With agonising clarity, he recalled all the stupid decisions that had led him to this moment. An idle rich boy with a red-carpet military career and secure postings which had never put him in the line of fire, he’d lived it up with wine, women and song until a gambling addiction exploded the fantasy and beggared his parents. That had led to dereliction of duty under the influence. About to be dishonourably discharged, an eleventh-hour covert offer from the Suyantos had been a lifeline too good to refuse. Hartono burst out into manic laughter as he recalled assuring Goki he was ‘cool as a cucumber under fire’. Ten minutes was all it had taken for him to understand that Ricki ‘Maverick’ Hartono was a show pony – and a show pony he would happily stay, if he could just get away from these fucking maniacs.

The desirable safety margin for warming up a Jet Ranger was four minutes. Hartono’s instinct told him three was enough, for already the accelerating rotor had been struck by several arrows. Taking hold of the cyclic, he lifted off. A scrambling Boerman barely had time to leap onto the skids before they veered out over the river.

The big man wrenched open the rearmost passenger door and thumped down on the back seat in a sea of ammunition belts.

‘What the fuck was that?’ he snarled, protectively cradling the M60 like a small child. ‘Try that again and I’ll fucking cut your yellow heart out.’

Avoiding eye contact, Hartono ascended rapidly to a height of 250 metres. From there, it looked as if the ship had merely stopped for a quiet nibble of the riverbank.

Boerman leaned through the seats and snapped off several shafts threatening to poke out Hartono’s eyes. Then, he extended his seat belt and looped it around the back of his heavy canvas belt. Cocking the M60, he opened the rear door and placed his boots on the skids.

‘Take me in from behind,’ he ordered. ‘Low and fast.’

Hartono was thinking about questioning the wisdom of this strategy, when a sudden white streak flashed from the Albany. The dense thickets of grass burst into flames which began to spread rapidly.

Boerman grinned. ‘Now we’ll flush them out.’

Hartono gritted his teeth and put the chopper into a dive.

Kunai grass may be green, but its phenolic compounds burn with the fury of petrol. Like lines of Chinese crackers, the stalks exploded, sending shards of burned and burning grass high into the air, trailing plumes of white choking smoke. A terrible crackling roar filled the air, growing louder and louder as the flames sucked in more air.

Someone began screaming in anguish. Daniel looked to the top of the bank where, surrounded by flames three times his height, a man was stumbling in a circle as he was roasted alive. The stench of it was being blown in his direction, and he knew he had to get away.