‘It’s a risk I’d take.’
He didn’t want to lose their company, Andy realised. Or end his own involvement in the operation… Cloudsley was saying, ‘—but from our point of view it’s not on, anyway. We’ve already thrown our weight around more than we were supposed to do — got away with it, luckily, but — well, suppose we had to shoot out way through a roadblock, for instance. OK, we’d do it, leave some dead Argies and push on. But (a) we’re not supposed to be killing people and we’d really sooner not, (b) what would it lead to? We need peace and quiet, Tom, if we’re to get away.’
‘Surely they’ll have guessed you’ll be heading for the coast?’
‘They’ll have guessed we might be. But we could be going back into Chile — if we’re Brits, but they don’t know that either, we could be home-grown guerrillas, for all they know. Once we had a bust-up on the open road, though, our goose’d be cooked good and proper. They’d have our position, course and speed and we’d never get to the bloody beach, let alone off it!’
Strobie growled. ‘Talks a lot, this feller.’
‘So we’ll drop off, Tom. Thanks all the same.’
‘Ten minutes, it’ll be dark enough.’ Strobie wiped fogging off the windscreen. The snow was coming down steadily again, now. ‘I’ll run you back as far as the bridge, that turn-off to the village…’
*
Cloudsley said an hour later, yomping across the shoulder of a flattish hill with the shine of a big river curling around it in a deep, wide valley on their left, ‘Couldn’t have taken him with us, you see. And if we’d run into a firefight — Tom and his pickup identified beyond doubt — well, what else could we have done for him, then? Hopeless even to think of taking him along; might be some rock-climbing, certainly small-boat work, and after we get to the coast we’ll have a day or two to wait in hides — well, think of all that, with his disabilities. He couldn’t have made it, Andy.’
‘I know. But what’s even more to the point, he wouldn’t have wanted to. Patagonia is Tom’s idea of a hide.’
Hosegood muttered, ‘Wonderful old guy.’
Beale’s voice, from the rear: ‘Wouldn’t’ve got far without him, would we?’
‘Reckon he’ll be OK now, Andy?’ Hosegood again. ‘Won’t get on to him, will they?’
‘I can’t see how they would…’
As long as Francisca didn’t shop him. Which didn’t seem likely; at least as long as it suited her book not to. The danger would be Robert — if Robert had survived. Which, please God—
Well. God, if he existed, might not be receptive to that kind of prayer. Unless he’d taken in the vizcacha games…
Saying goodbye to old Tom had been a miserable experience. Andy had felt grateful to Cloudsley, when the SBS lieutenant had broken into the farewells with a briskly practical suggestion. ‘Tom. In a day or so — say the day after tomorrow — you might report you’ve had three horses stolen? You could describe them accurately, the three we bought from you?’
Strobie’s right hand had still been clasped in Andy’s.
‘Stolen when?’
‘Well, during the night before you report it. Get Torres to inform you that they’ve vanished. If they had the time and inclination, and snow conditions seem right, you could even lay some tracks — three horses — heading southwest, ending at the river bank? The real horses could ride back east along the river, come back to your estancia separately, via one of your out-stations, whatever you call ’em? But that’s for you to decide. The three horses might have been nicked by the desperados who beat up the airbase, mightn’t they? So they could be heading for the Chilean border?’
‘If there’s snow on the ground there’ll be tracks all over the shop anyway. They could take their pick.’
‘Right. But red herrings apart, reporting the loss will cover you. If Diaz investigators noticed a shortfall in the stock. Or if the animals have been turned loose at the other end of this fair land, and they’d be wearing your brand — right?’
The old man turned back to Andy. ‘He’ll go a long way, this feller. I’d hang on to his coat-tails for a while, if I were you.’
‘I’m planning to.’ He tightened his grip on Strobie’s hand. ‘Believe me, Tom, I’d sooner stick around with you, if it was possible. But I may be able to come back — after a while…’
Cloudsley had intervened again: ‘Know what he said about you, Tom, first time your name was mentioned, when we’d asked him was there anyone in this part of the world who might help us?’
