Savanarolova pored over the satellite image of Solitude that was resting on a flight case in the command tent.  She had already consigned much of the geography of the island to memory but since she had not expected to be on Solitude during the operation, she thought she had better work from a real image rather than a remembered one.   Her finger traced routes already established from locations already in use.  It travelled over the photo from the southern bay to the camp, and then from the eastern bay, where she had made landfall, to the same place.  Then she traced the rout from the camp to her prime objective, as well as the directions that the escapees had taken.  Lastly, she lingered on the area where the hostiles were thought to have fired from, to the north of the camp and uncomfortably close to the route to the primary goal.  Not liking what she saw, she scowled.  Too much of her firepower was being overstretched.  Tapping her fingers, she thought carefully over the disposition of her forces.  Not able to see a way of concentrating them again until the fugitives were detained, she shrugged, folded up the image and straightened up.

“Trouble, madam?”  Munro enquired politely in his Scottish growl.

“Always, Munro, but we just have to cope,”  she replied, frowning, running a hand through her stubbly hair.  What she had not told Winthrop-Smythe was her schedule.  She needed to secure the primary objective in as short a time as possible.  Her original plan already had a path cut to the primary by the advance party, with the whole area secured so that excavations could proceed.  That timescale was now in ruins.  She didn’t even have a path yet, and there was no knowing how long it would be before Winthrop-Smythe could release the men. 

However, if there was one bright spark on the horizon, it was Winthrop-Smythe’s staggering lack of curiosity.  Never once had he asked what the primary objective was.  He had accepted the TV crew cover story quite happily, as well as the travel arrangements by seaplane, without asking why Savanarolova did not simply land the party from her cruiser covertly.   That had been impossible.  The cruiser was not hers to use in such a way.  Her employers would not stand for it.  The only connection to the mercenaries that they were prepared to allow was her.  She was a little disappointed that Winthrop-Smythe had been so easy to intimidate but she had to admit that having him under her thumb was an awful lot more reassuring.  It would never do if the man took it upon himself to take control of the operation now that the original plan was so much toilet paper.  He had to know that she was the boss.  She chuckled ironically to herself; Winthrop-Smythe was proving quite malleable for a hard man.

Was it von Moltke who said that no plan survives first contact with the enemy?  She wished she had that German master tactician with her now.  It certainly wouldn’t hurt.  Even though he had been dead for a century he would still be more useful than Winthrop-Smythe. Still, why have expendables unless you were prepared to go shopping?

She decided on a route.  It would take her to the primary.  The key thing was to secure the site before the hostiles, which meant she had to get boots on the ground before they did.  Only she knew how to gain access the primary objective and it may be that by getting there first, she could deny her enemy entrance.  If Winthrop-Smythe could not rid her of these hostiles, she could have a back up plan that allowed for negotiation with them.  That may reduce the overall profit for the operation but as she looked around the camp she considered further savings to her budget that Mr Munro could take care of.  Munro was very good at taking care of things, making sure they were buried good and deep.

However, it was always good manners to say your farewells.  At least that’s what her mother used to say.  “Max!”  she barked at the mercenary, who visibly flinched.  He sauntered over to her as laconically as possible but she enjoyed the way his eyes betrayed his nervousness.  “Mr Munro and I will take our leave of you.  We are going to find a way to the primary that isn’t straight up the volcano from here.  That route will be watched by our friends up there.” She pointed vaguely in the direction of the volcano.  “Continue the mission as planned as soon as your recon is complete.  Neutralise the hostiles if possible.  If not then distract them.”  She picked up her belt kit that Munro had unpacked and prepared for her, along with a holstered Skorpion machine pistol and her rucksack.  “You’ll hear from us shortly.  Be prepared to drop what you are doing immediately, if I request it.”  She paused then emphasised this last point, “Immediately.  Do you understand, Max?”

The Englishman nodded grimfaced.  Savanarolova smiled at him mirthlessly and turned her back on him, walking over to Munro.  “Let’s go!”  she ordered the Scotsman.  Winthrop-Smythe watched them leave the camp the very same way that they had come in. 

If I didn’t need this job to pay off so much, I’d wish you a speedy bon voyage to Hell, you vile woman, Winthrop-Smythe thought.  Grimacing, he went back to the command tent and his radio headset.  He replaced the headset on his head and spoke into the microphone, “All units, report in!”

