by Chris Ryan
A furious marine leapt up against the door on my side, thrusting his machine pistol through the window. The muzzle caught me in the face, knocking me backwards. Christ, this is it, I thought.
There was a deafening explosion in my ear. Concha had picked up my45, the one I had taken from Oliveras, and fired it two-handed into the man's face. The marine's head burst into a bloody cloud and he flew from the truck. Concha had fired instinctively. Another second and the marine's weapon would have shredded me.
Nobby was swinging wide to build up speed. Through the smoke I could make out the shattered door of the hangar, hanging crazily from one end. Christ, I thought, how are we ever going to get through that without bringing the whole hundred-ton section crashing down on top of us?
Heaving on the wheel, Nobby wrestled the sluggish truck towards the gap. Fleeing marines scattered before the plough blade as we cleaved a path through the mob. An electric truck driven by a panicking Argentine powered past us, bowling men over without stopping.
As we neared the door I saw a great beam lying across the floor in front of us. A terrific blast shook the building and more wreckage crashed down from the roof. A mass of tangled metal sheeting blocked our path. Without slackening speed, Nobby swerved under the plane's giant tail. A marine plunged across our path, making for the hangar doors, risking being crushed in the desperation to escape. I grabbed the dash as the front tyres thudded over bits of debris, the truck's body lurching wildly.
Nobby was shouting to me. "It's no use, the door's fucking blocked!"
"We must leave the truck!" Concha cried, her eyes round and staring at the destruction all about us.
"No way!" I shouted back. "The marines outside have automatic weapons, they'd cut us down on foot. Try the rear again!" I yelled to Nobby. "There must be another way out!"
Before I'd finished there was a boom from our rear followed by a devastating crash that split the apron under the wrecked doorway fifty metres ahead of us. Bits of concrete fountained upwards, spraying the hangar. An armoured car had found its range and was shooting at us regardless of its fleeing comrades. Nobby spun the wheel over to the right and swung round beneath the burning Globemaster's tail, ploughing through the smoke towards the rear of the hangar, heedless of the faces that loomed up before him. There was a second boom and another shell screeched by, exploding against the wall of the hangar. The Argentine gunners must have been raging at the destruction we were causing. They were obviously determined to stop us now whatever the cost.
There came another ear-splitting crash and a huge shell tore in through the wall beside us, missing the truck by inches. It skimmed past the tail of the aircraft and exited through the far wall, detonating outside.
At the same moment a hail of small-arms fire broke out in our rear. Bullets whined and skipped overhead. Another shell crashed through the hangar wall and plunged into the fuselage of the Globemaster, exploding in a fireball of burning fuel. The armoured car outside was now firing full-calibre rounds directly into the hangar and to hell with the consequences. An anti-tank rocket whizzed through the partly open door and detonated against a beam as the infuriated marines joined in with the clear intent of burning us alive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The aircraft was a mass of flames now. We had cut across the tail, completing our circle of the plane and were running along the port side again, swinging wide to avoid the blazing wing. An RPG, fired from outside, whizzed overhead and slammed against the rear wall of the hangar, detonating in a shower of molten steel fragments. More volleys of automatic fire from the marines outside sprayed through the doorway and peppered the sides of the building. Underlying the rifle fire came the deeper thud ... thud ... thud of a 30mm cannon. An armour-piercing round struck the edge of the snow plough in front of me, slicing neatly through the steel. A lubricant cart caught in a burst of incendiary rounds was ripped apart, spewing torrents of flaming oil across the floor.
There was a terrific crash behind my head and the cab bounced under the impact of a direct hit as the windshield dissolved in a hail of fragments. I looked round to see a gaping hole in the bulkhead behind me. A cannon shell had smashed through the thick steel of the tipper's body and continued into the cab, punching through the back of the seat where Concha had been sitting, and blowing through the glass. If I hadn't pushed her down into the foot well she would have been torn in half.
