by Chris Ryan
The plan was for us to enter the base, break into the guardhouse, free the rest of the team, along with Concha's friends if possible, and then with the weapons we found there attack the hangars and destroy the aircraft. The first thing to do was decide on a route into the base. I was worried that our previous method of entry, via the fence to the north and through the drain, might have been compromised.
"I know a way," Concha said. "Pedro and I used it last night. I will show you."
It had come on to snow again as we climbed back into the Toyota, big soft flakes that drifted down out of the night sky. "The wind will get up soon," Seb remarked as he started the engine. He sounded nervous. I didn't blame him. I was feeling jumpy myself. This was a one-way mission; we might pull it off, but the chances of any of us coming out alive were slim.
I concealed myself under the blankets in the rear and gave Concha a quick kiss out of sight of Seb. I'd never gone into battle before with a woman, still less with one that I cared about. It occurred to me that we were going in to complete the selfsame mission that Andy and I had aborted all those years before. Maybe this time it would be my turn to stop a bullet. I put that out of my head and concentrated on the business in hand. The first challenge was to reach the base without getting stopped by a patrol. Seb's vehicle was well known, but in the current state of tension everyone was a suspect.
Seb reckoned the roadblocks would be concentrated on the roads out to the north and west leading to the Chilean border. With Concha's agreement he cut eastwards across town. "If we are questioned I shall say I am going to the station to meet someone off the train from San Sebastian."
Beams of light swung through the cabin, as we crossed the main street. There were other cars around here in spite of the snow, and we felt safer. We passed a military truck, but it ignored us. We drove on into the industrial sector and along dark side-roads. Eventually Seb halted behind a large building. "This is one of the cargo depots for the civilian airport," he said softly. "The main fence is only a short distance."
I peered out of the rear window. The building was dark; there were no lights showing anywhere. Snow lay thick upon the ground.
"We need to move fast," Seb whispered. "Some of the premises here next to the base have night watchmen who will report anyone behaving strangely."
We baled out quickly, carrying our camouflage sheets over our shoulders. Concha held her rifle by her side. The snow was still falling thickly and the wind was getting up; it was doubtful anyone would be able to make us out at twenty metres. Concha and I followed Seb along the road. After a short way it became a gravel led track and there were no more buildings. We were right on the edge of the town. Five hundred metres away in the distance were lights which could only be the airbase.
We were walking through virgin snow now overlying grass and heather. "Better put on our cammies," I told the others. I slipped the poncho sheet over my shoulders and pulled on the pillowcase. Concha had cut slits for eye holes. I chuckled. "You look like a ghost," I told her.
A few minutes further on we came across deer-like hoof-prints, recently made. "Guanacos," said Seb. "Relatives of the llama. They come down to the edge of town in cold weather."
Concha was staring at the snow and shivering. "Suppose a patrol comes across our tracks?"
"In half an hour we'll be inside the base," I reassured her. "Once the shooting starts it won't matter anyway."
She shivered and clutched her rifle.
She was better when we reached the wire, and it became her job to guide us. On this side nearest the town there was only one fence, and no minefield, she assured us. Evidently the Argentines did not fear attack from this direction. We crept along the wire till a tall shape loomed up ahead of us on the far side.
"What's that?" I whispered. "A watchtower?"
"Julian says it is a navigational aid for aircraft using the base a radio altimeter transmitter, something like that," Concha whispered back.
"Is it manned?"
"No, automatic. A technician comes round to check it during the day. This is where we go in."
She knelt down beside the fence and scrabbled at the snow. Soon she had uncovered the base of the wire and I saw that there was a scraped trench underneath the fence. "Foxes," she said. "They come on to the base at night to raid the garbage. Julian and I made it bigger."
Lying down, she pushed up the bottom of the fence and wriggled through on her back. Seb passed her rifle through, plus the bag of tools we had brought. He signed for me to follow. It was more of a struggle for me, but I managed it at the cost of tearing my sheet. When it came to Seb's turn I held the wire up to make it easier.
