Burning Angels (16 page)
Authors: Bear Grylls
Click. Flash.
Miles threw up an image on to the bunker’s wall.
Kammler H.
BV222
Katavi
Choma Malaika
‘Keywords retrieved from the Cuban island kidnap gang’s emails,’ he continued. ‘We’ve analysed the chatter, and we believe the messages flow between the boss of the kidnap gang – Vladimir – and Hank Kammler himself.’
Miles waved a hand towards the image. ‘I’ll start with the third word on the list. Amongst the documents you discovered in that Amazon warplane, there was one that revealed a Nazi flight routed to a place called Katavi. Kammler’s game ranch is situated on the western fringes of the African nation of Tanzania, near a certain Lake Katavi.’
‘Now, why would a Nazi-era Safe Haven flight be routed to a stretch of water? Consider that second item on the list: BV222. During the war, the Nazis had a secret seaplane research centre at Travemunde, on the German coast. There they developed the Blohm and Voss BV222, the largest aircraft operated during the war.
‘This is what we now believe happened. At war’s end, Tanzania was a British colony. Kammler promised the British a wealth of Nazi secrets in return for their protection. So they green-lit a flight to the ultimate Safe Haven – Lake Katavi – using a BV222. SS General Hans Kammler was on that flight, as was his precious virus – either frozen, or in a kind of desiccated powder form – though of course that was one secret he would never reveal to the Allies.
‘When the British decolonised East Africa, Kammler lost his sponsors – hence his decision to purchase a vast expanse of land around Lake Katavi. And there he set up his laboratory – somewhere to develop the
Gottvirus
in absolute secret.
‘Of course, we have no proof that this germ laboratory exists,’ Miles continued. ‘If it does, it has perfect cover. Hank Kammler runs a bona fide game reserve. It has all the trappings: game guards, a top conservation team, a plush safari lodge, plus an airstrip for flying clients in and out. But the last item on our list offers a final clue.
‘Choma Malaika is Swahili – the language of East Africa. It means “Burning Angels”. Within Kammler’s game ranch there happens to be a Burning Angels Peak. It sits in the Mbizi mountain range, to the south of Lake Katavi. The Mbizi mountains are densely forested and almost completely unexplored.’
Miles flicked up another image. It showed a jagged-rimmed mountain towering above the savannah. ‘Now of course, the existence of those keywords in the email chatter and the existence of a mountain of the same name could just be a bizarre coincidence. But your grandfather taught me never to believe in coincidences.’
He stabbed a finger at the image. ‘If Kammler has a germ warfare lab, we believe it’s hidden deep beneath Burning Angels mountain.’
Peter Miles ended his briefing by calling for a brainstorming session, utilising the vast military expertise in the room.
‘Stupid question,’ Lewis Alonzo began, ‘but what’s the worst that can happen?’
Miles eyed him quizzically. ‘The Armageddon scenario? If we’re faced with a madman?’
Alonzo flashed his signature smile. ‘Yeah, a real nutter. A fruitcake. Not pulling any punches – tell us.’
‘We fear we are facing a germ agent that just about no one would survive,’ Miles replied darkly. ‘But only if Kammler and his people have worked out how to weaponise it. That’s the nightmare scenario: a worldwide release of the virus, with enough simultaneous outbreaks so no government has the time to develop a cure. It would be a pandemic of unprecedented lethality. A world-changing – a world-
ending
– event.’
He paused, letting the chilling import of those words sink in. ‘But what Kammler and his cronies may be
intending
to do with it – that’s another guess entirely. An agent like that would be priceless, obviously. Would they sell it to the highest bidder? Or somehow blackmail world leaders? We just don’t know.’
‘Couple of years back, we war-gamed some key scenarios,’ Alonzo remarked. ‘Had the top guys in from US intelligence. They listed the three foremost threats to world security. The absolute numero uno was a terror group acquiring a fully functioning weapon of mass destruction. There are three ways they could do that. One, buy a nuclear device off a rogue state – most likely a former Soviet bloc country gone to rack and ruin. Two, intercept a chemical weapon being moved from one state to another; so maybe sarin gas from Syria, en route to disposal. Three, acquire the necessary technology to build their own nuclear or chemical device.’
He eyed Peter Miles. ‘Those guys sure knew their stuff, and no one ever mentioned some crazed son-of-a-bitch offering a ready-made germ weapon to the highest bidder.’
