by Bear Grylls
The last twenty-four hours had been an absolute whirlwind. The kit they’d ordered from Raff had arrived as requested, and was now stuffed deep in the rucksacks they carried.
The one thing they’d forgotten to ask for was two black silk balaclavas to hide their features. They’d had to improvise. In keeping with their honeymooning cover, Narov had brought with her some sheer black stockings. Pulled over their heads and with eyeholes slashed in them, they were the next best thing.
Once Raff had warned them that the tracker had gone stationary, Jaeger and Narov knew they had their target. As a bonus, the building the tusks had been taken to turned out to be known to Konig. It was where the Lebanese dealer was thought to have his base, complete with a hand-picked contingent of bodyguards.
Konig had explained how the dealer was the first link in a global smuggling chain. The poachers would sell the tusks to him, and once the deal was done the goods would be smuggled onwards, on a journey that invariably ended in Asia – the prime market for such illegal wares.
Jaeger and Narov had moved out from Katavi using their own transport – a white Land Rover Defender that they’d hired in-country under false names. It had the hire company name – Wild Africa Safaris – emblazoned across its doors, as opposed to the Katavi Lodge’s Toyotas, which carried the reserve’s distinctive logo.
They had needed someone trusted to remain with their vehicle when they went in on foot. There was only one person it made sense to use: Konig. Once acquainted with their plans – and assured that the coming action could never be traced back to Katavi – he was fully on side.
As dusk had fallen, they’d left him with the Land Rover, well hidden in a wadi, and melted into the flat, ghostly light, navigating on GPS and compass across dry savannah and scrub. They were equipped with SELEX Personal Role Radios, plus headsets. With a good three miles’ range, the SELEX sets would enable them to keep in touch with each other and with Konig.
They’d had no opportunity to test-fire the main weapons they carried, but their sights were factory-zeroed to 250 yards, which was good enough for tonight.
Jaeger and Narov came to a halt three hundred yards short of the building pinpointed by the tracker. They spent twenty minutes lying prone on a ridge of higher ground, silently observing the place. Beneath Jaeger’s belly, the soil still held the warmth from the day.
The sun was well down, but the windows of the building before them were lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. So much for security. The poachers and the smugglers clearly didn’t believe there was any real and present danger; any threat. They figured they were above the law. Tonight they were going to learn otherwise.
For this mission, Jaeger and Narov were one hundred per cent rogue; a law unto themselves.
Jaeger scanned the building, counting six visible guards armed with assault rifles. They were sitting out front, clustered around a card table, their weapons either leant against the wall or thrown casually across their backs on slings.
Their faces were illuminated in the warm glow of a storm lantern.
More than enough light to kill by.
On one corner of the building’s flat roof Jaeger spotted what he figured was a light machine gun, covered with blankets to hide it from curious onlookers. Well, if everything went to plan, the enemy would all be stone-cold dead before they ever got near that weapon.
He picked up his lightweight thermal imaging scope and gave the building the once over, making a mental note of where there were people. They showed up as bright yellow blobs – the heat thrown off by their bodies making each appear like a burning man on the scope’s dark screen.
Music drifted across to him.
There was a ghetto blaster set to one side of the card table. It was playing some kind of distorted, wailing Arab-pop beat, reminding him that most of those here would be the Lebanese dealer’s men. And by rights they should be half-decent operators.
‘I make it twelve,’ Jaeger whispered into his headset. It was set to open mic, so there was no need to push any awkward buttons.
‘Twelve humans,’ Narov confirmed. ‘Plus six goats, some chickens and two dogs.’
Good point. He’d need to take care – those animals might be domesticated, but they would still sense an unfamiliar human presence and might raise the alarm.
‘You good to deal with the six out front?’ he asked.
‘I’m good.’
‘Right, once I’m in position, hit them on my word. Radio me a warning when you’re good to follow me in.’
‘Got it.’
Jaeger delved into his backpack and removed a slender black attaché case. He flicked it open to reveal the constituent parts of a compact VSS Vintorez ‘Thread Cutter’ sniper rifle. Beside him, Narov had already started to assemble her own identical weapon.
