Ghost Flight (3 page)

‘I was teaching kids.’

‘Right. Teaching kids. You got nothing whatsoever to do with the coup?’

‘President Chugga kept asking me the same question. In between the beatings. He could use a man like you.’

‘Okay, you were teaching kids. English. In a fishing village.’

‘I was teaching kids.’ Jaeger stared out the window; the smile had fallen from his face completely. ‘Plus, if you’ve got to know, I needed somewhere to hide. To think. Bioko – the asshole at the end of the universe. I never thought anyone would find me.’ He paused. ‘You proved me wrong.’

The hotel pit stop had done Jaeger a world of good. He’d showered. Three times. By the third, the water that swirled down the plughole was just about clean.

He’d forced a dose of rehydration salts down him. He’d sliced off his beard – a five-week growth – but stopped short of shaving. There hadn’t been the time.

He’d checked himself over for breaks; miraculously, there didn’t seem to be many. He was thirty-eight years old, and he’d kept himself fit on the island. A decade in the military elite prior to that – he’d been pretty much at the peak of physical condition when they’d thrown him into his cell. Maybe that was why he’d emerged from Black Beach comparatively unscathed.

He figured he had a couple of broken fingers; ditto his toes.

Nothing that wouldn’t heal.

A quick change of clothes and Raff had them back in the SUV, heading east out of Malabo into the thick tropical bush. At first he drove hunched over the wheel like an old granny – 30 mph top speed. He did so to check for a tail. The few who were lucky enough to own a car in Bioko all seemed to drive like the proverbial bat out of hell.

If a vehicle had stuck to their backside, it would have stood out a mile.

By the time they turned on to the tiny dirt track threading towards the north-east coast, it was clear that no one was following.

Major Mojo had to be banking on them leaving via the airport. In theory, there was no other way off the island – not unless you wanted to take your chances amongst the tropical storms and the sharks that circled Bioko, ravenously.

And there were precious few who ever did that.

3

Chief Ibrahim gestured towards the Fernao village beach. It was close enough for the sound of the surf to echo through the thin mud walls of his hut.

‘We have readied a canoe. It is provisioned with water and food.’ The chief paused and touched Jaeger’s shoulder. ‘We will never forget, especially the children.’

‘Thank you,’ Jaeger replied. ‘I won’t, either. You’ve all saved me in more ways than I can explain.’

The chief glanced at a figure standing at his side – a young, finely muscled man. ‘My son is one of the best seamen in all Bioko . . . You are sure you will not let the men ferry you across? You know they would gladly do so.’

Jaeger shook his head. ‘When President Chambara finds out I’m gone, he’ll take revenge any way he can. Any excuse. We say our goodbyes here. It’s the only way.’

The chief rose to his feet. ‘It has been three fine years, William. Insh’Allah you will make it across the Gulf and from there to your home. And one day, when the curse of Chambara finally is lifted, insh’Allah you will come back and visit.’

‘Insh’Allah,’ Jaeger echoed. He and the chief shook hands. ‘I’d like that.’

Jaeger glanced momentarily at a line of faces that ringed the hut. Kids. Dusty, scuffed up, semi-naked – but happy. Maybe that was what the children here had taught him – the meaning of happiness.

His eyes returned to the chief. ‘Tell them why for me, but only when we’re good and gone.’

The chief smiled. ‘I will. Now go. You have done here many good things. Go with that knowledge, and with lightness in your heart.’

Jaeger and Raff made their way towards the beach, threading through the cover of the thickest groves of palm trees. The fewer people who saw them make their getaway, the fewer who were likely to suffer any reprisals.

It was Raff who broke the silence. He could tell how much it pained his friend to abandon his young charges.

‘Insh’Allah?’ he queried. ‘The villagers round here – they’re Muslim?’

‘They are. And you know what – these people, they’re some of the best-hearted I ever met.’

Raff eyed him. ‘Three years alone on Bioko Island, and bugger me if the mighty Jaeger-bomb has gone soft.’

Jaeger flashed his friend a wry smile. Maybe Raff was right. Maybe he had.

They were approaching the pristine white sands of the beach when a figure ran up beside them, panting breathlessly. Barefooted, bare-chested, and dressed only in a pair of raggedy shorts, he looked to be no more than eight years old. The expression on his face was one of panic approaching terror.

