Stand By, Stand By

by Ryan, Chris

  ‘Easy peasy,’ said Stew.

  SEVENTEEN

  We’d synchronized our watches down to the last second. I stood back round the end of the accommodation block. My watch read 0259. One minute till things went noisy. The night had been long. Those of us not on stag had tried to get our heads down for a couple of hours, but sleep had been elusive. The locals had held some form of piss-up round the cookhouse fire, and there’d been a good deal of drunken shouting. We’d seen the three players go into their room at 11.30. At least we knew where they were; but we weren’t so certain about the guards. We reckoned that some of them were living in the far end of the accommodation block, but a few must have been sleeping somewhere else. I kept thinking about Farrell and I kept thinking about Luisa.

  At midnight Sparky had sent his last sitrep back to our forward mounting base at Puerto Pizarro, confirming that our operation would go down at 0300, and that after it we’d make our way out to the airstrip, then upriver to the LZ.

  0259 and everyone in position. Murdo was up at the ether store with a one-pound charge of PE, already made up with a detonator pushed into it, and a thirtymetre length of black Don Ten wire for cracking it off from a distance. I’d already crept along the front of the building and placed a tiny charge no bigger than my little fingernail on the padlock of the DA’s door. I’d also given a couple of gentle warning taps.

  Now I held the clacker in my left hand, MP 5 in my right. Sparky was with me, to give covering fire and help propel the hostages in the right direction. Johnny was away down the road to a tree that he’d selected in a midnight recce, and the other two were on the rampart, ready to put rounds down if the defenders started to come forward. They’d done useful work up there, clearing out a second position about ten metres along from our OP, so that they could open the firing from there, and then move along if anyone started to shoot back.

  Another storm was brewing. Big bangs of thunder were rolling gradually closer, and the darkness was intense. The usual two bulbs were burning in the lab area, and in their glow I saw Murdo slinking up the side of the building. He was moving carefully, with his MP 5 slung over his back and the made-up charge in his hand.

  Then I caught my breath. In a sudden flurry of movement a figure rushed out at Murdo from the right. Murdo obviously had his mind on planting the explosive, and was taken by surprise. But the assailant had picked the wrong man; before he could even grapple, Murdo had let go his charge and dropped the attacker with a kick in the groin. Next second he was on top of him, arms round his neck. The man didn’t even have time to scream. One of those big, tattooed hands had clamped over his mouth, and with a violent jerk his neck was broken. The whole incident was over so quickly that our timing remained as planned.

  I saw Murdo pick up the charge, go forward, place it and move back out of sight. Fifteen seconds to go. If we’d been properly kitted up, with covert comms, I’d have been giving a countdown into the guys’ earpieces. In the absence of radios, I was counting to myself. ‘Seven, six, five, four.’ I closed my eyes. ‘Stand by . . . stand by . . . GO!’

  BOOM!

  I’d been expecting a good bang, but this was mega. It was nuclear. The whole compound twitched and juddered under the shockwave. As I opened my eyes again, a fireball fifty feet wide exploded into the air and continued up in a searing pillar of fire. Suddenly the jungle all round was lit by a ruddy glare. Pieces of debris rained down all over the place.

  My heart was pounding, but I forced myself to wait – wait for doors to open, wait for the locals to run away from me towards the fire. There they went: the guards first, then the PIRA. Three guys out of the PIRA room in a flurry of movement. In the dark it was hard to see if they were carrying weapons; they were just ragged silhouettes against the leaping flames.

  One more shout wouldn’t matter now. ‘Block your ears!’ I yelled. Then I closed the clacker. Boof! went the lock charge. I ran forwards. The door was swinging outwards. I leapt into the room and found the DA standing dazed right inside.

  ‘Come on!’ I yelled. I knew he’d be deafened and disorientated, so I grabbed hold of his arm and started dragging him.

  ‘RUN!’ I roared. ‘RUN! RUN ! COME ON!’

