Dale had been an obvious choice, as someone needed to film the raising of the aircraft. Jaeger had been chosen because the expedition leader needed to stick with its objective – the warplane. Leticia Santos had argued that she should be the third person to ride in the aircraft, for she was a Brazilian, and – arguably – the aircraft had been found on Brazilian soil.
For a while Narov had fronted up to Santos, making it clear that no one was about to part her from her precious warplane. Jaeger had ended things by pointing out that Santos should probably stick with her foremost mission, which was safeguarding the Indian tribe.
He’d also made the salient point that the three of them – Jaeger, Dale and Narov – were already suited up, and that shifting about the NBC masks, gloves and suits would risk contaminating whoever was changing into and out of them. The threat was real, and it made sense for those already in the suits to be those to ride the warplane.
At that, Santos had reluctantly agreed.
‘Alonzo, I’m leaving you in charge.’ Jaeger continued with his briefing. ‘Puruwehua has promised to do all he can to get you guys out safely. You’ll return to the Amahuaca village and trek into the land of the neighbouring tribe. That tribe has contact with the outside world; they’ll send you on your way home.’
‘Got it,’ Alonzo confirmed. ‘Puruwehua, we’re in your hands.’
‘We will get you home,’ Puruwehua replied simply.
‘All being well, we three will ride the warplane all the way to Cachimbo,’ Jaeger announced. ‘En route I’ll warn Colonel Evandro to prepare a cordoned-off landing area, where the Ju 390 can be set down and kept in isolation, at least until her cargo can be made safe.
‘It’s a fourteen-hundred-kilometre journey, so it should take the Airlander a minimum of seven hours, especially with that thing in tow.’ Jaeger jerked a thumb in the direction of the Ju 390. ‘As long as SS General Hans Kammler and his cronies didn’t overload her, the lift should be doable, in which case we’ll be at Cachimbo by this evening.
‘I’ll send a one-word message in data-burst once we get there: “SUCCESS”. Hopefully you’ll have enough of a signal somewhere en route to receive it. No message means something’s gone wrong, but at that point your sole priority has to be to get yourselves safely out of here and on your way home.’
Jaeger glanced at his watch. ‘Right, let’s get moving.’
It was an emotional parting, but time kept the goodbyes short and sweet.
Gwaihutiga paused briefly before Jaeger.
‘Pombogwav, eki’yra. Pombogwav, kahuhara’ga.’
With that he turned and was gone, leading his men off at a fast jog, a war chant rumbling from his throat and being taken up by his fellow warriors, reverberating powerfully through the trees.
Jaeger glanced at Puruwehua questioningly.
‘Pombogwav – it means “farewell”,’ Puruwehua explained. ‘You have I think no direct word for eki’yra. It means “my father’s son”, or “my older brother”. So, “farewell, my older brother”. And kahuhara’ga you know: so, “farewell, the hunter”.’
Not for the first time since he’d met this tribe, Jaeger felt truly humbled.
Puruwehua proceeded to force upon Jaeger a magnificent parting gift: his blow-dart pipe. Jaeger was hard pressed to think of anything suitable in return. Finally, he settled on his Gerber knife – the one with which he’d fought on Bioko’s Fernao beach.
‘This knife and I have history,’ he explained, as he strapped it around the Amahuaca Indian’s chest. ‘I once fought with it far away in Africa. It saved my life and that of one of my closest friends. You I now count among my closest friends – you and all your people.’
Puruwehua drew the knife and tested the keenness of the blade. ‘In my language – kyhe’ia. Sharp, like a spear cut lengthways.’ He glanced at Jaeger. ‘This kyhe’ia – it has drawn the blood of the enemy. It will do so again, Koty’ar.’
‘Puruwehua, thank you – for everything,’ Jaeger told him. ‘I promise one day I’ll return. I’ll come back to your village and share the mother of all monkey roasts in the spirit house – but only if you spare me the nyakwana!’
Puruwehua laughed and agreed that he would. No more shots of psychotropic snuff for William Jaeger any time soon.
Jaeger turned to each of his team in turn. He saved an extra-warm smile for Leticia Santos. She in turn grinned at him and blew him a big Brazilian kiss.
‘Be careful, no?’ she whispered close to his ear. ‘And especially of that… that ja’gwara, Narov. And promise – come pay me a visit next time we have the Rio carnivale! We’ll get drunk together and go dancing!’
Jaeger smiled. ‘It’s a date.’
With that, the team, commanded by Lewis Alonzo but led by the Amahuaca Indians, hoisted their packs and weapons and disappeared into the jungle.
77
Raff’s data-burst message was typically short and to the point: Airlander good to go. Secure yourselves. Commencing lift three minutes, 0800 Zulu.
It had come not a moment too soon as far as Jaeger was concerned. During the last few minutes he’d heard gunfire erupt from the jungle to the north – the approach route of the Dark Force.
There had been the sudden fierce crackle of assault rifles, which Jaeger figured was his team springing their ambush, but the return fire had sounded horribly intense, the signature rapid reports of SAW – squad automatic weapon – light machine guns mixing with heavier bursts of what sounded like GPMG fire, plus the hollow crump of grenades.
Such weaponry would cut a murderous swathe through the jungle.
Whoever this Dark Force might be, they were heavily armed, not to mention ready and willing to wage deadly battle. And in spite of the team’s best efforts, they were closing in on Jaeger and the warplane with worrying speed.
Time was running out: the Airlander would commence her lift in 180 seconds, and Jaeger for one couldn’t wait to get airborne.
He hurried down the Ju 390’s dark hold and reached for the rear cargo doors, tugging them closed and securing them with their handle. He moved forward again, skirting around the shadowy ranks of crates, and slammed shut the bulkhead door, locking it firmly behind him.
Dale and Narov had forced open the cockpit’s side windows: once the aircraft got moving, the through-flow of air should help clear it of any toxic fumes. Jaeger took up position in the co-pilot’s seat, and buckled himself into the restraining flight belt and chest harness. Dale was in the pilot’s seat next to him – a position he’d commandeered so he could best film the warplane as she was dragged free from the jungle.
As for Narov, she was hunched over the navigator’s table, and Jaeger had a good idea what she was up to. She was studying one of the documents from the satchel that she’d retrieved from the Ju 390’s cockpit. Jaeger had got a passing glance at it. The writing on the yellowing pages was in German, which meant it was mostly Double Dutch as far as he was concerned.
But he’d half recognised a word or two on the title page. There were the usual TOP SECRET stamps, plus the words Aktion Feuerland. From distantly remembered schoolboy German, Jaeger knew that Feuer meant ‘fire’, and land was obvious. Operation Fire Land. And typed below it was: Liste von Personen.
That needed little translation: ‘List of personnel’.
As far as Jaeger had seen, every last crate lying in the Ju 390’s hold was stamped Aktion Adlerflug: Operation Eagle Flight. So what was Aktion Feuerland – Operation Fire Land? And why Narov’s fascination with it, almost to the exclusion of all else?