by Bear Grylls
Uncle Joe nodded. ‘He did. Trophies, if you like. Each speaking of a dark memory, of an evil snuffed out, just as all should have been.’
‘And the Operation Werewolf document?’ Jaeger prompted. ‘He came across that in the same way?’
‘Possibly. Probably. I really can’t say.’ The old man shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘I know precious little about it. And needless to say, I didn’t know your grandfather had kept a copy. Or that it had passed to you. I’ve only ever heard mention of it once or twice, and then only in whispers. Your grandfather – he doubtless knew more. But he took his deepest, darkest secrets to the grave. An early grave, at that.’
‘And the Reichsadler?’ Jaeger ventured. ‘What does that signify? What does it stand for?’
Great Uncle Joe stared at Jaeger for a long moment. ‘That thing on your phone – that’s no ordinary Reichsadler. The standard Nazi eagle sits above a swastika.’ The old man glanced again at Jaeger’s phone. ‘That – it’s markedly different. It’s the circular symbol below the eagle’s tail that you need to pay special attention to.’ The old man shuddered. ‘Only one . . . organisation has ever used such a symbol, and it did so after the war, when the world was supposedly at peace and Nazism dead and buried . . .’
It was warm in the study, the heat from the wood-burner in the kitchen drifting through and keeping it toasty, but even so, Jaeger detected a dark chill that had crept into the room.
Great Uncle Joe sighed, a haunted expression etched across his eyes. ‘Needless to say, I haven’t seen one in, well, close to seventy years. And I’ve been happy not to.’ He paused. ‘There. Now I worry that I’ve gone too far. If I have, your grandfather and the others – they must forgive me.’
He paused. ‘There is one other thing I feel compelled to ask: do you know how your grandfather died? It’s part of the reason I moved up here. I couldn’t bear to be around the area where we had been so happy as children.’
Jaeger shrugged. ‘Only that it was unexpected. Untimely. I was only seventeen – too young for anyone to tell me much.’
‘They were right not to tell you.’ The old man paused, turning the SAS cap badge over and over in his frail hands. ‘He was seventy-nine years of age. As fit as a fiddle. Feisty as ever, of course. They say it was suicide. A hosepipe through the car window. The engine left running. Poisoned by the exhaust fumes. Overburdened by traumatic memories of the war. What complete and utter rubbish!’
Bitter anger was burning in Uncle Joe’s eyes now. ‘Remind you of anything? Hosepipe through the car window? I’m sure it does! He wasn’t of course a Lebensunwertes Leben – one of the disabled; one of the Nazis’ “life unworthy of life”.’
He glanced at Jaeger despairingly. ‘But what better way for them to take their revenge?’
Jaeger gunned the bike, the powerful 1200 cc engine howling with the throaty soundtrack of a Triumph at speed on a deserted, night-dark highway. Yet as he headed south on the M6, he was feeling far from triumphant. Indeed, his visit to Great Uncle Joe had left him reeling.
It was the old man’s final revelation that had really hit him.
Grandfather Ted had been found dead in his fume-filled car, apparently having suffocated to death from the exhaust fumes. The police had argued that self-harm and suicide were most likely the cause of death. Chillingly, a distinctive image had been carved into his left shoulder: a Reichsadler.
The parallels with Andy Smith’s death were unnerving.
Jaeger had left it as long as he could before leaving the cabin. He’d helped Ethel in from the snow. Shared a supper of smoked kippers with the two of them. Seen them both to bed, his great uncle seemingly more exhausted and troubled than Jaeger had ever known him. And then he’d made his excuses and hit the road.
He’d promised Raff, Feaney and Carson a decision in person, within forty-eight hours. The clock was ticking, especially as he had one last stop-off to make on the long journey back to London.
He’d left the cabin deep in the snowy woods hoping that in their isolation, Joe and Ethel were at least safe. But for the whole of the long drive south, Jaeger felt as if the ghosts of the past were chasing him through the darkness.
Hunting him through the Nacht und Nebel – the night and the fog.
15
‘Feast your eyes on those!’ Adam Carson tossed a sheaf of aerial photos on to the desk.
Clean-cut, square-jawed, razor-sharp, slick, a gifted orator – Carson had been born one of life’s winners. Jaeger didn’t particularly like him. He’d respected him as a military commander. But did he trust him? He’d never really been sure either way.
