Gesticulating, facing the missile-handlers and waving an arm towards the front of the hangar, obviously wanting to know why the first missiles weren’t out there ready to be embarked. The other naval officer was hurrying towards the guardhouse, maybe to telephone. Abrupt cut-off of helo noise indicated that it was down. It was obviously nearer the rear fence of the compound than the front, and in combination with the blaze of light covering the whole area this meant there was no part of the perimeter wire they’d have a hope of getting to — let alone getting over — without dozens of Argies seeing it happen. This left only the front gateway as an exit: which wouldn’t exactly escape notice either. Cloudsley hadn’t envisaged having to cut things quite this fine. Effectively, it was more that you were starting from scratch now with a new objective. Until a few minutes ago the whole singleminded drive in all three of them had been to get the missiles fixed: everything had been subordinated to this. Having achieved it, you were abruptly facing an entirely different problem, and solutions seemed — to put it mildly — elusive. There were only three options immediately visible, looking at it logically and objectively: you could hang on here and in due course — when the doors opened — surrender, or you could march out there now and surrender, or you could make a fight of it. The three of them could undoubtedly wipe out every Argie in sight within about ninety seconds, but this would not only be massacre and the kind of action that had been ruled out right from the start, it would also be unproductive except in the very short term. Daylight wasn’t so far off: how could three men on foot hope to get away across hundreds of miles of snow-covered nothing with a squadron of cannon-firing, napalm-dropping ground attack aircraft right on top of them?
The Pucará boys would love it. From what Andy had said about his brother, Roberto would be right in his element.
You couldn’t crouch here for ever. You had to spell it out…
‘Frankly, gents, we don’t seem to have such a hell of a lot going for us…’
His words faded into the surrounding darkness. He’d seen the fuel-truck driver climb up into his cab and pull its door shut. The truck’s lights sprang up, then faded to mere glimmers barely visible on the snow’s crystals when the driver pressed his starter. Repeatedly — and no joy… Cloudsley went on — picking the last words up where they’d tailed off and talking fast because this chance wouldn’t sit and stare him in the face for ever: ‘Except this monster tanker. Rest of the compound’s lit up and crowded. We’ll be lit up here too, but — look, this is it, now. You know where the truck is — thirty feet to our right. Guys outside are all looking at the Chinook, far end. So — out this door, round the back of the truck to its blind side… Come on!’
Should have warned them about the revolving beacon so they’d avoid looking at it and getting blinded. Too late now. He had the door open and was out — doubled, loping through yellow light, the others close behind. The tanker driver was preoccupied with the problem of starting his big old diesel. Blinding flash sweeping over as they dived behind it, Ingrams ready for use as they came round the corner of the hangar, but no opposition on that side. Cloudsley ran to the front, the cab’s right-hand door, jerked it open and pulled himself in, landing virtually on top of the driver over on the left with space behind him for the others to crowd in before the Argie could know anything hostile was within a hundred miles of him. The cold end of the suppressor on Cloudsley’s pistol poked hard against the man’s cheekbone: a good place for it because he could see it in close-up and it was a fearsome-looking weapon viewed from that end. Pulling the driver’s hands off the wheel and pushing them behind his head, using his left hand for it while the man collapsed backward against the other door — flabby with shock, probably wetting himself or worse — Cloudsley grabbed the front of his parka, yanked him over to Hosegood and Beale who eased him down into the well at their feet. Cloudsley was in under the wheel with his thumb stabbing at the starter button, that light dazzling again as it swept across. He’d put the Ingram on his lap, and Hosegood had his resting against the bridge of the driver’s nose.
Battery about flat…
The heavy engine was hardly feeling the attempts to start it. Motorbike with a sidecar — seen dimly through steamed-up windscreen: it swept into the compound, braking, skidding, its passenger jumping out and those other three men converging on him. Cloudsley said, ‘Battery’s fucked. Have to start her on the gears.’
‘Enough slope?’
He nodded. Hoping… ‘And he’s had the heater on, look, she ought to go.’ The heater light was glowing. If it had been on for long, that wouldn’t have helped the dying battery, but on the other hand it would mean starting on the gears ought not to be too difficult.
