by Chris Ryan
He grunted and I heaved him up. He leaned against the wall, gasping. "Jesus, I need a drink," he said thickly. Denying water and toilet facilities was standard softening-up procedure before interrogation.
"Doug, we have to get you and the others out of here." Briefly I explained. "We're going to have a fight on our hands soon."
Doug bared his teeth. "As it happens, I've been wanting to kill some of the fuckers."
I released Kiwi's hood and shackles. "Fuck, am I glad to see you, boss," he grunted when we got him free.
I handed Doug the keys and the guard's rifle. "Turn Nobby and Josh loose, the Argentines too. Kiwi, you come with me."
We ran back into the guardroom. Kiwi grabbed a weapon from the rack and gulped a long drink from the water fountain. Wiping his mouth, he joined me in the mess with Concha and Seb. "Right," I said, 'let's get 'em locked up and we can finish what we came here to do."
The rest of the boys were staggering out from the cells, stinking and gagging for water. "Fucking length of time you took getting here," Nobby grumbled. Josh was groggy but anxious to show he could handle it. There were a few bruises but no one seemed to have been badly roughed up and everyone was capable of fighting. They snatched up weapons from the racks and took up positions to cover the windows. Kiwi found a big old American Browning M2 a 0.5-inch heavy machine-gun on a massive tripod mount and dragged it to the end of the passage we had come in by to command the rear.
Josh and I herded the guards into the cell and locked them away. Two of the four Argentine civilians were in poor shape. They were older men and had not had the training to resist interrogation or known what to expect. One of them was being dragged between Julian and Seb while Concha jabbered rapid-fire Spanish at them.
She grabbed my arm as I came past. "This man cannot walk."
I shook my head. "He must walk or he'll have to be left behind. We're going to have a fight on our hands very shortly. We can't carry anyone."
Doug interrupted. "Hey, Mark, look what the fuck I got!" He had found a second weapons locker in the rear and come away with an armful of RPG-7 Soviet-made rocket launchers. The RPG-7 fires a rocket-boosted grenade capable of taking out a main battle tank at 500 metres. Fired into one of the hangars, it would turn an aircraft into an inferno.
"All prisoners squared away," Josh reported. He had a cut on the side of his head, but was looking better already. "I found the guy you locked in the cupboard. He was coming round so I brought him out and put him in the cells with the other lot."
"OK," I called. "Everybody check you've got enough ammo. We're moving out from the rear."
Concha was still trying to attract my attention. "It is a long way from here to the hangars where the aircraft are hidden," she said urgently. "More than 700 metres. What happens if we are seen and stopped?"
I shook my head. "We'll just have to take that chance and fight our way through. Come on," I said to the others.
"Wait." She dragged me back. "Why not take a truck? One of those out in front? Then we can put my friend in too."
I hesitated. The idea made sense.
"Even if we were seen, people might not suspect," she continued. "They would think it was just part of the maintenance for the runway."
She was right of course. A vehicle moving around would attract much less attention, particularly something like the snow clearer that had so nearly run her down.
I called to Nobby he was our mechanical expert and he came running back from the rear.
I took him to the window. "See those trucks parked out there? We need one of them." I explained the plan. "Something big and heavy that can take punishment." I had in mind that we might need to ram the doors of the hangar.
"Sure, boss. No sweat." He grinned. I'd never seen Nobby so happy. "I'll scrounge a few tools and bring you back anything you want."
While Nobby searched for the tools he wanted, I pulled back the shutter on one of the windows to check the front. The snow plough was still working on the runway, otherwise the scene was deserted.
Nobby returned with a long-bladed screwdriver and a pair of pliers.
"OK?" I said. He nodded and pulled on a coat that had been hanging on a hook by the door. I opened the handle to let him out. "Walk normally," I muttered. "You'll attract less attention."
"Aye, boss. Don't fret. I'll be back in a jiffy with the wheels." He set off, shoulders hunched against the wind, the image of a reluctant man ordered out into the snow against his will. I watched him from the door, my rifle at my side. He reached the group of vehicles and I saw him move along the line, checking each one. Finally he climbed up into a cab. There was a pause.
