Ghost Flight

61

‘Let’s get him down!’ Jaeger cried.

His words were drowned out by an explosive crack from above, as the main branch holding Dale snapped in two. He plummeted downwards, his chute ripping as he fell, and moments later he hit the water.

‘Drag him in!’ Jaeger yelled. ‘GET HIM IN!’

All around Dale he could see powerful black shadows darting to and fro just below the surface. All it would take was one bite and the taste of blood, and the piranha would realise that Dale was prey. It would send a signal pulsing through the water to the entire shoal: come and eat, come and eat.

Alonzo and Kamishi were nearest. They dived in.

Even as they hit the water, Dale let out a fearful scream. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit! Get me out! Get me out!’

A stroke or two across the pool, and the two men grabbed Dale by his harness and hauled him towards the bank. His eyes wide with terror – and pain – they dragged the screaming cameraman out of the water.

Jaeger bent to inspect him. Dale had been bitten in several places. He’d gone as white as a sheet, mostly with the shock. Jaeger could hardly blame him: a few seconds more and he would have been terminally chewed. He asked Leticia Santos to do her stuff with the medical kit as Alonzo and Kamishi issued their own damage reports.

‘Man! Freakin’ fish bit me on the ass!’ Alonzo complained. ‘I mean, what kind of fish does that?’

Joe James stroked his massive beard. ‘Piranha, dude. Don’t ever get back in the water. They got a taste for you now. They’ll smell you coming.’

Kamishi glanced up from where he was inspecting a wound to his thigh. ‘I would like to know if this fish tastes as good as it clearly thinks I tasted.’ He eyed Jaeger. ‘I would like to catch one and eat it, preferably with some wasabi sauce.’

Jaeger couldn’t help but smile. In spite of everything, morale still seemed high among his team. Despite being hunted by Predator and piranhas, they were on message and sparking.

He turned to the next task in hand. ‘Narov, James – let’s ready the boat.’

Together the three of them unfolded the Advanced Elements kayak, inflated it and got it into the water. They loaded it with a few rocks for ballast, and added some of the bundled-up parachutes for bulk. Finally, Narov threw in her backpack plus weapon and climbed aboard.

She was about to paddle off, heading for the point where the Rio de los Dios snaked off into the wall of thick jungle, when she turned to Jaeger. She eyed the scarf he had knotted around his neck; Santos’s carnivale scarf.

‘I need something to wrap it in,’ she remarked. ‘The tracker device – to shield it from any impacts. It is delicate; it needs cushioning.’ She held out a hand for the scarf. ‘That – it is a useless piece of decoration, but it is perfect for my needs.’

Jaeger shook his head. ‘No can do, I’m afraid. Leticia told me it’s a lucky charm. “Lose my scarf, darling, and it brings bad luck on you all.” She was speaking Portuguese, so you probably missed it.’

Narov scowled. The scowl became a sulk.

Jaeger was heartened. He was needling her. Getting right beneath her skin – which was about the only way he figured he would ever start to unpick the enigma that was Irina Narov.

There was so much about her that didn’t add up: her bizarre attachment to her knife; her fluent German; her seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of all things Nazi; her burning hatred of Hitler’s legacy; not to mention her seeming lack of emotional literacy or empathy with others. One way or another Jaeger was determined to discover what made Irina Narov tick.

Without another word, she turned moodily and dipped her paddle into the piranha-infested waters.

Once Narov was a good distance away – the current starting to pull and tug fiercely at her kayak – she headed into shore. She climbed out of the craft, took the Night Stalkers coin from her pocket, switched the tracking device to the ‘on’ position, and taped the two halves together with black gaffer tape.

Then she popped the coin into a waterproof Ziploc bag, dropped it into one of the kayak’s secure stowage compartments, and went to shove the craft out into midstream.

For an instant, she hesitated.

An idea – a spur-of-the-moment flash of inspiration – blazed through her eyes. She rifled in her pack and retrieved one of the small pay-as-you-go cell phones she kept in her grab bag. She carried a few for emergency communications if she were ever forced to go on the run.

She switched the phone on and threw it into the Ziploc bag alongside the tracking device. She doubted if there was a cell phone tower anywhere within a thousand kilometres of where they were now. But perhaps it didn’t matter. Maybe the simple act of calling for a signal would be enough to get it detected, traced and tracked.

That done, she shoved the kayak away from the shore.

