Ghost Flight

by Bear Grylls

  He’d never had much need to cook: Annie was forever pressing him with home-made goodies, and he particularly loved her smoothies. Annie Stephenson: single, early thirties, pretty in a skittish, hippyish way – he’d long suspected she had a crush on him. But Jaeger had been resolutely a one-woman man.

  Ruth and the boy: they were his life.

  Or at least they had been.

  Annie – much as she’d proven a wonderful neighbour, and much as he’d enjoyed teasing her about being such a hippy – had never stood a chance.

  She rummaged around and handed him his keys. ‘I still can’t believe you’re back. I mean – it’s great to have you back. That’s what I mean. You know, Tinker George – he was just about to grab your bike and claim if for himself. Anyhow, the stove’s hot.’ She smiled. Nervous, but tinged with a hint of hope. ‘I’ll bake a celebratory cake, shall I?’

  Jaeger grinned. He could look so young and boyish on those rare moments when the darkness fell away from him. ‘You know something, Annie – I’ve missed your cooking. But I’m not going to be around for long. Few things I need to get sorted first. Plenty of time for a slice of cake and a catch-up after.’

  Jaeger stepped ashore, passing by Tinker George’s barge. He allowed himself a wry smile: typical of the cheeky bastard to be eyeing-up his motorbike.

  Moments later he climbed aboard his own vessel. He kicked away the piles of fallen leaves and bent at the entrance. The thick security chain and padlock were still very much in place. It was about the last thing he had done – chaining up the barge – before he’d left London, catching a flight to the ends of the earth.

  He gripped the chain in the bolt-cropper’s jaws, tensed his aching limbs, and snap! – it fell away. He slipped Annie’s spare key into the main lock, and pulled open the split doors that gave access to the interior. His was a Thames barge. Wider and deeper than your average narrowboat, they tended to offer the space to indulge in a little luxury.

  But not Jaeger’s.

  The interior was strikingly sparse. Utterly functional. Devoid of all but a few personal effects.

  One room formed a makeshift gym. Another a spartan bedroom. There was a tiny kitchen, plus a living area with a few worn rugs and cushions scattered across the wooden floor. But the majority of the interior was given over to desk space, for it was from here that Jaeger preferred to work whenever the hectic commute into head office – the Global Challenger – could be avoided.

  He didn’t linger for long. He grabbed a second set of keys hanging on a nail and stepped outside. Lashed in the prow of the boat and firmly sheeted over was his Triumph Tiger Explorer. The motorbike was an old friend. He’d bought it second-hand to celebrate passing SAS selection a good decade or more ago.

  He untied the sheeting and rolled it aside. He bent over a second security chain, cut it, and was just about to straighten up when he detected a faint noise; just the barest hint of a heavy footfall in wet, greasy gravel. In an instant he’d wrapped a loop of the thick chain around his hand, leaving a generous two feet hanging free, the heavy padlock swinging on one end.

  He spun around, the makeshift weapon poised like a medieval ball-and-chain.

  A giant figure loomed in the darkness. ‘Thought I’d find you here.’ The eyes flicked down to the chain. ‘Figured on a warmer welcome, though.’

  Jaeger let the tension drain out of his bunched muscles. ‘Fair enough. Brew? I can offer you three-year-old milk and stale tea bags.’

  They stepped inside. Raff glanced around the barge. ‘Blast from the past, mate.’

  ‘Yeah. We spent some good times here.’

  Jaeger busied himself over the kettle, then handed Raff a mug of steaming tea. ‘Sugar’s hard as rock. Biscuits’re soft as shit. Presume you’ll take a pass.’

  Raff shrugged. ‘Tea’s good.’ He glanced out the open door at the Triumph. ‘Planning on taking a spin?’

  Jaeger was giving nothing away. ‘You know how it is: live to ride.’

  Raff delved into his pocket and handed Jaeger a slip of paper. ‘Smithy’s family – their new address. No point going to the old one. They’ve moved twice in the past three years.’

  Jaeger’s face remained an unreadable mask. ‘Any particular reason? The moves?’

  Raff shrugged. ‘He was making good money working for us. For Enduro. He kept upsizing. Needed the extra room. Planning on having another kid, so he said.’

