Land of Fire Part 9

The SBS are responsible for the protection of oil platforms in British waters. Not a single UK rig has ever been attacked by terrorists, which is a testimony to their fearsome reputation. Nowadays they work closely with the SAS, and there is no finer body of men.

We'd been running twenty-five minutes. The cold was numbing even through my survival suit, and the waves caused a constant jarring. I tried to concentrate on our various exit options. Walking out had been tried the last time and was not the ideal option, as we had learned to our cost. The best bet seemed to be to have a helicopter slip in over the border under the radar net and pick us up. Maybe with all the oil exploration going on in the area it was unlikely that a single chopper flight would excite too much attention, and with luck by the time they scrambled an aircraft to investigate we would be back over the border into Chile. It would only be a short flight and the six of us could pack in tight. Our equipment might have to be ditched, but that's a penalty of clandestine ops.

Then I thought about the landing. Waiting for us at the RV point inland was supposed to be a British guide who would lead us to the base. I wasn't too happy about relying on local help it's too easily infiltrated by the other side. Jock seemed content, though.

Rio Grande intrigued me. Last time the mission had been called off at the start and we never got near the air base. It would be interesting to see what the de fences were like. What would London's response be if we did find evidence of an invasion being planned? A strike by Tornados was one option but would be tantamount to a declaration of war and the Americans might exercise a veto. The same went for a Tomahawk missile attack. Which left a.s.sault by special forces as the only viable alternative. It could be a rerun of the Falklands campaign of twenty years before.

I uncovered the luminous dial of my watch; we had been travelling for forty minutes. That put us half-way to the coast. The waves were getting shorter and steeper which was an indication of shelving water. Somewhere up ahead of us the rollers would be breaking along the surf line, dumping their energy in one final explosive burst. I could sense Kiwi peering ahead to try and spot any patches of whiteness.

A larger-than-usual wave surged underneath us. It was so steep it felt like riding the side of a mountain the dark slope loomed over us and for several seconds I thought we would topple back and slide under. Then at the last moment we topped out and burst through the crest. I caught a brief glimpse of lights scattered in the darkness ahead. That was the sh.o.r.e, less than a mile away at a rough estimate. The lights were grouped over to the south, which was where Rio Grande ought to lie. We were coming in dead on target.

At about 600 metres we had to slow for our run-in. Although it was after midnight there was still the possibility of some vessel creeping along the sh.o.r.e making a night run into Rio Grande, or even of guard boats patrolling the coast. Our m.u.f.fled engines would be inaudible except at very close range, and we were so low in the water we would be hard to spot. We were aiming for a point about five miles up the coast from the mouth of the river, where a sand bar broke the force of the waves. According to the chart, there was a narrow gap allowing access to a shallow lagoon behind with a sh.o.r.eline of sand dunes backed by scrub -ideal for concealing the boats.

We began crabbing up the sh.o.r.eline towards our objective. It was slow going because we were moving against the current. As we drew nearer we made out the sand bar as a line of broken water about half a mile off sh.o.r.e. The entrance was intermittently visible as a dark gap, two-thirds of the way along. Huge waves were pounding the breach here, and shooting the gap was going to be exciting.

We were about 400 metres off when Jock's boat flashed a covered light at us to signal that it was in difficulties. We drew alongside and Jock shouted that their engine was playing up. There was a brief discussion, and it was decided to tow the other craft in behind our boat. We wallowed uncomfortably in the heavy seas for several minutes while tow lines were exchanged and made fast. To lighten the disabled boat, we transferred n.o.bby Clark across into our craft, leaving only Jock and Doug behind. It was exhausting work, having to seize moments between huge waves then cling on while the sea swept over us, but finally we got n.o.bby aboard. Jock and Doug would do the best they could to steer with paddles, while we towed them into the lagoon.

As soon as we had tethered the boats we set off again, with our craft straining beneath the increased load. As we neared the narrow entrance to the lagoon the battering from the rollers breaking across the sandbar increased. Our boat was tossed about like a chip of wood. Josh and n.o.bby and I clung on for our lives. The engine was roaring; the prop shaft and exhaust exposed as they bucked and rolled in the boiling surf.