Hosegood’s gun moved suddenly: ‘Easy, señor…’
Brake off: and — rolling… In gear, with the clutch down on the boards. Two guards at the gate watching — looking this way, anyhow. He had an impression — a glimpse out of the side of his left eye — of the hangar doors sliding open, but he couldn’t afford to turn his head. Whole crowd of airmen there: presumably they’d left their machines in the mechanics’ hands. The centre of their interest was the Chinook, for some reason. The lumbering truck was picking up some speed now. Might prove harder to stop than start, once the vast weight of it was really moving. He gritted, ‘Get her to the gates before I try it. If it doesn’t work, get the hell out, run like buggery. East, then south. First rendezvous the Sandrini ruin, then Strobie’s.’
‘What if it does start?’
If the engine declined to fire he’d stop her in the gateway to block it, delay pursuit in the staff car. The only Argies seeing the huge truck rolling with increasing momentum across the snow-covered concrete were the two at the gates, and they didn’t look particularly animated. Fogged windows were a blessing. Guardhouse looming up… Cloudsley muttered, ‘Say your prayers’ and let the clutch in, toed the accelerator. The gears locked, wheels locked, skidding through snow. And that was that… Then the old engine barked, exploded, rumbled into life. Cloudsley shoved his foot down, waited for a good loud roar then eased off and shifted gear, shouting as the truck picked up speed through the gateway, ‘Tony — you know about Pucarás, could you fly one?’
‘Not on your bloody life!’
Straight over the road, bumping up on to the field. The dazzling beam swept over, circling to light the whole airstrip and the assembly of sleek-looking aircraft squatting on it in their neat formations — a tractor hauling two empty trailers clear, the other with ground-staff riding on it. Beale muttering to Hosegood, ‘Fly one! Out of his fucking mind!’ The Argies in the compound would be expecting this tanker to turn and come back, but giving it a bit of a warm-up might not arouse suspicions yet… ‘You flew a twin-engined fixed-wing once, you told me?’
‘Not taking off, Harry! You don’t understand — I mean Jesus—’
‘Always a first time…’ He heard Hosegood laughing. The Pucará that was on its own — Roberto’s probably — was too near the compound, they’d be on top of you before you’d fastened your lap-strap. Besides, one of the echelons of Pucarás was almost right ahead, a rank of six drawn up slantwise, glittering as the circling beam swung over them. Tails would be more vulnerable than the rest, he guessed, and to wreck some would be a worthwhile effort on its own as well as thinning out the forces available for pursuit. Not that there was such a lot of hope of getting far anyway, you just had to avoid giving up before you had to; a matter of adapting to circumstances, doing whatever could be done, taking chances if there were any — when you saw them. For instance, the hangar was now standing open and missiles were being wheeled out, and you weren’t in there with your hands up as had seemed inevitable two minutes ago. Aiming for that bunch of aircraft — he saw aircrew scattering. Not brave, but wise… The heavy truck smashed into the first tail, crushing it and spinning the aircraft round, then a second — lighter impact but tail-plane ripped away; third, a grinding collision that jarred through the truck and slowed it, Clouds
ley changing gear and side-swiping a fourth tail then skidding on, revving in high gear between the last two of this lot, crumpling both wings. He shouted, ‘Tony — no other way we’ll get clear. If you can’t get one off the ground you’d still put distance behind us, right?‘ The staff car was manoeuvring, turning, inside the compound. But that was a hundred and fifty yards away and the rest of the Pucarás were a lot closer. Having dragged the truck round in a skidding half-circle… Hearing Beale yell, ‘Wouldn’t get three in! Two seats and—‘ And something inaudible, Cloudsley thinking We can bloody well try… Pilots who’d been lounging around the Chinook were pouring over on to the field — maybe having heard that a tanker driver had gone nuts, run amok — meeting others who were going the other way. Soldiers too: if you can call them soldiers, he thought, our friendly neighbourhood sentries, grey-heads with old Lee-Enfields, fix bayonets and charge at a slow trot and risk of heart failure? Two men running from the control tower, though, firing bursts from automatic weapons as they came, did constitute a threat. Beale turned his window down and pushed the stubby Ingram barrel out — he’d removed the suppressor from it. Snow beginning again now. Cloudsley shouted that he was going to ram the truck into the middle of the other formation of Pucarás, jump out and put an incendiary burst into its load of aviation spirit… ‘When we stop, Tony, take the machine at the end of the line, get it clear!’ Beale sighted over his gun, hearing this and thinking Won’t get three of us in one Pucará. Three midgets maybe but not us. No point telling him again though. He pushed the fire-selector switch to the right and gave the running figures several single shots aimed right at the toes of their boots, and it stopped them. You weren’t aiming to kill, you were trying not to, the intention was to deter any who sought to stop you getting the hell out. If to achieve this it became necessary to shoot at them rather than near them you’d aim low, just slightly less low than he’d just done. The Argie cramped down by his knees was intoning what sounded like a prayer: Hosegood patted the man’s head and shouted, ‘Take it easy, Pedro…’ Cloudsley yelled, ‘When we crash, shove him out and boot him away. Hold tight!’ Beale worrying about that other Pucará, that the staff car would get Roberto to it any moment now and if its Brownings or cannon were loaded he might be able to use them on the ground. Then thought was erased as the truck smashed into one aircraft, ploughed on carrying it into the next, a third’s wing tilting vertically as it went over in a continuing though slowing grind of impact and compression with a surrounding montage of wings, fuselages, tails, the truck sliding to a halt in it and Cloudsley roaring ‘Out!’ The word acted like a detonator — explosion, sheet of flame, savage heat. Napalm: no need to stop to ignite anything else, for God’s sake; Beale was yelling, in case no one else had realised what it was, ‘Napalm, Harry, napalm!’ Pushing the screaming Argie out between himself and Hosegood, into tangled wreckage and against a wall of flame, heat reaching to your bones, into your brain too with the probability there’d be new explosions any second, a personal drenching in napalm.
Cloudsley had dived clear via the other door; Beale left him to handle the problem of the staff car and ran to the Pucará at the end of the line, one of two that didn’t seem to have been bent and weren’t burning yet. Behind him there was another whooshing explosion, the last hours of the night as bright as daylight now, inferno of dancing light and blazing heat with the snow melting as it fell into it and the napalm’s nauseous reek. He had to get into that aircraft and get it moving — somehow — get it clear before napalm showered it, or the blaze spread there along the line. The first batch hadn’t been loaded with napalm, he guessed. A gun was firing from the control tower but he didn’t have time to deal with it himself: reaching the aircraft, flinging himself up, finding the moulded plastic canopy standing open. He thought Hosegood was close behind him, for some reason, shouted all in one breath ‘Stop that bloody gun Geoff where’s Harry?‘ Dreading that Cloudsley might have been caught in that last fountain of napalm. In feet-first, hearing the suppressed blare of an Ingram somewhere near the aircraft’s tail. Which in fact was Hosegood. He’d got rid of the tanker driver, sent him stumbling towards the crowd of Argies milling out of the compound gates, then seen Cloudsley huge and static with the blaze behind him, facing the staff car, Ingram up for a head-on shot.
It flamed — unsuppressed; the car’s lights and windscreen shattered and it was spinning on slush towards the mass of burning aircraft and exploding napalm containers. Hosegood hadn’t been able to continue in the spectator’s role: some kind of machine-gun had opened up from the roof of the control tower, and two figures, quite likely the same ones who’d been deterred earlier by Beale, were zigzagging forward under its cover. Behind him at that moment came the biggest explosion of the night, about the loudest he’d ever heard, a powerful blast and an enormously brilliant incandescence: it could only have been the aviation spirit finally cooking-off. The Pucará with Beale in it had begun to move — none too soon, since its neighbour was already burning. Hosegood had lobbed an XFS grenade — and another — long throws, but accurate, he was good at it — at the two encroaching Argies, and now he gave the machine gun up there one whole magazine, by way of positive deterrence. He heard and saw the stun grenades burst — blinding flashes accompanying thunderclap detonations, both within the prescribed two metres of their targets — both Argies duly knocked out, and the GPMG on the tower had given up too. The Pucará was well clear and at rest again. Looking around for Cloudsley, hearing grenades in that direction — Harry discouraging initiative from the compound personnel — but then catching sight of a more alarming development, Roberto’s Pucará rolling forward, turning its twin turbo-props into the snow-laden wind and beginning to move and gather speed. This would be Cloudsley’s mark again: he was on his knees, from this angle in silhouette against the wide area of flame but almost in the Pucará’s upwind path; he’d banged in a new magazine and he was waiting, holding his fire. To the pilot, Hosegood guessed, he wouldn’t be so visible, from that angle the flames would be blinding. He’d changed