Exclusion Zone

by Exclusion Zone (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  That night, my nightmare returned. I awoke, heart pounding, my pillow drenched in cold, clammy sweat. I pitched it onto the floor, threw back the bedclothes and lay naked in the darkness staring at the ceiling, as the sweat grew cold on my body. Then I pulled the covers around me and slipped back into troubled sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Winter was closing in. Snow had dusted the ground during the night and there was frost on the window when I woke. I banged on Jane’s door a couple of times but ignored the sleepy invitation to come in and wait. ‘I’m starving, I’ll see you in the Mess.’ I hurried off down the corridor before she could reply.

  As I walked through the lobby, the Tannoy crackled into life. ‘All Aircrew, General Briefing, 0700 hours. Repeat, all—’ As I pushed the door open, the metallic voice was drowned in a thunder of rotors as three Sea King helicopters rose into the air from their compound and flew off to the west in echelon formation. I watched them fade from sight, then turned up the collar of my coat against the cold and began walking towards the Mess, on the far side of the runway. The morning was clear and bright, with only a few strands of cirrus cloud streaking the pale dawn sky.

  I’d almost finished my breakfast by the time Jane appeared, her hair still damp from the shower.

  ‘You’re looking rough,’ she said, dropping into the chair opposite me and pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  ‘I haven’t been sleeping too well.’

  ‘Something on your mind?’

  I hesitated, then shook my head. ‘Just bad dreams.’

  She studied me over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘Don’t suppose you know what the briefing’s about, do you?’

  ‘No idea, though I saw three Sea Kings take off just now, which is a bit unusual.’

  She nodded. ‘I guess we’ll find out soon enough. Once we’ve got the briefing out of the way, the day’s our own. What do you fancy doing?’

  ‘I’m going to take a walk in the hills.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘I want to try and get a feel for what it was like for the ground troops during the war.’

  She studied my face carefully. ‘Do you want some company or did the fact that you said “I” rather than “we” mean you’d prefer to be on your own?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d—’

  She held up a hand. ‘I don’t mind, just let me know if and when you want to talk about it. But Sean?’ A faint smile played around the corners of her mouth. ‘If you keep on sloping off without me like this, I’ll start to think you’re avoiding me.’ She held my gaze for a moment, then her smile broadened. ‘Anyway, slogging through stinking peat bogs is the last thing on my agenda for today. I’m going to hit the weights, top up my tan on the sunbed and do a few girly things like painting my toenails. Oh, and I’m supposed to be giving Shark a game of squash as well.’

  ‘Is he any good?’

  She shrugged. ‘He says he is.’

  ‘No surprises there, but maybe you should play him before you hit the weights, just in case he really is good.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that, Sean, I’ve got to give him every chance. The male ego is a very delicate thing.’

  The briefing room was packed. We took a seat on a bench towards the back and I felt a small stab of irritation as Shark squeezed into the space next to Jane a few moments later. She nudged me and pointed towards the front of the room, where eight aircrew were sitting in full flying gear. ‘It must be something important if they’ve brought the guys on QRA up for it.’

  ‘Taff’s here as well,’ I said. ‘It must be earth-shattering, never mind important, if they’ve dragged him away from the shacks. They probably had to surgically separate him from his socket wrenches.’

  Nobody had any idea why the briefing had been called, but that didn’t stop the buzz of speculation around the room. The Boss stood at the front, tapping his pen against his teeth as he waited for the last of us to be seated. He banged the podium with his fist and the hubbub of conversation died away.

  He allowed a few moments to elapse before he spoke. ‘A curious situation has developed. We have no idea if it’s innocent or sinister, but until we have definite information to the contrary, we must assume the worst.’ He paused and glanced around the room.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of him explaining exactly what the hell he’s talking about,’ Jane murmured.

  He took a deep breath. ‘HMS Trident has disappeared. It has missed three consecutive check-in slots with Fleet HQ at Northwood, the Navy has been unable to track it or locate it, and all attempts to communicate with it have proved unsuccessful.’

