Exocet

9

On the day previously it had been quiet at first light in the mountains of north Falkland, the only sound a dog barking from one of the hillside farms far, far below in a valley.

The four-man SAS reconnaissance team had been operating behind the Argentine lines for ten days now, having been put ashore by submarine before the British landings at San Carlos on the twenty-first.

The team consisted of Villiers, Harvey Jackson, the radio operator, Corporal Elliot of the Royal Corps of Signals; and the fourth member of the group, a trooper named Jack Korda, a volunteer to the SAS from the Grenadier Guards like Villiers and Jackson.

It was bitterly cold. When Villiers had first awakened he had found his sleeping poncho covered in hoar frost. He stood now in the hollow beside a small cave, not much more than a fissure in the rocks, inside which Korda was heating tea on a small chemical stove.

Villiers, like the others, wore a black woollen balaclava, more against the cold than anything else. His camouflage uniform was soaking wet, his fingers numb with cold as he ate from a mess can with a spoon. Jackson sat cross-legged on the ground, a guardsman to the end, and scraped shaving foam from his chin with a plastic razor.

Villiers' spoon rattled against the bottom of the mess tin. He stowed it away in his pack and accepted the mug of tea Korda passed him.

'I've had enough chicken supreme to last me a lifetime. How about you, Harvey?'

'Oh, it keeps me going as well as anything else, ' Jackson said. 'Food's not all that important. When I was seventeen the food in the guardsmen's mess at the Depot was so awful, I've never been able to take it seriously since.'

Elliot was crouched by the radio and Villiers moved across. 'Everything okay?'

Elliot glanced up and nodded. 'Through in a minute.'

The patrol's task was simple enough: to pick up as much information as possible about Argentinian troop movements in the area. The information would be of the utmost importance when British forces broke out from the San Carlos beach-head.

The equipment Elliot carried was of the latest kind. There was a small typewriter-style keyboard and through this system, messages could be entered and stored in code. When Elliot was ready, the touch of a button was sufficient to send a message of a few hundred words in a matter of seconds. They were on the air so briefly that it was impossible for the enemy to have any hope of tracing them.

Elliot looked up and grinned. 'That's it.' He started to pack his equipment.

Korda crawled out of the fissure with more tea. 'When do we go in, sir? How much longer?'

'Rations for four more days,' Villiers reminded him.

'Which means we can last a week,' Harvey Jackson said. 'Longer, if you don't mind raw mutton. Sheep all over the place. The Argies have been doing very nicely on that diet.'

Before Korda could reply, Villiers said, 'Just a minute. Something coming.'

There was a murmur in the distance that grew louder. Villiers and the others crawled forward cautiously to the edge of the hollow and peered over. They each carried the same weapon, a silenced sub-machine gun.

An Argentinian truck was approaching along the rough track about a hundred yards away, its front wheels spinning on the frozen ground, only the half-tracks at the rear keeping it going.

The driver and the man who sat beside him in the front seat with a rifle across his knees, were muffled up to their ears against the intense cold, scarves bound around their faces.

'Sitting ducks,' Elliot said. 'Even if there's somebody in the rear.'

But the patrol's task was to seek information, not confrontation. Villiers said, 'No, let them go.'

And then the truck slithered to a halt, half-slewed across the track directly below them.

'Watch it!' Villiers said.

They crouched low. The driver jumped down from behind the wheel and Villiers heard him say in Spanish, 'This stinking engine again with the stinking oil that isn't supposed to freeze and turns into lumps instead. What are we doing in this place?'

He raised the bonnet to examine the engine. His friend got out still holding his rifle, and lit a cigarette.

'Okay, ease off,' Villiers whispered.

As they started to slide back from the rim, Korda put out a hand to steady himself. Rock and soil broke away suddenly and slid down the slope to the track below, gathering momentum.

The two Argentine soldiers cried out in alarm. The one with the rifle swung round, raising it instinctively and Harvey Jackson, having no choice, jumped up and cut him down with the silenced sub-machine gun. The only sound was the bolt reciprocating. The Argentinian's rifle flew into the air and he fell back against the truck.

The driver got his hands in the air fast and stood waiting as the four men went down the slope. Korda banged him against the truck, legs spread, and Jackson searched him with ruthless efficiency.

'Nothing,' he said to Villiers and turned the soldier round.

He was only a boy, no more than seventeen or eighteen and frightened to death.

'What's in the back?' Villiers demanded in Spanish.

'Supplies, equipment,' the boy said, eager to please. 'Nothing more, senor, I swear it. Please don't kill me.'

'All right.' Villiers nodded to Jackson. 'Take a look.'

