The HIP was a bulbous, ugly grey beast of a thing, but Jaeger wasn’t overly worried. He’d flown numerous missions before in this type of aircraft, and he knew it to be of typically simple, rugged Russian design.
It was bulletproof-reliable, and well deserved the nickname given it by NATO forces – ‘the bus of the skies’. Although in theory the British and US militaries didn’t operate any such former Soviet-era kit, in practice of course they did. A HIP was ideal for flying unmarked, deniable operations, hence Jaeger’s easy familiarity with the machine.
Konig had the helo’s five blades spooled up to speed, spinning into a blur. It was vital to get airborne as soon as possible. The HIP would achieve maximum purchase in the cool of early morning. As the heat rose through the day, the air would thin, making it more and more challenging to fly.
From the cockpit Konig flashed a thumbs up. They were good to go. Hot blasts of burning avgas fumes washed over Jaeger, as he and Narov made a dash for the open side door and vaulted aboard.
The tang of the exhaust was intoxicating, bringing back memories of countless former missions. Jaeger smiled to himself. The dust thrown up by the rotor wash had that familiar smell of Africa: hot, sun-baked earth; age beyond measure; a history stretching back deep into the prehistoric past.
Africa was the crucible of evolution – the cradle within which humankind had evolved from an original, ape-like predecessor. And as the HIP clawed into the skies, so Jaeger could see the awe-inspiring and timeless terrain rolling out before him on all sides.
To their left – port – side, the humped foothills of the Mbizi mountains rose like a sagging layer cake, sludge grey in the pre-dawn light. A good distance north-west lay the twin lips of Burning Angels Peak, the eastern, slightly higher point marking where Jaeger and Narov had made their climb and descent.
And somewhere out of sight deep beneath that mountain lurked the hulking form of the BV222 seaplane. From the air, Jaeger could well imagine how it had remained hidden in the trackless wilderness of the Mbizi mountains for seven long decades.
He turned to the right – starboard – side. Patches of mountain forest rolled eastwards, petering out into a brown, hazy savannah-like landscape dotted with clumps of flat-topped acacia trees. Dry watercourses wound like so many serpents all the way to the distant horizon.
Konig dipped the helo’s nose and it leapt ahead with remarkable swiftness for such a snub-nosed and bulging pig of a machine. Within moments they were free of the open expanse of the airstrip and speeding over dense thickets of woodland, practically clipping the treetops as they went. The door was latched open, offering Jaeger and Narov the best view possible.
Prior to take-off, Konig had explained today’s objective: to fly a series of transects over the Lake Rukwa seasonal flood plain, where big game animals congregated around the few major waterholes. Lake Rukwa was prime poaching territory. Konig had warned them that he would have to keep the aircraft down lower than a snake’s belly, and to be prepared for evasive action should they come under fire.
Jaeger reached behind him for the bulge of his P228. He flicked it out of his waistband, using the thumb of his right hand to depress the magazine release mechanism. He was left-handed, but he’d taught himself to shoot with his right, as so many weapons were designed for a right-handed shooter.
He slipped off the near-empty mag – the one with which he’d taken on the pack of hyenas – and stuffed it into the side pocket of his combat trousers. That big, deep compartment was perfect for stashing used ammo. He reached into the pocket of his fleece jacket and pulled out a fresh magazine, slotting it on to the weapon. It was something he’d done a thousand times before, both in training and on operations, and he did it now almost without thinking.
That done, he plugged himself into the helo’s intercom, via a set of headphones that linked him direct to the cockpit. He could hear Konig and his co-pilot, a local guy called Urio, calling out the landmarks and flight details.
‘Dog-leg in dirt track,’ Konig reported. ‘Port side of aircraft, four hundred metres.’
Co-pilot: ‘Check. Fifty klicks out from Rukwa.’
Pause. Then Konig again. ‘Airspeed: ninety-five knots. Direction of traveclass="underline" 085 degrees.’
Co-pilot. ‘Check. Fifteen minutes out from run cameras.’
At their present speed – over a hundred miles per hour – they’d be reach the the Rukwa flood plain shortly, at which moment they’d set the video cameras rolling.
Co-pilot: ‘ETA waterhole Zulu Alpha Mike Bravo Echo Zulu India fifteen minutes. Repeat, waterhole Zambezi in fifteen. Look for dog’s-head kopje, then clearing one hundred metres east of there…’
Konig: ‘Roger that.’
Through the open door, Jaeger could see the odd acacia flashing by. He felt close enough almost to reach out and touch the treetops, as Konig weaved the aircraft between them, hugging the contours.
Konig flew well. If he took the HIP any lower, its rotors would be shaving the branches.
They sped onwards, the noise killing all chance of any chat. The racket from the HIP’s worn turbines and rotor gear was deafening. There were three other figures riding in the rear along with Jaeger and Narov. Two were game guards, armed with AK-47 assault rifles; the third was the aircraft’s loadmaster – the guy who managed any cargo or passengers.
The loadie kept moving from one doorway to the other, glancing upwards. Jaeger knew what he was doing: he was checking for any smoke or oil coming from the turbines, and that the rotors weren’t about to sheer off or splinter. He settled back to enjoy the ride. He’d flown in countless HIPs.
They might look and sound like a sack of shit, but he’d never known one to go down.
48
Jaeger reached for a ‘havabag’, as they’d nicknamed them in the military – a brown paper bag stuffed full of food. There was a pile of them sitting in a cool box lashed to the HIP’s floor.
When serving in the British military, the best you could hope for from a havabag was a stale ham and cheese sandwich, a warm can of Panda cola, a bag of prawn cocktail crisps and a Kit Kat. The contents never seemed to differ, courtesy of the RAF caterers.
Jaeger peered inside: boiled eggs wrapped in tin foil; still warm to the touch. Pancakes, freshly fried that morning, and laced with maple syrup. Grilled sausages and bacon slapped between slices of buttered toast. A couple of crispy croissants, plus a freezer bag full of freshly sliced fruit: pineapple, watermelon and mango.
In addition, there was a flask of fresh coffee, hot water for making tea, plus chilled sodas. He should have guessed, given the care the Katavi Lodge caterers took of their guests and staff.
He tucked in. Beside him – hangover or no – Narov was likewise getting busy.
Breakfast was done and dusted by the time they hit the first signs of trouble. It was approaching mid-morning, and Konig had already flown a series of survey transects across the Lake Rukwa region, finding nothing.
All of a sudden he was forced to throw the HIP into a series of fierce manoeuvres, the noise from the screaming turbines rebounding off the ground deafeningly as the helo dropped lower and almost kissed the very dirt.
The loadie peered from the doorway and jabbed a thumb towards their rear.
‘Poachers!’ he yelled.
Jaeger thrust his head into the raging slipstream. He was just in time to see a group of stick-like figures being swallowed by the thick dust. He glimpsed the flash of a raised weapon, but even if the gunman did manage to unleash any rounds, they would be too late to find their target.