‘You’ll do nicely, then,’ Cloudsley told him. ‘We don’t want to harm any of you. We’ll be here about one hour, and if you do what I say you’ll be OK. You’ll be joining your friends in the hut now. Tell them this, please — if they sit quiet they’ll be safe, but anyone who tries to get out, tries anything, is likely to be shot. After one hour, you’ll be on your own. Got it?’
The radarman nodded, almost a bow… ‘I will tell them, señor.’
Beale had taken a knife from one man. He said, ‘That’s all, Harry.’
‘So now move!’
Hosegood was ready at the hut’s door; he pulled it open, glanced inside, stepped back to allow the four men to be pushed in, the radarman already yelling in Spanish, answering a flood of questions, protests. Door shut — but Beale and Cloudsley had each retrieved his own sentry, and Geoff opened up again while they slung them in. By the time the door slammed shut Beale was back inside the radar van, smashing the screen and circuitry and wrenching wires out. It took only a few seconds; then he’d jumped out, shut the rear door and run to the front, climbed into the driving seat. The engine fired immediately, gears grated into reverse and he backed it up against the hut, slamming hard up against the wall that had the door in it. It was an outward-opening door and so was the one at the back of the van, so to get out they’d have to smash through the door and the van too. By this time Hosegood was on the tractor, having a tougher job than Tony had had, but after a struggle the engine started. Cloudsley had meanwhile fixed its towing chains to the flatbed truck and unplugged a power cable that led to it from the direction of the lighthouse. Hosegood pushed the tractor into gear and eased it forward to take the strain…
No good. Revving harder: the truck still wouldn’t move.
Concrete blocks were serving as chocks under the flatbed’s double tyres. Beale’s flashlight found them; he ducked under, dragged the blocks clear… Cloudsley’s original idea had been to put the truck with the missile on it over the cliff, but he’d decided against this because he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t explode, which might attract attention from far and wide. Instead, Geoff got the whole assembly rolling the other way — inland — over uneven ground into the dunes. A slight downward slope now, the container jolting and swaying, Geoff having to accelerate to stay ahead of the lumbering mass behind him. Then he was angling round behind the lighthouse, round in a half-circle until the assembly was pointing the wrong way entirely. If the missile could be fired now, it would fly inland; and they wouldn’t be able to move it without this tractor, so the tractor was now to be immobilised. Geoff left its engine running, jumped down, used one of the tiny flashlights to locate a water-trap on the fuel line, and smashed its glass bowl with the butt of his pistol. The diesel would run for a minute or two, but after it stopped it wouldn’t be starting again.
Beale had secured an end of the abseil rope to the front axle of the radar van: the rope was the standard number 4, 11-mm nylon with a breaking-strain of 4200 pounds, and there was plenty of it to spare. The cliff here was about 130 feet high and almost but not quite sheer. Cloudsley yelled into the howl of wind, ‘Away you go, then!’ He thought he’d done it — this part of it — couldn’t be much more except convince the occupants of the hut they weren’t being deserted yet. He went back there, hit the side of the van a few times, shouted some orders like shoot to kill if you have to, Tony. He thought they’d have heard, all right, although from outside with the noise of the wind and the deeper, more distant roar of the sea you couldn’t hear voices from inside. Anyway, the SSK could surface in safety now — instead of being blown out of the water almost before its hatch was open. He went to the rope, waited until he felt it go slack when the second man got off it, then grasped it in both hands, facing inland. He was edging backwards over the cliff edge when he saw the car’s lights coming.
Up the track from the road, the track skirting the north side of this promontory. It was a rough track and the lights were bouncing as they approached, but the car — transport of some kind, anyway — was coming quite fast, the skeletal lower structure of the lighthouse already starkly black in silhouette against the glare.
A moment for thought. He could stay here, ambush them, cut them down… Then leave. Or — just slip away. And he had to decide immediately.
