by Chris Ryan
The ships that had way on them were manoeuvring frantically to get clear. Northland, though, had no steam up. She was a sitting duck. Four hundred yards short, the pilot of the lead Skyhawk released his bombs. I saw them fall clear, dropping towards us as the jet screamed away overhead, two black dots growing larger by the second, and I thought, fuck, they're coming right at us. We were the target. Doug had thrown himself flat on the deck; he hated air attacks and didn't like ships much better. I was thinking, this is where we all die yet I couldn't tear my gaze away.
The first bomb hit the water twenty yards from the port quarter with a mountainous splash. "Missed, you bastard!" I shouted aloud. I knew that these bombs had a delay function, an impeller in the tail that had to spin a set number of turns after dropping to release the firing pin, so that it could move forward on impact and trigger the detonator. Flying so low meant that they had to be released at exactly the right moment or the sods wouldn't go off.
It was my last coherent thought before the world burst in around me.
In fact the first bomb flew so fast I didn't have time to see it bounce off the surface like a skimmed stone and strike the ship's side, piercing it. It passed upwards through the engine room, killing three men, and emerged through the deck without exploding.
I don't recall anything of the impact because a fraction of a second later the second bomb struck us amidships, and this time the impeller did its stuff. The firing pin released and the bomb exploded in the main hold with a force that burst open the deck where I was standing and threw everyone nearby off their feet.
I remember a bright flash and then I must have been knocked unconscious for a few seconds. When I came to I was lying on my front. My clothes were blackened and I was surrounded by smoking wreckage. The decking was all ripped and a roaring jet of flame licked upwards. Ammunition was popping off down in the holds, punctuated by the heavier whoomp of petrol tanks going up.
I stood up, and realised the ship had taken on a list. It was like walking uphill. A hand grabbed me; it was Andy. His hair was all singed and I remember wondering if mine was the same. He was shouting at me but I couldn't make out what he said because of the noise and because the explosion had left me temporarily deafened. He thrust a survival suit into my hands and pointed to the side. Time to abandon ship. A survival suit was a once-only garment you pulled on over your outer clothes before jumping into the water. Its seals were supposed to keep you dry and alive long enough to be rescued provided help came pretty quick. Without a suit the average person had a fifty-fifty chance of swimming fifty yards in these waters before hypothermia got him.
I was about to put it on when I saw the two seamen who had been guarding the girl come tumbling up a companionway from below. There was no sign of the girl with them. The bomb must have shattered the lower deck level and those guys had legged it. They weren't about to risk their lives for the sake of a spy.
I don't know why I should have done either, unless it was because I was the one who had found her and started it all. I looked around for Andy but he had disappeared. Presumably he figured I could look after myself. The ship didn't seem to be about to go down this second and the fire hadn't reached the forepart yet. I decided I had a good chance to reach her and fetch her out.
In a way it was easier than I had thought. I nipped down the ladder on to the cargo deck level. There was a lot of smoke eddying around but no actual flames yet. One guy passed me carrying a kit bag; he must have been back to his cabin. I went down two more ladders. The emergency lights were on here, but there was less smoke. All the alarm bells were ringing. The noise of firing was muffled but I could hear big thuds of mortar bombs or gas tanks going up, which kept me moving forwards and down. The tilt on the deck didn't seem to be getting any steeper so I figured I wasn't about to drown yet.
When I reached the stern, there she was where they had left her, still lashed to the ring bolts I ripped off the hood and untied her wrists and she sagged against me like she was all in. Her clothes were in a heap on the deck. I started pulling them over her arms and legs. There didn't seem much point in rescuing her if she was going to die of cold the second I dropped her in the water. She got the message and inside a couple of minutes I had her more or less dressed. I gave her the survival suit it made one less thing to carry and hustled her back to the ladders.
There seemed to be a lot more smoke and heat around now. Also the angle of the deck was suddenly worse. I pushed the girl ahead of me up the ladder. She had either recovered some of her strength or she was scared, because she went up like a squirrel. I guess after six weeks aboard she knew her way about.
