Беар Гриллс - The Hunt [=The Devil's Sanctuary]

Valhalla: their slang for Hereford, the SAS’s base, lying just north of the Bristol Channel. It made sense to call for as much backup as possible.

‘We will be there sooner,’ Narov yelled after him.

It was the noise that had alerted them. The weird, ghostly roar of a machine of some sort rising fast into the night sky. Only no aircraft that Jaeger and Narov had ever heard of took off directly from the sea, and especially not under such conditions.

Whatever the mystery machine might be, it remained utterly shrouded in darkness, almost invisible to the naked eye. The only exception was the rear underside, from where Jaeger could make out a faint, pulsing red glow.

That blinking devil’s eye was the only sign that the hidden aircraft was powering into the heavens.

Jaeger turned his head ninety degrees, so that he was facing east towards the shadowed outline of the Somerset coastline. Not a mile away, the ghostly structure of the nuclear power plant was lit up like some kind of giant spacecraft marooned on the low cliffs.

The proximity of the two – the power station and the approaching aircraft – was terrifying.

Narov crouched in the stern of the boat, edging it forward, trying to match their desire for speed with the need to make a covert approach. In the circumstances, stealing the rigid inflatable boat had been their only option. There had been several craft moored in Bridgwater Bay, but the RIB had been the one to go for.

Fast, stable, relatively silent and riding low in the water, it was the preferred assault craft for seaborne special forces the world over. It had made double the sense to take the RIB, for there was a stiff wind blowing and a big swell on the sea. The RIB was just about unsinkable and able to master far worse conditions than these.

Once they had got under way, powering out to sea, Narov hadn’t even tried to argue when Jaeger had demanded her pistol. Whoever was on the vessel that had to be out there somewhere on the dark waters, Jaeger was determined to be the one to take them down.

As Narov nursed the RIB closer to where the launch platform had to lie, a form began to emerge from the dark line where the night sky met the sea. Jaeger could just make out the vessel, silhouetted as it was by the moonlight that bled through the clouds.

It had the classic lines of a Nordhavn yacht, Kammler’s chosen delivery vessel for the untold mass murder and mayhem that he had planned to visit on the world.

As the ship materialised from the darkness, Narov powered the RIB right down so they could creep up on their prey silent and unseen. The RIB inched closer, Jaeger holding his breath and praying that the roar of the mystery aircraft would mask the noise of their engine.

Whoever was crewing the yacht was bound to be far better armed than Jaeger and Narov, who boasted the one Beretta between them. If the crew got wise to the RIB’s presence, they’d be able to lean over the ship’s rail and shoot them up in the water. They’d pick off Jaeger and Narov at a distance, well before the Nordhavn came within the pistol’s range.

Much as Jaeger hated it, they had to creep in stealthily, even as the aircraft streaked towards its target, the devil’s eye blinking ever closer to the cliffs.

Jaeger didn’t doubt that the airborne platform was somehow fitted with the last of Kammler’s INDs. The ninth device – the one they had all missed, believing that Kammler, in his hubris and megalomania, would have stuck rigidly to the Nazis’ sacred number.

He figured the mystery platform had to be a drone of sorts. Right now, it was just minutes away from drawing level with the power station and stealing into its airspace. That was what the flashing red light had to be for – it provided a reference point, so the drone’s operator could steer it through the dark skies to the exact point of detonation, one calculated to cause maximum devastation and the catastrophic meltdown of the power plant.

The RIB nudged ever closer to the Nordhavn. Moments later, the silhouette of the yacht was looming above them, a dark, slab-sided form etched against the moonlit sky. Jaeger reached out one arm to fend off the vessel. The last thing they needed was to collide with its hull, alerting whoever was aboard.

That done, he began to drag them hand-over-hand towards the ladder lashed to the Nordhavn’s side, guiding the prow of the RIB through the choppy water. His eyes scanned the deck above, checking for any movement or a sign they had been discovered.

Nothing.

Momentarily he clocked the vessel’s name bolted to the hull: Grey Wolf. Kammler’s chosen code name. Like the man had said with his dying breath, this one was personal. A gift from Kammler to Will Jaeger – the deaths of his nearest and dearest. Or so Kammler had intended.

Well it’s personal for the both of us , Jaeger told himself grimly.

With his left hand he made a grab for the ladder, and without a word to Narov swung himself onto the rungs. Hand over hand he powered upwards, light on his feet despite his recent injuries and blanking out any residual pain.

With infinite care he inched his head above the level of the hull, his eyes sweeping the Nordhavn’s deck. A massive figure was standing erect in the dimly lit wheelhouse. Or rather, his bulk seemed to be propped against one side of it, as if he needed the support to remain upright.

Steve Jones, it had to be. Somehow he’d escaped from the getaway vehicle, that’s if he’d still been riding in it when Brooks had taken it out. And by the looks of things, he was still nursing the injuries Jaeger had inflicted upon him during their brutal fight in Kammler’s lair.

But if Jones was here, did that also mean…?

Away to their east, the pulsing red light of the drone was fast approaching the airspace above the nuclear plant. No matter who might be crewing this ship of death, they had to be stopped. No time to lose.

Jaeger didn’t hesitate. He vaulted onto the deck, soundless as a cat, and flitted towards the wheelhouse, moving stealthily and sticking to the darkest shadows. The door had been left ajar, and within moments, he’d slipped inside.

He found himself on the lower deck of the bridge, with Jones on the floor above. He located the stairway leading upwards, keeping his feet to the outer edges as he climbed, where there was less chance of any of the steps creaking under his weight.

He reached the top seemingly undetected. From there, he eyed the figure hunched at the wheel. The massive shoulders, the bulging muscles, the shaven head: it was Jones all right. His gaze seemed glued to the prow of the yacht, and beyond it the drone as it powered towards the target.

Jaeger scanned the bridge from end to end. Jones seemed to be alone, but propped in one corner was the distinctive form of a Type 79 folding-stock sub-machine gun – the same as Kammler’s men had used.

He would have to be doubly careful.

He stole across towards his nemesis, the Beretta levelled at the big man’s head. Still Jones didn’t seem to have heard or seen anything. Suddenly Jaeger froze, as a deafening burst of static hissed out of the Nordhavn’s speaker, set into the yacht’s bridge.

A voice came over the radio. ‘What was the detonation code again?’

Jones cursed. ‘How many bloody times… HK300445. It couldn’t be more bastard obvious.’

‘I asked for the code, not a barrage of abuse,’ the voice replied coldly, before repeating it back at Jones. ‘HK300445.’

‘You got it. Bravo, Einstein.’

‘Concentrate on keeping a steady course, if you think you can manage that.’

The radio link died and Jones cursed some more.

Jaeger felt his blood run cold. The code was obvious. HK for Hank Kammler, plus the numbers 300445, Hitler’s date of death. But it wasn’t that that had so poleaxed him. Distorted though it was over the radio link, he could have sworn that he recognised the drone operator’s voice.