He lit a cigarette and gave one to the boy whose hand shook as he accepted a light. The fear in him was so strong you could almost smell it.

Jackson came back. 'Must be sappers. Lots of landmines in there, explosives and so on.'

Villiers said to the Argentinian, 'You're with an engineering unit?'

'No,' the boy said. 'Transport. The men I took to Bull Cove last night, I think they were engineers.'

Bull Cove was a place Villiers and the patrol knew well. One of their first tasks on arrival had been to survey the area as a possible site to put more troops ashore behind the Argentinian lines when the push started from San Carlos. The cove had proved an admirable choice; well protected from the sea with a deep water channel through a narrow entrance above which stood a disused lighthouse. Villiers had sent in a favourable report.

'How many of them were there?'

'An officer and two men, senor. Captain Lopez. They unloaded a lot of equipment and then the Captain decided he needed some special fuses.' He took a crumpled list from his pocket. 'See, here it is, senor. He was sending me back to base for these things.'

Jackson looked over Villiers' shoulders. 'Kaden Pencils. That's pretty heavy stuff. What in the hell does he want that for?'

To blow up the lighthouse, senor.' the boy said patiently. 'And rocks, also, I think.'

To blow up the lighthouse?' Jackson said.

The boy nodded, 'Oh, yes, senor, I heard them discussing it.'

'Rubbish,' Jackson said. 'Why go to the trouble? It hasn't been used for thirty years. Doesn't make sense.'

'Oh, yes it does, Harvey,' Villiers said, 'if you consider its position on the rocks above the entrance. Bring it down, and you'll efficiently block the only deepwater channel into the cove.'

'Christ,' Jackson said. 'Then we'd better do something about it and fast.' He said to the boy in bad Spanish, 'How far is it from here on this track.'

'Fifteen or sixteen kilometres round the mountain.'

'Only not in this, not any more.' Villiers kicked the half-track. There was a strong smell of petrol and it dripped from the tank in a steady flow, melting the frozen ground. 'You did a pretty thorough job, Harvey.'

Jackson swore savagely. 'So what in the hell do we do?'

Villiers turned and looked up at the mountain towering into the mist. 'Bull Cove's directly on the other side. Say six miles. We'll do it the hard way. You, me, Korda. Leave all equipment behind. Sub-machine guns only. Now you'll find out what all that endurance testing on the Brecons was about.'

They went back to the hidden encampment, Jackson pushing the boy along in front of him. As Villiers stripped his excess gear, he said to Elliot. 'You follow with the boy. Don't bother about this stuff. Just bring the radio and your own gear.'

'Very well, sir.'

'And the kid,' Villiers said. 'I want him to arrive with you. No stories about how he made a run for it and you had to cut him down, understand?'

'Do I look as if I'd do a thing like that, sir?' Elliot demanded.

'Yes,' Jackson said sourly. 'So don't. I'll give you two and a half hours to join us and let you choose an easy route out of consideration to the kid. Five minutes over and I'll have your guts for garters.'

'All right,' Villiers said. 'Let's go, you two,' and he turned, moved out of the hollow and started to run across the hillside.

It has been said that out of every fifty soldiers who volunteer for transfer to the Special Air Service Regiment, only one makes the grade. The culmination of a savage and punishing selection procedure is the endurance march across the wilderness that is the Brecon Beacons.

The would-be recruit is required to march forty-five miles across some of the worst country in Britain, loaded down with a pack of around eighty pounds and a belt kit weighing another fifteen. His eighteen pound rifle has to be carried because SAS weapons are not allowed slings, so that they are always available for instant use.

Scrambling up through the mist, Villiers was reminded of his own selection purgatory when he'd first volunteered. Jackson came up beside him, panting.

'Just like sodding Brecon. All it has to do is rain and we'll be right at home. Why all the rush? I mean if the kid was sent for more stuff, they must be taking their time.'

'Bad feeling,' Villiers said. 'Right down in the gut. You know me. Always right when I get that.'

'Enough said,' Jackson replied, and turned and called to Korda who was twenty yards behind. 'Come on, you lazy bastard, move it!'

Instead of working his way diagonally up the steep hillside, Villiers went straight up and the others followed him. The slope lifted until it was almost perpendicular with rough frozen tussocks of grass sticking out of bare rock.

As they came to the foot of an apron of loose stone and shale, he paused and glanced back at his companions.

'Okay?'

'No, bloody awful, actually,' Jackson said.

Korda said, 'The things I do for England. My old mum will be so proud.'

'You never had one, son,' Jackson said and as they started forward, it began to rain a little.

'Watch it,' Villiers said. 'A bit treacherous from here on in.'

