by Chris Ryan
I kept at it while behind me, Doug relayed a soft-voiced commentary from the others on the patrol's progress. "Heading down towards the gate we came in by ... turning right ... coming in our direction .."
I felt a gentle clink as the tip of the blade touched the concrete foundation of the plinth base, and a wave of relief swept through me. "All clear," I whispered to Doug. "Make sure you keep in my track." I wriggled forward, forcing the remaining stalks of the gorse apart with my bare hands. The ground cover arched over the concrete slab, forming a natural cavern some two feet high. I scrambled on to the plinth. Doug followed, with Josh behind him; Kiwi and Nobby brought up the rear. Carefully, so as not to betray our presence, we pulled the gorse stalks down behind us. With luck, anyone seeing our tracks would reckon it was only a fox or some other wild animal.
"Here they come," muttered Doug.
"Keep still," I growled.
The long beams of the headlights came into sight, probing through the snow. The driver was moving cautiously, probably more on account of the atrocious weather conditions than because they were searching for anyone. It was some kind of military four-wheel-drive with a spotlight mounted on the roof, but the beam was trained ahead on the track rather than swinging to each side. It drew level and ground on past us, the red tail-lights disappearing into the murk.
Heaving sighs of relief, we took stock. The concrete slab was around three metres square with two massive wooden posts rising from it. The surface was cushioned with a thick layer of moss and dead leaves. Gorse and grass had grown up on all sides so thick that it was almost impossible to see out or be seen from inside.
"Jesus, but I hate fucking mines," Nobby said under his breath with feeling as he wiped snow from his eyes. "Give me a clean bullet any day."
"You'll get one if you don't shut up talking." I hate idle chatter on a mission. Andy never used to allow it, and I tried to follow his example. "Three of us can kip down here while the other keeps watch out the front," I went on. "We'll take turns, an hour each. Josh, you stand first watch with me. Take the Spyglass with you."
"Gotcha, boss. "Josh squirmed back along the tunnel, clutching the handheld thermal-imaging observation sight. Mounted on a tripod, it combined with a laser rangefmder and was designed to let mortar teams direct fire accurately day and night in all conditions.
Kiwi and Nobby were clearing space for the bivvy bags and laying out equipment. "Doug, make a sitrep," I told him. "Use the patrol set, not the satcom." The 320 patrol set was a VHP radio that communicated with the guard net at Hereford. Messages could be passed but it could take as much as twelve hours to get a reply back, depending what was going on at the other end. But the unit had a much smaller splash-out than the satcom, and was less likely to be detected. I didn't want to run any more risks than we had to. "Inform Hereford we are in position on the target with no air movement observable as of current time and date. Then you can all three get your heads down. I'll send Josh back in an hour and Nobby can relieve him."
Josh and I wriggled our way up the tunnel through the undergrowth till we reached the path along the fence. For some minutes we occupied ourselves constructing a hide around the entrance and camouflaging all traces of our presence. Luckily for us the falling snow was rapidly obliterating any tracks we had left.
We set up the Spyglass on its tripod, and with the help of the rangefmder I measured distances to points of interest. The tower was 900 metres off- long rifle shot with the main runway beyond. The same distance again beyond that, shrouded from view by falling snow, were the buildings of the small civilian terminal. On this side of the tower we could make out some humped shapes, presumably the revetments housing the bombers. Nearby were the main hangars, their massive roofs blanketed with snow. Closer, only about 200 metres away, were some half-buried structures that I took to be fuel bunkers with pipes running in a ditch back towards the apron. Snow was piling up on the lip of the ditch and the pipes stood out in a dark line. I reckoned it was the same drainage channel that Doug had spotted on his recce.
There were lights burning in the tower. Otherwise, aside from the single patrol that had just passed us, there was no sign of life. It looked as though the whole base was shut down for the night.
I rubbed my hands to warm my numbed fingers. It was getting on for six when I checked the time. "Your watch is about up," I told Josh. "Better get back up the tunnel and send Nobby down to take over."
Josh didn't answer straight away. After a moment he said, "I think I can see lights over on the runway."
He moved away from the Spyglass to let me take a look and I lowered my head to the eyepiece. He was right. Intermittently through the snow I could make out the glimmer of green and white lights twinkling along the strip.
"I'd have sworn they weren't there five minutes ago," Josh said.
I trained the Spyglass on the tower and buildings nearby. It was hard to be certain but it looked to me as though there were more lights showing over there too.
"Let's wait a bit longer and see if anything happens," Josh said. "Maybe they're expecting something."
"Either that or they're getting ready to send a flight off," I agreed. It was more likely an arrival expected; we would have noticed more activity on the apron otherwise.
We listened for any sound of a plane overhead, but there was too much wind to hear anything. After a wait of some minutes, headlights could be seen in the distance moving off down the runway. "Fire tender," Josh reckoned.
We kept the Spyglass focused on the end of the runway, taking turns to watch. Even so we almost missed the plane. It was flying without lights, and slipped in almost soundlessly through the driving snow to touch down at the eastern end of the base. It was only the sight of the fire tender chasing down the runway that alerted us. Josh was at the eyepiece and he let out a quiet yelp of triumph. "Got it! There, look! Just turning on to the taxiway. You can see it when the fuselage blocks out the lights on the ground."
