Ghost Flight

by Bear Grylls

  With six inflatable chambers per canoe, plus flotation bags, they were pretty much unsinkable – as they had proven on the few sections of white water that they’d encountered.

  Originally, Jaeger’s plan had had five kayaks on the water, each crewed by two of his team. But with their numbers so depleted, the crafts had had the seating reconfigured so that each accommodated just one person. Dale and Kral had seemed the most relieved at not having to undergo a three-day river journey sharing the one cramped canoe.

  Jaeger figured the film team’s animosity was all down to one thing. Kral resented Dale’s seniority. Dale was directing the filming, while Kral was only an assistant producer – and there were times when the Slovak’s antipathy flashed through. As for Dale, Kral’s unfortunate habit of sucking his teeth bugged him something rotten.

  Jaeger had been on enough such expeditions to know how, in the crucible of the jungle, the best of friends could end up hating each other’s guts. He knew he needed to get the problem sorted, for that kind of friction could endanger the entire expedition.

  The rest of the team – Jaeger himself, Alonzo and Kamishi – had bonded pretty well. There was little that made alpha males pull together more than knowing they faced an enemy as unexpected as it was predatory. The three former elite forces soldiers were united in their adversity – it was just the film crew who were bitching behind each other’s backs.

  As the arrow-like prow of Jaeger’s craft cleaved a furrow through the Meeting of the Ways – golden-white water on the one side, inky black on the other – he reflected on how he’d been almost happy on the river.

  Almost. Of course, the loss of the five team members had cast a dark and continuous shadow over their progress.

  But this had been the kind of thing that he had looked forward to back in London – a long paddle down a wild and remote river, in the heart of one of planet earth’s greatest jungles. Here the rivers were corridors of both sunlight and life: wild animals flocked to their banks, and the air thrummed to the beat of a myriad bird wings.

  Each kayak had elasticated deck lacing, providing quick access to vital gear. Jaeger had his combat shotgun meshed into that, just a hand’s reach away. If a caiman tried to cause him any trouble, he could draw and fire within seconds if needed. As matters had transpired, most had chosen to keep their distance, for the kayaks were about the biggest thing moving on the river.

  At one stage that morning Jaeger had allowed his kayak to drift silently downstream, as he watched a jaguar – a powerful male – stalk his prey. The big cat had padded along the riverside, taking great care not to raise a ripple or to make a sound. He’d got to the point where he was in a caiman’s blind spot, and had swum across to the mudbank upon which the reptile was sunning itself. This was a yacare as opposed to a black caiman, so the smaller of the two species.

  The big cat had stalked up the mudbank and pounced. The caiman had sensed danger at the last moment and tried to swing its jaws around to snap. But the cat was far quicker. Legs astride the caiman’s front shoulders, claws sunk deep, he’d gripped the beast’s head in his mouth, sinking his fangs into its brain.

  It had been an instant kill, following which the jaguar had dragged the caiman into the water and swum back to shore. Having watched the entire hunt, Jaeger had felt like giving the big cat a round of applause. It was one–nil to the jaguar, and Jaeger for one was happy for it to remain that way.

  After his earlier battle with one of the giant reptiles, and his loss of Irina Narov, he had developed a dislike of the caiman that went more than skin deep.

  There had been one other joy to travelling by river: Dale and Kral’s kayaks had been positioned at the rear of the flotilla. Jaeger had argued that they were the least experienced canoeists, and so they should be kept the furthest away from any likely trouble. As a bonus, putting them at the rear had kept him well away from Dale’s camera lens.

  But oddly, during the last day or so Jaeger had found himself almost missing the on-camera conversations. In a weird way the camera had been someone to talk to; to unburden himself to. Jaeger had never been on an expedition where he’d been so bereft of a soulmate; of company.

  Alonzo was fine as a stand-in second-in-command. In fact, he reminded Jaeger of Raff in many ways, and with his massive physique the former SEAL would doubtless prove a superlative warrior. In time Jaeger figured Alonzo could become a good and loyal friend – but he was not his confidante; not yet, anyway.

