by Chris Ryan
The mission was starting to make sense. Suppose someone in the MOD or the Foreign Office had got wind of the imminent arrival of the Globemasters? The acquisition of airlift capacity on such a scale might change the balance of power in the South Atlantic. With these planes the Argentines could fly in reinforcements from the mainland in large numbers. A single Globemaster could embark over two hundred fully armed paratroops.
But that didn't make sense. If the Argies needed to ferry troops around they had the use of the state airline's fleet of passenger aircraft take a jumbo jet out of service, pack it full of grunts and fly it down to Rio Grande where the runway was easily long enough. No, there had to be another reason.
An electric polisher started up below. Someone kicked over a tray of tools and the sound echoed off the hangar walls. "I want to get closer," I said, still speaking in a whisper, though at fifty metres' distance with a dozen power tools in operation there was no danger of being overheard. "If we could climb down a level we'd have a less obstructed view."
Josh pointed down the ladder to the catwalk below us and gave me a questioning look. I hesitated. It looked horribly exposed. Then I reflected that was because we were looking down upon it. The catwalk ran above the level of the lighting; from the floor of the hangar it would be invisible. And even if someone did look up and catch the dim shadow of a person moving up there, chances were he would take us for maintenance workers going about their business.
Silently we climbed down the ladder to the next level. No one would pick us out against the dark backdrop of the hangar wall. We reached the catwalk and I put a tentative foot on it. "Fuck!" I said, drawing back.
There was no need to explain. The catwalk was swaying alarmingly. It was suspended on guy wires from the overhead beams and moored at intervals to cross members. The slightest weight set it bouncing and snaking like an Andean rope bridge. Any attempt to cross it would draw the attention of the whole workforce.
"We do this, we'll be spotted before we've gone a dozen steps," Josh said.
We scanned the roof together. "It looks like the team on the starboard side of the aircraft are ahead of the portside lot in whatever it is they're doing," I told Josh. "If we can find a way to crawl around the tail we could get a better look."
"What about the beam above?"
I followed the direction he was looking. The hangar was constructed on a steel skeleton plated over with metal sheeting to form the exterior skin. Massive columns rose from concrete foundations and were joined by horizontal members running the width of the building. One of these ran three metres above where we were crouched, providing anchorage points for the guy wires from which the catwalk was slung. At intervals it was joined by cross beams and trusses supporting the roof peaks, making a complex web of steel designed to resist the incredible winds prevailing in this part of the world.
"If we could crawl out and wedge ourselves in where two of those trusses meet we'd be in clover, "Josh said.
I looked down. It was a hell of a drop. The beam was around ten inches across. If we could sit on that and pull ourselves along we could cross out to the centre of the hangar and look down on to the other side of the plane. It was a long run but no worse than some of the assault courses we'd had to face in our time.
"Come on then, let's get stuck in."
We crossed one at a time to minimise the risk of being spotted. I went first. I settled myself on the beam and locked my legs underneath. It had a convenient lip either side I could grip on to and pull myself along. The outer leg of the first truss was about forty metres along, slanting upwards away from me into one of the roof peaks. I would have to work my way past it somehow. The temptation to look down again was strong but I forced myself to keep my eyes level and concentrate on moving. It felt horribly exposed away from the side of the hangar and I had to keep reminding myself that anyone looking up would see only a glare of lights.
As a kid I'd hated heights, but I've always approached any fear head on, so I took up rock climbing. Eventually I became a mountaineer and even climbed K2 in the Himalayas with Jock, which many in the business rate a harder climb than Everest. I learned to trust my ability to support myself with my own body strength and to break up an ascent into a series of steps.
The truss, when I reached it, was easier to negotiate than I had feared. A crossbeam joined two horizontals at this point and I was able to grip the truss and clamber round to the other side. There was one nerve-jangling point, at which I had to stand on the beam twenty-five metres up and turn myself round in order to face the front again. The smooth surface of the steel made it hard to find a grip, and I was conscious of a hollow sensation in my legs. Relax, I told myself firmly. You know how to do this. I wrapped an arm around the beam, turned around and lowered myself till I was sitting sideways on the beam with an arm still around the upright. Then I swung a leg across and I was settled.
At the fourth truss I waited for Josh to catch up with me. We were now directly over the aircraft, with the huge tail-fin almost beneath us. Josh reached me and heaved himself alongside on the crossbar. Together we spent a long time staring down at the technicians working below.
"What does that new paint job remind you of?" Josh whispered after a while.
"R.A.F European winter overall?"
"That's what it looks like to me too."
The plane had originally been a mix of sandy hues, suggesting an origin from one of the Gulf states, perhaps even Saudi. I watched a man with a long brush smoothing grey paint against a pattern of darker blue. If the plane was to be based down in the South Atlantic it was natural the Argies would want to change. Many nations used similar camo schemes; there was nothing especially sinister about what was happening, except perhaps the haste with which it was being carried out.
"Let's edge out a bit further and see if we can spot the insignia to tell us which unit it belongs to now."
