‘Half these people have mobile phones, Mr Douglas,’ chided Kaboro.

‘How many are stolen?’

Nash grimaced. ‘Sorry, Lieutenant, he’s always a bit of a dickhead in the morning – aren’t you, Frank?’

Minutes passed in silence, and then the thatched rooftops of another settlement came into view. Nash realised it was the same village seen from a different perspective. The river was a coiled maze of deep meanders, radical U-shaped bends, some of which over time would erode to become ox-bow lakes adjacent to the main channel. It was how the Sepik ran for 1100 kilometres, when the mountains from which it sprang were just one third that distance from the sea.

‘Just how far is it navigable?’ he asked Kaboro.

The lieutenant tapped a long finger on the chart. ‘Large vessels have officially been recorded as far as the May river junction, which is 756 kilometres upriver. However, in wetter years the river rises by as much as eight metres. It is conceivable you could travel much further then.’

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Angoram, East Sepik Province, Papua New Guinea

The shanty town sweltering in the heat was a mixture of traditional thatched huts and rough corrugated iron shacks. A solid concrete wharf was the only reminder that this had once been the administrative hub of German New Guinea, and for fifty years after that a key Australian outpost.

Kaboro posted two armed sailors on the dock to keep the growing crowd of curious men and women at bay. Dressed in shabby Western clothes, their cheeks were stuffed with betel nut – a mildly stimulating berry– and the concrete was soon covered with the fresh red pulp they spat out. Nash was keen to go ashore and stretch his legs, but Douglas indicated a group of young men, sporting spiked haircuts and sunglasses, in possession of the only vehicle – a surprisingly late model Toyota Hilux.

‘See those jokers over there? Soon as you’re round the corner, they’ll empty your pockets and cut your head off.’

‘Raskols?’

Nash was surprised. They didn’t fit the stereotype of bush-variety bandits wielding home-made shotguns.

An enthusiastic honking presaged the arrival of an old troop carrier with faded police markings. A nervy-looking constable navigated carefully through the throng. Sitting beside him was a thickset army NCO. When the vehicle had come to a halt, he jumped out to release a squad of soldiers from the rear. Five sweaty men unfolded themselves and a mountain of kit. Their M16A2 assault rifles looked suitably dangerous.

The NCO shouldered his way through the villagers and climbed up the ladder to meet Kaboro. With his massive neck and shoulders, he looked like undiscovered rugby talent. Stamping his boot down, he fired off a stiff salute.

‘Sergeant Singkepe, Long-Range Reconnaissance Group.’

Kaboro looked back along the road and frowned. ‘You were supposed to be escorting a fuel delivery for my ship, Sergeant.’