Bear Grylls: The Hunt (Will Jaeger Book 3) Page 23

  Snow that would settle into bullet-hard ice as soon as the avalanche stopped.

  But one of his pursuers remained alive.

  Jaeger felt their eyes meet across the ravaged hillside. Whoever this lone figure might be, he didn’t unsling his weapon or unleash any rounds. He was clearly too disciplined, knowing the range was too great. Smart – conserving ammo. Knowing Jaeger was all out of rounds on the Dragunov.

  It was one-on-one now. A manhunt.

  Jaeger knew that he was close to dead beat. He had to find a way to finish this. Almost as one, he and his pursuer turned back to the hillside and recommenced the deadly race.

  After twenty minutes, Kammler’s man was gaining on Jaeger, even on the uphill stretches; closing for the kill. Sooner or later, he’d have his target within range of his sub-machine gun.

  The words of Jaeger’s SAS instructors blazed through his mind: Fight from the time and place of your own choosing.

  He knew what he was looking for; knew what he had to do.

  63

  Jaeger topped a small rise, and the scene that opened before him looked as good as he could have hoped for. A flattish plain stretched ahead, wind-scoured so that his tracks would show no trace. It was wide open, and dotted here and there with exposed rocky outcrops.

  He skied ahead and chose a small, snow-sculpted heap of boulders that protruded from the whiteness, dropping behind it and kicking off his skis. He drew his P228, chambered a round, and settled the barrel on the topmost surface of the rock. Like this, prone on his belly and mostly in cover, he would be practically invisible to his pursuer as he topped the rise.

  Maybe one hundred feet would then separate the two of them. It was doable.

  As he calmed his breathing in preparation for what was coming, he reminded himself of the P228’s accuracy. No other pistol came close.

  Sure, the stopping power of the 9mm round was less than the heavier .45-calibre pistols. But Jaeger’s P228 was loaded with hollow-point ammo, which was available in certain SF and espionage circles. A hollow-point round did pretty much what it said on the tin. The tip of the bullet was hollowed out, so that when it hit, it tore itself apart, causing maximum lethality.

  At twenty-five yards – so about the same kind of distance he now had to engage at – he’d reliably achieve a grouping of less than three inches on the ranges.

  But this was a different situation altogether. The negative impact of acute stress, physical exhaustion and raw fear would play havoc on anyone’s aim. All he could do was try to calm his breathing, settle his nerves and relax into the shot.

  A head appeared above the ridgeline. Jaeger waited for the torso to follow. He needed as large a mass as possible to aim for. The eyes of his pursuer scanned the way ahead. He must have noticed that it was devoid of his prey.

  Moments later, he had dropped flat on the snow.

  Jaeger cursed.

  This guy was good.

  He figured he’d recognised the gait, too, if not the features. He could have sworn it was Vladimir Ustanov, a man with whom he had crossed swords more than once. Narov had told him about the sighting in Dubai, and now here was Ustanov, hunting him across the Tibetan snowfields.

  During their previous showdown, in the Amazon, Ustanov had proved to be an utterly single-minded operator and a cold-blooded murderer. He’d captured one of Jaeger’s expedition members – Leticia Santos, a Brazilian and one of Jaeger’s favourites – and tortured her horrifically.

  When Jaeger had gone in to rescue her, it had brought him face to face with Ustanov. And now here they were again, second time around.

  Jaeger kept his aim firm. He just needed Ustanov to make one mistake; to show himself. The distant figure kicked off his skis. He must know that Jaeger had gone to ground, which meant it was Type 79 sub-machine gun versus P228 pistol.

  Jaeger reckoned he had one advantage. He was certain that Ustanov had hit the deck without unslinging his weapon. When he moved to do so, Jaeger could take his chance.

  He steeled himself to take the shot, knowing he’d probably only get the one opportunity, for once he fired, his position would be revealed.

  He waited.

  An eerie silence settled over the freezing mountainside that had already claimed several lives.

