by Matthew Dunn
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
THE FIFTH MAN
A Ben Sign Mystery
Matthew Dunn
© 2018 Matthew Dunn
The right of Matthew Dunn to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
The Argentinian spy boat was anchored one mile off the Falklands Islands capital, Stanley. The vessel was thirty three yards long, resembled a fishing trawler, and had a crew of three men and one woman. It had been scouring the western and eastern isles of the Falklands for two months. Soon, it was due to return to the Argentinian port of Rio Grande, where the boat would be refuelled, fresh provisions would be taken on board, and the crew would rest for a few days. The boat had long-range telescopes, communications equipment, and thermal imagery. Its movements around the islands were random. Sometimes it would anchor, other times it would circumnavigate the islands, and sometimes it would only travel a few hundred yards before coming to an unanchored stop. Its purpose was twofold: first, to monitor British military movement on the islands; second, to annoy the islanders. Argentina wanted the Falklands back. It needed to show the islanders and UK military bases that it was watching them. But the boat posed no threat. The British military were aware of its presence; so too the islanders. They thought the boat was a joke. The UK navy couldn’t be bothered to send a frigate from Portsmouth all the way towards the Antarctic to clear out the spy ship. What could the boat learn, reasoned the British commanders on the islands? That the Falklands only has a population of just over three thousand? That it rears sheep and exports fish? That a land invasion by Argentina would be met by fierce resistance? But the boat remained on duty, taunting the inhabitants of the islands. It was an Argentinian folly. However, the crew were not without teeth. They had guns. And they were firearms trained to the highest standard.
Tonight, the boat rolled in choppy seas. Two of its crew felt nauseas and were trying to stop themselves from vomiting. Only the captain of the vessel was a qualified sailor; the others were technicians. But, all of them had been taught how to master the boat should there be an emergency. They’d been told to watch the islands, but hadn’t been given clear instructions as to what purpose their duty served. To them, the job seemed pointless. They were antagonists, they’d concluded – sent by their government to stir up shit and provoke the islanders and the UK military. Still, they had to do the job, no matter what the job. And they’d been told to kill anyone who tried to get close to their vessel.
It was getting dark and snow was falling. The skipper flicked on interior and exterior lights. He didn’t care that it would make the vessel visible to others. He did care that if they remained invisible they might be accidentally struck by another ship. He walked on deck, pulled on a hemp seaman’s jumper, rubbed ice off his beard, and lit a pipe as he gazed at the shores of the islands. Stanley was a mile away, its lights easily visible, the only sound to be heard was the slap of waves against the vessel and the boat’s frame creaking with each movement. It was seven PM. Soon the crew would take it in turn to take over the night vigil for two hours per person while the others slept. It was a slog, no matter who went on shift first. They always woke up exhausted in the morning. It wasn’t just the shift rotations and sea sickness that caused them shallow sleep; they never truly rested because there was always the threat that a British fighter plane would blow them to smithereens.
Still, tonight seemed like every other night. Boring. Lonely. Pointless.
The only silver lining was that tomorrow they’d be sailing back to Rio Grande – earlier than planned because the boat needed some urgent maintenance. The captain couldn’t wait to turn on the engines and get home. He’d see his wife and kids for a few days, then motor back to the islands. His family thought he was a hero for doing a top secret job. He thought he was a fraud = a covert operative with no real mission.
He wished something would happen before he left – a British navy attempt to board his vessel; an aerial bombardment; commandos clambering up the sides of the boat; a diplomatic incident that would put his job front and centre of the world’s press. Anything to relieve the tedium.
In one hand he held a telescope to his eye. In the other hand the gripped a semiautomatic pistol. It had never been fired in anger. He’d relinquish a month’s salary to engage the enemy. The Brits had killed his father in the war. Payback was why he was here. But, so far it seemed he was on a fool’s folly. Still, he kept grip of his pistol, willing soldiers, sailors, or islanders to attempt to take him and his crew on.
The pub in Stanley was modest in size and a popular venue for local islanders. It was off-limits to British military personnel who were garrisoned on the Islands’ various bases, for no other reason than the military wanted to respect the islanders’ privacy and community. “This is their homeland, not ours”, the highest ranking officer told new military arrivals. “We are here to protect them. But we are not here to turn their town into a place for drunken squaddies to let off steam.” Still, the islanders would have welcomed army, navy, or air force personnel into the boozer. Their attitude was Britain first; Argentina last.
The pub had Union Jacks hanging from the ceiling, a tiny bar with six barstools, pictures of the Royal Marines and Parachute Regiment marching across the islands during the war, three corner tables, a wooden floor, a No Smoking sign that was ignored by all, an old terrier dog that had lost one of its rear legs after stepping onto a mine that had sunk in a minefield and had shifted sideways with the earth – as the soil does in The Falklands – outside of the minefield, a painting of Margaret Thatcher, another of the current Governor of the archipelago, and an overhead fan that was only turned on in the summer or when the room was too clogged with tobacco smoke.
