Land of Fire Part 13

"We do this, we'll be spotted before we've gone a dozen steps," Josh said.

We scanned the roof together. "It looks like the team on the starboard side of the aircraft are ahead of the portside lot in whatever it is they're doing," I told Josh. "If we can find a way to crawl around the tail we could get a better look."

"What about the beam above?"

I followed the direction he was looking. The hangar was constructed on a steel skeleton plated over with metal sheeting to form the exterior skin. Ma.s.sive columns rose from concrete foundations and were joined by horizontal members running the width of the building. One of these ran three metres above where we were crouched, providing anchorage points for the guy wires from which the catwalk was slung. At intervals it was joined by cross beams and trusses supporting the roof peaks, making a complex web of steel designed to resist the incredible winds prevailing in this part of the world.

"If we could crawl out and wedge ourselves in where two of those trusses meet we'd be in clover, "Josh said.

I looked down. It was a h.e.l.l of a drop. The beam was around ten inches across. If we could sit on that and pull ourselves along we could cross out to the centre of the hangar and look down on to the other side of the plane. It was a long run but no worse than some of the a.s.sault courses we'd had to face in our time.

"Come on then, let's get stuck in."

We crossed one at a time to minimise the risk of being spotted. I went first. I settled myself on the beam and locked my legs underneath. It had a convenient lip either side I could grip on to and pull myself along. The outer leg of the first truss was about forty metres along, slanting upwards away from me into one of the roof peaks. I would have to work my way past it somehow. The temptation to look down again was strong but I forced myself to keep my eyes level and concentrate on moving. It felt horribly exposed away from the side of the hangar and I had to keep reminding myself that anyone looking up would see only a glare of lights.

As a kid I'd hated heights, but I've always approached any fear head on, so I took up rock climbing. Eventually I became a mountaineer and even climbed K2 in the Himalayas with Jock, which many in the business rate a harder climb than Everest. I learned to trust my ability to support myself with my own body strength and to break up an ascent into a series of steps.

The truss, when I reached it, was easier to negotiate than I had feared. A crossbeam joined two horizontals at this point and I was able to grip the truss and clamber round to the other side. There was one nerve-jangling point, at which I had to stand on the beam twenty-five metres up and turn myself round in order to face the front again. The smooth surface of the steel made it hard to find a grip, and I was conscious of a hollow sensation in my legs. Relax, I told myself firmly. You know how to do this. I wrapped an arm around the beam, turned around and lowered myself till I was sitting sideways on the beam with an arm still around the upright. Then I swung a leg across and I was settled.

At the fourth truss I waited for Josh to catch up with me. We were now directly over the aircraft, with the huge tail-fin almost beneath us. Josh reached me and heaved himself alongside on the crossbar. Together we spent a long time staring down at the technicians working below.

"What does that new paint job remind you of?" Josh whispered after a while.

"R.A.F European winter overall?"

"That's what it looks like to me too."

The plane had originally been a mix of sandy hues, suggesting an origin from one of the Gulf states, perhaps even Saudi. I watched a man with a long brush smoothing grey paint against a pattern of darker blue. If the plane was to be based down in the South Atlantic it was natural the Argies would want to change. Many nations used similar camo schemes; there was nothing especially sinister about what was happening, except perhaps the haste with which it was being carried out.

"Let's edge out a bit further and see if we can spot the insignia to tell us which unit it belongs to now."

I had to force myself to lead the way this time. The further out we went, the longer the distance to get back. A cold sweat was pouring off my body and my hands were slippery with moisture. I tried not to think about how easy it would be to slip sideways off the beam. I pictured myself hanging on with my fingers, arms at full stretch, and the sickening moments before my hold slipped and I crashed down to the concrete below. Perhaps if I were lucky I would break my fall on one of the lighting arrays.

Josh seemed unaffected. He shuffled along behind me as if he was enjoying it.

We did two more trusses before I called a halt again. It was now possible to see the starboard side of the plane clearly. The Argentines were using big electric fan heaters to dry the fresh paint, and the draughts of warm air and fumes wafted up to where we squatted on the beams. I watched a man on a high gantry stencilling some kind of insignia on to the side of the tail-fin. It was evidently an important job because there was an officer with him, supervising.