‘The Cordillera de los Dios: the Mountains of the Gods,’ Carson continued. ‘An area almost the size of Wales – totally unexplored jungle. Ringed by massive peaks – fifteen, sixteen thousand feet – and shrouded in mist and rain. You’ve got savage tribes, waterfalls as high as cathedrals, caves that run for miles and miles, plus plunging ravines and perilous river gorges. Probably a herd of Tyrannosaurus rex, to boot. In short, it’s a veritable Lost World.’
Jaeger studied the images, flicking through them one by one. ‘Sure looks a long way from Soho Square.’
‘Doesn’t it.’ Carson shoved a second set of aerial photos in Jaeger’s direction. ‘And if you’ve any residual doubts, take a look at those. Isn’t she a beauty? A mysterious, dark, sensual beauty of a beast. A siren of the air, calling to us from across two thousand miles of jungle, not to mention all the years.’
Jaeger eyed the images. The mystery air wreck sat among a sea of emerald green, being all the more noticeable in that the forest in her immediate vicinity was bleached white as snow. Dead. Leafless branches reaching skywards like myriad skeletal fingers, the carcass of the jungle picked clean and laid bare.
‘Forest of bones,’ Jaeger muttered, indicating the area of dieback all around the mystery aircraft. ‘Any idea what did that?’
‘None.’ Carson smiled. ‘Must be something pretty toxic, but there are any number of potential candidates. You’ll be taking NBC suits, plus respirators, obviously. You’ll need proper protection – that’s if you are going.’
Jaeger ignored the dig. He knew that everyone was waiting on his answer. The forty-eight hours were up. That was why they’d gathered here at Wild Dog Media’s plush Soho offices – Adam Carson, a handful of TV executives, plus the Enduro Adventures team.
Apparently, anyone who was anyone in TV had to have a base in Soho, a glitzy slice of central London where the great and the good of the media seemed to gather. Carson, typically, had gone for gold, hiring a suite of offices in Soho Square itself.
‘The aircraft looks remarkably intact,’ Jaeger pointed out. ‘Almost as if she landed there. Do we have any idea where she was flying to and from, and in what year?’
Carson slid across a third set of photos. ‘Close-ups on her markings. You’ll see they’re badly weathered, but it appears she was decked out in US Air Force colours. Suffering that kind of weathering, she’s clearly been lying there for decades . . . Everyone suspects she’s Second World War-era. But if she is, she’s utterly unique: a phenomenon, decades ahead of her time.
‘Compare her to a C-130 Hercules.’ Carson glanced at the TV execs. ‘The C-130’s a modern transport aircraft used by most NATO forces. Our mystery aircraft is a hundred and twelve feet nose to tail, as opposed to a C-130’s forty feet – so that makes her three times as long. Plus she’s got six engines, as opposed to four, and a far wider wingspan.’
‘So she’d carry a far heavier payload?’ Jaeger queried.
‘She would,’ Carson confirmed. ‘The only vaguely comparable Allied Second World War plane is the Boeing B-29 Superfortress, of the type that dropped the atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But this aircraft’s shape is utterly different – far more aerodynamic and streamlined – plus the B-29 was about half her size. And that pretty much sums up the enigma: what the devil is she?’
Carson’s smile grew wider; more confident,
almost cocky. ‘She’s been dubbed “The Last Great Mystery of World War Two”. And indeed she is.’ He was in full-blooded salesman speak now, playing to his audience. ‘So all we need is the right man to lead the mission.’ He glanced at Jaeger. ‘Are you up for it? Are you on?’
Jaeger did a quick scan of the faces gathered around him. Carson: uber-confident that he’d got his man. Raff: inscrutable as ever. Feaney: face tinged with worry, Enduro Adventures fortunes very much hanging in the balance. Plus the assorted TV execs. Early thirties; sloppily – trendily? – dressed; looking anxious – their TV extravaganza resting on a knife edge.
And then there was Mr Simon Jenkinson, the archivist. In his late fifties, he was by far the oldest in the pack, his demeanour like a hibernating honey bear, all salty beard, jam-jar glasses, and moth-eaten tweedy jacket, his dreamy head stuck very much in the clouds.
‘And you, Mr Jenkinson,’ Jaeger prompted. ‘I understand you’re the expert in the room? You’re a member of LAAST – the Lost Aircraft Archaeological Society Trust – as well as being an expert on all things Second World War? Shouldn’t we hear what you think she might be?’
