Anne had written, ‘Lisa has a new boyfriend. A young merchant banker. She says he’s not a boyfriend, only someone she happens to have seen a few times, but I think it’s a bit more than that. I may be wishful-thinking, of course, because I should really be delighted if she showed Andy MacEwan the door, after the way he’s treated her. This disappearing trick of his really is the last straw!’
He’d drifted into sleep. Missiles — strangely shaped ones with deadpan MacEwan-type expressions on their faces — were fizzing into the ocean all round. Someone was quite unnecessarily trying to draw his attention to them: a voice repeating over and over, ‘Captain, sir…’
‘I’ve seen the damn things!’
‘Captain, sir… You’re wanted in the flagship, sir.’ A faraway voice was booming ‘Flying stations. Flying stations…’ Then the nearer one with its nagging tone again: ‘Captain, sir…’
‘All right.’ Up on one elbow, blinking at the messenger and the orange glow like disco lighting seeping from the Ops Room outside this cubicle. The boy said, ‘The Admiral requests your presence in Hermes, sir.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Saddler nodded. ‘Tell the commander and the flight commander.’
‘Aye aye, sir. Helo’s been piped, sir.’
Checking the time. Awake now, swinging his legs down from the bunk. ‘All right. Thank you, Hayes.’
He’d guessed, on his way over in the Wessex, that the Admiral might be wanting more detail about that Etendard attack. It was of vital interest, of course, directly affecting the security of the Task Force, the Navy’s ability to last out and continue support of the land campaign. But if this was it, it was a waste of good sleeping time, he’d said it all in his signal… Then abruptly the fast cross-decking was over, and within minutes, still in his goon-suit, he was in an office full of chart displays and his old shipmate Willy was telling him, ‘It’s about the SBS team you had with you a while ago, John. The group you flew-off by Sea King.’
‘News of them, is there?’
‘They’re ready to come out, and you’re the man who’s going to perform the extraction. Your orders are here — Operation Sandbag, we’re calling it. I’ll run over the main points — OK?’
‘But — surely they’ll be brought off by submarine?’
‘Would have been.’ The balding head nodded. ‘But they’ve warmed the bell somewhat. Several days ahead of the projected schedule. Incidentally, there are indications of a job well done – eh?’
He’d nodded. ‘Certainly today’s attacks…’
‘Right. But you see, we have only one SSK on station. Onyx — arrived a few days ago. The fact is, she’s not available for this one. Couldn’t get there in time even if she was. It’s come up so much sooner—’
‘Have they signalled?’
A nod. ‘Catching us rather with our pants down.’
‘So I’m to — Christ, take Shropshire right up to the bloody mainland?‘
A five-thousand-ton destroyer and her crew of five hundred, to be risked within a stone’s throw of that coast?
‘It would have been done by SSK, John, as you say. For the simple reason we don’t have one available, it can’t be. And we have no way of contacting them to delay things, so — this is what we’re stuck with… Here, take a look.’ He’d pointed at the appropriate chart. ‘The submarine was to have surfaced about here, launched a Gemini, then dived and waited. The Gemini’s task is to rendezvous with the SBS team in their own inflatable at this point here — Islote Negro. Risks of outboard motor failure are halved — either could take the other in tow, if necessary.’
‘What coastal defences or patrols might we run into?’
‘No patrols. Where they exist at all they’re sporadic, and in bad weather — which the forecast suggests you’ll have — you won’t see one… Look, the R/V at the islet is for midnight, Zulu time, twenty-three hours from now, so—’
‘Shore defences, Willy?’
‘Well.’ A hand rose to stroke the pink skin of his scalp. ‘As far as anyone knows, none at all…’
John Saddler prayed — Shropshire leaving the TEZ behind her now, beginning her transit in towards the mainland — Please God…
But there were other worries too, now that the moment had come. Such as the weather, which wasn’t in the least bit suitable for excursions in small boats. Willy had been dead right about that, last night.
‘Ready for State Three, sir!’
The gas boost: four gas turbines ready to add their power to that of the ship’s main engines which were also turbines but steam-driven. He told Holt, the Aussie, ‘Revolutions two-eight-two.’
