Savanarolova listened in to Jones’s report over her headset as she moved carefully through the forest with Munro.  She nodded slightly as the details were broadcast as if she were expecting something similar to have occurred.

“Madam?” Munro enquired, his great back brows beetling into a frown.

They had paused so that Savanarolova could concentrate on the radio message. She held up her hand for Munro to wait as she listened in with her other hand pressed to her earpiece so that she missed nothing that was said.  Jones’s report was that of a seasoned professional soldier, brief and to the point.  The patrol had advanced past Checkpoint Hotel and encountered an abandoned tank, astride their line of march, dug in.  That was fine.   It was the next part of the report that was interesting:  A pristine World War Two tank buried in the forest of a remote island, so perfect it could almost have come out of its barracks at the very least.  Jones did not waste time with conjecture, nor emotion.  He simply made his report and signed off.   An interesting man is our Mr Jones.  A thug, but a professional all the same.  A man who probably does not get flustered in an emergency.  A bit like our Mr Munro, she thought as the report finished. He could be useful, especially if Max becomes a liability.  Savanarolova filed that thought away for future consideration.

“Madam?”  Munro repeated.

She looked at the hulking figure of the Scot, silhouetted against the dappled light that trickled down from the canopy above, recalling some of the terribly violent events that she had witnessed him committing.  My God but he frightens me.  I hope never to be on the receiving end of Munro’s attention should the occasion ever arise. “Yes Mr Munro?”

“Are you ready to continue?” he said.  What he really meant was, “Is there anything wrong?”  However, he knew better than to bring up such questions with his employer.  Savanarolova did not invite the staff into her confidences unless she had to.  His relationship with her was quite simple:  perform the duties of a butler and secretary, as well as stand in the background looking menacing, or carrying out acts of extreme violence as required.

“Yes, Munro, we are somewhat behind schedule,” Savanarolova answered curtly.  “Mr Jones seems to have found something interesting.  I expect he is going to be pleasantly entertained by the number of little surprises that I suspect Solitude has in store for him.  Keep your eyes peeled, Mr Munro.  I would hate to be unnecessarily surprised, myself.”

They shouldered their rucksacks and carried on their way.  Since leaving the camp they had made excellent progress, moving along their roundabout route to the primary objective with ease.  Moving east, in the same direction as the escaping pilots and the pursuit team, they had passed the beach they had landed on, crossed a rather inviting gully, which they considered using to go further up the volcano, but elected in the end to continue round to the north east side of Solitude. 

After a short stop for lunch they had made their way to their waypoint by mid-afternoon.  A tiny cove on the north east side of the island was afforded plenty of shelter from waves and weather by a cliff of black lava that curved around the northern edge.  Savanarolova and Munro cut down through the forest to the shore, ostensibly to check their bearings but mainly to simply get out from under the monotony of the coconut palms. 

“Should have come ashore here, Madam,” Munro said. “Nice and discrete.  Not sure anyone can see you here.”

“Well, Mr Winthrop-Smythe chose the landing site and the camp’s location.  That should tell you something about our dear Max,” Savanarolova commented.  “I’m not sure if Max quite understands the level of discretion that I demand of my operatives.  Perhaps you could teach him when we are off the island?”

With a barely perceptible inclination of his head, Munro showed his agreement.  “What’s that?”  he said suddenly, pointing at something large that could have been mistaken for a rocky outcrop, half buried in the sand.

A dark angular shape poked up from the beach, lapped by incoming waves.  In the harsh light of the afternoon it appeared black in contrast to the white sand but as they approached, Savanarolova could see it was actually mottled.  Black and olive green with sharp regular edges, it was almost reminiscent of a boat, except one that seemed rather squat, bull nosed and with its bow pointed at the sky in a drunken tilt.  It wasn’t until they were thirty metres away that she realised what it was. 

“Is that man made?”  she asked aloud, pausing where she was.  She was sure that she could see the shapes of wheels half hidden by encrusted sand.

Munro walked over carefully, his head scanning from left to right as he inspected forest and cove for possible threats.  When he reached the object he ran his hands over the exposed surfaces.  He knew exactly what it was.  Whilst in the Royal Marines, he had watched newsreel footage of American beach landings in the Pacific Theatre during World War Two, as part of his own training.  Modern amphibious troops used fast assault craft but during the War the Americans had used a kind of open topped amphibious tracked vehicle.  He walked up to the upturned bow.  Beneath a layer of wet, black residue he could just make out a white star which he traced with his fingers.

“It’s an LVT - A yank assault craft from the War,” he said by way of explanation.   Look, you can see its allied star here on the bow, under all this charring.  I think most of it’s under the sand, you can only see the nose here”

“Charring?  You mean it’s been on fire?” his employer interrogated.  She stepped up next to him and followed his explanation attentively.  When Munro spoke, Savanarolova had learnt to listen – if he made the effort to speak at length then what he had to say was usually worth listening to.

