Authors: Bear Grylls
Once she was up, Jaeger flashed his light across the lake. ‘Take a look,’ he hissed. ‘Feast your eyes upon that.’
Narov stared. Jaeger had rarely seen her lost for words. She was now.
‘At first I thought I had to be dreaming,’ he told her. ‘Tell me I’m not. Tell me it’s for real.’
Narov couldn’t drag her gaze away. ‘I see it. But how in the name of God did they get it in here?’
Jaeger shrugged. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
They lowered their packs to the far side, before abseiling down to join them on the ground. They squatted in the utter stillness, contemplating the next, seemingly impossible challenge. Short of swimming – and Lord only knew what was in the water – how were they going to make it to the centre of that lake? And having done so, how were they to get aboard what lay tethered there?
Jaeger figured maybe they should have been expecting this. In a sense, they’d been forewarned in the Falkenhagen briefing. But still, to find it here, and so utterly unblemished and intact – it took his very breath away.
In the centre of the lake beneath the mountain was anchored the giant form of a Blohm and Voss BV222 seaplane.
Even from this distance it was simply stupendous – a six-engine behemoth tethered by its cruelly beaked nose to a buoy. The incredible size of the thing was betrayed by the antique-looking motorboat that was lashed to its side, dwarfed by the graceful wing stretching high above it.
But perhaps even more than the warplane’s size and presence, what confounded Jaeger most was how utterly perfect she appeared to be. There was no layer of bat guano coating the BV222’s upper surface, which was painted in what had to be its original camouflage green. Likewise, its blue-white under-surface – contoured like the V-shaped hull of a speedboat – was free of any algae or weed.
From the upper surface of the warplane sprouted a forest of gun turrets: the BV222 was designed to operate without the need for any escort. It was a massive flying gun-platform, which was supposed to be able to shoot down any Allied fighters.
The Perspex of the gun turrets appeared to be almost as clear and clean as the day she had left the factory. Along her side ran a row of portholes, which terminated at the fore end in the iconic insignia of the Luftwaffe – a black cross superimposed over a larger white one.
It looked as if it had been painted only yesterday.
Somehow, this BV222 had lain here for seven decades, being carefully tended to and looked after. But the biggest mystery – one that Jaeger couldn’t for the life of him fathom – was how on earth the aircraft had got in here.
With a 150-foot wingspan, she was too wide to have made it through the cave entrance.
This had to be Kammler’s doing. Somehow, he’d got her in here.
But why had he done so?
For what purpose?
For an instant Jaeger wondered whether Kammler had sited his hidden germ warfare laboratory inside this aircraft secreted deep beneath the mountain. But just as soon as he’d entertained the idea he discounted it. Were it not for their head torches, the BV222 would be lying here enshrouded in utter darkness.
Jaeger didn’t doubt that she was deserted.
As he rested, racking his brains, he became aware of how quiet it was. The massive concrete structure of the wall blocked off nearly all sound from further down the cave system: the gouging of the elephants; the rhythmic crunching of rock fragments; the odd contented stamp or bellow.
Here it was utter stillness. Devoid of all life. Ghostly. Deserted.
Here was a place where all life apparently came to an end.
Jaeger gestured at the seaplane. ‘There’s nothing for it. We’re going to have to swim.’
Narov nodded her silent assent. They began to strip down to the bare minimum. It was a one-hundred-and-fifty yard dash, and the last thing they needed in the cold water was to be weighed down by rucksacks, pouches and ammo. They’d leave everything but the essentials – the clothes they stood up in, plus footwear – by the lakeside.
Jaeger hesitated only when it came to discarding his pistol. He hated the thought of proceeding unarmed. Most modern weaponry worked just fine after a good dousing in water, but the key now was to move fast on the long, freezing swim that lay ahead.
He laid his P228 next to Narov’s under a small rock, beside their pile of gear.
Jaeger wasn’t surprised to see that Narov had kept one weapon on her person, though. He’d learned in the Amazon that she was never to be parted from her Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife. It had a talismanic significance for her, supposedly being a gift from Jaeger’s grandfather.
He glanced at her. ‘You ready?’
Her eyes glittered. ‘Race you.’
Jaeger made a mental note of the warplane’s location, fixing it in his mind, before extinguishing his head torch. Narov did likewise. By feel alone they stuffed the Petzls into waterproof Ziploc pouches. All was total darkness now; utter, unrelenting black.
