[B]Buka Town
Buka Island
Bougainville Province
Pacific Ocean
2014
[/b]

Bryan lowered the binoculars from his face and frowned in deep concern. The view wasn't encouraging. 
The deep-water harbour was a little way ahead. The quayside was intact, as was the equipment and the buildings, for the most part, which was what he had counted on when bargaining passage here from Papua New Guinea, and getting away from the chaos raging through the country there as the remains of the government fought a bloody war with internal dissidents and elements of the NWA. He'd picked up the trail that other allied forces might've passed through this region, and there were airstrips here. But he hadn't seen or heard anything, and now the sight of the slate-grey destroyer sitting at rest there, and the Submarine parked further out.
Most worrying about the situation though was the flag stirring gently in the breeze from the mast of the ship - the stylised swastika in a white circle on a blood-red field... the symbol of the NWA.
He cast a glance back over his shoulder at the old man who'd driven him this far on the rusty old fishing boat. He shook his head slightly giving a crooked apologetic smile. His skin was naturally dark, but years spent working in the sun had darkened it further. There was no doubt that he had a lot to fear from the NWA, and he couldn't blame the man for wanting to stay here. Nonetheless, he had to get onto the island to look for a way further on, and going back would be no help either, at this stage. 
Looking back toward the man, he dug into an inside pocket on his BDU jacket, withdrawing a wedge of money.

A short while later, he paddled the small boat to the shore, and dragged it up the beach, tugging it out of sight and hiding it under palm fronds. 
Changed out of his BDU's and dressed in inconspicuous civvies, he walked carefully and slowly along a path from the beach toward the outskirts of Buka. 
The town had been the capital of Bougainville following a civil war before - and during - WW3, but the war had found the island after ships had sheltered there and aircraft had transited through, and had been the site of battles. The evidence showed itself, as he passed an area of burned out jungle with the wreck of a Blackhawk at the centre. 

The town beyond was similarly damaged and dishevelled. The majority of the buildings remained standing, but many were ragged with bullet-holes, or had missing parts of roofs, or smashed glass in windows. There were signs of life, but no one was out on the street to see him walk past. 
As he approached the quays, he slowed down. There were armed men at the edge of the docks in small numbers, wearing dark uniforms in tropical cuts. Notably, all of them were white.
Opposite them were - he imagined - members of the submarine crew and its' captain. Their uniforms were light in colour, but had no insignia attached. The captain carried a briefcase, while the man opposite him had a pair laid out on the tailgate of a pickup.
Hesitating, Bryan surveyed the scene and then walked closer. One of the black-clad men blocked his path with a hand out.
"Hold it," he said "What're you doing here? Turn around and walk on".
"Sorry," said Bryan with an open smile, as his eyes darted around at the group. "I was just wandering - where am I, could you tell me? I'm a little lost".
The submarine captain glanced over at him, and answered, his hands folded. 
"Yer on Bougainville Island. And if you know what's good for you and you wanna stay out of trouble, you might as well turn around and get the hell out of-"
Bryan caught a movement behind him. The Captains' XO had drawn his pistol and raised it. Reacting reflexively, Bryan yanked his P-226 out of the waistband of his pants, and fired, catching the XO in the arm, and shoving the NWA soldier away. The others opened up as the XO shot the captain in the back. Diving past the men around him, he snagged the briefcase from the captains' hand, and pounded across the tarmac, wincing as a bullet creased his sleeve. Behind him, the gunfight erupted between the Sub crew and the NWA forces, as bullets snapped through the air around him. 
Bryan yelled and ran into cover, sliding down a muddy bank and slipping around the side of a van, the briefcase still banging against his thighs as he ran. 
Panting, he dived into cover in a ditch, and one thought crossed his mind:
[i]Why the hell am I doing this?[/i]

Back at the dock, the NWA leader kicked the body of the dead submarine captain and glared at the XO
"Who was that man? And where the hell is he going with those detonators and decoders? Is this some kind of double-cross?"
"I assure you, I have no interest in double-crossing you. I've been feeding the captain information for weeks, and most of the crew is on my side. We guided him here with the aim of getting your money in exchange for the detonators, and it wasn't easy. I have no interest in screwing you over now. We just need to find that man!"
The NWA commander turned around and beckoned a radio man closer. Lifting the handset, he spoke words rapidly and in short commands into the handset, before replacing it with a grimace.
"If he's out there, we'll find him - our men and their allies will scour the island to find him, and anyone else who's with him. We need those detonators. And if we don't get them back..."
His eyes fell upon the XO with a cold gaze, and he shivered under the look. The meaning was clear.

Bryan shouldered his way onward through the jungle. Leaving the roads behind had seemed like a good idea, but the going was hard, even if there was something of a trail. Not to mention, the heat was sapping his strength as much as the wound on his arm, and the weight he was carrying between his heavily packed kit bag and the briefcase.
Pausing, he heard no evidence of pursuit, and took a moment to take a few gulps of water from a bottle he'd secreted in his kit bag. Crouching, he flicked open the case and his eyes widened. 
"Holy shit," he muttered as his eyes roved over the boxy shapes of the detonators. Special Weapons (as the euphemism went) weren't exactly part of his training, but between the submarine and the amount of people shooting each other, he could make connections.
He was in over his head. 
But letting the NWA, neo-Nazi genocidal cult army that they were, get hold of them, would not end well for anyone. Making a decision, he stuff the detonators into his kit bag, and filled the briefcase with rocks from the jungle floor. Scrambling to his feet, he ran on, heading north-east.

Around the island, the roads and trails came to life with growling engines and shouting men as the NWA forces scoured the area for Bryan, and for the missing detonators. Anyone in their path was a suspect - and anyone else, was a target.