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thump-thump changed and the large, heavy machine rose from the ground on a swirling cone of dust, leaves and grass. The chief walked towards them with both hands outstretched in welcome. ‘Gude,’ he said. Hello.
    Wilkes returned the pleasantries. ‘Moning. Yu stap gut? Good morning . Are you well?
    ‘Mi stap gut,’ said the old chief, nodding and smiling. The men shook hands warmly as if the parting had been for months rather than a couple of days. When the chief could be heard more clearly against the noise of the departing helo, he patted Wilkes on the back and said, ‘Taim san i go daun i gat bigpela singsing.’
    He wants us to stay tonight for another feast, Wilkes thought, taking a few seconds to translate what was little more than a mumble and formulate a reply: thanks, but we’ve got a long road ahead and we need to hurry. ‘Nogut, tenku. Rot i longpela. Mipela hariup.’
    ‘Hey, not bad,’ said Timbu.
    ‘Can you ask him about a guide? Got no idea how to say that,’ said Wilkes a little self-consciously.
    The old man nodded occasionally as Timbu spoke. He then addressed the Australians and Timbu translated: ‘He understands that we’re keen to be on our way. And he’s lending us one of his sons to be our guide.’
    The chief turned and said something quickly to his people, and a boy of around fourteen stepped forward. His black skin glistened with sweat in the morning heat. There was not an ounce of fat on him. His face was open and friendly beneath close-cropped hair bleached an ochre colour. Overly large teeth crowded into a mouth that stretched from ear to ear as he grinned. A small collection of ornaments hung from his neck and, around his waist, the penis gourd. ‘Nem bilong mi Muruk,’ he said.
    ‘Tom,’ said Wilkes, shaking the boy’s hand. ‘Mi amamas long mitim yu, Muruk,’ he added politely. Pleased to meet you.
    ‘Er…don’t know whether you’ve noticed, boss, but he’s a boy,’ said Ellis, knowing how arduous the next few days would be.
    ‘To them he’s a man,’ said Timbu. ‘And if you don’t accept, the chief will think you question his judgment, which would be considered rude. Besides, this is the boy’s home. The jungle’s the kid’s backyard. There’s no way the chief would put him forward if he didn’t think he was man enough for the job.’
    ‘Sounds reasonable,’ said Wilkes. ‘Tell the chief that we’re honoured his son will be our guide.’ He knew that sending his son wasn’t such a big deal, but it didn’t hurt tobe polite. The people here were polygamists. The chief had maybe twenty wives and God knows how many offspring. Half the men in the tribe were probably his.
    Timbu thanked the chief and the village men mingled with the soldiers, nodding and smiling.
    ‘We should get going, eh?’ said Sergeant Wilkes after a few minutes. It was already 0900 hours and he was impatient to get underway. Just because he and his men were now officially tourists in PNG rather than soldiers on duty for the Australian government, it didn’t mean they could relax. That they weren’t performing an official task meant this ‘mission’ would not have the benefit of any intelligence. Time was therefore of the essence. The last contact with the gunrunners was just a few days ago. After further questioning of the warriors from the village who’d seen these foreigners, there was no certainty about whether they were on their way to conduct business, or leaving after having concluded it. And if they were heading out, what was their destination? The more Wilkes considered it, the more he thought that perhaps he was on a fool’s errand, and should be sitting on a quiet beach somewhere with a cold beer on one side and Annabelle on the other. Indeed, once they’d left the highlands, Wilkes had had second and third thoughts about becoming further involved in this guns-for-drugs mess. They could conceivably land in a shitload of trouble with the authorities back home. But