He passed me the sight and a moment later I had it too. "Looks big a bomber? No, a transport more likely."
"I thought Seb said there were no transports down here?"
"He meant not permanently based here. They must have to fly in stores sometimes."
We watched as the plane taxied off the runway on to the apron on the military side. As it did so the runway lights clicked off as someone turned a switch. "Saving power, do you suppose?" said Josh.
"Perhaps. More likely they don't want to draw attention to what's going on."
We continued observing. The arrival aircraft came to a halt in front of the tower. Looking through the sight I made out figures moving around on the ground with hand torches and vehicles circling.
After a few minutes the aircraft started rolling again, but this time it was preceded by a vehicle. "What do you make of that?" I asked Josh.
Josh took a quick squint through the sight. "Tow truck," he said. "They must be bringing it in to shelter."
Together we watched the truck move nearer, dragging its huge tow. From one giant hangar a sudden shaft of yellow light spilled out on to the snow-covered apron and grew rapidly larger. "They're opening the doors," I said. "They must be going to bring the plane inside."
"Bloody big whatever it is," Josh whispered back.
Excitedly we waited as the truck and aircraft approached the patch of light. Identification was going to be difficult because of the distance and because the hangar was between the aircraft and us. As the convoy rolled towards the light it vanished from view. Peering through the flying snowflakes I made out a swept-back T-tail but no markings that I could distinguish.
"A civilian airliner?" I hazarded. "A 747?"
Josh shook his head. "No windows that I could see. More like a freighter being brought inside to off load
That made sense. The question was, what cargo was it carrying? Were the Argentines flying in consignments of missiles? That would explain the night flight and secrecy. On the other hand it was equally possible that it was an
ordinary freight delivery. With weather like this it was hardly surprising that the ground crews elected to unload under cover.
Josh rubbed his hands to warm his fingers. "I wish we could get inside that hangar and take a look."
I was thinking the same, but there was almost a kilo metre of open ground between us and the hangar. The fuel bunkers were quite close, though if we could somehow make it across to them it might be possible to crawl along the pipeline ditch until we were within reach of the hangars.
It was time to change over the watch. I sent Josh back up the tunnel to get some rest. Nobby appeared to take over. "Doug's having some problems with the radio. Can't establish com ms
"What's the trouble?"
"He can't seem to get a message received back. He's tried tweaking the aerials but all he gets is static."
Fuck, I thought wearily. It seemed that however sophisticated communications systems became they remained a pain in the arse. Leaving Nobby on watch, I crawled back up to see how Doug was doing.
Up on the plinth, Kiwi was asleep in his bivvy. He had an amazing facility of being able to switch off and sleep whenever he wanted. Josh had climbed into the warm bag just vacated by Nobby. Doug had the 320 set out with the aerials stretched up in a Y shape. He was staring at the LCD message screen and swearing under his breath. He had been sweating away at it for an hour in the freezing cold.
"Nobby says we're not getting an answer."
"Stupid fucking thing," Doug grumbled. "All I get is a bunch of fucking static. There's no way of telling if the message has gone through or not."
"Maybe the net is down for some reason."
"Yeah, and maybe this pissing set is bust for all we know." He glanced up at me. "You want me to try with the satcom?"
I shook my head. "No, it's too risky. We'll wait and try again in the morning."
"Aye, well good luck to you then," Doug said, and scrambled into his bivvy.
I wasn't too concerned. It was common not to get an acknowledgement on the first attempt. Atmospheric conditions,
pressure of traffic at the other end there could be any number of reasons why Hereford was not responding. Anyway, we had nothing urgent to report so far. They knew we were on the ground, that was enough. If the 320 set was damaged and not transmitting at all, then in an emergency we would just have to get through on the satcom and hope we weren't picked up.
I was more concerned that if the set was damaged Jock might not be able to get through to us. He would be left on his own with no choice but to bug out for Chile.
I left the 320 set up, and was scribbling down a note of what we had seen to go into the operational log later, when there was a warning hiss from behind and Nobby came squirming up the tunnel from the OP.
"Mark," he called. "The landing lights are back on. Looks like the Argies are expecting another flight."
I forgot about the log and hurried back down to join him. The wind had eased off a trifle and there was less snow blowing. Consequently we could make out the runway lights quite distinctly.
"Why do they turn them off and on each time?" Nobby wondered aloud. "They must be trying to hide something."
We waited in the cold, rubbing our hands to keep the blood flowing in our fingers. Just as before, we saw the headlights of the fire truck as it took up position at the end of the runway.
This time I heard it, faint but distinct, the roar of aircraft engines coming in over the sea.
The procedure was exactly the same as before. The aircraft taxied to the apron underneath the tower and was then towed out to one of the enormous hangars on this side of the runway.
"I'll tell you one thing," Nobby said, peering through the sight. "That's one big fucker of an aeroplane. Those hangars must be a good five storeys high and a hundred metres long."