  ‘Not exactly suicidal behaviour.’

  ‘Not exactly. Need a hand with the bike?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  The two men manoeuvred the Triumph across a makeshift gangplank and on to the riverside path. Jaeger could feel that the tyres had gone half flat. They’d need a good burst of air. He returned to the boat and fetched his biking gear. Waterproof Belstaff jacket. Boots. Thick leather gloves. His open-faced helmet. Lastly he grabbed a scarf and an ancient pair of what looked like Second World War flying goggles.

  Then he pulled out a drawer, turned it upside down and ripped off the envelope that was taped to the underside. He checked inside: £1,000 in cash, just as he’d left it.

  Jaeger pocketed the money, locked up and rejoined Raff. He plugged in an electric compressor and reinflated both tyres. He’d left the bike with a solar charger wired to it. Even in the depths of winter it provided enough of a trickle charge to top up the battery. The engine turned over a few times, then roared into life.

  Jaeger wrapped the scarf around his lower face, pulled on his helmet, then dropped the goggles over his eyes. They were special to him. Precious. His grandfather, Ted Jaeger, had worn them during the Second World War when serving with some sneaky-beaky outfit. He’d never spoken much about it, but from the photos that had graced his walls, it was clear that he’d taken his open-topped jeep into a whole lot of remote, battle-torn terrain.

  Jaeger often wished he’d asked more about it when Grandpa Ted was still alive; about what exactly he’d got up to during the war. And after the last few hours, Jaeger found himself regretting not having done so many times over.

  He climbed aboard the Triumph, eyeing Raff’s empty mug. ‘Leave that on the boat, will you.’

  ‘Yep.’ Raff hesitated, then reached out a massive paw, placing it on the bike’s handlebars. ‘Mate, I saw that look in your eyes when you clocked Smithy’s photo. Wherever you’re going, whatever you’re planning – be careful.’

  Jaeger stared at Raff for a long moment. But even as he did, his gaze seemed turned inwards. ‘I’m always careful.’

  Raff tightened his hold on the bars. ‘You know what – at some point you’ve got to start trusting someone. None of us knows what you went through. We wouldn’t even pretend to. But we are your mates. Your brothers. Don’t ever forget that.’

  ‘I know.’ Jaeger paused. ‘Forty-eight hours. I’ll be back with an answer.’

  Then he blipped the throttle, accelerated across the darkened gravel and was gone.

  9

  Jaeger made only the one stop on the drive west – at a Carphone Warehouse to pick up a pay-as-you-go smartphone. He’d kept the Explorer at a steady 80 mph on the M3, but it was when he hit the A303 turn-off and the smaller Wiltshire roads that he finally began to immerse himself in the ride.

  During the long motorway slog his mind had drifted. Andy Smith. Friends like that didn’t come easy. Jaeger could count those he had – Raff included – on the fingers of the one hand. And now there was one fewer, and Jaeger was damned if he wasn’t going to find out exactly how and why Smithy had died.

  Those Brazilian anti-narcotics training missions had been some of the last on which they had served together. Jaeger had left the military shortly thereafter, to found Enduro Adventures. Smithy had stayed in. He’d argued that he had a wife and three young kids to provide for, and he couldn’t risk losing his regular military pay.

  It was on their third Brazilian training mission that events had taken an unexpected turn. In theory, Jaeger and his men were there purely to train th
e Brazilian special forces – the Brigada de Operacoes Especiais; the Brazilian Special Operations Brigade (B-SOB). But over time, bonds had been forged, and they’d come to revile the drugs traffickers – the narco gangs – almost as much as the B-SOB boys did.

  When one of Captain Evandro’s B-SOB teams had gone missing, Jaeger and his men had taken matters into their own hands. It had become the longest foot patrol in Brazilian special-forces history. Jaeger had led it, with an equal number of B-SOB operators accompanying. They’d located the narco gang’s deep jungle hideout, studied it for several days, then launched a blistering assault.

  In the ensuing bloodbath, the bad guys had been wiped out. Eight of Captain Evandro’s twelve men had been rescued alive – which in the circumstances was a result. But in the process, Jaeger himself had come close to losing his life, and it was Andy Smith’s bravery and selfless actions that had saved him.

