Bear Grylls: The Hunt (Will Jaeger Book 3) Page 26

  Jaeger grinned. Narov: always at her very best in the midst of a shitfight. He had to admit, it was what he loved about her.

  They spent a moment scanning the ground ahead, mapping out the route that would provide the best cover. There were precious few options.

  Jaeger was tensing himself for the go when he felt a vibrating in his pocket. No doubt Kammler calling with another sick ultimatum. Well it was too late for that. It was time to end this, one way or the other.

  The slight brrrrrr of the Iridium was audible to all. Narov glanced at him. ‘You are not going to answer?’

  ‘Why? Let’s do this.’

  Narov remained inscrutable. ‘Check. You never know.’

  Jaeger pulled it out. The caller ID displayed an unrecognised number. Not Kammler. He pressed answer, flicking the satphone onto speaker mode.

  ‘This is Falk,’ a scared-sounding voice hissed. ‘I know you have no reason, but you have to trust me. My father has your wife and Peter Miles here in his bunker. Underground. He’s kept me locked away ever since I made the calls to you, Irina.’ He paused for breath, then continued. ‘Irina, you can hear me?’

  ‘Falk, I’m here. Keep talking.’

  ‘It’s good to hear a friendly voice . . . This place is like a total fortress. To find a way in you have—’

  The voice was cut off by a distant scream of rage and a wild burst of gunfire. The call remained live for a few seconds. In the background, Jaeger could hear Kammler raging.

  ‘My only son! The heir to the Reich! And you are trying to betray me? Who were you calling? Tell me?’

  ‘Who would I be calling at a time like this?’ Falk remonstrated. ‘I was searching the internet, trying to work out how to treat the old man’s injuries!’

  ‘Let the shrivelled bastard die!’ Kammler snarled. ‘Let them both die! And next time, son or no son, those won’t be warning shots. They will be aimed to kill.’

  The call died.

  75

  For a second, the four of them eyed each other in stunned silence. Right now, right at this pivotal moment, that was the last thing they had been expecting.

  It was Jaeger who spoke first. ‘You believe him?’ he demanded of Narov. ‘You believe what he said?’

  ‘You think that was another bit of theatre? That fear: no one fakes that.’

  ‘Then he’s in the underground shelter. The one the workers built. That’s where Kammler’s taken them. Got to be.’

  Jaeger took a few seconds to explain to Raff and Alonzo what Hing had told them. ‘Doesn’t change shit,’ Raff growled. ‘We still have to take down Kammler’s laboratory.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Alonzo added. ‘Only one way to do this.’

  Jaeger held up a hand for silence. ‘Just one second.’ An idea was crystallising in his mind, one as crazed as it was beautiful. ‘Kammler’s taken himself, my wife and Miles into his bunker. That means that any reason we had not to blow the tungsten bomb has just evaporated. He’s not disabled the device – I’d bet my life on it. Trust me, guys, it’s still there and it’s still live.’

  He scanned the faces for a second. Raff and Alonzo looked stunned by his suggestion; Narov transfixed by it.

  She reached out and grabbed his arm with a grip like iron. ‘Then what are you waiting for? Blow it. Finish it.’

  Jaeger reached into his daysack and pulled out his Thuraya. He glanced at Alonzo and Raff. ‘Guys, I’m making the call. You good?’ They were a team of equals, and he wanted this to be unanimous.

  ‘I got no way to call it,’ Alonzo objected. ‘I never met this Falk guy. I’ll go with what you say.’

  Raff eyed Jaeger, doubt creasing his brow. ‘You know Falk. You know if you can trust him. Plus it’s your wife that may be in that lab, if he’s full of shit.’

  Jaeger could sense Raff’s reluctance. He desperately needed his support. Raff was his best friend, godfather to Luke, and he and Ruth had been close. ‘Raff, I’m taking the shot.’

  ‘Fuck it.’ Raff shrugged. ‘We try to rush that open ground, we’re dead anyway. Blow it.’

  Jaeger bent over the Thuraya and typed in a single word in caps: GUNNERSIDE.

