Bear Grylls: Ghost Flight

Major Mojo, Jaeger’s erstwhile tormentor, was screaming and writhing like a stuck pig – but he wasn’t going anywhere, that was for sure.

In one smooth move Jaeger lifted the rifle, flicked off the safety and opened fire. The muzzle spat burning bursts of tracer, as rounds ripped through the darkness.

Jaeger aimed for the torso. Head shots were fine for a day out on the ranges, but in a live firefight you went for the guts every time. It was the biggest target, and few ever survived a stomach wound.

He swept his weapon across the beach, seeking out the figure of the commander. He saw the village kid struggling to break free, and darting into the safety of the nearby palm grove. Jaeger unleashed a savage burst, and watched the commander turn and run. He saw his tracer fire tearing up the commander’s heels and ripping into his torso.

He sensed the fear and indecision ripple through the enemy’s ranks as their leader went down, screaming in fear and in the agony of his death throes.

They were like a decapitated snake now.

This was the moment to seize the advantage.

‘Mag change!’ Jaeger yelled, as he grabbed a full magazine from his former jailer’s pocket and rammed it home. ‘Go! Go! Go!’

Raff needed no second urging.

In an instant he was on his feet, charging forward, screaming out his war cry, Jaeger hammering out the covering fire. As the dark, fearsome Maori giant tore ahead, Jaeger saw the first of the enemy break and run.

Raff made thirty yards, then sank to his knee, opening up in a barrage of aimed shots. He yelled at Jaeger in turn: ‘GOOOOOOOOOO!’

Jaeger rose from the sand, weapon in his shoulder, all his pent-up rage and fury focused into the fight. He sprinted forward, only his eyes and his bared teeth showing white among the dark film of swamp filth that coated him from head to toe, thundering across the open beach, his muzzle spitting fire.

Within moments, the last of President Chambara’s soldiers had broken rank and run. Raff and Jaeger chased them through the palm grove with aimed bursts, until not a single enemy figure was visible anywhere.

Seconds later, the dark stretch of sand had fallen silent – apart from the groans of the dying and the wounded.

Wasting no time, the two men sought out the chief’s canoe and dragged it towards the surf. The big, thick-skinned dugout was unwieldy on dry land, and it took all their strength to manhandle it into the waves. They were just about to push off when Jaeger signalled Raff to wait.

He scuttled through the waves and crossed the beach to where a figure lay pinned to the blood-soaked sand. He wrestled the wooden stake free, hoisted the wounded man on to his shoulders and returned the way he’d come, dumping the semi-conscious form of his jailer in the centre of the craft.

‘Change of plan!’ he yelled at Raff, as they ran the vessel deeper into the surf. ‘Mojo’s coming with us. Plus we head east and due south. Chambara’s men will presume we’ve pushed north, for Cameroon or Nigeria. It’ll never cross their minds we’ve gone the opposite way, back into their country.’

Raff leapt aboard the canoe and reached to help Jaeger. ‘Why would we head back into President Chugga’s hellhole?’

‘We make for the mainland. It’s twice the distance, but they’ll never think to follow. Plus it isn’t Chambara’s territory any more, remember? We link up with the coup plotters and take our chances with them.’

Raff grinned. ‘ Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka ora! Ka ora! Let’s bloody go!’

They paddled the boat further out to sea, Jaeger taking up the chant, and were quickly swallowed by the moon-washed darkness.

‘Okay, gentlemen, you will be pleased to know you check out. A couple of calls was all it took. Your reputations, it seems, go before you.’

The accent was broad South African, the figure in front of them squat and stocky, with the beefy, bearded red face of a Boer. The physique spoke of a youth spent playing rugby, drinking hard and soldiering in the African bush, before age and gout got the better of him.

But Pieter Boerke wasn’t here for the fighting. He was the coup leader, and he had a force of far younger, fitter men to lead the charge.

‘You’re still planning on taking Bioko?’ Jaeger remarked. ‘The Wonga coup pretty much never even got started…’

Several years back there had been a previous attempt to remove President Chambara from power. It had turned into something of a debacle, earning the derisive nickname ‘the Wonga coup’.

Boerke snorted. ‘I run a very different operation. This is the Gotcha coup. Chambara’s finished. The international community, the oil companies, the people of Bioko – everyone wants him gone. Who wouldn’t? The guy is an animal. He eats people – mostly his favourite prisoners.’ He eyed Jaeger. ‘Bet you’re glad you made it out of Black Beach when you did, eh?’

Jaeger smiled. It still hurt to do so, after three days of being battered by tropical storms and washed by sea spray as they crossed the Gulf of Guinea.

‘I’ve got C-130s in-loading weapons as we speak,’ Boerke continued, ‘flying shuttle runs out of Nigeria. We’re building up for the big push. Come to think of it, I could use a couple of extra hands – guys like you who know the lie of the land.’ He eyed the two men. ‘Fancy joining us?’

Jaeger glanced at Raff. ‘According to my big Maori friend here, we’ve got business back in the UK.’

‘Unfortunately,’ Raff growled. ‘After tasting a little of President Chugga’s hospitality, I’d love to go kick his front door in.’

‘I bet you would.’ Boerke let out a bark of a laugh. ‘Last chance, guys. I could use you. Really I could. I mean, you broke out of Black Beach. No one does that. You fought your way off the island with a couple of toothpicks and a bottle opener between you. Made a three-day voyage here by canoe. Like I said, I could use you.’

Jaeger held up his hands. ‘Not this time. I’m done with Bioko.’

‘Understood.’ Boerke got to his feet, a bundle of energy pacing back and forth behind his desk. ‘So, I can get you out of here on the next C-130. You hit Nigeria, you’ll be slipped aboard a BA flight direct to London, no questions asked. Least I can do for you, after delivering that little shit to us.’

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. The heavily bandaged form of Major Mojo was slumped in one corner of the room. After three days at sea and the injuries that he’d suffered, the man was barely conscious.

Raff eyed him, contemptuously. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could give him the same kind of treatment that he gave my friend here, with interest. That’s if he lives.’

Boerke flashed a smile. ‘No problem. We got a lot of questions to ask him. And remember, we’re South Africans. We don’t take prisoners. Now, anything else I can do for you guys before we go our separate ways?’

Jaeger hesitated for an instant. His instinct told him that he could trust the South African, plus they shared the brotherhood of warriors. In any case, if he wanted to get money to Chief Ibrahim, Boerke was about his only option right now.

He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. ‘When you’ve taken Bioko, can you get this into the hands of the chief of Fernao village? It’s a numbered Zurich bank account, complete with access codes. There’s a sizeable amount of money in there – what Raff paid Mojo to bust me free. The chief’s son died because of us. Money will never bring him back, but maybe it’s a start.’

‘Consider it done,’ Boerke confirmed. ‘But one thing. By bringing that shit Mojo here, you did a very good thing. He knows Chambara’s defences inside out. If one Bioko child had to die to secure that kind of inside knowledge, that’s regretful. Let’s hope his death will bring life to many.’