by Chris Ryan
For a layman, the CIC was an eerie sight: a circular room, almost dark, full of men monitoring low-lit dials with dark-red figures flickering on them. Since the whole principle of a submarine is that it does not advertise its presence, the Endeavor was operating on passive sonar only, sending out no emissions that other vessels could detect. At a bank of complex arrays five men were listening for transmissions at different ranges – distant, medium and close.
‘Don’t think me a prick,’ said Merv to the cheerful first duty officer, ‘but if you don’t use radar, how do you know where you are?’
‘We have very precise inertial navigation systems,’ was the answer. ‘Gyroscopes – yes? Right now, I can tell you where we are to within a few feet. If we have to, we can put up an aerial now and then to get a fix off a satellite, but most times we’re happy to stay down. We can hear a lot, too. Listen in.’
The officer handed Merv a pair of headphones, and he found they were full of mysterious swishing, booming noises.
‘Hear that?’ said his companion. ‘That’s a shoal of barracuda giving us the time of day. When we close on this island of yours, we’re gonna be hearing the surf on the shore from about four miles out. Now, you call the shots. Just say where you want to go, and we’ll squirt you out.’
‘Can you give us a sub-surface release?’
‘Sure can. In fact, that’s all the better for us. If we don’t break the surface, we don’t break international law. Until we break the surface, we don’t become a ship.’
By 0345 they could hear the surf ahead of them. The sub came up to periscope depth and sat there, moving gently forward, five ks off the coast. In the cavernous forward torpedo room the team pulled on their full diving kit and checked each other methodically, then went two at a time into the escape hatch. Merv always found that an unnerving moment: once you’re sealed in the hatch in total blackness and the chamber is filling with water, there’s no turning back. If anything goes wrong then, you could be written off.
Having released a float with a steel hawser attached, the first pair swam up the cable, popped the air-bottle to inflate the No. 1 boat, and scrambled aboard. Humping the 175-lb engine out of the water and on to the back of the boat was no picnic, but they managed it, and moved away from the buoy. Up came the second team and the second boat. Last to the surface were their bergens full of kit, their weapons and explosives, all done up in Ellison bags. With everyone and everything on board, Merv counted heads, made the total ten, and with a torch flashed a clearing signal to the officer observing them through the periscope.
The time was 0405. The moon had set, leaving the night very dark, and only a gentle wind was blowing from the west, so the sea was calm. The sub had put the boats out west of their target, and they set off on a course of ninety degrees, due eastwards, cruising easily downwind at eight knots.
Soon the coast of the island was showing as a dark line on the horizon ahead. The coxswains reduced speed and continued until, one kilometre out, Merv signalled a halt. With the boats hove to, he and another swimmer slipped over the side and went in alone for a beach reconnaissance. Thirty minutes later they were bobbing in the swell and touching bottom, a few yards offshore, only to find that their navigation had been almost too precise. No more than 300 metres in front of them, a big cargo vessel was moored alongside a jetty, her upperworks showing white in the starlight.
‘Too fucking close,’ said Merv. ‘Let’s get round the corner.’
The Int guys at Hereford had faxed him a map of the island. It was only a photocopy, but it gave a reasonable idea of the layout round the port, and Merv had memorized the details. He remembered that the jetty lay along the inner edge of a small bay, and that the bay was sheltered by a hook of headland. He also remembered that the airstrip was inland to the south – about one k away to their right as they faced in from the sea.
Pushing off again, they swam to their right for twelve minutes until they rounded the headland and discovered a second, much smaller bay backed by low cliffs. Coming ashore, they landed on a steep little sandy beach, no more than thirty yards from front to rear. At the back was an overhang of cliff, and centuries of rock-falls had divided up the beach with a series of natural partitions. As a lying-up point, it was ideal. Even in the dark they could tell that it must be out of sight of the jetty, and the combination of overhang and rock-falls would help conceal the boats from any aircraft that might come in. Furthermore, the carry from water to cache-point, was the shortest they were ever likely to get.
