Exclusion Zone

by Exclusion Zone (retail) (epub)

‘Don’t bet on it.’

  She paused, still looking at me, and there was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Then she turned her back, shrugged the towel from her shoulders and wriggled into a T-shirt. She pulled on her flying suit and fixed the silver chain of a pendant around her neck.

  ‘That’s new, isn’t it?’

  Her hand closed around it. ‘Geoff’s grandad gave it to his granny the day he went off to fight in the First World War. It has a tiny picture of him inside it. His granny gave it to Geoff’s mother and now.’ She paused, her expression unreadable. ‘Geoff gave it to me on Sunday night.’

  She dragged a comb through her tangle of damp, blonde hair, then grabbed her flying jacket and looked at her watch. ‘Not bad, eh? Five minutes, start to finish.’

  ‘I know, and that hedge-backwards look is so of the moment, don’t you think?’

  ‘Listen, Sean, if I took an extra five minutes to get ready, I’d be so drop-dead gorgeous you wouldn’t be able to stand it.’

  ‘I can’t stand it already.’

  I was moving for the door as she reached behind her. The wet towel slapped harmlessly against the wall where my head had been resting only half a second before.

  After breakfast, I checked the pairings for the familiarisation flights that morning. I was less than totally surprised to see that Shark had arranged things so that he was flying with Jane, while I was paired with Noel.

  Shark took the briefing himself. ‘Now the departing drunks are safely aboard the Tristar, we can get down to some serious work; nothing too heavy this morning though, just a famil flight. We’ll be doing a Fiery Cross to keep the gun and missile crews awake, then a quick tour of the Falklands.

  ‘There are two main islands and about seven hundred smaller ones, and you’ll be seeing most of them in the next couple of hours. There are radar sites on Mount Kent, Byron Heights and half a dozen other places we’ll be pointing out to you.

  ‘Flying conditions here are exactly what you would expect: constant wind predominantly from the west or south-west, and quite serious turbulence, particularly over the cliffs on West Falkland. As you saw for yourselves on the way in, East Falkland is more low-lying, apart from the central ridge of hills.

  ‘The airfield has been cleverly laid out so that any attacking aircraft can hide behind Pleasant Peak before making their attack run. That’s it. Jimmy?’

  ‘Weather brief.’ Jimmy was a dour-looking Scot with a pinched face and prominent nose. At bases in the UK, the Met man was invariably a civilian, full-time meteorologist. In the Falklands there were no such luxuries. Jimmy was a navigator, doubling as a Met man. His air of permanent gloom had earned him the nickname ‘Happy’, but it was rarely if ever used to his face.

  ‘You can get all four seasons in five minutes down here,’ he said. ‘The good news is you’re only going to get three of them today, the bad news is the one you won’t get is summer. Winds south-westerly, forty knots gusting to sixty, and strengthening late in the day, squalls of rain, hail, sleet and snow coming through like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Visibility moderate, dropping to poor in the squalls.’

  ‘Survival brief.’

  Jimmy resumed his seat, replaced at the podium by a tough-looking soldier with iron-grey hair and a lean, wind-burned face. He wore fatigues, with no markings or badges of rank. I guessed he was Special Forces.

  ‘My name’s Jack Stubbs. I double as survival instructor and weapons instructor, so you’ll be seeing plenty of me on the firing ranges. The rules of survival here are pretty obvious. Your biggest enemy – apart from the Argentinians – is the cold and wet. The South Atlantic is well equipped in both departments. Stay out of it if you can, but if you do have to ditch, your friendly neighbourhood Sea King will be with you in somewhere between ten minutes and an hour, depending how close you are to the edge of the Exclusion Zone when you hit the drink. Even in the worst case, your survival is assured, providing you’re wearing your immersion suit. If you’re not, it’s been nice knowing you.

  ‘On what’s laughingly referred to as dry land, your priority is the same: avoid the cold and wet. The Falklands may technically be in the temperate zone but wind chill is a definite hazard. Your first priority must be shelter, both from the wind and the rain.