  In the glare of the fire at the far end of the compound, men were racing all ways. One started to run in our direction, but a burst ripped out from the top of the rampart, stopping him in his tracks and swivelling him round. As he went down, he tried to bring his Uzi to bear, but another short burst nailed him to the floor of the compound, and he lay still.

  I could see the DA was in deep shock. He tripped over the door and half-fell – he felt like a sack of suet. I grabbed him tighter and held him up. ‘Listen!’ I screamed. ‘WHERE’S LUISA?’

  All he did was shake his head. We had to go. The flames had built up to such an intensity that steam was hissing out of the leaves of the nearest trees, and some of them were catching fire. More rounds rattled off the rampart. Then came another explosion and another. First I thought that isolated drums of ether were going up. Then I realized that either Stew or Mel, or both, were putting 203 grenades into the transport.

  In a few seconds we were on the road and under the trees. Sparky was at our heels, turning to put down the odd burst from his MP 5. Murdo appeared from behind the accommodation block, running fast.

  ‘I found her!’ he yelled. ‘She’s dead. Go for it!’

  He started to run with us. The other two were still on the rampart. Ahead of us I heard the chain-saw screaming, then a crash as Johnny dropped his tree.

  Light from the fire penetrated only a short way down the road; further under the trees the night was intensely black. Now we’d have to be bloody careful not to score own-goals by shooting each other.

  ‘You OK?’ I shouted to the DA. He was still so shattered he didn’t answer. From the smell I knew he’d shat himself.

  ‘We haven’t far to go,’ I told him. ‘Only to the airstrip.’

  We came to Johnny’s barrier. He’d seen us approaching, silhouetted against the fire. ‘This end,’ he called softly. ‘It’s easier here.’

  Our own covering fire had died down. Looking back, we saw Stew and Mel running like hares to join us. I rapped out a warning so that they didn’t go arse-over-tit into the felled tree. Just as they reached us, rounds began to crack past and smash their way into the jungle farther down the road. Our guys hit the deck, but the DA just stood there.

  ‘Down!’ I snapped. ‘For fuck’s sake get down.’

  I grappled him to the ground. More rounds cracked past overhead.

  ‘Don’t fire back!’ I called. By shooting back we’d give away our position – and in any case, for the moment no targets were visible.

  The compound was a fantastic sight – flames leaping and smoke billowing in a framework of primeval jungle.

  ‘So much for your billion fucking pesos,’ Murdo cried.

  ‘We’re not out of it yet,’ I told him. ‘Stew – you and Mel hang on here while we go ahead. If you see anyone coming, drop them, but don’t fire without a good target. RV at the dinghies as soon as we can.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  I turned to the DA and said, ‘Right – we’re off.’

  We started down the road at a fast walk. The darkness was such that at the first bend we walked straight off the track and into a patch of undergrowth without seeing it. Suddenly I found myself caught up in those bloody awful thorns known as ‘wait-a-while’ which dig into you like barbed fish-hooks and rip you to shreds if you try to pull away.

  I was struggling to disentangle myself when a sudden, rushing roar ripped past us, instantly followed by a flash and an explosion in the tree canopy beyond. I dropped to the ground, oblivious of the thorns tearing at my arms.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Murdo. ‘They’ve got an RPG.’

  I got up again and shouted, ‘Keep going!’

  No harm to use a torch now. I switched mine on, taking care not to flash it backwards. On we went, more quickly.<
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  Small-arms fire rattled out behind us – our own guys were keeping the enemy pinned in the compound – then we got some incoming rounds cracking past us into the trees. Then another rocket – but this time we weren’t so lucky.

  The missile must have hit a tree trunk right beside us. All at once I was on the deck, knocked down by the blast and temporarily blinded by the flash. I got up, my ears ringing, and I knew straight away that I wasn’t hurt.

  ‘Everyone OK? Murdo?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Johnny?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Sparky?’ I waited. ‘Sparky?’

