More throttle. Both of them wide open.
OK. Now. Or never… He swallowed. Pull back, slow…
Lifting?
Age of miracles?
Crash… They’d hit the ground very hard indeed, then bounced back into the air. Waiting for the next great thump the thought flashed through his mind that it was as well he’d got rid of the napalm: they could have been a fireball now. Straining his muscles as if his own strength might hold her up: if he’d had wings instead of arms he’d have been flapping them. But she was climbing. Bloody flying! He murmured, truly surprised and absolutely delighted, ‘Well, what d’ya know…’ And immediately, a double-take — having decided he could afford to look at his gauges now…
Focusing on the fuel gauge. Needle on zero. Tanks empty. Too little in there, anyway, to be registering on the gauge.
‘You’re a genius, Tony!’ Cloudsley, head over the corner of the seat, screaming ecstatically in Beale’s ear. The altimeter showed 200 feet: 210… Cloudsley bellowed, ‘Steer southeast — southeast! Got a compass?’
He gritted his teeth. They were flying southeast already, the direction the wind was howling from. He muttered, ‘Of course I’ve got a bloody compass, what d’you think this is, a bicycle?’ Working at it, trying to keep the machine climbing — while its fuel lasted — but not stall it. Stalling speed with a normal load would be about 90 mph, he guessed. Just over 110 now; if it dropped below that mark he’d level her at once. Looking at the fuel state again. They must have left the refuelling for after the servicing of the Chinook… Sea of white nothing down there… Then, looking again but not sure he’d seen anything at all, he made out a ruler-straight line of black dots running due north and south: a fence between sheep-paddocks, and they were flying over it now, crossing it at a slanting angle from northwest to southeast. Two hundred and fifty feet on the altimeter; levelling her, and terrific relief in doing so, the climb and the danger of stalling had had him sweating. He was thinking of trying to get Cloudsley’s attention, to point to the fuel-gauge, when it became unnecessary: the starboard engine spluttered and died just before the same thing happened to the port one. Then the starboard one coughed, picked up again for a few seconds, died… Only the wind-howl now; nose down, gliding… He shouted — Cloudsley’s face thrusting over near his shoulder again — ‘Out of gas! Going down! Hold tight!’
The wind was a rushing scream enclosing the Pucará as it dropped, tilting and shuddering to the gusts, Beale fighting to hold the angle of descent and keep the wings level, hoping to God there’d be no fence ahead when they got down there. If it was just open sheep-paddock it might be OK; he’d brought aircraft down without power before, had been required to do so when he was working for his PPL, and the differences between this twin-engined job and the single-engined machines he’d flown before were now eliminated. Against that, he hadn’t had time even to start getting used to the feel of this aircraft, and none of his landings had been made in blizzards or on ground covered in thorn bushes… Fighting it, forcing its nose and the starboard wing down, telling himself that ninety-five per cent of the land around here was billiard-table flat… One hundred feet. That thorn scrub wouldn’t be any problem. Seventy feet: without the altimeter you couldn’t have known, you could have been at five thousand; everything out there was a white blank, you’d know you were landing, he guessed, when you hit the ground. Fifty feet. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a glimpse of terra firma — greyish patches on the white, the thorn the sheep were daft enough to eat. Forty… Thirty feet. Easy now, nose up a little just a little… Twenty-five. Twenty. Ten feet, and stand by for the almighty smash-up…
Thumping down. Snow flying in sheets like surf. All you could do was brake, light to hold her straight and pray, Please, no fence… Bouncing, shaking, his own bones feeling as if they were rattling too; then the violence was lessening, the snow flying by in flakes instead of solid…
*
Cloudsley agreed, ‘Which would mean we’re now on Diaz land, and if we yomp south we’ll hit a fence which could be either the Strobie or the MacEwan boundary wire. Where the road runs — right?’
Beale nodded. ‘I was scared we might put down on that one.’
The first remark from anyone after the machine had come to rest at the end of its deep-ploughed snow track had come from Hosegood. He’d said, ‘Beats canoeing, don’t it.’