Josh joined me at the door. "Think he needs any help?"
"No. If Nobby can't start the fucker, no one can." I remembered Nobby telling me that, in his teenage years, before he'd signed up with the Army, he'd been a tear away joy-rider, whose greatest thrill had been breaking into high-performance motors then taunting the cops to chase him. There wasn't a vehicle built that could resist his assault for long.
We saw one of the vehicles switch on its lights, then heard the throb of a diesel engine as Nobby gunned the motor into life. We watched it pull out and make a wide turn to bring it round towards the guard post. It was a huge yellow truck with a massive dozer blade, like the one that had almost killed Concha.
"He's bringing it round to the car park at the back," I said. "Everybody get ready. I want everybody aboard sharply."
We grabbed coats and anoraks belonging to the guards and gathered in the rear passage. There were eleven of us now, five SAS and six civilians including Seb. "You get in the front," I told Concha as the headlights illuminated the guard post. "You can help navigate."
The truck was enormous, built like a tank and almost as big. The others scrambled up into the massive tipper at the rear, dragging the semi-conscious Argentine with them. It was half loaded with sand for gritting, but at least that gave the injured man something to lie on.
Kiwi staggered down the steps from the guard post, lugging the Browning. I lent him a hand loading it up. The thing weighed a ton, but its huge armour-piercing bullets would make short work of an aeroplane if we could bring it to bear. Doug was throwing up the RPGs to Josh. I saw him add three or four medical packs too.
Kiwi settled the machine-gun so that it could fire over the rear lip of the giant scoop. "What the fuck's happened to the rest of the Argies?" he grunted, already spoiling for a fight.
"I know. It's too bloody quiet," I said. "Maybe they're all busy with the assault force."
"Well we're ready for the bastards," he said defiantly.
The mood of the other men was the same; if it came to a battle they would go down fighting this time. No way were they going to endure another bout of capture and interrogation at the hands of the Argentines.
I saw everyone safely stowed, then ran round to the front and climbed up beside Concha and Nobby.
"Back on to the runway," Concha told him, 'then to the left."
With a grinding of gears we set off. The snow was still falling thickly. Nobby hunched over the wheel, peering through the screen. We reached the edge of the runway and turned north, following Concha's directions. I was tense with excitement. It seemed incredible to me that we could have come this far without being detected.
"There! Over there that is the fuel depot!" Concha cried, pointing. "The hangars are just beyond. You can see them now!"
I stared through the swirling darkness, and could just make out the familiar looming hulks of the giant hangars. We were almost there.
And at that moment a searchlight stabbed the night, illuminating us in its brilliant cone, and streams of tracer bullets tore towards us from every side.
It had been too easy. The enemy had been waiting for us all along. We had driven into another trap.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Trapped in the searchlight beams from our left, Nobby Clark reacted instinctively. Flooring his foot, he sent the huge truck careeri
ng across the apron towards the hangar. A hail of gunfire opened up from every angle, and bullets pinged off the heavy steel sides of the vehicle. Our headlights lit a Jeep-mounted GPMG, firing at us from almost dead ahead. I could see the tracer glancing off the snow plough blade like coloured beads. I wound down my side window, leaned out and aimed the grenade sight on my 203. I triggered the launcher and a huge flash engulfed the front of the Jeep as the round exploded on top of it. The gun stuttered into silence. A hit to us.
There was a screaming sound like tearing fabric, followed by a terrific bang. An armoured car was out there, throwing full calibre shells at us. It sounded like 105mm a single hit from one of those babies would turn us into scrap metal. A second round cracked off, and this time we saw the shell burst 500 metres beyond and well behind. Nobby was swerving to throw off their aim. The gunners were shooting wildly, probably firing at their own side's gun flashes; in a night action with excitable troops, chaos is often likely to result unless officers keep a firm grip.
More tracer and cannon fire sprayed around. From the rear of the truck came a furious pounding as Kiwi opened up with the Browning. The steel-cored slugs were like cannon shells, smashing through light armour. I loosed off a couple more grenades towards the flash of infantry weapons ahead of us. From the number of shots I estimated half a company at least, maybe fifty men.