his own magazine and also unscrewed and pocketed the suppressor: he ran towards Cloudsley, to get close enough so both of them could open fire — simultaneously, one from right ahead and himself from this side as the plane’s tail began to lift. The gun roared in his hands, then the napalm exploded under the Pucará’s starboard wing and it was a fireball, somersaulting in a great Catherine-wheel of showering napalm as the other bombs erupted too. Cloudsley sprinting from it, this way, Hosegood reloading and staying to cover his retreat. He’d skidded to a halt, then — turning with one long arm back then whirling over, a grenade in that fist— soaring, lobbing well over and beyond the blaze of the Pucará before he began to run again, yelling ‘Come on, Geoff!’ Tony Beale had seen some of this, but he’d had his own preoccupations, first just getting the engines started, then locating the controls he needed just to taxi the machine away from the fire, and more recently turning it with the idea of using its guns — if he could find their triggers — on that last surviving Pucará; he’d expected this to be Roberto’s intention, hadn’t expected the attempt to take off. His own problem now was getting two large men into a space intended for one ordinary-sized one. The observer’s seat was raised about ten inches higher than this front one, and it would be less suitable for Cloudsley than for Hosegood, as there was a two or three-inch difference in their heights and Cloudsley might have had difficulty shutting the canopy over his head. Beale yelled as they appeared — one on each side — ‘Geoff in the seat, Harry squeeze in after — OK?’ Cloudsley shouted, ‘Bloody cheek!’ and let Hosegood in first while he looked around for any more trouble and changed his magazine without looking to see what his hands were doing, squinting round with his eyes slitted against the glare and heat. All the snow on the ground had melted and new stuff driving in just vanished in mid—air. Beale was concentrating on his own problems again: he’d allowed the engines to stop, somehow, and was having to start everything from scratch. The cockpit layout was tot
ally unfamiliar and he was having to identify each item by guesswork, common sense or trial-and-error. No helmets, so no intercom, nothing fancy — and no backseat driving either. Muttering to himself: ‘Trimmer — set… Well, should be OK… Throttle tension: maybe… Mixture: could be why they cut out, but — oh, trust to luck…’ Thinking suddenly in protest, What the hell am I doing, monkeying with this fucking thing? Controlling the flare of anger, then, frustration born of the fact he was a man who liked to know what he was doing, know how things worked as well as how to work them… ‘Fine pitch — well… Gas is on, must be — unless that was why…’ But it was on, all right. Concentrating: knowing seconds counted, but so did getting this right, and the other two could look out for whatever was happening out there. ‘Flaps… OK. Lock’s off — couldn’t not be. Check it, all the same.’ The hell with temperature or pressure, he didn’t have a clue to what the reading ought to be. And bugger the undercart, bastard can stay down, reckon I’ll need it more than I’ll need bloody wings… He shouted, ‘You both in?’ Then: ‘Shut the canopy!’ Twisting round: ‘Yeah, that!’ Incredibly they were in; he clicked the canopy shut over the cabin that was less than ten feet long, about two and a half wide and four feet high, a lot of that space taken up by the two Martin-Baker Mk APO 6A Zero-Zero ejector seats. He’d forgotten to warn Geoff about the danger of ejecting himself — which if you were really careless you could do clear through the canopy. Too late now. He part thought, part mumbled to himself, Start port engine… Start starboard… Thank God, they did both start. Throttle back now, Tony… OK, brakes — brakes off… Holy smoke, we’re rolling… Then by chance he saw what he’d looked for earlier and failed to find and then forgotten, the switches of the bomb-release gear. Hesitating for about two seconds, thinking of referring this to Cloudsley, but then making his mind up and mentally crossing his fingers for luck as he released all three bombs: only a few feet to drop and not much speed on yet, but you couldn’t be sure, had no idea how sensitive that muck might be: you needed to lose any weight that could be shed, though, even without a bomb-load it was going to be a toss-up whether this machine got off the ground. Snow plastering the screen; but at least it showed him where the wind was. Bombs — gone… Now the wiper: he found the switch, and the bullet-proof screen was cleared immediately. Snow streaming by all around and a flat white sea of it ahead. Picking up speed: control column forward, and opening the throttles, really moving now, feeling as if the tail might be trying to lift; needing left rudder — just a touch — to hold her straight. Tail had lifted… So much damn weight, though — and no idea at all what take-off speed should be.
Special Deliverance Page 24