Special Deliverance

by Special Deliverance (retail) (epub)

  ‘As much as my brief allows, I’ll tell you.’ Cloudsley paused. Handing out information weakened security, and it also made the recipient vulnerable. Strobie was vulnerable already, of course: having helped them this far, he was up to his ears in it. But the principle still held good, you didn’t burden individuals with knowledge that couldn’t do them or anyone else any good. He said, ‘Our target’s not far from here — which of course is why we’ve brought our problems to you, Tom… A newish airbase — you’d know of its existence, I’m sure — used mostly if not entirely by their naval air arm. It could be, we think, for training some special squadron in napalm-bombing techniques. Up to the northwest of the Diaz spread?’

  Strobie stared at the amber glow of whisky in his mottled hand. Eyes shifting then to glance at Andy.

  ‘This is — closer to home than you realise.’ Looking back at Cloudsley. ‘The airfield’s on land that used to belong to people called Coetzee.’ Another glance at Andy. ‘Remember that bloody-minded lot? They sold out to Diaz, and he’s leased it — profitably, you can bet — to the government… But I wouldn’t have thought it was all that important, Harry. This much effort and risk of your lives?’

  ‘The object’ — Cloudsley told him again — ‘is to save lives.’

  Strobie still waited, watching him. Then gave up; accepting this was as much as they were telling him. And of course, he’d been at war, he’d understand… He said, tossing back what was left in his glass, ‘There’s a stew on the stove in there. Beef. Reckoned you’d like a change from mutton. It’s ready when you want it, but we’ll finish this bottle first, huh?’

  Holding his glass out. Andy topped it up for him, took some more himself and passed the bottle to Geoff Hosegood. He raised his glass to the old man. ‘You’ve done us proud, Tom. Incidentally, we owe you the price of three horses and the gear on them. Monkey — chap who came here with my note — had to go off on some other errand. I’m sorry. If I’d known in advance I’d have asked your permission, but — name your price, we’ve plenty of pesos.’ Beale was screwing the top back on the whisky bottle; none of the SBS men had taken any more. ‘I’ll say it again, Tom; we’re very, very grateful to you.’

  Cloudsley nodded. ‘Hear, hear.’

  ‘What’d you expect? Think I’d tell that feller to bugger off?’

  ‘No. I knew you’d help. I told Harry that if there was one man in Patagonia he could count on to the hilt, that man was Tom Strobie. All you’ve done is prove me right. The only worry I had was whether you’d be here at all. You might’ve been — well, locked up, or sick…’

  ‘Or pushing up the daisies.’ The good eye blinked. ‘I could, too. And wouldn’t give a damn. Except I’m glad I’m here now — so you can forget the thanks, Andy…’ He looked at Cloudsley. ‘That new base is only a training place for pilots, as far as I’ve heard. What makes it so interesting to you?’

  ‘Well.’ Cloudsley was sitting on the floor, his long legs stretched across the hearth in front of the wood fire. ‘Not very easy to spell it out, Tom. If you’d forgive me skipping detail, I’d say there are things going on there — apparently — which call for a close inspection and maybe a spoke in some Argie wheel… Although you think it’s purely pilot-training?’

  ‘All I know for sure is they have a squadron of bloody Pucarás racketing around the countryside. And a bombing range out in the west, I was told… Pucarás were intended for anti-insurgency operations, as you probably know, long before this war. They called them Delfins, originally — meaning Dolphin… But anti-insurgency – that’s Alejandro Diaz’s great interest, you see; and he set it all up, of course… Anyway — what I was going to say — couple of months ago, six weeks maybe, I sent him a very strongly worded note about his pilots scaring my sheep, creating bloody hell!’

  ‘And?’

  ‘As I said, he set it up, but it turns out he’s not there now. They’ve promoted him to Rear-Admiral, and last I heard he was at Mar del Plata. Temporarily or permanently I don’t know, but I’d guess more state security than straight navy… Andy, I’m being a bit long-winded getting to the point, but are you ready for a shock?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘OK.’

  ‘Well. The answer to my letter of complaint came from your brother. I must admit it was polite, even apologetic — not in character—’

  ‘So he’s on that base.’

  ‘What d’you mean, on it?’ Strobie scowled. ‘He’s commanding it.’

