Meanwhile, the guards searched with spotlights downstream. He could hear them chattering in Cantonese. No one could possibly swim upstream. They also found some of Jason’s blood on the bank and suspected he may have been killed.
As Jason tried to stand, his right leg gave way. He fell back down in pain. Only now did he realize that the bullet had gone through his hamstring muscle, and his leg was covered in blood. He took off a sock and tied it tightly around his wound to slow the bleeding. Soaking wet and back on his feet, he limped through the reeds to the dark tarmac and finally pulled himself into the B-24. The silence and stuffy warmth inside was a blessed relief from the gunfire and chaos he’d just escaped.
In the cockpit cabinet, he found a first aid kit. He removed his pants to look at the damage the bullet had done. The entry wound was small, but the exit wound was twice the size. Who would have thought that the course he’d taken on the HMS Stoke on “First Aid in the Battlefield” would have come in handy so fast? Jason knew he had to clean the deep gashes, so he applied iodine and alcohol solution. Searing pain shot through him. It took his breath away, and he momentarily lost consciousness. When he came back to his senses, he was on the cold metal floor, panting and groaning. He scowled at the bottle still clenched in his fist.
“Guess they left out the part about how it bloody stings,” he spat out loud.
His face bathed in sweat, Jason collapsed into the pilot’s seat and scratched his mosquito bites. He knew it wouldn’t help, but for a few brief moments, the fingernails felt good on his flaming skin.
After a few deep, measured breaths, he dressed his bullet wound with gauze and tossed the first aid kit into the copilot’s seat. Then, he fumbled for the can of fatty corn beef in his wet pocket. After he wolfed it down with his dirty fingers, he felt a little better than before—at least clearheaded enough to turn on the power in the plane and figure out his next move. In the darkness, he reached for the power switch.
With a loud click, the plane buzzed to life.
The control panel lit up. The radio cracked and hissed. Jason’s heart began pounding again. He peered out the window, but the tarmac was still deserted. Every second counted. It could be dangerous to transmit a message that could be picked up by Weing’s guards or even the Chinese. Slowly, he clicked the dial until it read 36.5. Would Scott be tuned in? he wondered. He had no idea what time it was in London. In a flash, however, he made his decision. He clicked the microphone on and off and sent a message by Morse code.
The series of dots and dashes he sent was:
When finished, he repeated the message and then turned off the radio, afraid it could be traced. Could Scott even decipher Morse code, even if he was listening? Jason had no idea.
***
It was 9:00 p.m. in London. Scott was in his room, unable to sleep. He’d slept maybe four hours in the last two days. His radio hadn’t once been turned off. He lay on his bed, trying to read when he heard the clicking. At first, he ignored it, but when he recognized that it was a pattern—and that the pattern repeated—he wrote it down. He grabbed a book on radio signals from his shelf and flipped to the section on Morse code.
The words translated: “I have what you want and will exchange it for some carrot cake.”
Scott looked at the message over and over again. A smile crept across his face. It had to be…Jason. It had to be. Who else would be jabbering about carrot cake? Eventfully, he shouted at the top of his voice, “Yes! ” He ran down the stairs into the living room and picked up the telephone directory.
“What’s wrong, Scott?” his mother asked.
“How stupid I was. How stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I have doubted him? Jason is alive and kicking.” He found a number to the Scotland Yard, Britain’s Police HQ.
A secretary answered. Scott breathlessly informed him that Jason Steed, the last of the missing Sea Cadets from the news stories, had just made contact from Jakarta. The man chuckled.
“Thanks, lad. I’ll pass the message on.”
Click.
Scott frowned at his stunned parents. “They don’t believe me. I guess they think I am just a kid, but I know it’s Jason.”
***
Less than twenty minutes later, police sirens broke the silence of the quiet London suburb street of Churchwood Avenue. Two police cars screeched to a halt and were followed by a large black Rover 3500. Dr. and Mrs. Turner peered out the front room window. Scott ran to the door just as the pounding began.