Not much to be gained by killing them. Whoever they were, they couldn’t do much harm. And killing had never been on the agenda for this trip. So — OK… He flattened himself on the wet, scrubby cliff edge, slid backwards over it with his legs dangling into the noisy darkness until he was right over and could swing his feet up against the rock-face. Then down — weight on the rope, and walking down the face. Cautiously, not fast and swooping as the others would have done it, obviously; they’d be on the fringing reef now, locating the inflatable — please God — and giving Monkey a torch-flash to show him where they were and let him know it was running to time. By the time Cloudsley joined them they should be all set and ready to go. The wind howled in his ears, buffeted and clawed at him, sleet plastering him, the rope wet and slippery and tending to swing like a pendulum as he shifted weight from one foot to the other. Below him the South Atlantic was a white maelstrom thundering as it fought to tear rock from rock — as it had been doing, successfully, for centuries, millennia…
Of course if Monkey hadn’t made it, if the outboard had refused to start or the boat had come to grief in the surf, you’d be stuck down there on the rocks with a whole crowd of ill-disposed Argies loose on the clifftop; you’d have pretty well had it. It made him think Should have taken out that carload or whatever, then hands grasped his shoulders, Geoff taking some weight while he got himself to rights, Geoff shouting in his ear, ‘They’re here, Harry, twenty yards out, maybe thirty!’ He saw them as he left the rope and turned — a flash of light and the torch’s glittery-wet reflection on one gleaming blister of the inflatable as it tilted almost to the vertical. He shrugged off his poncho: the others had left theirs on the clifftop or maybe thrown them over. The inflatable couldn’t be allowed in any closer than it was now, one reason being the array of sharp-edged rock and the enormous strength of wind and sea that would fling the comparatively flimsy craft on to it, another the kelp which even if it hadn’t been here before would be now with the southwesterly driving it in to fringe the reef. The thing was to get out there, quickly, while the outboard was still doing its stuff, get the boat out to sea where breaking down would be bad enough but not as bad as it would be here, particularly with Argies up above. He yelled, ‘Go on, Tony!’ and saw Beale lunge forward and flop in like an outsize seal: they were all ludicrously swollen by the clothes inside their dry-suits. He gave him a couple of lengths’ lead then banged Geoff on one rubber shoulder, shouted, ‘Go!’
Into their natural element — tougher than usual, too rough for a long haul in a rubber boat, but he’d swum in worse, and colder than most; but they’d all swum in and under ice, before this, and for a lot longer than this little clip was going to take. The kelp was like nets trying to hold you, and the turbulence did its best to wrap it round your arms and legs… Tony was in the boat, Geoff now launching himself up and into it, the boat half on its side and white water seething over. The others were baling — there’d be a lot of baling to do before they made it to Islote Negro. Cloudsley was up, half out of water, forcing his rubber-enclosed bulk over the port-side blister while Tony kept his own weight on the other side. Others baling furiously as the inflatable turned its bow seaward, motor’s note rising as one thin, foreign element in a deafening roar of wind and sea. Looking up at the headland, Cloudsley saw the loom of the car’s headlights: he was edging into the stern, squeezing between Jake and Andy who were doing the baling — hanging on with one hand and working with the other, crouching as low as possible as the boat pitched and swung; Cloudsley shouted close to Monkey’s ear, ‘Transport of some kind arrived when I was leaving. Lights — see?’ Monkey glanced round and up just as a small searchlight — something like an Aldis, a spot, maybe p
art of that vehicle’s equipment — flared out, silver beam lancing the snow-filled dark then dipping to finger the wilderness of sea. Monkey having seen it was ignoring it, concentrating on his job as coxswain. The plan was that having got a few miles out they’d use PNG to locate the islet, but this weather hadn’t been in the reckoning, this amount of wet… The light found them after less than a minute’s search. It had passed over them, one dazzling flash in Cloudsley’s eyes then travelling on, apparently not having seen them, but then it had paused, swung back. Cloudsley had been getting ready for it, he had his Ingram out, its stock extended, and he’d switched to single-shot action; now he was sighting on the light.