Over his covert radio Merv sent the message: ‘OK. We’ve moved 400 metres to the right of our original approach line. Beach clear.’ Then he cracked out a cyalume chemical light, placed it in an empty tin can, brought for the purpose, and laid the can horizontally on a rock so that the green glow could be seen by the crews but by nobody on land.
A few minutes later, the boats purred in out of the night. The cache was so close to the water that there was scarcely any need to post sentries to secure their landing-point, but the team went through the drill anyway. They carried the boats the few yards to the base of the cliff, dismantled them under the overhang, and pitched scrim nets over them. Finally they changed out of their diving gear into DPMs and got a brew on.
‘Watch the water, guys,’ Roger Alton, the second-in-command, warned them. ‘It’s going to be bloody hot later on, and if anything goes wrong in the jungle we may have to hang around here for a couple of days. So we’ll need all we’ve got. The other thing’s sunburn. For Christ’s sake keep your heads and arms covered.’
The tide was coming in, and would soon cover the beach. But Roger was taking no chances. He went back to the edge of the water and, working backwards, scuffed away their tracks with a paddle.
‘It’s like Robinson fucking Crusoe,’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t reckon anybody’s ever landed here before.’
Leaving two sentries to guard the base, the rest climbed warily to the ridge above them. They could see the odd palm tree outlined against the stars, but on the ground there was little vegetation, apart from tussocks of grass.
Everything seemed to be in miniature. The whole island was only about three ks in diameter, and the top level of the headland was no more than thirty metres above sea level. It was still dark when they reached it, but against the paling sky they saw the outline of Mount Desierto, rising to a short, blunt peak ahead of them. The upperworks of the ship showed white against the land opposite; she was moored with her bows to their right, and three or four hundred metres ahead of her, on the inland end of the quay, they could make out a huddle of pale-coloured buildings.
As they lay on the ridge, Merv checked off features he remembered from the map. ‘It’s a dry creek,’ he said, pointing down to the right. ‘Comes to a point just below us here. No river. The airstrip’s down there, round the corner, and the old bauxite workings are at the back of it. There’s a road from the port to the strip, but that’s the only one. No other habitation. What we need is cover for an OP.’
Moving along the ridge to their left, they soon found some. A palm-tree had blown over in a gale, bringing up a big plate of earth on its roots, but it was still alive, and its tumble of branches offered excellent shelter, not only from aircraft but also from the sun. When dawn broke they realized that their OP had one bad feature: the sun came up just to the right of the mountain, in their faces, and they were looking straight into the light. Otherwise, they were ideally placed, not least because the seaward flank of their headland, behind them, was out of sight of the port, and guys could move up and down between OP and base quite freely.
At 0645, as soon as they’d established that the ship was the Santa Maria, they got through to Tony in Bogotá on the satcom.
‘Blue Team on location,’ Merv reported. ‘The target’s here.’
‘Roger. Have you identified the hostage?’
‘Not yet. The locals are only just starting to move.’
‘OK. Keep me informed. And well done. The Red Team’s re
ady when you are.’
‘Roger. We’ll let you know.’
Merv established a rota of two men on stag at the top, two at the bottom, and the rest crashed out, cooking or whatever. He and Roger took the first stag, to gauge the strength of the opposition and work out a plan.
One of the first things they realized was that the buildings at the end of the quay were inhabited. Doors started opening while it was still half light, and people went in and out. The watchers saw that a good deal of work had recently been done, both to the buildings and to the quay. Patches of fresh-looking cement showed up on the dock wall, and some of the buildings had had a new coat of paint or whitewash.
Soon the narcos’ plan of action was apparent. Machinery started up on board the ship, and the derricks began lifting nets full of bales ashore. The cranes landed each load in the open back of a decrepit four-ton truck, which drove off down the airstrip road, disappearing round the bend of the hill to the OP’s right.