And then I saw it away to the south, a fast-moving shadow that momentarily obscured the lights dotting the blackness in the direction of Rio Grande. It was moving fast against the wind, and heading in our direction. I caught a momentary gleam of metal and gla.s.s and yelled to Kiwi, "Helicopter!"

He s.n.a.t.c.hed his attention from the waves to follow my pointing arm. It was flying without lights, which could mean only that this was a military machine. Skimming the coast, it would pick us up for certain if we entered the lagoon.

Kiwi pulled the tiller bar over, and his huge hands fumbled for the controls as he cut the engine, killing the give-away wake we were trailing. All four of us cowered down in the lead boat, keeping our faces hidden. Jock and Doug were doing the same. Without engine or paddles we were at the mercy of the sea. At any moment we could be swept against the sandbar and smashed to pieces by the pounding surf. Water hammered us with brutal force. We were caught up in a maelstrom, struggling to maintain our grip on the boats. I fought to keep my head clear but there was so much spray and water in the air it was next to impossible to breathe. I couldn't see where the helicopter was any longer, but for the moment my only concern was to hang on.

Then I lifted my head for an instant to s.n.a.t.c.h a look upward. The helicopter's silhouette was hovering over the lagoon. Had it spotted us?

There was no time to think about that. Another series of rollers crashed down on us. Something heavy struck me in the back, knocking the remaining breath from my body and catapulting me over the side. Dragged down by the weight of my equipment I was whirled away into the sea. Kicking out frantically, I fought my way back again, thankful for my life vest as I clawed for the side of the boat. My first breath was a gulp of spume that set me retching, but I managed to get an arm on to one of the sponsons and clung on with all my strength. A moment later a huge hand came out of the darkness and grabbed me by my harness and hauled me bodily aboard. Kiwi must have seen me go and pulled me out.

There wasn't time to thank him, though. The second Gemini had flipped and was floating upside-down in the water, still secured to us by the towline. One of the occupants I couldn't see which was clinging on to the upturned hull. Grabbing the towrope, I pulled the boat in towards us so we could help.

Josh and Kiwi had the paddles out and were digging in like maniacs, trying to get us under way, while n.o.bby baled. Our only chance now was to get through the gap in the sandbar before we were broken up and to h.e.l.l with the helicopter. It was that or drowning for all of us.

I reached down to help the person in the water and saw that it was Doug. I heaved him spluttering inboard and he shook himself like a rat. That left Jock. I scanned the surface quickly but couldn't spot him; in these conditions visibility is measured in inches. Jock had his survival suit and life vest; we just had to hope he'd found something to cling on to.

Doug and I grabbed two more paddles and started stroking away with the rest of them. The boat was awash and sluggish with the weight of the five of us aboard as well as a hull full of water but with the other boat floating bottom up there was less drag on the stern.

As we neared the gap in the sandbank the turbulence became worse than ever as the current took us. Huge volumes of water were being forced through the opening. Breakers burst around us in explosions of white foam, and it was impossible even to see our own hands. We could only hope that the current would take us through.

We felt the boats spin around as if we were entering a violent rapid, then shoot forward at great speed. We were rushed towards the opening in a torrent of broken water, seas foaming and leaping around us; waves swept the inflatable from end to end, surging above our heads. All we could do was gulp breaths when we had a chance, and keep paddling frantically.

And then, suddenly, the turbulence abated, and we found ourselves wallowing in sheltered water. The swell inside the lagoon still heaved to the rhythm of the breakers pounding the sandbank in our rear, but after what we had endured at the entrance it was a blessed calm.

The sh.o.r.e in front of us was fringed with a pale beach, and the dunes behind it showed faintly through the darkness. There were no pinp.r.i.c.ks of light showing, no signs of habitation. I glanced up, searching the sky for a sight of the helicopter. Nothing. It must have moved away, either up the coast or inland.

We were still some 200 yards from the beach, but the wind was pus.h.i.+ng us in towards the land. There was no time to lose this was the moment of maximum danger. It was vital to get the boats ash.o.r.e and under cover before we were spotted.