‘Who? Me?’ The archivist glanced around as if waking from a long sleep. His whiskers twitched worriedly. ‘Me? Hear from me? Probably not. I’m not good at group discussions.’
Jaeger laughed good-naturedly. He’d warmed to the guy immediately. He liked his lack of pretension, of guile.
‘We are in something of a hurry,’ Carson cut in, glancing around at the TV execs. ‘Makes sense to talk to the archivist once we’ve dealt with the key agenda item, don’t you think – which is, are you on for this, or not?’
‘Whenever I make a decision, I like it to be an informed one,’ Jaeger countered. ‘So, Mr Jenkinson, your best guess. What’s it to be?’
‘Well, erm – if I might be so presumptuous . . .’ The archivist cleared his throat. ‘There is one aircraft that conforms to the specifications of this one. The Junkers Ju 390. German, obviously. A pet project of Hitler’s, as it happens. She was intended to spearhead the Amerika Bomber project – Hitler’s programme to fly transatlantic bombing raids against America, towards the end of the war.’
‘So did they?’ Jaeger queried. ‘New York? Washington? Were they ever bombed?’
‘There are reports of such missions,’ Jenkinson confirmed. ‘None absolutely verified. But suffice to say, the Ju 390 had the specifications to achieve it. She boasted in-flight refuelling capabilities, and the pilots operated her using cutting-edge Vampir night-vision equipment, which rendered night into near-daylight – meaning they could take off and land in utter darkness.’
Jenkinson tapped a finger on one of the aerial photos. ‘And you see that: the Ju 390 was fitted with a dome atop the fuselage, for celestial observations. The aircrew could navigate over vast distances using the stars, and without resorting to radar or radio. In short, she was the perfect warplane for making covert, untraceable flights halfway around the world.
‘So, yes, if they’d wanted to drop sarin nerve gas on New York, it was quite within her capabilities.’ Jenkinson glanced around the room nervously. ‘Erm . . . sorry. That last bit. The sarin on New York bit . . . Got a little carried away there. Are you all still with me?’
There was a series of nods in the affirmative. Oddly for Simon Jenkinson, he seemed to have his audience absolutely gripped.
‘Fewer than a dozen Ju 390s were ever built,’ he continued. ‘Fortunately, the Nazis lost the war before the Amerika Bomber programme could become a frightening reality. But the odd thing is, none of the Ju 390s were ever traced. At war’s end they . . . well, they disappeared. If it is a Ju 390, it’ll be a first, obviously.’
‘Any idea what a German warplane would be doing in the heart of the Amazon?’ Jaeger prompted. ‘And painted with American markings?’
‘Not a clue.’ The archivist grinned self-deprecatingly. ‘In fact, I must confess that’s what’s been preoccupying me, while locked away in the vaults. There’s no record anywhere that I can find of such an aircraft ever having flown to South America. As for it being in United States Air Force markings: well, the mind boggles.’
‘If there was such a record, you’d have found it?’ Jaeger queried.
The archivist nodded. ‘As far as I can tell, she’s the plane that never was. A ghost flight.’
Jaeger smiled. ‘D’you know something, Mr Jenkinson, you’re wasted in the archives. You should be dreaming up ideas for TV programmes.’
‘The plane that never was,’ Carson echoed. ‘The ghost flight. Pure genius. And Will, doesn’t that just quicken your appetite for the mission?’
‘It does,’ Jaeger confirmed. ‘So, I’ve got one final question and one caveat, after which I guess I’m on.’
Carson spread his hands invitingly. ‘Fire away.’
Jaeger let the question fall like a bomb into the room. ‘Andy Smith – any news on why he was murdered?’
Carson’s face remained an inscrutable mask, just the faintest twitching of a muscle in his cheek revealing how the question had unnerved him. ‘Well, it’s death by misadventure or suicide, as far as the police are concerned. So, whilst it’s certainly cast a malaise over the entire expedition, it’s one from which we will recover and move forward.’ A beat. ‘And the caveat?’
In answer, Jaeger slid a folder across the table. It contained a number of glossy brochures, each with a space-age-looking airship displayed on the front. ‘I called in at Cardington Field Hangar, Bedford, this morning, the headquarters of Hybrid Air Vehicles. I guess you know Steve McBride and the other people there?’