The painter put the finis.h.i.+ng touches to the task and removed the stencil. He and the officer stepped back a pace to observe his handiwork. I could see their hands gripping the safety rail of the gantry behind them. The job was evidently important because the two men spent a while discussing it, pointing out details to one another. Finally, at the officer's direction, the painter took up his brush again and added more colour to the central section.

The vertical angle of the fin made it hard to distinguish the design. I leaned out to get a better view but the swept-back T-section of the upper tail obscured my vision. "Josh," I said softly the gantry where the men were standing was only some ten metres below us and we could be overheard now. "Josh, see if you can crawl out along that crossbeam and get a squint of that insignia."

"Sure thing." Like an acrobat he swung himself round the base of the truss to drop down on to the beam. Then cautiously he began to crawl outwards in the direction of the door. The plane had been towed in at a slight angle, and by getting further out he should be able to see the device on the tail-fin clearly. As he got into position I saw him peer downward, his brow furrowed as he tried to make out the design.

The painter was still stooped at his work and the officer was consulting a ring binder with photographs of aircraft identification marks, the kind of thing all services keep around for information on their own aircraft and those of other nations. All of us on the mission had studied similar recognition shots of Argy planes before setting out.

The painter finished what he was doing and stepped back again. He was quite young and, unusually for a South American, he was fair-haired. I saw Josh's face clear momentarily as he got an un.o.bstructed view of the fin at last. Then abruptly he stiffened. He stared again, long and hard. I saw his lips move as he memorised the markings. Then very carefully he began to work his way backwards along the crossbeam towards where I was waiting.

As he reached the upright I stretched out a hand to help him back on to the main beam again. He turned to face me and his eyes were s.h.i.+ning with excitement.

"Well?" I whispered impatiently. "Mickey Mouse Airlines?"

"You're not going to believe this, but it was an R.A.F red, white and blue roundel on top of the badge of the 30th Air Transport Squadron from Lyneham."

I stared at him blankly for a moment. He wasn't kidding either. This was far too serious for that. I looked down at the Globemaster, gleaming under the lights with the aircrews swarming over it. It was impossible to believe, and yet ... Suddenly everything became horribly clear. I knew now why the aircraft had been brought in under cover of darkness and why they were being prepared and repainted with such desperate haste.

And in the same moment I realised that our mission had now become one of frantic urgency. It was vital we got out and contacted the rest of the team.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

The Argy plan was plain. Somehow they had succeeded in getting their hands on a pair of Globemasters, planes exactly similar to those now used by the R.A.F to fly reinforcements into the Falklands. All they had to do was paint the aircraft in R.A.F colours, give them English-speaking pilots and pack them full of troops, and fly them into Mount Pleasant as if they were a routine flight staging out of Ascension Island.

"It's madness, but it might just work," I told Josh. "And like Seb said, the Argies are crazy enough to try anything. If those planes can land four or five hundred troops on the tarmac without warning, our guys wouldn't stand a chance."

Josh agreed. "What does the garrison have a single company group, a handful of R.A.F Regiment guarding the airfield? Two hundred combat troops if they're lucky. Less than that, probably. If the Argies timed it right, say for a Sunday morning when half the garrison are dead drunk, they could take over without firing a shot."

"Even if they only managed to seize the airfield they could fly in reinforcements at their leisure. And with a modern airfield in their hands they could stage their own strike bombers out of the Falklands and prevent our s.h.i.+ps ever getting close."

Josh thought a bit more. "It's a huge risk they're taking, even so. The Tornados at Mount Pleasant intercept and escort all arrivals at least a hundred miles out."

"a.s.suming the pilots are fit to fly," I reminded him grimly. "And right now there are only three Tornados left on the islands." We were both silent for a moment, both thinking of the salmonella that had struck the garrison the day we left.

"Everything begins to fall into place," Josh said. "What about the radar sites though? NATO aircraft carry transponders identifying them as friend or foe. If the Falklands radar don't get the proper signal won't they smell a rat?"