‘Sir, sir!’ He grabbed Jaeger’s hand. ‘They are coming. President Chambara’s men. My father – someone radioed through a warning. They are coming! To find you! To take you back!’

Jaeger crouched down until he was at the boy’s eye level. ‘Little Mo, listen: no one’s taking me back.’ He slipped off the fake Oakleys and pressed them into the kid’s hand. He ruffled the boy’s dusty, child-wiry hair. ‘Let’s see them on, then,’ he prompted.

Little Mo slid the sunglasses over his eyes. They were so large that he had to hold them in place.

Jaeger grinned. ‘Dude! You look awesome! But keep them hidden – at least until Chambara’s men are gone.’ A pause. ‘Now, run. Get back to your father. Stay inside. And Mo, tell him from me – thanks for the warning.’

The kid gave Jaeger one last hug, full of reluctance at their parting, before he scuttled off, tears pricking his eyes.

Jaeger and Raff melted into the cover of the nearby bush. They crouched low, whisper-distance close, Jaeger grabbing Raff’s wrist so as to do a quick time check.

‘Around two hours to last light,’ he murmured. ‘Two options . . . One, we make a break for it right now, in broad daylight. Two, we hide up and sneak away come nightfall. From what I know of Chambara, he’ll get his fast patrol boats out scouring the ocean, in addition to whatever force he’s sending direct to the village. It’s no more than forty minutes by boat from Malabo: we’ll barely have hit the water before they’re on top of us. Which means . . . no choice: we wait for nightfall.’

Raff nodded. ‘Mate, you’ve been here three years. You got the local knowledge. But we need a hiding place where no one will ever think to look for us.’

His eyes scanned their surroundings, coming to rest upon the dark and brooding vegetation lying at the far end of the beach. ‘Mangrove swamp. Snakes, crocs, mosquitoes, scorpions, leeches and waist-deep shitty mud. Last place anyone sane would ever want to hide.’

Raff delved deep in his pocket, pulling out a distinctive-looking knife. He handed it to Jaeger. ‘Keep it handy, just in case.’

Jaeger slipped it open and felt across the five-inch semi-serrated blade, testing it for keenness. ‘This another fake?’

Raff scowled. ‘With weaponry, I don’t cut corners.’

‘So, Chambara’s men are on their way,’ Jaeger mused, ‘no doubt to drag us back to Black Beach. And we’ve got one blade between us . . .’

Raff pulled out a second, identical knife. ‘Trust me, even getting these through Bioko airport was a miracle.’

Jaeger gave a bleak smile. ‘Okay, one blade each: we’re unstoppable.’

The two men flitted through the palm grove towards the distant swampland.

From the outside, the maze of wild, tangled roots and branches looked impenetrable. Undeterred, Raff dropped to a belly-crawl and squirmed his way ahead, slipping through impossible gaps, unseen creatures slithering out of his way. He didn’t stop until he was a good sixty feet inside, Jaeger crawling closely behind him.

The last thing Jaeger had done on the beach was grab some old palm fronds and scuttle backwards across the sand, wiping their footprints away. By the time he’d wriggled his way deep inside the mangroves, every last sign of their passing had been swept clean.

The two men proceeded to immerse themselves in the evil-smelling black mud that formed the base of the swamp. By the time they were done, just their heads remained above the surface, and even those were coated in a thick film of muck and filth. The only thing that picked them out from their surroundings was the whites of their eyes.

Jaeger could feel the dark surface of the swamp bubbling and seething with life all around him. ‘Almost makes me homesick for Black Beach,’ he muttered.

Raff grunted an acknowledgement, the flash of his teeth the only thing that revealed his position.

Jaeger’s eyes roved around the latticework of wood that formed a tight-woven cathedral above their heads. Even the largest mangrove was no thicker than a man’s wrist, rising to little more than twenty feet in height. But where the roots thrust out of the mud and were washed daily by the tide, they grew arrow straight for a good five feet or more.

Raff reached for one and sawed through it at ground level, using the serrated edge of his knife to do so. He made a further cut at around four feet, handing the length of wood to Jaeger.

Jaeger flashed him a questioning look.

‘Krav Maga,’ Raff growled.
‘
Stick-fighting skills with Corporal Carter. Ring any bells?’

Jaeger smiled. How could he forget?

He took his blade and began to hone one end of the hard, tough wood, tapering it into an arrow-like point.

Slowly, a short, sharp stabbing spear took shape.