Half-way up the next ladder conditions were vile. Flames were spreading into the stairwell. The ladder had broken free from several of its supports and swayed ominously as we went higher. The girl was slowing down because of the flames. I was having to climb one-handed, using the other to push her on. Another explosion shook the hold more ammunition going up. Bits of debris were raining down from overhead and the bulkhead next to the hold was smoking or steaming, I couldn't tell which. I concentrated on trying to breathe in shallow gasps to keep the smoke out of my lungs. The ladder seemed endless and the handrail was hot to touch.
Somehow we reached the landing at the top, only to find the door leading out on deck wouldn't open; the watertight latches were closed fast. Some bugger had sealed us in to die.
The girl was going limp as she suffered the effects of the smoke. I propped her up against the wall and took a hold of the top latch. It didn't budge. Heat or the ship's list must have wrenched the frame out of true. I looked around but the passage behind was filling with flames. There was no other way out. I heaved on the latch again and was rewarded with a slight movement. A series of violent tugs at last worked it free. Now for the bottom latch. This was worse. It was so tightly jammed nothing I did seemed to make it move. Inky smoke was belching up the stairwell, making it impossible to breathe. In desperation I pounded on the steel door with my fist. "Let us out, you fuckers!" I might as well have been pissing into the wind for all the chance there was of being heard.
I grabbed the handle of the top latch again with both hands, swung myself out over the stairwell and crashed both legs together against the jammed hatch. The impact jarred my spine but I thought I felt the latch move. I pushed off again with my feet, praying I wouldn't somehow fall off and drop twenty feet into the burning hold, and gave a second mighty kick and this time the handle snapped free with a clank.
Out on deck things weren't a whole lot better, except that it was possible to breathe more freely. The ship was burning furiously amidships and listing heavily. Secondary explosions were shaking the hull as fuel tanks continued to detonate below decks. It was obviously only a matter of minutes before she was going to go down. A few disciplined types were trying to run hoses into the flames but most of the crew were launching life rafts and jumping overboard in their haste to get off in case she blew. Many of the floats were overcrowded and men were being washed into the sea. A frigate nearby had boats in the water picking up survivors, and helicopters were swooping down to pluck people off the deck.
I pushed the girl ahead of me along the deck. Now I could hear men screaming down in the hold. She stood, swaying with exhaustion, surveying the scene of devastation. In her eyes was a glow of triumph. Something inside me snapped. They could be my mates down there. I seized her by the scruff and forced her to the edge of the shattered deck, made her look down into the inferno. "Now it's your turn!" I yelled.
A hand caught my shoulder. It was Andy again, his face blackened by smoke and flames. "What the fuck are you doing, Mark?" he yelled. "Come on, we've got a boat waiting."
The adrenalin rush had left me light-headed. If she was a spy, then this girl was more valuable alive.
I was turning back from the fire when the ship gave a sudden lurch that sent us all sprawling. A burst of flaming smoke spewed out from the burning hole amidships. I felt my hair crackle. Andy pulled me to my feet
and dragged me back out of harm's way.
Gasping, I looked around. "Where's the girl?"
But she was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
The capsized hulk of the Northland was still visible out in the sound the next morning. How they had managed to stop her sinking I couldn't think. There was a big tug fussing about; maybe they intended towing her out to sea to clear the way for other vessels. The sun glistened on a big oil slick that was being washed in towards the shore.
Andy and the rest of us had got off the wreck with no trouble. He had found us places in a lifeboat but, as we were about to get in, a Wessex helicopter had come spinning down, lifted off our whole party and dropped us on to Fearless, our own ship, with minimum fuss. What had become of the girl I didn't know. Maybe she had been rearrested or else drowned. Either way, I had done my bit.
Andy was pissed off with me though. All he could think about was that the quartermaster was giving him grief because we had failed to bring back his precious laser target designators. Andy reckoned it was my fault for getting tangled up with the girl. He wouldn't listen when I pointed out that we had never located the missing container, and so had no idea if the fuckers were ever aboard the Northland. As far as big brother was concerned I had screwed up yet again.
