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Mick was half-way across the river when the downpour hit. Seconds later an odd rumble beneath his feet made him glance upstream. He had a moment to realize that there was a wall of black water hurtling towards him, before he - still attached to his forty five kilogram pack - was sucked into a churning, whirling hell. No oxygen, not even sure which way was up. His rifle was ripped out of his hands by the torrent.
It was three am.
Somewhere in a river in the depths of the Liquica district of East Timor.
And he was about to drown…