I reached behind me and gave the towrope a yank, intending to pull the second boat alongside, but the cord was loose in my hand. I pulled some more but there was no resistance: the fastening had broken, and there was no sign of the second Gemini, and no sign of Jock.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

I took charge. We had to get ash.o.r.e. If the landing had been compromised, this was the point at which searchlights would stab out from the beach, followed by shouts of alarm and gunfire.

I felt under my life vest for my night sight. Holding up the eyepiece I made a slow sweep of the lagoon, praying for a glimpse of the other boat.

"Can you see it?" Josh called.

"Keep your voice down," I snapped. With the wind blowing onsh.o.r.e we were close enough to the beach to be overheard.

There was so much spray I couldn't be sure what I was seeing. I took another careful sweep, concentrating on the opening we had come through, looking for the upturned hull bobbing in the surf. Jock could have righted the boat, maybe even restarted the engine.

Kiwi backed his oar, spinning our boat around and heading back the way we had come. Doug and the others did their best to help, but the strength of the waves pus.h.i.+ng through the gap made the task almost impossible. Water came foaming over the bow, filling the boat, forcing us backward. Three times we tried to get close to the gap, and three times we were beaten back.

Kiwi put his mouth to my ear. "Shall I start the engine?"

I wanted to say yes, but we were less than 200 yards from the land. Our own boat was heavily laden, and a rescue attempt would be putting five lives at risk for a slender chance of success. Even with the engine I doubted whether we would make it through, and if we did there was no guarantee we would find Jock or get back again ourselves. It would mean the end of the mission.

I took one last look at the line of boiling surf, and made up my mind. "No," I said.

I knew I was condemning Jock, if he was still out there, to almost certain death. His life vest was a roll-down, activated by a pull-tab if he had been knocked unconscious it wouldn't save him.

"No, there's nothing more we can do." I took another deep breath. "Steer for the sh.o.r.e."

"Aye, aye," Kiwi responded. He put the boat around. None of the others spoke. It was a terrible moment. Jock was liked as well as respected.

First Andy, and now Jock.

But there was no point dwelling on it. We had come here to do a job and I was determined to see it through. "Paddle easy," I told the others in an undertone.

Using careful strokes to avoid a telltale wake, we closed in on the beach. I crouched low in the bow with the night sight, scanning the sh.o.r.e and dunes, alert for any sign of an ambush. Unless someone up there had night-vision equipment we would be all but invisible against the darkness of the ocean -until we reached the sand.

The instant we felt the keel ground, n.o.bby and Doug sprang out. Their packs were lost with the missing boats, but they still had their personal weapons slung over their backs and secured by lanyard, as well as their night-vision goggles. They splashed forward through the shallows, charging up the beach into the dunes, guns at the ready, poised to give us cover.

As soon as they were in place Kiwi, Josh and I leapt out of the boat and, seizing the grab handles, rushed it forward up the beach, dragging it with all our strength towards the cover of a dark gully. We were gasping for breath and sweating in our thick suits by the time we made it, but the relief of being on solid ground was enormous. Out of the wind it felt strangely calm and silent after the battering we had taken at sea.

n.o.bby came running back to meet us. "All clear. No sign of a reception party yet."

"Take Kiwi with you and get back to the beach. Each of you scout the waterline for ten minutes in opposite directions to see if you find Jock or the boat, then come back here."

"Understood." The two of them ripped off their survival suits and doubled away into the dark in the direction of the beach.

I turned to Josh. "We need to bury the b.a.s.t.a.r.d boat. Start digging while I contact Hereford."

I found the communications pack, extracted the satcom, connected the co-ax leads and set it up. I composed a brief message to the effect that we had made an unopposed landing 23.30 local time, but had lost one Gemini with the boss aboard. I gave our present position from the GPS and said we were about to attempt a rendezvous with the guide.

Josh was at work unstrapping the berg ens and other equipment from the boat. Then he depressed a valve in each side to deflate it. The hull was formed of rigid panels, and Josh removed them with a practised hand. The whole boat then folded up into a compact package two metres long.

