Ghost Flight

by Bear Grylls

  Wordlessly, Jaeger flicked his eyes back to the distant figures. Raff was right, but the image of the kid dancing on his tiptoes as the big commander gripped him punched into Jaeger’s brain. It flipped his mind back to a long-buried memory – to a remote mountainside and a shredded, knife-torn length of canvas . . .

  Jaeger felt a massive arm upon him, powerful; restraining. ‘Easy, buddy, easy,’ Raff whispered. ‘I mean what I’m saying. Show yourself now, we’re all dead . . .’

  ‘The one minute is up!’ the commander screamed. ‘COME OUT! Now!’

  Jaeger heard the sharp, steel-on-steel clatch-clatch of a round being chambered. The commander whipped his pistol up, shoving the muzzle hard into Little Mo’s temple. ‘I COUNT FROM TEN. Then, make no mistake, you British bastards, I fire!’

  The commander was facing the sand dunes, flashing his torch across the tussocks of grass and hoping to spot Raff and Jaeger.

  ‘Ten, nine, eight . . .’

  A new voice rang out over the darkening beach, the childish cries cutting across the commander’s words. ‘Sir! Sir! Please! Please!’

  ‘Seven, six, five . . . Yes, boy, plead to your white friend to save you . . . Three . . .’

  Jaeger felt his big Maori friend pinning him to the mud, as his mind darted in horror between distant memories: to a savage attack on a dark and frosted mountainside; to blood amongst the first winter snows. To the moment his life had imploded . . . To right now; to Little Mo.

  ‘Two! One! IT IS FINISHED!’

  The commander pulled the trigger.

  A single muzzle flash threw the beach into stark light and shadow. He loosened hold of the boy’s hair, letting the tiny body crumple to the sand.

  Jaeger turned his head in agony and pressed it tight against the mangrove roots. Had Raff not been restraining him, he would have burst out of hiding, knife and sharpened stake at the ready, murder blazing in his eyes.

  And he would have died.

  He wouldn’t have given a damn.

  The commander barked out a series of staccato orders. Camouflaged figures dashed in all directions, some back into the village, others to either end of the beach. One came skidding to a halt at the edge of the swamp.

  ‘So, we continue with our little game,’ the commander announced, still searching in all directions. ‘And so we fetch the next child. I am a patient man. I have all the time in the world. I am quite happy to shoot every last one of your pupils, Mr Jaeger, if that is what it takes. Show yourself. Or are you the poor white coward I always thought you were? Prove – me – wrong.’

  Jaeger saw Raff make the move. He stole forward silently, gliding through the mud on his stomach like a giant ghostly snake. For the briefest of moments he glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘Want to go in a blaze of glory?’ he whispered.

  Jaeger nodded grimly. ‘Speed. Aggression . . .’

  ‘Surprise,’ Raff completed the mantra.

  Jaeger slithered forward, following the path that Raff made. As he did so, he marvelled at the big Maori’s ability to move, to hunt, silently – like an animal; a natural-born predator. Over the years Raff had taught Jaeger so many of those skills: the total belief and the focus it took to stalk and kill.

  But still Raff remained the master; the best there ever was.

  He melted out of the swamp like a formless shadow, just as another hapless child was hauled on to the beach. The commander started booting the child in the guts, his men grinning at the cruel spectacle that was unfolding.

  It was now that Raff seized his moment. Enshrouded in the darkness, he stole towards the lone guard nearest the swamp. In one swift move he slipped his left arm around the sentry’s neck and mouth in an iron chokehold, blocking off any possibility of a cry, jerking the chin upwards and to the side. At the same instant his right arm snaked around in a savage thrust, sinking the blade of his knife up to the hilt through the man’s throat, before punching forward to slice through the artery and the windpipe.

  For several seconds Raff gripped the stricken sentry, as his life drained into his lungs, drowning the man in his own blood. Silently, he lowered the body to the sand. An instant later he was back at the swamp, the dead man’s assault rifle gripped in hands thick with blood.

  He crouched low, widening the narrow exit for Jaeger.

  ‘Come on!’ he hissed. ‘Let’s go!’

  Jaeger sensed the movement from the corner of his eye. A figure had materialised out of nowhere, his assault rifle rising to aim, Raff bang in his line of fire.