  In 1942, a team of British and Norwegian commandos had been sent in to occupied Norway on a mission to sabotage Hitler’s nuclear programme. Against impossible odds, they had succeeded. That operation had been code-named Gunnerside.

  During his teens, Jaeger had read every book he could get his hands on about those World War II commando missions. It had been the catalyst that had spurred him to undertake Royal Marines selection. He’d never forgotten the Gunnerside story, and it had seemed like the perfect code word to trigger the tungsten device.

  As he prepared to press the send button to get the message winging its way to Daniel Brooks, he hoped to hell it wouldn’t spell the death of those he loved. He paused for a second, his thumb hovering over the button.

  Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.

  He turned to Narov. ‘As soon as the charge blows, we need to hit Kammler’s bunker. Hing is our guide.’

  He grabbed Hing’s hand and clamped it onto Narov’s shoulder. ‘Show her the shelter. Understand?’

  Hing nodded. ‘I show. I show.’

  That decided, Jaeger pressed send.

  76

  That one word – GUNNERSIDE – winged its way across the ether, bouncing from satellite to satellite, en route to Daniel Brooks. Wherever he might be, he’d assured Jaeger that upon receipt of the code word, the tungsten device would be detonated within ninety seconds, and probably sooner.

  It was time to get into some good cover.

  Jaeger led his team in a dash for the eastern side of the turbine hall, and they took up position in the shadow of its massive wall. They now had that building plus the desalination plant between them and the coming blast.

  They crouched and waited.

  There was one other crucial piece of intel that Hing had revealed: though the entrance to Kammler’s headquarters and nerve centre was heavily defended, there was another way in. Concealed in a mass of dense scrub was a ‘window set in ground’, as Hing had described it.

  In other words, a skylight, one that opened directly into Kammler’s bunker.

  The plan they’d settled upon required Alonzo to advance to the front entrance. From cover he would lob in a few 40mm grenades, in the full knowledge that they would have very little effect on the bunker’s heavy steel door. He would then unleash continued bursts, using as many remaining magazines as they could muster.

  That should give the impression that the team were preparing to fight their way in via a full-frontal assault. Kammler’s gunmen should gather at the entrance, waiting for the attackers to show themselves and to pick them off, one by one.

  Which should leave Raff, Jaeger and Narov free to make for the skylight, with Hing acting as their guide.

  Assuming they could locate it – and Jaeger hated assuming anything – they’d drop through and take Kammler by surprise. From there they would fan out and clear the rest of the complex from the inside, from where it would be as vulnerable as any regular building.

  There was one other refinement that Raff had suggested. The subterranean complex had its own backup electricity supply, provided by a generator positioned in a separate building. Before going in, they’d disable that, plunging the bunker into confusion and darkness.

  It was a decent enough plan under the circumstances. It had flaws, but at this stage, with such limited resources and time, it was the best they could muster.

  Of course, somewhere within the scheme of things were Ruth and Peter Miles – if they were still alive. But they’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

  Jaeger’s Thuraya buzzed. He glanced at the screen. One word: LURGAN.

  When the Operation Gunnerside commandos had gone in to sabotage Hitler’s nuclear programme, the cipher they had adopted for the target was Lurgan. That was the agreed code word now, signalling thirty seconds to detonation.

  Jaeger yelled out a warning to his team. The roaring from the ruptured pipelines high above had lessened, as the feeder lake was mostly drained of its water, but it was still loud in their ears.

  He turned to Hing, showing him how to keep his mouth open to ensure the coming blast didn’t damage his eardrums.

  In his head Jaeger was counting down the seconds now: ten, nine eight . . . He mouthed a quick prayer: Please, God, make that device still operational.

  Four, three, two . . .

  77

  In the dark and deserted strongroom inside Kammler’s laboratory, a tiny radio receiver secreted at the heart of the tungsten pile bleeped once, almost inaudibly.

  The message had been received and understood.

  An instant later, a charge of detonation cord was ignited, which triggered the fifty-kilo block of RDX to blast apart at a velocity of 8,750 metres per second.