They’d chosen the Russian-made VSS because it was ultra-lightweight, allowing them to move fast and silently. Its accurate range was five hundred metres, so less than half that of many sniper rifles, but it weighed in at only 2.6 kilograms. It also fired a twenty-round magazine, whereas most sniper rifles were bolt action, each round having to be chambered separately.
With the Thread Cutter you could hit repeated targets in quick succession.
Equally as important, it was designed specifically as a silenced weapon; it could not be fired without its wrap-around suppressor. Like the P228, it fired heavy, subsonic 9mm rounds. It was pointless using a silenced sniper rifle if each time it unleashed a bullet it made a deafening crack as the round went through the sound barrier.
The 9mm slugs were tipped with tungsten points to enable them to pierce light armour, or walls for that matter. Due to their low muzzle velocity, they lost energy more slowly, hence the remarkable range and power of the weapon for its weight and size.
Jaeger left Narov and circled around to the east, moving in a fast but low crouch. He made sure to stay downwind of the building, so the animals wouldn’t detect his scent on the breeze and get spooked. He kept a good distance from any possible security lighting, which would be triggered by movement, and stuck to the low ground and cover.
Jaeger came to a halt sixty yards short. He studied the target through his thermal imaging scope, making a mental note of where those inside were now situated. That done, he settled himself into position lying prone on the dirt, the tubular stock of the VSS nestling in the crook of his shoulder, its thick silenced barrel supported on one elbow.
Not many weapons could rival the VSS as a silent night killer. Yet a sniper rifle was only ever as good as its operator. There were few better than Jaeger, especially when he was on a covert mission and hunting in the dark.
And tonight he was about to get busy.
55
A light westerly breeze blew off the Mbizi mountains.
The weapon’s sight enabled Jaeger to compensate for bullet drop and wind speed. He estimated the breeze to be around five knots, so adjusted his aim to fire one mark to the left of the target.
Up on the ridgeline, Narov would have notched her sight two marks left and one chevron higher, to allow for the fact that the weapon was being used at approaching the limit of its range.
Jaeger slowed his breathing and talked himself into the calm and absolute focus that a sniper needed. He was under no illusions as to the challenges now before them. He and Narov had to hit multiple targets in quick succession. A wounded man could blow the element of surprise.
Plus there was one man – the Lebanese Mr Big – that Jaeger wanted to take very much alive.
The VSS made no visible muzzle flash, so the rounds would come tearing out of the darkness with little chance for the enemy to return fire. But one cry of alarm and the assault would be blown.
‘Okay, I’m scanning the building,’ Jaeger whispered. ‘I count seven seated outside now; six in the interior. That’s thirteen. Thirteen targets.’
‘Got it. I will take the seven.’
Narov’s reply had about it the ice-cold calm of a total profess
ional. If there was one shooter in the world that Jaeger rated more highly than himself, it was possibly Narov. In the Amazon, her chosen weapon had been the sniper rifle, and she’d left Jaeger in little doubt as to why.
‘Targets outside seated around table, head and shoulders mostly visible,’ Jaeger whispered. ‘You’ll need to go for head shots. You good with that?’
‘Dead is still dead.’
‘If you hadn’t noticed, those outside are smoking,’ Jaeger added.
The glowing butts showed up like fiery pinpricks each time one of the figures inhaled. It illuminated their faces nicely, making for easier targets.
‘Someone should tell them – smoking kills,’ Narov breathed.
Jaeger spent a last few seconds rehearsing the moves he’d make to hit those inside the building. From his direction he figured three of the six could be taken out via shots through the walls.
He studied those three figures: he guessed they were watching TV. He could make out their forms resting on some kind of seating arranged around the glowing rectangle of what had to be a flat-screen TV.
He wondered what was playing: football; a war movie?
Either way, for them the show was almost over.