“Yes, look if I dig here,” he got on to his knees and scraped away at the side of the vehicle where it disappeared into the sand, “You can see a pretty nasty shell hole.”  He pointed at a jagged, black hole in the LVT about a hand span across.  Shiny petals of twisted metal turned back from the edges in razor sharp curls. “Something hit this and it burnt.  I’d say it was in water at the time and then settled on the sea bed stern down. As the tide goes out, so you’re left with this.

“For all that it appears to be in pretty good nick,” he continued, peering at the body of the LVT.  “Look at the paint.  It looks pretty fresh under the soot and carbon.  Frankly, I’m amazed.  You’d think this would be so much coral reef by now.”

Savanarolova rubbed her chin, deep in thought.  There was something very peculiar about Solitude.  Someone seemed to have a very odd sense of humour, taking valuable vintage war machines from what must have been private collections then dumping them on this remote island.  She presumed that the people behind the mortar fire of this morning were responsible for these relics too.  Maintenance of some kind had to be undertaken on these machines if the report on the radio was to be believed, as well as the evidence before her eyes.

“When would you say that this was destroyed?”  she asked Munro.

“From the paint and the fresh carbonisation, the lack of any real rust that you wouldn’t normally have in service, I would say that it got hit pretty recently.  Maybe a couple of days ago at the most?  There’s bare metal here that’s only starting to rust now.”

“We had people on the island then.  Surely they would have heard someone firing anti-tank weapons?”

“You’d think.  One thing bothers me though,” Munro hesitated as if unwilling to say anything further.

“Go on, Mr Munro.”  Savanarolova prompted.

“The LVT’s buried too deep.  How could the tide have buried it so completely in only a couple of days?  It would take decades for something to get this deeply embedded.”  Munro walked around to the other side of the LVT shaking his head.  Whilst Savanarolova looked on, he seemed to be taken with an idea and began to scratch away at the sand.

A feeling of unease was beginning to develop within Savanarolova.  Only she knew the full purpose of the mission here on Solitude and only she really knew what to expect when she reached the primary objective.  She was mentally prepared for unusual experiences; it would not be the first time that she had come across inexplicable phenomena in her career.  However, what was happening on Solitude was particularly odd.  She was puzzled to say the least.  Why would these vehicles, so obviously abandoned, be in such a state of preservation?  Was there a particularly advantageous local microclimate?  Was the salinity of the ocean lower than normal?  Could there be a local microbe that preserved metal, paint and battle damage?

“Well, here you go!”  Munro remarked suddenly.  He stood up and yanked a strap of wet, sandy material out of the beach by the LVT.  Attached to the end of the strap was a large canvas haversack.  “The Yanks would carry their supplies on the outside of their vehicles.  Still do actually.  Saves space inside for the troops,” he said by way of explanation.  “Thought I might find something if I got lucky.  Might find out a bit more about who this lot were.”

He scraped away the sand from the wet canvas with his hand.  On the bag’s flap, which was fastened shut with a pair of simple buckles, were stencilled the letters USMC.  Savanarolova did not need to be told the meaning of the acronym:  United States Marine Corps.  Well, that answers one question at least, she thought.

They both squatted down and opened the bag.  Inside was a long wooden box, tightly bound with shiny metal straps.  They dragged it out of the clingy canvas carefully, just in case it contained live ammunition.  Relaxing slightly when they read the legend on the lid KS Rations, Munro cut the straps with a multi-tool that he carried on his belt and pried open the box.  Inside were tightly packed soggy, pocket sized cardboard boxes.  Savanarolova dug one out with her fingers, whilst Munro turned the larger container around and tipped the rest out.  She looked at the lid of her crumpled box Ration, Type K, Breakfast Unit.  Rifling through the others they found lunch and dinner units too.  Intrigued, she opened the box and tipped the contents onto the sand.  Various packets, packages and a tin lay on the white sand:  matches, a spoon, some Chesterfield cigarettes and a packet of plastic wrapped biscuits invited her attention. 

“These look to be in pretty good condition,” she said.

“Yeah, well the Yanks made ‘em to last, which the troops hated because K Rations were so damn awful, apparently,” Munro rumbled in his broad Scottish burr.  He frowned and then dragged the wooden case around so that she could see. “But I don’t think they made ‘em to last this long.”

On the end of the wooden box were several lines of printed information.  However, it was one line that caught Savanarolova’s attention and confirmed to her that things were simply not right on Solitude.  Black, indelible ink, glistening wetly on the soaked wood of the crate, spelled out a date.  A date given in a standard military packaging code but one that Munro and Savanarolova both understood.

 July 1944.

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