Ghost Flight

by Bear Grylls

  ‘I shouldn’t have let ’em go,’ Alonzo growled. ‘I had this bad feeling. But hell, with you and Narov gone, we had no expedition leader and no deputy. Around midday – an hour after Clermont and Krakow had left – we heard yelling and gunfire. Sounded like a two-way range; like an ambush, with return fire.’

  Alonzo glanced at Jaeger. ‘That was it: hugging declared over. We set out as a hunter force, tracking Clermont and Krakow’s trail to a point maybe a half-mile out. There, we hit major disturbance of the undergrowth. Fresh blood. Plus there were several of these.’

  He pulled something out of his pack and handed it to Jaeger. ‘Careful. Figure that’s some kind of poison.’

  Jaeger studied what he’d been given. It was a thin piece of wood around six inches long. It was finely carved and sharpened at one end, the point being smeared in some kind of dark and viscous fluid.

  ‘We pushed on,’ Alonzo continued, ‘and we picked up James and Santos’s trail. We found their camp, but no sign of them. No sign of any struggle, either. No sign of a fight. No blood. No darts. Nothing. It was like they’d been teleported out of there by aliens.’

  Alonzo paused. ‘And then there was this.’ He pulled a spent bullet casing from his pocket. ‘Found it on the way back. Kind of stumbled across it.’ He handed Jaeger the casing. ‘It’s a 7.62 mm. More than likely GPMG or AK-47. It ain’t one of ours, that’s for sure.’

  Jaeger rolled the casing around in his hand for a couple of seconds.

  Until a few decades back, 7.62 mm had been the calibre of round used by NATO forces. In the Vietnam War, the Americans had experimented with a smaller calibre: 5.56 mm. With lighter bullets a foot soldier could carry more rounds of ammo, which meant more sustained firepower – crucial when undertaking long missions on foot in the jungle. Since then, 5.56 mm had become a common NATO calibre, and none of those gathered on the sandbar were using a 7.62 mm weapon.

  Jaeger eyed Alonzo. ‘There’s been no further sign of the four of them?’

  Alonzo shook his head. ‘None.’

  ‘So what d’you make of it?’ he prompted.

  Alonzo’s face darkened. ‘Man, I dunno . . . There’s a hostile force out there, that’s for sure, but right now that force remains a mystery. If it is the Indians, how come we’ve got a 7.62 mm weapon in the mix? Since when does a lost tribe pack a punch like that?’

  ‘Tell me,’ Jaeger asked, ‘what was the blood like?’

  ‘At the ambush? Pretty much what you’d expect. Pools of it. Congealed.’

  ‘Lot of blood?’ Jaeger queried.

  Alonzo shrugged. ‘Enough.’

  Jaeger held up the thin sliver of wood that he’d been given. ‘Blow-dart, obviously. We know the Indians are armed with them. Supposedly poison-tipped. You know what they use to arm their darts? Curare – made from the sap of a forest vine. Curare kills by stopping the muscles of the diaphragm from working. In other words, you suffocate to death. Not a nice way to go.

  ‘I learned a bit about it while out here training Colonel Evandro’s B-SOB teams. The Indians use them for hunting monkeys in the treetops. Dart hits; monkey falls down; tribe collects monkey and retrieves dart. Each is hand-carved and they don’t tend to leave them lying around. But most importantly, if you are shot by a curare-tipped dart, it sticks in you like a pin; you hardly bleed at all.

  ‘Plus there’s this.’ Jaeger took the dart and put it to his mouth, tasting the black goo on the pointed end. Several of his team flinched.

  ‘You can’t get poisoned by ingesting curare,’ Jaeger reassured them. ‘Has to go direct into the bloodstream. But the thing is, it has an unmistakably bitter taste. This? My guess is it’s a syrup made of burned sugar.’ He gave a bleak smile. ‘Put it all together and what’ve you got?’

  He glanced around the faces of his remaining team members. Alonzo: square-jawed, open-faced, exuding a homely honesty – every inch a former Navy SEAL. Kamishi: quiet, expectant, body like a coiled spring. Dale and Kral: two rising stars in the media intent on shooting their slick, blockbuster movie.

