For the last hour of daylight he pushed against his own weariness, but it was only when he began to feel that his concentration was wandering that he decided to call a halt. The range of hills was behind him by this time, and he was back in the forest, working his way down a valley which seemed untouched by human presence. Animal tracks proliferated, particularly at stream-crossing points, and Mozza began to regret not bothering to enquire about the local predators before setting foot on Tierra del Fuego.
He made camp up against a north-facing, wind-sheltered cliff, and gathered wood for a fire as the dusk deepened. Not surprisingly, his feet were more swollen than before, and badly needed some real warmth. Without it, Mozza doubted if they would stand up to another whole day’s walking. He had to risk a fire. The flames would only be visible from the south, and even if they were, there was nowhere for troops to be put down from a helicopter. He struck the match, applied it to the kindling, and warmed his feet by the growing flames as he ate two squares of chocolate.
The next requirement was a cooking utensil, and the only possible source was the forest. Mozza checked the trees around him, and settled on a species he did not recognize but which seemed close to birch in the texture of its bark. Using knife and fingers, he carefully stripped off a piece large enough for the cutting of a circle. Having laboriously removed the outer layer he folded the inner layer into four, fashioned a cone-shaped cup from it, and fastened it with several stitches of thick cotton.
Next he cut a long sapling and a forked twig, and balanced the former on the latter, so that one end could be weighted down by rocks and the other end used to suspend the cone cup over the fire. A sachet of dried soup was mixed with water and hung up to boil, with Mozza watching over the potentially combustible cone as his feet gently toasted. It all bought back memories of camping out with his brothers and sisters in the Peak District.
Once it was cooked he took his time drinking the soup, relishing each hot sip until it was all gone. He then boiled some water in the cone for tea, which he made with sachets of powdered tea, sugar and powdered milk. There were biscuits and another square of chocolate for dessert.
He had rarely tasted a better meal, Mozza thought. Only the special meal Lynsey had cooked him for his last birthday came to mind. He raised his cone of tea in a toast to her. ‘I love her,’ he told the forest. And I’m going to make it back to her, he told himself.
Four hundred miles or so to the east the British Army now had 4000 men ashore in the San Carlos beach head, and there was no sign of any significant response from those units of the Argentinian Army which were based in the islands. The same could not be said of the enemy air force, which had pressed home its attacks on the supporting fleet throughout the day with a great deal of skill and bravery. One frigate had been sunk, four others badly damaged, and it seemed mostly a matter of luck that the vital supply ships had emerged virtually unscathed.
The battle might be far from over, Hemmings thought to himself on the Resource, but the worst most probably was. The failure of the Super Etendards to put in an appearance might well have been crucial to the British success, and Hemmings hoped he knew the reason for their absence. But it was still proving impossible to raise South on the radio, and the patrol had not reported in. No matter what had gone right the night before, Hemmings had to assume something else had gone badly wrong in the meantime.
North should be told, that he was sure of. And Docherty’s men should get themselves out of Argentina. Now that the troops were ashore, and now that they knew the Super Etendards were based at Rio Grande, any more information North could provide was hardly worth the risk, either to the men themselves or to Britain’s diplomatic situation.
But what about the woman? Should he leave that to them? They were the ones who would be putting their lives at risk to warn her. Or was that unfair to her, leaving her fate in the hands of four men she had never met? Did she not deserve better of the British?
It was an impossible decision. The only comfort Hemmings could derive from the situation – and pretty cold comfort at that – lay in his inability to offer the SAS patrol any assistance in leaving Argentina. He would not order them to warn the woman, but he would suggest that she might be in a position to help them get away.
Docherty received the message with the sort of sinking feeling in his stomach he usually reserved for England-Scotland games at Hampden Park. Suddenly the lights of Rio Gallegos looked a lot further away than they had.
