Siege of Silence

by A. J. Quinnell

  The dial was turned higher and the agony increased.

  Twice he brought the plastic box and silently showed me the hypodermic. Twice I managed to introduce Jorge into my body and mind and I smiled and closed my eyes.

  He was right after all, that Solzhenitsyn. The time does come when the agony only happens to the body. The mind is dead and cannot be manipulated.

  My body rises again and ripples as a new shock passes through. My nerves shriek. The scream comes; but from throat muscles, not the mind. My mind defends itself and I pass out.

  I come back slowly. Voices murmuring. Fombona talking to the guard. A baffled, surly voice.

  “Go now. Sleep. I am on the edge of the red. I will give him half an hour’s rest. At midnight I start again. If he doesn’t talk by half past midnight, I give him the needle anyway.”

  A half hour’s rest; a half hour’s torment; death. A timetable to peace. Jorge, I go with you.

  SLOCUM

  USS “Nimitz”

  Midnight 20

  The briefing was short. The changes to the plan minimal. I am now going to land behind the west end of the residence. I will take with me our best pilot, a Puerto Rican called Rodriguez. I will also have Brand and Kerr follow me in if they get that far. They will then move directly to the front of the chancery while Moncada’s squad approach from the back and sides. Rodriguez will follow me to the guardhouse. After I secure the Ambassador he will guard him while I join the main assault. Castaneda’s squad will assault the apartments where most of the guards should be sleeping. Sacasa and his men will cover the residence and act as general trouble-shooters. We went quickly through the much-practised radio procedures. I am Vampire One, Rodriguez Vampire Two and Brand and Kerr Three and Four. Moncada is Green One, his deputy Green Two and so on. The colours blue, yellow and red and the various numerals were given to Castaneda, Sacasa, Gomez and their men. These call signs could have sounded boy-scoutish but conditions being what they were they had the ring of gravestone inscriptions. When I finished, the Admiral stood up and, in a firm clear voice, said, “You are courageous men, and true Americans. I’m proud of you. The support of this ship and all ships in the battle group is right behind you. Good luck!”

  He sure meant it. The back-up has been outstanding. After my men left to suit up I spent a few minutes going over timings with the leaders of the three groups: the A6E Intruders and helicopter gunships who would “sanitize” the area around the compound; the evacuation helicopters; the signals officer; the officer in charge of the rescue of any of my ditched men and finally Simmons, who was co-ordinating the whole operation. Then the talking was over.

  We’re all grouped in the lee of the ship’s island. It towers darkly above us. The Ultralights are in position, held by sailors at each wing tip. Their canvas wings are flapping and shaking in the gusts. They look about as sturdy as butterflies.

  We use the buddy system: the men in pairs checking each other’s equipment. It’s much practised and goes rhythmically:

  “Knife. Check.

  Stun grenades, 4. Check.

  Flare grenades, 4. Check

  Frag, grenades, 4. Check

  S.M.G., safetied. Check, check.

  Suppressor. Check.

  Mags, 6. Check.

  Helmets, transmission off. Check, check.

  Hand and leg cuffs, 5 & 5.Check, check.

  Dinghy. Check.”

  “Check, check, check.” I’m the odd man out and have to do it alone. I’m feeling the loneliness- the weight of command; suddenly aware that I got all those guys into this hairy scene. Quickly I think about what they’re doing to my man over in the compound, and the bile surges up reassuringly in my throat. I look at my watch. Five past midnight. Everyone’s ready. The black guys are moving around slapping black ointment on white faces and trying not to look superior. My four squad leaders are in front of me. I remember Wellington’s words when he once reviewed some of his troops:

  “I don’t know what they’ll do to the enemy, but by God they frighten me.”

  They’re a murderous looking quartet. Webbing festooned with grenades and spare mags. Sawn-off shot-guns slung over shoulders. Black faces. Knives in boots. S.M.G.s swinging from one hand. Black goggled radio helmets from the other. They’re waiting for final orders. There aren’t any. Hard and mean as they are, I sense they’re also waiting for a few words of reassurance. I want to hug all four of them and tell them it’s gonna be just fine, but I’m the tough old bull.

  “So if you bums are ready, pile your boys into their kites and let’s go do it.”

