by Peter Cave
25
Two weeks later, Mallory’s dire prophecies mercifully remained unfulfilled, although there had been two near misses in which disaster was only split seconds away. One incident involved Willerbey, who was still having trouble mastering the drop-launch technique, and the other Mallory himself, while trying to coerce the Lawnmower into an impossibly tight 360-degree turn. The American seemed hell-bent on pushing the machine far beyond the limits of what would actually be required of it, Martin had decided. He could only assume that there was a bit of the daredevil lurking in the heart of every flyer.
Surprisingly, it was Donnelly who had quickly proved himself to be the most adept pilot, even though he had actually logged up the least previous flight hours of the whole group. It was Mallory’s contention that this lack of experience was actually an advantage when dealing with a machine like the Flying Lawnmower, since he was less preconditioned to expect more conventional flight characteristics and performance.
There were now three fully airworthy machines, with one more completely assembled but awaiting the wings from Janice. Mallory was about to make a start on the fifth and final machine, which Martin estimated would put them about two days ahead of the original schedule. Things were going well and then the shit hit the fan.
The phone call came in on a Code I security channel patched in through Cyprus, so Martin had a nasty fluttering feeling in his gut even before he picked up the receiver. The Foreign Secretary’s opening words turned the butterflies into vampire bats.
‘Lieutenant-Colonel Martin? I’m afraid we have something of a problem.’
The voice betrayed the faintest hint of an apology. Martin took a deep breath before responding. ‘How big a problem?’ he asked flatly.
The Foreign Secretary coughed gently down the line. ‘That rather depends on your situation. How far advanced are your plans over there?’
‘Very slightly ahead of schedule,’ Martin said guardedly, suddenly having a premonition of what was coming. In the event it proved to be uncannily accurate.
‘Good,’ the Foreign Secretary said with evident relief. ‘Because it looks as if the schedule has changed. Our latest intelligence reports that the Russians may be planning to ship the consignment out ten days earlier than we reckoned.’
Martin allowed himself the indulgence of a groan. ‘Why the sudden change of plan? Or was it faulty intelligence in the first place?’
The Foreign Secretary was quick to deny the second suggestion. ‘No, we have absolutely no cause to doubt our original information. But now there seems to be an additional factor which has changed things. It would appear that the Russians have got wind of something, and it seems to have somewhat spooked them.’ He broke off, hastening to reassure Martin and correct any wrong impression he might have given. ‘Oh, nothing directly connected with Operation Windswept, I assure you. We are convinced that our security on that is still one hundred per cent. This is something else they seem to have picked up, although it might be related in some way. We’re investigating, and of course you’ll be the first to know if we find anything out.’
‘All right, you’ve told me the cause. Now what’s the effect?’ Martin asked.
‘It seems our Russian friends are having second thoughts about the sensitivity and value of this particular cargo,’ the Foreign Secretary went on. ‘They’ve brought forward the shipping date to coincide with some genuine naval exercises which will be taking place in the area. The effect, besides advancing the schedule, is that the freighter will now have a much bigger shadowing escort for much of its journey.’
‘How much bigger?’ Martin asked warily.
‘Probably up to twenty surface ships and at least one submarine. There could be a fair amount of air activity in the region as well.’
It was about as bad as it could get, Martin thought, short of dispatching the entire Russian fleet. ‘So what’s the bad news?’ he asked wryly.
The Foreign Secretary let out a faint snort, which could have been a restrained laugh or annoyance. Martin wasn’t sure which, and realized he didn’t really care.
‘I’m glad to see that you are able to retain a sense of humour, Lieutenant-Colonel,’ the Foreign Secretary said. ‘Now, the crunch is simply this: can you meet this new deadline? Is your equipment ready, for a start?’
Martin had been expecting the question, but it still shook him. He was quietly thoughtful for a while. ‘Yes, the equipment is ready, or it will be,’ he admitted at last. ‘But my men certainly aren’t. They’ve only just got into their training programmes, and we haven’t even started on shipboard familiarization sessions with Pavlaski.’