  ‘No one was shot by blow-darts.’ Jaeger answered his own question. ‘They were ambushed by gunmen; the blood alone proves that. So unless this lost tribe has somehow managed to get seriously tooled up, we’ve got a mystery force out there. The fact that they left this,’ he held up the dart, ‘and did their best to clear away their bullet cases suggests they’re trying to fit up the Indians for the crime.’

  He stared at the dart for a second. ‘No one is supposed to be here apart from us and this lost tribe. At present, we have no idea who this mystery force of gunmen is, how they got here or why they’re hostile.’ He glanced up, darkly. ‘But one thing is clear: the nature of this expedition has changed irreversibly.

  ‘Five have been taken,’ he announced slowly. There was a cold steeliness in his gaze now. ‘We’ve barely set foot in the forest and already we’ve lost half of our number. We need to consider our options – carefully.’

  He paused. His eyes were etched with a hardness few had seen before. He hadn’t known any of the missing that well, yet still he felt personally responsible for their loss.

  He’d been drawn to the openness and the lack of guile of the big crazy Kiwi, Joe James. And he was painfully aware that Leticia Santos was Colonel Evandro’s presence on his team.

  Santos was striking-looking, like a more streetwise – or maybe jungle-wise – version of the Brazilian actress Tais Araujo. Dark-eyed, dark-haired, impetuous and dangerously good fun, she had been pretty much the polar opposite of Irina Narov.

  For Jaeger, losing one – Narov – had been a tragic disaster. Losing five within the first forty-eight hours of his expedition – it was unthinkable.

  40

  ‘Option one,’ he announced, his voice tight with the tension of the moment. ‘We decide the mission’s no longer tenable and we call in an extraction team. We’ve got good comms, this is a usable landing zone; we could conceivably get pulled out of here. We’d remove ourselves from the threat, but we’d be leaving our friends behind – and right now we have no idea if they’re dead or alive.

  ‘Option two: we go searching for the missing team members. We work on the assumption that all are alive until proven otherwise. The upside: we do right by our fellows. We do not turn our backs on them at the first sign of trouble. The downside: we’re a small, lightly armed force, facing one with potentially greater firepower, and we have zero idea of their numbers.’

  Jaeger paused. ‘And then there is the third option: we continue with the expedition as planned. I have a suspicion – and this is only instinct – that by doing so we’ll discover what’s happened to our missing friends. One way or another, whoever has attacked us, it makes sense that they’ve done so in order to stop us getting to our goal. By continuing, we’ll force their hand.

  ‘This is no military operation,’ Jaeger continued. ‘If it were, I’d give my men orders. We’re a bunch of civvies and we need to make a collective decision. As I see it, those are the three options – and we need to vote. But before we do, any questions? Suggestions? And feel free to talk, ’cause the camera isn’t running.’

  He cast Dale a menacing look. ‘The camera’s not running, is it, Mr Dale?’

  Dale brushed back his longish, lank hair. ‘Hey, you vetoed this stuff, remember. No filming of this meeting.’

  ‘I did.’ Jaeger glanced around for questions.

  ‘I am curious,’ Hiro Kamishi remarked quietly, his English all but perfect, apart from the faint Japanese lilt. ‘If this were a military operation, which option would you order your men to pursue?’

  ‘Option three,’ Jaeger replied, without a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Would you mind explaining why?’ Kamishi spoke in an odd, careful way, each word chosen seemingly with great precision.

  ‘It’s counter-intuitive,’ Jaeger replied. ‘The normal human reaction to stress and danger is fight or flight. Flight would be to pull out. Fight would be to go directly afte
r the bad guys. Option three is the least expected, and I’d hope it would throw them: force them into revealing themselves; into making a mistake.’

  Kamishi bowed slightly. ‘Thank you. It is a good explanation. One I agree with.’

  ‘You know, buddy, it’s not five,’ Alonzo growled. ‘It’s six. With Andy Smith, that makes six gone. Never thought Smith’s death was an accident, and even less after what’s happened.’

  Jaeger nodded. ‘With Smith it makes six.’

  ‘So when do we get the coordinates?’ a voice prompted. ‘Those of the air wreck?’

  It was Stefan Kral, the Slovakian cameraman on Jaeger’s team – his English tinged with a strong, guttural accent. Jaeger eyed him. Short, stocky, with almost albino looks, Kral was the Beast to Dale’s Beauty, with pitted, pockmarked skin. He was six years older than Dale, though he didn’t look it, and by right of seniority alone he should have been directing the film.