  I see the flashes of white teeth in the darkness as they turn away; and know I have judged them right. The young flight deck officer is at my shoulder.

  “Four minutes, Colonel.”

  I nod and pick up my S.M.G. and dinghy and helmet and call loudly, “Let’s go!”

  We move out on to the flight deck and into the wind. The Ultras are facing the bow, spread out across the width of the great deck in five flights. Mine is at the front. Newman and Allen are moving between the machines like mother hens checking their chicks. They come over and slap me on the shoulder and wish me luck. I nod at them and move on. I do a quick check of my Ultralight. The wings, struts and wires. Everything okay. I drop my helmet on the seat and sling my S.M.G. over my shoulder and tie on the dinghy. I pull the helmet over my head and check again that the radio transmission switch is off. The microphone is an inch from my lips. I pull down the infra-red goggles and everything is suddenly brightly pink. Next I pull down the dark visor and everything is black; but it will enable me to keep my eyes open and see everything when the flare grenades arc burning and blinding the enemy. I lift it and turn. Rodriguez is directly behind me, already seated. On either side of him are Brand and Kerr. Newman is checking Brand in and Allen is hovering over Kerr. They’re worried sick about those two. Moncada’s flight of seven Ultralights is behind them. I gave him extra men. With me diverting first to the guardhouse his role is vital in securing the other hostages. Behind him is Sacasa’s flight of five, the Castaneda five and finally, at the back, Gomez’s flight of four.

  I have momentary doubts. Should I have given Gomez more? He has to take out the M.G. emplacements on the roofs in the compound. That role is also vital. Fuck it; everything is vital! Besides, he and his three men are crack pilots and more than likely to make it.

  They’re all seated. I raise both my thumbs. The signal to start engines. Apart from the two sailors holding the wing tips there’s also a third sailor at the front of all the machines. They will signal as each engine is running smoothly . There is hardly any noise but one by one their right arms go up. I do a count: twenty-four. All on go. I duck and swing myself into my seat, get as comfortable as my bulk will allow, and switch on. I feel rather than hear the engine kick into life. I ease up the throttle while the sailors take the strain, quickly check the few instruments. Tachometer, wind meter, compass, temperature gauge and glide indicator- A-OK. I glance at my watch. Midnight ten. Time to go.

  In front, to my right, is a perspex dome and under it the head and shoulders of an officer. As far as possible we’re following normal launch procedures. As soon as I’m set and ready I snap off a salute. He hits a button. If I was in a Tomcat it would be the catapult firing button and I’d be airborne in half a second and doing 160 knots two seconds later. This time it will be a button that changes a red light to green. Then I go with my flight. The other flights follow the same procedure. I look first left and then right at the sailors holding me in check. They’re just boys, eighteen or nineteen years old. They both mouth the words “Good luck”. I nod back.

  Now I concentrate on the wind and abruptly I’m scared. Is the fear for myself or of failure? Angrily I think of my man over there; the fear goes and with one hand on the throttle, I concentrate again. A strong gust and then another and then a lull. My right hand begins to move and then stops; another gust. Four, five, six seconds, another lull. Fuck it- let’s go!


  I snap the salute. The green light’s on. I pour on the power and the machine surges forward. I’m airborne! In a near panic, I struggle with the handlebar controls to stop myself drifting to the left. The bow of the “Nimitz” slides away beneath and I’m looking at a very angry, white-topped sea. The machine bucks upwards and then sinks sickeningly. I feel spray on my hands and I’m looking at the foaming top of a wave right in front of me. I haul back on the bars and climb again. I could be having a bad time in a rodeo. I work the machine a bit higher and it steadies for a while. Christ, what’s happening to the guys behind?! I twist my body and crane my neck around and I’m plunging again sideways. Down on the right handlebar, ease it back. Shit, Newman was right. This is a fucking roller coaster! Why did I let those assholes Brand and Kerr talk me into letting them come along? I should have beaten the bastards senseless. I’m not going to risk another look back. Every goddam gramme of concentration is needed to keep this thing and me in the air.

  But I’m forced to concentrate on other things. The plan is to stay at one hundred feet for the first five miles but that really is suicide. I take a decision and fight the thing up to 500 feet. It’s no less turbulent but the sudden down drops are now less likely to be fatal. If anyone survived behind me they’ll follow me up. Screw the spy ship’s radar!