Right now Andy was in the CO's office, a Portakabin welded to the after deck, with Captain Guy Litchfield, our troop Rupert, being briefed by the ops officer on the forthcoming mission. Apparently this was a proposal to insert an observation team on to the Argentine mainland at Tierra del Fuego to mount a watch on the big airbase at Rio Grande. Overnight the operation had firmed up to the extent that it now had a code name: Dynamo.
At least, that was the rumour. Officially we had been told nothing, but three members of the squadron who had been on Invincible reported seeing a Sea King being stripped out and fitted with ultra-long-range fuel tanks. Andy knew more, but he wasn't telling. I already knew he didn't want me along.
Either way it was clear we would be going into action soon.
We were in our bunk room on the assault ship with the pipes gurgling overhead, busy shaking out our equipment, checking batteries on the night sights and missiles, bugging Cyril the quartermaster for more grenades and pistols to replace a bunch of weapons that had gone missing. Some of our arctic clothing had been lost and no one knew how it was to be replaced. The good news was that the squadron had received a consignment of the coveted 203 from America, the so-called 'over and under' Armalite with a grenade launcher slotted underneath the rifle barrel. We had been screaming for these for over a year, and they were like gold. Their sudden arrival was an indication of the importance attached to this mission.
"How many Claymores?" Tom, the Fijian, asked Cyril. Claymores were American anti-personnel mines that could be deployed quickly to discourage pursuit. "One each," Cyril told him. Cyril was a small, curly-haired sergeant who had damaged a leg on an op over the Norwegian border into Russia at the height of the Cold War and been relegated to light duties.
Taffy was our junior sergeant and doom merchant. "There's a full battalion of Argy marines guarding that airfield, so I hear."
"Fuck them," Tom told him happily. "I faced more than that in Oman."
"Yeah, but they were rag-heads," Doug put in with a jeer. Tom was a legend in his own right in the regiment for the time he had defended the base at Merbak from an attack by thousands of rebels. He had ended up working a 25lb howitzer alone, firing it at point-blank range. By the time reinforcements arrived he had been wounded in every limb and was still firing.
"Tom's seen more action than you ever will," I told Doug.
"Yeah?" he said. "So how come the two of you tried to miss the flight out then? No stomach for it?"
Tom didn't rise to Doug's baiting though. He was so good-natured he was next to impossible to needle. You'd have to push him to the limit to get him riled but then it was hard to cool him down.
It seemed to be accepted that I was not to be a part of this mission. Andy had always done his best to look after me in training, and found it hard to stop now. But I hated being singled out and did my utmost to avoid it. The other guys knew this perfectly well.
I was an afterthought, fifteen years younger than Andy. Our father had died when I was ten, and Andy substituted himself in my upbringing. He was determined from the start that I should make something of my life and spent the little bit of capital my father left putting me through private school, an advantage he had never had. He was furious when I signed on for the army. He said he had hoped I would go to university. I explained that I wanted to live life, not read about it. There was another row when I applied to join the SAS. The least I could do, he thought, was get a commission and become an officer. He said it was unfair on our mother to have both her sons at risk.
Andy arrived with Guy, the Rupert. They had come to give us our briefing. We locked the door and settled down on the bunks to hear what they had to say. Guy was typical of the Ruperts we got a big, tall rugby player who'd been promoted up to captain from lieutenant on joining the Regiment. Ruperts normally serve two-year hitches and then go back to their units, taking their new skills, if any, back with them.
Guy started off. "Shall I give the orders?"
"No," Andy told him shortly. "I'm in charge. You're just a spare gun."
Guy's jaw dropped. It's a big culture shock for young officers to come into the SAS and find they are a lot less important than an experienced
NCO.