I closed up the satcom, grabbed a collapsible shovel, and started to dig. Josh pitched in with me, chucking out spadefuls of wet sand. Together we excavated a pit about two metres square it took about fifteen minutes to get it deep enough. We slid the hull with its collapsed sponsons into the trench. The outboard engine went on top, sealed inside a waterproof bag. The fuel tank followed, then the oars. Finally we flung in all the survival suits and scooped the sand back in, packing it down hard and raking over the surface to disguise our handiwork. I took a GPS fix to be certain of finding the spot again. With the wind that was blowing, any traces would be wiped out by dawn.

n.o.bby and Kiwi returned, shaking their heads. "Nothing doing," Kiwi reported. "We covered the beach for half a mile in both directions nothing doing."

There was still a chance that Jock might have survived. He might have been washed up further along the coast. If so he would do like us: get away from the beach as quickly as possible and lie up under cover. Then he would try to re-establish contact using his personal radio. We needed to be ready to come to his a.s.sistance.

We were silent for a moment. "Now what?" said n.o.bby. "A nice jaunt in the countryside?"

"Knock it off," I hissed. I was in no mood for jokes. The coast was evidently kept under aerial surveillance and it was probably patrolled as well. It was essential we got clear without delay. "We'll move inland a couple of kilometres and establish an LUP. You, Kiwi and Doug will remain there to make a report over the satcom while Josh comes with me to keep the rendezvous with the agent."

I half expected Doug to protest against this out of sheer b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness and to show he wasn't going to accept orders from me but he just grunted his agreement. I knew he didn't much take to the idea of keeping the rendezvous on a strange continent with an unknown agent. I didn't blame him. I wasn't looking forward to it either, but it wasn't a task I could delegate to anyone else.

We checked around to make sure we hadn't forgotten anything. Doug and n.o.bby had lost their berg ens in Jock's boat.

"We'll return at first light to look for Jock," I told the others. "With luck the boat will wash up somewhere along the sh.o.r.e and we can collect the packs too. If not we'll just have to share." Sharing bivvy bags was possible since two guys would always be on watch, but the lack of spare clothing and medical packs was a serious loss. The Starstreak missiles had been stowed aboard the missing boat as well, so our anti-aircraft capability was lost. Fortunately communications packs had been duplicated for each boat.

We shared out the berg ens and other equipment. At least the loads were lighter now. I took a reading on my hand-held GPS and checked our position on the map. It was almost midnight and we were approximately ten kilometres from the airbase. Our rendezvous point with the agent was three kilometres south-west, by the ruined stone chimney of an abandoned estancia. As far as I could tell there was no other human habitation in the area.

I led the way up the gully. Almost immediately we found a path threading back through the dunes. This made me nervous because it showed that the beach was used, and I was more determined than ever to get away. We made a stiff climb for ten minutes, then we came out on to flat ground covered with thick gra.s.s and heather. I heard Doug curse in an undertone as we started to pick our way through.

Through the night sights the landscape stood out in tones of eerie green. The gale was blowing at our backs now the unremitting wind of the pampas. I was transported back twenty years, stumbling through the night across the endless plain. I half expected Andy to loom out of the darkness, checking to see we were all OK, and the thought was oddly comforting. I decided that if I was in any doubt, I only had to ask myself what my brother would have done.

We plodded on. The ground underfoot was hard as iron, and punctuated by outcrops of stone that we had to detour. A thick layer of cloud obscured the moon. There was no wildlife, no trees and the landscape seemed utterly deserted. We walked in silence, broken only by occasional warnings, pa.s.sed back by whoever was acting scout, as the ground changed. All the weariness had left me, and my senses were keyed up as I experienced the tension of active duty.

After half an hour or so it came on to snow a light dusting that wasn't uncomfortable but degraded the performance of the night sights and slowed our progress. I was aiming for a low hill that stood around two-and-a-half kilometres inland, a vantage point from which to cover surrounding country, giving us the opportunity to leg it if necessary. It was just after midnight; there were still eight hours of darkness left.

My pack sat comfortably on my shoulders. The long journey in the Gemini, constantly battered by heavy seas, had been draining, but the hike was doing us good, blowing the cobwebs out. With luck, if we could keep our rendezvous with the agent sent to meet us, he would guide us in to a point from which we could survey the base while darkness still remained.