‘They must have an air-lift going to the mainland,’ said Roger – and soon his assessment was proved right by the arrival of a twin-engined Cessna, which came in from the north-west, over their left shoulders, took one sweep to the south, turned back towards them, into the wind, sank out of sight and landed. Half an hour later they heard its engine wind up again for take off, and got themselves well tucked down among the palm leaves, knowing that it would come low overhead. Sure enough, it cleared them by no more than a couple of hundred feet, struggling for height under a heavy load.
‘Easy enough to make sure the ship never leaves,’ said Roger.
‘Swim out and put a charge on the props?’
‘Exactly. The trouble is, they’d still have plenty of time to top the Rupert. Somehow, we’ve got to cut him out first. If that poor bastard’s in one of those cabins, he’s going to bloody bake when the sun gets up. The ship looks that crappy I bet she hasn’t got air-conditioning.’
Two more flights came and left. By then another team had taken over the OP. As Steve was scanning through binoculars, he suddenly said, ‘Jesus! There he is!’
Jerry, his companion, whipped up his own pair of glasses and watched as Black emerged from the building they’d christened No. 2, with his hands cuffed together in front of him, followed by a guard wearing DPM fatigues and armed with an MP 5. He’d been ashore all the time. He was wearing a white shirt and dark trousers, but he looked in bad shape: his clothes were filthy, and his face had a dark, puffy appearance.
Steve gave a double tug on the communication cord which ran down to the base of the cliff, and Roger came scrambling up. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’
Roger, who’d never worked with Black, but had seen him often about the camp at Hereford, gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘It’s him, all right. But they’ve been hitting him about. Bastards.’
Black and his escort walked a couple of hundred yards along the airport road, then turned and came back. Exercise, time. They went out and back three times, Black walking slowly and awkwardly because of his handcuffs. Then for a few minutes both prisoner and gaoler sat in the sun on a low wall. Two more guards appeared and sat with them. Then all four disappeared into the building.
‘OK,’ said Roger. ‘We know where he is. But why have they got him there, I wonder?’
‘The heat, probably,’ said Steve. ‘In such a sheltered position, the ship must be like an oven.’
‘He must have spent the night there – otherwise we’d have seen him come ashore. If they’re going to keep him in the same place tonight as well, all the better. Much easier to grab him from there than on board.’
By sundown they had their plan. The prisoner was still inside building No. 2. During the afternoon, guards had come in and out, but Black had stayed put. Everything pointed to a night hit – and there would be no better time than 0300, when everybody concerned should be in the deepest trough of sleep.
At 0130 two men would swim out and place a charge of explosive on one of the ship’s propellers, with a timer set to detonate at 0300. At 0230 four men would work their way round right-handed, overland, to cross the road and come in on the buildings, taking with them a couple of made-up door charges in case they had to blast their way into the gaol-house. By 0255 they’d be in position for an assault on the building, but they’d wait for the ship to go up, and then give it a few seconds to see if the explosion would flush anybody from the buildings. If anyone ran out, they’d drop them, and then go in. Having lifted their quarry, they’d make their way back to the boat cache, but one of them would create a diversion by running off along the airfield road and putting down some rounds towards the strip, as if the rescue party were fighting a battle in that direction. Then, with most of the locals distracted by the fire on shipboard, they’d slip out to sea in the Geminis for a rendezvous with the Endeavor at pre-arranged coordinates.
At 1730 Merv called Tony on the satcom.
‘All set,’ he reported. ‘We’ve got it hacked. We’ll go in at zero-three-zero-zero local, if that suits.’
‘That’ll suit just fine,’ Tony answered. ‘I’ll pass the word along.’
‘Thanks. And maybe you can ask our cabbies to be at the rendezvous by zero-four-three-zero.’
‘Your cabbies?’
‘Our cab-drivers.’
‘OK. They’ll be there. Happy landings.’
