The crowd of journalists had to be pushed back as John, dressed in a plain t-shirt and faded jeans, escorted his prisoners towards the huge transport plane that would take them from JFK airport to the Island. He was not looking forward to the flight.
The summer heat, mixed with the fumes from the airplanes, made the ground shimmer. The three youths were shackled together, making their walk more of a shamble as they tried to coordinate their steps across the tarmac. For the most part, they remained silent, though Neesha occasionally shouted some expletive at a random individual.
The military cargo plane’s rear ramp was lowered, and the foursome trudged up the ramp into the darkened interior of the plane. John had flown enough missions in exactly the same type of plane that he was dreading the flight. Noisy, hard seats, bouncy, and just uncomfortable in general, he knew the 12-hour flight would not be pleasant.
The only positive thing he could think of was the fact that the noisy trip would generally mask the hostile atmosphere that trailed the three young people as they shambled up the ramp. They were bitter, angry, and resentful. There was also a healthy dose of fear tossed into the mix. They knew they were being set up to die.
Neesha stumbled suddenly. John walked over and helped to right her. “Are you okay?”
She jerked her arm away and glowered at him. “A headache. All of you give me a headache.”
John frowned. “You had the headache back at the studio, didn’t you?”
“What of it?”
“How long have you had them?”
She shrugged. “Ever since idiots like you came into my life.”
“For a while then.” John thought it over. “Look, they don’t have anything on the plane resembling a bathroom. More of a pot, really. I’ll get you some water and a damp towel. It should ease your headache some.”
The pain in her eyes overwhelmed the bitterness that normally showed through. She nodded.
Turning to one of the soldiers, he gave him the instructions. He saluted and jogged off to get a bucket of water and a towel.
Soon, however, they were airborne. John kept an eye on the three youths. Ali sat like a statue, eyes closed, face settled. John had seen looks like that before on men preparing themselves to go into battle. Sylvester, however, couldn’t help but look around nervously. His eyes never stayed on one spot for long before moving on. He tried to strike up conversations with his companions—both of which ignored him—but it didn’t seem to matter. He talked on and on. Poor kid.
Neesha kept cringing in pain every time the airplane jerked or bounced. Her headache had not subsided much. Still, John counted it a blessing. No doubt she would be cursing him and everyone else if she had felt up to it.
At one point she opened her eyes to glare at Sylvester who droned on and on. They sat next to each other, their feet still shackled together. “Shut up, you anarchist pig!” she shouted. “Stop talking!”
“Go to blazes,” he shouted back.
Growling, she lunged at him, fingers reaching for his neck. Sty gasped, jerking away and trying to fend off her attack. It took John a moment to get unbuckled; when he did, he jumped across the plane and slapped Neesha’s hands away, stinging them badly. “You’ll get your chance for violence when we get there,” he shouted. “While on my plane, you will sit still or I will tie you to one of those crates back there. Trust me. You won’t like it.”
“It might be better than listening to this idiot babble for the entire trip!”
Actually, John agreed. He turned his glare on Sty—as the boy liked to be called. “Say one more word and I’ll gag you. Clear?”
Sty snapped his jaws together and nodded.
“Good.”
John returned to his seat, wishing the entire experience was over already.
Twelve hours later, the large cargo plane landed on a runway on one of the larger Indonesian islands. They would take a helicopter to the oil platform just off the cost of Celebes Island.
Overall, the helicopter ride was much more comfortable.