Miles nodded. ‘And for good reason. The real challenge is to deliver it. Presuming they’ve perfected an airborne version, it’s easy enough to board an aircraft and wave around a handkerchief liberally sprinkled with the dry virus. And remember, one hundred million crystallised viruses – that’s the populations of England and Spain put together – would cover the full stop at the end of your average sentence.
‘Once our man’s shaken out his handkerchief, he can rely on the aircraft’s air-conditioning system to do the rest. By the end of the flight – let’s say it’s an Airbus A380 – you’ve got some five hundred people infected, and the beauty is that not a soul amongst them will know it. Hours later, they disembark at London Heathrow. Big airport, crammed with people. They board buses, trains or tubes, spreading the virus via their breath. Some are in transit to New York, Rio, Moscow, Tokyo, Sydney or Berlin. In forty-eight hours, the virus has spread across all cities, nations and continents . . . And that, Mr Alonzo, is your Armageddon scenario.’
‘How long’s the incubation period? How long before people realise something’s wrong?’
‘We don’t know. But if it’s similar to Ebola, then it’s twenty-one days.’
Alonzo whistled. ‘That’s real badass shit. You couldn’t design a more fearsome agent.’
‘Exactly.’ Peter Miles smiled. ‘But there’s one catch. Remember the man who boarded the Airbus A380 with a handkerchief spiked with one hundred million viruses? He’s got to be some kind of a guy. In infecting the people on that aircraft, he’s also infecting himself.’ He paused. ‘But of course, in certain terror groups there is an abundance of young men ready to die for the cause.’
‘Islamic State; al-Qaeda; AQIM; Boko Haram.’ Jaeger listed the usual suspects. ‘There’s any number of similarly minded crazies out there.’
Miles nodded. ‘Which is why we fear Kammler may sell the agent to the highest bidder. Some of those groups have a practically unlimited war chest, and they certainly do have the means – the suicidal human means – to deliver the agent.’
A new voice cut in. ‘There is one problem with all that. One flaw.’ It was Narov. ‘No one sells such an agent to anyone without possessing the antidote. Otherwise they’ll be signing their own death warrant. And if you have the antidote, the man waving the handkerchief would be immune. He would survive.’
‘Maybe,’ Miles conceded. ‘But would you like to be that person? Would you want to rely on that vaccine – one that in all probability has only ever been tested on mice, rats, monkeys? And where is Kammler going to get live humans on whom to try out his vaccines?’
At the mention of human testing, Miles’s gaze flicked across to Jaeger, as if drawn to him irresistibly. Almost guiltily. What was it about human testing that kept forcing the man’s attention his way? Jaeger wondered.
His habit of doing so was starting to get Jaeger seriously spooked.
Jaeger figured he’d tackle Miles on the human testing issue later. ‘Right, let’s cut to the chase,’ he announced. ‘Whatever Kammler’s planning to do with his
Gottvirus
, this Katavi ranch is the most likely location to nail it down, right?’
‘That’s our understanding,’ Miles confirmed.
‘So what’s the plan?’
Miles glanced at Uncle Joe. ‘Let’s just say we’re open to all suggestions.’
‘Why not simply go to the authorities?’ volunteered Alonzo. ‘Send in SEAL Team Six to bust Kammler’s ass?’
Miles spread his hands. ‘We have tantalising clues, but we don’t have anything like proof. Plus there is no one we can absolutely trust. Power has been infiltrated at the highest echelons. Certainly the present director of the CIA, Dan Brooks, has reached out to us, and he is a good man. But he has concerns, even up to the level of his own President. In short, we can only rely on ourselves; on our network.’
‘Just who is that network?’ Jaeger queried. ‘Who exactly is this
we
you keep referring to?’
‘The Secret Hunters,’ Miles replied. ‘As formed after the Second World War and kept alive until today.’ He gestured in Uncle Joe’s direction. ‘Sadly, the only one of the originals left is Joe Jaeger. We are blessed that he is still with us. Others have taken up the reins. Irina Narov is one.’ He smiled. ‘And we are hoping for six new recruits in this room today.’
‘What about funding? Backup? Top cover?’ Jaeger pressed.