He stuffed the sub-machine gun inside the tunic of his camouflage uniform and zipped it up. Awkward, but it left his hands free. Once, he heaved strongly on a boulder and it tore free and he swung quickly to one side, crying a warning. It bounced and crashed its way down the mountainside, disappearing into the mist.

'You two all right?'

'Only just,' Jackson called.

Villiers started to climb again and a moment later, found himself standing on the edge of a broad plateau. Jackson and Korda joined him.

'Now what?' Jackson demanded.

Villiers pointed across the plateau to the great rock wall which faced them, draped in mist. Fissures and cracks branched across it in dark fingers. He led the way over the plateau at a jog-trot, picking his way between boulders. When they reached the base of the rock, it became apparent that it wasn't actually perpendicular, but tilted back slightly in great slabs.

'Dear God,' Korda said, looking up.

'He helps those who help themselves,' Jackson said. 'So let's get moving.'

Villiers led the way, climbing strongly, concentrating on the rock in front of him, not looking down, for a secret he had nursed to himself for years was his fear of heights. If the selection board had known that, he would never have served in the 22 SAS, that was certain.

He paused at one point, braced against the rock and for a moment seemed to float in space. It was as if a giant hand was trying to pull him away.

'You okay, sir?' Jackson called.

It broke the spell. Villiers nodded and started to climb again, forgetting his aching limbs, the icy wind, his numbed hands. He moved at last over a tilted slab and found himself on a broad ledge. Above him, a wall of rock lifted a hundred feet, no more, and beyond it was only grey sky.

He waited for the others to join him, which they did a couple of minutes later.

'Jesus, not some more,' Jackson said.

Villiers indicated a dark chimney that cut its way straight up through the solid rock. 'Looks bad, but it's the easiest part of the climb.'

'I'll take your word for it,' Jackson said.

Villiers pulled himself up into the gloom, then turned and, using the common mountaineering technique, braced his back against one wall and feet against the other, resting every fifteen or twenty feet, his body firmly wedged.

After a while he found it was possible to climb properly and the handholds were good and plentiful. Ten minutes later, he scrambled over the edge.

The wind cut like a knife and the rain, at that level, had turned to sleet. He pulled on his gloves again, stamping his feet against the bitter cold. Eventually Jackson joined him and then Korda. They looked tired and drawn and their balaclava helmets were covered in frost.

The mountains sloped down towards the sea, wrapped in grey mist and low cloud. Suddenly, the wind tore a hole in the curtain and for a moment only they had a glimpse of the Atlantic and far, far below, the tiny bay and the white finger of the old lighthouse standing at the entrance.

'There she is — Bull Cove,' Villiers said as the curtain dropped back into place. 'Let's get moving.'

He pulled the sub-machine gun out of his tunic, held it across his chest with both hands, and started to run down the mountainside.

Captain Carlos Lopez carefully uncoiled the wire he had just taped to the charge he had positioned on the second floor and paused to light a cigarette. All five floors linked now, which left only the ground. It had progressed faster than he had anticipated and he was whistling cheerfully as he started down the stairs, uncoiling the wire behind him.

Once at ground level, he ran the wire across to the centre of the floor where a large, blue cylinder stood ready. He removed the lid very carefully. Inside there were various terminals and two buttons, one yellow, the other red. Working with extreme precision, he clipped the wires into position, sat back satisfied, then gently depressed the yellow button.

He glanced up and smiled. 'One hour, baby, then the big bang.'

There was a rattle of small arms fire close at hand, and as Lopez turned, Private Olivera appeared in the doorway.

'British troops coming down the hill.'

'How many?'

'I counted three.'

There was no sound and yet suddenly blood spurted as Olivera was driven forward through the doorway in a mad dance to fall face down, his quilted parka starting to smoulder.

Lopez snatched up an Uzi sub-machine gun and ran to the door, crouching. Then he waited.

It had been sheer bad luck that Carvallo, the third Argentinian, had been sitting in the shelter of an old sheep pen some little way up the hillside, whose rusting corrugated iron roof had afforded shelter from the rain while he smoked a cigarette and wrote a letter home to his girlfriend in Bahia Blanca.

He stretched, stood up and walked out of the entrance and to his total astonishment, saw the three SAS men approaching cautiously along the track, keeping to the wall.

They became aware of him in the same instant. He snatched up his machine pistol and loosed off a wild burst that went skywards as Jackson and Korda fired together, driving him back into the sheep pen.

'Now!' Villiers cried. 'And fast!'