"Maybe the Argies have acquired transponders too, I don't know. What I am sure of though is that no British fighter is going to shoot down one of these planes if it's wearing friendly colours."

Josh fell silent. Deep down we were both convinced. It was so much in the Argentine character the bold, defiant gesture, the daring surprise blow that would turn the tables on a more powerful enemy.

I pictured in my mind the planes landing at Mount Pleasant, taxiing to the control tower, the ramps dropping and the sudden storming out of hundreds of crack marines. I imagined the seizing of the tower and missile de fences and the rapid deployment against the mess blocks and armoury. They could bring their own combat vehicles with them on the planes. I could picture the wild scenes as Argentine marines careered across the airbase, shooting at anything that moved. It would be a replay of the a.s.sault we had planned against Rio Grande all those years ago, except with a better chance of success.

"If it doesn't succeed what have they lost? A couple of planes that probably don't belong to them anyway and 400 men. If it works they hold the Malvinas for ever. Come on," I told him. "This is no time for arguing. We need to get back to the others and send a warning to Hereford before the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds get the drop on the garrison."

As we edged our way back along the beams, Josh leading this time, I felt elated. My decision to penetrate the hangar had been vindicated. There was no other way we could have unearthed what was being planned. The Argentines would keep the planes inside the hangar until the very last minute, in all probability loading the troops on under cover as well. The planes would have taken off, heading north to circle round out of radar range, and approaching the Falklands from the course the R.A.F flights usually used.

It was imperative to get a message back to Hereford that the Globemasters must be turned back. Even if there were no Tornado pilots fit to fly it would still be possible to block the runway at Mount Pleasant and prevent planes from landing. Once the Argentines realised we were aware of their plans they would be forced to abort the mission. The Globemasters would return to wherever they had come from and the crisis would be over.

I checked my watch again. Half-past six, and the base would soon be coming to life. We had to get clear rapidly and reach the cover of the drain again without being spotted. Once we were underground we would be safe. Before that, though, we would have to radio Doug and instruct him to send a message back to Hereford.

We were making good progress when disaster struck. Josh was about forty metres ahead of me, and had begun to negotiate the last truss; we were both of us well practised in the procedure now and it was giving us no trouble. He gripped the upright nearest him and was drawing himself straight when suddenly from the other side a figure jumped out.

It was the last thing either of us was expecting. He must have been standing to the rear side of the beam keeping dead still, and the gloom of the roof s.p.a.ce had hidden him from us till the last moment. All I saw was a thin, narrow-faced man in his twenties, in civilian clothes and trainers. At the sight of us he went scuttling away to our right, along the transverse beam that led to the neighbouring horizontal. He moved with incredible agility, crouching over the beam like a jockey, with the soles of his shoes on the lower rim and scrabbling along as if he were running on all fours.

I was so shocked all I could do was stare. He reached the next beam, swung himself on to it like a monkey and went skittering back, parallel to the direction we had just come. My first thought was that he was part of the hangar workforce, a maintenance man of some kind who had been spooked by our appearance. I couldn't imagine what else he could be doing up here. His panic at the sight of us was understandable. In full battle dress with camo stained faces we must have presented an alarming picture. s.h.i.+t, I thought. Any second now he'll give tongue and bring the whole place about our ears.

All our plans were up for grabs again now. There was just a chance if we made a run for it that we could make it on to the roof and from there down to the ground before the people inside got themselves organised. I figured we could probably handle the technicians I had seen around the plane. Marines, though, were a different proposition.

There was a gasp ahead. I swung back and my heart went into instant overdrive. Josh had fallen. He must have been thrown off balance by the sudden appearance of the man, made a grab for one of the uprights and slipped as he did so. Now he was dangling from the main beam by one hand, his left, hanging over a sheer drop to the concrete below. His face was contorted with effort, his fingers straining as he struggled to draw himself up one-armed and get a grip with his other hand on the beam. He was trying not to swing his legs or make any sudden movement for fear of breaking the hold he had and dropping to his death.