Trying to… The Ingram was reputedly accurate up to fifty metres, which he guessed was about the slant-range now. A rifle bullet cracked past his head, the light holding the boat as if it was a spear in a fish, and there were several rifles in action up there now — men shooting from solid ground — probably prone on the edge — instead of a roller-coaster… Two single shots banged away not far from his right ear — from Beale or Hosegood, West was still shovelling out the water, getting it out about as fast as it was coming in — before Cloudsley squeezed two off without observable result and decided to switch to automatic, spray the clifftop with the rest of the magazine. They didn’t seem to have automatic weapons up there, thank God. He had one spare magazine in its slot on his holster and he’d have no other use for it, and with lengthening range chances were lessening fast — but not so for those riflemen, who’d have plenty in hand yet: A rifle-shot hit the outboard’s fibreglass pod, a sharp thwack of impact — and that was all, the plastic must simply have absorbed the bullet. He’d had visions of the outboard being hit, also of the boat’s blisters being punctured: the blisters were subdivided, of course, but it wouldn’t have helped, exactly, and it could still happen, in fact the odds on getting away didn’t look so hot unless someone could hit that light, and quickly… The shooting from the headland was slow and steady, apparently unhurried — which was the best way to do it if you could afford the luxury; even if they were cross-eyed the laws of chance had to pay off for them soon. On target suddenly, he squeezed his trigger, sent twenty-eight rounds in a swathe across the light, but he’d only been on target before his finger had tightened, the boat had tilted bow-down and dropped like a stone, noticeably flexing itself as it toppled over the crest of a shoreward-bound roller. This sea, he’d already begun to appreciate, might turn out to be a bit too much for them. They’d taken in a lot more water and the balers were working frantically as he began reloading, feeling the sluggish motion that came from having so much weight in her; he was banging in the only accessible magazine he had, the light still blinding him and the riflemen still taking regularly-timed pot-shots; then a single shot cracked out close to his already singing right ear, and the light went out, smashed. Beale whooped, ‘Nice one, Geoff!’
Immediately you knew that your real enemy was the sea. As it had been before the searchlight had come up as a more immediate threat.
He could see the headlights again now. The beams were swinging, a swathe of yellow in distant, slanting sleet. He guessed they might be trying to use whatever kind of vehicle it was to tow the flatbed truck and its missile back into a firing position. Might make it, too. It could be a four-wheel drive, and they’d have that whole hutful of soldiers to add muscle power. Might well set the bloody thing up again…
Should’ve killed them. Should also have punctured the flatbed’s tyres.
But — this hit him suddenly, relief as the inflatable crashed down into a trough, water-walls towering all round — it wouldn’t help them to get it back in place, because they still wouldn’t have radar. OK, so they might fire blind, assuming there had to be a target out there somewhere, but it was highly unlikely they’d happen to catch the submarine in one of its two five-minutes appearances on the surface. So forget it. There were two hazards that were worth worrying about — one, the sea, and two, danger of the outboard failing.
They’d been fighting their plunging, jolting way out to sea for half an hour before the motor began to stutter.
As if they’d all been expecting it as well as dreading it, all heads turned, faces staring aft. Hanging on two-handed — except for the balers, who were having to take their chances: baling had to be continuous because shipping water was continuous. But the outboard had suddenly picked up again — was back on its high scream of full power, Monkey straightening from its controls and turning to check the course. Then it faltered again, the boat lifting vertically as a wave ran under its flat, flexing bottom, tilting it end-up and slamming it down again with the starboard blister almost under water; in that position all you’d need would be one really solid, swamping sea, and even as it was the balers had been put back on the wrong side of square one now. Cloudsley and Beale were using their own body-weights as balances, throwing themselves this way and that to counter the sea’s efforts, and Monkey was working the throttle, cutting to half power and pausing there, then revving up again, varying the speed because it might have been too long a period at constantly high revs that had started the motor oiling-up. It had been OK on the lake for hours on end, but conditions here weren’t comparable with that. Full revs again now, and for the moment smooth-sounding. Slewing back on course. Cloudsley grabbed the baler from Andy, and Tony Beale followed his example, taking over from Jake.
