‘Satan strike me dead! Last night at the cave!’

The only thing that could have stopped Jaap Boerman then was a heavy-calibre bullet between the eyes, perhaps two. With a strangled shriek of hate, the Afrikaner charged along the wildly swaying gantry towards the Kopassus trooper. Ripping the man’s gun free, he swatted him aside with a backhand that would have stunned a horse. With a howl of terror, the soldier tumbled through the air, legs and arms whaling.

Boerman raised the MP9 to his shoulder and emptied the entire magazine. Bullets sparked off steel, but the infernal Nash was too quick and dived into the milky green water.

‘Damn you!’

And then Boerman realised there was a much better way to make Nash pay.

‘Come on, move your ass!’ Kapten Alatas shouted at his soaked and exhausted men.

Already they had loaded a thousand kilos of gold into the crew compartment of the Mi-24 Hind, and there was still room for more.

‘Yes, yes, take it, take it!’ he yelled, pointing at what was left of Sura’s pile.

If she was stupid enough to leave twelve million US dollars lying about, he had no qualms about relieving her of it, but they needed to expedite before she flew overhead and called up her massive bule. Disturbed by the thought, Alatas signalled to the pilot to gun the twin Isotov turbines.

Wedged on a narrow isthmus between the sinkhole and the raging Hoosenbeck, the Hind’s enormous rotors quickly whipped up a hurricane, flinging tents and utensils into the sky. Alatas grinned at the sight of the big-titted doctor cowering in the lee of her guard. If not for her weight, which was worth around three million dollars, he would have happily got better acquainted with those beauties, but no matter, delayed gratification in the fleshpots of Bangkok would certainly suffice.

‘Come on!’ Alatas roared, anxious to be gone.

Battered by the downdraught and spray, his men fought to stow the last of the bullion.

One foot inside the gunship, his gut clenched when Sura’s Jet Ranger popped into view overhead. Then it exploded.

Blood drained from the kapten’s face. General Suyanto must have launched an attack!

‘Pergi, pergi, pergi!’ Go, go, go! he screamed at the pilot to take off.

They were barely off the ground when rounds starred the ballistic-resistant windscreen. Flinching, Alatas craned around in his seat. He was amazed to see it was old Frank Douglas, staggering in the massive prop wash, an archaic machine gun in his hands.

The kapten was not unduly worried, for the Hind’s cockpit was essentially a titanium tub. But then, at point-blank range, Douglas took aim at the stubby underwing pod containing the thirty-two rockets, that were so effective at turning native huts into bark splinters.

‘Take off, damn you –’