by Chris Ryan
The truck was making heavy weather even so, its wheels spinning on the packed snow. Nobby eased off on the throttle and was crawling along in first gear. It was desperately important that we keep going. If we could only make it the kilo metre up to the highway we stood a chance of reaching the border.
I heard a rattle of shots from the back. Argentine marines must have bypassed the knocked-out AFV and were pursuing us on foot. Kiwi and his machine-gun would keep them at a distance, if we could only make it up the steady rise towards the highway.
Snow was blowing straight into the cab, making it hard to see anything. Nobby was steering almost by instinct. I had only a faint memory of the route having walked along it in the dark twenty-four hours before, but that wasn't much help.
Luckily Concha seemed more confident. She yelled instructions in Nobby's ear, occasionally grasping the wheel and pushing it round when he seemed to be going off course.
The firing behind died away as we crested the last hump, and we were on the road before we realised it. Chips of gravel flew from under the tyres as Nobby swung us round and we plunged northward into the night.
"Boss, I gotta turn the lights on," Nobby pleaded. "I can't make out a fucking thing in this!"
I looked back. The horizon was brilliant with leaping flames and there were no more signs of pursuit. But it would not be long before the armoured car found another exit and came after us. It was vital we get a head-start. "OK but step on it."
Nobby snapped the switch and our single headlamp stabbed into the swirling snowflakes. Snow was falling fast and I reckoned even with lights on we would be hard to spot at any distance. Luckily another vehicle had used the road within the past hour or so and the tyre tracks were still visible. Nobby shifted up the gears and our speed built slowly.
"How far to the border?" I bawled in Concha's ear.
"To San Sebastian? Eighty-five kilometres."
I squeezed her arm. There was snow in her hair and on her face, but she looked beautiful. Eighty-five kilometres that was around sixty miles: two hours, two and a half, say, in these conditions. "How's our fuel?" I called to Nobby.
"Fine," he shouted back. "I chose this one because she had a full tank. I'm more worried about the tyres. I reckon at least one of the rear wheels has been hit."
Fuck the tyres, I thought. The truck was a big eight-wheeler. If we had to we would drive on the rims to the frontier. I glanced at the speedometer needle. It was quivering around forty. The armoured car that had been shooting at us was a massive beast and its huge cannon must weigh some. Even so, it would be capable of matching our speed easily. Allowing for our lead, I estimated it would catch us up in ten kilometres or less.
I tried to remember what I knew of the route. I nudged Concha again. "That bridge, the one we escaped from. How far off is it?"
She wiped the snow from her mouth. "Not far, about four kilometres."
I tried to guess what the enemy would do with the forces available. The obvious solution would be to send up a helicopter but the weather ruled that out. I knew they had at least one more tracked AFV of the type we'd seen outside the hangar earlier, in addition to the armoured car and there were probably others. The tracks would make short work of the snow and they carried an entire section of troops, but they were slower. The armoured car with its eight-wheel drive would have the legs on the road, and its big gun had the range and computer-guided night-fighting equipment to pick us off. So I reckoned they would send that in first and use the AFVs to mop up any survivors afterwards.
This was a good section of road. Snow was flying by and our speed was holding. At this rate we should make the bridge in another ten minutes at the outside.
It was seven minutes flat before we glimpsed two red lights glowing through the murk ahead. "That is the bridge," Concha shouted. I shot a glance behind, and thought I could make out a glow of headlamps on our tail.
"Nobby, there's a left-hand bend immediately after the bridge. As soon as we're out of sight of the bridge, stop the truck but leave the engine running. We'll give the marines something to think about."
"Gotcha, boss." Nobby sounded positively cheerful at the prospect of further action.
We rattled over the bridge, past the spot where Concha and I had taken our dive in the major's 4x4 twelve hours ago. I wondered if the Jeep was still down there. Our trek through the snow seemed like another age. Our clothes were caked in snow,
but we had too much adrenalin coursing through our bodies to feel the cold now.
