Morse Code Page 2

  Shaking his head sadly, Ash found hand-written notes detailing deployment strategies, and sketches of the latest sea vessels.

  When he turned to the first available blank page, Ash began to write. He printed the date in the left-hand corner, and then made his identity known.

  November 10th 2043

  My name is Ashley Griffin. I am 31 years old, born on the 28th of September 2012, and I am a Royal Marines Commando. Unfortunately, my fleet was attacked in enemy waters overnight and the ships went down.

  I was left floating in the water for almost twelve hours until I washed up onshore, on an island somewhere in the Coral Sea.

  I am quite certain I will not survive.

  He then signed his name, snapped the notebook shut and tucked it under an arm. Ash would document his final days, in the hopes that somebody would discover it eventually. He then pocketed a pen and covered up his eyes with the sunglasses.

  Ash left the cove and continued on with his journey, knowing that nightfall would soon be upon him.

  3

  There was an evening storm.

  Ash sat by the shore, watching as the clouds gathered on the horizon, slowly growing darker as they rolled towards the island.

  There were low rumbles of thunder, and occasionally a few flashes of lightning. Although nature was truly mesmerising, Ash wasn’t waiting to be entertained – no, he was hoping for rain. Fresh, pure, rain.

  He had scoped the island and had wandered around the entire shoreline in just a few hours. There had been no signs of food or water. The island was uninhabitable.

  If it rained, he had some hope that it might fall into nearby ditches and trenches. Ash could easily survive a couple of weeks, provided he had fresh water to drink. Without it, he probably only had a few days left.

  He waited. The claps of thunder were growing louder.

  Then, a speeding droplet landed beside him, denting the sand. Slowly, more droplets, more dents. The rain dropped inconsistently, hitting Ash on the shoulder once or twice. Before long, the clouds above burst open, releasing a stream of water.

  Ash opened his mouth gratefully as the cold, refreshing water dripped down his throat. He revelled in the satisfaction. The water cascaded down his body, soothing his sunburn, easing the tension – if only momentarily.

  The storm rumbled across the sky, putting on a show with spectacular flashes of forked lightning.

  He looked out towards the ocean seeing an empty blackness, but it didn’t remain that way for long.

  The helicopter was back.

  Roaring overhead, the aircraft was accompanied by several fighter jets, circling the skies as if stalking prey.

  A burst of light nearly blinded Ash as the helicopter flicked on a spotlight across the ocean. In a panic, he feared that he had been spotted – but no, he was not the target.

  Now that the spotlight was beaming down onto the murky depths, Ash could see several dark shadows moving underneath the water, perhaps just half a kilometre from the island. They were enormous and shaped like cylinders.

  He climbed a nearby tree, desperate to get a better look. His vision was somewhat skewed in the heavy rainfall, but he could see the shadows were gaining speed.

  And then the fighter jets opened fire, unleashing a hellish fury directly at the moving shadows. Bullets penetrated the top of the ocean, but instantly vanished as they entered the deep blue, having little or no impact on the moving shadows. The jets fought relentlessly, desperate to take down the unknown mark.

  Ash watched. Hypnotised.

  Although he couldn’t be sure what the Australians were up against, it was clear they wanted the target to be killed or destroyed.

  However, the Australians had picked an unwinnable fight.

  There was an ominous glow from the deep abyss, like a fire burning under the sea – of course, that was not possible – but Ash couldn’t explain what he was seeing.

  Something exploded out of the water, striking one of the fighter jets.

  The jet seemingly split in two; a clean cut right through the middle. The aircraft began plummeting from the sky, just as the pilot ejected himself from the cockpit.

  His parachute was activated. The jet crashed down into the ocean. The pilot tried to gain control over his parachute but the storm had brought along some intense gale force winds, pushing the pilot far out to sea. His parachute had been picked up and was blown away until it was no longer in sight.

  Good riddance.

  Ash felt no remorse for the enemy.