Together we crouched in the shadow of the tower. We were on the southern side of the base, opposite to where our LUP and observation post had been last night. Seb had lent me a watch to replace the one the marines had lifted off me. I checked the time: 10.05pm. The marines would be boarding their aircraft soon.
We could see the tower, quite close and lit up. The main runway was almost dead ahead, the landing lights darkened again. The big hangars were invisible in the darkness on the far side.
I swept my eyes in a 360-degree search. "All clear," I whispered.
Concha nodded. "Wait here for my sign, then follow."
She ran bent double, flitting soundlessly across the snow. Even as I watched she vanished into a dip in the ground. I caught a low whistle and Seb gave me a pat on the arm, signalling me to go. I scrambled along her tracks to find her fifty metres off, crouched in a concrete light well.
"Clever," I murmured as we waited for Seb to join us.
"Yes, we can hide in these as far as the taxiway 300 metres down. Then we cut away to the left to a radar dome."
It was a clever route she took us on, chosen by someone who had studied the base carefully. We darted across the open space from hole to hole like animals in the wild. From the radar installation we moved on to a clutch of fire hydrants.
"Where next?" I asked as we paused for breath. The wind was stronger out here, ripping across the bleak expanse of the field.
She pointed a sheet-draped arm right. "Over there, about sixty metres. You can just make out some trucks against the lights behind. They are used to clean the snow off the runway."
"I see them."
I watched her run across the gap. She was almost on the trucks when the last in line suddenly switched on its headlamps.
Shit, I thought. She's been seen.
Concha dropped flat into the snow. The cough of the truck's engine bursting into life reverberated across the apron. The beams of the headlamps swung outwards and began to move. The huge tyres revolved, spinning off plumes of spray. I watched with clenched fists. It was heading directly for where she lay.
I flattened out myself, burying my face as the lights shone in my direction. The truck roared, picking up speed. It must be making for the intersection with the main runway. Maybe a flight was expected. Whatever the reason, Concha lay right in its path. Squinting through my eye holes, I watched in horrified disbelief as the yellow monster ground down upon her.
"Run!" I yelled to her, but she didn't move. The engine noise drowned out my voice.
The truck was almost on her. Jesus wept, I thought, the driver must spot her. A huge dozer blade on the front was poised above her like an axe. If the driver chose to drop it, she would be cut in half. The glare of the headlights was so bright now I could no longer make out what was happening. I thought I caught a flicker of movement as the wheels reached her. Had she flung herself aside at the last moment? I pictured the giant ridged tyres crunching over her frail body, crushing and smashing.
The headlights swept over me and moved away as the truck turned on to the taxiway. I waited till the cab had drawn level and gone twenty metres past, then I ran as fast as I could along its track. I found the point where her track crossed the tyre marks, after that there was a confusion in the snow and I couldn't tell what had happened. "Concha!" I whispered hoarsely.
&n
bsp; A voice came back. "Ssh, over here."
I ran towards the sound.
She was kneeling against the brushes of a huge road-sweeper. "Jesus, you almost got run over."
"I know. I thought the driver would see me if I didn't leave it to the last minute. I waited and rolled between the wheels but it was turning and one of the rear tyres almost crushed me."
Seb came up to join us, and Concha detached herself from me. By now we had penetrated into the heart of the base. There was the control tower rearing up, like a huge, illuminated head peering into the blackness. Nearby was a small plane, its wings blanketed in a thick covering of snow. It must have been there all day. Behind us the truck was grinding steadily out on to the runway and had lowered its dozer blade. "They must be trying to keep the runway clear overnight," Seb said.
We considered the implications behind that. "Lucky for us they didn't start a couple of minutes earlier," I said.