Another thunderous explosion shook the hangar and flames spouted up towards the roof. I couldn't tell if it was another shell from the 105mm or the Globemaster's fuel tanks igniting. A tongue of roaring flame darted from the flight's deck hatch and a figure sprang out, burning like a torch. At least his end was quick.
Kiwi's Browning was still banging away behind. There was a crash from overhead and large lumps of debris came tumbling down. Either the wild firing or the heat from the blazing aircraft was bringing down the roof, trapping us in.
There was a shout in my ear. Doug had thrust his face into the hole smashed in the rear of the cab. "Josh has stopped a bullet and one of the Argies has bought it."
"We can't take the front," I yelled back. "The fucking door's blocked and that armoured car would cut us to pieces the moment we showed ourselves. Our only chance is to try the rear!"
The smoke was so thick it was almost impossible to breathe. I thought of telling everyone to bail out, but the chances of us finding a side door were a hundred to one. The Argies would shoot us down like rats if the fumes didn't get us first. Well, at least we had destroyed one of the planes and probably torpedoed their plans for invasion. Back at Hereford our names would be inscribed on the clock tower and the Regiment would celebrate our stand against two battalions of Argentine marines.
But then, fuck it, I thought we weren't finished yet. I shouted to Nobby: "Crash through all that junk and try to gouge a big enough hole for us to crawl out."
He nodded grimly. It was the only hope we had.
He revved the engine and swung the wheel over, and for a moment I thought he had misunderstood what I was saying. Then I realised he was circling us round to gain momentum. The truck heeled round, crunching bits of debris and pieces of equipment beneath its massive wheels. Nobby was squinting red-eyed through the smoke, trying to see beyond the end of the bonnet. The plane was no more than a wall of flames licking up into the roof. The roar of the fire was so intense that we no longer noticed the flying bullets. The heat made the paintwork on the truck blister and bubble before our eyes. Concha was gagging on the smoke somewhere down by my feet. I reached down to brace her shoulder as we stormed blindly onward.
A burning Jeep suddenly loomed in our path. "Shit!" Nobby yelled and spun the wheel without slackening speed. The truck lurched, tipping sideways. Nobby caught it somehow, and we straightened up and pounded on. The smoke was pouring in so thickly that we couldn't even make one another out. If we hit the end wall of the hangar head on we might stand a chance, but if we struck one of the main beams we'd probably bounce off and the impact of the collision would very likely throw us all out.
Dimly I was conscious of more of the roof collapsing around us. Drops of burning fuel scorched our flesh and we seemed to be moving through a world of darkness shot with writhing flame. I felt my hair smouldering, and the skin on the backs of my hands blistered and shrivelled. My mouth and throat were scorched by the fumes and heat. I heard Nobby yell as a long finger of flame licked through his smashed side window, searing his face. The truck bumped over something unseen in the smoke and lurched on, engine roaring.
We saw fire ahead of us, crimson and blue flames feeding on the smoke. I never saw the wall coming. One moment there was nothing but leaping flames, and the next brought the loudest crash I had ever heard. I was flung back against the rear of the seat and my head bounced off the bulkhead behind me. Something huge and black smashed into the cab and the entire truck seemed to leap into the air, dropping again with a jarring thud that hurled me up against the roof, then forward on to the dash. The door beside me s
prang open and I felt myself slide helplessly from the seat. I scrabbled at the dash to stop myself before an instant later the door was slammed shut again with incredible violence, knocking me across the cab into Nobby's lap.
I felt a draught of cooler air against my face and gulped breaths thankfully into my tortured throat and lungs. Still the truck ground onward, accompanied by the shriek of tearing metal. The smoke in front cleared momentarily and I glimpsed the snow-covered ground outside. The cab was out, and the rest of the body was scraping through the gap. Incredibly we had battered our way out of the hangar.
With a final lurch the truck heaved itself clear and our wheels scrunched over the carpet of snow. We were out of the hangar and crossing the parking area behind. It was still dark, but the flaming building cast a lurid light over the scene. The hangar was completely ablaze now. Part of the roof had fallen in, and flames were leaping out. Dense smoke was rolling across the airfield, but firing still persisted out on the apron and strings of tracer curved through the sky. I glanced across to the right and saw that the second hangar was burning. A stray shell must have set it alight too.
