Stand By Stand By

by Chris Ryan

  I felt my temper rising as he was taken off under close escort to the ablution area, and then brought back. Where the hell was Luisa? In some other cell, I supposed. As the DA came back towards us I could see that his face was pale and drawn. He looked as though he’d shed ten kilos.

  The subsequent events of that day were few and far between. At 8 a.m. a man brought the DA some food in what looked like a couple of mess-tins. At the same time construction work started up on the new building. Cement mixers began churning, and files of Indians portered stuff around. We could also see action in the laboratory, and a glint of bright blue from the stack of drums confirmed my diagnosis that they contained ether.

  Not long after work had started, a single shot cracked out from the jungle near the far end of the compound.

  ‘Jesus!’ I said. ‘They’ve topped somebody.’ I didn’t think it could be one of ours; the DA was certainly inside the gaol-block, and we presumed Luisa was too. We speculated intensely for a few minutes. Could it have been a punishment shooting – the PIRA extending their home methods to the jungle? All was made clear when a commotion broke out in the cookhouse area, and four or five Indians came into view dragging some heavy animal. There was a lot of jabbering and shouting as they pulleyed it up with ropes and hung it on the scaffolding, where they started to skin and butcher it; although we had a fair view of it, we couldn’t make out what the hell it was. From its thick brown coat it could have been a bear, but it looked more like a king-sized beaver. Not until we’d left the jungle altogether did I discover that it must have been a capybara, the biggest rodent in the world.

  Around nine the PIRA crowd joined forces with some of the guys in DPMs, sorting out weapons and boxes of ammunition, and the whole lot drove off down the track to the airstrip in a decrepit old truck which backfired viciously. Soon we could hear the rattle of small-arms fire in the distance, and it was obvious that the PIRA guys were into training the locals. Their fame as professional terrorists had spread to the jungle, and here they were using the airfield as a range. Then we heard the odd loud crump as well, as if demolition instruction was being thrown in.

  With them temporarily out of the way, I felt that the air had cleared. This would have been a good moment to launch our attack, if we hadn’t been constrained by the need to co-ordinate with the Boat Troop. I almost decided that one of us could slip round through the jungle, scurry across the road, and creep up behind the accommodation block to whisper through the ventilation slits and let the hostages know that help was at hand. Then it seemed better to wait until dark, and until we were organized to strike.

  A plan was forming in my mind. One 203 grenade into the store of ether drums would cause a major explosion and put the lab on fire in seconds. But better still, a timed charge of PE; if things began with a big bang from the back corner of the camp, the narco forces might be bluffed into thinking that the attack was coming in from that quarter, rather than from the direction of the airfield. If, during the initial confusion, we blew the bolt of the cell room with another small charge, we could get the DA out. He could tell us where Luisa was, and we should be able to spirit the hostages away down the airfield road without much of a firefight. At least we’d get a start. If we could somehow block or booby-trap the road we might get clear. Then it would be into the dinghy and away upriver with the outboards. If the Islander was still on the field, we’d put enough rounds through it as we went past to make sure it couldn’t take off.

  Talking quietly, I put the plan to the others.

  ‘The idea of starting it with a bang’s good,’ said Murdo, ‘but we still need more firepower.’

  ‘Well, the other guys will be here this evening.’

  ‘We’ll be better off when it’s dark, too.’

  ‘Agreed. But let’s confirm what’s happening on the ship. Sparky, get that fucking radio going.’

  Luckily, as Sparky began fiddling his dials, the bulldozer started up. Its noise was so loud we could have yelled at the tops of our voices without being heard, and voice communication became by far the most satisfactory option. In a minute or two we got through to the base at Puerto Pizarro. Johnny Ellis must have been right beside the Colombian signaller, because he came on within seconds of our making contact.

  ‘Green Four,’ I told him. ‘I confirm one hostage is on site. Second hostage presumed here also. Not the one with blond hair. Three PIRA also on site. Plus maybe ten local guards. On pass to head-shed. Over.’

