The Hunt

49

As far as Jaeger was concerned, the Antonov AN-32 was the only aircraft with which to be attempting such a mission.

With its twin Ivchenko turboprop engines set high on the wings, it had an almost unrivalled high-altitude landing and take-off capability, a 2,500-kilometre range, plus a stall speed of under 100 kilometres an hour – which for tonight’s operation was absolutely critical.

It was also ubiquitous across Asia, being flown by the Indian, Bangladeshi, Sri Lankan and several other armed forces, and scores of civilian operators, including any number of Chinese commercial airlines. A common workhorse of charities, it regularly flew missions of mercy into Asia’s uncharted regions.

Hence the cover for tonight’s ultra-secret flight.

The AN-32 was decked out in the markings of the International Committee of the Red Cross: the distinctive red and white livery, plus the iconic red-cross symbol splashed across the tailplane, wings and the underside of the fuselage.

Routed via northern Thailand, Myanmar, north-west India and Bhutan, the Antonov would be straying one hundred kilometres into Chinese airspace from the border crossover point. That an ICRC flight could have blundered that far off course was unlikely, unless the navigator was seriously incompetent. But it wasn’t entirely impossible, especially amidst such wild and uncharted mountains, where detours due to bad weather would be common.

The one-hundred-kilometre insertion would take the Antonov little more than ten minutes, and the aircraft wouldn’t pause long to deliver the team to target. It was unlikely to be detected on such a short run, especially as it would be weaving a path between towering peaks.

The route back would take the same amount of time, and it was just possible that the Antonov might get intercepted or forced down. Should that happen, the pilot would claim to be a bona fide aid flight that had somehow strayed into Chinese airspace.

The idea of using ICRC cover wasn’t without precedent. In 1997, the SAS had been tasked to snatch two prominent Serbian war criminals, Milan Kovacevic and Simo Drljaca, from Bosnia. Kovacevic was hiding out in a hospital. The five-man SAS team sent in to get him posed as Red Cross officials, gaining entry to the hospital with their 9mm pistols tucked beneath their clothing.

Code-named Operation Tango, the SAS mission was a resounding success. Kovacevic was spirited away to a waiting ‘Red Cross’ helicopter, whisked out of the country and subsequently tried for war crimes. His partner, Drljaca, tried to put up a fight. He didn’t get to stand trial: he died in the firefight with the SAS.

Jaeger hadn’t been on Op Tango; it was before his time. But he’d certainly heard about it. It had gone down in SAS legend, and it had inspired tonight’s little subterfuge.

On one level, using the ICRC livery as cover wasn’t entirely morally justifiable. The Red Cross relied upon its reputation for strict neutrality and humanitarianism to gain access to war zones. But during his years in the SAS, Jaeger had learnt that sometimes, whoever broke the rules won.

Who dares. And always for the greater good.

Going up against Kammler and his ilk, he’d also learnt some of the darker arts of the enemy. As a consequence, he had few qualms about the nature of tonight’s deception.

He, Narov, Raff and Alonzo were dressed in unmarked white Alpine warfare gear – state-of-the-art Goretex jackets and trousers. Under that, each sported a Helly Hansen thermal top, plus layers of silk, and they had thermal gloves and white Goretex overmitts to protect their hands from the intense cold.

In the centre of the Antonov were piled their bergens, each sheeted over with a white Alpine camouflage covering, along with two steel cargo para-tubes. An expedition-spec pulk – a six-foot flat-bottomed fibreglass sled, which came complete with tow harness – completed the kit for tonight’s drop.

The pulk was man-portable: you loaded it up, strapped yourself into the harness and hauled it across the snow. Once they were on the ground, the team would unload the para-tubes, load up the sled and be on their way. Their packs were stripped down to survival gear only, so they could exit the aircraft with the lightest possible loads.

All the heavy kit was packed in the para-tubes.

During the flight, Jaeger had been too wired to sleep. The groaning of the metal fuselage and the deafening howl of the Ivchenko engines made talk all but impossible. The AN-32 had been designed in the mid seventies, and Jaeger didn’t doubt that this one was several decades old. At every twist and turn he felt as if it was about to shake itself to pieces.

But he knew the reputation of the aircraft. Like most Russian airframes, it was ruggedly built and engineered to last. He didn’t doubt it would get them to their target, Chinese vigilance permitting.

He’d plugged himself into the aircraft’s intercom, so he could listen in on the chat from the cockpit. Mostly it had been navigational, as the pilot, co-pilot and navigator talked each other through what they could see of the terrain below, to keep a check on their route. They were heading across the easternmost extent of the Himalayas, circumventing the massive 7,500-metre peak of Kula Kangri, which straddled the border with China.

Jaeger glanced out the nearest of the AN-32’s portholes. He could see jagged-edged snowfields rearing up to their right like the white fangs of some impossible sky god, the heights washed in a silvery-blue moonlight. Kula Kangri had long been disputed by both Bhutan and China. So remote was this region that neither country had been able to substantiate its territorial claim.

‘Border crossing in five,’ the pilot calmly announced.

This was it: no turning back now.