  Staring at him: thinking about the machinations behind the scenes that would have brought this about; and what it might mean in terms of the SBS operation… Aware of the others watching him as Strobie growled, ‘He did stop those bloody tools creating havoc. Looking out for his own stock as well, of course. In fact I’m surprised bloody Huyez hadn’t alerted him to what was happening. Scared to, maybe… It was Francisca who told me about her father having become an Admiral.’

  ‘Do you see her sometimes?’

  ‘Well — not for a while, as it happens.’

  ‘Francisca’ — Cloudsley interrupted — ‘being Robert MacEwan’s wife, the Diaz daughter?’

  Strobie nodded, and told Andy, ‘She drops by, when she’s down here. Or she did.’

  He looked like a very old, tired bear, Andy thought. But — Robert commanding the establishment that was these people’s target; and Francisca liable to ‘drop by’… He heard the bear’s growl continuing, ‘Could have been away. With him spending all his time on that airfield, or down at Comodoro Rivadavia… All I can tell you that isn’t plain depressing is she hasn’t changed a bit. As pretty as ever — poor kid…’

  A silence followed. With no explanation of those last two words, and Andy wasn’t asking for one, didn’t want to stay on this subject, not here and now with the others listening and watching. Cloudsley murmured, ‘Brother Robert in command… small world, eh?’

  ‘It’s a sparse world,’ Strobie pointed out. ‘Lot of square leagues per human being. And you see Diaz got that place going, Roberto his son-in-law is a navy-reserve flyer, and the base is right on both their doorsteps. Not really so extraordinary, is it? Certainly not to anyone who knows this fair land Nobody’d dream of throwing a stick at nepotism, here.’

  Beale asked, ‘Would he be commanding the Pucará squadron, though? Or the base, like the ground command?’

  ‘Well, he is a flyer, and still in his early thirties—’

  ‘So he’d have the training squadron. Right, Andy?’

  Tony Beale was being kind, he realised, telling him that Robert was unlikely to have any close connection with their target. The missile store was in one corner of the base, and the flying personnel wouldn’t be likely to have anything to do with it. Andy nodded. ‘Thanks, Tony. But — well, for anyone’s future reference, I — I’m not my brother’s keeper. That’s to say—’

  ‘We know what you’re saying.’ Cloudsley saved him from having to spell it out. ‘And you know we aren’t looking for trouble anyway.’ He changed the subiect: ‘Tom, have you got any more to tell us — about personnel or anything else up there?’

  The good eye did its slow blink. ‘No way I could, is there?’

  ‘Only that you knew about Andy’s brother — and that was news to us. And his wife might have let something slip… I suppose you wouldn’t have seen Robert MacEwan since the war started, though—’

  ‘Longer.’ Tom’s face could have been a Halloween mask. ‘A year, at least.’

  They knew quite a lot about the base already. For instance, by relating the length of shadows thrown by uprights in the guard-fence around the missile store to the date and time of day when the satellite pictures had been taken, they’d established that the fence was four metres high. It had barbed wire on the top, but no electrification, no power-leads connected to it, only to arc-lamps at each corner and to the guardhouse. Rubble still lay around, inside and outside the compound, which had been bulldozed flat before the erection of the hangar. Hangar, guardhouse, generator shed and fu
el tank, and the surrounding fence, had all been thrown up in a hurry in the early stages of Argentine preparations for war. The posts had been sunk in concrete — corner ones heavier than others, three-legged to take the pull of the taut wire and support the weight of the lamps. The power for the lighting came directly from the generator, cables plainly visible, so you would be sure that whenever the compound was floodlit the generator would have to be running. The SBS had been pleased with this conclusion. And other photographs, taken at night, had provided other significant detail — so Andy had gathered, although he hadn’t been at later conferences, after the outline plan had ‘gone firm’.

  Cloudsley raised his head and voice: ‘Tom, if we’re going to devour your beef, and then get some shuteye…’

  ‘Right.’ Strobie pointed at one glass still half full, and the bottle still well up. ‘Are you boys not whisky drinkers?’

  ‘Not this morning, if you’d excuse us. When we’ve done the job, though — well, if you’d care to renew the offer?’