Nobby braked the truck round the corner and cut the lights. He and I jumped down with our guns. "You stay in the cab and make sure the engine doesn't cut out," I told Concha.
I ran round to the back. "We're going to set an ambush," I shouted up to Doug and Kiwi. "Bring the RPGs. I want to try and take out that armoured tin can with the cannon."
"Fucking right," Doug called back. He was always up for a fight.
"What about the Browning?" Kiwi asked.
"Negative. Take Josh's gun. We may have to bug out in a hurry."
The Browning's awesome firepower would be an undeniable asset, but it weighed as much as a fully-grown man with its tripod and ammunition. Besides, I wanted to lure the Argentines on with a false impression of our weakness, not have them stand off and shell us to bits.
The two of them jumped down, leaving the Argies aboard and the injured Josh with Concha up in the cab. Doug was carrying the three RPGs with his 203 over his shoulder. He passed us one each to Kiwi and Nobby and together we ran back the hundred metres to the bridge. There was a drainage ditch on the left-hand side of the road that would provide cover for our withdrawal. We could see the headlights probing through the snow on the other bank of the river. We reached the start of the ironwork and Doug and Nobby flung themselves down in the snow. Kiwi and I took up positions by the parapet either side. We cocked our guns and chambered grenade rounds.
The approaching lights resolved themselves into a column of at least ten vehicles. It looked to me like a Jeep in the lead, which was what I was expecting. Behind it was the big armoured car with its enormous cannon swinging as it descended the rise on the other side. An AFV followed, with what looked like more Jeep-loads of troops in the rear. I reckoned maybe eighty men with two armoured vehicles, a formidable force.
We had been lucky once tonight, taking the guard post and fighting our way out of the ambush set by the marines. Yet an uneasy doubt nagged at me: how had the marines come to be in position? Why had they waited till we left the guard post to attack when they could have had us surrounded?
But there was no time to reflect. Already the leading elements of the column were drawing near. I could see the snow being thrown up by their wheels and tracks.
I gauged the width of the bridge about 120 metres across. "Let the truck get its front wheels on, then hammer it," I said to the others.
The Jeep came on without hesitating; they could see from our tracks we had crossed. I guessed they must have thought we were on the run and it was simply a question of chasing us down. The moment it drew level with the railings I stood up above the parapet, raised my 203, flipped up the leaf sight and squeezed the trigger of the launcher. The HE round shot out of the tube in a soaring arc, skimming towards the truck like a well-thrown egg. In the same instant Nobby fired from the other side and Doug let rip a burst from his rifle. One grenade exploded on the Jeep's bonnet with a bright flash, the other detonated under the wheels.
"Fucking on target!" Kiwi yelled, delighted.
The Jeep slewed across the road, two bodies spilling out into the snow. The four surviving Argies tumbled out, some screaming, and ran off back down the road. The remainder of the force crammed on the brakes and pulled off the road to take us under fire. They were hampered though by the steep bank and the bend in the river. A heavy machine-gun on the armoured car opened up, sweeping the approaches of the bridge. Then the 30mm cannon on the AFV joined in. We lay flat below the parapet and waited.
The en
emy had two choices now. They could keep hammering away with automatic fire to keep our heads down while their infantry worked its way across the bridge to get to grips with us. If they did that they would have to accept casualties. Otherwise they could hold their men back and send in their armour to winkle us out. If we could do them sufficient damage to slow them up, maybe even block the bridge, there was still a chance we could make it to the border two hours away.
The firing continued for a few minutes. We waited quietly. Then I saw Doug stick his head round the edge of the parapet and fire a quick burst. There were screams from the far side and a storm of angry firing swept the bridge in response. Moments later I spotted the outline of a helmet moving along by the bottom of the parapet on the opposite side at about a hundred metres' range. He was wearing camouflage white but the gun flashes of the covering fire provide light enough to see by. I took careful aim and popped off a single shot. He rolled over and lay still.