I had to force myself to lead the way this time. The further out we went, the longer the distance to get back. A cold sweat was pouring off my body and my hands were slippery with moisture. I tried not to think about how easy it would be to slip sideways off the beam. I pictured myself hanging on with my fingers, arms at full stretch, and the sickening moments before my hold slipped and I crashed down to the concrete below. Perhaps if I were lucky I would break my fall on one of the lighting arrays.
Josh seemed unaffected. He shuffled along behind me as if he was enjoying it.
We did two more trusses before I called a halt again. It was now possible to see the starboard side of the plane clearly. The Argentines were using big electric fan heaters to dry the fresh paint, and the draughts of warm air and fumes wafted up to where we squatted on the beams. I watched a man on a high gantry stencilling some kind of insignia on to the side of the tail-fin. It was evidently an important job because there was an officer with him, supervising.
The painter put the finishing touches to the task and removed the stencil. He and the officer stepped back a pace to observe his handiwork. I could see their hands gripping the safety rail of the gantry behind them. The job was evidently important because the two men spent a while discussing it, pointing out details to one another. Finally, at the officer's direction, the painter took up his brush again and added more colour to the central section.
The vertical angle of the fin made it hard to distinguish the design. I leaned out to get a better view but the swept-back T-section of the upper tail obscured my vision. "Josh," I said softly the gantry where the men were standing was only some ten metres below us and we could be overheard now. "Josh, see if you can crawl out along that crossbeam and get a squint of that insignia."
"Sure thing." Like an acrobat he swung himself round the base of the truss to drop down on to the beam. Then cautiously he began to crawl outwards in the direction of the door. The plane had been towed in at a slight angle, and by getting further out he should be able to see the device on the tail-fin clearly. As he got into position I saw him peer downward, his brow
furrowed as he tried to make out the design.
The painter was still stooped at his work and the officer was consulting a ring binder with photographs of aircraft identification marks, the kind of thing all services keep around for information on their own aircraft and those of other nations. All of us on the mission had studied similar recognition shots of Argy planes before setting out.
The painter finished what he was doing and stepped back again. He was quite young and, unusually for a South American, he was fair-haired. I saw Josh's face clear momentarily as he got an unobstructed view of the fin at last. Then abruptly he stiffened. He stared again, long and hard. I saw his lips move as he memorised the markings. Then very carefully he began to work his way backwards along the crossbeam towards where I was waiting.
As he reached the upright I stretched out a hand to help him back on to the main beam again. He turned to face me and his eyes were shining with excitement.
"Well?" I whispered impatiently. "Mickey Mouse Airlines?"
"You're not going to believe this, but it was an R.A.F red, white and blue roundel on top of the badge of the 30th Air Transport Squadron from Lyneham."
I stared at him blankly for a moment. He wasn't kidding either. This was far too serious for that. I looked down at the Globemaster, gleaming under the lights with the aircrews swarming over it. It was impossible to believe, and yet ... Suddenly everything became horribly clear. I knew now why the aircraft had been brought in under cover of darkness and why they were being prepared and repainted with such desperate haste.
And in the same moment I realised that our mission had now become one of frantic urgency. It was vital we got out and contacted the rest of the team.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Argy plan was plain. Somehow they had succeeded in getting their hands on a pair of Globemasters, planes exactly similar to those now used by the R.A.F to fly reinforcements into the Falklands. All they had to do was paint the aircraft in R.A.F colours, give them English-speaking pilots and pack them full of troops, and fly them into Mount Pleasant as if they were a routine flight staging out of Ascension Island.
"It's madness, but it might just work," I told Josh. "And like Seb said, the Argies are crazy enough to try anything. If those planes can land four or five hundred troops on the tarmac without warning, our guys wouldn't stand a chance."
Josh agreed. "What does the garrison have a single company group, a handful of R.A.F Regiment guarding the airfield? Two hundred combat troops if they're lucky. Less than that, probably. If the Argies timed it right, say for a Sunday morning when half the garrison are dead drunk, they could take over without firing a shot."
"Even if they only managed to seize the airfield they could fly in reinforcements at their leisure. And with a modern airfield in their hands they could stage their own strike bombers out of the Falklands and prevent our ships ever getting close."
Josh thought a bit more. "It's a huge risk they're taking, even so. The Tornados at Mount Pleasant intercept and escort all arrivals at least a hundred miles out."
"Assuming the pilots are fit to fly," I reminded him grimly. "And right now there are only three Tornados left on the islands." We were both silent for a moment, both thinking of the salmonella that had struck the garrison the day we left.
"Everything begins to fall into place," Josh said. "What about the radar sites though? NATO aircraft carry transponders identifying them as friend or foe. If the Falklands radar don't get the proper signal won't they smell a rat?"
"Maybe the Argies have acquired transponders too, I don't know. What I am sure of though is that no British fighter is going to shoot down one of these planes if it's wearing friendly colours."
Josh fell silent. Deep down we were both convinced. It was so much in the Argentine character the bold, defiant gesture, the daring surprise blow that would turn the tables on a more powerful enemy.