  ‘Green Three. Roger.’ He told us that the Blue team were on their objective. Also, the head-shed had reiterated that any assault we planned must be synchronized with theirs.

  ‘We’re ready when they are,’ I told him. ‘Any time after dark, provided you guys can get here. Is the chopper operational?’

  ‘Green Two, affirmative.’

  ‘Green Four. In that case, we’ll expect you this evening. Tell the pilot to fly to the same place as yesterday. You’ll need to rope down. But see if you can borrow a chain-saw. There’s one tree that prevents the chopper landing. Cut that down if you can, and bring the saw with you. Then launch your dinghy and drift. Don’t use the engine. There’s no need to paddle, except to steer, because the current’s quite fast. Aim to launch at 1800 hours. After one hour forty, watch the right bank for a big clearing. We’ll be there to meet you. We’ll give you double flashes from a torch. Over.’

  ‘Green Three. Roger. We’ll see you there.’

  ‘Green Four. Try for a pair of bolt-cutters, also. And inform Green One we’re in good order. Anything else? Over.’

  ‘Green Three. Yes. The narcos are demanding a ransom of one billion pesos for the return of the British hostages.’

  ‘Green Four. Billion or million? Over.’

  ‘Green Three. Bravo for billion. Over.’

  ‘Green Four. That’s peanuts. Emphasize that recovery is fully possible, and keep the negotiators talking. Out.’ I turned to Murdo and said, ‘A billion. That’s about a million quid.’

  ‘Bollocks to them. They can whistle for it. Pity Johnny can’t line up a fucking great tin-opener and bring it with him. Then we’d just carve open the roof of the shed and lift our two out.’

  The day seemed to last for ever. By noon, with the sun dead overhead, the heat was overpowering. Back under the jungle canopy it wasn’t quite so bad, but out in the open it hit you like a blow over the head. I kept thinking that under the tin roof of the accommodation block it must be fearsome. We still had to go easy with our water; we’d brought two bottles apiece, and could have drunk twice as much. After dark we’d be able to refill them from the river – we had Stereotabs to kill the bugs. I wondered what the narcos were doing about their own supply. Getting it from the small river and boiling it, I supposed.

  The shooting party came back and debussed into the cookhouse area for lunch and, we presumed, a siesta. A man brought food and drink to the DA’s cell. Construction work stopped, and silence fell on the compound. What with the heat, the mosquitoes, and processions of inch-long ants marching into our OP, we didn’t have that comfortable an afternoon.

  The highlight was the appearance of a decidedly unwelcome visitor. I was dozing when Murdo suddenly nudged me and said, ‘Hey! Look at this!’

  I rolled over and peered out through the leaves. Halfway across the open ground was a monstrous snake, slithering towards us from the far side. If I said it was the length of a cricket pitch, I’d be exaggerating. But I’m sure it was twenty feet at least, and a foot in diameter at the thickest point.

  ‘Fucking python!’ Murdo whispered.

  ‘No, it’s an anaconda.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘No pythons in South America. I read it somewhere.’

  ‘Whatever it is, it could swallow a bloody goat.’

  ‘And crush you like an egg. Thin out, snake.’

  As if it had heard me, the huge reptile hung a right turn and headed away down the approach road, leaving a trail as deep as if a heavy log had been dragged
through the dust. With the binoculars I could see its tongue flickering in and out.

  Around four o’clock thunder began to rumble in the distance, and the sky darkened as a big storm built up. Back at Santa Rosa somebody had mentioned that the dry season was about to end, so maybe this was the beginning of the rain? The forest birds, which had been screeching away merrily all day, went quiet. Then the trees began to stir in a hot wind, and the storm came steadily closer, the noise growing all the time, until at about five o’clock it burst over us.

  Being so close to the enemy, we didn’t want to pitch our ponchos, which shine like hell, so we simply had to endure the rain, which came hammering down with such force that in a couple of minutes everything was flooded; cascades started running down the side of our rampart, and every hollow was full of water. When I looked across the compound, I couldn’t see the far end for the sheer volume of rain falling. What I could see was that the deluge was raising a kind of brown froth several inches from the ground as the incoming drops beat air into the dust soup. The noise was phenomenal: a background roar of rain as loud as a train in a tunnel, and through it sizzling crackles of lightning, instantly followed by earth-shaking thunderclaps.