Korda went straight down the track, Jackson to the left, Villiers to the right. They broke from cover, running headlong, in time to see Olivera dart into the entrance of the lighthouse and stand there for a moment. Villiers and Korda both fired, sending Olivera staggering inside.

Villiers dropped to one knee to reload and Korda kept right on going, straight down the track into the open.

'No!' Villiers shouted, and Lopez fired a long burst round the edge of the door, knocking Korda off his feet.

The boy lay there for a moment, then turned over and tried to crawl. Lopez fired round the door again, the rounds kicking up fountains of dirt close to Korda's head.

Jackson ran to join Korda, loosing off a long burst that raked the doorway. Then his sub-machine gun jammed.

Jackson grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and pulled him into the flimsy shelter of an old water trough. In the lighthouse, Lopez shoved another clip into his Uzi and raked the trough with several bursts until water spouted from a dozen holes.

Villiers rammed home a fresh clip and went down the hill on the run, right across the front of the lighthouse, loosing off the entire magazine in one long continuous burst. As the gun emptied he dived head first into sodden bracken and rolled over, reaching for the Smith & Wesson Magnum he carried in the pouch on his right leg.

Lopez bought it, jumping out of the entrance, the Uzi raised to fire. Villiers shot him in the left shoulder, spinning him round, the Uzi jumping into the air.

The Argentinian slid down the wall as Villiers approached and kicked the Uzi to one side. 'Very good,' Lopez said. 'I congratulate you.'

Villiers opened a pouch on his left leg, took out a field service dressing pack and broke it open. 'Here, hold this on it.'

He turned and crossed to the water trough. Korda lay sprawled against it, face twisted with pain while Jackson applied a field service dressing to his left thigh.

'He'll live,' Jackson said. 'Though he doesn't deserve to. Daft bastard,' he added as he jabbed a morphine capsule into Korda's arm. 'Who did you think you were, Audie Murphy?'

'Who's he?' Korda asked weakly.

'Never mind.'

Jackson gave him a cigarette, then followed Villiers back to the lighthouse and Lopez.

'Watch him,' Villiers said and slipped into the entrance.

His practised eye took in the blue cylindrical box, the wires disappearing up the spiral staircase. He turned, 'A charge on every floor, all linked?'

'Of course, my friend. If your people hoped to use this harbour they'd better think again. When this baby blows, she drops straight into the entrance. I know my business.'

'What did you send the truck back for Kaden Pencils for?'

'I was going to bring down some cliff face as well.'

'Good job we got here when we did then,' Villiers said.

'Touch that box and find out. It's on timer.' Lopez glanced at his watch, face streaked with pain. 'Forty-five minutes to go, but there's an anti-handling device that sends the whole thing off instantly if you touch it.'

'Is that a fact?' Villiers nodded to Jackson. 'Bring him in, Harvey.'

He went inside and squatted beside the blue box. Jackson helped Lopez in and eased the Argentinian down on the floor. He sat there, pressing the dressing against the wound.

Villiers said, 'I've seen one of these things before, but only in a manual. Russian, isn't it?'

'That's right.'

'So you depressed the yellow button which controls the timer and, as you say, the damn thing is lethal if I attempt to unplug it.' He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and stuck one in the corner of his mouth. 'And this red button, as I recall, cuts into the circuit.'

'You know your stuff.'

'Circumventing the timer and giving us three minutes to get out, isn't that so?'

He depressed the red button and Lopez said, 'Holy Mother of God!'

'It's up to you,' Villiers told him. 'I presume you know how to stop it?' He glanced up at Jackson. 'On the other hand, Sergeant Major, it might be politic for you to step outside.'

Jackson produced a lighter from his pocket and gave him a light. 'When you were a subaltern at Caterham, sir,' he said with some emphasis, 'I had to kick your arse in a manner of speaking, on a number of occasions. I'm quite willing to do it again if you continue to make suggestions like that.'

'My God!' Lopez said. 'The bloody English. All mad.' He pulled himself towards the box and said to Villiers, 'All right, just do exactly as I tell you.'

When Elliot finally appeared, coming down the track an hour and a half later, herding the young Argentinian prisoner before him, Korda and Lopez were inside, out of the rain. Villiers, having worked his way down floor-by-floor, was just finishing disconnecting the final charge.

It was Jackson who went to meet Elliot. 'You're late.'

'I got a warning bleep. Had to stop to take an emergency signal for you and the major.'

Villiers appeared in the doorway. 'What's all this about an emergency signal?'

'H.Q. were on the wire, sir. They want to hear from you like yesterday. Sounded real urgent.'

