The Hunt by Bear Grylls

Author:Bear Grylls [Grylls, Bear]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781409156925
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2018-05-30T16:00:00+00:00

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The inbound aircraft was an Antonov AN-12. Fitted with extra internal fuel tanks, it had a range of over 6,000 kilometres and an unrivalled STOL – short take-off and landing – capability. It could put down on a dirt strip 600 metres in length, and on an airbase at several thousand metres of altitude.

In short, it was perfect for flying into rugged, mountainous territory, and landing on a runway hacked out of the jungle. It was also highly manoeuvrable and well capable of low-level flying, so keeping below any radar.

With four powerful turboprop engines and a massive cargo-carrying capacity, the AN-12 was overkill for such a small load, but it was one of the few aircraft capable of executing such a challenging transcontinental delivery.

For the past forty minutes, the pilot had been guided by a VOR/DME system – a VHF omnidirectional range, combined with a distance measuring equipment device. In layman’s terms, a homing beacon. All airports had them. In fact, the AN-12 had been using three VOR/DMEs – those stationed at the nearest commercial airports to Dodge – and triangulating its position from their signals.

The self-appointed air traffic controller at Dodge had been talking the pilot in by radio, using vectors from those VOR/DMEs to cross-reference distance and position. While it sounded complicated, it was pretty much the standard operating procedure for bringing in a ghost flight packed full of illegal cargo to an uncharted bush airstrip.

Normally the narco boss wouldn’t provide the end location to the pilot, for that risked the DEA getting wise to their base. Hence the need to use VOR/DME triangulation to keep nudging the aircraft in. Hence why El Padre’s air traffic control guy kept talking to the AN-12’s pilot via their prearranged frequency, guiding him ever closer.

Normally, the procedure was pretty much foolproof. Normally.

Tonight was a little different. Tonight, things had got a little complicated.

First, the signal emanating from Dodge had got scrambled. El Padre’s radio operator had lost contact with the incoming aircraft. No matter what he tried, the AN-12 was unreachable: in the place of the Russian pilot’s voice, there was a weird, echoing, hollow, howling scream.

Electrical storm, it sounded like. But the operator was well aware that thunderstorms didn’t affect VHF radio signals. Not normally. Hence his discomfort and confusion at having lost contact with the incoming aircraft.

‘Try another frequency,’ barked a stout, barrel-chested figure at his side.

It was unusual – very – to have El Padre himself standing by for such a delivery. The radio operator blanched and began punching buttons, scrolling through the digital frequencies, but he didn’t hold out any great hopes.

In the AN-12’s cockpit, the pilot was having little better luck. He could see the three VOR/DMEs transmitting their bearings, but without any guidance from the ground, he was screwed. He too began to prod at his radio. Maybe the narcos had drifted across to a different frequency without telling him. Sure enough, as he scanned the airwaves, a voice came up asking him to check in.

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