  Jaeger left fly with his knife.

  The movement was instinctive. The blade whispered through the dusk air, twisting as it flew, and sliced deep into the figure’s guts.

  The gunman screamed.

  His weapon went off, but the shots sprayed wide, punching wildly off target. As the echoes of the gunfire died away, Jaeger rose and sprinted forward, wooden stake raised in one hand.

  He’d recognised the gunman.

  He leapt, slamming the spear into the man’s chest. He felt the sharpened stake split apart ribs and slice through muscle and sinew, as he forced it in with all his strength. By the time he’d grabbed the fallen man’s assault rifle, he had him pinned to the sand – the stake driven clean through the side of his chest and shoulder.

  Major Mojo, Jaeger’s erstwhile tormentor, was screaming and writhing like a stuck pig – but he wasn’t going anywhere, that was for sure.

  In one smooth move Jaeger lifted the rifle, flicked off the safety and opened fire. The muzzle spat burning bursts of tracer, as rounds ripped through the darkness.

  Jaeger aimed for the torso. Head shots were fine for a day out on the ranges, but in a live firefight you went for the guts every time. It was the biggest target, and few ever survived a stomach wound.

  He swept his weapon across the beach, seeking out the figure of the commander. He saw the village kid struggling to break free, and darting into the safety of the nearby palm grove. Jaeger unleashed a savage burst, and watched the commander turn and run. He saw his tracer fire tearing up the commander’s heels and ripping into his torso.

  He sensed the fear and indecision ripple through the enemy’s ranks as their leader went down, screaming in fear and in the agony of his death throes.

  They were like a decapitated snake now.

  This was the moment to seize the advantage.

  ‘Mag change!’ Jaeger yelled, as he grabbed a full magazine from his former jailer’s pocket and rammed it home. ‘Go! Go! Go!’

  Raff needed no second urging.

  In an instant he was on his feet, charging forward, screaming out his war cry, Jaeger hammering out the covering fire. As the dark, fearsome Maori giant tore ahead, Jaeger saw the first of the enemy break and run.

  Raff made thirty yards, then sank to his knee, opening up in a barrage of aimed shots. He yelled at Jaeger in turn: ‘GOOOOOOOOOO!’

  Jaeger rose from the sand, weapon in his shoulder, all his pent-up rage and fury focused into the fight. He sprinted forward, only his eyes and his bared teeth showing white among the dark film of swamp filth that coated him from head to toe, thundering across the open beach, his muzzle spitting fire.

  Within moments, the last of President Chambara’s soldiers had broken rank and run. Raff and Jaeger chased them through the palm grove with aimed bursts, until not a single enemy figure was visible anywhere.

  Seconds later, the dark stretch of sand had fallen silent – apart from the groans of the dying and the wounded.

  Wasting no time, the two men sought out the chief’s canoe and dragged it towards the surf. The big, thick-skinned dugout was unwieldy on dry land, and it took all their strength to manhandle it into the waves. They were just about to push off when Jaeger signalled Raff to wait.

  He scuttled through the waves and crossed the beach to where a figure lay pinned to the blood-soaked sand. He wrestled the wooden stake free, hoisted the wounded man on to his shoulders and returned the way he’d come, dumping the se
mi-conscious form of his jailer in the centre of the craft.

  ‘Change of plan!’ he yelled at Raff, as they ran the vessel deeper into the surf. ‘Mojo’s coming with us. Plus we head east and due south. Chambara’s men will presume we’ve pushed north, for Cameroon or Nigeria. It’ll never cross their minds we’ve gone the opposite way, back into their country.’

  Raff leapt aboard the canoe and reached to help Jaeger. ‘Why would we head back into President Chugga’s hellhole?’

  ‘We make for the mainland. It’s twice the distance, but they’ll never think to follow. Plus it isn’t Chambara’s territory any more, remember? We link up with the coup plotters and take our chances with them.’

  Raff grinned. ‘Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora! Let’s bloody go!’

  They paddled the boat further out to sea, Jaeger taking up the chant, and were quickly swallowed by the moon-washed darkness.

  5

  ‘Okay, gentlemen, you will be pleased to know you check out. A couple of calls was all it took. Your reputations, it seems, go before you.’