The troops on the far bank were doing their best to outflank us, but the terrain was against them and we were well protected by the curve of the parapet. After a few more minutes' uncontrolled shooting we heard the growl of tracks moving up. They had opted for the armoured solution.
The AFV advanced slowly, pausing every few metres to search the end of the bridge with its machine-gun. It was fitted with a co-axial Hughes chain-gun in 7.62 calibre. The high velocity rounds smacked into the parapet above my head with an evil sound. There would be a section of infantry crouched in the back, anything up to eight or ten men, who would be ready to make short work of us when they disembarked. The closer it got the bigger it looked; it must have been all of three metres high and as wide across. Its full-up weight would be around twenty tons.
It crawled out towards the centre of the span, making the bridge shake and looking like a squat iron toad. The turret swivelled from side to side, as the chain-gun let off short bursts, and the hatches were buttoned down tight against sniper fire. The squeal of its tracks grated on my nerves.
I glanced across at Doug. He had his RPGs in his hand, and was waiting. I loaded another grenade round in my 203 and risked a quick look out to check on the range. The beast was just coming up to the slight hump in the centre of the bridge. That would put it at about sixty metres off. I signalled to Doug to be ready, counted to ten, then gave him the thumbs-up sign. I stepped out quickly and triggered the grenade, aiming for the gunner's vision block. My intention was to shatter the periscope or at the least throw the gunner's aim off so as to give Doug and Kiwi a clear shot with their rockets.
I jumped back under cover and in the same instant Doug rolled out into the snow to kneel on the roadway, the RPG on his shoulder. My grenade burst on one of the hatches and the infuriated chain-gunner swung the turret towards me. A hail of bullets flattened themselves against the heavy ironwork of the parapet, ricocheting off all around me. I flattened myself against the road, staring across at Doug.
The AFV was right on the crest of the hump. Its snout reared up momentarily, making it hard for the gunner to lower the barrel sufficiently and exposing its slanted belly. Doug settled the RPG on his shoulder, flipped up the sight coolly and flicked off the safety.
The vehicle tilted over the hump and came down on the front of its tracks with a thump. The gunner, realising too late that it was a trap, was already swinging the turret round frantically, but he was too slow and now he was unsighted. Snatching his chance, Doug fired. There was a swoosh and a plume of smoke as the propellant ignited and the oversized grenade on its rocket shot from the tube. It struck the AFV full on the snout, right underneath the cannon and on the weak spot in the armour where the gun joined the turret ring. There was a small flash, followed by an incredibly loud bang that made my ears ring.
Now it was Kiwi's turn. As Doug rolled away, Kiwi sprang out and knelt in the snow, levelling his own rocket. Again there was the flash and smoke blast of the firing followed by the crash as the warhead detonated, this time on the turret. The AFV shuddered to a halt with smoke pouring from the hatches. I glimpsed sparks of fire, intensely bright phosphorous incendiary ammunition burning inside.
The hollow-charge warheads had flattened on impact, igniting the explosive and instantaneously melting the steel liner to focus a jet of molten metal that bored right through the armour plate. It could penetrate up to half a metre thick. Inside the vehicle, the stream would've expanded into a cloud of superheated gas and fragments that ignited everything inside. The crew stood no chance.
"Pull out!" I yelled to the other two, signalling with my hand. We were still almost deafened from the blasts of the grenades. Picking up my still unfired rocket, I ran crouched across the bridge with Kiwi to join Doug. We dived into the ditch as the stunned Argentines on the other side of the river opened up with every weapon they had in a furious attempt to avenge their comrades. But the bridge was well and truly blocked. The AFV was burning with an intense heat and a deep roar that drowned out the screams of the crew. Exploding ammunition inside rocked the hull, showering flaming fragments and clumps of white-hot phosphorus over the bridge. The road was totally blocked; nothing could get past for several hours.
The smoke that was blowing back on us carried the stench of burning flesh, but there was no time to feel sickened at what we had done. We crawled along the ditch for 200 metres till we were out of range of all but the heavy weapons. Then we got up and ran through the snow and darkness up the road to join the truck.