  The cold seeped into Jaeger’s underside, but he knew that the slightest movement could spell death. He kept his hands firm on his pistol, his aim on where his adversary had gone to ground unwavering. As he kept scanning the terrain, he could just make out what he figured was the shadow of the man’s torso.

  At last he saw Ustanov make his move. He rolled slowly in the snow, sliding the machine gun around on its sling until he was lying on his back with the weapon resting on his stomach. He rolled over once more, back onto his front, and now he had the Type 79 held firmly in his hands.

  Slick. The guy sure was a smooth operator.

  Jaeger waited for his chance. It came in the two seconds it took for Ustanov to raise himself onto his elbows to swing the Type 79 into the aim. Before he could squeeze off any rounds, Jaeger fired.

  The 3.9 inch barrel of the P228 was scored with six rifling grooves, forming a spiral that spun the bullet as it left the weapon, the action lending it accuracy. The pistol barely gave a kick as Jaeger let rip.

  He kept his eyes glued to his sights. The hollow-point bullet ripped into the metal of Ustanov’s machine gun, throwing off shards of shrapnel, the power of the impact tearing the weapon out of his hands.

  Jaeger heard the man scream and instantly broke cover. He would have a matter of seconds at most.

  Surprise. Aggression. Speed.

  Jaeger sprinted forward, urging his tired legs to power across the hard snow. He could see Ustanov scrabbling about to get his hands on his weapon. He found it and brought it to his shoulder, and for an instant Jaeger could see the bloodied mess of his adversary’s face.

  But he couldn’t close the distance in time.

  As Ustanov steadied his aim, Jaeger could taste bile in his mouth.

  He knew that he was about to die.

  64

  Ustanov pulled the trigger to unleash the killer burst. All he got from the sub-machine gun was a dead man’s click. Either his weapon had misfired, or it wasn’t functioning properly; more likely the latter, after being hit by Jaeger’s round.

  For a few seconds he fought to get his weapon operational, before throwing it to one side and reaching behind him, groping for the pistol that he would have holstered in the small of his back.

  But Jaeger was closing the range fast. He thundered on, and from somewhere in the pit of his stomach came a scream of primeval range as he bore down on his adversary.

  This was the man who’d thrown several of Jaeger’s friends from a helicopter’s open doorway, during their Amazon expedition, in an effort to get him to surrender. The man who had bound, beaten and abused Leticia Santos and tortured Jaeger with images of her suffering.

  As Ustanov whipped his pistol around to his front, Jaeger dropped to one knee with the P228 in the aim. From thirty feet he opened fire, pumping seven rounds into the target in under three seconds.

  Ustanov slumped forward and lay still, the pistol still gripped in his hands.

  Jaeger closed the final yards, keeping the figure covered. He came to a halt. From close range it was clear that it was indeed Ustanov, but also that he was very, very dead. The man was a mess. No one could have survived the kind of barrage that Jaeger had unleashed.

  He reached down and prised the pistol from his grip. It was a Chinese QSZ-92 – the ‘Type 92 Handgun’ used by the People’s Liberation Army. Fitted with a dual-stack magazine, it carried fifteen standard 9mm rounds, or twenty of the smaller armour-piercing variant. In short, it was a good weapon that packed more bullets than Jaeger’s Sig, with its thirteen rounds.

  Jaeger was glad this hadn’t turned into a prolonged pistol duel.

  He felt an outburst of raw emotion. It washed over him, taking him by surprise. An explosion of power and energy surged through him: hatred, relief, adrenalin and, strangely, pleasure.

  Soldiers did experience such emotions in combat. Jaeger had seen it enough times to know it was simply a part of human instinct. A sudden release of endorphins that flooded through the system, resulting in a feeling of euphoria that was clearly at odds with the brutality of killing.

  But he’d also witnessed the ensuing guilt that soldiers sometimes experienced. Killing wasn’t meant to feel good. Soldiering was a job, and this was just the sharp end of what could be a very brutal profession.

  Jaeger didn’t try and fight the emotions. Up here, in the midst of this wilderness, alone, alive, he let it pour out of him. ‘Screw you, Ustanov and screw you, Kammler,’ he yelled. ‘I’m coming for you. I am coming for you all.’