It was a single-handed pull-up, about the stiffest test in gym repertoire. Everyone in the Regiment was expected to be able to do it, but unlike a gym here there was no nice rubber-gripped bar, and Josh was wearing full kit with webbing. I was about forty metres behind him. I launched myself forward, but I knew it was hopeless; I wasn't going to be able to get to him in time. If he couldn't get a hold with his other hand and somehow haul himself up, he would lose what grip he had before I could reach him.

Josh didn't make a sound. He didn't look at me or call for help. He didn't have the concentration to spare. All his strength and will-power were bent on hauling himself back on to the beam. I almost heard the muscles in his left shoulder creak as his biceps tautened, lifting him upwards. Sweat was running down his face and his teeth were clenched as if they were going to break. He was holding his legs and torso stiff and straight to minimise the risk of swinging and dislodging himself.

Josh never lost his cool, not for a second. Every muscle in his body was rigid and tense as slowly, agonisingly, he inched himself up. He knew that if he s.n.a.t.c.hed at the beam with a sudden effort, there was a chance of grabbing a hold with his right hand, though he could just as easily lose his grip with both hands and fall back. It had to be done steadily or not at all.

The temptation was to reach up by the shortest and most direct route, straight overhead to where his left hand was gripping the steel. But the best way would be to pa.s.s his right hand underneath the joist and get a grip on the far side. Then he would be able to swing his legs up and lock his ankles around the beam to take some of the weight. From that position he could haul himself right-side-up again, or at least wait for me to reach him. It meant, though, a longer stretch, and securing a handhold that was beyond his range of vision. He would have to manage by touch alone. And he would only get one attempt.

I was ten metres away, working my way along the bar, trying desperately to hurry and at the same time conscious that any shaking of the bar on my part would probably break his grip and hasten the end. The best I could do was to get as close as I could and pray he could hang on. It crossed my mind to shout down to the Argentines below. There wasn't time to get a ladder or bring up one of the gantries they wouldn't have reached anyway but it might be possible to rig some kind of tarpaulin to catch him. I knew in my heart though that it was hopeless.

I watched as his head tilted back to balance as his right fingers found the far side of the beam and inched their way up. His eyes were closed, his breath coming in short gasps. Beads of sweat burst from his skin, staining his clothes. His fingers touched the lip of the beam. Now they had to reach round and up. Another inch would do it. I saw his fingers claw their way on to the upper surface of the beam. Every fibre in my body was screaming for him to make it. "Only a little more!" I wanted to shout to him. "Just one more effort and you'll do it, by G.o.d!"

Josh seemed frozen under the beam. His head was almost level with the underside. He needed only an inch more to get a purchase with his other hand. His left arm was quivering under the strain of holding the position. I heard him draw in his breath through his teeth for one convulsive final effort. His right hand twitched and abruptly jerked upward. The top two joints slid over and clamped convulsively against the smooth steel. The muscles of the arm tensed. He was facing me now and I heard a long gasp of relief break from his lips.

The sweat was pouring off me in rivers. Josh wasn't safe yet, but he had a good chance. Even if he was too exhausted to bring his legs up, he could probably hang on long enough for me to reach him. I can bench-press two hundred pounds, and I knew that if I could only get to him I could haul him back to safety. I flung myself across the remaining five metres, no longer having to worry about vibration shaking him loose. All that mattered now was to reach him with all possible speed. Any moment I was expecting the guy who had seen us to shout down to the fellows on the ground that there were intruders in the hangar. It seemed impossible to me that everyone else could be unaware of the drama being enacted above their heads.

I needn't have worried though. Josh caught my eye and managed a grin, as if to say, "You didn't think I could do it, did you?" Tightening the grip of his hands, he tensed his stomach muscles and bent his legs upwards towards me as smoothly as if he were putting on a display. He brought them up either side of the beam, crossed them at the ankles and locked them in position. Then, and only then, did he relax.

Josh permitted himself just a quarter of a minute's rest before reaching across the beam with his right hand to grip the other edge. With a smooth flip he brought the weight of his body round and a moment later he was pulling himself back up on top of the beam. He sat there, shoulders bowed, getting his breath back till I came up to him.