  But Carson had put Dale in charge, and Jaeger could pretty much figure out why. Dale and Carson were birds of a feather. Dale was slick, easy and cool, and a master at surviving in the media jungle. By contrast Kral was a clumsy, somewhat nerdy bag of nerves. He was one hell of an oddball to be trying to cut it in the TV industry.

  ‘With Narov gone, I’ve made Alonzo my deputy,’ Jaeger replied. ‘I’ve shared the coordinates with him.’

  ‘And so? The rest of us?’ Kral pushed.

  Whenever Kral spoke, an odd, lopsided half-smile played across his features, no matter how serious the topic at hand. Jaeger figured it was his nervousness shining through, but still he found it oddly unsettling.

  He’d known enough guys like Kral in the army – the semi-introverted; those who found it tough relating to others. He had always made a point of nurturing any who made it into his unit. More often than not they’d proven to be loyal to a fault, and absolute demons when the red mist of combat came down.

  ‘If we vote for option three – to continue – you’ll get the coordinates once we’re on the river,’ Jaeger told him. ‘That’s the deal I cut with Colonel Evandro: once we start our journey down the Rio de los Dios.’

  ‘So how did you manage to lose Narov?’ Kral probed. ‘What exactly happened?’

  Jaeger stared. ‘I’ve already explained how Narov died.’

  ‘I’d like to hear it again,’ Kral pressed, the lopsided smile creeping further across his features. ‘Just, you know, to deconflict things. Just so we’re all clear.’

  Jaeger was haunted by Narov’s loss, and he wasn’t about to relive it all again. ‘It was a God-awful mess that went ugly fast. And trust me – there was nothing I could do to save her.’

  ‘What makes you so convinced she’s dead?’ Kral continued mulishly. ‘And not so with James, Santos and the others?’

  Jaeger’s eyes narrowed. ‘You had to be there,’ he remarked quietly.

  ‘But surely there was something you could have done? It was day one, you were crossing the river . . .’

  ‘You want me to shoot him now?’ Alonzo cut in, his voice rumbling a warning. ‘Or later, after we cut out his tongue?’

  Jaeger stared at Kral. A distinct edge of menace crept into his tone. ‘It’s a funny thing, Mr Kral: I get the impression you’re interviewing me here. You’re not, are you? Interviewing me?’

  Kral shook his head nervously. ‘I’m just airing a few issues. Just trying to deconflict things.’

  Jaeger glanced from Kral to Dale. The latter’s camera was lying beside him on the ground. His hand crept towards it, furtively.

  ‘You know what, guys,’ Jaeger rasped, ‘I got something myself that needs deconflicting.’ He eyed the camera. ‘You’ve taped over the red filming light with black gaffer tape. You’ve set it on the ground, lens facing my way, and I presume it was already filming before you put it down.’

  He lifted his eyes to Dale, who seemed to quake visibly under his gaze. ‘I’ll say this one time. Once only. You pull a trick like this again, I’ll ram that camera so far up your backside you’ll be able to clean the lens as if it were your teeth. Are – we – clear?’

  Dale shrugged. ‘Yeah. I guess. Only—’

  ‘Only nothing,’ Jaeger cut him off. ‘And when we’re done here, you’re going to wipe everything you’ve filmed from the tapes, with me watching.’

  ‘But if I can’t film key scenes like this, we’ve got no show,’ Dale objected. ‘The commissioners – the TV execs—’

  Jaeger’s look was enough to silence him. ‘There’s something you need to understand: right now, I do not give a damn about your TV execs. Right now, there’s only one thing I care for – which is getting the maximum number of my team through this alive. And right now, we’re five – six – down, so I’m on the back foot and sliding.

  ‘And that makes me dangerous,’ Jaeger continued. ‘It makes me mad.’ He stabbed a finger at the camera. ‘And when I get mad, stuff tends to get broken. Now, Mr Dale: turn – it – the hell – off.’

  Dale reached for the camera, hit a couple of buttons and powered down. He’d been caught red-handed, but from his sulky demeanour you’d have thought he was the one who had been wronged.

  ‘You get me to ask a load of idiot questions,’ Kral muttered at Dale, half under his breath. ‘Another of your dumb-ass ideas.’