  And neither was Hiro Kamishi. Jaeger reckoned there was a lot he could share with the quiet Japanese – a man steeped in the mystic warrior creed of the East; of Bushido. But he needed to get to know Kamishi first. Both he and Alonzo were diehard elite forces types, and it took a while for such guys to drop their defences and open up.

  In fact, the very same criticism could be levelled at Jaeger himself. After three years in Bioko, he was acutely aware of how comfortable he had become with his own company. He wasn’t quite the archetypal loner – the trust-no-one ex-military type – but he had become adept at surviving alone. He’d grown used to his own company, and at times it was just easier that way.

  For a moment Jaeger wondered how Irina Narov would have borne up. In time, would she have proven someone he could talk to? A soulmate? He just didn’t know. Either way he’d lost her, and long before he’d been able to figure her out – if that would ever have been possible.

  In her absence, the camera was an odd kind of a confidante. It came with another major downside: it had Dale attached, which meant it was hardly very trustworthy. But right now it was about all Jaeger had.

  The previous evening, camped by the riverside, he’d filmed a second interview with Dale. Over the process of doing so, he’d found himself gradually warming to the man. Dale had a remarkable way of drawing out moments of real honesty from his interviewees with calmness and dignity.

  His was a rare gift, and Jaeger for one was developing a grudging respect for him.

  After the interview, it was Stefan Kral who’d lingered for a private chat. While he packed away the camera gear he’d proceeded to offer a mini confession about the forbidden filming episode back at the sandbar.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m telling tales, but I figured you needed to know,’ he had begun, that odd lopsided smile twisting his features. ‘That secret filming – it was Dale’s idea. He primed me with the questions, while he kept an eye on the camera.’

  He had glanced at Jaeger uneasily. ‘I said it would never work. That you’d get wise to us. But Dale wouldn’t listen. He’s the big director and I’m only a lowly assistant producer, as he sees it – so he gets to call the shots.’ Kral’s words were thick with resentment. ‘I’m years his senior, I’ve done many more jungle shoots, but somehow I’m the one under orders. And to be honest, I wouldn’t put it past him to try the same trick again. Just flagging this up for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jaeger told him. ‘I’ll be on the lookout.’

  ‘I’ve got three kids, and you know their favourite movie?’ Kral had continued, that crooked half-smile spreading further across his face. ‘It’s Shrek. And you know something else? Dale – he’s Prince bloody Charming. And he uses it. The world of TV media is full of women – producers, executives, directors – and he’s got them wrapped around his little finger.’

  During his time in the military, Jaeger had acquired a reputation for nurturing zeros into heroes, which maybe went some way to explaining why he had a natural affinity for the underdog – and Kral was definitely the underdog in the expedition’s film crew.

  But at the same time he could well appreciate why Carson had put Dale in charge. In the military you often had younger officers commanding those with far more experience, simply because they had what it took to lead. And if he were Carson, he would have done the same thing.

  Jaeger had done his best to reassure Kral. He’d told him that if ever he had serious concerns, he could bring them to him. But when all was said and done, it was up to the two
of them to get it sorted. It was vital they did so.

  That kind of tension – that seething resentment – it could tear an expedition apart.

  Beneath the prow of Jaeger’s kayak the white and the black river waters were mixing into dirty grey now, the roar of the Devil’s Falls growing into an ominous, deafening thunder. It drew Jaeger’s mind back to the relentless priorities of the present.

  They needed to make landfall, and quickly.

  Ahead and to his right he spotted a stretch of muddy riverbank, half hidden beneath overhanging branches.

  He gave a hand signal and turned the prow of his kayak towards it, the other canoes swinging into line behind. As he thrust ahead with his paddle, he spotted a flash of movement beneath the canopy – no doubt some animal or other flitting along the shoreline. He studied the darkness beneath the trees, waiting to see if it might show itself.