The current caught it, and within moments the boat was whisked away. With its triple-skin hull, six inflatable chambers, plus flotation bags, it should remain afloat no matter what it ran into downstream. It could capsize, get holed on rocks and still keep going, which meant the tracker unit would keep on bleeping out its signal.

Narov shouldered her pack, grabbed her weapon and began to make her way back to the main body of the team, being careful to keep well away from the water and sticking to the cover of the jungle.

Ten minutes later she was back with Jaeger.

‘It is done,’ she announced. ‘From here the Rio de los Dios veers northwards. Our route – it lies almost due south. By sending the tracking device that way, it will help spread confusion amongst our enemies.’

Jaeger stared at her. ‘Whoever they may be.’

‘Yes,’ Narov echoed, ‘whoever they may be.’ She paused. ‘I added a final touch of my own. A cell phone – I sent it onwards with the canoe. I understand that even without being able to acquire a signal, it can be tracked.’

Jaeger cracked a smile. ‘Nice one. Let’s hope so.’

‘Grey Wolf, this is Grey Wolf Six,’ a voice intoned. ‘Grey Wolf, Grey Wolf Six.’

The speaker was hunched over the same radio set as before, in the same camouflaged tent positioned at the edge of the same rough and ready airstrip. To all sides lay the jagged fringe of jungle, the rank of unmarked black helicopters lining the dirt runway, mountains rising dark and lowering on all sides.

‘Grey Wolf Six, this is Grey Wolf,’ a voice confirmed.

‘Sir, we lost them for a good hour there. The tracker went off air.’ The radio operator eyed a laptop. It showed a computer-generated map of the Serra de los Dios, with various icons dotted across the screen. ‘They’ve popped up again at the base of the Devil’s Falls, heading downriver into the jungle.’

‘Which means?’

‘They managed to descend the falls. They’re moving on the water, so presumably by canoe, but they’re heading northwards. The warplane – it lies more or less due south of their position.’

‘Which means?’

The figure shrugged. ‘Sir, they’re headed the wrong way. I’ve no idea why. I’ve got a Predator vectored into their position, and just as soon as we have visual with their craft we’ll send the video feed. If it is them, that’s where we’ll finish them.’

‘What d’you mean – if it is them? Who else could it possibly be?’

‘Sir, there’s no one else moving on that stretch of water. Once we have the video feed, we’ll make doubly certain and execute the kill.’

‘About time. Now, patch me into the images of the last strike. The hit on the bridge.’

‘Sir.’ Hands punched the laptop’s keyboard, and a new image appeared on the screen.

Footage played of a grainy video feed – showing what the Predator had filmed of the recent Hellfire strikes. The first missile hit the vine-rope bridge. The image was lost, pixelating badly, before it stabilised once more, and for an instant the face of the lone figure remaining on the bridge was clear.

‘Rewind,’ the voice demanded. ‘That figure: freeze-frame it. Let’s see who we’re up against here.’

‘Sir.’ The operator did as requested, freezing the image and zooming in on the features.

‘Grab several video frames from around that exact point.’ The voice had hardened, growing in intensity. ‘Send them to me via secure means. In the next minute, please.’

‘Sir,’ the operator confirmed.

‘And Grey Wolf Six, I’d like your next communication to be “mission complete”. You understand? I don’t like to be kept waiting or repeatedly disappointed.’

‘Understood, sir. Next time, the Predator won’t miss.’

‘And remember – that aircraft: that warplane – it never flew. It never even existed. You are to obliterate every trace of it – after, of course, we’ve retrieved what we’re looking for.’

‘Understood, sir.’

The operator killed the call.

The figure on the other end – code name Grey Wolf – leaned back in his chair, his mind lost in thought. He eyed the framed photo on his desk. He and the middle-aged man in the grey pinstriped suit – eyes arrogant, confident, exuding absolute power – bore more than a striking resemblance.

It wasn’t hard to imagine them as father and son.

‘They are proving remarkably difficult to kill,’ the figure muttered, almost as if he were speaking to the man in the photo.

A message dropped into his computer’s inbox. It was the secure email from Grey Wolf Six. He leaned forward and tapped at his keyboard. He clicked on the attachment, and the frozen video frame of the figure on the bridge appeared on the screen.

He stared at it for a long moment, studying the grainy image intently. His face darkened.

‘It is him,’ he muttered. ‘It has to be.’

His fingers punched the keyboard, pulling up a private email account. He began typing with a fierce intensity.

He punched send.

His gaze returned to the image on his screen. His eyes were focused inwards; brooding pools of inky darkness that sucked all energy – all life – into them.