Burning Angels

Pause. Then Konig again. ‘Airspeed: ninety-five knots. Direction of travel: 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.

This was the reason for the ultra-low-level ride: by the time the bad guys had noticed the HIP, it would be long gone.

‘Cameras running?’ Konig came up over the intercom.

‘Running,’ his co-pilot confirmed.

‘For the benefit of our passengers,’ Konig announced, ‘that was a poaching gang. Maybe a dozen strong. Armed with AK47s and what looked like RPGs. More than enough to blast us out of the sky. Oh, and I hope you still have your breakfasts in your stomachs!’

Jaeger was surprised at how tooled up the poachers were. AK47 assault rifles could do the HIP some serious damage. As for a direct hit from an RPG — a rocket-propelled-grenade — that would blast them out of the skies.

‘We’re just plotting their line of march, and it seems they’re returning from a… kill.’ Even via the intercom, the tension in Konig’s voice was palpable. ‘Looked like they were carrying tusks. But you can see our predicament. We’re outnumbered and outgunned, and when they’re armed to the teeth like that, we have little chance of arresting them, or seizing the ivory.

‘We’ll be over the most likely area — a waterhole — in a matter of seconds now,’ he added. ‘So brace yourselves.’

Moments later, the helo decelerated massively as Konig threw it into a screaming turn, circling over what had to be the waterhole. Jaeger peered out of the starboard-side porthole. He found that he was looking down almost directly at the ground. Several dozen feet from the muddy gleam of the water, he spotted two shapeless grey forms.