Jaap frowned. ‘It will be a controlled demolition, Nash. Do you have a problem with that?’

Alatas raised an eyebrow. ‘How many torpedoes are we talking about?’

Sura consulted her notes on the Sentoku weapon systems.

‘Assuming none were fired, twenty half-tonne warheads, plus several tonnes of bombs, and in the hangar, there are light torpedoes for the seaplanes.’

‘That’s at least thirteen tonnes of high explosive!’ Alatas turned to Jaap and shook his head. ‘Are you barking mad? You will cut your way inside with the oxy – do you understand?’

Jaap flushed.

‘That means no explosives! Acknowledge.’

‘Ja, ja, I heard you the first time.’

Sura shot Jaap a warning look before checking her watch.

‘It’s already 1700 hours, which means we only have two hours of daylight left.’

In a loud voice, she issued their instructions. A small group would ferry the oxyacetylene kit into the submarine so Boerman could cut through before dark. Another would relieve Ricki up at the cave. The rest would continue building the winch to remove the opium. Sura abruptly broke off as she realised the entire Kopassus contingent of thirteen was present.

‘Who, pray tell, is guarding Frank Douglas?’

Two soldiers at the rear stared at each other in alarm, then jumped to their feet and dashed out.

‘This is unacceptable.’ Sura glanced angrily at Alatas.

‘More like fucking incompetent,’ murmured Jaap cheerfully.

They heard yelling and then a moment later, one of the terrified guards burst back inside.

‘Dia tertidur! Dia tertidur!’

‘He’s asleep?’ Alatas guffawed. ‘Well, no harm done.’

‘I expect better, Kapten,’ Sura seethed.

He gave an indifferent laugh. ‘Shall I order a firing squad? Now, what say you and I partake of something stronger. I have some very nice Scotch whi—’

His words were drowned out by an almighty thunderclap that seemed to roll across the roof of the world. Heavy drops began thumping into the canvas, as if they wanted to punch right through it. Within seconds, the camp was enveloped in a deafening tropical downpour.

Sura silently cursed her luck. The wet had arrived.

Cursing, grunting and shouting, Nash and two soldiers hauled, pushed and fought the wet and slippery oxyacetylene kit up the long vertical passageway, using nothing but a short knotted rope and raw muscle power. It was exhausting, difficult and dangerous, not least because they had prudently positioned Nash below, but at least it cost them two crushed fingernails and a broken thumb when he slipped, leaving them no choice but to take the strain of the massive cylinder.

It took them almost an hour to manhandle it to the top deck, where Boerman impatiently waited. Free of the awful burden, Nash slumped against the inverted floor and tried to catch his breath.

‘Maybe next time you’ll keep your big mouth shut,’ snapped Boerman, pulling on a welding helmet. ‘Now fuck off and give me some space.’