Jaeger brought his hand in front of his face. He couldn’t see anything. He moved it closer, until his palm touched his nose, yet still he’d not discerned the slightest thing. Not the faintest glimmer of light made it in here, this far underground.
‘Stick close,’ he hissed. ‘Oh, and one more thing . . .’
He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he plunged into the icy lake, hoping to have thrown Narov and gained himself a head start. He sensed her hit the water just yards behind him, thrashing madly to catch up.
Using long, powerful strokes to surge ahead, Jaeger’s head only left the water to grab quick gasps of air. A former Royal Marine, he felt very much at home in or on the water. The draw of that aircraft was irresistible, yet still the utter darkness was horribly disorientating.
He’d almost given up hope of having navigated true when his hand made contact with something hard. It felt like cold, unyielding steel. He figured it had to be one of the warplane’s floats. He dragged himself out of the water, and sure enough was able to haul himself on to a flat surface.
He reached for his head torch, pulled it out and flicked it on, flashing it over the surface of the lake. Narov was bare seconds behind him, and he used the light to guide her in.
‘Loser,’ he whispered as he pulled her out, needling her gently.
She scowled. ‘You cheated.’
He shrugged. ‘All’s fair in love and war.’
They crouched, taking a few seconds to catch their breath. Jaeger shone his torch around, the light gleaming off the massive sweep of the wing that stretched above them. He remembered from the Falkenhagen briefing that the BV222 actually had two decks – the upper one for passengers and cargo, the lower harbouring ranks of machine-gun positions, from which the warplane could be defended.
This close to the fuselage, he could well believe it. Here, he could finally appreciate the sheer size of the thing, coupled with her compelling grace and her incredible presence. He needed to get inside.
He stood, helping Narov to her feet. He took a step or two ahead, but no sooner had he done so than a scream rent the silence. A rhythmic, blaring wail blasted out across the lake, echoing deafeningly off the unyielding rock walls.
Jaeger froze. He knew instantly what had happened. The BV222 had to be fitted with infrared sensors. As soon as they’d started moving, they’d exposed themselves to the sensor’s invisible beams, so triggering the alarm.
‘Kill your light,’ he hissed.
Moments later, they were plunged back into deep blackness, but it didn’t last long.
A powerful beam of illumination stabbed outwards from the southern shore of the lake, chasing away the deepest shadows. It swept across the water, coming to rest upon the warplane, half blinding Jaeger and Narov.
Fighting the urge to take cover and prepare for battle, Jaeger shaded his eyes from the glare.
‘Remember,’ he hissed, ‘we’re a married bloody couple. Tourists. Whoever it is, we’re not here to fight.’
Narov didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the apparition all around them, as if she were hypnotised. The powerful searchlight had illuminated much of the cavern, showing off the glittering form of the BV222 in all her mind-bending glory.
It was almost as if she were a prize exhibit in a museum.
Incredibly, she looked good enough to fly.
A cry rang out across the water. ‘Stay right where you are! Do not move!’
Jaeger stiffened. The accent was European-sounding. Not a native English speaker, certainly. German, maybe? The word ‘where’ had been pronounced with a slight ‘v’, suggestive of a Germanic tongue.
Was it Kammler? It couldn’t be. The people at the Falkenhagen bunker were keeping very close tabs on Hank Kammler, ably assisted by their contacts at the Central Intelligence Agency. And anyway, the voice had sounded far too young.
Plus there was something wrong about the tone. It lacked the arrogance that one would expect of Kammler.
‘Stay right where you are,’ the voice commanded again, a clear hint of menace lying behind the words. ‘We come to you now.’
There was the snarl of a powerful engine, and the form of a RIB drew out from its place of hiding. It cut through the lake’s surface, shortly arriving at Jaeger and Narov’s feet.
The figure in the prow had a shock of untidy sandy hair above a straggly beard. He had to be a good six foot two inches tall, and he was white, as opposed to the rest of the men in the boat, who were local Africans. He was dressed in plain green combat-style fatigues, and it hadn’t escaped Jaeger’s notice that he had an assault rifle cradled in his arms.
The rest of those in the boat were dressed and armed likewise, and they had Narov and Jaeger covered with their weapons.