         ***                               

Jones shook his head as Winthrop-Smythe’s voice buzzed tinnily in his earpiece.  Can’t he leave us to get on with our job?  We’ve only been on patrol for half an hour, for crying out loud!  He had organised the recon team pretty smartly after that witch, Savanarolova, turned up.  After seeing the way she’d handled Winthrop-Smythe, he hadn’t fancied upsetting her more than he had to.  He figured that the next person she made a point with, it would be a point made forcefully - and fatally.

The patrol had gone north from the camp in line formation, the men spaced out every ten metres with Jones near the centre. Red, Chalky, Nobby, Smudger, Dixie, Spud, Buck, Timber and Windy all stalked carefully between the trees, moving slowly, pausing every few paces to peer down their gun sights at the forest around them.

The quiet of the forest was unnerving after the chaos of the morning, when the wildlife around them had been startled into a discordant cacophony of shrieks and twittering.  As they crept along, making little to no noise themselves apart from the crunching of dry vegetation underfoot, Jones considered the mission ahead.  He knew exactly what had shelled the beach that morning and he was not happy about going to find it.  It smacked of recklessness.  A small team like his going up against heavy weapons that were probably dug in?  Mad.  When he had been in the Army, missions like this were taken on with a certain amount of pre-planning and backup.  Here there had been almost no planning save for Winthrop-Smythe’s casual, “Go up there and take that lot with you”. As for backup, what backup?  Winthrop-Smythe and a couple of others?  If Jones came into contact with anything that he could not handle then he certainly didn’t expect that stuck up public schoolboy to be able to do anything about it.  He spat disgustedly onto a tree trunk as he passed it, the gob running down the bark glutinously.  Flipping Winthrop-Smythe, what a muppet!

“Alpha Team, reporting in!”  he said over the radio.  Best keep the officers happy - he’d learned that in the Army – that way they’d leave you alone so that you could actually get on with your work.  “We’re at Checkpoint Hotel.  All’s well.  Will report in at Checkpoint India.  Will maintain radio silence until then.”  That told the overanxious plonker!

By mid morning the going had become somewhat harder.  The slope of the land had become steeper and the coastal forest had changed to something more like rain forest.  Sticky, wet mud clung to their boots, making them slip over the uneven ground.  Very soon each man in the line was plastered with the stuff up to their knees. The ground was more broken with large black boulders, some as big as houses, dotting the forest and nasty, ankle snapping fissures waiting beneath tangled vines, creeping plants and thickly sprouting ferns.   Their view through the forest was becoming more restricted, as plants and trees grew closer together, intertwining, straining against one another to reach the light far above the forest canopy.   Jones was reasonably happy about this. It may mean the hostiles had plenty of cover to dig in behind but it also meant that he and his team had a chance of rushing them whilst remaining hidden in the darkness beneath the leaves.  Slowly does it, he thought, slowly does it and stay alive.

Finding water to replace what was in the team’s bottles could be hard, Jones thought.  No running water showed up on the photos they had of Solitude.  In the steamy, hot air between the trees, they would soon use up what they had, especially as they were beginning to work hard.  Sweat sodden shirts clung to their limbs, chafing them, only adding to their discomfort as flying insects swarmed over their exposed skin.  I bleeding hate jungles, Jones thought, brushing away the flies from around his nose and eyes.

He glanced along the line and signalled for them to draw a little closer together.  With the poor visibility, he preferred to see more of his team.  He did not want anyone getting lost from the main group.

A soft whistle from down the line caught his attention.  Spud was signalling contact.  He quickly brought the team to a halt, weapons brought to their shoulders. 

“Target tank, fifty metres dead ahead!”  Spud called quietly.

The men shifted uneasily and unconsciously ground themselves a little deeper into, or behind their chosen cover.  A tank!  Nobody had talked about the possibility of going up against armour on this operation!  What kind of joke shop was this?

Staying in cover, reassuring men as he passed behind their positions, Jones quickly made up the distance to Spud.  “What you got, Spuddy my boy?” he asked.

Spud pointed.  Between the trees was the unmistakeable angular shape of an armoured vehicle, well camouflaged though it was, being covered with a quite amazingly complicated arrangement of plant material.  He could make out a small turret, as well as the tube of a cannon pointing off to the left flank of their position.  A patch of sunlight glinted on the worn, bare metal of the muzzle, casting the circular opening into darkness.

There was something wrong.  Jones couldn’t quite place it but there was something very wrong.  From what he could see of the shape of the tank, it did not seem like anything in current production.  That did not matter, mind.  An old tank was as dangerous as a new tank to a small team like his. However, it just looked antique.