Corporal Carter had been the doyen of weaponry, not to mention hand-to-hand combat. Both he and Raff had trained Jaeger’s unit in Krav Maga, a hybrid martial art first developed in Israel. A blend of kung fu and raw street fighting, it taught you how to survive in real-life situations.

Unlike most martial arts, Krav Maga was all about bringing a battle to an end as quickly as possible, by doing maximum damage to your enemy. Systemic damage was what Carter had always called it: damage designed to be terminal. There were no rules, and all moves were aimed at hitting the most vulnerable parts of the body – the eyes, nose, neck, groin and knee. And hard.

The golden rules of Krav Maga were speed, aggression, surprise; plus to strike first and to improvise weaponry. You fought with whatever came to hand – planks of wood, metal bars, even broken bottles.

Or a sharpened wooden stake fashioned from a mangrove root.

Chambara’s men appeared shortly before dusk.

There were two dozen of them in one truck. They moved on to the far end of the beach, fanning out to search it from end to end. They paused at each of the dugout canoes, turning them over as if they expected their quarry to be hiding underneath.

It was the obvious place to lie low – which had made it a complete no-no as far as Jaeger and Raff were concerned.

The soldiers from the Bioko armed forces loosed off rounds from their G3 assault rifles, blasting holes in the bottom of several of the boats. But there was little order to their actions, and Jaeger made careful note of which canoes hadn’t received a burst of bullets.

It didn’t take the soldiers long to find the canoe packed with provisions. Orders were screamed across the sand. A pair of camouflage-clad figures hurried into the village, returning a minute later with a diminutive form slung across their shoulders.

He was dropped in the sand at the force commander’s feet.

Jaeger recognised the commander, a large, overweight man, from one of his many visits to Black Beach, where he’d overseen the interrogations and the beatings.

The commander proceeded to boot the prostrate form in the ribs.

Little Mo let out a muffled scream.

It echoed pitifully across the dusky beach.

Jaeger clenched his teeth. The chief’s boy had been like a son to him as well. He’d been a smart pupil, but with a goofy smile that had always made Jaeger laugh. Plus he’d proved an ace at beach soccer, their favourite pastime once the daily lessons were done.

But it wasn’t just that that had bonded the two of them. In so many ways, Little Mo reminded Jaeger of his own boy.

Or at least the son he’d once had.

4

‘MR JAEGER!’ The call rang out, cutting through Jaeger’s dark thoughts.

‘Mr William Jaeger. Yes, I remember you, you coward. And as you see, I have the boy.’ A massive hand reached down and pulled Little Mo up by the roots of his hair, until he was balanced on the very tips of his toes. ‘He has one minute left to live. ONE MINUTE! You white bastards show yourselves, NOW! Or this boy takes a bullet between the eyeballs!’

Jaeger locked eyes with Raff. The big Maori shook his head. ‘Mate, you know the score,’ he whispered. ‘We show ourselves we damn the entire village – ourselves and Little Mo with it.’

Wordlessly, Jaeger flicked his eyes back to the distant figures. Raff was right, but the image of the kid dancing on his tiptoes as the big commander gripped him punched into Jaeger’s brain. It flipped his mind back to a long-buried memory – to a remote mountainside and a shredded, knife-torn length of canvas . . .

Jaeger felt a massive arm upon him, powerful; restraining. ‘Easy, buddy, easy,’ Raff whispered. ‘I mean what I’m saying. Show yourself now, we’re all dead . . .’

‘The one minute is up!’ the commander screamed. ‘COME OUT! Now!’

Jaeger heard the sharp, steel-on-steel
clatch-clatch
of a round being chambered. The commander whipped his pistol up, shoving the muzzle hard into Little Mo’s temple. ‘I COUNT FROM TEN. Then, make no mistake, you British bastards, I fire!’

The commander was facing the sand dunes, flashing his torch across the tussocks of grass and hoping to spot Raff and Jaeger.

‘Ten, nine, eight . . .’

A new voice rang out over the darkening beach, the childish cries cutting across the commander’s words. ‘Sir! Sir! Please!
Please
!’

‘Seven, six, five . . . Yes, boy, plead to your white friend to save you . . . Three . . .’

Jaeger felt his big Maori friend pinning him to the mud, as his mind darted in horror between distant memories: to a savage attack on a dark and frosted mountainside; to blood amongst the first winter snows. To the moment his life had imploded . . . To right now; to Little Mo.