  No one needed the implications of the loss of the Trident spelled out. If the base at Mount Pleasant was one pillar of the defence of the Falklands, the other was the hunter-killer nuclear submarine patrolling the icy depths of the South Atlantic.

  After the fate suffered by the General Belgrano, the Argentine navy would never again risk its capital ships in a seaborne attack against the Falklands unless the Trident had first been destroyed.

  The Boss again banged the podium and raised his voice to be heard above the continuing rumble of conversation. ‘Our Sea Kings are continuing to search the Trident’s last-known area of operations, in the north-west sector of the Exclusion Zone, so far without success, but it’s too early to say for sure that the sub has been lost and, if so, what the cause may be. There are two possibilities. The Commander may have rigged the sub for silent running and be operating at such a depth that he is unable to send or receive signals traffic.’

  He paused. ‘As I said, it’s possible, but it’s unlikely. No order had been issued to that effect and the Trident should have been on normal patrol. The other possibility is that the sub has been lost, either through accident, sabotage or act of war.’

  The silence grew oppressive. Jane sat rigid at my side, staring ahead of her. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my forehead.

  ‘The one piece of good news is that there’s absolutely no sign whatsoever of any unusual military activity from the Argentinians. I’m quite sure that they would only risk the consequences of attacking Trident if they were planning an immediate, full-scale invasion. Had that been so, we would already have seen the first danger signs.’ He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the podium. ‘I know that I don’t have to remind you of the absolute secrecy of the information I have given you this morning. No hint of any problems with Trident should go beyond this room. I do not even want you discussing it among yourselves. Is that clear?’

  There were a couple of dozen people in the room, but he held the gaze of each of us in turn. ‘Trident’s sister ship, Neptune, is making speed to replace it here but it will take a minimum of two weeks to reach the Exclusion Zone. In the meantime, we are potentially vulnerable to attack and our own role in the defence of the Falklands assumes even greater importance. Having said all that, we’re not convinced there is any real cause for alarm – other than about the fate of the crew of the Trident, of course – and for the moment we don’t propose to be stampeded into declaring an emergency. It would have little benefit and might only attract the attention of the Argentinians to something we would rather keep concealed. So unless and until Intelligence on Argentinian military activity leads us to conclude that there is a genuine threat, we will remain at our normal state of readiness – RS 15 – and you’re free to go about your usual daily routines. The only change is that I’m cancelling all non-essential sorties for the next forty-eight hours to allow the ground crew to bring every jet up to peak fighting condition. That is all.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Jane asked as we filed out of the briefing room.

  ‘I don’t know. It seems pretty weird either way, doesn’t it?’

  She stood for a moment lost in thought, her lip caught between her teeth. ‘You spend years dreaming about being in combat, wondering what it’s like and almost wishing it would happen so that you can find out…’

  ‘And w
hen it finally seems like you might, you’re suddenly not sure you’re so keen on the idea any more? Don’t worry, I’ve got exactly the same feeling in the pit of my stomach.’

  ‘Christ, I hope I can hack it, if it comes to it.’

  ‘Of course you can. You’re the best nav in the squadron. It’s just your bad luck that you’ll be flying with the worst pilot.’ She forced a smile, but there was still a haunted look in her eye. ‘Are you still going up on the hills today?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. The Boss said there was no reason to change our routine.’ I paused, trying to read her expression. ‘I can stick around…’

  She took a deep breath. ‘No, I’m just being a dork. You get up there, but watch out for minefields.’

  ‘You watch out for Sharks.’

  * * *

  The red and white Bristow’s civilian helicopters were housed in a compound on the far side of the control tower. The squat, bulbous choppers were nicknamed ‘Erics’ in honour of the eponymous and similarly shaped darts player. Alongside the fleet of Islander light aircraft, they were the workhorses of the civilian economy of the Falklands. They carried mail and supplies between the settlements, and acted as long-range taxis and emergency ambulances.