  Within half an hour the storm had rolled on. It left us soaked through and miserable, but at least it cooled the air by a few degrees, and enabled us to fill our bottles with fresh water: I’d sent Sparky back into the jungle to spread a poncho and use it as a miniature catchment.

  As soon as full darkness had fallen, Murdo and I set out to meet the incoming party, leaving Sparky to man the OP. The storm had turned the dust to mud, and we couldn’t help leaving tracks, but we kept to the edge of the road to make our trails as inconspicuous as possible. When we reached the airstrip we stopped for ten minutes’ observation. The Islander still sat in the same place and, except for the insects and the sound of water dripping, everything was quiet. Skirting the edge of the open area, we made our way to the river bank, identified our cache by the high tree, and came down on to the dinghy first time.

  From its mooring among the roots there was no view out over the water, because the outer branches of the trees hung down to the surface, so we cast off and pulled ourselves out until we were in the very fringe, then made fast to the end of a branch to hold ourselves against the current.

  By then it was 7.30. ‘What do we do?’ asked Murdo. ‘Start flashing?’

  ‘Yeah. I reckon so. If there’s been heavy rain upstream, the river could be running faster. They could be here any minute.’

  So we sat in the dark and waited, with Murdo giving a double flash upstream every thirty seconds. There was time to think of a hundred things that could have gone wrong. The helicopter could have gone US again and never taken off. It could have taken off and been forced to turn back. The pilot could have failed to find the rock outcrop. The dinghy could have got punctured. My mind flew to the propaganda tower in Bogotá, and Tony cooped up there on the fourth floor. I imagined wretched Peter Black, sweating in some oven of a cabin on board the Santa Maria. I saw Tracy and Tim in England. What time was it there? Two-thirty. They’d just have had lunch. Maybe they were walking in the spinney behind the cottage. I hoped they’d had no more strange phone calls . . .

  Suddenly, from out on the water to our right, came a low whistle, which Murdo returned. Seconds later a black lump with heads sticking up out of it bore down at us out of the dark. Murdo kept the torch on to guide them in, and the second dinghy bounced gently into ours.

  ‘How’s that for fucking navigation?’ said a Scots voice, which I recognized as Stewart McQuarrie’s.

  ‘Shit hot,’ I told him. ‘Good on yer, Stew. Who’s with you?’

  ‘Me,’ said Johnny Ellis.

  ‘Me,’ said another voice.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Mel. Who else?’

  ‘Great!’ I said. ‘Welcome to Shitsville.’

  ‘Can’t be. We’ve just come from there.’

  ‘This is another.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Fucking horrible. But you’ll get used to it. Did you bring a power saw?’

  ‘Sure did. We cut down that prick of a tree, too.’

  ‘Brilliant. What about bolt-shears?’

  ‘Nothing doing. None to be had.’

  ‘Too bad. Any news from the north?’

  ‘Yeah. The Boat Troop are still on target. What’s the plan, then?’

  ‘The boat guys’ operation’s going down at 0300. I told Tony we’d go in then too, unless we tell him different.’

  ‘Christ! We’d better shift our arses. What weapons have you got?’

  ‘Only the one 203, and MP 5s. There’s supposed to be a load of stuff coming down from Belize, but the Colombian aircraft went US somewhere up country.’

  ‘¡Carajo! What about ammunition?’

  ‘Loads.’ Somebody tapped on a metal box.

  ‘Good. Let’s get ashore, anyway. Watch yourselves on these tree roots. They’re slippery as hell.’

  We pulled both dinghies in, secured them deep among the root tangle, and hid the engines about twenty yards along the bank.

  Up on the edge of the airstrip I gave a quick briefing to bring the new guys up to speed. It was easier to talk out there in the open, well away from the compound. I had to choose words carefully to give them a good idea of the layout without drawing any diagrams, but they got it well enough. I repeated the outline of my rescue plan.