“We had a phone call from a Mr. Scott Turner. Is that you, sir?” a tall gray-haired man with a deeply pitted face asked. He was accompanied by three uniformed police officers.
“No, that’s my son. Is he in trouble?” the doctor asked, stepping in front of his son.
“For his sake, I hope not. I am Lawrence Cox.”
Scott ran to the stairs. “That was fast. Come up, and I will show you what I’ve heard.” The men followed, trailed closely by Scott’s parents.
“Can I get anyone a cup of tea?” Mrs. Turner asked anxiously.
“No, thank you. We’re fine,” Cox replied. He sat on Scott’s bed. “You called Scotland Yard and said that Jason Steed had contacted you from Jakarta. How exactly?”
“Morse code, sir. Look, this is what it means.” Scott grabbed his notebook from the desk and showed them. His hands were shaking with excitement.
“Yes, we also have that message. What makes you think this is Jason Steed?”
Scott took a framed picture off the wall and passed it to them. “That’s me and Jase dressed up in our dinner suits. We went to a Christmas party together. He’s my best friend and sleeps here some weekends. No one eats and loves carrot cake like Jason. He has it every day, and he knows I have my ham radio tuned into 36.5 FM.”
Cox nodded, his face expressionless. “So, apart from making assumptions, you have no proof?”
Scott’s face darkened. He counted off on his fingers. “Unless you know of someone else in the Jakarta region who loves carrot cake, is missing, has something you want, and knows that I listen in on that radio channel…then it’s Jason.”
“Have you any idea what he has of ours?” Cox asked.
Scott shot a nervous glance at his parents, who stood in the doorway. “Not exactly. All I know is that it’s what you are looking for. You sent a bunch of cadets a mile offshore of a war zone for something, and you got most of them killed and my mate in danger—”
“Please, Scott,” Dr. Turner interrupted.
Cox shook his head. “No, it’s all right. Go on, lad.”
“My point is that you know what it is he’s got,” Scott said. “If not, you would not have come over here so fast.”
For a moment, Cox was silent. He shot the policemen an unreadable stare. “Master Turner, you are a very bright young man,” he said gravely. “I hope for your friend’s sake and our country that you’re right. All I can say is that I hope he can get away.”
“If anyone can, he can,” Scott replied. “I know it.”
***
Back onboard the Ark Royal, Ray walked wearily into the officers’ mess. Captain Stephens sat talking to the special operations crew. They were all exhausted by the last two days’ events. Ray had not slept or eaten much either. He had started to give up on the idea of ever seeing Jason again. He collected a plate of food and went and sat alone at a table.
The captain joined him. “How are you managing, Ray?”
“Hour by hour. I can’t think ahead. I had been looking forward to my leave in September. I was going to take Jason on a holiday somewhere.” His voice grew thick. He swallowed and blinked. “Has there been any news of the prisoners?”
“No, Ray, we are waiting for Downing Street to come up with a negotiation strategy to get them back. We did get a message via Morse code today. The admiralty has no idea what it means but is following up on a lead.”
Ray picked at his meat and vegetables, trying to force some food into his churning stomach. All he could think was: If Jas
on is alive and hiding somewhere, does he have any food and water?
The captain didn’t say anything more. Ray was appreciative, but he didn’t feel like talking. He was about to leave when a member of the special operations crew burst into the officers’ mess and glanced around the room until he spotted Ray.
“Hello, Lieutenant Steed. I am Major John Evans. I have just been contacted from London via the telex. Do you know someone called Scott Turner?”
Ray looked up from his food, puzzled. “Scott Turner? Sure, he’s a friend of my son’s. Why?”
“Would he know Jason very well?” Evans asked.
“Yes, they go to school together and spend most weekends at my home or Scott’s home. He probably knows Jason better than anyone. Why? Is he all right?”
“He has been monitoring our radio waves, and he picked up the same Morse code message we did. He says it’s from Jason.”