  I was the only paying passenger on the run down to San Carlos but I saw little of the landscape, sharing the cramped cab with stacks of boxes and cartons, and several bulging sacks.

  The pilot headed west along the unbroken wall of the central mountain range. I caught a brief glimpse of Goose Green and Darwin in the distance before he banked the chopper and sent it climbing over the steep ridge of the Sussex Mountains. As it cleared the summit, I could see the long arm of San Carlos Water, sheltered by steep, rocky cliffs.

  I tried to imagine it on that May morning sixteen years before. At first sight it looked a graveyard for ships, trapped in the tight confines of the bay, but the high ground that screened it on all sides except the narrow outlet to the north leading to the open sea also gave it some protection from air attack. I knew only too well how hard it was – even on exercise – to clear a ridgeline into a narrow valley, and then select and engage a target in the handful of seconds before it had flashed past.

  As the helicopter went into the hover and came in to land in a field of rough grass, a group of sea lions lumbered off the narrow shingle beach and splashed into the water, and a cloud of geese rose into the air. San Carlos settlement was just to our north, and across the dirty green waters I could see the rusting outline of a long abandoned freezing works at Ajax Bay, and another of the now familiar clusters of tin-roofed, white-walled settlements. On the near shore was another familiar sight: a neat rectangle of grass, punctuated by crosses and enclosed by a white picket fence.

  The beat of the rotors slowed and stopped as the engines whined down into silence. ‘Which way are you heading?’ the pilot asked.

  I pulled a folded map out of my jacket pocket and studied it for a moment. ‘I want to have a look at the beach at Bonners Bay, and then I’m going over the Sussex Mountains.’

  He nodded. ‘5 Para, right?’

  ‘Right. How did you know?’

  ‘We learned it in school. I can tell you every landing site and battleground from here to Stanley.’ He pointed through the side window of the cab. ‘There’s a cairn on the beach marking the spot where the first troops came ashore.’

  I heard the rattle of an approaching tractor and trailer. I thanked the pilot, jumped down from the cab and moved away quickly, anxious to be alone. I followed the curve of the bay beside a dense bank of gorse, then stood in front of the small cemetery. I made myself read each name aloud, as if calling the long-dead men back for that fraction of a second before their names were whipped away on the wind. Then I stood in silence, my head bowed, thinking not just of them, but of all the other men I had known and served with who now lay dead.

  I turned away and cut down to the shore, the shingle crunching under my boots. A rough cairn of sea-worn rocks cast a long shadow across the beach. A brass plate was set into the side facing San Carlos Water. ‘At four a.m. on 21 May 1982 the men of the Fifth Battalion, the Parachute Regiment, made the first landing by the British Task Force on Falklands soil at this place, “Blue Beach One”.’

  I looked around me, picturing the scene: the Task Force ships riding at anchor in the bay, their guns belching flame into the darkness as they lay down fire on Argentine positions; landing craft beaching in the shallows and men wading ashore through the icy waters; soldiers digging trenches and building sangars with frantic haste, as the chaos of men and equipment spill onto the beaches around them.

  Everywhere noise and confusion, the din of the naval bombardment heightened by the crump of mortars, the hacking cough of heavy machine guns, the rattle of small-arms fire and the roar of tracked vehicles grinding the earth into a liquid slurry.

  Soon after daybreak, as the tide of men and machines continue to pour ashore, with the Sea Kings shuttling back and forth trailing loads on cables beneath their bellies, the first Argentine jets streak in over the hills, hugging the contours of the ground, flying through a blizzard of ground fire. White water spouts erupt fifty feet into the air, where bombs have struck home and columns of oily black smoke billow up into the sky.

  The men of 5 Para can spare no more than a glance as they tab for the ridgeline of the Sussex Mountains, a thousand feet above them, in a desperate race to secure the high ground before the Argentinians counter attack.

