by Bear Grylls
Suddenly he sounded surprised. Peter and Beck were immediately alert.
‘What is it?’
‘They have driven past the terminal. They’re not going to— Oh, I see. They are heading for the cargo area. Still want to follow?’
The boys looked at each other. Beck saw the fire in Peter’s eyes.
‘Yes,’ he said, intrigued. ‘Why not?’
The driver dropped them off by the airport fence, a hundred metres short of the service gate where the men had got out of their taxi. He gave them a final ‘Good luck!’ and drove off back to the terminal. Beck and Peter walked along the fence and peered into the cargo area on the other side of the gate. High wire mesh ran along the road separating them from the airport proper.
Over to one side was a large hangar. Its doors were wide open so they could see that it was big enough to contain several small planes, which stood scattered around inside. The two men were walking purposefully towards the hangar.
Parked in front was a plane that Beck didn’t recognize. It had propellers, a boxy body and a short row of passenger windows down its side. Instinct made Beck count the engines: two of them. The aircraft looked worn and well used. There was a logo on the tail – an outline of a lion’s head.
The service gate was padlocked but a small gap beneath the wire mesh allowed both boys to slide under it. Peter went first and Beck swiftly followed. No one noticed them slithering under the wire at the far end of the main airport perimeter. They were in. They looked around cautiously.
There was a small portakabin next to the hangar, about thirty metres from Beck and Peter. The words LION MOUNTAIN AIRCRAFT HIRE, with the same lion’s-head logo, were marked in flaky paint above its windows. A man came out of the portakabin and greeted the pair from the hotel, shaking their hands and leading them back inside.
‘Quick,’ Peter said as he scuttled forward, camera in hand.
They crept up to the portakabin, taking care to stay out of sight of the windows. The windows were open and as they approached they could hear voices. One man – Beck guessed it was the one from the hire place – was chatty and friendly. The others – the men they had followed – answered in grunts and monosyllables.
‘A few formalities with the paperwork, gentlemen. Please sign here . . . and here . . . Thank you . . . Now, here are copies of the hire insurance agreement, which you must read and sign . . . ’
Beck craned his head round the corner of the portakabin. The plane stood just a few metres away. The wide sliding door in its side was open and he could see that the interior was packed with wooden crates. The men were hiring the plane and it was obviously fully loaded. How long before they took off?
Peter had seen the same thing; his thoughts had probably followed the same path. Beck saw the gleam in his eye. He gently pulled his friend back, round to the other side of the portakabin. There were no windows here and they could talk, as long as they kept their voices down.
‘OK,’ Beck murmured. ‘If they’re smuggling anything it’s probably on board already. So we go back to the main airport building. We find a policeman – we tell him . . . something. Anything. Anything that will make him come and look. We’ve done our bit . . . ’
But the gleam hadn’t left Peter’s eyes. ‘Or we could take a look!’ he urged, so eager he barely kept his voice down. He fiddled with his camera excitedly. ‘Evidence! That will make the policeman take notice!’
‘Are you crazy? They’re right in there! They could come out at any moment—’
‘They’re filling in paperwork. That takes for ever. We peep in, open a crate, take a photo and get out again. It’ll take seconds. Come on!’
And he was gone. Beck wanted to scream, but short of physically dragging Peter away – which would certainly make a noise, and get them spotted – he couldn’t do anything about it. He glanced around nervously, paused, then followed.
CHAPTER SIX
Peter had the sense to scurry the long way round the portakabin, so no one inside would see him. He hopped up into the plane as if he belonged there and crouched by the nearest crate. His fingers scrabbled at the lid. ‘Give me a hand!’ he whispered.
Beck climbed up swiftly after his friend.
The inside of the plane had benches down either side. Opposite the door was a wire-framed locker with several brightly coloured jumpsuits hanging inside. Helmets and goggles lay on the floor of the locker – along with some parachutes looking like a pile of canvas rucksacks. This was a hire aircraft, Beck remembered. He guessed it was used by the local skydiving club – as well as anyone else who wanted to put money down.
