Thick grey cloud from last night’s storm still blanketed the sky. The sun couldn’t fight its way through to us, but that didn’t make it any cooler on the ground. Humidity was so high I felt as if I was in a pressure-cooker. The mud was going to stay sticky for a long time yet. My lungs felt like I was doing a fearsome workout as I lifted one heavy mud-clagged boot in front of the other. Rainwater cascaded over us as birds took flight from the branches above our heads. It was almost a relief each time a burst hit me. Sam hadn’t sat-phoned Standish about the contact and new int until the worst of the electrical storm had passed. He needed to keep it inside the condoms. Standish and the twins were punching their way forward, maybe two hours behind us. I imagined Bateman and Tooley running round, forcing the patrol on with kicks and slaps and threats of kindoki hair spells. I was walking like John Wayne just off his horse after a week in the saddle. My rain-soaked OGs had chafed my thighs and the skin was red raw.