SIXTEEN
Down in the jungle we were almost on the equator, so the dawn came up quickly, with none of the long-drawn-out twilight we’re used to in the far north. At 0600 we suddenly felt we were under attack from a deafening chorus of insects. It started in the tree canopy with a kind of moaning twang from what we called the stand-to beetle, and spread down to the crickets and other creatures at lower levels. All at once the clearing was bright as day, and we only had a few minutes to settle the details of our OP, as well as get the aerial aloft.
Murdo and I moved a few yards along the top of the rampart until we found a spot where some branches which still carried dying leaves formed a natural screen. Behind them we shifted lumps of wood and kicked away earth to make a comfortable hollow. As soon as we were settled, Sparky went climbing with his wire, aligning it east to west, with the east end ten feet higher. The standing trees gave us overhead cover, and by the time it was full daylight, we were well set. Unless somebody came walking along the top of the mound – which seemed highly unlikely, because the heap of trees and roots was so rough – we’d be perfectly safe. All the same, I reckoned we were too close to the enemy to risk any cooking, so we had a cold breakfast of corned-beef hash and lemonade out of our water bottles.
As I expected, the locals were up early. Soon after 6 a.m. people came out of the buildings and began moving about. We arranged the stags so that two of us were watching the compound all the time. Most of the earliest activity occurred at the far end; evidently the cookhouse had been set up in the right-hand end of the unfinished block. We soon realized that at least some of the people present were native Indians – tiny, grey-skinned people, wearing nothing but grass skirts. There were also some Colombian guards in DPM fatigues; we couldn’t tell the exact number, as they kept disappearing and reappearing, but we guessed there were about ten in all.
It was at 6.30 that a door opened towards our end of the accommodation block and out came a man who was manifestly neither Indian nor Colombian – a carrot-haired, freckled fellow in a dirty white T-shirt and jeans, carrying a towel.
‘Jesus!’ I whispered to Murdo. ‘One of the players.’
Murdo’s hair and moustache were dark red, but this guy was practically orange. He slouched off to a door at the far end of the block: the ablutions or shit-house, for sure. As he returned a few minutes later, the door of his room opened again, and out came Farrell.
I went into momentary shock. Somehow I’d made up my mind that he was on board the ship, knocking hell out of Black. Not at all. Here he was, stretching and looking round.
‘Don’t move,’ I breathed. ‘This is the fucker I’ve been
after.’
So, for the second time, I had a perfect chance to drop him. My mind flashed back to the scene outside the barn in Ulster. Now, as then, I had only to pull the trigger. But if I fired now, Farrell’s mates would surely panic and try to kill their hostages. Even if we dropped all the players, the guards were on hand to carry out whatever orders they’d been given.
Farrell appeared to be looking straight at us, but in fact he was only getting his bearings, and after a moment he too moved off for a piss, with that characteristic dip on the left foot. I let my breath out and turned to Murdo with a shake of my head. Close on Farrell’s heels came a third player, shorter than him, also dark-haired. I recognized him immediately from the restaurant in Bogotá. At about seven o’clock all three moved off in a bunch towards the far end of the compound, heading for the cookhouse.
It was Murdo who drew my attention to the end door of the accommodation block, the left-hand one as we looked across. Like the others it was made of metal, but this one was fastened with a hasp and padlock. ‘I bet that’s where they are,’ he whispered. ‘It’s the only secure room in the place.’
Ten minutes later two of the guards came strolling along. They looked a slovenly pair. They carried submachine-guns that could have been Uzis, or the American version, Ingrams. At the door one produced a key and undid the padlock while the other covered him. The door opened, and out came a handcuffed man also wearing DPMs. For a few seconds I stared in consternation. Who was this? Had we made a mega cock-up and come chasing after the wrong hostage? Had the toads got their wires crossed? Then I clicked. With a jolt I saw that this scruffy character was the DA. He looked filthy and dishevelled and utterly different from when I’d last seen him.