He showed the stored message to Ben, who rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘Better wake the others,’ Docherty whispered. He rubbed his eyes and tried to think the thing through. They were only about 30 miles from the Chilean border, the crossing of which was unlikely to present any problems. He could not imagine it was marked by more than a token fence, if that.
If they set out now there was at least an even chance they could make it before dawn.
Rio Gallegos, though, was in the opposite direction. If they wanted to warn the woman, then at least one of them could count on another fun-packed day in sunny Argentina.
‘What’s up, Doc?’ Razor asked with a yawn.
Ben allowed him and Wacko to read the message for themselves.
‘So we’re on our way?’ Wacko asked.
‘That’s what we have to decide,’ Docherty said curtly.
‘Which way?’ Razor wanted to know.
‘The quickest way out of this country is due south,’ Docherty said. ‘The border’s about 30 miles away.’
‘So what are we waiting for?’ Wacko demanded. ‘If we get a move on maybe we’ll see some action on the Falklands.’
‘If you’d read the message properly,’ Docherty told him, ‘you’d have seen that we’re expected to camp out in Chile for as long as possible, so as not to embarrass anyone. And if the Chileans find us we’ll probably be interned. Or at best flown back to England.’
Wacko shrugged. ‘Still beats sleeping in a wet hole in Argentina.’
‘The Cup Final’s tomorrow,’ Razor said wistfully.
‘What about the woman?’ Ben asked quietly.
‘You’re not serious!’ Wacko exclaimed.
‘She’s fighting the same war, on the same side,’ Ben argued. ‘I think we should at least think about it.’
‘OK,’ Wacko said. ‘This is what I think. She’s an Argie communist. She’s fighting her own war against her government and we just happen to be fighting them too. So she gets our help. She’s just using us.’
Docherty tried to read Wacko’s face in the gloom. There was some sense to what the man said, but there was a depth of anger accompanying the words which seemed out of all proportion to the subject. Did the mere idea of the woman make him angry?
‘She’s using us, we’re using her,’ Razor said. ‘What’s the difference? If she’s on our side then we owe her.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Wacko exploded.
‘We don’t all have to go into town,’ Ben said. ‘Maybe two of us, maybe only one. The others can start heading south. I’d volunteer to go in alone,’ he said, ‘but I’m the only one doesn’t speak Spanish. But I’ll go in with someone else.’
‘I’ll come along for the ride,’ Razor said. ‘Time waits for an old fool,’ he added wisely.
They all started giggling, even Wacko. Somehow the knowledge that they were half-buried on a Patagonian hill doubled the absurdity of just about everything.
Docherty eventually brought them back to a semblance of order. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, lads,’ he said, ‘but Ben here has the sort of ripe golden hair they don’t often see in these parts, and Razor might as well have London tattooed on his forehead. I …’
‘You, on the other hand, could be taken for Galtieri’s father,’ Razor said.
‘Precisely,’ replied Docherty. ‘And I think it’s a one-man job. You lot can head for Chile.’
‘No way, boss,’ Ben said. ‘We’ll wait for you here.’
‘Yeah,’ Wacko agreed, ‘all for one and one fo
r all and all that crap.’
‘We’d be lost without you, boss,’ Razor added. ‘Where are we anyway?’ he asked, looking round.
‘I’m touched’ Docherty said. ‘But if I’m not back by morning …’
‘We can assume she’s beautiful, and you’ve decided to keep her all for yourself.’
‘Something like that. Ben, let Hemmings know what’s going on. I’m going to slip into something more comfortable, or at least less damp …’
‘Not one of those Tartan condoms, boss?’ Razor asked.
‘Hey,’ Ben said, ‘that’s not a bad idea. You could do them in all the various clan colours and sell them to the tourists.’ He tried in vain to imagine Morag selling them in the shop. Still, the thought of her brought a pang to his heart, not to mention his loins. She had always had a wonderful way with her when it came to putting a condom on him.