Peter Miles grimaced. ‘Good questions . . . You’ll all have heard about this Nazi gold train that’s recently been discovered by a bunch of treasure hunters, hidden beneath a Polish mountain. Well, there were a lot more such trains, most from the looting of the Berlin Reichsbank.’
‘Hitler’s treasury?’ Jaeger prompted.
‘The treasury for his Thousand-Year Reich. At war’s end, its wealth was staggering. As Berlin descended into chaos, the gold was loaded on to trains and dispersed into hiding. One such train came to the attention of the Secret Hunters. Much of its cargo was ill-gotten loot, but once melted down, gold is untraceable. We figured it was best if we kept hold of it, as working capital.’ He shrugged. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.
‘As for top cover, we have some. Originally the Secret Hunters were formed under the Ministry for Economic Warfare. Churchill established the ministry to run his most secret wartime operations. At the end of the war it was supposedly shut down. In fact, there’s a small executive branch still in existence, operating out of an unremarkable Georgian town house in London’s Eaton Square. They are our benefactors. They oversee and support our activities.’
‘I thought you said it was the German government who loaned you this place?’
‘The Eaton Square people are very good networkers. At the highest levels only, of course.’
‘So who are you specifically?’ Jaeger pressed. ‘Who are the Secret Hunters? Numbers? Staff? Operators?’
‘We are all volunteers. We are called on only when needed. Even this place is only operational when we are. Otherwise, it’s in mothballs.’
‘Okay, let’s say we’re in,’ Jaeger declared. ‘What next?’
Click. Flash.
Miles pulled up a slide showing an aerial view of Burning Angels mountain.
‘Choma Malaika, photographed from the air. It’s part of Kammler’s game reserve, but it’s totally off limits. It’s designated as an elephant and rhino breeding sanctuary, one closed to all but the senior reserve staff. There’s a shoot-to-kill policy for anyone else who tries to enter.
‘Of chief concern to us is what lies
beneath
the mountain. There are a series of massive caves – originally water-worn, but enlarged in more recent times by the action of animals. Apparently, all large mammals need salt. Elephants enter the caves in search of it, and use their tusks to gouge it out. They’ve extended the caves to mammoth proportions – if you’ll forgive the pun.
‘You’ll notice the main geological structure is a caldera – a collapsed former volcano. It’s left a ragged ring of walls around a massive central crater, where the former cone of the volcano blew itself apart. Mostly the bowl of the crater is awash with seasonal water, so forming a shallow lake. The caves lie off the water, and crucially all are within Kammler’s shoot-to-kill zone.’
Miles ran his gaze around the room. ‘We have no proof that anything sinister is hidden in those caves. We need to go in and find that proof. And that’s where you guys come in. After all, you’re the professionals.’
Jaeger eyed the aerial photo for a good few seconds. ‘Crater walls look around eight hundred metres high. We could HALO into the crater itself, pulling our chutes within the cover of the walls. Drift to ground unseen and head into the caves . . . The problem is remaining undetected once we’re there. They’re sure to have motion sensors positioned in the cave entrances. If it was me, I’d have video surveillance, infrared cameras, security lighting, trip flares – the works. That’s the problem with caves: there’s only one route in, which means it can be easily covered.’
‘So it is simple,’ a voice volunteered. ‘We go in knowing we will be detected. We allow ourselves to get drawn into the spider’s web. If nothing else, it will very likely reveal to us what they are doing there.’
Jaeger eyed the speaker: Narov. ‘Great. One problem. How do we get out again?’
Narov gave a dismissive toss of the head. ‘We fight. We go in heavily armed. When we have found what we are looking for, we shoot our way out.’
‘Or die trying.’ Jaeger shook his head. ‘No, there’s got to be a better way . . .’
For a moment he glanced at Narov, and the corners of his mouth twitched into a mischievous half-smile.
‘You know what, I may just have thought of one. And you know something else? You’re going to love it.’
‘This is a fully fledged game reserve, right?’ Jaeger queried. ‘I mean, it comes complete with safari drives, game lodges, the works?’
Peter Miles nodded. ‘It does. The Katavi Lodge. It’s a five-star facility.’
‘Right, let’s say you were a visitor to the lodge, but let’s say you weren’t exactly thinking straight. En route to the lodge you decide to climb Burning Angels Peak, just ’cause it’s there. The high point of the crater rim lies outside the borders of the sanctuary – the shoot-to-kill zone – right?’