Once inside the ship, Nash was hit by a pervasive odour of diesel oil and fish sauce with a hint of septic. The Albany’s paintwork was scuffed to bare metal in high traffic zones, and the red linoleum floor was chipping off in large flakes. Screws were missing in door frames and exposed wiring was evident in light fittings. Kaboro, however, was upbeat.

‘She’s a first-class boat,’ he rumbled proudly, as they stood on the bridge. ‘Fremantle class, built 1981. Original displacement 220 tonnes, forty-one metres long, twin diesels making 3000 horsepower.’

Nash ran a finger along the rusty frame of the windshield.

‘How will she stand shipping a swell?’

‘We brought her over from Java, no problem. Don’t worry, Mr Nash, we’ll take care of you.’

He led Nash below to a junior officers’ cabin which contained a bunk bed, a battered aluminium wardrobe, and a small desk and chair – all bolted down. There was no air conditioning, not even a porthole. An old fan in a dangerously corroded cage tried to stir the hot air. The bottom bunk had already been claimed, with a grubby green kitbag spilling cartons of cigarettes. Three cases of beer were shoved underneath.

Remembering Douglas’s sleep-murdering apnoea, Nash figured it was probably too late to amend the contract, and shoved his rucksack on the top bunk.

‘Excellent,’ said Kaboro. ‘Now to your equipment.’

Down in the forward hold, Nash was relieved that the steel hull looked solid. Kaboro supervised the unloading of the dive gear. He seemed a capable leader, staying patient with the irascible Douglas, who insisted on manning the crane, and lowering material before they were ready, and ensuring that everything was securely stowed by three young servicemen who were exceedingly polite.

When they were finished, Kaboro wiped his scalp with a handkerchief.

‘Come on, I’ll introduce you to Saworno.’

The tiny Javanese ex-navy engineer was busy greasing a bearing on the starboard engine. Nash figured he was in his mid-sixties. Behind thick round glasses, his eyes were good-humoured.

‘Saworno worked on this ship for years until they were both mothballed,’ explained Kaboro, with a straight face. ‘There’s no better spare part in the inventory.’

Beaming at the joke, the engineer revealed snaggled yellow teeth.

‘These engines are like my wife.’ He patted one of the 16-cylinder behemoths. ‘They go like the crappers.’

Later, as the sun sank quickly in the tropical sky, Nash shared a few ice-cold South Pacific lagers with Douglas and Kaboro, while Saworno stuck with iced tea. Dinner was a spicy Fairfax Harbour fish masala, whipped up by the ship’s cook, Ensign Faiwalati, during which Kaboro and Saworno exchanged sea stories and amusing anecdotes on the ineptitude of their respective armed forces.

‘Rest assured, Mr Nash,’ Kaboro added, ‘our Long-Range Reconnaissance group are solid men who train with your Aussie SAS. A squad will join us on the lower Sepik.’

‘Do you expect trouble?’