  I shone the torch towards where I’d last seen him. He was still on the deck, stretched straight out, face down. I ran across. A pool of blood glistened darkly beside his head. I moved the torch closer and saw more blood welling from a hole at the base of his right ear. Instinctively I started struggling out of my bergen to get at the med pack, but before I’d even slipped the straps I knew it was too late. Sparky’s eyes were shut. His face was dead white. I’d hardly begun to feel his pulse before I knew the answer: nothing. A piece of shrapnel had driven deep into his head, severing the jugular. Gently I turned his head over. It moved without any resistance in the neck, and I knew the top of the spinal column had been smashed.

  ‘He’s gone,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to take him with us.’

  Behind us, the firing had died down.

  I turned to the DA. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Fine.’ At last he’d found his voice.

  ‘Can you carry this?’ Holding Sparky’s torso upright, I disengaged the 319 in its webbing cover and straps, and handed it over. ‘It’s heavy, but we haven’t far to go’

  ‘I’ll manage it.’

  ‘Good.’

  I took Sparky’s bergen and slung it over my left shoulder. The other two were pulling out a hammock, which had handles on the side and could double as a stretcher. They just about had Sparky in it when we heard movement on the road behind us.

  ‘Stew,’ I called softly.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘We’ve got a casualty.’

  ‘Oh Christ – who is it?’

  ‘Sparky. He copped it from that RPG.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yep. We’ve got to get him to the boats.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘What’s happening back there?’

  ‘We dropped at least six of them. Couldn’t tell which. The 203s may have done for more. Ditto the big bang. The survivors are thinking things over. The lab’s destroyed, anyway.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  We went on as fast as we could, weaving along the road, with four guys lugging Sparky’s body. We reached the airstrip without further harassment. It was a tremendous relief to come out of the claustrophobic blackness of the forest and into the open. Thunder still rumbled in the distance, but the clouds seemed to have lifted and the night was slightly less dark.

  The plane was still in the same position. It offered a tempting target – but I didn’t feel like making more noise by firing at it. We had enough trouble already.

  ‘Wait one while I whip over and slash its tyres,’ I said. ‘At least, no, you lot carry on, and I’ll meet you above the cache.’

  The others picked up their limp burden and continued diagonally across the open strip, heading for the tall single tree. On my own, I ran to the plane, not bothering about the tracks I was making. By the time anybody followed up in daylight, we’d be well away upriver.

  It took all of ten seconds to drive the point of my Commando knife into the side of each tyre, and as I made away the air was still hissing out.

  I caught up with the others as Murdo scrambled down to check the dinghies. Then from below came a curse and an exclamation.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The boats have gone!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘They fucking have.’

  In a flash I was down on the edge of the roots beside him. I shone the torch at the bank. There were the blue painters, still tied to branches.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘They haven’t gone. They’ve swamped, that’s all.’

  I pulled on one of the ropes and got a soggy response. When the dinghy at last came to the surface, we were shattered. The rubber skin had been slashed all over, ripped to shreds.

  ‘Fucking crocodiles!’ exclaimed Murdo. ‘Can you believe it!’

  The other dinghy was the same. We had repair kits, but this damage was far beyond anything they could cover. God only knew why the croc had taken exception to the rubber crafts – but he’d torn them to kingdom come.

  We didn’t look for the engines – there was no point. Back on top of the bank we held a little O-group.

  ‘There’s basically two alternatives,’ I said. ‘Either we make our way to the LZ overland, or we call in help and lie up somewhere close.’

  ‘How far to the LZ?’ asked Mel.

  ‘Maybe nine ks.’

  ‘We’ll never make it through the jungle.’

  It didn’t need to be said that, without the extra burden of the hostage and the dead man, we could have done it.

  ‘Let’s get on the radio, then. Murdo – you’re our signaller now.’

  ‘Where’s the 319?’

  ‘The DA’s got it. Here.’ I moved across, took the radio pack off him, and handed it over.

  Murdo began to open it up, but a moment later he said, ‘We’ll not get many messages out with this thing.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s fucked.’

  He held the set up, shining his torch on it, to show that a piece of shrapnel had blown its guts out.