  Jaeger had met guys like Dale and Kral before. A few of his elite forces mates had tried to make it in their world – the world of the out-there, reality-show TV media. They’d found out too late how ruthless it could be. It chewed people up and spat them out again, like dried husks. And honour and loyalty were a rare commodity.

  It was a cut-throat business. Guys like Dale and Kral – not to mention their boss, Carson – had to be driven to make it, often to the detriment of all others. It was a world wherein you had to be prepared to film people making life-or-death decisions when you had promised not to – because it went with the territory; that was what it took to get the story.

  You had to be ready to put the knife into your fellow cameraman’s back, if that might advance your own fortunes a little. Jaeger hated the ethos, and that was in large part what had made him so unreceptive to the media team from the get-go.

  He added Kral and Dale to the list of things he’d have to keep a close watch on here – along with toxic spiders, giant caimans, savage tribes, and now an unidentified force of gunmen seemingly intent on delivering bloody violence.

  ‘Okay, so – with the camera turned well and truly off – let’s move to a vote,’ he announced. ‘Option one: we pull out and abandon the expedition. All in favour?’

  Every hand remained down.

  That was a relief: at least they weren’t about to turn tail and run from the Serra de los Dios any time soon.

  41

  ‘Mind if I film?’ Dale gestured at Jaeger.

  Jaeger was crouched by the water’s edge doing his evening ablutions – his shotgun propped to one side, just in case of trouble.

  He spat into the water. ‘You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. Expedition leader cleans his teeth. Gripping stuff.’

  ‘No, really. I need to capture some of this stuff. Background colour. Just to establish how life goes on amongst . . .’ He waved a hand at the river and surrounding jungle. ‘Amongst all of this.’

  Jaeger shrugged. ‘Be my guest. Highlight coming up: I’m about to wash my stinking face.’

  Dale proceeded to take a few shots covering Jaeger’s attempts to use the Rio de los Dios as his bathroom. At one point the cameraman had his boots in the water and his back to the river, filming a low-level shot, his lens thrust halfway down Jaeger’s throat.

  Jaeger half hoped a five-metre caiman would come grab Dale by the balls, but no such luck.

  Apart from Alonzo, who’d typically wanted to go hunting for the bad guys directly, the vote had been unanimous. Option number three – to continue with the expedition as planned – had been everyone’s choice. Jaeger had had to clear things with Carson, but a short call via a Thuraya
satphone had got it sorted.

  Carson had made his priorities very clear very quickly: nothing was to stand in the way of the expedition’s progress. From the get-go, everyone had known and understood the dangers. All team members had signed a legally binding disclaimer, recognising that they were going into harm’s way. The five missing people were just that: missing, until proven otherwise.

  Carson had a twelve-million-dollar global TV spectacular to keep on track, and Wild Dog Media’s fortunes – not to mention those of Enduro Adventures – were very much dependent on its success. Come what may, Jaeger had to get his team to the site of that air wreck, uncover its secrets, and if possible pull the mystery warplane out of there.

  If anyone got injured or died in the process, their misfortune would be overshadowed by the awesome nature of the discovery, or so Carson argued. This was, after all, the Last Great Mystery of the Second World War, he reminded Jaeger; the plane that never was; the ghost flight. Funny how rapidly Carson had made the archivist’s, Simon Jenkinson’s, phrases so completely his own.

  Carson had even gone as far as trying to upbraid Jaeger for standing in the way of some of the filming – which meant that Dale must have called him to complain. Jaeger had given Carson short shrift: he was in charge of the expedition on the ground, and here in the jungle his word was law. If Carson didn’t like it, he could fly out to the Serra de los Dios and take his place.

  Call to Carson done, Jaeger had placed a second – this to the Airlander. The giant airship had taken a while to fly out from the UK, but it was now moving towards its point of orbit high above them. Jaeger knew the pilot, Steve McBride, from when their paths had crossed in the military. He was a good, safe pair of hands to have at the Airlander’s controls.

  Jaeger had another reason to trust the Airlander’s crew absolutely. Before leaving London, he’d cut a deal with Carson: if he couldn’t have Raff with him on the ground, he wanted him as his eyes in the sky. Carson had capitulated, and the big Maori had duly been appointed McBride’s operations officer on the Airlander.