  The glow surrounded the shadows, but it gave away no clues. The remaining jets continued to fire, almost erratically, but then retreated along with the helicopter.

  The aircraft dispersed and vanished into the night. Ash watched until the moving shadows could no longer be seen, and the only source of light was the occasional lightning strike.

  The sea battle had started and ended within a short space of time, but Ash was left without answers.

  He carefully climbed back down from the tree, and then tried to seek refuge from the rain under some nearby palm trees. Feeling a new bout of exhaustion, Ash curled up under the tree and forced himself to sleep.

  ***

  At first light, tropical birds woke Ash from his slumber.

  The storm had passed over and the sunrise was eerily peaceful. The skyline was a blend of yellow, orange and deep pink.

  He sat upright, feeling his muscles seize up. Gritting his teeth through the pain, Ash stretched his body out and then climbed onto his feet.

  It was only dawn, but Ash felt the humidity push down on his chest in an unwelcomed presence.

  Say what you want about British weather – he still preferred it compared to this hellhole.

  The sun began to rise on the horizon. The light cast over the ocean, almost blinding him. For a few moments, Ash went about his morning rituals like he always did; he took a piss, scratched his stubble and wondered about breakfast.

  Reality bit back hard. His optimism did not last long.

  Now that a new day had begun, Ash knew he needed to keep busy and keep his mind occupied. He crashed back down into the sand and grabbed his new prized possession – the lieutenant’s notebook.

  Ash patted down his trousers and located a pen; he then began to write,

  November 11th 2043

  Today is Armistice Day.

  On this day in 1918, hostilities ceased as the war headed towards its eventual end. However, history repeated itself in 1939, and now again – a hundred years later.

  That’s what they’re calling it now – World War III. It doesn’t surprise me. We’ve had this coming for a while.

  I’m more than four years into my service, and the war has been long and arduous, but far from over.

  I have some news though; last night I witnessed strange shadows moving underneath the water, about a kilometre out to sea. This triggered an aerial attack from Australian fighter jets, but the shadows retaliated by opening fire and brought one of the jets down.

  The enemy then retreated. I still don’t know exactly what the shadows were, but it left the Australians running scared.

  Yours truly,

  Ash Griffin

  He then snapped the notebook shut and collected his belongings. He would begin the search for rainwater, and then find a suitable place to build a shelter.

  Ash strolled by the shore, consciously keeping his feet on the softer terrain.

  He returned to the cove. It was still shady and damp from the previous night’s rainfall, but much to Ash’s appeasement, the rainwater had fallen into a number of rocky trenches. There was enough there to last a week or so. Hopefully.

  The cove was still littered with debris too, but today new objects had washed up ashore.

  No bodies yet, but it was still early days.

  Ash scoured through the debris, finding more pieces of twisted metal and shrapnel. By luck, he also found some clothing – it was a jacket. It had belonged to a Royal Marines Commando, just
like himself. After just a moment of hesitation, Ash slipped into the jacket; it was marginally tighter than his own and he felt a little strange about wearing it, but it would prove to be useful in the cooler weather.

  He kept a keen eye out for a pair of shoes amongst the debris, but alas, there were none. Ash would have to remain barefoot.

  He was about to turn away and continue his search for freshwater, when a white sheet caught Ash’s attention.

  The white sheet was lying on the very edge of the shore and was continuously hit by the rising tide. Ash bent down, rolled up his pants and treaded across the wet sand.

  He approached the white sheet curiously, but then froze on the spot when he realised what it was.

  Not a white sheet. A parachute.

  Ash stumbled backwards, immediately on alert. Although he was certain he knew what it meant, the Southern Cross design inked across the top of the parachute confirmed his suspicions.

  He took a minute to compose himself. Ash didn’t want to jump to conclusions; perhaps the parachute could have washed up without its pilot?

  However, that possibility vanished the moment he spotted the boot-prints leading up from the sand and into the bushes.