Before Guy could speak Andy went on: "You sit there by Mark. The two of you should have plenty to talk about." This was supposed to remind the others I had been to private school. I shifted up to make room on the bunk for him. Doug squeezed in on the other side. Opposite us were Tom and Taffy, with Andy on the outside nearest the door.
"It's an OP job," Andy said. An OP was an observation post, holing up somewhere, watching and reporting back. It was a task we practised often.
"Where?" Taffy asked.
"The Argentine mainland, Tierra del Fuego," Andy answered.
So the rumours were true. This meant a big increase in the scope of the fighting. Until now the hostilities were supposedly limited to a 200-mile exclusion zone around the islands.
"The Argy air force is sinking our ships faster than we can replace them," Andy went on, 'and the Navy is shit worried." He looked at the three of us who'd been on the Northland. We didn't need reminding what it was like to be bombed. "Our target is the big airbase at Rio Grande. We infiltrate by helicopter under cover of darkness, set up an OP, and observe and report enemy aircraft movements: time out, course and direction, numbers and weapon loads. The usual kind of thing. Fleet also wants to know how many make it back so they can estimate the attrition rate of the de fences
"How long do we stay?" Taffy wanted to know. Taff always got nervous before a mission.
"Until the war ends, stupid," Tom retorted in his thick accent. Tom wasn't worried one bit by the prospect of landing in the middle of enemy territory. The longer the better, so far as he was concerned. He was genuinely without fear.
Now Doug was giving Guy a hard time, shouldering him off the edge of the bunk. "You've got balls to say you're in charge, when this is your first mission." His mean little eyes squinty with amusement. Doug loved picking on people, and he knew Guy's dignity as an officer wouldn't let him fight back.
"What about exfil?" I chipped in.
Andy gave me a hard look. It said, you aren't going on this trip, little brother, so why ask? Eventually he said, "That's still to be decided. It depends what we find out. They may send the helicopter back or a submarine. If necessary we can always tab out for the Chilean border, fifty miles west."
"What's the country like?" Taffy wanted to know. He was our Stinger missile operator and would be carrying one of the biggest loads.
"Pampas and moorland mainly." Andy grinned. "Just think the Brecon Beacons in winter and you'll know what to expect."
"Shit!" someone said and the
re was a general groan. The Brecon Beacons in Wales were our regular training ground. Soldiers had died out there of hypothermia and exhaustion.
Andy took us back to specifics. The helicopter would drop the patrol off north-west of the base. It would work its way up to the perimeter during darkness and establish a lying-up point with a forward OP. The OP would have the main runway under constant surveillance.
"Taffy, you'll be on the gimpy with him." He jerked his head at Guy. "Doug, you'll carry the signal kit."
I waited. Then, That it?" I said. "What about Tom and me?"
Andy shook his head. "I told the OC we could do this with just the four of us."
Anger shot through me in a hot rush. "Fuck you!" I told him. "You can't run a proper OP on enemy ground with just four men."
Andy smiled at me grimly. "That's the decision. You'll just have to lump it."
Unexpectedly Doug backed me up. "Why not take Mark instead of the Rupert? What's the use of an officer on a mission?"
"Because we need him to sign the claims cheque for equipment," Andy said, and Doug grinned at the joke.
All this was making me madder than ever. I jumped up with my fists balled. "You bastard!" I screamed in Andy's face. "You treat me like a kid because you're scared I'm better than you."
Andy was on his feet in an instant. "Let's see you try it then, little brother." We glared at one another, hatred flushing our faces. I was taller than Andy but he had the weight. I was quicker though, with a longer reach, and if I could get the first blow in ... It was just like the start of all the fights we'd had as kids, when he would thump me for daring to defy him.
But Guy shouldered his way between us. "Knock it off," he snapped, 'the pair of you. This is a briefing. It's no time for stupid squabbling."
Andy's eyes were hard with rage. But Guy was right. This was no time for a fight and the CO would be pissed off if he got to hear of it. With an effort Andy relaxed his fists. "You do as you're told, boy," he spat between clenched teeth. "You had your fun today. Now it's someone else's turn."
