Under the protective gaze of Singkepe and his two best sharpshooters, Nash organised port and starboard teams equipped with all the tools they could muster. Ladders were lashed to the sides of the ship so they could clamber down to the slop. There weren’t enough shovels, so they used oars, buckets, bowls, even bare hands, to scoop the mud away from the hull. Soon they were covered in the sticky stuff, scraping, hacking and hurling the clods behind them. It was back-breaking work and Douglas declared his hangover to be the worst in six decades of excess. Watching the old pilot staggering about with mud smeared all over him, Nash took pity and told him to take a break.

‘Penance, Robbie, once it’s sweated out I’ll be fine.’

‘Remember to hydrate, Mr Douglas.’ Kaboro offered a canteen.

‘Stuff that. You got a ciggie, Saworno? Left mine up top.’

The old engineer pulled out a crumpled pack and shook one loose. Nash had insisted Kaboro keep him apart from the Indonesian contingent. Saworno could shed no light on Shangri-La’s true intentions, and Nash believed him when he said that he had been hired simply to keep the engines going.

Pushing carefully through the long spiky grass, Nash made his way around the bow to check progress on the port side. As much as he didn’t trust the Indonesians, it would have been stupid not to accept Sura’s offer of help. He noted Hartono was already flagging, looking hard done by and stopping too often, whereas Sura was working with a will in a Gucci jumpsuit that would never look the same. Again, Nash found himself wondering what was driving her, for her output was only exceeded by Boerman, who was a human excavator, chopping out great clumps of mud with a mattock, flinging them carelessly towards Faiwalati and the other PNGDF men, who kept having to duck.

As the sun exerted its authority, morale began to waver. In near total humidity, fighting the muck sticking tenaciously to tools and feet was exhausting. After four gruelling hours, Nash realised it would take days to make a serious impression on the mud gripping the ship’s sides. They required a mechanical solution.

‘We need some kind of power jet,’ he announced, over Faiwalati’s lunch of stir-fried leftovers.

Boerman spat over the side. ‘You see an equipment hire around here, Nash?’

‘No, but you have pumps, don’t you?’