  It’s getting a bit easier. I’m getting used to it and I’m not snatching at the controls; anticipating instead of just reacting. I check my watch and then my surface speed. It’s bouncing between seventy and eighty knots. I work it out. Shit. In three minutes we start the climb. What will it be like up there? The met. officer and Newman and Allen forecast a little less turbulence. We’d decided on a ceiling of3,500 feet. I decide to start a gradual climb now. Slowly the altimeter winds up. At 1,000 feet conditions are definitely better. The roller coaster is just a little smoother.

  At 2,000 feet I can see a darker line on the purple horizon: San Carlo. I’m going to make it. I pray that there are at least nine others behind me. I reach 3,500 feet and ease the throttle. We also decided that with the conditions and the effectiveness of the silencers we could motor in close to the coast. It takes shape rapidly. A few lights show up. There’s a ninety per cent blackout due to no oil getting through the blockade; but I know that the outer floodlights on the compound walls are operational. I search for them. They must be visible by now. Nothing. Then it’s there on my vision’s periphery, way out to the right. The wind has carried me down further south than expected. I turn and start crabbing up to the north, fighting against the handlebars. My excitement climbs as the light forms into a square. I can make out the dark blobs of the individual buildings inside the walls. There it is! The guardhouse. I’m so intent on it I almost forget. I can see the waves pounding on the shoreline below. It’s time. My guts feel like a block of ice as I reach up to my helmet and flick on the transmit button. Please God, let there be nine behind me! “Vampire One to Green One, come in.” I count the seconds. Three- four- five. I want to scream and then loud in my ears: “Green One to Vampire One. We are three.” With me that’s four. Nerves racing, I call: “Vampire One to Blue One. Come in.” Instantly: “Blue One. We are two.” Shit and hell! It only makes six.

  “Vampire One to Yellow One.”

  Sacasa’s voice crackles in.

  “Yellow One. We are three.”

  Jesus, only one to go!

  “Vampire One to Red One.”

  Gomez’s accented voice will be easily recognizable. I yearn to hear it. I don’t. It’s another voice.

  “Yellow Two. We are two.”

  It’s the voice of Hal Lewis, Gomez’s number two. Gomez must have bought it. But we are eleven. We go in. I don’t have much hope for Brand and Kerr but my “ace” Rodriguez must have made it.

  “Vampire One to Vampire Two.”

  Seconds pass. Nothing. I repeat.

  “Vampire One to Vampire Two. Come in.”

  A dour voice crackles in my ears.

  “This is Vampire Three. He didn’t make it. Neither did Vampire Four.”

  Such is war. My “ace” dipped out and ol’ duffer Brand survived. Well, we’re eleven. My civvies were right. We lost fifty per cent plus one. But we’re twelve and we’re goin’ in. Simmons on the “Nimitz” will have monitored the radio and by now will be talking to Komlosy in the White House Sit. Room or even the President himself. As we cross the coast, I consider whether to juggle my remaining men around. I decide against it. The biggest problem is the Red squad. With Gomez and one other gone the two left are going to have their work cut out silencing the roof-top M.G. emplacements. But Lewis is a good man; so is Spooner, the other survivor.

  The compound is below me on the left. I reach for the engine cut-off and say, “Vampire One. Engines off.”

  It takes me a few seconds to get used to the machine in the glide mode, then I’m spiralling sharply down, fighting the handlebars and praying that we all get on the ground in one piece. It comes rushing up at me. I’m lifted by a gust and strain against the handlebars. As I cross the south-west comer of the wall my eyes are fixed on the rear of the residence. For a moment I marvel at the skill of our Seabees. I practised this a dozen times on the mock-up at Bragg and it looks exactly the same. Concentrate, asshole! I’m too fast- too low! I ease back the bars. The canard wing lifts. I slow and crab sideways. The building looms in front of me. I correct and I’m down and rolling, pushing out my right leg on the nose wheel bar, turning into the shadow of the wall. A second of relief and self-congratulation then I’m scrambling clear, swinging the Ingram S.M.G. off my shoulder, cocking it, and straining my ears. Not a sound, not a whisper . . . yes, a whisper. A dark pink blob glides past me. It’s Brand. He’s overshot. His left wing is dangerously tilted only a foot off the ground. I draw in my breath as he corrects and the machine bumps on to the ground with a squeal. He comes to a stop six feet from the back wall of the residence. While I listen for any alarm his squat figure jumps off and pulls the Ultralight close in under the wall, then he’s shuffling towards me in a crouching run.