The truck was jolting forward over the grass as Nobby grasped the wheel almost in a trance. One headlamp was still functioning, casting a yellow-eyed glare upon the virgin snow. "Kill it!" I shouted to him. "Kill the light!" My voice sounded hoarse and faraway; I'd been partially deafened by the noise in the hangar.
Nobby pulled himself together and switched off the headlamp, and we drove on in silence. The smoke and confusion seemed to have masked our escape for the moment. Now we were in total darkness.
"The fence!" I shouted to Nobby. "Try to make for the gates, it's the only way out through the minefield." If we could only make it off the airbase, there was a chance we could run for the border in the truck.
Concha scrambled coughing out of the foot well She stared round blankly at the shattered cab and the snowy airfield lit by the immense fires behind us. Still no shots came our way as we stormed on through the darkness.
"I'm going back to check on the others," I said. I wanted to find out how badly Josh had been hit. I opened the side door and, clinging on to the cab, pulled myself round and up into the back of the truck. In the flickering red light I saw a number of sand-encrusted figures emerge. The sides of the truck were torn and gouged by bullet tracks, but the industrial-gauge steel had held the thing together.
"The worst hit we took was a thirty-mil round fired from behind," Doug told me, wiping his mouth and eyes. "The fucker penetrated the steel at the rear end and detonated at shallow depth. We took a shower of splinters. One of the Argentines copped it. Then as we were approaching the second hangar a burst of machine-gun fire ricocheted off the side wall and Josh caught one in the belly."
A stomach wound was one we all dreaded. I knelt down in the jolting truck to talk to Josh. He was lying still on his back in the sand. A shell dressing was packed tight against his stomach to stem the bleeding and he was holding an intravenous drip bottle in his hand. "How's it going?" I asked him gently.
"Not so bad, boss," he answered tightly. "Comes and goes." He meant the pain. You can't do anything to sedate a stomach wound. Morphine makes you feel sick, and coughing or retching only does more damage. So you just have to take the pain as best you can. Josh's breathing was steady, and when I felt his pulse it was running around a hundred a minute not too bad in the circumstances. As long as we could hold the bleeding and keep his fluid levels up he should last out. The pain would be the worst bit. Getting him to hold his own IV bottle at least gave him something to do and kept his mind busy. Also we would notice quickly if he lost consciousness.
"We're going to make a run for the border," I told him. "With luck we should manage it in a couple of hours and then we'll get you to a doctor. So just hang in there till then, OK?"
He grinned weakly. We both knew it couldn't be that simple. "Sure, boss. Sorry I screwed up."
"Don't be stupid. You did good. I'll see that goes in the report."
I left him and saw that Julian had been hit too. His was a flesh wound to the shoulder. Ugly, but not dangerous. Seb had patched it up and Doug had given him a shot to deaden the pain. He was young and fit. If it came to a walkout he would probably keep up.
I checked the ammo supply with Doug. "Still got three RPG rounds left," he said happily. "Two belts for the Browning or maybe three; Kiwi thinks one's buried round here somewhere. I've half a dozen mags for the 203, plus whatever Josh has left."
Nobby and I had several magazines still up in front. We could fight another engagement if we had to.
I had another brief word with Josh and climbed back over into the cab again. We were nearing the fence by now. Nobby cut away towards the left along the perimeter road. As he did so there was a renewed burst of firing from 300 metres to our rear left flank, and rounds of tracer came arcing through the smoke.
"Step on it," I told Nobby urgently. "Looks as though they've rumbled our escape." I wasn't sure whether those were aimed shots or just a general spraying in the direction they thought we might have taken, but moments later all my doubts were removed. There was a shriek overhead and a big shell burst against the fence fifty yards behind us.