  As the RDX exploded, it fragmented the one hundred tungsten bars that were packed around it into a million shards of twisted, razor-sharp shrapnel. The metal’s immense density and hardness enabled it to absorb the full force and energy of the explosion, transforming it into raw destructive power.

  The blast tore outwards, the strongroom vaporising as a storm of jagged metal pulverised its bare concrete walls. The deadly tungsten vortex expanded with irresistible force, scything down all that stood in its path. Walls, doors and windows buckled and disintegrated.

  The 3D printers – Kammler’s IND factory – were vaporised.

  The wave of devastation thundered outwards, those of Kammler’s gunmen left to defend the laboratory dying in a hail of shredded metal. As the blast exited the building, it tore off the roof and ripped away the outer walls. Red-hot shards of tungsten sliced through the SUVs that were parked nearby. The fuel tanks were lacerated, the vehicles exploding in a sea of flame.

  Set to the rear of the laboratory was a 20,000-litre oil tank, for heating the lab through the harsh winters. It was torn apart, fire blooming orange and angry from where the ruptured tank spurted oil. A massive cloud of dark smoke billowed above the shattered remains of the laboratory, as the tsunami of blasted shrapnel thundered onwards across the valley, spending the last of its awesome power on the gorge’s walls.

  As the roar of the explosion died away, Jaeger emerged from cover to a scene of utter devastation. Where the laboratory had once stood, there was now a mass of torn wreckage, wreathed in oily smoke and hungry licks of flame. Finally, they’d done it: Kammler’s IND factory was no more.

  He ran his eye across the wider complex. It only remained now to take the bunker. According to Hing, that lay at the far southern end of the boundary fence, beyond the shattered lab and hard against the wall of the gorge.

  Jaeger led his force on what he hoped was the final assault now. But in the back of his mind was a nagging worry: what evil might Kammler have been brewing, as he hunkered in his lair?

  In the strange way that time seems to slow to an agonising pace when in the midst of life-or-death combat, he felt as if he’d been here, fighting, for a lifetime. In truth, it was only forty-five minutes since Raff and Alonzo had triggered the pipeline charges, but that was more than enough time for Kammler to wreak havoc.

  ‘Time to split,’ Alonzo announced, as he prepared to move towards the front of the shelter.

  Jaeger nodded. ‘Let’s do it. When you go noisy, we’ll give it a minute, then go in. Stay in your position and cover the entrance, in case any of the fuckers try getting out that way. If it’s anyone but us or the hostages, nail ’em.’

  ‘Got it,’ Alonzo confirmed.

  With that, the two parties dashed their separate ways.

  78

  The Nordhavn 64 trawler yacht didn’t look at all out of place on its berth at wharf number 47, in New York’s Chelsea Piers Marina.

  Just three years old, and with its bright white superstructure gleaming from a fresh steam-clean, it spoke of understated wealth, plus a very businesslike and functional ocean-going luxury.

  No gin palace this.

  Owners of Nordhavn 64s were serious players in the yachting world – global-traveller types. Places to go, new horizons to see: that was what the Nordhavn was all about. With its 59-foot waterline hull length and a 3,000-mile cruise range at a steady nine knots, the vessel was all about eating up the sea miles.

  It was 10.30 p.m. New York time – so 10.30 a.m. China time – when the two figures – a man and a woman in their late thirties – emerged from the bridge and closed up the vessel as if they were going out for a night’s partying. The Chelsea Piers Marina was a great location from which to do so: the Chelsea Market, the UCB Theatre, and many of New York’s finest bars, cafés and clubs were just a few blocks away.

  The Sokolovs left the Nordhavn knowing that they were never going to return. A fisherman by profession, but one who had drifted into more nefarious business due to the vagaries of fate, Mr Sokolov had thrilled to the few weeks that he had skippered the vessel. He would never be able to afford such a fine boat himself, even though he had been very handsomely rewarded.

  In return for undertaking a long ocean-going journey and following some simple instructions, enough money had been wired into his offshore account to start a new life wherever he and his wife might choose. Or they might simply buy a seaside dacha – a penthouse retreat – and retire to their native Russia.