  ‘Your other survival skills are only likely to be tested in the unlikely event of your tacbe and your back-up communications both failing simultaneously, but there are a couple of hundred uninhabited islands you might be unlucky enough to land on, so don’t automatically expect that you’ll be found and rescued in the time it takes to powder your nose.’

  I could sense Jane’s hackles rising, though he hadn’t glanced in her direction.

  ‘If you do have to go into combat survival mode or if you’re forced into Escape and Evasion’ – he stilled the beginnings of laughter with a glance – ‘they were probably laughing at the idea in 1982 as well, until the Argentinians invaded. As I was saying, if you do go into combat survival or E & E, one thing you definitely won’t be short of here is water. It’s everywhere and providing you sterilise it with Puritabs, it’s safe to drink… unless you collect it from the middle of a minefield. Food shouldn’t be a problem either, but be aware that the rabbit snares in your survival packs are a waste of space; there are no rabbits or other small animals worth trapping.

  ‘Inland, you can kill the first sheep you come across – and even some of the uninhabited islands have those – catch fish, the rivers are stuffed full of them, or eat tussac grass. You peel back the outer leaves and eat the soft heart. It’s surprisingly palatable, in fact; it tastes a bit like chestnut.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Jane breathed. ‘It tastes a bit like shit.’

  His eyes flickered towards her, but he never broke stride. ‘If you can get to the coast – and let’s face it, that shouldn’t be too much of a problem in the Falklands, even on E & E – the shoreline is literally crawling with food. There are four or five kinds of crabs, half a dozen sorts of mussels and about fifty other edible species. Stay off the albatross, seals and penguins though. They’re all protected species.’

  ‘What about seabird eggs?’ The questioner, Rees, was the junior pilot on the squadron. His fair hair and unnaturally pink skin made him look even younger than his twenty-three years.

  ‘Sound thinking, son. If you can just manage to keep from starving for the next four months until they start laying again, then you’ll be able to eat like a king.’

  Rees lowered his head, his cheeks crimson.

  Jack spread his arms wide. ‘In short, gentlemen – and lady – if you can’t survive in the Falklands, you couldn’t survive in Harrods with a platinum Amex card.’

  The Boss got back on his feet. ‘Questions? Okay, one more thing. I know four months in the Falklands may sound like a life sentence just now, but I want no whingeing… especially when you’re in the company of Falklanders. I will also not tolerate any lowering of standards, either on or off-duty. We’re at the far end of nowhere, eight and a half thousand miles from home, and believe me, I know just how dispiriting that can be at times, but we’ve a job of work to do and we’re going to do it professionally. That’s all, let’s get to it.’

  We straggled out of the briefing room and made our way along the echoing corridor. The windows were fogged with condensation and sleet rattled against the panes. Only ten years old, the changing room was a mess of peeling paint and crumbling concrete.

  Jane wrinkled her nose. ‘Is that you, Shark, or does the place always smell like this?’ She took a rubber immersion suit from the row hanging near the counter presided over by a bored-looking corporal from the ground crew. Part of his job was to wash the suits after every use, but despite his best efforts, they invariably smelt as rank as the changing room itself.

  I put on two layers of thermal underwear, dragged the top half of my immersion suit over my head and forced my arms down the sleeves. Even with the inside liberally doused with talc or chalk, the suits were near impossible to
get into. I paused, sweating from the effort. ‘Houdini didn’t know he was born.’

  Impassive, Jane watched my struggles for a moment then walked over to me. ‘It’s caught on a fold of your clothing.’ She took hold of the back of the suit and jerked it down. It snapped into place with a slapping sound.

  ‘Thanks.’

  There were similar struggles going on all round the room. Shark’s muffled voice emerged from a cocoon of black rubber. ‘The guy that designs an immersion suit that you can get into without feeling like you’ve just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson can have my pension.’

  ‘Why should it be a guy?’ Jane asked.

  There was another convulsive struggle and his flushed face emerged from the suit. ‘I don’t give a toss what sex they are, just as long as they get a bloody move on.’

  ‘You think you’ve got a problem,’ Noel said, struggling to pull his suit down over his paunch. ‘I must be the only person in the entire RAF who actually fills one of these things.’