‘But these things have already been scheduled?’ the Foreign Secretary probed.
Martin could feel the pressure increasing, and felt uncomfortable. ‘Yes, sir, they’re scheduled,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘But over a period of three weeks. What hasn’t even been scheduled yet is the hours of practice they’re going to need to learn how to dismantle and convert the machines from one mode to another. We haven’t even rehearsed the procedure yet, let alone attempted it at night, on the open sea. The men simply are not fully prepared, and I don’t think there’s any way that they could be in that time-span.’
‘Then you’ll just have to step up your training schedules,’ the Foreign Secretary said coldly, as if Martin’s objections carried no weight at all.
It took a few seconds for the full implication of the man’s words to sink into Martin’s brain, but when it did so he felt his hackles rising.
‘Now wait a minute, sir,’ he blurted out, his voice rising as he fought to control his temper. ‘You promised me I had total discretion over this mission.’
There was a momentary silence at the other end of the line. ‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant-Colonel Martin,’ the Foreign Secretary said finally, and the apology sounded genuine. ‘Circumstances have changed.’
‘Damn right they have,’ Martin said bitterly. Seething with anger, he took a few moments to try to come to terms with the welter of thoughts fighting in his head. It went against every grain of his being to even consider scrubbing a mission, but on the other hand his first consideration had to be for the safety of his men. Taking a deep breath, he made a direct appeal to the Foreign Secretary.
‘Sir, may I put something on record at the present time?’
‘Of course.’
‘I fought for this operation every step of the way. And I am fully aware both of its importance and of the huge investment of money and manpower which has gone into it. However, it is my opinion that these changed circumstances now place it in extreme jeopardy. I believe it would be suicidal to send my men in under these conditions. It is my considered judgement, therefore, that Operation Windswept should be aborted forthwith.’
The Foreign Secretary sighed. ‘Your opinions are noted, Lieutenant-Colonel, and I sympathize with them. However, I’m afraid that this matter has now gone over both our heads. This mission will proceed as planned, and that’s a direct order from the very top.’
‘Then you’re getting your orders from a totally irresponsible bloody prat,’ Martin exploded.
The Foreign Secretary coughed suddenly, as though he were trying to cover something else up. ‘Indeed, that’s more than possible,’ he murmured, then hung up.
Martin slammed the receiver back into its cradle in a futile gesture of rage. Rising to his feet, he paced up and down the small room fretfully, marshalling his thoughts. Faced with a fait accompli, he could only make the best of a bad job, and plan accordingly. If Windswept was going to go ahead against his advice, then it would at least do so with every possible bit of help he could give it.
Returning to his desk, Martin sat down again and started making detailed plans.
26
There was no point in beating about the bush, Martin thought; and he knew and trusted his men enough to respect their right to be given the facts upfront. So his opening address to the hastily convened meeting was brief and to the point.<
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‘As of this morning, gentlemen, this entire base goes on a sixteen-hour day. The clock just ran out on us.’
He paused to let the expected ripple of groans and grumbles ripple around the room. It was almost a convention, a ritual. Each of the men would feign their individual protest or complaint, make a momentary play of rebellion, then become part of a cohesive unit again, ready to knuckle down to the job, whatever its demands. They always did.
‘So who cocked up this time, boss?’ Williams called out. ‘Them or us?’
Martin smiled at the man indulgently, spelling out the basic facts as he understood them. ‘So, basically we now have just over one week instead of three,’ he finished off. ‘We’re going to have to get our skates on.’
He crossed to the notice-board and pinned up a large diagram of the Russian freighter which Pavlaski had drawn up. It was fairly basic, intended only to show the general layout of decks and cargo areas, but it would do for a preliminary briefing. The Russian would join them to discuss the specifics later, when they had got other business out of the way.