The extra revs would push her along at thirty knots: and she’d need every knot of it, at that. He only hoped she’d stand up to the strain of prolonged high revs — after six weeks at sea, bits and pieces falling off with greater frequency than they’d been doing even a week ago.
‘Secure from action stations, sir?’
‘Yes… And pass the word to the flight commander I’d like a word with him, would you?’
Shropshire would be in position — if all her machinery kept going — at 2330: the position in which the orders laid down that she should launch her Gemini. In a sea that might be even worse by that time, he guessed. Fifteen miles offshore, and the inflatable with its not-always-reliable outboard motor would have five miles to cover, to reach the RN position where it was supposed to join up with the SBS boat. You could hardly launch a rubber boat over any greater distance, he thought, in such conditions, and even fifteen miles offshore would put Shropshire well inside the twenty-six mile range of any shore-mounted Exocet. Studying the chart, Saddler had decided that if he’d been in the Argies’ shoes and had a missile to spare he’d have sited it on the headland slightly to the north of the beach, where it would cover the widest possible are of sea approaches. His ship would be lying at about the same distance from the headland as from the beach.
So he wasn’t planning on hanging around in there any longer than he had to.
‘Two—eight-two revolutions set, sir.’
He’d felt it: the surge of power, and the sea’s fiercer resistance to Shropshire’s bomb-scarred hull… A voice asked from behind him, ‘Wanted to see me, sir?’
Robin Padmore, the helo flight commander. Stocky, bearded, a lieutenant-commander with one year’s seniority in that rank and thirty-two years of age. He was an observer, not a pilot. Short legs braced apart, his body jammed against the side of the bridge close to Saddler’s console.
‘Yes, Robin. I did… How long would it take to remove the sonar gear from the Wessex?’
A moment’s hesitation suggested surprise at the question. Then the flight commander answered with another, in his West Country burr: ‘Whole works, sir? Body, drum and winch?’
‘No.’ He knew the answer to that. It would have been a good twenty-four hours’ work. ‘No, leaving the winch.’
‘Well, maybe three hours, sir. Allow three and a half, when we’re banging around like this.’
‘And how much weight would it save?’
‘Four hundred pounds, sir. With the winch as well we’d save more than twice as much.’
Four hundred would compensate for the weight of two additional, large passengers. Saddler had been told there’d been six in the SBS party — although he was only aware of five having flown in — but if he needed to use the Wessex at all it would be in some kind of emergency and he’d have his own two-man Gemini crew to take care of as well. Might have. Shropshire’s helo was a Wessex Mark III, an anti-submarine helo as distinct from a Wessex V which was a commando carrier, and with two pilots and one observer on board — none of them could be dispensed with — winching up another eight bodies might come close to overloading. He wasn’t prepared to reduce the two-thousand-pound fuel load, either — for several sound, precautionary reasons.
‘All right. Have the body and drum removed. This is only an emergency back-up, Robin, I may not use you at all… Look, I’ll brief you at 230
0, up here. Better bring Anstice and Lincoln with you.’
George Anstice and Sam Lincoln being respectively the first and second pilots. Behind Saddler in the darkened bridge watchkeepers were changing over as the ship relaxed to the second degree of readiness. Jay Kingsmill busy organising special lookouts in the bridge wings and up on the GDP to make up for the fact that electronic silence was now being observed: no beams or pulses would be emitted that might be picked up on the mainland, and this included radar.
*
Geoff Hosegood was in the hide’s entrance keeping lookout: all the rest of them crammed into the dark, cold hole. In the hours since last night’s planning session they’d been in their separate hides, but now with new darkness to cloak movement in the open, string signals had brought them together again. Tea was being brewed. And there was plenty of time in hand. The beach party consisting of Start, West and Andy would be moving out at 2045, and the other three an hour later so as to be in position on the headland by 2200. Three dry-suits, one abseil rope and two body harnesses had been brought up here last night from the gear stashed on the beach; Cloudsley had had his plan pretty well firmed-up in his mind when he’d returned from the night’s recce, and he’d brought this stuff back with him.