  ‘How many guys are there on the site?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘There’s the three PIRA, maybe ten guards – guerrillas, or whatever they are – and some technicians, brewing the coke. Plus a few Indians. The bank we’ve established the OP on is a natural strongpoint. It commands the whole open area. From there, I’d say we could drop most of the guys on the spot, as they react to the explosions and run out into the compound. Now we’ve got the saw, we can also fell a tree across the road, so they won’t be able to follow by vehicle. If we put rounds into the plane as well, they’ll be grounded. Then we motor upriver to the LZ, and have ourselves choppered out.’

  ‘What about their comms?’ asked Stew. ‘It would be good to knock them out, so they can’t report what was happening.’

  ‘We haven’t identified any VHF mast or aerial, so we assume they’ve got satcoms – and the same on the ship. The bastards are probably comparing notes all the time.’ I paused, then added: ‘The sooner we get out of here, the better.’

  Back at the ranch, I settled everyone on the rampart, and in whispers explained the layout again, this time pointing to the various locations. Members of the garrison were on the move, but the centre of activity was the cookhouse.

  After the rain, the mozzies were out in force, and even with liberal smearings of repellent, everybody was swatting and cursing.

  I decided that Murdo should be the man to hit the stack of ether drums, so, when movement in the compound had died down, I took him with me on a recce beyond the buildings.

  This time, as we crept behind the accommodation block, I looked up at the first ventilation slot – a horizontal slatted opening about eight feet off the ground. It was only six feet from the end of the building, so it must go through into the room where the DA was held.

  At the far back corner of the lab, I pointed out the stack of drums, and we briefly discussed possible approaches. In fact only one spot was practicable – where we were.

  ‘No problem,’ Murdo breathed. ‘This’ll do just fine.’

  As we were returning, I said, ‘Listen, I’m going to make contact with the DA. Give me a platform.’

  Under the ventilation slot Murdo bent over and braced himself against the wall. With a bit of a jump I was up on his back, my head level with the opening. The stink that came out was anything but reassuring.

  ‘Hey!’ I hissed. ‘Major Palmer!’

  For a moment there was no answer, but I heard movement inside.

  ‘Major Palmer!’ I hissed again.

  ‘Who is it?’<
br />
  ‘Geordie Sharp. SAS. We’ve come to get you out.’

  The DA gave a kind of grunt. ‘Thank God! When?’

  ‘Three o’clock in the morning. Listen – where’s Luisa?’

  ‘I don’t know. They took her away.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Can’t remember. I heard her screaming.’

  ‘Oh. Shit! Are you tied up?’

  ‘Only handcuffs.’

  ‘Not chained to anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK.’

  I tried to think. It wasn’t on to stay where we were any longer, I just said, ‘All right. I’ll tap on the door just before three. It’ll start with a big bang from the far end of the compound. A few seconds after that we’ll blow the lock on your door. When you hear the first explosion, get your hands over your ears and keep them there until your door comes in – but be prepared for take-off. OK?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Keep away from the door. After I’ve knocked, keep on the front wall, at the far end from the door. OK?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Hang in there, then.’

  Back on the mound, we speculated furiously about what had happened to the woman. As far as we could see, there was no other room in which she could be held. Could she have been flown out to some other narco hideaway?

  There was no way we could do any more recces. The chances of being compromised were too high. The operation had to go down.

  I assigned everyone a role. Whilst Murdo would hit the ether, I would see to the door-charge, and escort the hostages when they came out. Sparky would help me with them; obviously they’d be disorientated and need close supervision. Johnny would be away down the approach road with the chain-saw. The moment the ether went up, he’d start cutting, with the aim of dropping a good-sized tree. Once he had a barrier in position, he’d jettison the saw. Stew and Mel would give covering fire from the top of the rampart for as long as they could, or as long as seemed necessary. As soon as the whole party was on the move, we’d pepperpot our way back to the boats.