The fence that Beale had seen and which Cloudsley agreed must have been the north-to-south divide between Diaz and Coetzee land was the only clue they had to their position now. They’d ridden up that fence, on the Coetzee side of it, with Andy guiding them, on the way north to the target area. The fence’s southern end was on the public road which ran along Strobie’s northern boundary and then ran on east dividing Diaz land from the MacEwans’.
‘How far would you say we flew, Tony?’
‘Ten miles?’ Beale shrugged. ‘Fifteen?’
Hosegood nodded. Cloudsley said, ‘Call it twelve, then. I’d guess — well, we’re certainly on Diaz territory, and I’d guess fairly close to where the three farms meet.’
‘Where the Sandrini place is, then.’
‘Exactly. And our best bet is to go south until we find the fence, then look for that corner. May have to try first one way and then the other, or we may be lucky and guess right. But once we find that corner we can’t help finding the Sandrini ruin, which might be a good place to hole-up in for the day. Then push on to Strobie’s after dark. Any better suggestions?’
‘They’re going to find this Pucará pretty quick, aren’t they?’
‘I don’t know.‘ Cloudsley looked up at the weather. It was still dark and the snow was still heavy on the southeast wind. You’d have sunrise in about three-quarters of an hour, but you wouldn’t have guessed it from the look of things right now. He said, ‘If this keeps up — give it an hour, the Pucará’ll be under snow. But if we were in the open and search planes came over — as they will, don’t doubt it — we’d stand out like spare pricks at a wedding. So, gents — let’s get moving, get under cover.’
Beale nodded. ‘Right. But — Harry, it’ll be a while before those engines cool enough for snow to settle anywhere near ’em, let alone on them. So if the Argies are quick off the mark—’
‘All right.’ Cloudsley nodded. ‘Good point. And they may have had us on radar anyway. But finding it here on Diaz land doesn’t have to point at Strobie’s, As long as we don’t leave tracks — and we won’t, given an hour or two for the snow to cover them. This Pucará got as far as it could on the small amount of fuel that was in it — they’ll know that, they can’t all be stupid… And anyway — damn-all we can do about it, except get to the Sandrini place and out of sight.’
Yomping south, then, Cloudsley leading, with an eye on his magnetic compass…
‘If we’d had enough gas to get to the coast, Harry, would you’ve carried on?’
The southeasterly course they’d been flying would have taken them where they needed to be. Cloudsley said, ‘Hypothetical question. Why ask?’
‘Just wondered. Quickest way to get there. Andy’d have been OK — like you told him, didn’t you, keep out of sight till it’s over?’
‘We’ve spare kit and ammo at Strobie’s, haven’t we?’
‘Ah…’ Beale added, ‘Except getting there that fast we mightn’t’ve needed it.’
Hosegood put in, ‘I got half a magazine. And we wouldn’t be walking straight off the coast, would we… Harry, think they’ll find the hides?’
‘If they look, they will. May not occur to them. Only things of value we’ve lost are the periscope and my binos.’
‘And some nutty and stuff.’
Today and tonight would be foodless, except for the chocolate in their pockets. Water-bottles had been left behind, but there was snow to drink… They were moving south in file, one line of tracks being less noticeable than three. You couldn’t count on the snow covering your tracks; it had stopped once or twice already and it could do
the same again… Beale broke a long silence: ‘Wondering how long we’ll have to hide out at Strobie’s. They’ll get an air search going soon enough, won’t they? Even though we didn’t leave ’em anything that’ll fly. Fucked ’em up good and proper, didn’t we? What I’m getting at — won’t just sit and wonder, will they?’
‘The weather may be on our side. Apart from that you’re right, Tony, in fact you may not appreciate how right.’
He’d been doing some thinking, too.
Hosegood said, ‘They’ll get some helos up from Comodoro Rivadavia, won’t they?’ He was treading exactly in Cloudsley’s snow-holes. ‘Andy’s big brother’ll be shitting himself — if he’s alive.’
‘Doubt he can be.’ Cloudsley ploughing on. Without packs you could cover a lot of ground very quickly. ‘I’d guess he was either in the car we wrecked or in the Pucará’. Nobody walked away from either.’