  The next moment a figure stepped out of the jungle.

  A human figure.

  Barefoot, naked except for a belt of woven bark strung around his waist, he stood in plain sight staring in Jaeger’s direction.

  A five-hundred-yard stretch of water separated Jaeger from the warrior of this hitherto uncontacted Amazonian Indian tribe.

  46

  Jaeger was in no doubt that the jungle warrior had chosen to show himself. The question was why. The Indian had melted out of the shadows, and doubtless he could have remained hidden had he so desired.

  He held a gracefully arched bow and arrow in one hand. Jaeger was familiar with such weapons. Each of the long arrows was tipped with a twelve-inch length of flat bamboo honed to razor sharpness, and with vicious serrated edges.

  One side of the bamboo arrowhead would be coated in the poison of the tiki uba tree, an anticoagulant, and the rear end would be hafted with a parrot’s tail feathers, to ensure that it flew true. If you were pierced by the arrow tip, the anticoagulant would prevent your blood from clotting and you’d bleed to death.

  The range of an Indian blowpipe was little more than a hundred feet – enough to reach the forest canopy. By contrast, the bow and arrow could fire four or five times that distance. It was these kind of weapons that the tribe would use when hunting large prey: caiman maybe, jaguar certainly, and without doubt any human adversaries who trespassed on their lands.

  Jaeger used the flat of his paddle to beat out an alarm signal on the water – alerting those behind him, in case they hadn’t noticed.

  He lifted the paddle out of the river and laid it lengthwise on the kayak, resting his right hand on his shotgun. He drifted forward for several seconds, silently eyeing the Amazonian Indian, who in turn was staring right back at him.

  The figure gave a signal: a single hand gesture, made to one side and then the other. Further figures stepped out to left and right, similarly dressed and armed.

  Jaeger counted a dozen now, and more were very likely secreted in the shadows to their rear. As if to confirm his suspicions, the lead warrior – for leader he had to be – made a second hand gesture, as if cueing something.

  A cry rang out across the river.

  Animal, guttural, deep-throated, it rapidly grew into a chanted war cry, one that rolled across the water in challenge. It was punctuated by a series of incredibly powerful percussions, as if a massive drum were beating out a rhythm through the jungle: kabooom-booom-booom, kabooom-booom-booom!

  The deep beats echoed across the water, and Jaeger recognised them for what they were. He’d heard something similar when working with Colonel Evandro’s B-SOB teams. Somewhere just inside the treeline the Indians were beating their heavy battle clubs against a massive buttress root, the blows ringing out from the wall of wood like thunder.

  Jaeger watched as the Indian leader lifted his bow and brandished it in his direction. The war cries rose in volume, the beating of the buttress-root drums punctuating every shake of the weapon. The gesture – the entire effect – needed no translating.

  Come no further.

  Trouble was, there was no way that Jaeger could turn back. Back lay only one-hundred-plus kilometres of river, upstream and in the wrong direction; and forward lay only the plunge over the Devil’s Falls.

  Either they made landfall here, or Jaeger and his team were in deep trouble.

  It was hardly the most auspicious of ways to go about making first contact, but Jaeger didn’t figure he had much choice. A few more seconds of this and he’d be within range of the tribe’s arrows – and this time he didn’t doubt that they were tipped with poison.

  He lifted the shotgun from its mount, pointed it at the river just in front of his canoe, and opened fire. Six warning shots were pumped out in quick succession, cutting a swathe through the water and throwing a great spout of spray high into the air.

  The reaction from the Indians was instantaneous.

  Arrows were strung and the warriors let fly, their shots arcing high through the air bang on target but falling a little short of the prow of Jaeger’s kayak. Cries of alarm echoed back and forth, and for a moment Jaeger was convinced that the tribe were determined to stand their ground and fight.

  The last thing he had come here for was to do battle with this lost tribe. But if he had no choice, he would use all necessary means and defend his team to the last.