I didn't say anything, just patted him on the shoulder. That minute would be a defining moment in his existence. His life had been on the line, with only him to save it. He hadn't panicked or cried out for help. He had saved himself and saved the mission too. He had proved himself a true soldier.

I could guess he was still shaky after his escape but we couldn't afford to lose time. The man we had surprised hadn't given us away yet; maybe he was waiting till he got back down among his friends. Either way we had been compromised and it was vital we got away with all possible speed. Josh knew that as well as I did. We set off together, working our way across towards the side of the hangar as fast as we could.

We were negotiating the last truss when a sudden clamour of shouts from the floor of the hangar made us freeze in our tracks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

The noise of shouting increased. We heard running feet and any second expected torch beams to flash upon us. Then there came the sound of a crash from the middle of the hangar, followed by the bang of a small explosion. Glancing back, I saw the figure of the stranger clinging to one of the lighting arrays three metres below us, giving vent to high pitched shrieks of terror. He had slipped from a beam he had been crawling on and fallen ten feet. The popping sound we had heard must have been one of the arc lamps bursting. All h.e.l.l was breaking loose but at least to us it was a diversion.

There was a screech of rending metal and a frightful scream. The light array snapped apart and with a desperate cry the clutching figure pitched downward. I turned away before the thud of the impact as his body hit the concrete floor twenty-five metres below. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

We had no time to stay and watch. We had to get out fast. Josh scrambled forward and slid across the last beam to the end of the hangar. A minute later I was next to him. Out on the floor we glimpsed Argentines running around hunting for ladders and s.h.i.+ning torches upward. It would be only a matter of moments before they started climbing into the roof s.p.a.ce.

We mounted the ladder, making for the door we had come in by. Although by now there was a great deal of noise we dared not move too rapidly for fear of attracting attention. All it would take was one sharp-eyed person to swing a torch beam our way and we would be done for. If we could only reach the outside undetected I was confident we could make the fire-escape ladder and get down to the ground again before a search got organised.

My heart was in my mouth with every step but our luck held. We climbed back up to the roof door and Josh pushed it open. Freezing air blasted through the gap bringing a shower of rain with it. Hastily we scrambled through and I pushed it shut behind us, searching around for something to wedge it fast.

"Who the h.e.l.l was that?" Josh was demanding. "The f.u.c.ker near on killed me."

I used the haft of my knife to bend the metal of the doorframe back into position. It might disguise the route we had taken for a minute or two. "I'm almost sure he came down through here by the same way we did."

I pushed Josh towards the rear of the building and punched the talk b.u.t.ton on the UHF set.

"Is that you n.o.bby?" The howling wind and rain made it hard to hear even with the earphone. "Listen carefully," I told him. "I want you to get this message off to Hereford right away, understood? The aircraft in the hangar is a C-17 Globemaster being painted up in R.A.F colours and squadron markings. Repeat, R.A.F colours and squadron markings. Second hangar believed to contain similar aircraft. Transmit that immediately, OK?"

"Roger. Anything else?"

"Yes," I told him. "We've been compromised. Use the mobile phone to send the codeword to Seb requesting a rendezvous for a pull-out. Tell Doug to have the team packed up and ready to move out by the time we return."

"You need any help?" n.o.bby asked.

"Negative. We should be able to make it to the drain. Then we'll be under cover."

The last thing I wanted was to bring a rescue party blundering about the airfield in the dark.

We made our way back along the roof to the ladder, expecting to hear pursuit at our backs. The conditions were ferocious violent gusts tore at us constantly. The rain had washed away most of the snow and the roof surface was treacherous with melting slush. Hanging on to the safety rail we struggled on, slipping and sliding till we reached the ladder.

Before we could start the descent, though, my earpiece clicked. I felt for the handset and depressed the b.u.t.ton. "n.o.bby?"

"Mark, bad news. Convoy of six plus vehicles heading your direction from south-west travelling fast. ETA your location two to three minutes."