There’d been several alarms during the day, one particularly tense moment when a four-man patrol had passed right between the hides. Four Argies in file, carrying rifles and looking more alert than in fact they could have been. Enfilading fire from machine-pistols would have cut them to pieces if they’d had the bad luck to notice anything, but luckily the snow on the ground last night had been only patchy, and since noon more of it had been driving in from the southwest, so there’d been no tracks to see. One other foot patrol had passed, but at a safer distance, and there’d been several helicopter transits. In each hide one man had slept while the other kept watch, and there’d been enough alerts to keep the watchkeepers awake and edgy. Andy had done his share of guard duty.
‘You’ll be pulling your weight tonight, too,’ Cloudsley told him. ‘It’ll be hard work while it lasts.’
He nodded, feeling the tea’s heat permeate through his body, and munching biscuits and chocolate. ‘OK.’
‘And be warned — it won’t be comfortable. We wouldn’t be going out in a little boat in this weather if we didn’t have to. Quite likely, Andy, we’ll have to improvise, when things don’t go exactly as they should. Like the outboard, for instance… Just take your cues from the rest of us — and bear in mind this is our element, the kind of action we’re trained for — OK?’
‘Sure. I’ll do what I’m told.’
Hosegood said from the entrance, ‘Couldn’t‘ve done it without him, could we?’
Cloudsley agreed: ‘We could not.’ He shrugged, a movement under the tent-like poncho. ‘At least, we might’ve busted in there somehow. Or someone else might’ve. But I doubt whoever did it could’ve got out again.’ His hand moved, to touch the wooden haft of his knife. Because they weren’t out again yet anyway…
‘I suppose the submarine may be out there already, lying doggo, waiting for the time to surface and send its boat in?’
‘Very likely.’ Monkey added, ‘Warm, dry and on an even keel. They don’t rock about, you know, once they’re under the rough stuff near the surface. So around 0100, Andy, with any luck we’ll be sitting down to a good meal in the greatest luxury — including a tot or two, bet your boots!’
The bluey’s glow lit Beale’s bony, bearded face. Deepset eyes gleaming… ‘Drink old Tom’s health, shall we?’
*
At eight-forty-five the beach party crawled out into driving sleet and moved off southwestward. Start leading, Andy between him and West. They’d timed this trip carefully and Monkey knew every bush along the way. Scheduled ETA at the cache above the beach was 2115, but they got there a few minutes early; he’d allowed extra time in case the ‘guest artist’ slowed them down. The wind was gusting strongly with sleet in it, a wind straight from the Antarctic, and down at this level there was salt spray in it as well. First job was to dig out the inflatable and other gear, unpack three dry-suits and pull them on over the top of all other clothing except ponchos. In such bulky clothes, getting the thin rubber suits on was a performance like that of fat women struggling into girdles — in pitch darkness, hopping around on a wind-swept, spray-lashed beach… Ingram pistols were strapped on outside the dry-suits. Then the boat was inflated and fitted-up, and its paddles and other gear — PNG equipment, tow-rope, balers, strobe beacon, lifejackets — stowed inside it. The outboard, stripped of its sand-proof bag, was carried with its separate fuel-tank down to the launching point, and a second trip had to be made to bring down the boat. A minute or so after ten o’clock they were ready, sitting or kneeling on the boat’s blisters with a white wilderness of icy, leaping sea in front, blackness of the empty land behind, Monkey’s voice shouting over the roar of surf, ‘Ten minutes’ breather! Nice going, Andy!’
A pat on the head for the civilian…
They had to be off the beach, afloat and on the way, by a quarter past the hour. Time in hand had certain advantages over a shortage of it, but it wouldn’t have been wise to start too early. Hanging around close off the rocks below the promontory might not be too easy; you wouldn’t want to try it for longer than you had to. Outboard motors did break down, and paddles, Monkey had pointed out, weren’t going to be a lot of use in a sea like this one. Exactly how long they’d have to wait off the headland would depend on the headland party’s being able to keep to the planned timing. They’d be in position by now — ought to be — ready to start their action at 2205. In two minutes, in fact… Monkey was taking the lifejackets out of the boat: he pushed one at Andy and yelled at him to put it on. Spray or sleet or both made for a solid, continuous icy rain, and the sea’s noise was deafening. Monkey and Jake, who’d been wearing their riding-boots until now, rather incongruously over the dry-suits, discarded them and put on swimming fins instead.