  For a long moment he locked eyes with the tribe’s warrior leader, as if a battle of wills had been joined across the water. And then the figure gestured again, his arm jerking backwards towards the jungle. On either side of him figures melted into the trees. The moment they did so, they were rendered invisible.

  Jaeger had seen such forest tribes do this instantaneous disappearing act many times over, yet it never ceased to amaze him. He’d never seen anyone, not even Raff, who could equal it.

  But the leader held his ground, unmoving – his face like thunder.

  He stood alone facing Jaeger.

  The kayak continued to drift inwards towards the riverbank. Jaeger saw the Indian raise something in his right hand, then, with a cry of rage, drive it deep into the mudbank. It looked like a spear with a battle flag or a pennant fluttering from its back end.

  With that, the figure turned and was gone.

  Jaeger took no chances making the landing. He pushed on alone, but with Alonzo and Kamishi to either flank and set slightly behind him, assault rifles at the ready. At the very rear he stationed Dale and Kral with their camera, for they were intent on filming every last move.

  Jaeger knew that he was well covered, and he was banking that his show of force – the rounds unleashed from the shotgun – would prove a powerful deterrent against the tribe. With some powerful thrusts from his paddle he got the kayak drifting in the last few yards. He took the shotgun in hand and brought it to his shoulder, its wide, gaping muzzle menacing the dark line of trees.

  Not a sign of movement anywhere.

  The front of the kayak ground against the mud as it came to a halt. Jaeger was out in a flash, crouched low in the water behind his heavily laden craft, his weapon scanning the jungle in front of him.

  For a good five minutes he didn’t move.

  He remained hunched over his shotgun, silently listening and watching.

  He tuned his every sense to this new environment, filtering out any noises that he figured were entirely natural. If he could tune out all the normal pulses and rhythms of the forest – its heartbeat – he could tune in to anything that was abnormal, like a human footfall, or a warrior stringing an arrow to his bow.

  But there was nothing of that nature that he could detect.

  The tribe seemed to have melted away, just as swiftly as they had appeared. Yet Jaeger didn’t believe for one moment that they were gone for good.

  Keeping his weapon at the ready, he signalled Alonzo and Kamishi closer. When their canoes were almost level with his own, he stepped up from the crouch and waded through the shallows, shotgun held at the ready and primed to unleash hell.

  Partway up the mudbank, he sank to one knee, weapon sweeping th
e dark terrain ahead of him. He signalled Alonzo and Kamishi in. Once they were alongside, he moved up further on to the sand, until he was able to take hold of the Indian warrior’s spear and rip it out of the ground.

  Leticia Santos, the missing Brazilian member of Jaeger’s team, had worn a striking multicoloured silk scarf emblazoned with the word ‘Carnivale!’ Jaeger spoke decent Portuguese, having learned it during his time training the B-SOB teams, and he’d remarked on how the scarf complemented her warm Latino spirit. She’d told him it had been a gift from her sister during the previous February’s Rio carnival, and that she wore it to bring her luck on the expedition.

  It was Leticia Santos’s scarf that was hanging from the end of the Indian warrior’s spear.

  47

  Jaeger was busy stuffing kit into his backpack, talking fast and with a real edge of urgency. ‘One: how did they get ahead of us so fast and without using the river? Two: why did they want to show us Santos’s scarf? Three: why then simply disappear?’

  ‘To warn us that it’s only a matter of time before they take us all.’ It was Kral, and Jaeger noticed that his signature smile was etched with worry now. ‘This whole thing is turning bad fast.’

  Jaeger ignored him. While he was all for a good dose of realism, Kral had a habit of being unrelentingly downbeat, and they had to keep positive and stay focused.

  If they lost it here in the depths of the wilderness, they were finished.

  They’d unloaded their canoes on to the riverbank to form a makeshift camp, and Jaeger continued repacking his gear as quickly as he could.

  ‘Means they have a fix on our location,’ he remarked. ‘A point from where they can track us. Makes it all the more important that we get going, and we move light and fast.’