Hosegood was glancing eastward; there was a brightening, just a hint of it, although the snow wasn’t easing off at all. ‘Making Andy rich, eh, sole owner of the family estate?‘
‘No. Roberto was married. His widow‘d inherit his share, wouldn’t she.’
‘Andy’d better jump in there smartish, then.’
‘You’re a callous sod, Geoff. But hardly — seeing she’s the daughter of Alejandro Diaz. And look — even if Big Brother’s snuffed it, they’ll still be wanting our blood. OK, they don’t know who we are — we could be the local revolutionaries, any damn thing. But one man who’s going to jump to some logical conclusions is Diaz. He’s a counter-insurgency expert — meaning anyone who gives him a funny look gets skinned alive. This is his land we’re on, that airbase is on his land, it was his son-in-law in command and we knocked him off.’ Shaking his head, trudging through the driving snow like some great white-shouldered yeti… ‘My guess is there’ll be a manhunt now and Alejandro Diaz running it.’
14
Francisca: her face contorted, bloodless, eyes wide and blank, flesh the colour of dirty snow and her dark hair encrusted with it; she looked as if she’d died in a fit of rage. Paco flung aside the shovel he’d used to uncover her naked, frozen body, and reached for the meathook. The old woman, Fiona, pointing to where he was to hang her in a line of them — two sheep, then the space the old woman was indicating, then Paco’s father with a hook’s point protruding from the black wound in his throat. Paco shifting his grip on the hook then swinging it back, stooping over Francisca — Andy trying to reach him, to stop it, prevent the final horror, but he couldn’t move his limbs or shout either, he’d screamed Paco no, don’t do it, Paco NO but a hand had clamped on his mouth — Paco’s father’s hand, the arm swinging from that—
‘All right, lad, all right. Wakey wakey…’
Tom Strobie took his hand off Andy’s mouth, having seen his eyes open. Andy blinking up at him: realising who it was and that he was in the bedroom, not a slaughterhouse. But behind Tom’s shoulders, a new apparition which at first sight was just as unreal — Cloudsley, Hosegood, Beale. Like savages — as wild-looking and dirty, black-faced as if they’d been buried and dug up… Strobie growled as he turned away, ‘Had to wake you, you’d have had half the world coming to see where the pigs were being killed.’
‘Fine time to have nightmares, Andy. Sleep all day, do you?’ Cloudsley sat down on the bed; the way he let himself down you could tell it was a long time since he’d sat anywhere. Tony Beale said, ‘Out tomcatting, I’d guess. Leave these young fellows five minutes, they’re at it.’ Pulling off a snow-covered poncho. Hosegood gathered all three of them: ‘I’ll give ’em a shake out…’ Pausing in the doorway: ‘Could’ve been DTs, not nightmare. Been on the booze, Andy?’
‘Yeah. All night.’ Checking the time. ‘Or most of it.’ He was still half-asleep and still half in the nightmare. ‘Hey — you’ve been a lot quicker than—’
‘We’ve made good time, you’re right.’ Cloudsley explained, ‘I’d intended sheltering in the Sandrini place until dark, but with the snow belting down so hard it seemed wiser to keep going. The fact is, we’ve got to — I mean we’ve got to move on from here too, sooner the better… Maybe just a few hours’ rest now, Tom — and would you be your usual kind self and feed us? Hot baths possible, d’you think? Then we’ll shove off as soon as the light goes. Fact is, we really do have to put a few miles behind us bloody quick. I’d yomp on now, except—’
‘Yeah.’ Tony Beale nodded. Gaunt, scarecrow-like… ‘Except.’
Cloudsley turned his head, glaring at him. Like an outsize Rasputin who’d come through one week-long roughhouse and might be thinking of starting another. Beale explained, ‘Only saying, Harry, we’d do best in the long run—’
‘Pit-stop, like.’ Hosegood, rejoining them, backed him up. Cloudsley told them with something like anger in his tone, ‘We’ll rest until it’s dark. That’s what I said.’ Turning away: ‘OK with you, Tom?’
‘Of course.’ Strobie said, ‘Water’s hot, and there’s a stew made that only has to be hotted up… Did you do it?’