  I turned away from the beach and began to stride up the hillside, stumbling over the tussocks and squelching through the peat. There were no minefield signs here, proof of how unexpected a British landing at San Carlos had been, but as I moved further up the hillside, the scars of war were obvious, despite the camouflage of nature.

  Jagged shards of rusty metal still protruded from the peat and every few yards there were craters pocking the ground, varying in depth from a few inches to several feet, half-filled with black water. The floor of a narrow side valley was littered with the rotting carcasses of half a dozen Argentine jets shot down during the landings. Several were Daggers – French Mirages, modified by the Israelis, and later sold on to Argentina. The years of wind and rain had weathered the paintwork and beneath the fading Argentine markings the Israeli Star of David was clearly visible.

  I forced myself on up the mountainside, my lungs burning with the exertion. I wanted to suffer, to feel at least a little of what those men had felt, even though I knew it was a futile exercise; they had been in a war zone, carrying loads of more than one hundred pounds on their backs as they trekked up the mountain into enemy fire.

  Lost in thought, I had no warning as a hawk got up with a clatter of wings from almost directly under my feet. My heart pounded as I paused and turned to look back down the slopes towards San Carlos. Dark hooded shapes were moving along the shoreline. I tensed, staring at them for several moments before I realised that they were the sea lions disturbed again by the helicopter, which was now rising into the sky.

  It passed overhead, the downwash lashing the grass around me, then disappeared beyond the ridgeline, leaving only a dying echo of its rotors. I struggled up the steepening gradient towards the summit, my muscles protesting at each laboured step as I dragged my boots clear of the peat or stumbled over the white quartz rocks littering the mountain. It was brutal, unforgiving ground, devoid of cover.

  As I climbed higher, I came out of the shelter of the lower slopes into the full force of the wind. Flurries of sleet stung my cheeks and clouds streaming in from the west shrouded the summit and wrapped me in a cold embrace. The cloud diffused the light, muffling sounds and distorting distance.

  I felt a mounting unease as I climbed higher. It was illogical – there was nothing to fear on this cold mountain but long-dead ghosts – but I could not shake the feeling. The bleating of a sheep echoed eerily in the mist and twice I started at movements on the periphery of my vision, birds or animals gone to ground.

  Ahead of
me I saw harsh silhouettes above the ridgeline and from one a gun barrel seemed to be outlined against the sky, trailing tendrils of mist. Crumbling sangars built from rocks and slabs of peat stood in line like butts on a grouse moor, but the gun barrel was nothing more sinister than a piece of rusting angle iron. Nearby was a rats’ nest of tangled wire, its green insulation sun-bleached and cracked with age. It lay half-buried in the peat, all that was left of the command wires of several Milan missiles.

  The sangars still offered some protection from the wind and I huddled in the lea of one. The light grew a little stronger and I felt the first warmth of the sun on my face as the cloud thinned and the sky began to show pale blue through the last strands of mist.

  I stood up, leaning into the wind, and scanned the wilderness stretching away from me on every side. The slopes dropped away steeply behind me to the long lead of San Carlos Water. At the far end, I could see the narrow opening into Falkland Sound and beyond that, almost at the limit of my vision, the dull green waters of the South Atlantic stretching away unbroken to the north.

  One of the oil exploration vessels, toy-sized from this distance, was toiling up the Sound. Beyond it stood the sheer wall of West Falkland and I could see a smudge of smoke from the settlement of Port Howard hidden behind the hills. The mountainous spine of East Falkland stretched away from me in a long sweeping curve to the east, rising to the twin peaks of Mount Usborne.

  To the south and south-east the ground fell away steeply to a broad plain where the sun sparkled on the surface of a myriad lakes, ponds and creeks. Due south of me the plain narrowed towards the bottleneck isthmus of Darwin and Goose Green, a wartime killing ground far more savage than the one I had already traversed.

  Even after all this time, the course of the Paras’ advance was still clearly delineated by the shell craters, in places so dense and numerous that it seemed impossible that any man could have passed through that avalanche of fire and survived.