*
Cloudsley had dumped the coil of abseil rope where he wanted it. The other two were already wearing their body-harness over dry-suits. Ponchos over the top of everything else were already whitened by the wet, clinging sleet. There’d been only one abseil rope with two sets of harness and Holk pieces, because Monkey had had to leave some gear with the party he and Jake had looked after down in the south, and one rope had been wanted in the inflatable. But Cloudsley had decided this was OK, all they needed.
The sentry was to his right now, pacing towards the rear of the hut. The other one was on the far side of the radar van: Tony would be taking care of him. The Exocet MM38 container on its flatbed truck was a rectangular mass about ten yards on Cloudsley’s left, and there was a tractor parked close to its rear end. The tractor would have been used to tow the truck here from the road, and its use now would be to drag the flatbed around to point in any desired direction. From this headland there was an arc of open sea of about 135 degrees, NNE to SSE, which might call for some rudimentary aiming, certainly if there happened to be any choice of targets.
The wind, with sleet and snow in it, was gusting across the headland strongly enough to rock the radar van on its springs, loudly enough to drown out any smaller sounds. More good luck, he thought: up at the airbase they’d had the generator to cover whatever noise they made, and here they had the beginnings of a storm. Although the luck in that might be somewhat less obvious once they were out there in the inflatable.
No ‘might be’ about it, actually. It was going to be bloody awful. He’d tried to warn Andy but he hadn’t told him the half of it.
Four minutes past the hour. The sentry was pacing back this way. Cloudsley waited for him, watching meanwhile for other movement in the darkness. But in present conditions it wasn’t likely that anyone who was entitled to remain indoors would think of shoving his nose out. Monkey had been right — there was a smell of paraffin around the hut. Most likely paraffin lamps in there too, going by the weak light that showed
under the door.
The hut’s door wasn’t visible from here, it was on the sheltered, inland side. Beyond the hut, to the west of it, the bulkier shape of the lighthouse rose, black and unlit.
The sentry came into the open, halted and faced right. His back was this way now, face toward the radar van. His pacings and turns were exactly as his (or another’s) movements had been last night — when Cloudsley had lain in this same spot, working it all out. He thought — moving forward at a crouch, swiftly and quietly, with the sleet a solid whiteness driving from his left: Silly sods… Geoff Hosegood, also moving forward, saw the tall, wide shadow rise, two shadows then merging into one, and knew from the sudden, convulsive jerk that Harry’s left forearm had clamped itself across the Argie’s throat, the man’s helmet then knocked forward; he heard the thud and then saw the shadow separate into its component parts, one part slumping to the ground and the other moving left to join up with Tony who’d have dealt similarly and simultaneously with sentry number two. As he crossed over Cloudsley tossed a rifle over the cliff to his left, slid the weighted blackjack into his poncho and drew and cocked his Ingram. The two sentries wouldn’t be left lying around loose for long, but in the meantime Geoff would be keeping an eye out for any movement from either of them as well as standing guard on the door of the hut.
Cloudsley opened the back of the radar van and slid in with Beale close behind him. One man on a mattress on the floor and two in wall-mounted bunks stirred, muttering to themselves as they woke slowly. The fourth, on a stool set in front of a flickering green radar screen, sat with his mouth open and his head twisted almost completely round; his eyes were fixed on the levelled machine-pistol. Cloudsley asked, ‘Any of you speak English?‘ Even without the gun in his hands he would have been an awe-inspiring sight. Beale was pulling the other two off their bunks, putting them down with the one on the mattress. They were all dressed, in the usual green fatigues, had shed only their boots and overcoats. The one who’d come off the starboard bunk said, ‘I speak…’ and the radarman on the stool — a scrawny man with greying hair and a pleasant expression now he’d mastered his initial fright, said surprisingly, ‘I am as fluent in English as I am in my own tongue, señor.’
Special Deliverance Page 30