At the front of the plane was the door leading into the empty cockpit. It was ajar and Beck could just make out the instrument panel.
The crates had been stacked in a row down the middle of the plane, two crates wide and two high. Peter reached for the nearest one; Beck went to the other side and they looked at each other, then prised off the lid.
Dull silver circles shone back at them, arranged in neat rows. The crate was full of tightly packed cans. Beck reached in and pulled one out.
‘Fish,’ he whispered, surprised. According to the label the tin contained tuna in spring water, but that didn’t stop Peter raising his camera and taking a shot. ‘What? Did you think the crates would be full of loose diamonds?’
‘They could be in the tins,’ Peter said stubbornly as he squinted into the lens. ‘How can we open one?’
‘Just stick it in your pocket and let’s get out of—’
‘Yes. All loaded and ready.’
It was a man’s voice and it came from right outside the plane.
Peter froze. Beck glanced quickly out of the door.
There was a man there, partly in view, foot poised in mid step, head turned away. He hadn’t seen either of them yet, and they had about three seconds before he did. Beck vaulted silently across the row of crates in one swift movement and pulled Peter down out of sight. They lay flat on the floor of the plane, hearts pounding and ears pricked for every sound.
Someone out of earshot must have asked the man a question. Beck shuddered. If he hadn’t shouted like that, they would never have known he was there until it was too late.
‘I’ll warm ’em up,’ the man called. ‘We can take off in five.’
And then there was the sound of the man climbing into the plane.
Beck peeped up above the crates. The man wore a leather pilot’s jacket with the lion logo on the back. If he worked for Lion Mountain Aircraft Hire, Beck reckoned, maybe he wasn’t a smuggler. He might not know who or what his passengers were. But that wouldn’t necessarily make him any friendlier towards a pair of prying stowaway boys.
The pilot went forward to the cockpit and dropped into the left-hand seat; a moment later the plane shook as the two engines roared into life.
Beck tugged at Peter’s sleeve. ‘Out,’ he mouthed, though there was little chance of being heard over the engine’s racket. Pale and sweating, Peter nodded. He fastened his camera back into its pouch and they both tentatively stood up –
– and then quickly dropped back down again. One of the men they had followed was approaching the aircraft. He climbed up behind the pilot, then sat down in the right-hand seat.
Beck gritted his teeth. That was two men. There was still a third – the other guy they had followed from the hotel. Was he going to come on the flight? Where was he? Would he see them getting off?
Well, they didn’t have a choice. They had to get off now. They stood up and climbed quickly over the crates.
This time they made it as far as the door. They had a good view of the portakabin, and of the third man just leaving it. He paused to shut the door, then turned towards the plane.
There was no time to jump back across the crates again. Beck yanked Peter to one side, out of sight of the door. The only place they could go now was the back of the plane. There was a small galley there, just where the plane started to narrow, with a toilet opposite. Beck pushed Pete
r down behind the galley, and just had time to shut himself into the even smaller toilet before the man climbed aboard.
Beck cracked the door open by the tiniest amount and peered out. He saw the man grab the handle of the door and slide it shut, then check that it was firmly closed; finally he went to join his friends, shutting the cockpit door behind him.
Peter and Beck exchanged glances. Peter was even paler and sweatier than before. He looked like he was about to be sick. Beck didn’t feel much better. They were sealed in the plane and there was nothing they could do about it.
Then he clutched at the bulkhead, because the plane had lurched into motion. With its two unwilling passengers it lumbered and bounced across the airport tarmac. A brief pause, and then the engines bellowed twice as loud as before and it hurtled down the runway at full power.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Beck’s thoughts raced as the plane started to climb. He didn’t know how far it was going, or where, but it would take some minutes to reach cruising height. Chances were the three men would stay seated in the front – at least until the plane could level out.