  For the Sokolovs, it was a dream come true.

  Deep in the Nordhavn’s bilges lay an inspection pit for checking the state of the fibreglass fuel tanks. It had provided ample space to conceal the wooden crate with the simple console bolted onto it. Mr Sokolov guessed the package contained drugs. What else could it be? He presumed that now he had activated the console, as instructed, it would signal the drug gang’s pickup point, and they’d home in to wharf 47, to collect their cargo.

  He’d heard about such things before: drugs runners even left bales of narcotics at sea, with a homing beacon attached. That way, trafficker and recipient never had to meet. Far safer. Far fewer risks. He didn’t doubt the switch he had flicked would trigger that kind of a pickup.

  Even so, the call that he had received from Mr Kraft to trigger the console had come as something of a surprise: he’d not been expecting it for some days.

  But his was not to reason why: he had executed the final stage of his contract.

  Now to disappear.

  79

  Some 3,500 miles away, the Petrovs exited the Nordhavn 52 that had been their home for the last few weeks. Fitted with a 1,670-gallon fuel tank and a 1,514-litre fresh-water tank, the yacht lying at berth in London’s St Katharine Docks Marina was built for ocean-lapping journeys. Displacing 40.82 metric tonnes, she had proved remarkably stable during the long voyage.

  A former fisherman, Mr Petrov had been recruited by the same Russian criminal cartel as his friend, Mr Sokolov. When both had been made the same offer by the mysterious Mr Kraft, it had seemed too good to be true.

  Well, if it looked that way, it generally was.

  In recent days, Mr Petrov had started to worry about just what their vessel was carrying.

  He’d not raised it with his wife. He didn’t want to worry her. It was more than enough stress sailing between continents and trusting to luck that their mystery cargo wouldn’t be discovered.

  Most people they had met along the way seemed to think it perfectly natural for a Russian couple in their mid thirties to own a two-million-dollar yacht. In their minds, every Russian was an oligarch and should boast at least one such vessel. Well, the reality was far different. And Mr Petrov for one was very glad to be getting off this ship and away from whatever might be coming.

  Mr Kraft’s surprise call had woken him in the depths of the night, but Mr Petrov didn’t care: it couldn’t come soon enough.

  He’d flicked the switch on the console and shut up the yacht, then he and his wife had hurried along the quayside to meet their 3.30 a.m. Uber.

  Mr Petrov wanted out of London.

  He had a bad feeling about what was about to happen and he couldn’t seem to shake it.

  When taking the contract, he’d agreed with his good friend, Mr Sokolov that it was most likely drugs they’d be carrying. It wasn’t the first time they had run such cargoes. If rich Westerners wished to ruin their lives by jacking up on heroin, more fool them. But as he’d approached Britain’s coastline, he’d been gripped by this unshakeable worry.

  Upon taking Mr Kraft’s call, he’d tried to book flights leaving from London’s City Airport, just a short drive away. But at such notice there had been no availability. Instead, they would need to travel right across London to Heathrow Airport. From there, he’d booked British Airways direct to Moscow, leaving that evening.

  As he stood on the quayside, Mr Petrov checked his watch. The taxi was late. No doubt still trying to find its way onto the marina. He searched for any sign of the car: most likely a black Mercedes or Audi.

  A few blocks west, the floodlit towers of London’s City banking district rose like a monument to the power of the financial markets. A stone’s throw away lay the historic Tower of London, where Britain’s royal rulers had once locked the treasonous, to await their execution at nearby Tower Hill.

  Mr Petrov wanted out of this city, before he and his wife ended up imprisoned in the Tower themselves.

  80

  Five thousand miles from St Katharine Docks, Hank Kammler settled back in his executive chair in his subterranean command bunker, smiling grimly. Three calls made: three devices primed to blow. He could hear the clock ticking in his head: the countdown had begun.

  Whatever Jaeger and his people might try now, of one thing he was certain: they weren’t about to stop the carnage that was coming.