It was the throb of the engines that brought Villiers awake with a start. He lay there for a moment in the bunk, staring up at the steel bulkhead, a frown on his face as he tried to work out where he was. Then he remembered. HMS Clarion, a conventional submarine, diesel-electric powered, not nuclear. She'd picked them up off Bull Cove that afternoon.

Jackson was sitting in a chair in the corner, watching him. 'You talk in your sleep, did you know that?'

'That's all I needed. Give me a cigarette.'

'I think maybe you've been playing this game too long.'

'Haven't we all? Why are we on diesels?'

'Because we're on the surface. Commander Doyle sent me down to tell you to be ready to go in quarter of an hour.'

'Okay, I'll see you on top in five minutes.'

Jackson went out and Villiers sat on the edge of the bunk. He pulled on the jeans and sweater they'd given him, wondering what this business was all about. No one had been prepared to tell him anything, nothing worth knowing anyway.

'Ours not to reason why,' he said softly as he pulled on rubber boots and reached for a reefer coat.

The cigarette tasted foul and he stubbed it out. He was tired, that was the trouble. Too damn tired and everything was beginning to blur at the edges. What he needed was a long, long rest.

He went outside, moved through into the control room and mounted the conning-tower ladder to the bridge. Above him, the round circle of the night was scattered with stars and he breathed salt air in his lungs and felt better.

Doyle was looking towards the shore, nightglasses raised to his eyes, Jackson at his side. Villiers asked, 'How are we doing?'

'There's Uruguay for you. La Paloma a couple of miles to starboard. We're sticking you in as close to Montevideo as possible. Sea's a bit choppy, but it shouldn't give you too much trouble. I suppose you've done this sort of thing rather a lot?'

'Now and then.'

Doyle had been watching the shoreline carefully through his nightglasses and now he leaned down and spoke briefly into his voice pipe.

The submarine started to slow and Doyle turned to Villiers: 'As far as we go, I'm afraid. They're bringing your dinghy out of the hatch.'

'Thanks for the ride,' Villiers said and shook hands.

He went over the side and descended the ladder, Jackson following him, down to the circular hull. The dinghy was already in the water, held by two able seamen. Jackson dropped in and Villiers followed. There was quite a swell running and one of the ratings slipped and lost his footing on the slimy steel plates of the hull.

'Ready to go, sir?' the CPO in charge asked.

'No time like the present.'

The ratings released the lines and immediately the tide pulled the dinghy away from the submarine and in towards the shore.

The wind was freshening, lifting the waves into whitecaps. As Villiers reached for an oar, water poured over the side. He adjusted his weight and they started to paddle.

Through the curtain of spray, the shore suddenly seemed very close. Jackson cursed as water slopped steadily over the side; then they were lifted high on a swell and Villiers saw the wide beach, sand dunes beyond.

The water broke in white foaming spray. They slewed round and Jackson went over the side, waist deep, to pull them in.

'Ain't life grand?' he said, as Villiers stepped out in the shallows.

'Stop grumbling,' Villiers told him, 'and let's get out of here.'

They dragged the dinghy up to the nearest dune, Jackson puncturing it with his knife, and they covered it with sand. Then they walked up through the dunes and saw a large beach cafe over on the right, shuttered and dark.

'That looks like it,' Villiers said.

There was a dark saloon car parked by the sea wall. As they approached, the door opened and a man in an anorak got out and stood waiting.

'A nice night for a walk, senores,' he said in Spanish.

And Villiers gave the required answer in English. 'Sorry, we're strangers here and don't speak the language.'

The other smiled and held out his hand. 'Jimmy Nelson. Everything went all right then?'

'Soaked to the bloody skin is all,' Jackson said.

'Never mind. Get in and I'll take you back to my place.'

As they drove away, Villiers asked: 'Is there any chance of finding out what all this is about?'

'Search me, old boy. I just do as I'm told. Orders from on high and so on. I've got clothes waiting for you, all you need. Full details were supplied as to sizes. Someone was very efficient. Also passports made out in your own names as there seemed no reason why not. Occupation, sales engineer, that holds true for both of you.'

'And where do we go?'

'Paris. One snag about that. There's only one direct flight to that fair city and it's on Fridays. However, I've pulled a few strings and got you on an Air France cargo-carrying jumbo that leaves in,' he glanced at his watch, 'around three hours from now, so it's all worked out rather well. You'll be in Paris tomorrow evening, their time. I always get confused about time changes.'

'And then what?'

'Search me. I presume Brigadier Ferguson will explain when he sees you.'

'Ferguson?' Villiers groaned. 'You mean he's behind this?'

'That's right. Anything wrong, old man?'

'Not really, except I'd rather be back behind the lines in the Falklands,' Villiers told him.