So now would be his best chance to discuss things with Peter.
He crept out of the toilet and crouched down next to his friend.
‘Sorry.’ Peter had to say it quite loudly over the sound of the engines, but there was little chance of them being heard. The plane wasn’t soundproofed like an airliner would have been. ‘It’s all my fault. We should have just gone to find a policeman.’
Beck studied his friend. Peter’s eyes were wide and the colour hadn’t come back to his face yet. He was still very frightened. But his jaw was set and there was a determined twist to his mouth. He wasn’t going to let the fear beat him. He was going to face up to what he had got them into.
A sudden flashback rushed into Beck’s mind. It had been lurking on the edges of his memory ever since they got on board the plane, triggered by the sight of the parachutes. He remembered standing in the doorway of a plane very like this, with the ground 12,000 feet below. He was wearing a helmet, goggles and a jumpsuit, and the weight of a parachute tugged at his back. His hands were braced against the frame and the plane’s slipstream seemed to pluck at him with a thousand tiny fingers.
The instructor had put his face close to Beck’s. ‘Afraid?’ he had called. Beck had nodded and the man grinned. ‘You’ve got to have a little fear to be brave!’ he shouted, and gave Beck the thumbs-up; then Beck had jumped.
Yes, Beck thought, you had to be afraid to be brave. If you weren’t overcoming fear then it wasn’t bravery, just stupidity. And that was what Peter had been doing.
And so, even though he could have spent the next half-hour telling Peter exactly what kind of idiot he was, he pushed the matter to one side. They had more pressing things on their minds.
‘OK,’ Beck said. ‘Here’s how it is. We’re in trouble either way. If these guys really are just transporting tins of tuna then we’re in less trouble than if . . . Well, you know.’ If they’re smuggling diamonds . . . was what he meant.
Peter nodded. ‘You heard what they said about being willing to shoot the pilot.’
‘Yeah . . . ’ Beck scratched his jaw. He didn’t want to go there. ‘Maybe it was just an expression . . . ’
Peter didn’t look convinced; Beck certainly didn’t feel convinced. But under the circumstances, he had to know exactly where they stood.
‘We don’t even know where they’re going . . . ’ he began.
‘Morocco,’ Peter said unexpectedly.
Beck blinked. ‘How do you know that?’
Peter nodded at the nearest crate. ‘Says so.’
Beck followed his gaze. Sure enough, stencilled in black paint along one side were some serial numbers and the words: EXPORTED UNDER LICENCE TO KINGDOM OF MOROCCO.
Beck bit his lip and tried to remember his African geography. You studied it on a map and it all looked so close together. You forgot Africa was vast. How far away was Morocco?
‘OK,’ he said uncertainly, ‘that’s probably . . . what? A good three-hour flight. At the end of that they’re going to find us, if we don’t tell them we’re here.’
Peter stared at him as if he was mad. ‘But if they’re—’
‘I know, I know. If they’re smugglers . . . ’ Beck didn’t finish the sentence; he bit his lip again, hard, thinking. ‘Stay here. I’m going to see if I can hear what they’re saying.’
Leaving Peter where he was before he could object, and more than a little afraid, Beck edged quickly down the line of crates towards the front of the aircraft.
He kept to the right-hand side of the plane. If someone came out of the cockpit, hopefully the door would be between him and them. The plane was still climbing and it was an uphill walk. Just before he got to the cockpit the plane turned suddenly and Beck was thrown against the crates. He could see why normal airlines always made you stay seated during this part of the journey. But then the plane straightened out and continued to climb.
He had reached the cockpit bulkhead. The engines seemed quieter now that he was in front of them; their noise was carried away by the plane’s passage. There was a grille in the door, an air vent, and Beck could just make out voices.