Docherty re-emerged, if that was the right word for the squirming motion necessary to free him from the hide, and joined the three men squatting in the dark on the vast open hillside. He had exchanged the camouflage trousers for plain – the Green Slime had been unable to work out which would suit the colours of the steppe better – and was wearing them outside his boots, but otherwise his outfit was the same: Gore-tex jacket over thick sweater. The most striking change was to his face, which was free of ‘cam’ cream for the first time in five days.
He checked the action on the Browning High Power and replaced it in his jacket pocket, then tied the cream’s temporary replacement – a dark piece of cloth – around his face below the eyes.
‘OK,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll see you later. And keep down the noise,’ he added over his shoulder.
‘Good luck, boss,’ Ben said softly.
‘See if you can pick up any Spurs news, boss,’ was Razor’s parting shot.
It was slightly over four miles, Docherty reckoned, from the OP to the centre of Rio Gallegos. It would take about half an hour to reach the nearest road, then another hour into town, assuming he did not run into trouble on the way.
Somehow the prospect did not worry him. In fact, during his PNG-assisted passage across the dark and undulating landscape he felt an almost reckless sense of freedom. He was alone, in motion, imbued with purpose. Every sound seem magnified in the green world of the PNGs, and the feel of the breeze on his face seemed almost like a caress.
He reached the expected road, and started down a long slope. The lights of the airbase had disappeared from sight behind the hills to his left, but those of the town lay directly ahead.
Two cars passed him going in the opposite direction, and on both occasions he took care to dart out of sight as they approached. When one came up from behind him he considered hitching a lift, but swiftly dismissed the idea. His Spanish would pass muster, but he had no convincing cover story for being on this road.
The car swept past as he merged his shadow with that of a stunted tree by the roadside, and he watched its headlights illuminate the road into town. Another forty minutes of fast walking brought him to the outskirts, where new industrial developments were pushing untidily out into the grassy steppe. A wide avenue, which boasted the first happy-looking trees he had seen since Oxfordshire, led towards the town centre and the estuary. It seemed almost deserted of either traffic or pedestrians, but there were many lights on in the houses to either side.
He walked by some pedestrians: an arm-in-arm couple who did not even give him a first glance, let alone a second; then a youngish woman who did give him one swift look, but did not bother to repeat the experience. Docherty decided he could not look that unusual.
He walked down Calle Salta to the brightly lit Avenida Julio Roca, on which he knew the hotel was located. Here there was life: couples strolling along, cafés and restaurants doing business, groups of raucous young men hanging around on streets corners. He knew it should not, but somehow the normality of it all surprised him, maybe even upset him a little. This country was at war, but no one would have known it.
He supposed it was the same back home. The war would be on the news, and every evening the British people would be getting a vicarious dose of it. The rest of the time they would be going about their daily business, just like the people of Rio Gallegos. Tomorrow they would be watching the Cup Final and wondering whether it was Jimmy Hill’s chin or beard which was that strange shape. And then going down the pub.
Docherty could see the neon sign for the Covadonga Hotel not far ahead. He crossed over to the opposite pavement and bought a newspaper from a street vendor, thinking it might make him look marginally more like a member of the community. The vendor complained about the need to change a note, but seemed to find nothing surprising in Docherty’s appearance.
He walked slowly on, studying the immediate vicinity of the hotel over the edge of the newspaper. There was no sign of police activity, no suspicious-looking characters leaning against walls or pretending to read newspapers. Other than himself, that was.
If she was at home, then he could tell her in person. But what if she was out? He supposed he could leave her a message – something she would understand but no one else would. But he would have to leave it with someone. Who would he say he was? What would fit in with her cover?
Isabel sat in the Renault, its window open to let in the breeze flowing over the estuary. Darkness had long since fallen, but she felt unable to drag herself away from the peace of the ruffled waters and star-strewn heavens.