I pictured in my mind the planes landing at Mount Pleasant, taxiing to the control tower, the ramps dropping and the sudden storming out of hundreds of crack marines. I imagined the seizing of the tower and missile de fences and the rapid deployment against the mess blocks and armoury. They could bring their own combat vehicles with them on the planes. I could picture the wild scenes as Argentine marines careered across the airbase, shooting at anything that moved. It would be a replay of the assault we had planned against Rio Grande all those years ago, except with a better chance of success.
"If it doesn't succeed what have they lost? A couple of planes that probably don't belong to them anyway and 400 men. If it works they hold the Malvinas for ever. Come on," I told him. "This is no time for arguing. We need to get back to the others and send a warning to Hereford before the bastards get the drop on the garrison."
As we edged our way back along the beams, Josh leading this time, I felt elated. My decision to penetrate the hangar had been vindicated. There was no other way we could have unearthed what was being planned. The Argentines would keep the planes inside the hangar until the very last minute, in all probability loading the troops on under cover as well. The planes would have taken off, heading north to circle round out of radar range, and approaching the Falklands from the course the R.A.F flights usually used.
It was imperative to get a message back to Hereford that the Globemasters must be turned back. Even if there were no Tornado pilots fit to fly it would still be possible to block the runway at Mount Pleasant and prevent planes from landing. Once the Argentines realised we were aware of their plans they would be forced to abort the mission. The Globemasters would return to wherever they had come from and the crisis would be over.
I checked my watch again. Half-past six, and the base would soon be coming to life. We had to get clear rapidly and reach the cover of the drain again without being spotted. Once we were underground we would be safe. Before that, though, we would have to radio Doug and instruct him to send a message back to Hereford.
We were making good progress when disaster struck. Josh was about forty metres ahead of me, and had begun to negotiate the last truss; we were both of us well practised in the procedure now and it was giving us no trouble. He gripped the upright nearest him and was drawing himself straight when suddenly from the other side a figure jumped out.
It was the last thing either of us was expecting. He must have been standing to the rear side of the beam keeping dead still, and the gloom of the roof space had hidden him from us till the last moment. All I saw was a thin, narrow-faced man in his twenties, in civilian clothes and trainers. At the sight of us he went scuttling away to our right, along the transverse beam that led to the neighbouring horizontal. He moved with incredible agility, crouching over the beam like a jockey, with the soles of his shoes on the lower rim and scrabbling along as if he were running on all fours.
I was so shocked all I could do was stare. He reached the next beam, swung himself on to it like a monkey and went skittering back, parallel to the direction we had just come. My first thought was that he was part of the hangar workforce, a maintenance man of some kind who had been spooked by our appearance. I couldn't imagine what else he could be doing up here. His panic at the sight of us was understandable. In full battle dress with camo stained faces we must have presented an alarming picture. Shit, I thought. Any second now he'll give tongue and bring the whole place about our ears.
All our plans were up for grabs again now. There was just a chance if we made a run for it that we could make it on to the roof and from there down to the ground before the people inside got themselves organised. I figured we could probably handle the technicians I had seen around the plane. Marines, though, were a different proposition.
There was a gasp ahead. I swung back and my heart went into instant overdrive. Josh had fallen. He must have been thrown off balance by the sudden appearance of the man, made a grab for one of the uprights and slipped as he did so. Now he was dangling from the main beam by one hand, his left, hanging over a sheer drop to the concrete below. His face was con
torted with effort, his fingers straining as he struggled to draw himself up one-armed and get a grip with his other hand on the beam. He was trying not to swing his legs or make any sudden movement for fear of breaking the hold he had and dropping to his death.
It was a single-handed pull-up, about the stiffest test in gym repertoire. Everyone in the Regiment was expected to be able to do it, but unlike a gym here there was no nice rubber-gripped bar, and Josh was wearing full kit with webbing. I was about forty metres behind him. I launched myself forward, but I knew it was hopeless; I wasn't going to be able to get to him in time. If he couldn't get a hold with his other hand and somehow haul himself up, he would lose what grip he had before I could reach him.
Josh didn't make a sound. He didn't look at me or call for help. He didn't have the concentration to spare. All his strength and will-power were bent on hauling himself back on to the beam. I almost heard the muscles in his left shoulder creak as his biceps tautened, lifting him upwards. Sweat was running down his face and his teeth were clenched as if they were going to break. He was holding his legs and torso stiff and straight to minimise the risk of swinging and dislodging himself.
Josh never lost his cool, not for a second. Every muscle in his body was rigid and tense as slowly, agonisingly, he inched himself up. He knew that if he snatched at the beam with a sudden effort, there was a chance of grabbing a hold with his right hand, though he could just as easily lose his grip with both hands and fall back. It had to be done steadily or not at all.
The temptation was to reach up by the shortest and most direct route, straight overhead to where his left hand was gripping the steel. But the best way would be to pass his right hand underneath the joist and get a grip on the far side. Then he would be able to swing his legs up and lock his ankles around the beam to take some of the weight. From that position he could haul himself right-side-up again, or at least wait for me to reach him. It meant, though, a longer stretch, and securing a handhold that was beyond his range of vision. He would have to manage by touch alone. And he would only get one attempt.