It was one o'clock by the time we reached the hill. I sent Kiwi and Josh on ahead and kept the other two back with me while they checked it out the summit was just the place a patrol might have chosen for a look-out point. After a while Josh came back to report that it was all clear, and we moved in to establish a base for ourselves.

"OK," I said, "Josh, you come with me. Doug, you're in charge of the LUP. Keep a listening watch on the radio for any message from Jock. If you don't hear from us by dawn you're to a.s.sume that we have been taken and break for the border with Chile."

"Yeah, I'll know the f.u.c.king way an' all," he grunted.

Josh and I shed our packs and set off with only our personal weapons and harness equipment. We had ground to cover covertly, so it was better to travel light. Also, if we failed to make it back, Doug and n.o.bby would need our berg ens to survive on the journey across the pampas to Chile.

Aided by our night sights we moved swiftly downhill in the direction of the ruined estancia. The nearer we got to the RV point the slower we had to go as the danger increased. The plan was to approach cautiously till we were within three or four hundred metres, then check for signs of enemy special forces lying in ambush.

We stopped for a nav check. "You okay?" I asked Josh.

"Yes, course."

Snow was still falling intermittently, and the cold intensified as we crept towards our objective. About an hour from leaving the LUP, we entered a thick bed of dried reeds that rustled furiously in the wind. I was pausing to check my bearings when Josh touched my arm silently and pointed ahead. I raised my night sight and there, outlined against the sky, I saw the tip of a broken stone chimney. It looked to be about half a kilo metre from us.

Carefully we backed out from the reeds and surveyed the land. The reed beds appeared to extend in a broad triangle to the south-east of the remains of the farmhouse and were bounded on the north by a stream. The house itself stood in a small dell, giving shelter from the wind, with a few stunted trees nearby. Otherwise it was all open gra.s.sland. I tried to imagine what I would do if I were planning an ambush. The best tactics, I decided, would be to hold one's forces back to the north and east and wait for the target to approach. They could spring the trap as soon as we got in among the buildings, opening up on us from two sides to catch us in a crossfire, while the stream and reed beds would hinder our escape.

I signed to Josh that I wanted to circle around the lip of the dell to check if anyone was lying up there with a GPMG targeted on the RV point. At a rough estimate the dell was some 600 metres across, meaning we had a distance of about two kilometres to traverse before we would know for sure whether there were troops up there waiting to ambush us.

We started off anticlockwise, moving past the reed beds and across the stream. It was not deep, but it made up for that by being agonisingly cold. We crossed it in absolute silence, without a splash or a clink of stone, crouching low, moving on all fours like animals through the water and into the gra.s.ses on the far bank. An ambush party would most likely lie up on the reverse slope with a couple of look-outs forward. At every step we scanned the skyline with our night sights, looking to catch a glimpse of a head lifted above the gra.s.s, a rifle barrel carelessly handled, anything that would give away the presence of a chilled soldier tired of waiting.

The wind was now blowing towards us, and we kept our ears alert for the slightest sound. We had to a.s.sume the enemy was here. There is no other way to handle a situation like this. So we crawled through the long gra.s.s, telling ourselves that somewhere up above us in the waving blackness a platoon of Argentine marines crouched with GPMGs poised to let rip at the first sound an enemy as tough and ruthless as ourselves, prepared to wait all night if necessary for a kill.

An hour later we had made about a mile, and we came to a halt. I was leading, and as I stretched out my hand in front of me my fingers touched a strand of wire. My pulse gave a sudden jump. Had I touched the trip-wire of an Argentine anti-personnel mine placed on a tripod a couple of metres ahead, ready to sweep the gra.s.s with a deadly hail of ball bearings? The Argies loved mines. The Falklands were lousy with ones they'd left behind. Or was it an alarm wire that would send phosphorous illumination rockets blazing into the sky and bring down cras.h.i.+ng mortar rounds about our heads? I waited tensely but nothing happened, and I began to breathe again. Withdrawing my hand and parting the gra.s.s carefully, I saw that I had run up against a sagging barbed wire fence ab.u.t.ting an overgrown track.

