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know them well enough to get us to that village?’
    Timbu looked at Wilkes and wondered what the soldier was thinking. ‘No, afraid I don’t. The jungle out there’s so thick you could walk three metres from the edge of a village of a thousand people and not know it’s there. One of these men could take you,’ he said, indicating the locals, ‘but I’d have to go with you as interpreter.’
    ‘How about it? Feel like a stroll?’
    Timbu took a deep breath. ‘It’s tough out there, in the jungle, but I guess you know that,’ he said.
    Wilkes nodded.
    Laughter and squeals of delight interrupted them as the women of the village presented gifts to Loku, Pelagka and the soldiers: their very own kotekas. Sergeant Wilkes was given the largest of them all, and there was much backslapping and eye-rolling to go with it. When the food and presentations were over, the village men lit enormous marijuana cigars. Wilkes and his troop declined when offered but the smoke hung around the fires and the conversation soon became quite silly even between those not dragging directly on the enormous cigars.
    Wilkes’s Wankers had accompanied Loku and his party back to Mt Hagen when the voting had concluded. But now they were heading back to the village, returning with the wounded highlanders, who’d had their injuries dressed.
    The village looked small from above as the Blackhawk descended through a thousand feet towards it. Wilkes preferred the view from above rather than the blind approach on the track through the jungle. The village was cut out ofthe surrounding bush, the terminus for the road, the end of the line. If you wanted to go any further, it was machete time.
    He checked the man on the stretcher beside him. The wounded foot was set in a fibreglass cast, a big ski boot. The man appeared anxious, eyes darting left and right. Sergeant Wilkes smiled at him, hoping to provide some reassurance that the popping between his ears was normal. The highlander had been reasonably calm once the helo was airborne and settled into its cruise, but he’d been unconscious during his first chopper ride, so the descent was a new experience. He heaved once and then vomited on himself before Littlemore could get a bag under his chin.
    ‘Poor bugger,’ Beck yelled through the din.
    ‘Why?’ said Sergeant Wilkes in Beck’s ear. ‘He looks pretty comfy to me.’ Wilkes envied the man his stretcher. Sitting on the bare floor of a Blackhawk was one of life’s lesser experiences as far as he was concerned. Squatting on your pack was the only alternative. Timbu chose the hard, unforgiving deck. Lance Corporal Ellis and Troopers Littlemore and Beck had decided to come along, giving up some leave to do so. They each had enough ratpacks to last five days in the jungle. With the exception of Timbu, who didn’t know one end of a pistol from the other, the men carried weapons – Minimis for Ellis and Littlemore, M4/203s for Wilkes and Beck. Technically speaking it was illegal for the Australians to be carrying firearms because they were not working in an official capacity but, in the unmapped reaches of one of the most unexplored mountain ranges on earth, it was unlikely they’d be pulled upand questioned about it. And it would have been plain dumb not to bring them. They’d be tracking people who were armed to the teeth, and not likely to be friendly. This time, Wilkes also brought along a few flash-bangs.
    The Blackhawk flared twenty metres from the ground, and its downwash flattened one grass structure and blew away two more. The young boys and girls from the village gathered dangerously close to the helo and spun around, arms outstretched, until they fell over giddy. A large number of men and women also came to greet the helo, this time armed with smiles rather than spears, led by the chief. The men hopped out of the Blackhawk, then turned and hauled their packs out. The pilot and co-pilot checked that their rotors were clear, the pitch of the