He decided to go for head shots. Body shots were easier – there was a bigger target to aim for – but they were less immediately lethal. Jaeger had the principles of sniping ingrained in his brain. The crucial thing was that each shot had to be released and followed through with no disturbance to the aim.
He used to tell Luke the same thing as a joke, when having a wee.
Jaeger smiled grimly. He breathed in deeply and let out a long, level breath. ‘Engaging now.’
There was a faint fuzzt! Without pausing, he swung the weapon a fraction right, fired again, swung back left and squeezed off a third shot.
The entire move had taken barely two seconds.
He had seen each of the figures twitch and jerk as the rounds struck, before slumping into a formless heap. For a second or so he didn’t move his eye from the scope. He just kept watching, silently, like a cat sizing up its prey.
There had been a barely audible tzzsing as the last bullet had cut through the wall. The sparks from the tungsten-tipped round had lit up the centre of Jaeger’s sight a burning white. He figured there had to be some metal – maybe piping or electrics – running through the walls.
The seconds ticked by with no movement from those he’d hit, or any sign that the noise had been heard. The Arab beat pumping out from the boombox had very likely deadened any sound.
Narov’s voice broke the silence. ‘Seven down. Moving from ridge to front of building.’
‘Got it. Moving now.’
In one smooth action Jaeger rose to his feet, his weapon in the shoulder, and began to race across the dark terrain. He had done this countless times before – moving swift and silent on a seek-and-destroy mission. In many ways it was where he felt most at home.
Alone.
In the darkness.
Hunting down his prey.
He rounded the front of the building and vaulted over Narov’s handiwork, kicking aside a chair that barred his route to the entranceway. The boombox still blared out its beat, but none of the seven gunmen were in any shape to do any listening.
As Jaeger went to crash through into the interior, the door swung inwards and a figure was framed in the light that spilled outside. Someone had seemingly heard something suspicious and had come to investigate. The guy was swarthy-looking, powerful and thickset. He had an AK47 held in front of him, but in a relaxed kind of a grip.
Jaeger fired on the run. Fuzzt! Fuzzt! Fuzzt! In rapid succession three 9mm rounds left the Thread Cutter’s barrel, nailing the figure in the chest.
He leapt over the fallen form, hissing an update at Narov. ‘I’m in!’
Two voices were making simultaneous counts in Jaeger’s head now. One had reached six: he was six bullets down from a twenty-round magazine. It was crucial to keep a count, or else the mag might run dry and he would get the fateful ‘dead man’s click’ – when you pulled the trigger and nothing happened.
The other voice was making the body count: eleven down.
He stepped into the dimly lit corridor. Off-white walls, smeared here and there with dirt and unidentifiable scuffmarks. In his mind’s eye Jaeger could see heavy elephant tusks being dragged down this hallway, dried blood and gore smeared along the walls. Hundreds and hundreds of them, like a conveyor belt of mindless death and murder.
The ghosts of so much bloody slaughter seemed to haunt the very shadows.
Jaeger slowed, moving on the balls of his feet with the grace of a ballet dancer but none of their benign intent. Through an open door to his right he heard a fridge door close. The clink of bottles.
A voice called out in what had to be Lebanese Arabic. The only word that Jaeger recognised was the name: Georges.
Konig had given them the name of the Lebanese ivory dealer. It was Georges Hanna. Jaeger figured one of his men was fetching the boss a chilled beer.
A figure stepped through the doorway, beer bottles clutched in his hands. There was barely time for him to register Jaeger’s presence, or for the surprise and terror to flash through his eyes, before the VSS spat again.
Two rounds tore into his left shoulder just above the heart, spinning him around and slamming him into the wall. The bottles fell, the noise of their breaking echoing down the hallway.
A voice called out from a room up ahead. The words sounded mocking. They were followed by laughter. There was still no sign of any evident alarm. The caller had to figure that the guy was drunk and had dropped the bottles accidentally.
A red smear slithered down the wall, tracing the dead man’s trajectory to the floor. He had collapsed slowly, folding in on himself with a hollow, wet whump.