‘He’d’ve said, “Ugly old sod called Strobie—”’
‘He said, “Tom Strobie’s a rock of a man.” And I’ll tell you for nothing — he was damn right.’
Then more practical advice: ‘Before you tell them the horses have been pinched, Tom, make sure of two things. One, no trace of our temporary residence in your house, and two, that all your people have their mouths zipped shut. Can do?’
Strobie glared up at him. ‘I was born eighty years ago, young man—’
Hosegood interrupted: ‘Our lucky day, that was.’
Andy put his arms round the old man’s shoulders, and hugged him. ‘It was certainly mine. See you, Tom.’
*
Cloudsley had said, Something you’ll soon get used to, and in the next few days and nights he certainly did. He also learnt about skirting around trouble-spots. The long nights of fast yomping, never on roads but often close to them or on the hills overlooking them — overlooking the river valleys, which got wider as they neared the coast — were punctuated several times by views of roadblocks, usually at crossroads, military transport parked to block the roadway and armed men and machine-gun posts all around. Truckloads of soldiers patrolled the roads, approaches to villages were picketed by police, and by day there was frequent sighting of helicopters while they lay in shallow scrapes roofed with turf supported on nylon mesh.
He’d expressed his surprise at the ease with which men could travel such a distance across hostile territory, and Cloudsley’s answer had come in the form of a question: ‘Ever try to locate a flea on a dog’s back?’
It was also suprising that men could stay fit and strong on a diet of biscuit and chocolate — cold mutton from Strobie’s kitchen having lasted only the first twenty-four hours. Water was taken from rivers, with pills added to kill the bugs. And in a hastily excavated hole in the earth, its floor lined with one of Strobie’s moth-eaten quillangos, he found he could sleep as soundly as he had ever had on a mattress.
He thought the mainspring of it might have been the sense of satisfaction he was getting from it. Sense of getting away with it.
‘Make a Bootneck of you yet, Andy Mac!’
He’d glanced at Geoff Hosegood’s dark silhouette, trudging beside him.
‘Might consider becoming one, at that.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Being already the proud possessor of a special short short-service commission — that’s a start, isn’t it?’
Cloudsley called back, ‘Give up the fleshpots of the City, Andy?’
‘Think they’d have me?’
‘Don’t know. You’re over age, for entry. But as you say, with a foot in the door already… Except I heard there was only one officer entry accepted in the last twelve months.’
‘One?’
Beale said, ‘Small force, see? Exclusive.’ He raised his voice: ‘Reckon he’d have a chance, Harry? If you put in a word for him?’
‘After that party on the airbase, who’s going to take any notice of my word…’
Cloudsley navigated by a parachute-silk map that came out of the lining of a boot. By night they followed compass courses, correcting as necessary after deviations around danger areas. When they dug in for the third day, with three full nights of yomping behind them, he announced that they were within a few miles of the coast.
‘Right bit of coast?’
It was a silly question, but he was ferreting for information. Nobody had let anything out yet abou
t their withdrawal plans, and he thought it was time he was told what lay ahead.
Cloudsley pointed. ‘See those twin hills? And the taller one by itself to the right?’
He’d nodded. Daylight coming, and they were working fast to finish their scrapes. He’d become quite adept at building his own now. Cloudsley told him, ‘That’s our line of march tonight. Three or four hours’ yomp, then the moment of truth.’
‘What truth?’
‘Oh, you’ll see…’
He saw helicopters during the day, patrolling what he guessed would be the invisible coastline, cliffs or beaches. No way of knowing whether it might be routine patrolling or a special effort in honour of the SBS. One helo woke him later, early in the afternoon, right overhead and low, very loud… He lay like a corpse, face-down, while the noise went on as if the machine was hovering — which would mean its crew thought they might have spotted something. Like an ineffectively camouflaged hide. At a time like this you began to think that to have got away with it this long and this far was nothing but a fluke: you thought, OK, so here it comes…
It didn’t. It went.
