Bear Grylls - Ghost Flight

That done, she shoved the kayak away from the shore.

The current caught it, and within moments the boat was whisked away. With its triple-skin hull, six inflatable chambers, plus flotation bags, it should remain afloat no matter what it ran into downstream. It could capsize, get holed on rocks and still keep going, which meant the tracker unit would keep on bleeping out its signal.

Narov shouldered her pack, grabbed her weapon and began to make her way back to the main body of the team, being careful to keep well away from the water and sticking to the cover of the jungle.

Ten minutes later she was back with Jaeger.

‘It is done,’ she announced. ‘From here the Rio de los Dios veers northwards. Our route – it lies almost due south. By sending the tracking device that way, it will help spread confusion amongst our enemies.’

Jaeger stared at her. ‘Whoever they may be.’

‘Yes,’ Narov echoed, ‘whoever they may be.’ She paused. ‘I added a final touch of my own. A cell phone – I sent it onwards with the canoe. I understand that even without being able to acquire a signal, it can be tracked.’

Jaeger cracked a smile. ‘Nice one. Let’s hope so.’

‘Grey Wolf, this is Grey Wolf Six,’ a voice intoned. ‘Grey Wolf, Grey Wolf Six . ’

The speaker was hunched over the same radio set as before, in the same camouflaged tent positioned at the edge of the same rough and ready airstrip. To all sides lay the jagged fringe of jungle, the rank of unmarked black helicopters lining the dirt runway, mountains rising dark and lowering on all sides.

‘Grey Wolf Six, this is Grey Wolf,’ a voice confirmed.

‘Sir, we lost them for a good hour there. The tracker went off air.’ The radio operator eyed a laptop. It showed a computer-generated map of the Serra de los Dios, with various icons dotted across the screen. ‘They’ve popped up again at the base of the Devil’s Falls, heading downriver into the jungle.’

‘Which means?’

‘They managed to descend the falls. They’re moving on the water, so presumably by canoe, but they’re heading northwards. The warplane – it lies more or less due south of their position.’

‘Which means?’

The figure shrugged. ‘Sir, they’re headed the wrong way . I’ve no idea why. I’ve got a Predator vectored into their position, and just as soon as we have visual with their craft we’ll send the video feed. If it is them, that’s where we’ll finish them.’

‘What d’you mean – if it is them ? Who else could it possibly be?’

‘Sir, there’s no one else moving on that stretch of water. Once we have the video feed, we’ll make doubly certain and execute the kill.’

‘About time. Now, patch me into the images of the last strike. The hit on the bridge.’

‘Sir.’ Hands punched the laptop’s keyboard, and a new image appeared on the screen.

Footage played of a grainy video feed – showing what the Predator had filmed of the recent Hellfire strikes. The first missile hit the vine-rope bridge. The image was lost, pixelating badly, before it stabilised once more, and for an instant the face of the lone figure remaining on the bridge was clear.

‘Rewind,’ the voice demanded. ‘That figure: freeze-frame it. Let’s see who we’re up against here.’

‘Sir.’ The operator did as requested, freezing the image and zooming in on the features.

‘Grab several video frames from around that exact point.’ The voice had hardened, growing in intensity. ‘Send them to me via secure means. In the next minute, please.’

‘Sir,’ the operator confirmed.

‘ And Grey Wolf Six, I’d like your next communication to be “mission complete”. You understand? I don’t like to be kept waiting or repeatedly disappointed.’

‘Understood, sir. Next time, the Predator won’t miss.’

‘And remember – that aircraft: that warplane – it never flew. It never even existed. You are to obliterate every trace of it – after, of course, we’ve retrieved what we’re looking for.’

‘Understood, sir.’

The operator killed the call.

The figure on the other end – code name Grey Wolf – leaned back in his chair, his mind lost in thought. He eyed the framed photo on his desk. He and the middle-aged man in the grey pinstriped suit – eyes arrogant, confident, exuding absolute power – bore more than a striking resemblance.

It wasn’t hard to imagine them as father and son.

‘They are proving remarkably difficult to kill,’ the figure muttered, almost as if he were speaking to the man in the photo.

A message dropped into his computer’s inbox. It was the secure email from Grey Wolf Six. He leaned forward and tapped at his keyboard. He clicked on the attachment, and the frozen video frame of the figure on the bridge appeared on the screen.

He stared at it for a long moment, studying the grainy image intently. His face darkened.

‘It is him,’ he muttered. ‘It has to be.’

His fingers punched the keyboard, pulling up a private email account. He began typing with a fierce intensity.

Ferdy,

Something troubles me. Will email you images. Face of one of the targets in the vicinity of

Adlerflug IV.

It looks unpleasantly familiar. I fear it is William Jaeger.

You said he was hit by your people working out of London. You said you left him alive ‘to torture him over the loss of his family’. I am all for vengeance, Herr Kamerade. Indeed, with those like Jaeger, revenge is long overdue.

However, he now seems to be in the Amazon searching for our warplane. Let’s hope he’s not taken up the mantle from his grandfather.

Jaeger Senior, as you know, caused us no end of trouble.

Experience has taught me not to believe in coincidences. I will send the pictures.

Wir sind die Zukunft.

HK

He punched send.

His gaze returned to the image on his screen. His eyes were focused inwards; brooding pools of inky darkness that sucked all energy – all life – into them.

The forest dripped and glistened.

All around there was the noise of trickling, dribbling, oozing water. With the clouds low and glowering above the canopy, and the rain falling thick and fast, even less light made it through to ground level.

The first belt of storms sweeping down from the mountains had put a real chill in the air; after several hours of torrential rain it was dark, damp and sodden underfoot, not to mention surprisingly cold.

Jaeger was soaked to the skin, but in truth he welcomed the conditions. As water oozed from the rim of his jungle hat, he said a few quiet words of thanks. Puruwehua had warned him that this was kyrapo’a – heavy rain that wouldn’t clear for days on end – as opposed to the many other types of rain they had here.

There was kyrahi’vi , a light rain that would pass quickly; ypyi , driving, wind-blown rain ; kyma’e , rain that lasted no more than a day, after which it quickly became hot; kypokaguhu , drizzly, intermittent rain that was little more than mist; japa , rain and sun together, forming a permanent rainbow; and so many more.

Anyone who passed British special forces selection became a rain connoisseur. The southern Welsh mountains – the Brecon Beacons – were a bleak, glowering, windswept mass, where it seemed to rain 364 days of the year. In fact, from Jaeger’s experience those forbidding hills seemed to have as many types of rain as the Amazon jungle. It had made him glad that human skin was waterproof.

But this, Puruwehua had concluded, this was definitely kyrapo’a : rain without a break for days and days on end. And Jaeger was glad of it.