Concha put her hand to my mouth. "Do you see that building over there?" She pointed to a row of lights on the other side of the roadway, about forty metres off. "That is the guard post where the prisoners are being held."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
"We'll try round the rear," I said.
For several minutes we had lain under the trucks, watching the building. Time was pressing. If the planes were to hit the Falklands at dawn, then boarding must commence very soon. But first we had to get the others out and seize the guards' weapons. Two men and a woman with nothing but side-arms couldn't hope to knock out two big aircraft.
I could make out nothing through the windows of the guard post. At a guess the night guard would consist of a couple of men on watch, with half a dozen others on immediate call, probably dozing or watching TV. The prisoners would be held somewhere in the back with another man watching them in case of trouble. A sudden assault, carried out with brutal rapidity, would give the guards no time to organise resistance. It was the sort of action I had carried out many times in the past, both on exercise and in real life. Always before, though, I had been acting as part of a team. Tonight I was on my own with two civilians as back-up.
We worked our way round to the rear of the building, keeping to the darkness. A quick dash across a snow-covered parking area brought us to a door through which a light showed. Around the corner was a blank wall with a row of tiny barred windows set high up. It looked like the standard guard post layout a main front office with the lock-up off it, and mess rooms and offices in the back.
"Pass me the tools," I said.
The door had a reinforced glass panel in it. Inside, we could see another internal door, also with a window, and beyond that a cream-painted brick passage. There was no one moving about that we could see. Judging by the layout the prisoner accommodation was up the passage and to the right.
Above the outer door was an alarm box. I gave Seb a boost up. He unscrewed the cover, prised out the battery, then cut the wires. The alarm stayed silent. "Okay," he said. "Done."
He dropped down again. I took a crowbar, put the edge into the jamb of the door by the lock, and levered. There was a splintering of wood but the lock held. "Fuck!" I said. There was no time to waste. I moved to the top hinge. Two hard jerks and the screws came out. I did the same at the bottom and the door fell outwards. I pulled it away and propped it against the wall.
The inner door was unlocked. I pushed it open and moved quickly up the passage, my gun at the ready. The only sound was a TV playing somewhere in the front of the building. On the left side were offices; opposite were what looked like cupboards. We moved up cautiously, checking each room as we went. I was nearing the far end when I heard the click of a door opening and a man appeared round the corner from the left. He was a young soldier of about nineteen, in battle dress one of the guard, presumably, come to investigate the noise. He carried an assault rifle loosely in one hand.
At the sight of three hooded and white-shrouded figures with guns trained on him he froze, his mouth dropping open. For a long moment he stood there, transfixed. Was he debating whether to raise his weapon and risk certain death? We were five metres from him, our guns trained on his chest. I moved up swiftly before he could pull himself together, jabbed the muzzle of the .45 in his ribs, snatched the rifle from him and bundled him into the nearest cupboard. It held cleaning equipment, mops and brooms, an electric floor-polisher. I banged him one on the head and dropped him like a sack.
"Rope," I hissed to Seb. There was no telling how long the guy would stay out for. He passed me a hank of cord we had brought from the house. I cut off two lengths, bound the boy's hands and feet and stuffed a washcloth in his mouth for a gag. It would keep him quiet long enough for what we had to do.
I ripped off my shroud and checked his pockets. No keys, which was a blow. I picked up his rifle. It was an American M-16 without the grenade launcher. I checked the magazine and it was full. Immediately I felt more secure with a proper weapon in my hands once again. He had a bayonet, and I took that too it might come in useful if there was any silent killing to be done.
I whispered to Seb to put the door we had destroyed back into position again while I kept guard. I didn't want any passerby getting suspicious. Concha had thrown off her sheet too, and was waiting for orders. I checked the layout again in my head. The passage turned left and the soldier had come through a door. Most probably that door led directly to the guardroom, which must lie beyond the wall at the end. The prisoners were almost certainly on the other side of the wall to our right, accessible only through the guardroom for security. From somewhere close by I could hear a TV blaring and the sound of male laughter. With luck we would have a few minutes before it occurred to any of the soldier's buddies to wonder why he was gone so long and to come looking for him. Signing to the others to cover me, I moved out into the cross passage.
