, the two men left the chaos of the camp far behind them.

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