The rest of our team was firing from the rear. I could trust my guys to fire aimed shots and not just blaze away wasting ammunition like the Argies.
Something struck the roof of the cab a hammer-blow, and the truck rocked under the impact. Almost at the same moment the windscreen starred and cracked as two holes were punched through by bullets. I leaned back inside for a moment to slot in a fresh magazine. I was aware of Nobby gripping the wheel and shouting at the top of his voice, but the noise of gunfire was so loud I couldn't make out the words. He was steering straight for the hangar which was now less than a hundred metres away, looming at us like a huge wall. Dimly through the smoke of battle I became aware of Concha's face beside me. Reaching out, I pushed her head down below the level of the dashboard.
A spray of bullets rattled against the side of the truck another machine-gun had found our range. I heard the squeal of tyres to our rear and a couple of quick-firing cannons opened up, sizzling round us like infuriated hornets. It felt like the entire Argentine army was shooting at us. A huge ball of fire flared up, away to the left our guys in the back must have hit a fuel bowser or a tanker. The lurid flames belched upward and blazing fuel spewed out across the concrete apron.
The searchlight still had us in its beam. "Fuck you," I screamed at the top of my lungs. I worked the slide of my grenade launcher, ejecting the spent casing and slotting in a fresh round. The range was right at the limit. I aimed high and let fly. Someone in the back must have fired at the same time because I saw two bursts detonate just beneath the light source. The beam stayed on but swung round jerkily, pointing up at the sky. We must have knocked out the operators.
We were fifty metres from the hangar now. Another Jeep came roaring alongside, an Argentine standing up in the rear with an M-60 machine-gun, blazing away at us like a madman. A burst ripped through the roof of the cab, almost taking my head off. I fired back, aiming low to take out the driver. I saw him slump against the wheel and the Jeep swerved, hurling the machine-gunner around like a doll, his tracer cutting away through the night, scything towards his own side. The Jeep careered onwards, striking the snow plough blade a glancing blow. The huge metal prow flipped the vehicle over and it vanished behind us in a cloud of dust and snow.
More rounds screeched overhead, and I saw an armoured car that had us in its sights, pursuing us from the left rear one of those fast, lightly armoured tank-killers with an outsized cannon. Luckily for us, probably because the gunners were afraid of hitting the hangars, the shells were falling behind us.
I could feel Kiwi's big gun pounding away at the back, firing in short, aimed bursts. The immense bullets, based on a German anti-tank rifle round, have a muzzle velocity of almost 1000 metres a second, and the weight and speed of the rounds produce a devastating impact.
The flames and smoke from the burning fuel were spreading out among the attackers to our rear, and their fire was slackening off for the moment. The heavy cannon had stopped shooting altogether either its gunners couldn't see any longer or they were afraid of hitting the hangar. Nobby was steering for the huge main doors with grim resolution. I saw a bunch of soldiers in front of us scatter as the huge truck thundered inexorably down on them. The doors were only thirty metres away now.
"Hang on!" I screamed out of the window. I might as well have been pissing into the wind for all the good it would do. We were travelling at over fifty miles an hour and bullets fired wildly from behind were punching holes in the side of the hangar like giant hail. A burst of 30mm cannon chewed up the apron right before our wheels, gouging chunks from the concrete.
In the last seconds before impact Nobby dropped the blade of the plough so it would take the full impact. He was steering for the centre of the left-hand door, aiming at the widest part where the thin metal covering would be more likely to give way. The door came rushing towards us like a cliff face. I braced myself for the crash.
Nobby was still yelling inaudibly as the point of the plough struck the sheet metal, ripping it back like a giant tin opener. With a shriek of tortured steel the truck tore on through. Nobby and I ducked our heads as flaps of broken sheeting clanged across the bonnet but amazingly the windshield remained unscathed. A huge supporting beam bounced against the side of the hull with a boom that set my teeth rattling inside my head, as we burst inside the brilliantly lit hangar in a cloud of flying debris.