‘Nice drawing, boss. Who’s the artist?’ Graham asked. Martin ignored him. Taking up a pointer, he tapped the sketch roughly amidships.
‘This is your target,’ he announced. ‘Our intelligence sources say that she’ll be a 12,000-tonner of the Poltava class, with aft-mounted bridge, radio shack, engine-rooms and crew quarters.’ Martin paused. ‘So you’re going to have to be bloody gentle when you place those magnetic clamps. Let them slam against the outside of the hull and you might as well radio them to tell them you’re coming.’
‘Then why don’t we go up over the side?’ Willerbey asked. ‘That way we’d be nearer to the cargo hatches to start with.’
Martin shook his head. ‘Too risky. You’re going to have to make sure you’ve knocked out the radio and neutralized the bridge crew before you venture out on to the deck area. The only logical way is to come up on them from behind.’
‘Neutralize, boss?’ Williams asked. ‘I take it we’re not supposed to do any of the Russkis any permanent damage?’
‘That is paramount,’ Martin confirmed, with heavy emphasis. ‘Under no circumstances are you to use more force than is strictly necessary to overpower any opposition you might come up against. Remember, this is a merchant vessel and we’re not at war. I shouldn’t need to remind any of you of the sort of shit which would hit the fan if any civilian got killed.’ Martin paused again, before delivering the punchline. ‘For that reason alone, you will all be going in unarmed.’
He had expected a fairly shocked reaction, and he got it. He waited patiently as the sudden and animated buzz of conversation died down.
‘Not even side-arms?’ Graham asked, as though he couldn’t quite believe it. Asking an SBS Marine to go anywhere without some kind of weapon was almost like pulling the spines out of a hedgehog.
Martin shook his head. ‘Not even a bloody penknife,’ he said emphatically. ‘You will all be issued with a coil of wire and a roll of sticky tape. You will bind and gag any crew members you are forced to take out, rendering them unconscious if necessary.’
‘And if we have to fight our way out of a tight spot? If it’s a case of one of them or one of us? What then?’ Williams asked.
‘It mustn’t happen,’ Martin said flatly. ‘If you’re pinned down, your first objective will be to try and escape. If that is impossible, you will be expected to surrender.’
Another angry buzz filled the room. The men weren’t at all happy, Martin could see, and he fully understood their fears. They were being asked to undertake a dangerous mission with one hand tied behind their backs. It was against everything they had been trained and conditioned for, and totally outside their normal field of experience, so it was no wonder they didn’t like the idea.
‘So what are we likely to be up against?’ Williams asked finally. It was a fairly obvious and perfectly reasonable question, under the circumstances.
‘Pavlaski assures me that no Russian merchant personnel carry weapons as a matter of course,’ Martin announced. ‘However, the skipper and first mate will most probably have access to a small store of firearms secured under lock and key. It will be up to you to ensure that they do not get a chance to break them out.’
‘Numbers?’ Corporal Bailey asked.
‘The ship would normally carry a complement of fifty-five crew members, of whom a couple of dozen might be expected to be above deck at any one time. However, at the time you’ll be going in, it’s reasonable to assume that there should be no more than six crew on night watch – plus the captain or first officer, of course. Hopefully, the bulk of the crew will be either asleep or stoned out of their brains on vodka. The sleeping quarters are well away from the cargo area, so you shouldn’t have any trouble if you get that far cleanly.’ Martin paused, surveying his men expectantly. ‘Now, any other questions before we get down to the actual attack plan?’
The offer was greeted with a strained silence, which Martin took as his invitation to carry on.
‘Right, so your primary objective will be to knock out the radio and neutralize the bridge,’ he told them. ‘If that freighter manages to get a message out, then the Russian Navy is going to be down on you like a ton of bricks in a matter of minutes. With that accomplished, you will overpower any remaining members of the watch crew and make your way to the main cargo hatches and effect an entry. You will take two samples of the guidance system, encasing them in the special waterproof packs you will each be issued with.’