  By 0200 a fresh westerly breeze had sprung up round the island of Desierto.

  ‘That’s great,’ said Merv as he breathed down his diving gear on the little beach. ‘This ripple on the water will suit us fine.’

  He and his partner, Terry Llewellyn, checked each other off, pulled on their rebreathing kits, went through their routine against possible oxygen hits, checked again, and slipped into the water. Besides his usual gear Merv was carrying two five-pound charges of plastic explosive in waterproof bags, already made up, with detonators embedded in them. In another bag he had det cord and timers.

  The pair swam out round the point of the headland. The sky was overcast, and no lights were showing, either from the ship or from the quay. The chances of being spotted seemed minute, but Merv was not one to take risks. As soon as they came in line of sight of the Santa Maria he dived, and swam in at three-metre depth on a bearing of eighty-two degrees, surfacing every three minutes to check his line of advance.

  Five lots of three brought him under the stern of the vessel. She was moving gently in the swell, and waves were slapping against her side. He gave Terry’s arm four squeezes to indicate that they were on target, then felt his way down the swept-out curve of the hull until his gloved hand bumped gently against one blade of the starboard propeller. Down there, well underneath the ship, they were far out of sight of anyone on deck, so he switched on his helmet lamp, and in less than five minutes he had the first charge in place, tied round the prop-shaft at the point where it disappeared into the hull. Then, paying out the white det cord as he went, he swam down, under the end of the keel, and back up to the other prop. By the time he had the second charge in position and wired up his watch said 0235; so he set the timer for twenty-five minutes and swam quickly away.

  Twenty minutes later he and Terry were back on the beach. Freddie Taylor, the single guy on stag at the boats, welcomed them in as they peeled off their kit.

  ‘No problems?’ he asked.

  ‘Piece of cake,’ Merv answered. ‘We’ll whip up to watch the fireworks.’

  Freddie had the boats fully inflated, ready for the quick carry to the water. Merv and Terry just had time to scramble to the top of the headland ridge.

  ‘Blue One to other Blues,’ he said quietly over the covert radio. ‘All go at our end.’


  He didn’t expect, or get, any answer. By then the assault party was at close quarters, and nobody would want to speak. In the event Roger had taken six men with him. One of them was to head out along the airstrip road before things went noisy, so that he’d be well placed to put down diversionary rounds without having to out-sprint everyone else.

  As the watchers lay on top of the ridge, the wind was coming from behind them, blowing onshore. Through 8 × 56 binoculars the buildings were clearly visible. A Russian-built Gaz jeep was parked outside, a few yards to the left of the objective.

  ‘There!’ said Terry suddenly. ‘Somebody crossed the front of No. 2. And another. They’re on the target, all right.’

  ‘Thirty seconds to go,’ said Merv over the radio link. ‘Twenty. Stand by, Stand by. Fifteen. Ten. Five. Four, three, two . . .’

  Before he could finish, a heavy, dull thump sounded from across the water. A fountain of ‘water and spray flew into the air at the Santa Maria’s stern, and the whole ship gave a heave, a kind of slow flip from stern to bow. Then she settled back to her normal attitude, as if nothing had happened.

  Lights went on in the ship’s accommodation. Men began shouting. Merv and Terry saw people running aft along the cargo decks – but they didn’t care too much about what was happening on board, their attention was focused on House No. 2. Now two men were visible outside, backed up against the wall, five or six yards apart, either side of the entrance.

  ‘They’re going to blow the door,’ said Merv tersely. ‘There she goes.’

  A flash sparked out from the front of the house, and seconds later the boom of an explosion reached them. White smoke and dust billowed out in a ragged cloud. The assaulters disappeared. Then came two short bursts of automatic fire, the first and loudest in the watchers’ earpieces, the second more muffled and through the air.

  Suddenly they heard Roger call, ‘Bolt-cutters!’ A moment later they picked up a snap, followed by clinking noises.

  At that instant Merv saw a dark figure running up the road from the left.