“The carrot cake message?” Captain Stephens asked.
Evans nodded. “Yes, did you not see the message, Steed?”
“No, what did it say? When was this?”
Evans handed Ray a crumpled printout. “This Scott Turner swears it’s from Jason.”
A warm rush of relief flooded through Ray as he read the note. “It is. When he was a toddler, that’s all they could get him to eat. He loves the stuff. He’s alive. He has what we want? Jesus Christ, he must have the cassette.”
“Then he was with Major Wilson. They never caught him.” Captain Stephens said.
Ray leapt to his feet. “Come on, we have to move—”
“Lieutenant Steed,” Captain Stephens interrupted. “We can’t step foot on the island. He will have to figure a way out unless we can negotiate his release, but the Chinese are still denying any involvement. It may come to sending in a strike force, but we are holding off. The Chinese have a battleship just north of Jakarta. It is expected to be coming this way for observation purposes.”
Ray’s jaw tightened. “The kid is eleven. What the hell do you want him to do? Steal a boat and sail back to us?”
Evans and Captain Stephens exchanged a glance.
“I can’t say I know how you are feeling, Steed, as I don’t,” Evans replied. “All I know is we now have less than forty-eight hours to get that cassette back. Your son has it, and we have no way of contacting him. I have to report back. I will keep you informed.”
Ray turned to Captain Stephens.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Captain Stephens said gently.
“What is?”
“With all our firepower, money, and technology, our best intelligence came down to two kids thousands of miles apart working it out on a ham radio.”
Ray shook his head. “That’s not remarkable. What will be remarkable is getting my son back alive.”
Before Captain Stephens could respond, Ray coldly saluted and left.
Chapter Fifteen
Back on the B-24, Jason redressed his leg. It was stiff and difficult to move. Even the slightest pressure caused pain, but at least the bleeding had stopped.
The swift sunrise once again heated the cockpit until it felt like a sauna. Jason limped down to the plane’s galley, where in the darkness he discovered some water rations and potato crisps. After he gobbled down two bags, he fell into an uneasy slumber.
When he awoke, it was dark again. Time to move, he thought. He crept out of the plane and silently limped toward the center of the complex. As he kept clear of the buildings and guards, he eventually came to the end of the road and found the familiar pile of wood where he had hidden. Jason noticed the blood from the guard he had killed was still on the path. A twinge of guilt shot through him, but he shook it off. He had to find Wilson and the others. They were either dead or being held captive. He couldn’t leave until he knew their fates for certain.
At the far end of the complex stood a squat stone building with barred windows. Most likely a prison, Jason thought. Outside on a wooden box sat a guard smoking a cigarette, a machine gun propped next to him. Jason chewed his lip. Wong Tong had always taught him to use the element of surprise. “Surprise even yourself,” he had said. “It’s the best weapon you will ever have.”
His decision made in an instant, Jason coolly limped up to the guard and spoke in Cantonese, “You want to buy some cigarettes at a very cheap price?”
The guard glared at him and stood.
“How much, and how many?” Jason asked, grinning.
“Who are you?” the guard demanded, reaching for his gun. “How did you get onto—?”
“I am the bogeyman,” interrupted Jason. He dove to the ground, and with a slide kick, he swept the shocked guard’s feet away from him. He ignored the pain from his gunshot wounds and sprang to his feet and seized the gun, slamming the butt into the guard’s forehead. The guard rolled over and lay still, unconscious. Jason glanced at the door. It was open.
The hinges made a slight creak as Jason entered. He cringed, gripping the machine gun tightly. A guard lay sleeping on a torn sofa positioned at the opening of a long narrow corridor lined with doors on either side. Without hesitation, Jason seized the guard by his neck, squeezing it tightly from behind in a Judo sleeper hold. Jason had never used the technique before, but it worked with surprising speed and effectiveness. After the guard kicked his feet, he slumped in Jason’s arms, unconscious. Jason found a key ring on his belt and unhooked it.