  ‘Good.’ Strobie groped for his stick. ‘Delighted to know I’ll be seeing you again. I mean it. Believe me, this is a treat, for me… Tell me one thing, though: when you’ve done it, will there be a stink?’

  ‘Not if we do it right.’ Cloudsley reached to touch the edge of the table. It was a gesture Andy recalled having seen before, in Saddler’s cabin in the destroyer, and it seemed at variance with the SBS man’s hard-headed pragmatism. He was saying, ‘Andy’ll be back here before we are, Tom. If it’s OK with you. He’ll be with you a few days, could even be a week… But no, with a bit of luck, nobody’ll even know we’ve been there.’

  ‘And when does Andy get back?’

  ‘Before daylight. Incidentally, we’d like to borrow five horses again. He’ll ride one home, leading the others. When it’s finished and we come back, we’ll be on foot.’

  ‘Harry.’ Andy broke into it. ‘A point I was going to raise—– having done some thinking, on the way here.’ He felt almost as if he was still on the way: hoofbeats drumming in his head, the rhythmic motion, howl of the wind… He thought, It’s the whisky, and told Cloudsley, ‘We were assuming I’d need to be back here before daylight. But as long as I’m on Tom’s land by then, I’m home and dry. So you see, I could take you to within a few miles of your target, so you’d have horse transport all that way… Right?’

  Beale said, ‘I’ve heard worse suggestions, Harry.’

  Hosegood nodded approvingly. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Saddle-sores and all?’

  Cloudsley said to Strobie, ‘I’m really quite glad we brought this bloke along.’

  *

  They ate the stew, then turned in and slept — under quillangos, quilts made of guanaco skins, distinctly moth-eaten. Andy’s only private moment with Tom Strobie came just before they went to bed; he’d murmured, ‘I’m mad to hear all about her, Tom. When I get back — good long talk?’

  He’d expected to sleep for about twelve hours, but it was barely daylight when he woke, and within minutes the others were stirring too. Cloudsley’s first words were, ‘Better have the map out, Andy, check the bearing and distance of the airbase from wherever you’re reckoning to drop us off.’

  As if he’d been thinking about it all night. Maybe the planning went on in his sleep. Andy told him, ‘OK, but breakfast first. Smell it?’

  Ribs of mutton were being grilled — by Torres’ wife, he guessed. Outside, the estancia’s generator was thumping away, pumping new energy into storage batteries. He went through to the kitchen and shook the señora’s hand, asked a few polite questions about her children; she was a brown-skinned, scrawny, hatchet-faced woman. There was a lot going on outside: horses were being saddled and the peóns detailed off for the day’s work. The greybeard giving them their orders was old Anselmo, Strobie said.

  ‘Remember Anselmo?‘

  ‘Certainly do.’ He wouldn’t have recognised him, though. ‘Man with a keen eye for a horse.’

  ‘And that seems like an age ago.’ Strobie put a hand on his shoulder, neither of them thinking about the old peón, or horses. ‘But I swear she hasn’t changed a bit… Except now she knows what a mistake she made.’

  ‘You hinted as much, on a card the Christmas before last. Do you have any real reason for saying it?’

  Strobie’s shoulders moved: as if he thought it didn’t matter, you could take it or leave it, just an idea he’d got. Thinking of it — Andy guessed — as something finished, a matter for regret but water under the bridge. Whereas the fact was it did matter, had never ceased to matter. There was a movement behind them, then — Cloudsley coming through from the other room, and Andy beckoned to him: ‘Come and get educated, Harry.’

  He pointed out the main features of the estancia. The ‘big house’ – iron-roofed and built originally of timbers taken from wrecks in the last century when there’d been no other wood obtainable. Every tree that was here now had been planted since then. The bajo — peóns’ quarters, a bunkhouse and messroom for the single men; and the kitchen, the blacksmith’s shop, barns. A blue pick-up in an open shed looked like the same old Ford that Strobie had been using about two decades ago. The meathouse, store, office, shearing sheds…

  ‘Your radio’s in the big house still?’

  ‘Reminds me.’ Cloudsley turned from the window. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Not much.’ Strobie told him, ‘Lousy reception anyway. They could be jamming, from BA. But no move-out from the beachhead yet.’ He added, ‘That radio is the one there, in the corner. The one Andy was asking about is the heap of old junk that connects us with the big wide world, our neighbours and so on. Transmitter-receiver — when it works.’