All through the daylight hours her thoughts had been with the pilots contesting the skies over the Malvinas. Which, she had to admit, was pretty perverse. And not very helpful either, to them or herself.
The war could have been lost that morning, for all she knew. Certainly the Junta would be in no rush to publicize the end result of their own gross miscalculations. But even if it was still in full swing, the end could not be long delayed. She should be thinking about what to do when the time finally came.
Did she want to go back to England? It was a decent enough place to live, but … She knew she could not just walk away from Argentina again. Here was where it had happened, and here was where it had to be exorcized, if such a thing was possible. She doubted that it was, but if she was ever to be truly alive again, then she had to try.
But how to begin? She could kill Solanille, she thought. It would not be difficult. If she did not care what happened to herself then she could do almost anything. But that would hardly be exorcism – just a potent cocktail of revenge and suicide.
She needed a drink, she decided, and there was a bottle of whisky in her hotel room. Fuck that for a game of soldiers,’ she murmured in English. It had been one of Michael’s favourite phrases, and only conceivable in a country where soldiers really did spend most of their time playing games.
No, she decided, she did not want to be alone. She turned the car round and drove across town to the Rakosi. It was almost empty, so she took a seat at the bar, where the barman-owner, Miguel, was catching up with his accounts. He looked depressed, but that was nothing unusual: his wife spent most evenings flirting with his customers.
He poured her a double whisky and said he thought he would have one himself. ‘Problems?’ she asked, almost eagerly. At least someone else’s would be easier to cope with than her own.
‘For all of us,’ he said cryptically. ‘I just got some news,’ he added. ‘The guy who delivers for the local brewery, well, he also does the airbase, and he’d just come from there.’ He looked up and down the bar, as if anxious that no one else should hear. ‘They lost seventeen planes today,’ he said. ‘Seventeen,’ he repeated, as if he could scarcely believe it himself.
‘That’s terrible,’ she managed to say. Had Raul been one of them? She might never know. And what did it matter, she asked herself. If he was not, then someone else was.
Docherty walked confidently in through the front door of the Covadonga Hotel, and up to the reception desk, where Manuel Menéndez was poised over a crossword, chewing the end of his ballp
oint pen.
‘I would like to see Isabel Rodriguez,’ Docherty told him.
Menéndez looked up at him hopefully. ‘A cathedral town in France – eight letters?’
‘Chartres,’ Docherty told him. ‘C-H-A-R-T-R-E-S.’
As Menéndez laboriously filled in the answer, Docherty took a good look round the spacious lobby. Over in the far corner an old man in a suit was watching a muted TV, but there were no other signs of human activity.
‘Isabel Rodriguez?’ he asked again.
Menéndez swung round reluctantly to check out the line of key-hooks. ‘She is out,’ he said.
Damn, Docherty said to himself. ‘I would like to leave a message,’ he said. ‘It concerns tours in the mountains for tourists.’
The Argentinian managed to convey both indifference and acquiescence with the same shrug.
‘Do you have any paper?’ Docherty asked, thinking that it would have been more intelligent to have written the note out first.
As Menéndez rummaged around under his counter the street door swung open with a clatter, and Docherty swung round, slightly faster than he intended.
The woman’s stride barely faltered. She was about the right age, and fitted the rough description Hemmings had given them: five foot eight inches tall, around nine and a half stone, shoulder-length black hair, dark-brown eyes, sallow skin, attractive. She was certainly the latter, Docherty thought. ‘Isabel Rodriguez?’ he asked for the third time, smiling as he did so.
Only her eyes betrayed any sense of alarm. ‘Yes?’
‘We talked on the telephone about the mountain tours,’ he went on, moving his body between her and Menéndez, so that the latter would miss any confusion on her part. He need not have bothered.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Señor … I am sorry, I have forgotten your name.’
‘Ramírez,’ Docherty said, using the first name that came into his head. She was impressive, he thought.
Soldier K: Mission to Argentina Page 18