James Rodriguez

Something about that moment, the threshold between controlled environment and the raw natural world, triggered a sensation I'd learned to respect over years of fieldwork.

Unease.

Not fear.

Not concern.

Just the quiet recognition that we were moving into something unknown.

I'd felt it before.

Dangerous missions.

Before unexpected complications.

I followed the team down the stairs, watching them fan out across the tarmac, already focusing on their specialised tasks.

Whatever Wilson's true motivation, whatever secrets Yasser Island held, we were committed now.

Dawn would take us to our destination.

I just hoped we were prepared for what we'd find.

The Cessna Caravan floated 20 yards from Fiji's private airstrip, tethered to a weather dock that creaked with each minor swell.

Its amphibious floats gleamed in the morning light.

I'd flown similar models during extraction operations in the Philippines.

Reliable work courses that forgave minor errors and handled rough water better than they had any right to.

I circled the aircraft twice, checking control surfaces and inspecting the hull for damage.

The preflight checklist took 17 minutes.

Thomas and Scott helped transfer our equipment from the transport vehicles, measuring each case against the seaplane's cargo capacity.

We'd need to leave behind some of the redundant gear.