  His body was shaking with adrenalin. He tried to compose himself and focus. Deep breaths. In and out. He closed his eyes. Slow it down, buddy. Slow it down.

  With Kammler’s hunter force eliminated, he needed to focus on the task in hand – getting back to the OP and finishing the job they’d come here for.

  He checked the magazine of the QSZ-92. It was full. He tucked it into the rear of his waistband. Always good to have a backup backup weapon. He ran a practised eye over the dead man’s machine gun. The mechanism was ruined, bent and buckled where Jaeger’s shot had ploughed into it.

  Then he turned back to the bloodied corpse and began to search it.

  Tucked into an inner breast pocket, he discovered an Iridium satphone. It was a top-of-the-range Extreme 9575 – a compact, reliable and durable piece of kit. The only country that couldn’t get an Iridium signal was North Korea, due to US trade sanctions. Across China there was blanket coverage.

  On the spur of the moment, Jaeger powered it up. After a few seconds, a message icon popped onto the screen. There was no ping, so Ustanov must have it set to silent mode.

  Jaeger opened the message: SITREP please. And it better be positive. K.

  He paused for a moment, his mind and heart whirring.

  K.

  Hank Kammler.

  65

  Jaeger sensed the advantage swinging his way.

  He took a deep breath, then typed a reply: Two eliminated. Closing in on others. We have casualties. Will return to base when mission complete.

  He read it over a few times, checking it had the right ring to it, before pressing send. As he waited for some kind of response, he rifled the dead man’s daysack. He discarded everything but the spare magazines of ammo for the pistol, and the twenty-four-hour ration pack.

  That he ripped open so he could feast on the dead man’s food.

  As he wolfed down slabs of chocolate and energy bars, he kept one eye on the Iridium’s screen. A message icon appeared.

  Leave wounded. First priority to eliminate enemy.

  He typed a one-word confirmation, and was about to power down the satphone when he thought of something else. He checked his watch and then typed out a short message for Raff.

  Kammler hunter force eliminated. One turned back, presumably heading your way. Intercept him. My ETA your position 0800. Three pink elephants. Out.

  That last line was a part of the team’s agreed comms-under-duress procedure. It was devised in the form of a question and answer. If any of their number were feared captured and forced to make contact, they would be asked the prearranged question ‘Who did you meet at Piccadilly Circus?’

  The prearranged answer was ‘Three pink elephants.’ When he saw that phrase in the message, Raff would know that it was genuine and from Jaeger, despite it having come from an unrecognised satphone.

  Message sent, Jaeger moved a distance from the dead man. Despite the food he’d eaten, he could feel the fatigue washing over him, as the adrenalin drained out of his system. He slumped against a nearby rock, feeling an overwhelming urge to rest; to sleep. He fought it. Get a grip, Jaeger. When in doubt, have a brew.

  He broke out the tiny stove that the ration pack contained and lit the solid fuel block, then gathered up some snow and melted it over the flame. Throwing in several sachets of sugar and two tea bags, he left it to come to the boil. Milk added, he settled back on the freezing ground and blew on the mug to cool it. As he drank, the warm fluid provided a jolt of relief and much-needed energy.

  Once he was done, he stuffed what remained of the ration pack into the dead man’s daysack, slung it on his shoulders, clipped on his skis, fetched the Dragunov and turned back the way he’d come.

  To the east, the sky was brightening, bringing with it a little warmth. It was 0630, and Jaeger had a long ski ahead of him.

  He gave a wide berth to the avalanche slope, which in turn led him down towards what he assumed was a frozen lake. He’d avoided it on the way in, with his focus on getting to high ground fast. Now he needed the quickest route back to his team. He decided to chance the lake.

  At these kinds of temperatures, the ice should be metres thick and more than capable of holding a man’s weight. Still, he took precautions. He paused at the edge, unstrapping the daysack so that it was slung over one shoulder only. That way, if the ice did give way, he could ditch the pack and not be dragged under by its weight.