I was wishing we could see more. To identify the type of aircraft that were being flown in under such secrecy was important. Maybe daylight would give us a better view of what was going on. But in winter in these high latitudes, dawn was not due for another two hours with fifty minutes of twilight after that.
The thought gave me an idea. I checked my watch, and a plan began to take shape inside my head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Leaving the LUP behind us, Josh and I wormed our way eastwards along the fence path on our stomachs, heading in the direction of the fuel bunkers. According to Doug the drainage ditch from the refuelling area ran out under the fences approximately 200 metres away. My plan was for the pair of us to enter the ditch and crawl along it till we got to within twenty metres of the hangars.
"We've more than two hours till dawn and weather conditions should continue to screen us for some while afterwards," I had told the others when outlining what I proposed. "The rest of you will wait behind and cover our retreat if necessary."
"Taking a fucking risk, aren't you?" Doug had said. "The mission briefing was to observe and report. They didn't say anything about breaking into hangars."
"Something is going on, and unless we find out what it is we may not be in time to warn Hereford."
To cover myself I had prepared a situation report for Doug to send to Hereford, outlining my intentions. I also left him the cellphone. I would take one of the UHF handsets with me and give him a regular update on our progress. If for some reason we lost contact and failed to return by an hour past dawn, his orders were to call Seb and arrange an immediate pull-out.
The UHF sets were a little larger than a cellphone and provided limited-range two-way communication. The handsets operated on clear voice with a built-in scrambler system to ensure security. Prior to setting out I had refreshed the encryption system from a handheld computer that was a part of the com ms package.
"If we meet opposition we'll attempt to deal with it silently," I instructed Josh. "We'll take side-arms knives and pistols but at all costs avoid shooting. We don't want to bring the entire base down about our ears."
Wearing our webbing and snowsuits, we crawled along the fence path till we reached the ditch Doug had found. It ran under the inner fence and beneath the roadway beyond in a culvert, emerging on the far side in a steep-sided trench that was half blocked by driven snow. Stepping warily for fear of mines, we slithered down into the ditch and crawled headfirst into the mouth of the culvert. It was a precast concrete pipe with several inches of ice in the bottom. From the stink I gathered it was also an overflow from the base septic tanks.
I undipped my webbing and pushed it ahead of me into the dark mouth of the drain along with my pistol. "It's a hell of a tight fit but I think we can manage it," I called back to Josh. I inched my way forward, sliding on the surface of the ice, the concrete roof of the pipe scraping my head.
"Jesus," I heard Josh mutter. "Talk about a rat hole. Bet you the Argies have put a grille across."
He was right. Half a metre from the entrance my groping fingers encountered three stout bars mounted vertically across our path. "Saw," I said to Josh, who was carrying the tools. "Keep watch outside while I deal with this."
Josh stayed squatting in the stream while I sawed away at the bars with the diamond-tipped blade that we carried. It was slow going because I had to lie on my side and the narrowness of the pipe meant I could only move my elbow a short distance. The noise it made was terrible, but I trusted the wind to drown out any sounds. I was set for a long job but was thankful to find that the contractor had skimped, installing hollow tube bars instead of the solid steel the contract would have specified. It took me no more than ten minutes to cut through the bottoms of two bars close to the ice level and bend them up against the roof so that there was just space enough to slide underneath.
The second stroke of luck was finding that the drainage pipe ran on for a considerable way under the patrol road and beyond into the heart of the airfield. This was a big bonus because it lessened the chances of our being spotted; the downside was that it meant a long crawl down a stinking dark drain with no certainty we would find an exit.
"T
hey must have dug the ditch, put in the drain, then run the fuel pipes along the top all in the same trench," I said to Josh.
"Why not bury the fuel pipes too?"
"Easier to spot leaks if they're on the surface, I guess."
Crawling into the darkness of the tunnel was one of the toughest things I've had to do. Ever since the helicopter crash in the sea during the Falklands War I'd had a horror of being trapped underwater, and it was the same with confined spaces underground. The pipe was only just wide enough to squeeze through and we had to pull ourselves along on our elbows, pushing with our feet. We had no way of telling if there would be a way out, and all the time we had to fight down the fear of getting stuck. If the drain narrowed at any point or the water got deeper, there was no space to turn around; we would have to crawl out backwards. The prospect made my stomach knot.
I forced myself to make my mind a blank and concentrate totally on moving up the pipe. Push and heave, push and heave. At least we were well concealed and out of the dreadful wind.
We moved in darkness, feeling our way with our hands, pushing our kit in front of us. I had an infra-red torch which in conjunction with the night sights would have made everything as bright as day, but I didn't use it in case the Argies had a PIR sensor monitoring the pipe. The stink was awful and there was a strong smell of aviation fuel. After a few yards the ice became a thin crust that gave beneath our weight, and soon we were soaking in raw sewage. I scraped my hand along the roof constantly to check for a manhole to the surface all I got though were the joints of the pipe sections. Several times we encountered smaller drains discharging their contents into the main duct, but fortunately there wasn't a lot of water coming down because of the freezing cold.