Each door had a small window at the top with bars. Jason stood on his tiptoes and peered through the first one and saw that it was empty. The next two were also empty. In the fourth, however, a man he didn’t recognize lay sprawled on the floor. Alive or dead, Jason couldn’t tell. He was starting to lose hope until he reached the fifth room, but there, chained to the wall, were Wilson and his team.
With trembling fingers, he tried key after key until the lock finally clicked. The door swung open. The prisoners watched in shocked silence as the small figure shuffled into their cell. They recognized the uniform he was wearing, although it was bloodstained, dirty, and torn.
“Jason? Is that you?” John gasped.
On the far side of the room, a cracked and filthy mirror hung before the chained prisoners. Perhaps Weing had made them stare at themselves all day as a form of torture, but when Jason caught a glimpse of himself, he knew why John had asked the question. His hair was unwashed. His face was pale, dirty, and cut, covered in mosquito bites and splattered with blood. His pants were ripped open, revealing part of the bloodstained dressing on his dirt-covered leg. His blue eyes had lost their sparkle. They were now dark and sunken.
“Follow me, and don’t make a sound,” Jason groaned as he unlocked their shackles. “We have a plane to catch.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, after a harrowing, zigzagging journey through the compound and a brutal climb over the barbed wire, Jason and the others reached the tarmac. The B-24 loomed at the far end, silhouetted against the moonlight. Jason broke into a limping run, but a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder.
He whirled around.
“Jason,” Wilson hissed. “How did you do this? Have you contacted our forces?”
He took a deep breath, sighed, crouched down, and gestured to the others to crouch down in a small group.
He spoke softly, “Sir, I have the cassette. I have not been in contact with anyone. Just follow me. We are going home. Please keep quiet.”
“How are we getting out of here?” Ryan demanded.
“We are flying, sir. We have to move. It will be light soon. Can we move on, sir?”
Wilson nodded and stood. “You’ve gotten us this far, Jason. We’ll follow your lead. We owe you our lives.”
As Jason stood, his right leg gave way, and he fell to the ground. Pain like he had never felt before shot through his body. He bent forward on his knees and pushed his forehead hard against the ground and twisted his head into the gravel to prevent himself from screaming out loud.
Without saying anything, John bent down and he
lped him to his feet. Together, they scrambled to the B-24. Jason swung open the metal door in its belly.
“You have got to be kidding, Jason,” Pete said.
Jason ignored him and climbed in. They followed and closed the door.
“Sir, the sun will be up any minute. As soon as I can see the runway, we are off. Please, can you man the three machine guns in the fishbowls?” Jason said.
“Fishbowls?” Pete asked.
“You know, the—”
“The Plexiglas domes?” Wilson asked wryly.
“Thank you,” Jason mumbled. “Just please sit in there and use the guns if we get shot at. Once I turn this thing on, it will wake up the entire island.” He limped toward the cockpit.
“Jason, have you tested the engines? Will it start?” Wilson asked.
Jason shrugged. “Let’s hope so. The battery indicator is at 75 percent. It’s full of fuel. I hope it starts. I have already removed the wheel chucks.”
“Have you flown a plane…before?” Wilson asked. He stumbled over the words, betraying his nervousness.
“Not exactly, sir.”
“Not exactly?” Pete asked.
“I’ve flown in a simulator,” Jason admitted.
“That’s all?” John gasped.
“Can any of you fly?” Jason snapped back.
Nobody said a word. Finally, Wilson cleared his throat. “That’s good enough for me. Move!”
Jason made his way to the cockpit. Major Wilson climbed into the Plexiglas dome on the plane’s rear. Pete climbed a small steel ladder up into the revolving dome on the top of the plane. Ryan climbed into the dome below that hung down from the plane’s belly. John joined him to help him reload.
After he painfully eased himself down into the pilot’s seat, Jason strapped on the headphones and turned on the power.
Fledgling: Jason Steed Page 14