I squirmed around on my stomach to warn Josh. For all we knew there might be a sniper lying up the slope with one hand on the wire waiting for the tug that would tell him someone was trying to slide through. We found a point where the wire was broken, checked that no one had stuck a mine in the gap, and wriggled through.

The track leading down to the estancia was deeply rutted. It looked to have been used by vehicles within the past few days, whether going or coming there was no way of telling, but there was fresh snow in the tyre marks. We crossed over, dragging some gra.s.s behind us to hide our footprints, and dived into cover again on the other side.

It was 3.00am by the time we arrived back at the reed beds. We had found no indication of an ambush, but there still remained the possibility that the Argentines might have opted for the simple tactic of holing up in the ruined barns and were waiting for us to show. The only way to find out was for one of us to go in. And that person had to be me.

In sign language I indicated to Josh that I was going in to the chimney and he was to follow and cover me over the last stage. In single file we crawled to the edge of the farmyard. From here it was apparent that the place had been deserted for a long time. There was no roof to the main house and most of the walls were tumbled down. We waited a long time in perfect stillness. Nothing moved. Then I edged forward into the shadow of a collapsed shed and pushed my head through the undergrowth on the far side. I was now looking directly at the stump of the ma.s.sive main chimney of the original house. Parked right up against it, in the centre of what must once have been the main living room, was a four-wheel-drive utility vehicle.

I trained the night sight on it. The vehicle was facing towards us and there was a man in the driver's seat. I could make out his head leaning back. He wasn't moving. Maybe he had fallen asleep. I swept the scope round the yard. There was no sign of other life in the vicinity. From my harness I extracted my GPS unit and pressed the b.u.t.ton for my position. The coordinates exactly matched the RV point we had been given at the briefing.

It was now or never. If there were Argentines lying in wait among the ruined barns I would find out about it in another minute. Signing to Josh to cover me, I rose to a crouch and picked my way around the edge of the yard, my rifle at the ready. It must have been all of thirty yards to the far side and it seemed like the longest walk of my life. At every step I expected a bullet to take me.

A dozen yards from the line of crushed rubble that had once been the front wall of the house, I halted and rose to my full height. I wanted the agent, if it was him, to be able to see me clearly. For several seconds I stood there unmoving in the silence of the deserted estancia. Nothing in the car stirred. Maybe the guy was asleep. Maybe it was a dummy made to look like a man and the ambush party was playing a game There was a metallic click and I stiffened. Slowly, very slowly the driver's door opened. "Buenos noces, senor," said a quiet voice. "Are you lost?"

My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak. "Buenos noces," I replied. "I am looking for a place to sleep."

"I know of a place. Are you alone?"

"No, there are others with me."

The car door opened further. "I am coming out," the man called softly. "I am unarmed."

I covered him even so as he emerged into the yard. He was a bearlike man in civilian clothes, his face shadowed in the moonless dark. He wore a long sheepskin coat against the cold and he held his arms in front of him so I could see he was not carrying a weapon. He was taking no chances. He must have known there were guns trained on him but he didn't seem nervous. He had made all the responses correctly. He was in the right place. He had to be our man.

I moved in closer, being careful not to block Josh's line of fire. "We are SAS."

He nodded. "I have come to meet you." His voice was low and even, remarkably composed, a Spanish accent overlaying the English. "My name," he added, 'is Seb."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Seb! At the sound of the name a flood of images rushed through my mind: our first encounter twenty years ago in the valley near the border, when the two of us had almost shot one another; Seb's offer to lead the pursuit away from our trail, and the final ambush when Andy was killed. It had never occurred to me that Seb would still be active.

Seb seemed equally surprised to learn I had been on the earlier mission. Our meeting on that occasion had been so brief that he had scarcely had time to register faces.

I filled him in on the loss of the boat with Jock aboard, and he grew serious. "That is bad," he said. "The prevailing winds on this part of the coast mean that any drifting object will wash ash.o.r.e at some point. If the authorities are presented with an inflatable boat containing military equipment they will draw the obvious conclusion that a clandestine landing has been attempted and the airbase is the only logical target."