‘McBride? Yes, indeed,’ Carson confirmed. ‘A good, solid operator. But what’s your interest in HAVs?’
‘McBride assures me they can get a Heavy Lift Airlander 50 – their largest – standing orbit over that patch of the Amazon.’ Jaeger turned to the TV execs, two of whom were British, and one – the money man – an American. ‘Put simply, the Airlander 50 is a modern-day airship. Helium-filled, as opposed to hydrogen, so utterly inert. In other words, she’s no Hindenburg: she won’t explode in a ball of flame.
‘Four hundred feet long and two hundred wide,’ Jaeger continued, ‘the Airlander is designed for two things. One: persistent wide-area surveillance – keeping watch on whatever’s going on below. Two: lifting major loads.’
He paused. ‘The Airlander’s got a sixty thousand kilogram payload. McBride figures a warplane of these kinds of dimensions will weigh in at around half of that, so some thirty thousand kilos – maybe pushing fifty thousand if she’s loaded with cargo. If we deploy an Airlander 50, she can keep a watch over us and we can lift out that aircraft all in one go.’
The American TV exec slapped the table excitedly. ‘Mr Jaeger – Will – if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, that is a simply awesome proposition. Awesome. If you guys can go in, track this thing down, secure it and lift it out all in the one hit – hell, we’ll double our contribution to the budget. And correct me if I’m wrong, Carson, but we’re forking out the lion’s share here, right?’
‘You are, Jim,’ Carson confirmed. ‘And why not use an Airlander? If McBride says he can make it work, and you’ll be so good as to cover the extra budget items, let’s not just go in and find her; let’s go in there and bring her home!’
‘One query,’ one of the British execs cut in. ‘If as you say this Airlander can hover over the jungle and lift out the aircraft, why can’t it drop you guys direct on to it? I mean, the plan right now is for you to parachute into the jungle several days’ trek away and move in overland. Wouldn’t the Airlander save you all the trouble?’
‘Good question,’ Carson replied. ‘Three reasons why not. One: you never drop a team directly on to the site of an unknown toxic threat. It’d be close to suicidal to do so. You move in from a safe location to identify and assess the threat. Two: look at the terrain above the wreck: it’s a mass of dead, broken, jagged branches. We drop the team on to that, we’ll
lose half of them speared in the treetops.
‘And three,’ Carson nodded at the American network executive, ‘Jim wants a parachute drop for the drama it adds to the show; for the cameras. That means dropping on to a clear, open, safe patch of ground. Hence why they need to go in as planned, using that one landing zone that we’ve been able to identify.’
16
An early lunch was served in the boardroom – an outside catering company brought in trays racked with cold bites, each covered in a cling-film wrapping. Jaeger took one look and decided he wasn’t feeling hungry. He worked his way around the room, until he had the archivist cornered somewhere reasonably private.
‘Interesting,’ Jenkinson remarked, studying a piece of particularly rubbery-looking sushi. ‘Amazes me how we end up eating the old enemy’s food . . . I take my own sandwiches into the archives. Mature cheddar cheese and Branston pickle.’
Jaeger smiled. ‘Could be worse: they could have served us sauerkraut.’
It was Jenkinson’s turn to chuckle. ‘Touché. You know, there’s a part of me that’s almost envious of you going in to find that mystery aircraft. Of course, I’d be next to useless in the field. But, well – you’ll be making history. Living it. Unmissable.’
‘I could find you a place on the team,’ Jaeger suggested, a touch of mischief creeping in. ‘Make it a condition of my going.’
The archivist choked out a piece of raw fish. ‘Oops. Sorry. Revolting, anyway.’ He wrapped it in a paper napkin and placed it on a convenient shelf. ‘No, no, no, no, no – I’m more than happy sticking to my vaults.’
‘Talking of vaults . . .’ Jaeger mused. ‘Just for a moment forget what you absolutely know. I’m after some pure conjecture here. Based on all you’ve seen and heard, what do you actually think that mystery aircraft is?’
Jenkinson’s eyes moved nervously behind his thick glasses. ‘I don’t normally do conjecture. Not my usual currency. But since you ask . . . Only two possible scenarios make any kind of sense. A, it’s a Ju 390, and the Nazis painted it with US markings so as to sneak around undetected. B, it’s a top-secret American warplane, one that no one’s ever heard of.’