Bear Grylls - Ghost Flight

Jaeger glanced at Dale and Narov: what the hell was he supposed to say? As if in answer, Narov waved the satchel full of documents at him.

‘There’s something they want on this warplane,’ she declared. ‘Something they need. They cannot shoot us down.’

Jaeger’s hand hovered over the Thuraya’s keypad as he willed himself to type what he knew he had to. With a wave of bitter nausea rising from the base of his guts he punched out the message: They need warplane intact. Will not shoot us down. Do not comply. Resist.

‘We are proceeding to destination as planned.’ Raff’s voice came up on the airwaves. ‘And be warned: we are filming your every action and beaming it live to a server, where it’s being uploaded to the internet.’ It wasn’t entirely true, of course, but it was a classic bit of Raff improvisation and bluff. ‘You are being filmed, and you will be arraigned and charged for your crimes—’

‘Bullshit,’ the enemy commander cut in. ‘We are a flight of unmarked Black Hawks. Don’t you get it, asshole? We are beyond deniable. We – don’t – exist. You think you can try ghosts for war crimes? Asshole. Change course as ordered, or face the consequences. The blood is on your hands…’

Another stick figure plunged from the helicopter.

As it tumbled through the blinding blue, Jaeger tried to blank from his mind the thought of Puruwehua slamming into the jungle far below. It was impossible to identify exactly which Indian the Black Hawk crew had tossed into thin air, but death was death; murder was murder.

How much blood would lie on his hands?

‘So far so good,’ the Black Hawk commander continued. ‘We have used up two of our quota of savages. We have one remaining. Will you comply with my orders, Mr Raffara, or does this last one have to learn to fly as well?’

There was no response from Raff. If they changed course and put the Airlander – and the Ju 390 – down on the grid as given, they were finished. They both knew that. During Krav Maga training, Raff and Jaeger had been taught the two orders never to comply with: one was being relocated; the other being tied up. Both spelled disaster. To obey such an order now would not end well for anyone.

Jaeger averted his eyes as a third figure spun through the sunlit skies, arms flailing helplessly as they tried to grab at the thin atmosphere. A memory flashed through Jaeger’s mind: it was of Puruwehua telling him how often he had flown like the topena , the big white hawk that soared over the mountains.

I have flown high as the topena, Puruwehua had told him. I have flown over wide oceans and to distant mountains.

The memory tortured Jaeger almost beyond his capacity to withstand.

‘So now, Mr Raffara – now we move on to the really interesting part. Act Two – your fellow team members. First up, look at the figure in our open doorway. He does not look very keen to learn to fly. Alter course towards the grid as given, or he is going to take a one-way journey to splattergeddon.’ The Black Hawk commander laughed at his own joke. ‘One minute and counting…’

Jaeger’s satphone bleeped. Response?

Jaeger could see the shock of white-blond hair glistening in the sun as a figure was forced towards the Black Hawk’s doorway. Though Jaeger believed Stefan Kral to be the traitor in their midst, he couldn’t be absolutely certain, and the thought of Kral’s young family at home in Luton further twisted and cramped his guts.

He forced himself to punch out a reply. Warn them that CE has fast jets on the way. Keep him talking.

‘We are proceeding to destination as planned.’ Raff’s voice came up on the air. ‘And be warned – we have an escort of Brazilian air force fast jets inbound—’

‘We know all about your B-SOB friends,’ the Black Hawk commander cut in. ‘You think you have friends in high places!’ He laughed. ‘You would not believe where we have friends. In any case, the colonel’s aircraft are a good ninety minutes away. Comply with my orders, or more will die.’

‘Negative,’ Raff repeated. ‘We are proceeding to our destination as planned.’

‘So, I bring my aircraft a little nearer,’ the Black Hawk commander announced. ‘That way, you can wish your friend a pleasant ride.’

The three helicopters closed in, sticking to their tight formation, until they were no more than 250 yards away from both the Airlander and the Ju 390. When they were in position, the distinctive figure of the Slovakian cameraman was forced to the very brink of the Black Hawk’s open doorway.

‘Last chance,’ the Black Hawk commander rasped. ‘Alter course as ordered.’

‘Negative,’ Raff repeated. ‘We are proceeding to our destination.’

Moments later, Stefan Kral was forced out.

As his body tumbled earthwards, cartwheeling through the blinding blue, Jaeger could hear Dale vomiting on to the floor behind him. Jaeger himself felt ripped apart.

Traitor or not, this was no way for anyone’s life – let alone that of a young father – to end.

‘Congratulations, Mr Raffara,’ the Black Hawk commander announced. ‘You have been happy to see four of your friends die. So, the last candidate for the death ride – it is Ms Leticia Santos! Oh yeah – and we all know how those Brazilian ladies love to ride. Alter course, Mr Raffara. Obey my orders. Or the death of the delightful Ms Santos will haunt you for the rest of your days.’

The satphone bleeped: Response?

Jaeger stared at the screen, his mind whirling at breakneck speed. Whatever way he looked at it, he was all out of options. The killing had to stop. He would not let Leticia be thrown to the wolves. But what alternative was there?

Involuntarily his free hand went to the carnivale scarf that he had knotted around his neck. A sudden idea flashed briefly through his eyes, coming back to centre itself more solidly in his consciousness. It was a crazy, warped idea, but right now he figured it was about the best they’d got.

He punched out a message on the Thuraya’s keypad. Act as if complying. Alter course. Standby.

Raff’s voice came up on the air. ‘Affirmative, we are complying with your orders. Altering course to bearing 0845 degrees. ETA at your grid as given in fifteen – repeat one-five – minutes.’

‘Excellent, Mr Raffara. I am glad to see you are finally learning how to keep your people alive…’

Jaeger didn’t wait to catch the last words. He grabbed Narov, unbolted the door leading into the Ju 390’s hold, and sprinted for a cargo crate lying in the far reaches of the aircraft’s shadowed rear.

He bent over the long packing crate that held the Fliegerfaust shoulder-launched missiles. For a moment he reached for his knife, before remembering that he’d given it to Puruwehua. An instant later Narov was beside him, hacking at the crate with her seven-inch Fairbairn–Sykes blade.

The tough rope fastenings fell away, and – having prised the nails out with the blade – the two of them wrenched the wooden lid aside.

They reached in and lifted out the first of the two crated rocket launchers. It was surprisingly light, but it wasn’t the weight that concerned Jaeger right now. It was the weapon’s mechanism. Most modern shoulder-launched missiles used a battery-operated electronic firing system. If the Fliegerfaust employed something similar, the batteries would have long gone flat and they were done for.

Jaeger was banking on the launcher working on a simple mechanical system, in which case it should still be usable. He ran his eye over the forward handgrip and the trigger mechanism to the rear. He placed the launcher on his shoulder and laid his eye against the cold steel of the sight: it consisted of a basic metal rail running the length of the dorsal surface, to look along and aim.