  Anselmo had finished organising the workforce. He’d mounted, and was turning to follow others towards the gap in the sheltering belt of poplars. Wind-blown dirt swirling round the horses’ legs… Strobie said, ‘Anselmo is my capataz now. Totally illiterate of course, but he’s a good man with sheep and horses. Anything that has to be written down, Torres does it.’

  Capataz meant ‘foreman’. Andy said, ‘I must say hello to him.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t recommend it.’ Strobie qualified it — ‘Unless you happen to bump into him. He’s a good hand, I’d trust him all right, but — well, I wouldn’t rub their noses in your being here. If you take my meaning?’

  ‘That’s good advice. I’d try to remain invisible, Andy, if I were you. Or at any rate incognito…’ Cloudsley turned from the window. ‘Tom, it’s like a whole village out there. I hadn’t realised what an operation you have… But — speaking of being invisible — won’t they all know we’re here, already?’

  ‘Not to take much notice of. You came in the dark, you’ll be leaving in the dark. They aren’t likely to poke their noses in these windows — and if they did, what’d they see?‘

  ‘A bunch of tramps?’

  Strobie nodded. ‘Might wonder why I let you through the door. But that’s about all.’

  Andy said, looking at the lieutenant of the Royal Marines and remembering what he’d looked like in London, ‘Can’t see him at a Beating of the Retreat on Plymouth Hoe, can you?’

  ‘Not — easily.’ The old man thought about it. ‘But I’d like to.’ His eyes were wistful. With his face the way it was, the only signs of expression you could rely on were in the eyes: one of which had only half a lid to it and never shut completely. He’d sighed. ‘By God, I’d like to…’

  Breakfast, then. Beale mumbled with his mouth full of it, ‘Proper home from home, this is.’

  Morning spilled over into afternoon. They’d had the map session, planned tonight’s route. Strobie went out a few times, on estancia business. They all slept, some of the time. The BBC World Service said there’d been air activity over San Carlos, three Argentine aircraft had been destroyed, and a destroyer had been hit by a bomb that failed to explode. The frigate which had been bombed and sunk the day before was the Antelope. Some informed source was confident that an advance from
the beachhead could be expected within hours. Shore targets including the airport runway at Stanley had been hit by Harrier strikes and by naval bombardment during the night.

  Lunch was steak with fried potatoes. Strobie told them, they call it a “bife” in these benighted parts.’ Hosegood said, ‘I call it bloody marvellous.’

  Torres and Félix arrived late in the afternoon, and Strobie went out to meet them and inspect the condition of the sheep. He told Andy when he came back, ‘He’ll lay on the horses for your outing tonight. But he tells me I should demand some princely sum from you for the three your pals went off with.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get you to talk about that, Tom. Let’s settle it right now. Three horses, three saddles, three bridles.’ He saw reluctance in the old man’s eyes, and insisted, ‘Look, ask Torres to work it out and put it on paper. We’ll pay whatever he reckons is a fair price.’

  He knew that the mayordomo, conscious of his own responsibility for his patrón’s stock and gear, and on top of that deeply loyal to him anyway, would quote about double the going rate. Whereas Strobie would have halved it. Torres made his calculations, and brought them to Andy, Cloudsley got out the sheafs of peso notes, Strobie protestingly accepted them and locked them in an antique safe; it was fixed inside the cupboard where he also kept his liquor. He’d be needing every peso he could get, Andy guessed, to keep the place going in these hard times. He probably wouldn’t have wanted to sell the horses anyway, which was a good enough reason to pay over the odds.

  He said, to change the subject as the old man heaved himself up from the safe, ‘Just as well the Cassidy gang aren’t around now, Tom. They’d have had that old tin can opened double quick!’

  ‘Dare say.’ Strobie sat back in his chair. ‘But I’d sooner have them at my throat than some of the charmers we have today, I can tell you.’

  Hosegood queried, ‘Cassidy gang?’

  ‘They robbed banks, mostly. Trains too. Moved down here and lived respectably for a while, when things had got too hot for them up north. Two men and a girl. What was the bird’s name, Tom?’