Martin broke off for a moment, drawing a breath. ‘And one last, and very important instruction,’ he added. ‘Before leaving the ship, you will ensure that at least one crew member is capable of freeing himself within a maximum of five minutes. It will not be practical to stop the freighter in mid-ocean without arousing suspicion, and we dare not risk causing a maritime disaster by allowing a crewless vessel to continue ploughing through the night. I’m afraid it won’t give you a great deal of time to get away before they start looking for you, but you’ll be very small targets on a very big sea and if everything goes to schedule you should still have at least two hours of darkness left for cover. With a bit of luck you should be able to reach Cypriot waters by first light and your pick-up operation will already be underway. Now, any other questions at this stage?’
‘Yes, when we get into the cargo hold how do we know what we’re looking for?’ Willerbey asked. ‘It’d be a shame to go through all this and come away with two cases of beluga caviar.’
Martin allowed himself a thin smile. ‘You shouldn’t have any trouble there,’ he assured the man. ‘Our intelligence tells us that the vessel will only be carrying heavy artillery and tank equipment besides the guidance systems, and all that will be in large container modules. The units we’re after will be individually crated and should be about the size of a small attaché case. You will, of course, break one open to check its contents before you leave.’
Martin turned back to the diagram. ‘Now, I want all of you to familiarize yourselves thoroughly with this rough layout and put together any more detailed questions you might want to ask Pavlaski. I’m confident that Sergeant Graham’s Russian will be more than adequate for translation purposes. In the meantime, I shall be working out your training schedules for the next few days. We’re all going to be rather busy little bees.’
It was an understatement, but Martin had no intention of communicating any negative thoughts to the men. He still had grave doubts about their ability to compress the work required into the time available. To even approach the degree of intensive preparation required was going to place them all under almost intolerable strain.
But each man would find that out for himself soon enough, Martin thought. There was no point in spelling it out in advance. They would all need every ounce of confidence as an inner reserve if they were to stand a snowball’s chance in hell of succeeding.
27
Lieutenant-Colonel Martin escorted the party of ci
vilians towards the waiting minibus with mixed feelings. He would be lying to himself if he pretended he wasn’t both relieved and anxious to finally get rid of them. Working with them in the first place had gone against every instinct of his military training and background, and now that Mission Day had finally arrived, the sooner they were away from the base the better. On the other hand, he felt a genuine debt of gratitude for their help and cooperation and wished that their hastily enforced departure was not quite so awkward.
To dismiss them without a word of thanks seemed churlish. Reaching the side of the bus, he turned to face them stiffly, holding out his hand in a rather self-conscious gesture.
‘Well, I can only say, thank you,’ he said, after clearing his throat noisily.
Janice accepted the proffered hand first. She smiled up at Martin sweetly. ‘Poor man, this has all been a terrible strain for you, hasn’t it? No wonder you can’t wait to get rid of us.’
Martin found himself flushing with embarrassment. He had been fondly imagining that his inner feelings weren’t quite so obvious. He tried to mumble some sort of denial, but nothing came out. He could only gape after Janice dumbly as she climbed on to the bus.
Bright shook his hand curtly, as if aware that the gesture was a mere concession to courtesy. Martin felt an obligation to open some kind of conversation, however brief.
‘I hope you don’t feel your time here has been entirely wasted, Mr Bright. Your efforts will be invaluable, I assure you.’
Bright smiled. ‘Oh, I’ve gained a few new ideas from the experience,’ he said casually. ‘Although somehow I don’t think there’s going to be a great deal of commercial potential to be exploited here.’ He followed Janice up the steps of the bus.
Mallory turned towards the headland, where the five microlights stood ready assembled, minus only the wings. He took a last, lingering glance at his creations before turning back to Martin, a wistful smile on his lips. ‘I suppose we’ll never know what happens to them?’ He already knew the answer.