I felt light-headed with tiredness and relief. We had stopped the pursuit. No helicopter could pick us up in this weather. There was nothing for it now but to press on to the frontier.
We jogged easily up the road through the snow for fifty metres. We were near enough to make out the truck's shape in the dark and hear the throaty rumble of the motor running when another sound stopped us in our tracks.
It was a pistol shot.
Oh shit, I thought, and broke into a run. As I did so the rear lights clicked on, the gears grated, and the truck lumbered forward into motion.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I sprinted up the road through the snow with every ounce of speed I possessed. My rifle thumped against my back but there wasn't time to dump it. At all costs I had to reach the truck before it could gather speed. It was twenty-five metres ahead of me. I had no idea what was happening. Could a bunch of Argentines have come down the road from the other direction and taken over the truck? Suddenly anything was possible. They might have shot Josh, Concha and her friends, but surely they would have waited to catch the rest of us?
The truck was still a dozen metres ahead. It slowed and there was another crash of gears. Whoever was driving was a novice with big trucks. The wheels were slipping on the gradient; he would have done better to keep his speed down and go for a steady pace. I pounded on, straining for the glow of the rear lights, the others tearing after me. If I could only reach the tailgate and grab a hold. What I was going to do then, I had no idea. The truck could be full of Argentine soldiers.
I'd left Concha in the cab. Was the shot I heard the one that killed her? Fury at the thought drove me on. I was so close now that the slush thrown up by the rear wheels was hitting me in the face. The engine was snorting and coughing as if the mixture was too rich. Any moment now it might cut out altogether. The driver obviously thought the same, because he changed down. There was a momentary hiatus as the engine disengaged and the truck's momentum slowed still further.
My breath was pounding in my lungs, my heart labouring. The tailgate was less than a metre away now, but the truck's speed was picking up again. It was now or never; I put everything I had into one final convulsive effort. In the glow thrown out by the rear lights I could dimly make out the rungs of a ladder up the near side. My fingers stretched for the lowest rung and found a handhold. The momentum of the truck plucked me forward. I clawed with my other hand and swung myself up. The truck's speed had picked up suddenly, and when I put a foot down to kick off it was whipped from under me. I bent my knees
and tensed my biceps just as Josh had done on the beam back in the hangar, then snatched upwards in the dark, found the next rung and pulled myself up.
Now I could get a foot on to the ladder, and for a moment I hung there like a human fly, sucking air back into my lungs. The truck was rattling away up the slope from the river at a gathering pace. I had made it just in time. I didn't know what had happened to the others but I knew they would be racing in pursuit. If I could halt the vehicle I would have some back-up soon enough.
As soon as I had got my breath back I climbed to the rim of the tailgate. For a moment I paused. It was still pitch dark. Above me the muzzle of Kiwi's machine-gun gleamed faintly. If the truck had been seized by Argentines then I needed to work out a strategy. My rifle was still on my back but it was a cumbersome weapon for close-quarter fighting. Tucked into my waistband I still had Major Oliveras's .45 automatic. I dug it out and, wedging an arm through the ladder, cocked it and flicked off the safety. Then I gathered myself together, put a hand on to the rim and in a single movement heaved myself up and over into the truck body.
I landed awkwardly, caught my foot in the tripod of the machine-gun and fell forward into the sand with a clatter. I rolled over, bumping against someone in the dark and swung the automatic round, seeking a target.
There wasn't one. The darkness was total up here but from where I lay I could look upwards against the snow drifting down and there was no one else on their feet. I reached out with my free hand and encountered a leg. Was that Josh? I gave it a squeeze. There was no answering movement. My heart sank. The stillness around me told its own story.
Picking myself up, I crawled towards the front. I now recognised Josh's body by the field dressing against his stomach. One hand was still clutching the IV drip that had been his lifeline. There was sticky blood on his chest "where he had taken another hit. Tears of rage came into my eyes. I swore I'd make the bastards pay for this in gunning down a badly injured man who couldn't possibly have posed a threat.