He was thinking off and on about old Tom — who by now would have reported the horses as having been stolen. Alone in his shack with only whisky for any kind of company…
‘Moving out, Andy. Wakey wakey…’
Opening his eyes to darkness. He’d been asleep for several hours, since that helo had made its slow pass over. Time now for a snack, and attending to other personal needs; and for packing any loose gear and collapsing the hide under its turf roof, leaving only a small depression complete with its realistic quota of snow.
Three or four hours, Cloudsley had said. Trudging on, with the twin hills on the left and the taller pimple on the right… There was a minor road to cross – and a routine drill for doing it. Tony Beale had advised him, Never get to thinking it’s easy, Andy. That’s when you fuck it up. You need to be at full stretch every minute, no let up ever… Beale was behind him now, Hosegood’s stocky shape ahead, Cloudsley as usual leading. To the left in front, the ground rose into vague silhouette against black, cloud-covered sky. He thought he could smell the sea, but that might have been imagination; the ground was hummocky, scrub-covered, patched with snow but not solid with it as it had been inland.
Cloudsley stopped, and they closed up around him.
‘Tony — stay here with Andy. Might be patrols around, so watch it. You come with me, Geoff.’ He put a hand on Beale’s shoulder, turning him and pointing: ‘See that hillock, in line with the right-hand edge of the promontory? Bears north seventy east, and that’s the line I’m taking. Should be back here in about quarter of an hour.’
‘Check.’
Cloudsley and Hosegood melted into the darkness. The bedsheets being earth-stained now, as patchy as the terrain, made perfect camouflage. Beale squatted with his machine-pistol in his hands. ‘Lie flat, Andy.’
‘Where are they going?’
‘You’ll see when they get back. Keep quiet now.’
The wind, and an owl or two, and more distantly a sound which suddenly he recognised as the sea, a much deeper, more powerful background to the constant humming and battering of the wind. It conjured images of white water surging across a beach, black water turning into foam, pluming against rock.
Fifteen minutes stretched into twenty, then stretched farther. When it came he didn’t recognise it until Beale reacted. There’d been a whistle that might have been some night bird’s call; the colour sergeant, crouching with his Ingram levelled, whistled back on the same note.
‘Tony.’ Cloudsley’s voice sounded close. ‘Four of us joining you, OK?’
‘Come on then, Harry.’
A stirring in the snow-patched scrub. Names had served as passwords. Beale asked without turning his head, ‘See ’em yet?’
Not a damn thing… But as they moved in really close, he smelt them. Then the vision matching that feral odour was of bearded faces smeared with black cam-cream, eyes furtive like the eyes of nocturnal animals. ‘Hi, Andy Mac. Hi, Tony, you old sod…’ Jake West, and Monkey Start. Cloudsley’s immensity loomed behind them: ‘Save the endearments. Get the signal out, Monkey…’
16
Start had got his signal away within a few minutes of his and West’s surprise appearance out of the night. The transmitter was the size and shape of the kind of tape-recorder that fits in a briefcase, its aerial three hundred yards of thin wire which Jake unreeled from a spool as he crawled away into the dark, laying it out in a straight line over the rough, snow-patched ground. Wet string would have done just as well, Beale told Andy afterwards. It was a low-power HF transmission and the signal itself was on a cassette, a pre-recorded, pre-condensed burst transmission that went out in one flash at a touch on a button and would be received, stretched and decoded and placed before the Chief of Naval Staff or one of his deputies at Northwood, Middlesex, the subterranean Royal Navy HQ near London, within the hour. Northwood would then call through on a secure voice line to the Task Force Admiral in his carrier flagship. To the uninitiated, it was mind-boggling… But while West had been laying out the wire, Start had muttered to Cloudsley, ‘We have a sod of a problem here, Harry.’