“Hold your positions!”  he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper on the team’s radio channel.  “I’m going to take Spud with me round to the right. We’ll close on the target and get a proper eyeful of it.  Hold your fire!”

“We’re closing on that?”  Spud complained.  “Flipping bleeding heck!”

“Shut up whinging and get your backside moving!”  Jones shot back angrily.

They skirted to the right of their formation, ducking below boulders and keeping themselves in cover.  Jones and Spud moved quickly when they could, or crawled on their bellies over the slimy ground, tearing their clothes on snags of sharp rock that pocked up through the mud.  Within ten minutes they had circled round to the rear of the tank.  Keeping their heads down, expecting at any moment for the vehicle to roar into life and start blasting large calibre, high velocity rounds at their position, they waited, unsure of their next move.

“There’s something really odd about this.  Who ever heard of armour lying out in the open like this without supporting troops?  Why haven’t we been challenged yet?”  Jones commented to Spud.  “You know, it’s almost like there’s no-one there?”  He looked carefully at the foliage that had been placed over the vehicle to improve its concealment.  If it had been placed by the tank crew then they’d done an amazing job.  It almost looked as if it had grown over the tank.

A light bulb went off in Jones’ head.  All those plants had grown over the tank.  “Hold on here in case something happens, Spud,”  he ordered.  Cautiously moving out from behind the boulder that he had been hiding behind, Jones approached the tank. 

All the time expecting the turret to swivel in his direction, he stepped up to the vehicle, trying to keep as low as he could and remain in the blind spot to the rear.  Heart pounding in his chest and sweat trickling down inside his clothes from the tension, crouched behind the tank’s exhausts.   No movement other than his disturbed the forest, no mechanical sound cut through the still air. 

The tank was small and of a very old design.  There were protective low earth embankments piled around the front and sides of the tank, as if it had been prepared for a defensive battle.  It reminded him of something but he could not quite place it.  Beneath the creepers and St John’s Bean that covered the vehicle in a tangled net, the paint was new, though there was evidence of mechanical wear – bare metal on raised panels shone dully in the gloom of the forest.  It looked liked it had been parked up that morning, apart from the plant growth, which looked like it had taken years to develop.  Jones reached up and put his hand on the engine compartment.  Cold.  Well, here goes, he thought.  He quickly scrambled on to the back of the tank, stepping carefully between the vines so as not to trip, and made his way to the turret.   Pulling a vine back that snaked over the hatch, he tested it gently then finding it unlocked, yanked it open and stuck the muzzle of his assault rifle into the opening below.

Silent darkness rewarded his efforts.  Silent like a grave, Jones thought. With a low whistle he summoned the patrol, beckoning them over with his arm.

“Well, would you look at that!”  said Dixie, a small, round faced man with flinty, cruel eyes.  “A Chi Ha!”

“Gesundheit!”  joked Red.

“No, you prat, a Chi Ha tank- it’s a Japanese tank from World War Two,” Dixie retorted. “Wow, look at its condition, it’s practically mint.”  Dixie continued to jabber on, walking around the vehicle, admiring it in the loud monotone of the enthusiast who does not mind boring his audience, “It’s got an air cooled Mitsubishi diesel engine, fifty-seven millimetre main gun, a couple of machine guns and that funky armoured aerial!”  He pointed to a strange semi-circular tube that ran like a handrail around the forward section of the turret.  “Allied troops could blow these away with heavy machine guns and bazookas, probably even use can openers on them.  It was a real piece of junk!”  Daring them to find fault with his verdict, Dixie glared at the other members of the patrol.

“What?  This is a World War Two tank?”  Jones asked.

“Yep.  And a real beauty too.  There’s not too many of these left in this condition, it’s practically straight out of the Tokyo factory,” Dixie said. “Got to be worth a bomb!”

“Well, how the heck did it get here then, smart guy?”  asked Red, the only American in the patrol.  “And do you also want to tell me who dug it in like this?”

That was a puzzle.  Who had taken an antique tank, in near mint condition, shipped it out to a remote South Pacific Island, hauled it up through a rain forest, dug it in to the hillside in a classic defensive position and then spent decades letting the forest reclaim the land?  Where was the crew?  Who would abandon it like this?  Why was it here?

These were not questions that Jones could answer on his own.  He could see that there was more to Solitude than met the eye, and then some.  It was time to get some of the limited backup that was available to the patrol.  Pressing the throat-microphone closely to his neck, he got on the radio to Winthrop-Smythe, “Alpha Team to Base, Alpha Team to Base.”   Perhaps the Savanarolova woman would have some answers for him, Jones thought as he waited for a response.

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