Directly in our path and, seen from the ground, more enormous than ever stood the huge plane. The soaring tail, as big on its own as a medium-sized airliner, reared up into the roof. The ramp was down and I could see straight into the cavernous hold. Amid the noise and smoke I was vaguely aware of hundreds of men in full battle kit with packs and rifles running like ants to escape the lumbering behemoth that had smashed in upon them the marines, caught in the act of boarding for their mission! Only moments had passed since the shooting had erupted outside, and they stood wondering what to do as the world suddenly came crashing in around them.
We had burst in under the portside tail-fin. Immediately in our path was a mobile work gantry being towed out of the way by an electric tractor. Racing on, the point of the snow plough caught the tractor just behind the rear wheels, flipping it over like a toy. The fragile gantry toppled over, crashing down on to the outer tip of the wing like a heap of sticks. Dead ahead of us gaped the exhaust of the inboard engine.
Our tyres shrieked on the slick flooring as Nobby spun the wheel desperately. The truck heeled over, skidding between the inner and outer engine pods. As the shadow of the wing passed overhead I held my rifle out of the window, muzzle upwards, and emptied the magazine into it.
The hammering sound of the Browning from the rear told me that Kiwi had brought his gun to bear. I pictured the heavy slugs ripping through the fuselage, tearing off great chunks, severing hydraulic lines and slicing through control surfaces. There was a swoosh and a deafening bang that echoed so loud through the hangar that for a second I thought the Argies had lost all control and were shelling us inside. Then I realised it was Doug with one of his RPGs.
I slammed in another magazine and raked the cockpit through the window as we shot by. "Take that, you fuckers!" I shouted as I saw splashes of metal and glass fly.
There was another swish as someone else launched a rocket. This one I saw strike high on the fuselage, by the wing root a terrific red flash followed by a spurt of flame that blossomed across the wing as a fireball sprouted upwards, mushrooming into the roof space. A wave of heat swept over us. The plane must have been fully fuelled up for the mission.
"Fuck, we've done it!" I shouted to the others in the cab, delirious with excitement and battle fur
y. No way could this baby be made serviceable again. The hangar was filled with men running for their lives to get out before the whole place went up in another couple of minutes the flames would reach ammunition aboard the plane and we'd be done for.
Nobby was standing on the brakes and the truck's nose was slewing as the rear wheels broke away and we spun around like a rally car. Our tail smacked into another gantry, sending it flying into the hangar's rear wall. For a moment I thought we were going to follow it. I saw two soldiers running for their lives as we slid sideways on to them, smoke spewing from our tyres. Then they were gone, crushed into nothingness by the lethal blade of the plough.
The Globemaster's mid-section was a mass of flame by now, smoke belching up in oily clouds. Nobby was fighting to gain control of the wheel as we slid past the plane's bulbous snout. His clear intent was to circle right round the aircraft and drive back out the door again before the whole thing exploded on us. A hatch up on the flight deck was open and three figures were clawing their way down a ladder to the ground the flight crew, trying to escape from the cockpit. Poor bastards, they stood no chance.
Nobby dropped down through the gears, pumping the throttle to get us moving round the aircraft's nose and down under the starboard wing to the hangar door a hundred metres away. I heard the thud of another detonation as a second fuel tank went up and the wingtip in front of us exploded into flame. The truck lumbered forward, engine racing. Billowing clouds of smoke rolled across the hangar, filling the cab with choking fumes. Everything went dark and the sudden heat was suffocating.
Jets of fire spurted up through the darkness as fuel lines burst in the heat. We were moving under the starboard wing now, Nobby desperately steering to avoid the burning engines. Smears of liquid avgas spattered the windshield. A fiery drizzle of flaming droplets shot through the smoke. Any moment now the whole wing could break up, drowning us in blazing fuel.
Our speed was picking up. Above the roar of the fires I could hear the note of the engine surging. There was the tail ramp ahead to our right now. Two hundred Argentine marines were struggling down it, throwing away their weapons and kit, frantic to escape the flames. I saw one, braver than the others, whip up his rifle as we passed, but the sound of his shots was swallowed up in the cacophony. Other men by the door of the hangar were firing their rifles at us, the bullets pinging off the truck's heavy structure.