Sally was working the barmaid shift tonight. She’d lived on The Falklands all her life and had never visited anywhere else. But she wasn’t naïve. The Internet kept her abreast of the outside world and she had virtual friends on Facebook who lived all over the world. She was twenty seven, pretty, and took shit from no one. Her father owned the pub. Normally he’d be here cleaning the place or checking the week’s takings. But tonight he was out helping a mate to get one of his sheep to give birth, even though the unborn lamb was in the breach position.
Sally cleaned glasses while standing behind the bar. Four male islanders were on the other side of the bar, sitting on barstools.
Eddie Wilson. Thirty three years old. Fisherman. Not married and always hitting on Sally, though she was having none of it. Smoker, but not in the day. Facial skin as tough as leather. Hands that were calloused and as strong as a vice. Black hair that tonight was mostly hidden by a woollen hat. A permanent smell of salt and fish on him, no matter how many times he bathed. And a scar on his jaw from when his boat rolled in a swell, he lost his footing, and he accidentally tore a chunk out of his face with the fish hook he was holding. Wilson had splashed sea water on his face, showed no sign of pain, and carried on helping his fellow fisherman to haul the net containing their latest catch.
Rob Taylor. Twenty nine years old. Farmer on his dad’s place ten miles west of Stanley. Due to get married to a local girl next summer. Big guy. Fearless and fit because he had to work fourteen hour days in
any weather condition. Quiet. Nothing but kind to his childhood sweet heart. But if men got on the wrong side of him when he was drunk, he’d punch them across the room. Nobody in their right mind crossed Taylor. The story goes that a couple of years back one of his dad’s sheep got lost. Taylor found the beast at night, bleating on an escarpment, totally exhausted and scared. Taylor lifted the sheep onto his chest and carried him for miles across treacherous terrain. It was a Herculean effort. Back at the farmstead, the sheep was revived, Taylor jumped into his pickup, drove to Sally’s bar and challenged anyone in the tavern to an arm wrestle. No one – not even Wilson – took up the offer. Taylor had that look in his eyes. People let him be when he got like that.
Billy Green. Former Royal Engineer army commando corporal who was stationed here in 2009. Thirty four years old. Stayed on the islands after his tour ended because he’d got a local girl pregnant. Tough guy. Not big, but his body had the sinewy strength of high tensile wire. Devoted father, though he’d never married the girl he’d slept with. Blonde hair. Two missing teeth after he’d been in an altercation with five US Marines in a pub in Newquay – the marines had significantly worse injuries. Fearsome temper. A deckhand on Wilson’s boat. An enthusiast of epic cross country runs, when he wasn’t hungover. And rumour had it that he’d shot several Iraqis in cold blood when on tour in the second Gulf War.
Mike Jackson. Thirty one years old. Divorced. Short and prone to fat, but with the lung capacity of a race horse. Part-time lighthouse keeper at Cape Pembroke, east of Stanley, part-time fireman, part-time coastal repair volunteer and lifeguard. Wicked sense of humour. Bald as a coot. Never touches strong liquor but can out drink any man on the Falklands when it comes to beer. Church goer. Mouth like a sewer. Always taking the piss out of others, none of whom touch him because he rescued two girls when their dingy capsized a year back, single handily put out a peat fire that threatened to scorch a mile of the islands, and stopped Wilson’s ship from sailing perilously close to jagged rocks when its navigation system failed in a storm. But there was a side to him. He’d nearly strangled to death an off-duty local cop who’d cheated him in a game of poker. The cop didn’t press charges and transferred to another station.
Now, Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson were supping beers. They’d downed tools for the evening. This was their time. They were extremely close friends; the only friends they knew. Often they wouldn’t engage eye contact with each other; rather they’d stare ahead at Sally and just order more drinks while they muttered brief sentences to each other. This was man-time after a hard day’s work. It wasn’t social. It was solace.
Sally poured them four more pints. “You all look like you’ve got stuff on your minds.”
Wilson replied, “We’re fucking knackered, gorgeous. What do you expect? You got any sarnies?”
Sally shrugged. “Nothing special – ham and pickle; cheese and onion; corned beef; tuna mayo.”
“We’ll have all of them.” Wilson swivelled in his chair and eyed the two men sitting at the table behind them. “You alright, Carl, Nick? Got that fence fixed yet?”
The men nodded while drinking their beers. Nick replied, “Yeah, thanks for the wood. You going out tonight? Weather’s turning. Bit choppy they say. And a blizzard’s coming in.”
“Tell me about it.” Wilson swivelled back to the bar. “I reckon that Argie spy boat’s having a hard time of it, if it’s moored up somewhere.”
Jackson had just come off his lighthouse shift. “Tonight the fucker’s anchored a mile off here.” He laughed. “The crew will be spewing their guts up.”
“I hope they choke on their vomit.” Taylor downed his pint in one go and shoved his empty glass towards Sally. “It’s about time something should be done about those cunts.”
