weapon and harnesses, until eventually my feet began to lose touch with the riverbed. I let myself go with the flow, kicking off from the mud like a child with a swimming float. The stream carried me with it, but I kept contact with the bottom to keep some control, alternately kicking and going with the current as if I was doing a moonwalk.

The loggers had been here and both sides of the river looked like a First World War battlefield, a wasteland of mud and tufted grass, just the odd dead tree left standing.

Because of the river's meandering route I had no idea how long it was going to take to get to the mouth, not that there was much I could do about it: I was committed.

After about half an hour, with the sun low but clearly in view, the jungle began to sprout up on either side of me, and as the foliage got denser it cut out more and more light. The sun wasn't yet high enough to penetrate the gap the river created in the canopy, so above me was just brilliant blue sky. Apart from the noise of the moving water, there was only the odd screech from more invisible birds up in the canopy.

I kicked along, keeping near the left bank, always having contact with the bottom as the river got wider. The opposite bank gradually got further away, looking as if it was another country now. The jungle gave way to mangrove swamp, making the place look like a dinosaur's backyard.

The river soon widened to well over one and a half Ks. As I rounded a particularly wide, gentle bend, I could see the Pacific Ocean lying just a K further downstream. In the far distance I could see two container ships, their funnels spewing smoke as the sun bounced off the calm, flat surface of the sea.

A lush green island sat out there five, maybe six Ks away.

I kept on going, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that would help me locate Sunburn.

The current was slowing and I moved downstream another five hundred metres.

Then, maybe two hundred metres from the river mouth, approaching me to my left, was a small, open- decked fishing boat that had been dragged up on to the bank and left to rot; its rear had collapsed altogether, leaving a skeleton of grey, rotting wood. As I got closer I could see there was a clearing beyond the boat in which stood a small wooden hut in a similar state of decay.

I floated past, my eyes scanning the area. There had been movement, fresh movement. I could clearly see the dark underside of some large ferns just up from the bank, and some of the two-foot-tall grass growing around the boat was interlaced where it had been walked through. Only tiny details, but enough. This had to be it, it had to be. There was no other reason for it to be here. But I couldn't see any sign in the mud leading from the bank.

I carried on for another fifty metres, with the ocean in front of me now, until the canopy took over and the boat disappeared. I touched bottom and slowly guided the jerry-can ashore.

Dragging the kit into the canopy, I got on my knees and unbuckled the harnesses and M-16. The weapon wouldn't need any preparation: a brief dip in a river wasn't going to stop it working.

I donned the first chest harness and adjusted the straps so that it hung lower than it should have, virtually around my waist. Then I put on the second, a bit above the first, adjusting it so it was at the bottom of my ribcage, and the third one higher still. I rechecked that all the mags were stored facing the correct way, so that as I pulled them out with my left hand the curve of the magazine would be facing away from me, ready to be slapped straight into the weapon. Finally, after rechecking chamber on the M-16,1 sat on the jerry-can for a minute or two longer, mentally adjusting and tuning myself in to the new environment. The coolness of the water on my clothes began to lose out to humid heat once more as I checked Baby-G. It was 7.19, and here I was, Rambo'd up, bitten half to death, my leg held together by a soggy bandage, and no plan except to use all my mags.

This would be my 'go, no-go' point. Once I moved from here there would be no turning back unless I fucked up totally and was running for my life. I looked down and watched the drips from the harnesses hit the mud, making little moon craters, not wanting to check my docs in my map pocket just in case the knots hadn't worked. This was wasting time, I was as ready as I was ever going to be, so just get on with it... Wiping my hair back with my fingers, I stood up, jumped up and down to check for rattles and that everything was secure. Then I removed the safety catch, pushing past single rounds, all the way to Automatic.

I moved towards the hut, pausing every few paces, listening for warnings from the birds and other jungle life, butt in my shoulder, trigger finger against the guard, ready to shoot and scoot with a full mag to scare, confuse and, with luck, kill while I broke contact.

The ground was a lot wetter and muddier here because we were at sea level. I wanted to get a move on but also had to take my time; I had to check the area around the hut, because it would be my only escape route. If the shit hit the fan it would be a case of straight down to the river, pick up the jerry-can, jump in and go for it, down to the sea. After that, well whatever.

Like a cautious bird rooting for food amongst the leaf litter, I squelched forward four paces per bound, my Timberlands heavy with mud, lifting my feet up high to clear the crap and mangrove vines on the jungle floor as I concentrated on the sun-bleached wooden hut ahead.

I stopped just short of the clearing, went slowly on to my knees in the mud and protective foliage, looked and listened. The only man-made sound around here was the water dripping from my clothes and chest harnesses on to the leaf litter.

The track leading into the canopy had been used recently, and something had been pulled along it that cut a groove through the mud and leaves. Either side of that groove were footprints that disappeared with the track into the trees. I hadn't seen any sign in the mud as I floated past, because it had been covered with dead leaves and maybe even had water poured over it to wash away the sign.

Past the bank, though, the sign was clear to see: stones pressed into the mud by boots, crushed leaves, broken cobwebs. I got up and started to parallel the track.

Within twenty paces I came across the Gemini, with a Yamaha 50 on the back. It had been dragged up the track and pulled off to the right, blocking my way. The craft was empty apart from a couple of fuel bladders and some fallen leaves. I was tempted to wreck it, but what was the point? I might be needing it myself soon, and destroying it would take time as well as alert them to my presence.

I moved on, and could still see masses of ground sign heading in both directions as the narrow track meandered around the trees. Still paralleling the track to my left, I started to move deeper into the canopy, using it as my guide.

Sweat trickled down my face as the sun rose and lit the gas under the pressure cooker. A heart-monitor bird was up in the canopy somewhere, and the crickets just never stopped. Soon the sun was trying to penetrate the canopy, shafts of bright light cutting down to the jungle floor at a forty-five-degree angle. My cargos had a life of their own, the weight of the wet, caked-on mud making them swing against my legs after each pace.

I patrolled on, stopping, listening, trying to keep up speed but at the same time not compromise myself by making too much noise. I continued checking left, right and above me, all the time thinking: What if? and always coming up with the same answer: Shoot and scoot, get into cover and work out how to box round and keep moving to the target. Only when I knew I was fucked would I try to head back to the jerry-can.

There was a metallic clang in the trees.

I froze, straining an ear.

For several seconds all I could hear was my own breath through my nose, then the clang rang out again. It came from straight ahead and just slightly off to my left.

Applying the safety catch with my right thumb, I went down slowly on to my knees, then on to my stomach. It was time to move slower than a sloth, but BabyG reminded me it was 9.06.

I inched forward on my elbows and toes, with the weapon to my right, exactly as I had done when I attacked the Land Cruiser, except that this time I was having to lift my body higher than I'd have wanted to stop the chest harnesses dragging in the mud.

I was panting: the crawl was hard work. I put out my hands, put pressure on my elbows and pushed myself forward with the tips of my toes, sinking into the mud.

Moving through the undergrowth six inches at a time, I could feel the gloop finding its way up my neck and forearms. I stopped, lifted my head from the jungle floor, looked and listened for more activity but still only heard my own breath, sounding a hundred times louder than I wanted it to. Every soft crunch of wet leaves beneath me sounded like the popping of bubble wrap

I was constantly looking for alarm trips wires, pressure pads, infrared beams or maybe even string and tin cans. I didn't know what to expect.

A mud-covered Baby-G now told me it was 9.21.1 made myself feel better about the time by thinking that at least I might finally be on target.

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