  By some miracle, the pilot from the fighter jet had washed ashore. Alive.

  Ash stepped back and surveyed his surroundings. No movement. The island was calm and still. Regardless, Ash felt a fire brewing within his brain.

  The enemy had survived and was now somewhere on the island.

  A complication. No doubt.

  Worse still, Ash was completely unarmed. Hand-to-hand combat had never been his strong point, but if he could at least make his own weapon, he wouldn’t be as vulnerable.

  He just hoped the pilot was unarmed too.

  Crouching down, Ash tore the parachute into fragments. He used the largest piece of material to make a swag and tossed his belongings in the centre.

  No doubt the Australian pilot would be hostile. He needed to find that bastard and put him six feet under – otherwise, he would risk losing his life at the hands of the enemy.

  Throwing the swag over his shoulder, Ash prepared himself for the hunt and kill.

  4

  Death was imminent.

  Although Ash had taken a few necessary lives over the years, it had been quite some time since his last kill.

  However, that would change today. Ash refused to share the island with the enemy. Therefore, the Australian pilot would need to be eliminated. The only problem? Ash could not find his target.

  The Australian pilot had washed ashore – possibly armed – and had wandered into the depths of the bush land. Ash had followed the boot-prints in the sand, but he had walked far beyond the shore and the ocean could no longer be seen.

  He found himself surrounded by tightly packed trees along with wild, untamed shrubbery. With every step, Ash’s feet crunched down into the leaf litter. His toes sank into the cold layer beneath. He shivered.

  Consciously trying to keep the noise level to a bare minimum, Ash tried to walk slowly, but the dead leaves continued to crumble under his feet.

  By the same token, it would be near impossible for the pilot to make any movement without a sound, so occasionally Ash just stood still and tried to listen out.

  He heard nothing. Just birds.

  As he carried on through the bush, Ash feared that he would be helpless without a weapon. But what could he use? Ash scanned his eyes around the bush and spotted a thick stick lying amongst the decaying debris.

  Ash picked it up, tested it for sturdiness and then gave it a swing. It was a primitive tool and hardly a weapon, but he would have to make do. Ash could at least sharpen the end of the stick to make it look a little more threatening.

  He carried the stick with him until he came to a small clearing. Ash found himself standing on a flat stone. Placing his swag beside him, he pointed the stick to the rock and began to grind it against the surface. Bit by bit, he carved a prominent spike. By the end his hands were in blistering pain, but at least he no longer felt utterly defenceless.

  ***

  Hours passed.

  Still no sign of the pilot.

  Ash assumed his nemesis must’ve been moving around too, because he had searched almost every inch of the island, yet the target had not been sighted.

  Clutching his weapon across his chest, Ash ambled between the trees as he tried to maintain focus. His body still hadn’t recovered from the sea battle and the hunger pangs seemed to come in waves.

  He longed to lie down, curl up and rest until recovery – but he would never succumb to his weakness.

  Keep moving. Stay alert. Be on guard.

  In the heart of the bush, Ash found himself almost ankle deep in mud. He trod through the filth, but soon his feet were encased in the muck.

  He needed to find higher ground. He trekked through the dampness for a few hundred metres and came to a wide ditch, surrounded by fallen rocks and boulders. Inside the ditch, was another pool of fresh rainwater.

  He clambered down into the ditch, eager to quench his insatiable thirst. Ash then crouched down, placing his swag and stick beside him.

  For the first time in several days, he caught his reflection in the shimmering water. He looked a mess. Barely recognisable. His dark hair was laced with sand, his eyes were sunken and cuts littered his body.

  Before Ash could wallow in self-pity, he counted his blessings. At least he was still alive. For now.

  Ash cupped two hands together and dipped them into the pool. He carefully scooped up the water and brought it to his lips. He managed to drink it down with only a few droplets escaping.