  And like Captain Evandro, Jaeger was not one to forget.

  He eased the Explorer down the exit road signposted to Fonthill Bishop. He hit the outskirts of the picture-postcard village of Tisbury and flicked his eyes right, towards a house set a little back from the road. Its windows were lit up a faint yellow – mournful eyes blinking on to a fearful outside world.

  The Millside: Jaeger had recognised the address the moment Raff had handed it to him.

  Thatched, mossy, cottagey, creepers climbing hither and thither, with its own stream and a decent half-acre of land – Smithy had always had his eye on the place, ever since he’d moved into the area to be closer to his former commander and best friend, Will Jaeger. Evidently he’d finally got the house of his dreams – only Jaeger would have been a good two years into his disappearing act by then.

  He pushed onwards out of the village, taking the winding, switchback lane leading towards Tuckingmill and East Hatch. He eased the bike beneath the railway bridge that carried the main line to London – the one he often used to take, when the weather was too cold and wet to countenance the long motorbike ride.

  Momentarily his headlight caught the sign for New Wardour Castle. He turned right, pulled up a short length of lane and in through the modest stone gateposts.

  His tyres hit the grand sweep of the gravel drive, the ranks of chestnut trees to either side like ghostly sentinels. An imposing country house, Wardour had been purchased as a near wreck by a school friend. Nick Tattershall had made a fortune in the City, using the money to restore New Wardour Castle to its former glory.

  He’d split it into several apartments, keeping the largest for himself. But just as the work was nearing completion, Britain had hit one of her cyclical recessions and the property market had tanked. Tattershall had risked losing everything.

  Jaeger had stepped in and purchased the first – still to be completed – apartment, his vote of confidence luring other buyers in. He’d got it at a knock-down price, so acquiring a piece of real estate the likes of which he could never normally have afforded.

  In time, it had proven the perfect family home.

  Set in the heart of a beautiful, sweeping expanse of parkland, it was utterly private and peaceful – yet only a couple of hours’ ride or train journey from London. Jaeger had managed to split work between here, the Thames barge and the Global Endeavour, never spending long away from the family.

  He parked the bike in front of the imposing limestone facade. He slipped his key into the communal lock, stepped across the cool, marbled entranceway and made for the staircase. But even as he took the first of the stone steps, his legs felt weighed down with bittersweet memories.

  So many good times had been had here.

  So much happiness.

  How could it all have gone so wrong?

  He paused at the door to his apartment. He knew what awaited. He steeled himself, turned the key in the lock and stepped inside.

  He flicked on the lights. Most of the furniture had been covered with dust sheets, but once a week his faithful cleaner, Mrs Sampson, came to dust and to hoover, and the place was scrupulously clean.

  Jaeger paused for an instant. Right before him on the wall was a massive painting – a striking orange-fronted bird: the rufous-bellied thrush, one of the national symbols of Brazil. Painted by a well-known Brazilian artist, it had been a gift from Captain Evandro – his way of saying a very special thank you.

  Jaeger loved the painting. It was why he’d placed it on the wall opposite the entrance, so it was the first thing you saw as you walked in.

  When he’d left for Bioko, he’d asked Mrs Sampson not to sheet it over. He didn’t quite know why. Maybe he’d expected to be back sooner, and he’d wanted to know that the bird would be there, as always, waiting to greet him.

  He turned left and stepped into the wide expanse of the living room. No point in throwing open the massive wooden shutters; it had long been dark outside. He flicked on the lights, and his eyes came to rest upon the indistinct form of the writing desk pushed against one wall.

  He stepped towards it and very gently pulled the dust sheet aside.

  He reached out with one hand, his fingers touching the face of the beautiful woman in the photo frame. His fingertips lingered, momentarily frozen to the glass. He sank to his haunches, until his eyes were level with the desk.

  ‘I’m back, Ruth,’ he whispered. ‘Three long years, but I’m back.’