  I sat down on the bench, pulled on my G-pants and secured the clips and zips, then reached for the heavy life-support jacket. As I picked up my helmet, Noel appeared at my elbow. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’ I tapped Jane on the shoulder. ‘Watch out for Shark, his other nickname is Octopus.’

  I followed Noel outside. The blast of wind that greeted us was almost a relief; I could already feel trickles of sweat running down my spine.

  We drove down to the Quick Reaction Area, wedged into the narrow bench seats of the squadron taxi. The curving roofs of four steel and concrete ‘shacks’ – the bunkers for the jets – stood within fifty yards of the end of the runway. They were open at either end and had the look of railway tunnels. They were separated from each other by the earth mounds I had seen as I looked around the previous day.

  Nearby was a heap of white stones about twenty feet high and forty feet long. A large official notice warned: ‘Airfield Damage Repair Stockpile – Do Not Remove.’ Not everyone had been deterred: a message from one of the departing aircrew – ‘So long, suckers’ – was picked out in white stones on the side of one of the earth mounds.

  The sleek grey nose of a Tempest protruded from each shack. The underside of the fuselage and wings bristled with missiles, from which red tags dangled, signifying that they were live.

  ‘This is what all that investment in the defence of the Falklands boils down to,’ Noel said. ‘Four aircraft – Faith, Hope, Charity and Desperation. Not much is it?’

  ‘Not even with the other half-dozen in reserve.’

  ‘Most of which are usually out of commission, cannibalised for spares.’

  I stared at the shacks for a moment. ‘These aren’t even hardened.’

  ‘I know,’ Noel said. ‘It’s the usual story, defence economies. Hardened aircraft shelters are too expensive, apparently.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Too expensive? We spend a couple of billion pounds fortifying Fortress Falklands, building a harbour, fifty miles of road, and a base, including a double runway, all in the middle of a peat bog. Then we spend £80 million more every year garrisoning the place. But if the Argentinians try to invade again, the only protection for the aircraft is four tin shacks and a few piles of earth and stones.’

  Noel nodded again. ‘You’re obviously a smart lad. Fancy a job at the Ministry of Defence?’

  He pointed to another group of buildings at the other side of the runway. ‘Those are the spare Tempest shacks for the Cobra Force reinforcements if things get tense with Argentina. Of course, by the time they actually arrive it might be too late.’

  ‘And what’s that building?’ I said, pointing to a long wooden shed.

  ‘That’s the Q Area Ops building. It’s where the reserve forces would be based.’

  He led me over to a low, camouflaged building at the side of the QRA area. Eight aircrew wearing flying suits, G-pants and immersion suits looked up from the armchairs where they were slumped, staring at cartoons on a giant TV screen.

  ‘Morning, guys,’ Noel said. ‘Anyone start a war last night?’

  ‘They tried,’ one of them said. ‘We told them to go away and come back on Saturday when you’re on duty.’

  ‘Well, if they invade in the next forty-five minutes, Sean and I will take them on. We’re going up on a famil flight.’

  They nodded, their gaze already swivelling back to the TV screen.

  ‘QRAs are the same the world over,’ I said, as the door banged shut behind us. ‘Boredom and body odour in equal proportions.’

  ‘It’s even more true here. Ninety-nine per cent of life in the Falklands is sitting around waiting for something – anything – to happen.’ He gave a weary shake of his head. ‘Never mind. Only five more months to go and then I’ll be home again.’

  ‘Have you got family with you?’

  He shook his head. ‘My wife’s long-suffering but I thought this posting would be too much even for her, and anyway our kids have both got exams this year. My daughter’s taking her A levels and my son’s doing his GCSEs. We thought it was better if Molly stayed at home.’

  ‘You must really miss them.’

  ‘You can’t imagine how much.’ He gave a bleak smile. ‘This is my last tour, though. I’m getting too old for this game.’

  We walked towards the steep concrete ramp leading to the first Tempest shack. It was flanked by mounds of earth and stones. A tunnel like a concrete sewage pipe branched off halfway up, linking it to the second.

  The base of each mound was formed from rectangular wire mesh cages, packed with loose rocks. ‘That’s how we shore up riverbanks back home.’

