Burning Angels

60

High above the African plains the General Dynamics MQ9 Reaper drone – the successor to the Predator – was preparing to gather its deadly harvest. From the bulbous head of the UAV – unmanned aerial vehicle – an invisible beam fired earthwards, as the drone began to ‘paint’ the target with the hot point of its laser.

Some 25,000 feet below, the distinctive form of a white Land Rover – ‘Wild Africa Safaris’ emblazoned on its doors – ploughed onwards, those inside utterly oblivious to the threat.

Woken in the early hours, they had been sent on an urgent errand. They were to drive to the nearest airport, at Kigoma, some three hundred kilometres north of Katavi, to collect some spares for the replacement HIP helicopter.

Or at least that was what Konig had told them.

The sun had not long risen, and they were just an hour or so out from the airport. They were intent on getting the errand done and dusted as soon as possible, for they planned an unscheduled stop on their return. They had prize information to pass to the local poaching gang, information that would earn them good money.

As the Reaper’s laser beam secured ‘lock-on’ with the Land Rover, so the calipers holding a GBU-12 Paveway laser-guided bomb released their grip. The sleek gunmetal-grey projectile dropped away from the UAV’s wing and plummeted earthwards, its homing system locking on to the hot point of the laser reflecting off the Land Rover’s upper surface.

The fins on the rear section folded out to better perform their ‘bang-bang’ guidance function. Adjusting minutely to every move made by the vehicle, they steered the smart bomb in a snaking flight path, constantly correcting its trajectory.

According to Raytheon, the Paveway smart bomb’s manufacturers, the GBU-12 yielded a circular error probable of 3.6 feet. In other words, on average the Paveway struck within less than four feet of the hot point of the laser. As the Land Rover Defender barrelling through the African bush was five feet wide by thirteen long, there should be ample room for error.

Bare seconds after its release, the Paveway cut through the dust cloud thrown up by the vehicle.

By chance, this bomb wasn’t quite as smart as the majority of its brother munitions. It ploughed into the African earth three feet wide of the Land Rover, and just off its front nearside wing.

It didn’t particularly alter the outcome of the kill mission.

The Paveway detonated in a massive punching explosion, the blast wave driving a storm of jagged shrapnel into the Land Rover and flipping it over and over, as if a giant hand had grabbed it and was pounding it into oblivion.

The vehicle rolled several times, before coming to rest on its side. Already, hungry flames were licking around the twisted remains, engulfing those unfortunate enough to have been riding inside.

Some eight thousand miles away in his Washington DC office, Hank Kammler was hunched over a glowing computer screen, watching a live feed of the Reaper strike.

‘Goodbye, Mr William Jaeger,’ he whispered. ‘And good riddance.’

He reached for his keyboard and punched a few buttons, pulling up his encrypted email system. He sent a quick message, with the video from the Hellfire hit as a low-resolution attachment, then clicked his mouse and fired up IntelCom, a secure and encrypted US military version of Skype. In essence, via IntelCom, Kammler could place untraceable calls to anyone anywhere in the world.

There was the buzzing of IntelCom’s distinctive ringtone before a voice answered.

‘Steve Jones.’

‘The Reaper strike has gone ahead,’ Kammler announced. ‘I’ve just emailed you a video clip, with GPS coordinates embedded in the footage. Take a Katavi Lodge vehicle and go check it out. Find whatever remains and ensure it’s the right bodies.’

Steve Jones scowled. ‘I thought you said you wanted to torture him for as long as possible. This robs you – us – of revenge.’

Kammler’s expression hardened. ‘It does. But he was getting close. Jaeger and his pretty little sidekick had found their way to Katavi. That’s more than close enough. So I repeat: I need to know that their remains are within the wreckage of that vehicle. If they’ve somehow escaped, you’re to track them down and finish them.’

‘I’m on it,’ Jones confirmed.

Kammler killed the link and leaned back in his chair. On one level it was a pity to have put an end to the torture of William Jaeger, but sometimes even he tired of the game. And it was fitting, somehow, that Jaeger had died in Katavi – Hank Kammler’s favourite place in all the world.

And for what was coming – his sanctuary.

Steve Jones stared at his mobile, a frown scrunching up his massive, brute features. The twin Otter light aircraft droned onwards across the African savannah, buffeted by pockets of hot, riotous air.

Jones cursed. ‘Jaeger dead… What’s the point of bloody being here? Sent to scrape up some roasted body parts…’

He became aware that someone was watching him. He glanced towards the cockpit. The pilot – some hippy-dippy-looking Kraut called Falk Konig – was staring at him intently. He had clearly been listening in on the phone call.

The veins in Jones’s neck began to throb, and under his shirt his muscles bunched aggressively.

‘What?’ he growled. ‘What are you staring at? Just do your job and fly the bloody aircraft.’