West had come back then, and they’d been busy. Andy very much the uninitiated, the outsider conscious of his own uselessness. Crouching among them, trying to keep out of the way and understand from occasional cryptic exchanges what was happening or about to happen. While Start’s ‘sod of a problem’ hung in the air, all the worse for being as yet unspecified; and for having been mentioned in those terms at all, since these people tended, he’d noticed, to minimise difficulties, not exaggerate them. Nobody was doing any unnecessary talking. Cloudsley, Beale and Hosegood were prone, facing outward like spokes of a wheel in a defensive, watchful circle with their machine-pistols ready while the signal was fired off to London and the gear then packed away.
‘OK, Harry.’
‘You lead.’
About ten minutes’ cautious progress, then, in extended file over undulating grass and scrub. Finally they’d all crammed into one hide, Start’s and West’s. Others had been dug nearby, apparently. Jake West got busy with the bluey, and Cloudsley demanded almost explosively after his long, patient wait, ‘So what’s your problem?’
‘Missile installation on the headland. They’ve just set it up, brand new. One MM38 plus radar and a small garrison. They’re patrolling around this area, time to time, which is why I didn’t much want to hang around.‘
Cloudsley glanced at Beale and Hosegood.
‘Well, well.’
Start went into detail. The missile was mounted on a flatbed truck, on the headland near the lighthouse, with what might be a converted furniture van, now a mobile radar station, set up in combo with it.
‘Not nice, is it? They moved in after we got here, we watched ’em setting up house. But something’ll have to be done about it, eh?’
Otherwise the submarine that was coming for them would be surfacing into a deathtrap.
‘Since we’ve sent that signal—’
‘Well, surely, what alternative—’
‘Certainly. But as you say…’
No question, the missile would have to be neutralised, somehow. The essence of the problem, as Cloudsley had explained to Tom Strobie a few days ago, was that safe withdrawal from an enemy coast depended on stealth, silence, invisibility, and in the circumstances this might be difficult to achieve.
‘How many Argies in residence?’
‘About two dozen. Between twenty and twenty-five, say. Most of them live and doss in the hut near that lighthouse. Remember there was mention of a hut?’
Cloudsley nodded. ‘Survival equipment in it. For shipwrecked mariners withal.’
Tony Beale quoted: “Promontory two miles wide projecting four miles from the general line of the coast, high with many sand dunes within which is grassland with clumps of scrub… The lighthouse is a square concrete framework tower pai
nted white and black bands, twelve metres in height, with a white hut containing survival equipment at its base, situated eight cables southwest of the eastern extremity of the point…” How’s that?’
Cloudsley said to Hosegood, ‘Some people might call it showing off.’
‘Yeah. Missed a piece out in the middle, though, didn’t he?’
‘Anyway’ — Start confirmed — ‘that’s now the local barracks.’
‘How many on watch, at night?’
‘Two guys on sentry duty. Same by day. Another four spend their nights in the van. They might be all four radarmen, or maybe only two are and the others are duty watch for operating the missile. They’d need to be under cover, you see. It’s bloody cold on that point, I can tell you, and ninety per cent of the time all except the sentries are inside the hut — which is very small for that number of men, must have bunk beds in it, I’d guess. And an oil-stove — downwind there’s a pong of kerosene.’
‘What about patrols?’
‘Mostly in daylight and in pairs. Might just be going walkies, of course. But we’ve seen ’em out at night in fours too. They don’t look as if they’d be much of a problem to anyone, it’s just a fact that they’re around, and we don’t want ’em seeing us, do we. One thing is they don’t seem to stray off the beaten tracks — haven’t yet, that we’ve seen. There again, there’s always a first time, isn’t there?’
‘What beaten tracks are we talking about?’
‘Path around the clifftop, and a track on the north side’ – Start pointed – ‘that-away, linking with the coast road. That’s the way they come and go. They’ve had visitors, by the way — a carload of brass once, and a helo landed yesterday, took off again after about half an hour.’
Special Deliverance Page 28