It ran for about four metres, ending in a wall with a fire extinguisher and two fire buckets, like military establishments everywhere. There was a solid door on the right, opening outward. I checked to see that the others were following and, turning the handle smartly, stepped quickly inside, rifle at the ready.
There was no one inside. It was a large room with whitewashed walls, and brightly lit. A swift glance took in two large desks and a number of notice-boards that looked as though they dealt with fatigue duties and orders of the day. An Argentine flag hung behind one of the desks, a Marine Division banner over the other. By the main entrance stood a water dispenser and a rack of useful looking M-16/M203 rifle-and-grenade-launcher combinations, ready for immediate use if the guard had to turn out. Otherwise the place was empty.
Immediately on my left was an open doorway into a darkened room, which had to be the mess room for the duty guard. Inside four men were seated around a TV, laughing over a porn movie, while a fifth, presumably one of those on watch, stood watching over their shoulders, his rifle propped against the back of a couch.
On the other side of the guardroom, on the same wall as the door I had come in by, was a metal grille that must give access to where prisoners were held.
Reaching inside the mess room, I snapped on the overhead light. Five faces blinked stupidly in the sudden glare, slowly taking in the M-16 pointed at them and the armed figures behind. I didn't give them a chance to recover. "On the floor," I said, pointing.
The standing man hesitated fractionally. His weapon was within reach and he was tempted to make a grab for it. But I was ready for him. Before he could move I swung the butt of the Armalite to catch him viciously in the small of the back. With a grunt of pain he fell forward across the couch, clutching himself. Seb moved forward and picked up the gun. Now there were two automatic weapons to cover five men, one of them disabled.
The rest of the Argentines had seen what might happen to anyone who didn't cooperate. They got down on their knees hurriedly, hands held skyward.
"Watch them," I said quietly to Seb. He nodded and took his stance where he could sweep the room. I went back out into the guardroom. Three str
ides and I was at the steel grille. There was only one guard on duty, a burly middle-aged Argentine with a narrow face like a rat who had evidently realised something was amiss and was scrabbling to unlock the door. He froze as he stared into the muzzle of the M-16, his mouth working soundlessly. I reached through the grille to twist the key in the lock and pulled the door open. The guard was trembling so much with terror he could hardly move; he must have thought I was going to shoot him on the spot. I took his gun and keys, spun him round and pushed him ahead of me to the holding cell.
There was just the one a long chamber with a floor-to-ceiling grille like the one I'd just come through. The guys were inside, our lot and Concha's friends together, propped against the walls, bound and hooded. The floor was wet and there was an open-topped 45-gallon oil drum in the middle of the chamber, so it looked as if they'd been given the drowning treatment having their heads ducked in a drum full of water with their hands bound behind them. Doug and I had watched that being done once on an op in Nigeria. It wasn't pleasant. Bastard Argentines.
I prodded the guard into a corner and made him squat with his hands on his head. Still keeping him covered, I knelt beside Doug. "Doug, it's me, Mark. I'm going to take the hood off, OK? Watch your eyes." He didn't respond. Probably he thought it was a new trick devised by the Argies. After ten hours of being blindfolded and bound he would be disorientated and exhausted. All his training would be warning him to trust nothing and nobody.
I rolled him into a sitting position and eased the hood up. He screwed up his eyes against the light and I guessed my face was just a blur to him. His torso was soaked, his body stank of sweat and urine, and he looked drained. I found a key in the bunch I'd taken off the guard which fitted his cuffs, and unlocked him. He gave a groan and eased his stiffened shoulders. He blinked again and cracked his eyes open. "Fucking hell," he croaked. "Where'd you spring from?"
"Never mind," I answered. "Can you stand?"
