Chapter 2

Dragon Peaks Hotel. The Next Morning.

I was up, packed, and ready long before the sun had any intention of making an appearance. There’s something about those quiet hours before dawn that has always appealed to me. The world feels as though it’s holding its breath, suspended somewhere between yesterday and today, and for a few precious moments you have it almost entirely to yourself.

Curiosity eventually got the better of me, and I stepped outside to see what the morning had in store. The cold air greeted me instantly, crisp enough to sting my lungs with every breath. It was the kind of cold that wakes you properly, cutting through the last traces of sleep without asking permission. I was pleasantly surprised by what I found.

The moon had long since slipped away, disappearing behind the dark silhouette of the western ridgeline where the valley rises into a series of lower peaks and densely wooded slopes. Its departure left the sky to a handful of stubborn stars that refused to surrender their places. They glittered faintly against a canvas that was no longer black, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, transforming into deep shades of indigo and cobalt as the promise of dawn crept across the eastern horizon.

There was just enough light now to appreciate that magical transition between night and day. The landscape wasn’t fully revealed, only hinted at. Familiar shapes gradually emerged from the darkness like old friends stepping into view. Every minute the valley gained another shade of colour, another layer of detail.

The wind, which had been busy enough during the night, had all but vanished. Only the gentlest whisper stirred through the grass and the surrounding trees, barely enough to disturb the silence. It was one of those rare mornings when even nature seemed reluctant to make a sound.

Off to the south-east, the immense rock face of Champagne Castle slowly materialised from the gloom. At first it was nothing more than a darker shadow against the horizon, but as the sky brightened the sheer scale of the mountain became unmistakable. Its towering cliffs stood motionless, dominating the skyline with the quiet confidence of something that had watched countless sunrises long before any of us ever arrived. It never fails to command respect.

Despite the calm conditions, there was no escaping the cold. The temperature had dropped overnight, and I instinctively buried my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. Thankfully, down here on the valley floor we were sheltered from whatever was unfolding higher up in the atmosphere. The surrounding mountains acted like enormous walls, keeping the stronger winds at bay, at least for now.

Before heading inside, I checked the latest automated weather broadcast. It painted a reassuring picture for the immediate future. Winds were reported as moderate at five knots, visibility was an excellent fourteen kilometres, and only scattered cloud lingered high above at around fifteen thousand feet. On paper, it looked like one of those near-perfect flying mornings.

But weather in the mountains has a habit of ignoring the script.

What occupied my thoughts wasn’t what was happening above me, but what was brewing hundreds of kilometres away. A cold front was marching steadily towards Cape Town from the South Atlantic. Forecasts suggested it would spread along the South Coast, bringing heavy swells and rough seas with warnings already issued for much of the southern coastline. Eventually that same system would push inland, climbing into the Lesotho Highlands before making its presence felt here in the Drakensberg.

Experience has taught me never to underestimate these mountains. Forecasts are useful, but they’re never guarantees. Conditions can change with astonishing speed, and a calm, crystal-clear morning can evolve into something altogether different before you’ve had time to appreciate the view. Around here, the weather has the final say, and it has a habit of changing its mind at the drop of a hat.

Satisfied that there was nothing more to learn from standing in the cold, I turned back towards the hotel. Warm light spilled invitingly from the dining room windows, promising hot coffee and breakfast. The comforting aroma greeted me before I even reached the door, and for the first time that morning I felt the cold begin to lose its grip. There would be plenty of time to think about flying, forecasts and mountain weather after the first cup of coffee.

As I stepped through the heavy wooden doors, the warmth of the dining room wrapped itself around me like a welcome blanket. The smell of fresh coffee, frying bacon, buttered toast and grilled tomatoes chased away the last remnants of the mountain cold that had followed me inside. Soft yellow lights reflected off polished timber beams overhead, while the large stone fireplace crackled steadily, its flames dancing behind a protective screen. Conversations drifted through the room in low, comfortable murmurs, punctuated now and then by laughter and the clatter of cutlery against ceramic plates.