  He inched onto the ice, reminding himself of the drills if he did go through. He’d practised them repeatedly on exercises in Norway and the Arctic. They’d used chainsaws to cut holes in the ice, purely for the purposes of learning how to survive such a fall.

  The drill was to ski in with all your gear on. You then had to remove your skis and bergen and clamber out, all before the freezing water sapped your energy and pulled you under. The technique involved driving your ski poles into the ice beside the hole, and using them as an anchor to haul yourself free.

  Counter-intuitively, the first thing you then had to do was find some fresh snow to roll in, which would soak up the excess water. Priority number two was to start a fire to warm yourself and dry out. Without a fire, you’d freeze to death in no time.

  Thankfully, Jaeger had to do none of that while crossing the frozen lake. Apart from the odd eerie groan from below, it held firm.

  The journey was made easier now in that he was able to follow the hard-packed ski tracks of several figures – those who had until recently been his hunters. At one stage he paused to read an incoming message from Raff confirming that Kammler’s lone surviving gunman had been dealt with.

  Jaeger smiled. Raff: bulletproof reliable.

  Hopefully Kammler would be none the wiser now there was no one left alive from his hunter force to warn him they had failed. Plus Jaeger’s message suggesting otherwise should have bought them some time, or so he hoped.

  He paused at the corpses of those he had shot dead, scavenging food for the others. With that crammed into his daysack, he figured they had enough provisions for whatever lay ahead.

  But with a man like Kammler, it was never over until he could gaze upon the dead man’s features.

  66

  Professor Pak Won Kangjon wandered into the strongroom where they stored the weapons-grade uranium.

  He eyed the wooden crate lying before him on the room’s bare concrete floor. It was fresh in from Moldova, a former Soviet state gone to rack and ruin, or so he’d heard. At least the uranium, being former Soviet stock, should be near one hundred per cent pure.

  He felt a thrill of excitement at the thought of dealing with such a potent source of raw power. He signalled to his assistants – fellow North Koreans who were also here on false papers, and likewise at Kammler’s mercy – to break open the crate.

  They worked quickly and in silence, levering apart the planking.

  Once it was removed, the professor set them to dismantling the lead shield. It was a simple enough affair: six slabs of metal, each covering one face of the HEU cube, joined at the edges by pressure bolts.

  When they were done, he picked up a Geiger counter. He approached the small pile of dull silver metal – atrociously expensive; impossibly heavy – and ran the device over it.

  Not a sniff of a reading.

  Which didn’t mean much. Contrary to popular belief, HEU could be famously un-radioactive, at least before it went fissile. He didn’t understand why they made such a fuss about lead shields. It was only a few curies of radiation, and it was never going to kill. In North Korea they’d been far more relaxed about the whole thing.

  He ran his gaze over the pile of bars. They were strapped down with tough plastic straps designed to hold them firmly in place inside the lead sarcophagus. As he eyed the cube of metal ingots, something struck him as being a little odd.

  This was supposed to be 100 kilos of HEU – enough for two power-plant-busting INDs, with a few ingots to spare. But it didn’t look like 100 kilos’ worth to his practised eye. It looked to be around twice that amount.

  He’d read a report recently stating that hundreds of tonnes of Soviet-era weapons-grade uranium was unaccounted for. Maybe they’d got lucky. Maybe the Moldovans had messed up. But surely they weren’t so stupid as to have miscalculated the weight?

  Either way, this was a chance to ingratiate himself with Kammler. If he could verify his discovery – that the shipment was twice what they’d paid for – maybe he could redeem himself in his boss’s eyes. Perhaps even earn himself a bonus.

  He ordered his assistants to lift the cube of HEU onto a nearby workbench. Before he made any announcement, he would need to be one hundred per cent certain. He couldn’t afford another screw-up.

  He feared his next mistake might very well prove a life-ending one.

  He took a seat at the bench and examined the block. One of the ingots had shifted about a little in transit, leaving a square hole large enough for him to poke one of his pudgy fingers through. The metal felt cold to the touch; cold and incredibly dense. He could almost sense its raw power.