Bear Grylls - Ghost Flight

The old man laughed. ‘Many of our people say this: only when the last tree is cut and the last animal hunted and the last fish caught, only then will the white man finally understand that he cannot eat money.’

Jaeger remained silent. There was a wisdom in those words with which he couldn’t argue.

‘And this aircraft that you seek: if you find it, will it also bring us trouble?’ the old man queried. ‘Like the gold, is it better for it to remain lost in the jungle – the white man failing to reclaim what was originally his?’

Jaeger shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But I don’t think so. I think if we fail, more will come. What was lost has been found. And in truth, I think we’re the best you’re going to get. We understand the aircraft has poisoned the forest that lies around it. And this,’ Jaeger gestured at the jungle, ‘this is your home. It’s more than your home. It’s your life. Your identity. If we remove that aircraft, we’ll stop the forest from being poisoned.’

He let the silence hang between them.

The old man turned and gestured at the communal structure. ‘You see that smoke is coming from the spirit house. A feast is being prepared. We were preparing it for one of two reasons: either to welcome you as friends, or to say goodbye to an enemy.’ The old man laughed. ‘So, let us celebrate friendship!’

Jaeger thanked the village chief. A part of him felt driven by a sense of urgency to get on with their mission. But he also knew that amongst such cultures there was a way in which things had to be done, a timing and a rhythm. He would respect that and trust to his destiny. He also knew he had little choice.

As he fell into step with the chief, his attention was drawn to a group of figures standing to one side. In the midst was the warrior leader he’d first encountered at the riverside. Not everyone seemed happy with the outcome of the chief’s interrogations, it seemed. Jaeger figured that the warrior and his men had been sharpening their spears in preparation for ridding their forest of an enemy.

Distracted for a brief moment, he failed to spot Dale dragging out his video camera. By the time he’d noticed, Dale had it on his shoulder and had started to film.

‘Stop!’ hissed Jaeger. ‘Lose the bloody camera!’

But it was too late: the damage had been done.

A shiver of electric tension tore through the gathering as the Indians noticed what was happening. Jaeger saw the chief turn on Dale, his face stony, his eyes wide with fear. He uttered a few strangled words of command, and instantly spears were levelled at the entire team.

Dale seemed frozen, the camera clamped to his shoulder, all colour drained from his features.

The chief walked up to him. He reached for the camera. Dale handed it over, his face aghast. The chief turned it the wrong way around, put his eye against the lens and stared inside. For a long moment his gaze roved around the camera’s innards, as if trying to locate what exactly it had stolen from him.

Finally, he handed it to one of his warriors, then turned back without a word towards the spirit house. The spears were lowered.

The translator shuddered. ‘Do not ever do that again. To do so – it could undo all the good that you have done.’

Jaeger fell back a step or two, until he was on Dale’s shoulder. ‘You pull that trick again, I’ll make you boil and eat your own head. Or better still – I’ll let the chief boil and eat it for you.’

Dale nodded. His pupils were wide with shock and fear. He knew how close they’d come to disaster, and for once the slick-tongued media operator was lost for words.

Jaeger followed the chief into the smoky interior of the spirit house. It had no walls as such, only posts supporting the roof, but with the thatch reaching almost to the ground, it was shaded and dark inside. It took a moment for Jaeger’s eyes to adjust from the bright light to the gloom of the interior.

Even before they had done so, a voice rang out, one that sounded impossibly… familiar.

‘So tell me – you do have my knife?’

Jaeger felt rooted to the spot. That voice was one he’d told himself he would never hear again; it seemed to be speaking to him from way beyond the grave.

As his eyesight adjusted, he caught sight of an unmistakable figure seated on the ground. Jaeger’s mind reeled as he tried to figure out how she could have got there, not to mention how she could still be alive.

That figure was the woman he’d long presumed dead: Irina Narov.

Narov was seated with two others. One was Leticia Santos, their Brazilian team member, the other the giant figure of Joe James. Jaeger was rendered speechless, and his raw confusion wasn’t lost on the Indian chief. In fact, he could feel the aged tribal leader watching him closely, and studying his every move.

He approached the three of them. ‘But how…’ He glanced from one to another, his face breaking into a slow smile. If anything, Joe James’s Osama Bin Laden beard looked even bushier than ever.

Jaeger held out a hand. ‘You big Kiwi bastard! Could have done without seeing you again.’

James ignored the proffered hand, enveloping Jaeger in a crushing bear hug. ‘Dude, one thing you gotta learn: real men hug.’

Leticia Santos was next, throwing her arms around him in a typical show of unrestrained Latino warmth. ‘So! Like I promised – you do get to meet my Indians!’

Narov was last.

She stood before Jaeger, an inch or so shorter than him, her eyes as expressionless as ever, her gaze avoiding his. Jaeger gave her the once-over. Whatever she had suffered since he’d lost her on the river – pain-racked from the Phoneutria bite and curled up on his makeshift raft – she didn’t seem much the worse for wear.

She held out one hand. ‘Knife.’

For an instant Jaeger checked that hand. It was her left, and the horrible swelling and bite marks seemed to have almost disappeared.

He bent slightly so that he could whisper in her ear. ‘I gave it to the chief. Had to. It was the only thing I could do to bargain for our lives.’

‘ Schwachkopf. ’ Was there the barest hint of a smile? ‘You have my knife. You’d better have my knife. Or the chief will be the least of your worries.’

The chief gestured at Jaeger. ‘You have friends here. Spend time with them. Food and drink will come.’

‘Thank you, I’m grateful.’

The chief nodded at the translator. ‘Puruwehua will stay with you, at least until you feel at home.’

With that he was gone, wandering off amongst his people.

Jaeger took a seat with the others. James and Santos were the first to tell their story. They’d set camp in the forest maybe an hour’s walk from the sandbar, on the same day they’d parachuted into the jungle. They’d hung offerings in the trees – a scattering of presents – and waited.

Sure enough, the Indians had come – but not quite in the way they had hoped. Overnight, both of them had been taken captive and marched to the village, the Indians knowing the forest’s secret pathways and being able to move silent and fast. There they were questioned by the chief along similar lines to Jaeger’s interrogation: whether they came in anger or in peace, and the nature of their mission.

When they had told the chief all they could, they felt as if they had passed some kind of unwritten test. It was then that the chief had allowed them to be reunited with Irina Narov. He’d kept them apart so as to ensure their stories matched.

And in Jaeger’s questioning there lay a third layer of scrutiny. The chief had kept his missing team members hidden to check if their stories married up. Clearly he was no pushover.

In fact he’d played Jaeger – he’d played them all – like an old hand.