The Hunt

41

The inbound aircraft was an Antonov AN-12. Fitted with extra internal fuel tanks, it had a range of over 6,000 kilometres and an unrivalled STOL – short take-off and landing – capability. It could put down on a dirt strip 600 metres in length, and on an airbase at several thousand metres of altitude.

In short, it was perfect for flying into rugged, mountainous territory, and landing on a runway hacked out of the jungle. It was also highly manoeuvrable and well capable of low-level flying, so keeping below any radar.

With four powerful turboprop engines and a massive cargo-carrying capacity, the AN-12 was overkill for such a small load, but it was one of the few aircraft capable of executing such a challenging transcontinental delivery.

For the past forty minutes, the pilot had been guided by a VOR/DME system – a VHF omnidirectional range, combined with a distance measuring equipment device. In layman’s terms, a homing beacon. All airports had them. In fact, the AN-12 had been using three VOR/DMEs – those stationed at the nearest commercial airports to Dodge – and triangulating its position from their signals.

The self-appointed air traffic controller at Dodge had been talking the pilot in by radio, using vectors from those VOR/DMEs to cross-reference distance and position. While it sounded complicated, it was pretty much the standard operating procedure for bringing in a ghost flight packed full of illegal cargo to an uncharted bush airstrip.

Normally the narco boss wouldn’t provide the end location to the pilot, for that risked the DEA getting wise to their base. Hence the need to use VOR/DME triangulation to keep nudging the aircraft in. Hence why El Padre’s air traffic control guy kept talking to the AN-12’s pilot via their prearranged frequency, guiding him ever closer.

Normally, the procedure was pretty much foolproof. Normally.

Tonight was a little different. Tonight, things had got a little complicated.

First, the signal emanating from Dodge had got scrambled. El Padre’s radio operator had lost contact with the incoming aircraft. No matter what he tried, the AN-12 was unreachable: in the place of the Russian pilot’s voice, there was a weird, echoing, hollow, howling scream.

Electrical storm, it sounded like. But the operator was well aware that thunderstorms didn’t affect VHF radio signals. Not normally. Hence his discomfort and confusion at having lost contact with the incoming aircraft.

‘Try another frequency,’ barked a stout, barrel-chested figure at his side.

It was unusual – very – to have El Padre himself standing by for such a delivery. The radio operator blanched and began punching buttons, scrolling through the digital frequencies, but he didn’t hold out any great hopes.

In the AN-12’s cockpit, the pilot was having little better luck. He could see the three VOR/DMEs transmitting their bearings, but without any guidance from the ground, he was screwed. He too began to prod at his radio. Maybe the narcos had drifted across to a different frequency without telling him. Sure enough, as he scanned the airwaves, a voice came up asking him to check in.

‘Bear 12, come in. Bear 12, come in. We lost your signal. Repeat, we lost your signal. Come in, Bear 12, come in.’

The pilot grabbed his radio handset. ‘This is Bear 12. Where the hell have you been?’ he growled. ‘I lost you for fifteen minutes. Why you change frequency?’

Colonel Evandro’s radio operator smiled. ‘You want me to guide you in, or you want to bitch?’

‘I want you to guide.’

‘Okay, this is your landing bearing and vectors.’ The radio operator passed the pilot a series of bearings from the VOR/DME stations that would bring him directly into Station 15. ‘You’re twenty minutes out.’

‘Twenty,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘Make sure you have runway lights on. Is a big jungle down there.’

‘Affirm. Out.’

The radio operator flashed Colonel Evandro a smile. They’d just taken control of the inbound aircraft. They knew its call sign – Bear 12 – because they’d been tracking the aircraft’s radio communications as it approached Brazilian airspace. All seemed to be going perfectly, but twenty minutes was a long time in show business. Any number of things could still go wrong.

The jam on Dodge’s radio signal might collapse, enabling the narcos to alert the pilot. If his navigator was any good, he might realise they were being lured down to a strip the wrong side of the border. Or Captain Gonzales might screw it up on the ground.

Jaeger felt horribly restless. He checked his watch, stepped outside and gazed into the heavens. Fifteen minutes to go, and not a sign of any aircraft. Not a glimmer of moonlight on metal. Not the faintest rumble of engines.

So much was hanging on this moment. The hunt for Kammler. The means to derail whatever he was up to. Jaeger’s search for his traumatised and now missing wife. Plus the sting had been his idea in the first place.

It couldn’t just fall apart now.

He felt others join him. Narov. Alonzo. Raff. All craning their necks skywards. He flicked his wrist, checking his watch for the umpteenth time. Ten minutes. Surely they should be able to see and hear something?

Silence. The thumping of his pulse in his temples. Jaeger could sense the tension, taut on the still air. He shivered as though someone had walked over his grave. The aircraft wasn’t coming, he knew it.

They’d been rumbled.