From his vantage point out by the fence, n.o.bby had spotted headlights moving across the ap.r.o.n. s.h.i.+t, I thought. The guy we had b.u.mped into must have been brought down and told what he had seen; with the result that an alarm call had been put out for the guard. By the sound of it they weren't p.i.s.sing about either. Six vehicles could mean anything from twenty men to more than sixty. They'd sent a f.u.c.king army out to fetch us in.

"Roger Bravo Two. We'll stay put and keep our heads down."

"Josh," I called up quietly. "Back up on to the roof again and get under cover. Looks like we'll have company very soon."

Going back was a desperate step. We were effectively putting ourselves into a trap. Once the Argies pinpointed us they could surround the hangar and shoot us off the roof like rats. On the other hand, to be spotted out in the open meant certain capture. There was no way we could hope to reach the drain manhole inside two minutes. The only hope was to lie low and pray.

Luckily we were still at the top of the ladder. Josh swung back under the safety rail and I followed. "Follow me. We'll work our way along one of the valleys towards the front and lie flat," I said. "There's a chance they won't spot us unless they carry out a thorough search."

I was counting on the fact that n.o.body had put a light on us yet. I picked my way forward along a valley between two peaks of the roof trying to make as little noise as possible, till I reached the front of the building the further away from the ladder the better, and I wanted to catch a glimpse of what was happening. Small c.h.i.n.ks of light escaped around the edges of the great doors, showing that the interior was lit up. I threw myself flat, pulled my cap low and risked a quick squint over the edge.

I could make out the approaching column clearly now, moving at a rapid pace past the fuel depot towards the hangars. The lead vehicle was a 4x4 of some kind with a canvas top.

Three more similar followed. Bringing up the rear and dwarfing the others was a pair of ma.s.sive machines. I could hear the clatter of tracks and, as they swung round to draw abreast of the hangar, the ominous armoured turrets of two American infantry fighting vehicles were outlined against the glow of headlamps. M2 Bradleys with 30mm cannons and co-axial chain-guns, I thought, identifying the silhouettes, and my heart sank. A brush with one of those beauties was to be avoided. Even with an ant.i.tank missile I would think twice before taking one of them on.

The stench of diesel fumes wafted up as the column slowed to a halt. The next moment there was a rumbling sound below and a shaft of light spilled out on to the ap.r.o.n. The main doors were opening. Evidently they intended searching the building from the inside. I tried to s.n.a.t.c.h a glance at the trucks to see how many troops were aboard but the tail-flaps were all lashed down against the rain. Two of the Jeeps drove in, while the rest of them waited outside with the Bradleys, their engines idling.

I tried to figure out the intentions of the officer in charge. Standard operating procedure for a suspected infiltration would be to surround the building and send in search parties from both sides to flush out the intruders. The Argentine commander was doing it by the book. He was posting a cordon outside to catch anyone trying to escape, and at the same time probably sending a squad to the rear to cover the ladder while others of his men climbed up inside to the roof. The IFVs were on hand to provide heavy back-up and run down any leakers who managed to escape the search parties.

From down below came shouts of NCOs bellowing at their men. It looked like they were going about it in a professional manner, and I didn't rate our chances highly. A couple of guys walking down each valley would soon flush us out, and up here we had nowhere to run. If I had been on my own I might have made for the ladder and tried to get down it before the lower party was in place, but with two of us the odds were we would be cut down by machine-gun fire before we had made a dozen yards.

I wondered if there was some way of busting inside, fusing the lights and setting the place on fire with the hope of escaping in the confusion. It was a thin chance, but all I could think of. At the very least it could set all the Argentines shooting at each other. And anything was better than lying here waiting to be caught.

I was about to go back and tell Josh when I glanced down again and something struck me. It was impossible to see the hangar doors because they were right underneath me, and the roof had a slight overhang to keep the rain off the rollers. The rollers ran in guide rails, the tops of which formed a ledge about three feet below where I was lying a narrow shelf about eighteen inches wide below the line of the roof. If Josh and I could somehow crawl down there and lie out, we would be invisible to anyone searching the roof. Even spotlights from the ground would not pick us out.

We would have to act fast, though. At any moment now troops would appear on the roof and we would be lost.