Bear Grylls - Burning Angels

‘Father, I’m thirty-four,’ Konig protested. ‘I don’t need looking after.’

‘She is already on her way,’ Kammler replied, with finality. ‘I will be flying in shortly thereafter. Returning to my sanctuary. And when I get there, I’ll look forward to you telling me all about this boy – this slum kid. We have much to catch up on…’

Kammler said goodbye and finished the call.

Falk wasn’t exactly the son he would have wished for, but at the same time he wasn’t wholly bad. They shared a key passion: conservation. And in Kammler’s brave new world, wildlife, the environment – the health of the planet – would once again be ascendant. The dangers facing the world – global warming, overpopulation, extinctions, habitat destruction – would be dealt with in an instant.

Kammler had used computer simulations to predict the death count from the coming pandemic. The world population would experience an almost total eclipse. It would be reduced to a few hundred thousand souls.

The human race was a veritable plague upon the earth.

It would be wiped out by the mother of all plagues.

It was all just so perfect.

Some isolated peoples would doubtless survive. Those on remote, rarely visited islands. Tribes in the deep jungle. And of course, that was as it should be. After all, the Fourth Reich would have need of some natives – Untermenschen – to serve as their slaves.

Hopefully, once the pandemic had run its course, Falk would see the light. In any case, he was all that Kammler had. His wife had died during childbirth, and Falk was their first and only child.

Come the rise of the Fourth Reich, Kammler was determined to make him an heir worthy of the cause.

He dialled up another IntelCom ID.

A voice answered. ‘Jones.’

‘You have a new task,’ Kammler announced. ‘A story about some kid from the slums did the rounds of Katavi Lodge. I have a particular interest in this. There are two members of staff who will do anything for a few beers. Try Andrew Asoko first; if he knows nothing, speak to Frank Kikeye. Let me know what you find.’

‘Got it.’

‘One more thing. A nurse will fly in today with an inoculation for Falk Konig, my head conservationist. Make sure he allows her to administer it. I don’t care if you have to forcibly restrain him, but he gets his injection. Understood?’

‘Got it. An injection. Some story about a kid.’ He paused. ‘But tell me, when do I get to do something really pleasurable, like hitting Jaeger?’

‘The two tasks you’ve just been given are of key importance,’ Kammler snapped. ‘Get them done first.’

He killed the call.

He didn’t like Jones. But he was an efficient exterminator, which was all that mattered. And by the time he would be ready to claim his first – very handsome – pay cheque, he would be as good as dead, along with the rest of humanity… bar the chosen.

But this story about a slum kid was worrisome. A few months back Kammler had received reports that a grave on the island had been disturbed. They’d presumed it was the work of wild animals. But was it just possible that someone had survived, and escaped?

Either way, Jones was sure to get to the bottom of it. Kammler put his worries to one side, and refocused.

The resurrection of the Reich – it was almost upon them.

As Jaeger was well aware, if you wanted to get a small force of elite operators on to a distant target ultra-fast and ultra-low-profile, a civilian jet airliner was the way to do it.

A force could be flown across nations and continents on a bog-standard airliner, following a flight path and altitude open to commercial carriers, and posing as a bona fide flight of one of those airlines. Once over the target, they could leap from the aircraft in a high-altitude parachute jump, remaining immune to detection by radar, the airliner continuing on to its destination as if nothing untoward had ever happened.

Taking advantage of CIA director Daniel Brooks’ offer of tacit support, Jaeger and his team had been made last-minute additions to the passenger list of BA Flight 987, routed from Berlin’s Schonefeld airport to Perth, Australia. Upon arrival at its destination, BA 987 would be six passengers short. They would have exited en route – at 0400 hours local time and somewhere off the coast of East Africa.

An airliner’s doors cannot be opened in flight, because of the massive pressure differential between the interior and exterior of the aircraft. The exits are ‘plug doors’; they’re closed from the inside and kept shut partly by the higher pressure in the cabin. Even if someone did manage to unlock a door during flight, the pressure differential would make it impossible to pull it inwards and open it.

Not so the specially adapted hatch and ‘jump cage’ of this Boeing airliner.

In a top secret deal with UK Special Forces, one or two supposedly standard BA airliners had been modified to facilitate such covert high-altitude parachute jumps. In an isolated section of the fuselage a reinforced steel cabin had been constructed, complete with a man-sized jump hatch. Flight 987 was one of these specially adapted aircraft, and it was via this means that Jaeger and his team would be leaping into the thin and screaming blue.

With the team scattered in pairs around the aircraft, Jaeger and Narov had lucked out. They were flying club class – the only seats available at a few hours’ notice, which was all the time Brooks had had to muscle them on to the flight. It was indicative of the quiet cooperation from high-level corporations that the CIA director enjoyed. When someone of his influence asked, people tended to accommodate.

The pilot of BA 987 – a former air force fighter jock – would be opening the jump hatch over a specific set of GPS coordinates. He would make sure to override any warning systems. It wasn’t a dangerous manoeuvre, and the door would only be ajar for a matter of seconds.

Jaeger and his team would change into their high-altitude survival and parachutist gear in the aircraft’s crew quarters, well away from the other passengers’ view. In the Boeing 747-400’s jump cabin – which could be depressurised independently from the rest of the aircraft – a row of six bulging rucksacks had been laid to one side, along with a heap of high-altitude parachutist kit and weaponry.

After they’d tumbled free of the aircraft, the jump hatch would swing shut, BA 987 continuing on her way as if no unscheduled unloading of passengers had ever taken place.

The reasons for making such a rapid and ultra-secret insertion were simple. Time was of the essence, and if Little Mafia Island was all that it was suspected to be, Kammler’s surveillance and security was bound to be second to none. He’d doubtless have co-opted some CIA hardware – satellites; UAVs; spy planes – to keep a permanent watch rotation over the island, not to mention whatever security systems he had in place on the ground.

Any assault would be up close in the jungle, where visibility was never more than a few dozen yards at best. Stashed in the 747’s jump cabin were half a dozen Hechler & Koch MP7s, an ultra-short-barrelled sub-machine gun. With a total length of just twenty-five inches, it was perfect for close-quarter battle and jungle warfare.

Each weapon was fitted with a suppressor, to silence its distinctive bark. Equipped with a forty-round magazine, the MP7 packed a real punch, especially as it fired bespoke armour-piercing bullets. The DM11 Ultimate Combat round boasted an alloy-plated steel core, making it ideal for penetrating any buildings or bunkers that Kammler might have sited on the island.

Jaeger’s team numbered six, and they expected to be heavily outnumbered. Nothing new there, he noted.