"Fuck!" I shouted. "They've got our range. Get moving!" With a terrific jolt we passed over the drain. The gates were about half a kilo metre off and we were doing about forty kph. At this rate it would take us the best part of a minute, during which time the gun could get off three or perhaps four shots. One hit was all it would take.
Nobby had his foot flat on the floor and the truck shook as the speed built up. The armoured car carrying the gun almost certainly had infra-red night-fighting sights which would pick us out clear as daylight. The smoke might mask us a little, but I didn't count on it.
The next shell screamed across the bonnet in front of us. It burst with a deafening crash in the bush between the fences. Earth fountained up in a massive blast, spraying the sides of the vehicle with fragments. "Shit!" Nobby cried. "The bastard must've set off a mine!"
Flames crackled among the bush as we raced past. I was craning my neck into the night, trying to spot the gates while the wind tore at my eyes. We heard the crack-thump of the next shell and tensed, but when the blast came it was well behind. I twisted my head back and laughed. "Fuckers saw the fire and thought they'd hit us! They're shooting at their own smoke."
There was a long pause. Some cannon fire sprayed around, but nothing that came close. Probably the gunners thought they'd taken us out. Then I saw a dark object against the flames. It was moving rapidly and in a direction that would cut us off.
Something about the shape triggered a memory the AFVs we had seen outside the hangar the previous night. One of them had guessed our intention and was racing to intercept.
A stream of tracer reached out like a chain of coloured lights. The shells passed hissing overhead, detonating against the fence. We were almost at the gate now. "Turn!" I shouted to Nobby, "Turn!"
Another spray of cannon rounds burst around us. Fragments rattled against the sides of the truck. The punishment the old girl was taking was amazing. Nobby fought the wheel round but the nose was swinging too slowly. We were missing the gates and taking out the fence on the far side. Posts and wire crumpled like paper under the plough as we brushed through. We had missed the track by half a dozen metres. Christ, I thought, if the Argies planted their mines close to the edge we're done for.
But Nobby had control again. He was straightening up and was heading us back on to the track again. I waited for the blast of a mine under our wheels but none came. The outer gates appeared in front of us and we smashed them down, thundering out into the bush beyond.
More tracer crackled around us, sizzling in the snow-covered bush. The AFV was charging in pursuit. I heard the heavy rattle of the Browning opening up. At close range there was a chance Kiwi might do some damage or throw the gunner's aim off. Otherwise Doug might get close enough to use an RPG. With its eight-wheel drive t
he AFV would run rings round us in rough country. It could stand off out of range and pepper us. It would be only a matter of time before we took a vital hit. Then our only choice would be to ditch the wounded and take off on foot.
A heavy shell whizzed past, detonating in our tracks. The 105mm gunners had spotted us again. It was a competition to see who would get us first. Our pace was slowing as we started on the rise leading up to the main road. Looking back I could make out the AFV in the gap we had torn in the fence, its gun spitting fire after us.
Suddenly a mushroom of smoke burst from the earth under its front wheel. The explosion jarred the ground, flinging the vehicle on to its side across the track. For a moment I thought it had been hit by one of its own side's shells, then I realised it must have swung wide of our track and detonated an anti-tank mine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
"Fuck it, they're stuck in their own minefield!" Doug yelled from the back of the truck.
The AFV was lying on its side, pouring smoke. The heavy anti-tank mine had blown off one of the wheels and the front section was burning. I could see men struggling from the rear hatch. The vehicle was lying across the track, completely blocking it. With a minefield either side, the Argies would have to push or drag it out of the way before they could continue with the pursuit. The gunners in the armoured car had ceased firing, probably afraid of hitting their own people.
"Which way?" Nobby shouted, dropping down into low gear. The truck was struggling up the rise, pitching and rolling on the rutted surface. The snow was deep here and it was hard to make out the track, especially without lights.
Concha scrambled up from below the seat and the two of us peered out. "Keep right!" she shouted. "The ground is hard there and the slope is easier." She evidently knew the road. I felt absurdly proud of her.