The tall man fixed them with a stare. ‘What are you doing here? Some mistake that you are here, I think?’
Jaeger decided to play dumb. He thrust out a hand in greeting. The figure in the boat didn’t make a move to take it.
‘And you are?’ he demanded icily. ‘And please – explain why you are here.’
‘Bert Groves, and my wife, Andrea. We’re English. Tourists. Well, more adventurers, I guess. Couldn’t resist the lure of the crater – had to take a peek. Cave drew us in.’ He gestured at the warplane. ‘Then this thing drew us further. Kind of incredible.’
The figure in the boat frowned, suspicion further creasing his brow. ‘Your presence here is remarkably . . . adventurous for tourists, to put it mildly. And it is also dangerous, on many levels.’ He gestured at his men. ‘I had reports from my guards that you were poachers.’
‘Poachers? No way.’ Jaeger glanced at Narov. ‘We’re newly-weds. I guess we were swept away by our African adventure and maybe not thinking straight. Call it honeymoon spirit.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry if we caused any trouble.’
The figure in the boat readjusted the hold on his rifle. ‘Mr and Mrs Groves – the name is familiar, I think. You are booked into the Katavi Lodge, for an arrival date of tomorrow morning?’
Jaeger smiled. ‘You got it. That’s us. Tomorrow morning at eleven. For five days.’ He glanced at Narov, trying his best to act like the world’s most besotted husband. ‘Newly married and determined to live life to the max!’
The eyes of the man in the boat remained cold. ‘Well of course, if you are not poachers then you are most welcome.’ There was little corresponding welcome in his tone. ‘I am Falk Konig – the head conservationist at the Katavi Game Reserve. But this is not the recommended route via which to begin a honeymooner safari, or to make your way to our lodge.’
Jaeger forced a laugh. ‘Yeah, so I figured. But like I said, couldn’t resist the draw of Burning Angels Peak. And once you’re on that ridge, well – you just can’t stop. It’s like a real-life Lost World out there. Then we saw the elephants heading into the caves. I mean, that’s one awesome spectacle.’ He shrugged. ‘We just had to follow.’
Konig nodded stiffly. ‘Yes, the caldera shelters a very species-rich ecosystem. A truly unique habitat. It is the breeding reserve for our elephants and rhino. And that is why we make it off-limits to
all
visitors
.’ He paused. ‘I have to warn you, we have a free-fire policy within the breeding reserve. Intruders can be shot on sight.’
‘We understand,’ Jaeger glanced at Narov. ‘And we’re sorry for any upset caused.’
Konig eyed him, suspicion still lingering in his gaze. ‘Mr and Mrs Groves, this was not the wisest thing to have done. Next time, please come via the normal route, or you may not enjoy such a peaceful reception.’
Narov reached out to shake Konig’s hand. ‘My husband – it is all his fault. He is headstrong and always thinks he knows best. I tried to dissuade him . . .’ She smiled, apparently adoringly. ‘But it’s what I love about him too.’
Konig seemed to relax a little, but Jaeger found himself choking back a suitably cutting response. Narov was playing her part to perfection. Maybe too well – he almost got the impression that she was enjoying this.
‘Indeed.’ Konig offered Narov hand the barest of handshakes. ‘But you, Mrs Groves – you do not sound so English?’
‘It is Andrea,’ Narov replied. ‘And these days, as you know, there are many English who do not sound very English. For that matter, Mr Konig, you do not sound so very Tanzanian.’
‘Indeed, I am German.’ Konig glanced at the massive warplane tethered in the water. ‘I am a German wildlife conservationist living in Africa, working with a local Tanzanian staff, and part of our responsibility is also to safeguard this aircraft.’
‘It’s Second World War, right?’ Jaeger asked, feigning ignorance. ‘I mean . . . unbelievable. How in the name of God did it end up here, so far beneath the mountain? Surely it’s too wide to have made it through the cave entrance.’
‘It is,’ Konig confirmed. There was a wariness to his gaze still. ‘They removed the wings and hauled the aircraft in here during the height of the rains, in 1947, I believe. Then they hired local Africans to bring the wings in afterwards, in sections.’
‘Mind-blowing. But why here in Africa? I mean, how did it land here, and why?’
For the briefest of instants a dark shadow flitted across Konig’s features. ‘That I do not know. That part of the story is long before my time.’