Sally wasn’t perturbed by the language. She was as tough as any man and could swear like a trooper. Plus, the four men in front of her were loyal customers. Even when they got blind drunk, the only time she told them to leave was when it was closing time. Bad blood on islands with as small a population as the Falklands were not only bad for business; it was bad for survival. Islanders relied on each other to help out on small matters and major catastrophes. While they could be obnoxious, Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson and others like them would jump into their cars in a second and come to Sally’s aid if needs be. And she’d do the same for them.
She slid four pints across the bar. “The Argie boat isn’t doing us any harm. It’s just watching.”
“Watching us,” muttered Green. “How would you like it if a stranger watched you while you were having a shower?”
Sally grinned. “I don’t think it’s quite like that.”
“Yes it is. They’re always fucking watching. Knowing our private business. Bunch of fucking parasites.”
They drank their beers in silence for a few minutes.
Taylor spoke next. “I’d like to bash their heads in, point their boat at Argentina, set the throttle, get off the boat, and wave them goodbye.”
Wilson chuckled. “If you bashed their heads in they’d be dead.”
“Fucking right.”
Sally could tell the men’s mood was changing. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll get the sarnies.” She returned with a large baking tray within which was a selection of the food.
The men responded with genuine warmth, all saying nearly the same thing.
“Nice one, gorgeous.”
“Nice one, Sal.”
“Nice one.”
“Yeah, nice one, love.”
They woofed down the food, burped, and thrust their empty glasses across the bar. Sally set to work and poured four more drinks.
Wilson said, “I reckon tonight we should do something about those bastards.” His tone of voice and expression were cold.
Taylor. “Ram the fucker.”
Green. “Put a hole in it.”
Jackson. “Sink it or put the shits into it enough so that it buggers off and never comes back.”
Behind them, Carl and Nick could hear their conversation. Carl said, “It’s just beer talk, lads. The army has got the boat covered.”
Green slammed his glass on the bar. “The army?! I was in the army. What use is the army against a boat that’s in water that will kill you in seconds if you swim in it? More to the point – where’s the fucking navy? Haven’t seen those guys around here for a long time. Nah. To get something done it has to be done by local boys.”
Nick called out, “So what’s the plan?”
Wilson looked at his three friends who nodded. “Tonight we’re going to have as many ales as we can before closing time. Then we’re going to sail out and get rid of the fucker once and for all.”
Sally placed a hand on his hand. “Get as drunk as you like in my pub. But out there it’s dangerous and you’re not thinking straight.” She winked at him, hoping it looked flirtatious. In truth she was trying to calm him down. “The girls in Stanley would hate it if they lost a good man.”
Her tactic worked for a while. The men changed subject and talked about anything that came into their brains. Football. Women. Fishing. Farming. Gossip about neighbours ten, twenty, or a hundred miles away. Vehicle repairs. Property repairs. Shipments of provisions to the islands. Funny stories from their youth. And their concern about some of the elderly on the islands and what the four of them should do to help them via odd-jobs and food runs.
They were good men. Tough and course, for sure. They had to be. Their livelihoods and existence were merciless. And right now they were really drunk. But say a bad word about these four men to any islander and they’d pin you up against a wall and threaten to kill you. And they’d mean it. Wilson, Taylor, Green, and Jackson respected everyone on The Falklands. In turn, they got respect back. Loyalty holds the islands together. The four men had loyalty imprinted in their DNA.
Closing time. Four very inebriated men.
As they stood to leave, Carl called out in a sarcastic tone, “I hope you’re not going to drive
.”
Wilson replied, “Of course we are. We’re too pissed to walk.”
Standing alongside his battered Land Rover, Green said to his friends, “I’ll meet you on the trawler. First I’ve got to make a drive.”
His friends frowned. “A drive?” said Taylor.
Green nodded as he looked toward the port. “I’m not going out there unless we have protection. I know a man who’s got guns. He owes me a favour. I’ll be back with the guns in a jiffy. Or it might take an hour or two. I suggest you get your heads down on the boat while I’m gone. When I’m back, we sail and sock it to the Argies.”
Three hours’ later, Green was on board the trawler. He’d brought with him five British Browning handguns and two SLR assault rifles, all found on the battlefields in ‘82. Wilson started the boat’s engines and drove faster than he normally would out of Stanley. He didn’t care that he was breaking speed rules. The harbour master would be in deep sleep at home by now; and the lighthouse was un maned and automated at night. Stanley had shut up shop for the night. Only the men on the boat were awake.
Wilson called out to Green. “Crack open the emergency rations. We need something for the journey.”
Green opened a box and withdrew cans of strong lager, which he distributed to each man. They swigged from the cans, some of the drink splashing down their chests every time the boat struck head-on a wave. The weather was becoming treacherous – snow and wind – but Wilson kept a firm grip on the wheel with one hand while drinking from the other. Visibility was non-existent and the rapid descent of snowflakes played havoc on his drunken eyes. But he knew these waters so well that for the most part he could drive his vessel blindfolded. In any case this journey was easy. Normally he’d drive his vessel fifteen or twenty miles out to find fishing grounds of cod and other species. This was only one mile out and one mile back in.
Green stood alongside the skipper, raised his can, and shouted, “Lads, we’re off to war!”