  Noel nodded. ‘It makes more sense than using them to protect Tempest shacks. Can you imagine the amount of steel and rock shrapnel that would go flying if one of those took a direct hit?’

  A solitary boulder stood at the foot of the ramp, inset with a brass plate. I stopped to read the inscription. It commemorated two aircrew killed when their Phantom crashed on an exercise. The names were vaguely familiar and I paused for a few moments, trying to conjure up faces to put to the names, then gave up and followed Noel up the ramp.

  The wind seemed to redouble in strength as it forced its way through the open-ended Tempest shack, and the ground crew huddled around the aircraft looked thoroughly miserable. It could have been a tyre-fitting bay but for the bombs and missiles lying against the walls.

  I nodded to the ground crew and began checking over the jet. I had flown Tempests for seven years and knew them inside out, but even on the firing ranges we rarely carried more than one or two live missiles. The sight of a full load bristling beneath the wings and fuselage was a new experience for me.

  The Tempest was at least fifteen years old, and cared for as painstakingly as a classic car. I patted the fat black tyres as I ducked under the fuselage to check the landing-gear bays, then scrawled my signature on the form held out by the chief engineer.

  He examined my handwriting. ‘Ever thought of becoming a doctor instead of a pilot?’

  I smiled. ‘Nice to see you again too, Taff.’

  Noel was already in the back seat, loading the mission details into the computer as I clambered up the ladder. The familiar sound and smell of a fast jet greeted me: the whine of electronics and the stench of avgas.

  I checked the ejection gear and lowered myself onto the tiny, rock-hard seat. Taff leaned over the side of the cockpit, helping me to fasten the leg restraints. I tightened my thigh and shoulder straps and locked them into the quick release buckle. As I twisted and turned, connecting the tangle of hoses and cables to my flying suit, I could feel the sweat again prickling my brow.

  As I went through the preflight ritual of check and countercheck, it was strange to hear a man’s voice responding. The first cycle complete, I fired up the engines, and then closed the canopy. The ground crew scattered at the sound of the warning siren, taking refuge under the wings or behind the generator, until the canopy was safely loc
ked into place. The fail-safe explosive charges used to destroy the canopy during an emergency ejection had been known to detonate during routine closures.

  I glanced through the canopy. The ageing Perspex gave the clouds streaming above the hillsides a yellowish tinge. The cockpit seemed warmer and the outside world more remote as a result.

  Noel’s voice crackled in my ear, distorted by the intercom, forcing me to concentrate on another series of checks. The panels remained clear of warning captions and all readings and levels were correct.

  ‘No problems with the jet for once,’ I said. ‘Maybe that’s a good omen.’

  ‘I’ll reserve judgement on the omens till we’re safely back on the ground, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Come on, Noel, a low-level, near-supersonic flight in a fifteen-year-old Tempest cannibalised from spare parts and held together with sellotape and string; what could possibly go wrong?’

  I checked in with the tower, then gave a thumbs-up to Taff and eased the throttles forward a touch. Even inside the canopy the noise redoubled, as oily black smoke belched from the Tempest’s engines. I eased us out of the shack, the wingtips clearing the walls by no more than six inches on either side.

  We rolled to a stop on the edge of the runway. ‘That’s the way to do it. No more buggering around on taxiways, just open the doors and step on the gas.’

  As I spoke, I pushed the throttles forward, holding the jet on the brakes as tongues of blue-yellow flame flashed out thirty feet behind. The nose dipped as the afterburners kicked in. We rocked and juddered as I ran my eyes over the panels, completing the final checks.

  I felt the familiar smack in the back as I released the brakes. The stone sangars guarding the underground fuel and bomb dumps blurred and disappeared from view as the Tempest catapulted forward. The tower swelled in size, then vanished as we rocketed past.

  Noel’s dry, matter-of-fact voice recorded the ascending speed. As we crossed the reserve runway, my eyes flicked to the warning panel. ‘Captions clear, rotating.’

  I pulled the stick towards me and the jet responded instantly. The nose rose and a fraction of a second later there was a faint thud as the wheels left the concrete. The runway disappeared beneath us and we were up, punching through the broken cloud as the landing gear retracted. We levelled out at five thousand feet and swung away in a wide arc to the north.