But it didn’t help him. The pilot was conducting one half of a conversation with air traffic control, acknowledging directions and reporting his course and height. The other two were chatting quietly. One of them sounded like a local; the other had a South African accent – Beck guessed he was probably the white man he had seen earlier. But he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Beck groaned to himself. He needed facts. Some indication of whether they were smugglers or not. Then he felt the plane shift beneath his feet. They were levelling out at last. Through the door he heard the pilot talking to his passengers.
‘On time and on course, gentlemen. As promised.’
‘Good. Keep it that way and you get to live,’ the South African replied menacingly.
Then they all fell silent once more.
Beck leaned against the bulkhead, feeling very cold. Every bone in his body told him that these guys were bad news.
There was no doubt in his mind now. If they were prepared to kill the pilot, then why would they hesitate to kill them? He made his way quickly back down the plane towards Peter. The options raced through his mind. They were going to have to get off the plane without being discovered. If they didn’t, then they would be killed.
The only question was, when?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Peter’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. They had both squeezed into the plane’s toilet, where Beck had given him the good news.
‘Jump?’ he squeaked. ‘Jump?’
But after the initial shock, Beck saw a change come over him. Peter summoned up his courage and calmed down. His voice grew steadier. Beck had told him what the men at the front of the plane had said. Peter drew the same conclusions and knew there was no point in arguing.
‘OK,’ he said simply. ‘How?’
‘Parachutes,’ Beck said, jerking a thumb at the packs hanging in the locker.
‘Well, yeah, but have you jumped before?’
‘Yes . . . ’ Beck told him, before adding under his breath, ‘Just the once.’
Peter looked at him. He was trusting him, Beck realized. Peter had known him for years: he didn’t need to be told that Beck had survived in jungles and frozen mountains. He knew all that.
Beck felt like someone was flipping a switch inside his head. It sent him into survival mode. He knew what to do; with Peter’s help, he could get them through this.
‘We’re going to wait as long as we can,’ Beck told him. ‘I don’t know exactly how high we are but we’re still flying a lot higher and a lot faster than normal skydiving altitude. If we’re over about twelve thousand feet then we could pass out from lack of oxygen. But if we wait until we’re near the end of the journey, the plane will be lower and slower.’
‘And a lot further
from where we started,’ Peter pointed out.
Beck pulled a knowing face. ‘Yes. But if my geography is right then we’ll be flying over the Sahara at the moment. It’s one of the hottest and driest places on earth. If we land in the middle of that, then it’ll kill us almost as quickly as those guys at the front.’
‘You’ve been in deserts before, though.’
‘Yeah, but I had a bit more time to prepare. I can do it, only . . . ’ He trailed off and looked side-ways at his friend. The right words jumbled together inside him and wouldn’t come out in the right order. What he wanted to say was something like: I can’t take a passenger. If you’re expecting me to do everything then we’re dead before we even begin.
‘I’ve always had help too.’ He sounded awkward even to his own ears. ‘There’s always been an adult to help me get stuff done.’
‘OK,’ Peter said simply. ‘What can I do?’
Beck grinned with relief. Peter understood.
‘Right. First, search the galley. Go through it and pick out anything – anything at all – that could be useful to us down there.’
‘I’m on it!’
While Peter did that, Beck turned his attention to the parachute locker. It was padlocked shut but the padlock wasn’t strong. Beck jimmied it open with a screwdriver from a tool kit in the galley. He pulled out the first two parachutes and put them down by the sliding door of the plane.
Then he returned to the locker to see what else he could find. The mass of jumpsuits smelled stale as he rummaged among them. Apparently they weren’t washed after being used. They were also all adult size – too big for him or Peter. But he could take some goggles and helmets.
Beck was about to close the locker again when his eye caught one more thing. ‘Aha!’ He pulled out a musty canvas rucksack and tipped it out. It held a skydiving logbook and a half-full packet of cigarettes but nothing more. Beck put it with the rest of the equipment.
‘How are you doing, Pete?’ he asked.
‘OK . . . I think . . . ’
