‘Apparently, the network has insisted on one of their own.’

‘Shit, can they do that?’ Nash was genuinely worried because flying out here demanded the best.

‘It’s in the contract.’ Douglas exhaled moodily. ‘And I’m now the highest paid gofer in television history.’

Usually, it was Nash who was the mover and shaker, and he felt bad. ‘Sorry, Uncle Frank.’

‘Nah, I’ll live.’

Nash glanced knowingly at the old pilot. ‘And how do you think you’ll go being Sura’s assistant?’

‘The woman’s a control freak!’ Douglas promptly took the bait. ‘I swear to God if I hear her say “do we understand each other?” one more time, I’m going to follow you into that cave myself.’

Nash chuckled. ‘It’s the military pedigree. Leave nothing to chance and assume everyone is an idiot.’

‘Well, you know me and military discipline.’ Douglas grinned. ‘Maybe my expertise in that department will loosen the ramrod up her arse.’

The general’s daughter was clearly used to getting her way. In recent emails, Sura had informed Nash that they would only begin detailed planning when her team joined the ship on the lower reaches of the Sepik. She had not addressed his request for the credentials of her dive crew, and Nash was consoling himself with the fact he could veto anything suboptimal, as per his contract.

They cleared a security checkpoint and drove down a long, straight road flanked by scrubby coastal forest. The dockyard was located on a baking isthmus, expanded by several million tonnes of earth and rocks to stabilise it against the northern wash of Fairfax Harbour. Inexplicably, the smooth bitumen road turned to gravel with the gates in sight. Douglas dropped back, cursing, as the truck ahead kicked up clouds of dust and flying stones. They passed rows of dilapidated storage sheds, various tanks, and rust-streaked infrastructure, until at last they came to a large concrete dry dock – currently flooded – in which a long grey vessel was moored.

‘There she is,’ said Douglas. ‘Isn’t she a beauty? Ex-Aussie, cutting-edge, before we flogged her to the Indo navy.’

It was an old patrol boat. But her sleek lines were compromised by a rough-looking helicopter pad welded onto the stern, and an incongruous-looking yellow crane in place of a deck gun. The ship looked deserted and run-down.

‘Was that back in the sixties, Frank? I thought you said the PNG navy were taking us upriver?’

‘Navy?’ Douglas guffawed. ‘Give me a break. The Papua New Guinea Defence Force has four shitty patrol boats, three of which don’t work on any given day because someone’s either spent the petrol money or stolen the spare parts.’

Nash was speechless. The idea of venturing into the raskol-infested interior of PNG – not to mention crossing into the Papuan war zone without armed protection – was something he would never have agreed to.