  The accent was broad South African, the figure in front of them squat and stocky, with the beefy, bearded red face of a Boer. The physique spoke of a youth spent playing rugby, drinking hard and soldiering in the African bush, before age and gout got the better of him.

  But Pieter Boerke wasn’t here for the fighting. He was the coup leader, and he had a force of far younger, fitter men to lead the charge.

  ‘You’re still planning on taking Bioko?’ Jaeger remarked. ‘The Wonga coup pretty much never even got started . . .’

  Several years back there had been a previous attempt to remove President Chambara from power. It had turned into something of a debacle, earning the derisive nickname ‘the Wonga coup’.

  Boerke snorted. ‘I run a very different operation. This is the Gotcha coup. Chambara’s finished. The international community, the oil companies, the people of Bioko – everyone wants him gone. Who wouldn’t? The guy is an animal. He eats people – mostly his favourite prisoners.’ He eyed Jaeger. ‘Bet you’re glad you made it out of Black Beach when you did, eh?’

  Jaeger smiled. It still hurt to do so, after three days of being battered by tropical storms and washed by sea spray as they crossed the Gulf of Guinea.

  ‘I’ve got C-130s in-loading weapons as we speak,’ Boerke continued, ‘flying shuttle runs out of Nigeria. We’re building up for the big push. Come to think of it, I could use a couple of extra hands – guys like you who know the lie of the land.’ He eyed the two men. ‘Fancy joining us?’

  Jaeger glanced at Raff. ‘According to my big Maori friend here, we’ve got business back in the UK.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Raff growled. ‘After tasting a little of President Chugga’s hospitality, I’d love to go kick his front door in.’

  ‘I bet you would.’ Boerke let out a bark of a laugh. ‘Last chance, guys. I could use you. Really I could. I mean, you broke out of Black Beach. No one does that. You fought your way off the island with a couple of toothpicks and a bottle opener between you. Made a three-day voyage here by canoe. Like I said, I could use you.’

  Jaeger held up his hands. ‘Not this time. I’m done with Bioko.’

  ‘Understood.’ Boerke got to his feet, a bundle of energy pacing back and forth behind his desk. ‘So, I can get you out of here on the next C-130. You hit Nigeria, you’ll be slipped aboard a BA flight direct to London, no questions asked. Least I can do for you, after delivering that little shit to us.’

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. The heavily bandaged form of Major Mojo was slumped in one corner of the room. After three days at sea and the injuries that he’d suffered, the man was barely conscious.

  Raff eyed him, contemptuously. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could give him the same kind of treatment that he gave my friend here, with interest. That’s if he lives.’

  Boerke flashed a smile. ‘No problem. We got a lot of questions to ask him. And remember, we’re South Africans. We don’t take prisoners. Now, anything else I can do for you guys before we go our separate ways?’

  Jaeger hesitated for an instant. His instinct told him that he could trust the South African, plus they shared the brotherhood of warriors. In any case, if he wanted to get money to Chief Ibrahim, Boerke was about his only option right now.

  He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. ‘When you’ve taken Bioko, can you get this into the hands of the chief of Fernao village? It’s a numbered Zurich bank account, complete with access codes. There’s a sizeable amount of money in there – what Raff paid Mojo to bust me free. The chief’s son died because of us. Money will never bring him back, but maybe it’s a start.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ Boerke confirmed. ‘But one thing. By bringing that shit Mojo here, you did a very good thing. He knows Chambara’s defences inside out. If one Bioko child had to die to secure that kind of inside knowledge, that’s regretful. Let’s hope his death will bring life to many.’

  ‘Maybe. Let’s hope so,’ Jaeger conceded. ‘But he wasn’t one of your kids; your star pupil.’

  ‘Trust me, when Chambara’s gone, every single kid on Bioko will have a far brighter future. Hell, man, that country should be rich. It has oil, gas, minerals – the lot. Sell off Chambara’s yachts, raid his foreign bank accounts – we’ll be making a good start. Now, is there anything else?’