Twelve, the voice in Jaeger’s head breathed. By rights, that should leave only one now – the Lebanese Mr Big. Konig had shown them a photo of the guy and it was seared into Jaeger’s mind.
‘Moving in to take Beirut,’ he whispered.
They’d kept the language for the assault simple-stupid. Their only codeword was for their target, and for that they’d chosen the name of the Lebanese capital city.
‘Thirty seconds out,’ Narov replied, her breath coming in heaving gasps as she sprinted for the entranceway.
For an instant Jaeger was tempted to wait for her. Two brains – two gun barrels – were always better than one. But every second was precious now. Their objective was to wipe out this gang and terminate their operation.
The key thing now was to cut the head off the snake.
56
Jaeger paused for a second, slipping the part-used mag off the sniper rifle and clicking a fresh one into place – just in case.
As he moved forward, he heard the muffled sound of a TV blaring out from his right front. He caught the odd word of commentary in English. Football. A Premier League match. Had to be. In that room would be the three he had shot through the wall. He made a mental note to get Narov to check that they were all dead.
He crept towards the half-open doorway ahead of him, stopping a pace back from it. Muted voices came from inside. A conversation. What sounded like haggling, in English. More than just the Lebanese Mr Big in there, that was for sure. He raised his right leg and booted the door fully open.
In the adrenalin-fuelled, hyped intensity of combat, time seemed to slow to a prehistoric pace, and a second could last a lifetime.
Jaeger’s eyes swept the room, taking in the key aspects in a microsecond.
Four figures, two seated at a table.
One, on his far right, was the Lebanese dealer. His wrist dripped a gold Rolex. His bulging belly oozed a lifetime’s overindulgence. He was dressed in a khaki designer safari suit, though Jaeger doubted it had ever seen much of the real bush.
Opposite him was a black guy in a cheap-looking collared shirt, grey slacks and black business shoes. Jaeger figured he had to be the
brains behind the poaching operation.
But standing against the window facing Jaeger was the main threat: two seriously tooled-up, mean-looking individuals. Seasoned poachers – elephant and rhino killers – no doubt.
One had a belt of machine-gun ammo slung around his torso, Rambo style. In his hands he cradled the distinctive form of a PKM – the Russian equivalent of the British general-purpose machine gun. Perfect for cutting down elephants out on the wide-open plains, but not a great choice of weaponry for close-quarters combat.
The second figure held an RPG7 – the archetypal Russian-made rocket launcher. Great for blowing up vehicles, or blasting a helicopter out of the sky. Not good for stopping Will Jaeger in the close confines of a cramped room.
Part of the reason for the lack of space in here was the ivory piled in one corner. Dozens of massive tusks, each ending in a jagged, bloodied rosette where the poachers had hacked them off the animals they had slaughtered.
Fuzzt! Fuzzt!
Jaeger nailed the tooled-up poachers with head shots, right between the eyes. As they fell, he riddled them with six further rounds, three to each torso – the shots driven as much by rage as by any desire to ensure they were dead.
He caught a flash of movement as the big Lebanese went for a gun. Fuzzt!
A scream rent the room as Jaeger pumped a bullet into the fat man’s gun hand, blowing a jagged hole through his palm. Then he pirouetted and nailed the African in his sights, putting a bullet through his hand too, at close to point-blank range.
That hand had been scrabbling about on the table, trying to gather up and hide a pile of US dollar notes, which were now getting soaked with his blood.
‘Have Beirut. Repeat: have Beirut,’ Jaeger reported to Narov. ‘All hostiles down, but check room second on right with TV. Three hostiles – check dead.’
‘Got it. Moving into corridor now.’
‘Once you’re done, secure building’s entryway. In case we missed any or they called for reinforcements.’
Jaeger stared down his gun barrel at two faces wide-eyed with shock and fear. Keeping his trigger finger at the ready and holding the Thread Cutter one-handed, he reached behind him with the other and grabbed his pistol, bringing it forward. He let the Thread Cutter drop on to his front, suspended on its sling, then brought the P228 into the aim. He needed one hand free for what was coming.