I had barely crossed the entrance when I almost walked straight into André and Cecil.

Both of them were bundled up in so many layers they looked as though they were preparing for an Antarctic expedition rather than breakfast. Thick jackets zipped to their chins, woollen beanies pulled low over their ears and gloves sticking awkwardly from jacket pockets completed the picture.

“Morning!” I grinned. “You two look like you’re about to brave the South Pole. I was actually thinking of taking a swim.”

André looked at me as though I’d finally lost what little sense I possessed.

“Your head is definitely leaking,” he smirked. “Did you actually see the world outside that door?”

“I’ve just come in from out there,” I laughed. “It ain’t so bad. Come on, let’s get some coffee and feed the beast within.”

“That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard all morning,” Cecil replied without hesitation.

There are few things that unite people quite like the promise of a proper breakfast after a cold start, and none of us needed convincing.

The buffet stretched along one side of the dining room, gleaming beneath polished warming trays. Steam curled lazily upwards every time a lid was lifted, releasing another wave of tempting aromas. Plates slid along the counter as we moved from dish to dish, each of us pretending to be selective while quietly piling on enough food to satisfy an entire hiking party.

By the time I’d reached the end of the line my plate was carrying a respectable mountain of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, pork sausages, golden hash browns, fried tomatoes, thick slices of buttered toast and crumbed mushrooms that somehow looked too good to leave behind.

Then I glanced sideways at Cecil.

His plate resembled an engineering experiment rather than a breakfast. Layers had been carefully stacked upon layers with surprising confidence, defying gravity in ways that surely shouldn’t have been possible.

I couldn’t help wondering whether the structural load he’d managed to build might have some measurable influence on the weight and balance calculations of an Oryx helicopter.

Mind you, if anyone had inspected my own plate too closely, they might have reached much the same conclusion.

None of us felt remotely guilty.

Experience had taught us that once we headed into the mountains, the day belonged entirely to whatever unfolded up there. Breakfast might well be the last proper meal until long after sunset. Lunch was little more than an optimistic concept that depended entirely on circumstances beyond our control.

Armed with overflowing plates and steaming mugs of coffee, we made our way across the dining room.

Most of the team had already gathered around a long table near the fireplace where the warmth radiated across the room. Jackets hung over chair backs, gloves lay discarded beside coffee cups, and maps, phones and scraps of paper shared table space with bottles of tomato sauce and half-empty sugar bowls. Someone was already telling a story that had the far end of the table laughing while another quietly scanned the latest weather update on his phone.

“Let’s go join the mob,” Cecil said.

We squeezed into the remaining seats, exchanging the usual greetings, sarcastic comments and good-natured insults that seemed to form part of every mission briefing long before any official meeting began. The conversation bounced effortlessly from helicopters to weather forecasts, from yesterday’s flying to speculation about what the day ahead might throw at us. Beneath the humour, though, everyone understood why we were here. There was an unspoken focus that bound the team together, even while we joked over coffee and breakfast.

As we settled into our seats, my eyes wandered around the dining room before the conversation really got going.

Over in the far corner, away from the bustle around the fireplace, sat Doctor Megan Forsyth.

Even though we’d all met her the previous afternoon, she still looked strangely out of place amongst a bunch of loud helicopter crews, mountain rescue types, recovery specialists and other experts of the team.

She was tiny, almost delicate in stature, and from a distance she could easily have been mistaken for a schoolgirl waiting for her parents to finish breakfast.

She had chosen a table by herself, well clear of everyone else. There wasn’t an empty chair beside her, nor did it seem she’d expected there to be. A small notebook lay open next to her plate, and every few moments she’d pause, read a line or two, then continue eating without ever looking up. Her breakfast was modest compared to the engineering projects the rest of us had constructed on our plates.