  He let his fingers drift down the glass, coming to rest upon the features of a young boy, standing somehow protectively at his mother’s side. Both were dressed in ‘Save the Rhino’ T-shirts; they’d purchased them on a family holiday to East Africa’s Amboseli National Park. Jaeger would never forget the midnight walking safari the three of them had taken, along with their Masai guides. They’d trekked across the moonlit savannah amongst herds of giraffe, wildebeest and, best of all, rhinos, the family’s favourite animal.

  ‘Luke – Daddy’s back . . .’ Jaeger murmured. ‘And God only knows how much I’ve missed you guys.’

  He paused, a heavy silence echoing off the walls. ‘But, you know – there’s never been the slightest hint; not the vaguest proof of life. If you could just have sent me something; the barest sense of a sign. Anything. Smithy kept watch. He was eyes-on. Always. He promised to let me know.’

  He picked up the photo and cradled it. ‘I went to the ends of the earth to try to find you. I’d have gone to the ends of the universe, even. Nowhere would have been too far. But for three long years there’s been nothing.’

  He ran a hand across his face, as if brushing away the pain of those long missing years. When it came away, his eyes were damp with tears.

  ‘And I guess if we’re honest – if we’re truthful with each other – maybe it’s time. Time to say a proper goodbye . . . time to accept that you really are . . . gone.’

  Jaeger bowed his head. His lips brushed the photograph. He kissed the woman’s face. Kissed that of his son. Then he placed the picture back on the desk, laying it gently on the dust sheet.

  Face up, so he could see both of them, and remember.

  10

  Jaeger padded across the living room to the far side, where double doors opened on to what they’d dubbed the music room. One wall was shelved high with racks of CDs. He chose one – Mozart’s Requiem. He slipped it into the CD deck, flicked the power switch and it started to play.

  The lilting melodies brought everything flooding back; all the family memories. For the second time in as many minutes, Jaeger found himself having to fight back the tears. He couldn’t allow himself to break down; to properly grieve. Not yet.

  There was something else – something deeply, deeply troubling – that he had come here for.

  He dragged the battered steel trunk out from its place beneath the music stand. For a moment his eyes lingered on the initials stencilled on the lid: W. E. J. – William Edward ‘Ted’ Jaeger. His grandfather’s war chest, which he’d gifted to Jaeger shortly before he died.

  As the Requiem swelled to a first crashing crescendo, Jaeger thoug
ht back over the times Grandpa Ted had sneaked him into his study, allowing Jaeger to share a pull on his tobacco pipe, and enjoy a few precious moments – grandfather with grandchild – rifling through this very trunk.

  Grandpa Ted’s pipe, eternally clamped between his teeth. The smell: Player’s Navy Cut and whisky-steeped tobacco. Jaeger could almost see the scene now – the occasional smoke ring blown by his grandfather dancing soft and ethereal in the light of his desk lamp.

  Jaeger flicked open the clasps and hinged back the trunk’s heavy lid. On top lay one of his favourite mementoes: a leather-bound file, stamped in faded red lettering: TOP SECRET. And below that: Officer Commanding No. 206 Liaison Unit.

  It had always struck Jaeger as odd that the contents of the file had never quite lived up to the promise of the cover.

  Inside were booklets of Second World War radio frequencies and codes, diagrams of main battle tanks, blueprints of turbines, compasses and engines. It had proven utterly fascinating to a child; but as an adult, Jaeger had realised that there was nothing in there with much relevance to the file’s cover, or warranting such excessive secrecy.

  It was almost as if his grandpa had put together the file’s contents to fascinate and entertain an adolescent boy, but to give nothing of any sensitivity – of any real value – away.

  After his grandpa’s death, Jaeger had tried to research the No. 206 Liaison Unit, to better trace its history. But there was nothing. The National Archives; the Imperial War Museum; the Admiralty: every archive that should have contained some form of record – if only a war diary – was devoid of any mention.

  It was almost as if the No. 206 Liaison Unit had never existed; as if it were a ghost squadron.

  And then he’d found something.

  Or rather, Luke had.

  His eight-year-old son had proven equally fascinated by the contents of the trunk – his great-grandpa’s heavy commando knife; his much-lived-in beret; his battered iron compass. And one day Jaeger’s son’s hands had dug deep, to the very bottom of the trunk, and found what had been for so long hidden.