It was a relief for Andy to be able to use both arms now for holding on, despite having no feeling in his hands. He was sitting in swirling, icy water, keeping low, centre of gravity as low as he could make it, to reduce chances of being flung out. There’d been several times already when ejection had seemed both imminent and inevitable. It had also seemed likely that the boat would be hit by rifle—fire from the headland, and it was surely only a matter of time now before the outboard would start backfiring again and this time not recover. So that the end of this whole extraordinary episode might be six rubber-suited bodies washed up on an Argentinian beach. He recognised — without enjoyment — that such an end would be justified by the accomplishment, by much larger numbers of other lives having been spared. That phrase — consequences accepted — still applied. And in his own case, although obviously he’d do anything he could to stay alive he had to admit objectively that there’d be no huge loss involved for anyone else. He couldn’t think of anyone who’d weep for long, if at all. Probably not at all — because Lisa Saddler, who in any case hadn’t been exactly exuding affection the last time he’d seen her, wasn’t likely ever to hear anything about this. Andrew MacEwan would remain her most unpleasant memory, the rat who’d run out on her. As for Francisca — well, until a week ago, up to which time you could say she’d been the secret mainspring of his life, he’d have reckoned on some tears from her. Not too many, at no time would he have mistaken her for what might be termed a serious mourner; but some little show of grief.
In fact she wouldn’t know about it either. Wouldn’t even get the chance to laugh.
Unless she heard of it through her father? If the body was identified as his? It was a possibility… But new images succeeded that one now: Paco’s body naked and frozen in snow, his murderer’s frozen on a beach. Poetic justice: an entire family wiped out, its hirelings too… Both arms wrapped round the starboard blister, his forehead pressed against its cold, wet rubber: still here, not drowned yet, with thoughts very much like fragments of a dream, entirely visual while breaking into them now was Cloudsley yelling at Beale to let Geoff take over baling while he, Beale, got cracking with the PNG. It was like waking up, as if he’d been a long time hidden in his own imaginings. Monkey had the PNG beside him in its waterproof container, and he passed it forward now via Andy to Beale, Cloudsley shouting, ‘God’s sake try to keep it dry!’ Cloudsley had to be out of his mind too, Andy thought, to imagine any such thing was possible; he was also surprised that it could be time to start looking for the islet. Cloudsley’s voice again: ‘Sixty feet high and smothered in birdshit, Tony — sho
uld be easy to pick up!’ Rocking over — sliding down edgeways, more sea slopping in… But the submarine’s inflatable, Andy thought, that wouldn’t be easy to pick up. Another boat like this one, more inside the sea than on it, hardly visible from more than a few yards away, he guessed — except when it was thrown up on a crest — hanging there for seconds before it was sucked down again — like now…
Both boats would have to be on wave-crests simultaneously, at that. Otherwise they could be within a short distance of each other and still not know it. In the troughs, you saw nothing. You were deafened by the noise, the incredibly loud roar of it, and you were buried. You could pray, if you hadn’t run out of prayers… Climbing: the outboard driving them up a sheer incline of black ocean towards a whitish, towering, curling ridge. Hanging on tight and praying for the noise of the outboard, a harsh scream piercing the sea’s thunder, to continue without faltering… He was looking astern when the inflatable again rushed upward to its zenith and began to swing over, toppling in preparation for the next roaring schlüss. He glimpsed, miles astern now, as small as an image seen through a telescope the wrong way, faint light flickering on the headland. And from Cloudsley another bellow suddenly — ‘Sea’s getting easier, Monkey! More regular, d’you notice?’
*
‘Some damn thing going on…’
John Saddler had shouted it over the howl of wind and the racket of the sea, his ship’s groans and rattles as it tore and battered at her. He was in the open wing of the bridge, starboard side, binoculars at his eyes, having come out into the freezing dark for a clearer view of the lights and activity on that headland fifteen miles away. Shropshire was lying stopped — stopped in the navigational sense, her screws turning at slow speed to hold her in position stemming the weather while her stabilisers fought a losing battle to hold her still. He’d sent the Gemini away half an hour ago and half a mile nearer inshore: they’d been too close in there, though, too close to possible drifts of kelp — on which the inflatables were going to have to take their chances. David Vigne was beside him now, Jay Kingsmill also out here, all three with glasses up and braced against the ship’s violent motion while they studied the shoreline and in particular that headland.
Special Deliverance Page 31