  ‘Maybe there is one thing . . .’ Jaeger mused. ‘You know, I was there for three years. That’s a lot of time in a place like Bioko. Long story short, I got digging into the island’s history. Second World War. Towards the end of the war, the British launched a top-secret operation to spy on an enemy vessel. The Duchessa. A cargo ship anchored in Malabo harbour. We went to extraordinary lengths to do so. Question is, why?’

  Boerke shrugged. ‘Search me.’

  ‘Apparently the ship’s captain had filed a manifest with the Bioko port authorities,’ Jaeger continued. ‘It was incomplete; it listed six pages of cargo, but the seventh page was missing. Rumour has it the seventh page is secreted in the Malabo Government House vault. I tried everything I could to get hold of it. When you take the capital, maybe you can grab a copy for me?’

  Boerke nodded. ‘No worries. Leave me email and phone details. But I’m curious. What do you think she was carrying? And why the interest?’

  ‘I got sucked in by all the rumours; kind of grabbed me. Diamonds. Uranium. Gold. That’s what they say. Something that could be mined in Africa; something the Nazis needed desperately to help them win the war.’

  ‘Most likely uranium,’ Boerke suggested.

  ‘Maybe.’ Jaeger shrugged. ‘But the seventh page – that would prove it.’

  6

  The MV Global Challenger lay at anchor on the Thames, a heavy sky glowering low and sullen above the masthead. The black taxi that had ferried Raff and Jaeger from Heathrow airport pulled up at the kerb, tyres coming to rest in a grey puddle slick with oil.

  It struck Jaeger that the taxi fare was enough to furnish an entire Bioko classroom with books. And when Raff didn’t tip the cabbie quite as much as he’d evidently been expecting, he sped off without a word, splashing the puddle over the tops of their shoes.

  London in February. Some things never changed.

  He’d slept nearly the entirety of the two flights – mainland Equatorial Guinea to Nigeria in a noisy C-130 Hercules cargo aircraft, and then on to London. They’d flown the Lagos to London leg in the absolute lap of luxury, but from experience Jaeger knew that first class came with caveats.

  Always.

  Someone was footing the bill for those BA flights, and at seven grand a pop it was no small change. When he’d pressed Raff on the subject, the big, easy-going Maori had seemed oddly reticent. Clearly someone wanted Jaeger back in London badly and money was no object, but Raff didn’t want to talk about it.

  Jaeger figured he was good with that. He trusted the man absolutely.

  By the time they’d hit London, Jaeger was star
ting to feel the cumulative effects of five weeks’ incarceration in Black Beach Prison, plus the battles and escape that had followed. He made his way up the Global Challenger’s gangplank, limbs creaking like an old man, just as the heavens opened.

  A former Arctic survey ship, the Global Challenger was the headquarters of Enduro Adventures, the business that Jaeger had founded upon leaving the military, along with Raff and one other fellow warrior. That man – Stephen Feaney – was standing at the top of the gangplank, half obscured by the falling rain.

  He held out a hand in greeting. ‘Never thought we’d find you. You look like shit. Seems like it was only just in time.’

  ‘You know how it is.’ Jaeger shrugged. ‘That big Maori bastard – President Chambara was just about to cook and eat him. Someone had to drag him out of there.’

  Raff snorted. ‘Like hell!’

  There was laughter. The three men shared the briefest of moments as the rain hammered across the open deck.

  It was good – sweet – to be back together again.

  Soldiering at the elite level always had been a young man’s game. Jaeger, Raff and Feaney had been where few others had been and done things few ever imagined possible. It had been the ultimate adventure, but it had taken its toll.

  A few years back, they’d decided to quit while they were still ahead. They’d taken their skills learned at the taxpayer’s expense and used them to set up their own business. Enduro Adventures – motto: ‘Planet Earth is our playground’ – was the result.

  Jaeger’s brainchild, Enduro was an outfit dedicated to taking wealthy individuals – businessmen, sportsmen and a sprinkling of celebrities – on some of the world’s most challenging wilderness experiences. Over time, they’d built it into a lucrative concern, attracting big personalities on some of the most incredible adventures planet Earth had to offer.

  But then, practically overnight, Jaeger’s life had fallen apart and he’d disappeared off the map. He’d become Enduro Adventure’s invisible man. Feaney had been forced to take over the money-making side of things, and Raff the business end of expeditioning – although it was neither man’s natural milieu.