‘We did indeed. And that’s the main thing.’ Cloudsley told him, ‘But our withdrawal wasn’t exactly stealthy. Very loud, and lit up by one of the biggest bonfires you ever saw. Had no option, really…’
Andy could see and hear the tension in all of them: getting here, to a place where they could draw breath, would have released the suppressed store of it, he guessed. Not that he himself was exactly relaxed… Cloudsley was saying to old Tom, ‘You asked me whether there’d be a stink, and I said I hoped not. The fact is there will be — probably is already, and what’s more I’d guess your neighbour Diaz will be in charge of things. So the sooner we can shove off, Tom, the better for your sake as well as ours.’
‘Never mind my sake…’ Strobie, leaning on his stick, had the manner of a father among sons. ‘Why not one of you take a bath right away?’ He paused in the doorway, on his way to put the stew on to heat. ‘Andy. While you were kipping, I had a radio shout from your estancia. From Huyez’s wife.’
He’d been pulling on his boots; he sat tensely, waiting for the rest of it. Back to the nightmare which had become if anything more unpleasant in the act of waking, finding that waking was no escape from it… He heard Cloudsley query, ‘Huyez?’ Strobie didn’t bother to enlighten him; he said, ‘Panic stations over there. She told me her husband and their boy vanished during the night, still weren’t home — about an hour ago. She thought the lad might be visiting his sheila here, and Papa might’ve come to fetch him home or something… But nobody here’s seen either of ’em, and the girl’s been with her mum all the time.’ Strobie turned away. ‘Anyway, Robert’s short of a mayordomo and Señora Huyez is in a flat spin… Go on in by the fire, lads.’
Drifting into the other room, the talk was about the Falklands news — mostly the capture of Goose Green and the Royal Marines’ fantastic yomp the other way. But a dump of napalm had been found on the Pucará airstrip at Goose Green, and this and one other item of news — the arrival in San Carlos of Major-General Jeremy Moore — seemed to interest the SB men more than anything else. Comment from Beale was, ‘Be all go now, then,’ and the others agreed. Hosegood won a toss and went to make first use of the bathroom; Andy asked Cloudsley, ‘Did you come here in a straight line from the Sandrini ruin?’
‘No, we were a bit cagier than that.’ Cloudsley crouched low to the fire’s warmth. ‘Kept to the line of the fence, close up to it, in the hope our tracks won’t show up — wouldn’t if the snow had stopped. Walked about five miles south from that corner, crossed two internal fences and came to a boundary gate and a track passing through it that’s fairly well buried now. By my recollection of the map it’d be the road to your MacEwan place?’
‘That’s right. And way out eastward beyond it.’
‘We came west from that gate. Couldn’t help leaving tracks, not being fairies, but by now they’d be hard to see… It’s air search I’m thinking of mostly - once the blizzard slacks off. They’ll have t
o bring helos over from some other base, but it shouldn’t take long.’
‘You boys manage a little Scotch?’
They all looked at Strobie. Cloudsley began, ‘Well, Tom—’
‘Small ones wouldn’t hurt. You’ll be sleeping it off anyway.’
‘Small ones then. You’re very kind.’
Andy said, ‘Amazing there’s any left, after last night.’
‘In return, you can entertain me with an account of what you’ve been up to. What did you blow up, or set fire to?’
‘Didn’t exactly set fire to anything.’ Cloudsley was relaxing slightly, now. ‘Things seemed to catch fire… Didn’t it seem like that to you, Tony?’
Beale agreed. ’Specially things with wings on. You should’ve seen it. I didn’t get much chance to, not really, Harry had me stuck in this bloody Pucará trying to figure out how to make the fucking thing work, I couldn’t look around much. Ought to’ve made us a video, Harry.’
Strobie handed out glasses of Scotch. Cloudsley raised his. ‘To you, Tom, with a sincere vote of thanks… Well, I’ll tell you. We were living in holes in the ground, nipping into the base at night to do this job. Rather boring work, actually.’ Beale groaned at the pun: he explained, ‘Boring holes, Tom,’ and Strobie asked, ‘In bombs, by any chance?’
Special Deliverance Page 25