  Just as he went to go for another dip, a smear of red caught his attention, directly across the ditch. Ash grabbed his stick, stood up and then approached the smear with caution.

  Blood. On the rocks.

  Ash placed two fingers in the red liquid. Still fresh. The enemy was close.

  As if a switch had suddenly flicked on inside his head, Ash felt a hit of adrenaline run riot through his body. Part of him enjoyed the sensation, but another part loathed the fact a chemical reaction could control him so effortlessly.

  Ash grabbed his swag, climbed out of the ditch and surveyed the scene. He spotted his own muddy footprints to the west, but then noticed freshly trampled long grass directly ahead of him. His senses at an all-time high, Ash carefully crept towards the long grass with utmost care. Creeping forward like a lion on the prowl, he held his weapon out in front.

  Ash had only followed the trodden grass for a short distance when he found what he was searching for.

  The pilot. He was there, leaning up against a tree less than forty feet away. He had his back turned to Ash, moaning in agony.

  The bastard was injured. Perfect. The pilot would prove to be no match for Ash. In fact, it almost seemed too easy.

  Keeping himself hidden, Ash knelt down in the long grass behind a fallen tree. He watched his enemy. The pilot wore midnight blue cargo pants, matched with a hooded wind-breaker.

  There was a velvet stain on his sleeve. Ash could almost smell the blood in the air.

  Just as he began to calculate his next move, the pilot pulled himself off the tree and limped into a clearing. When the pilot finally removed the windbreaker, Ash realised he’d made a false assumption.

  The pilot was not a man, but a woman.

  Ash stared in disbelief, stunned by the revelation. The pilot was petite, with a defined waistline and she had her long black hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. But the real giveaway? Breasts. She wore a fitted grey t-shirt, accentuating her bust.

  Had he gender stereotyped? Yes. Guilty as charged.

  But the fact was indisputable. The pilot was female, and now Ash found himself conflicted. The chemicals inside his brain fired up once more.

  Although it was hardly uncommon for women to sign up to the air force these days, there were still very few female pilots. He had only come across two his entire career.

/>   In a moment of clarity, Ash knew he was only trying to justify his own sexist assumption. He had undeniably jumped to conclusions.

  Still, he was second-guessing himself. His plan didn’t seem as simple anymore.

  Ash had killed men before, but never a woman.

  The lives he had taken had all been in self-defence too, but to kill an injured woman? No doubt he would sink to a new low.

  A cry echoed through the bush as the pilot dropped to the ground and wailed. She nursed her arm, cradling her beaten body. It was hard to distinguish the full extent of her impairments, but she was hurt. Badly. In fact, her survival suddenly seemed far more remarkable than his.

  Gripping his stick ever tighter, Ash knew he needed to make a decision.

  He acknowledged his empathy towards the wounded pilot, but he could not let his emotions cloud his judgement.

  They were at war. There would be no mercy for the antagonist.

  The pilot’s gender was a moot point – she was still the enemy. No doubt she would kill him if she had the chance, so he was left with no other choice.

  Ash would remain in the shadows; wait for the sun to set, and then make his attack in the darkness.

  5

  She had barely moved an inch.

  The hours came and went, but the pilot had remained in the same clearing, fading in and out of consciousness.

  Ash had stayed in position, watching and waiting. He had placed his swag by his feet, but had both hands wrapped around his weapon. One quick jab should be enough to finish her off.

  He was almost starting to see it as a favour to her. The pilot was not in good health and Ash had the power to put her out of her misery.

  However, another part of him felt like she deserved to suffer.

  Ash shook the thoughts from his mind. He was starting to overthink the situation, and even the smallest sliver of doubt could put him in peril.

  He tried to lock his mind on the one objective; kill.

  Although night had now fallen, it was almost a full moon. The light shone down on the island and visibility was at its best. Ash could clearly see his target curled up in the foetal position, but if he moved too quickly, no doubt he would be spotted in the moonlight.