  I punch him lightly on the shoulder. He grins. His hair is falling over the top of his infra-red goggles. For a crazy moment I think he looks like Ringo Starr. We creep to the corner of the residence. The guardhouse is about fifty yards away to our right and beyond are the main gates. I can just make out two figures slumped against the wall beside them. I tap Brand on the shoulder and point. He taps me back in confirmation. Far to our right are the blocks of staff apartments. On top of the nearest one I can make out the hump of an M.G. emplacement, exactly where it should be. I hope that Lewis and Spooner are circling slowly down ready to take it out. Two hundred yards in front of us is the chancery building. As I focus on it two diamond shapes glide down behind it. Okay. Away to our left there’s a scuffling sound and a couple of bumps. There’s nothing to see. It must be Sacasa’s squad going behind the apartments. Time to go. Instead of taking the long way around hugging the compound walls I decide to risk going direct. Everything’s gonna cut loose any second and when it does I want to be at the guardhouse with my man. We set off in a fast crouched duck-waddle. Halfway across a goddam Ultralight crabs in across the wall, straightens up and lands right in the middle of the compound, coming to a stop on the edge of the Ambassador’s swimming pool. Who the hell is that? Never mind. He’s down and there’s no alarm. As we reach the back of the guardhouse I turn and see a figure detach itself from the Ultra and scuttle away towards the apartments. We creep round one corner of the oblong building and up the other. I put my head round. Next to the door is a figure sitting slackly in a chair with his chin on his chest. I move back and my heel comes down on Brand’s boot. He moans softly. I tap him on the chest and point with a curving motion round the corner. Then I hold up one finger and parody a sitting man with his chin on his chest. He nods and reaches down and I see the pale pink gleam of his bowie knife. I move clear and he slithers round the corner like a squat lizard. I’m right behind him as he glides up, slips a hand behind t
he guard’s neck, clamps it across his mouth and pulls up and back. There’s no sound as the knife slices through the jugular. He lifts the body clear as it kicks and twists. There’s a soft grunting and coughing and then it slackens. Brand lays it quietly on the concrete. I make a sign to him to guard my back and then gingerly turn the door handle. I open it a crack, slide the barrel of the S.M.G. in and nudge it open. The room is lit by a single bulb. It’s empty except for a desk and two chairs. On the far side is another door with a key in it. My man is in there.

  Suddenly from behind that door I hear a muffled but unearthly sound. A sound out of hell. My skin prickles. I move quickly. My rubber boots hardly make any noise on impact with the concrete. I put my ear against the door. There’s a voice: muffled, but I can make out the words.

  “Talk, pig! Talk to me! Give me a name!”

  I turn the knob, kick open the door, and raise the S.M.G.

  It’s a tableau. A high barrel-shaped thing; a thin, naked man strapped over it, his face a mask of agony. Standing over him is a big beefy guy with short black hair, wearing a white coat with a goddam stethoscope round his neck. He’s holding a syringe in front of the agonized face. My thumb flicks the S.M.G. on to single shot. I hear my voice.

  “You want a conversation? Talk to me, bastard!”

  His mouth opens and my bullet cracks right into it, slamming his head and body back. I’m seeing things through a red haze and it’s not the goggles. They’re pushed up over my helmet. His head is on one side, a bloody hole at the back where the bullet exited. The body is still twitching. I line up the barrel and suppressor: phut, a bullet in his belly. Phut, a bullet in his balls. He’s not twitching any more. I hear my voice.

  “You just had your last words, prick- from an Ingram Ten sub-machine-gun. Rot in hell!”

  I turn and the red haze lifts and urgency washes over me. Peabody’s narrowed eyes are watching me, but he seems far away. There’s a wire attached to his lip from a crocodile clip. Another attached to a fold of flesh behind his knee. Gently I remove them. I slip out my knife, move round and cut through the leather bindings. He moans terribly as the pressure is eased. Then I bend over him.