Stand By, Stand By

SEVENTEEN

We’d synchronized our watches down to the last second. I stood back round the end of the accommodation block. My watch read 0259. One minute till things went noisy. The night had been long. Those of us not on stag had tried to get our heads down for a couple of hours, but sleep had been elusive. The locals had held some form of piss-up round the cookhouse fire, and there’d been a good deal of drunken shouting. We’d seen the three players go into their room at 11.30. At least we knew where they were; but we weren’t so certain about the guards. We reckoned that some of them were living in the far end of the accommodation block, but a few must have been sleeping somewhere else. I kept thinking about Farrell and I kept thinking about Luisa.

At midnight Sparky had sent his last sitrep back to our forward mounting base at Puerto Pizarro, confirming that our operation would go down at 0300, and that after it we’d make our way out to the airstrip, then upriver to the LZ.

0259 and everyone in position. Murdo was up at the ether store with a one-pound charge of PE, already made up with a detonator pushed into it, and a thirtymetre length of black Don Ten wire for cracking it off from a distance. I’d already crept along the front of the building and placed a tiny charge no bigger than my little fingernail on the padlock of the DA’s door. I’d also given a couple of gentle warning taps.

Now I held the clacker in my left hand, MP 5 in my right. Sparky was with me, to give covering fire and help propel the hostages in the right direction. Johnny was away down the road to a tree that he’d selected in a midnight recce, and the other two were on the rampart, ready to put rounds down if the defenders started to come forward. They’d done useful work up there, clearing out a second position about ten metres along from our OP, so that they could open the firing from there, and then move along if anyone started to shoot back.

Another storm was brewing. Big bangs of thunder were rolling gradually closer, and the darkness was intense. The usual two bulbs were burning in the lab area, and in their glow I saw Murdo slinking up the side of the building. He was moving carefully, with his MP 5 slung over his back and the made-up charge in his hand.

Then I caught my breath. In a sudden flurry of movement a figure rushed out at Murdo from the right. Murdo obviously had his mind on planting the explosive, and was taken by surprise. But the assailant had picked the wrong man; before he could even grapple, Murdo had let go his charge and dropped the attacker with a kick in the groin. Next second he was on top of him, arms round his neck. The man didn’t even have time to scream. One of those big, tattooed hands had clamped over his mouth, and with a violent jerk his neck was broken. The whole incident was over so quickly that our timing remained as planned.

I saw Murdo pick up the charge, go forward, place it and move back out of sight. Fifteen seconds to go. If we’d been properly kitted up, with covert comms, I’d have been giving a countdown into the guys’ earpieces. In the absence of radios, I was counting to myself. ‘Seven, six, five, four.’ I closed my eyes. ‘Stand by… stand by… GO!’

BOOM!

I’d been expecting a good bang, but this was mega. It was nuclear. The whole compound twitched and juddered under the shockwave. As I opened my eyes again, a fireball fifty feet wide exploded into the air and continued up in a searing pillar of fire. Suddenly the jungle all round was lit by a ruddy glare. Pieces of debris rained down all over the place.

My heart was pounding, but I forced myself to wait — wait for doors to open, wait for the locals to run away from me towards the fire. There they went: the guards first, then the PIRA. Three guys out of the PIRA room in a flurry of movement. In the dark it was hard to see if they were carrying weapons; they were just ragged silhouettes against the leaping flames.

One more shout wouldn’t matter now. ‘Block your ears!’ I yelled. Then I closed the clacker. Boof! went the lock charge. I ran forwards. The door was swinging outwards. I leapt into the room and found the DA standing dazed right inside.

‘Come on!’ I yelled. I knew he’d be deafened and disorientated, so I grabbed hold of his arm and started dragging him.

‘RUN!’ I roared. ‘RUN! RUN! COME ON!’

In the glare of the fire at the far end of the compound, men were racing all ways. One started to run in our direction, but a burst ripped out from the top of the rampart, stopping him in his tracks and swivelling him round. As he went down, he tried to bring his Uzi to bear, but another short burst nailed him to the floor of the compound, and he lay still.

I could see the DA was in deep shock. He tripped over the door and half-fell — he felt like a sack of suet. I grabbed him tighter and held him up. ‘Listen!’ I screamed. ‘WHERE’S LUISA?’

All he did was shake his head. We had to go. The flames had built up to such an intensity that steam was hissing out of the leaves of the nearest trees, and some of them were catching fire. More rounds rattled off the rampart. Then came another explosion and another. First I thought that isolated drums of ether were going up. Then I realized that either Stew or Mel, or both, were putting 203 grenades into the transport.

In a few seconds we were on the road and under the trees. Sparky was at our heels, turning to put down the odd burst from his MP 5. Murdo appeared from behind the accommodation block, running fast.

‘I found her!’ he yelled. ‘She’s dead. Go for it!’

He started to run with us. The other two were still on the rampart. Ahead of us I heard the chain-saw screaming, then a crash as Johnny dropped his tree.

Light from the fire penetrated only a short way down the road; further under the trees the night was intensely black. Now we’d have to be bloody careful not to score own-goals by shooting each other.

‘You OK?’ I shouted to the DA. He was still so shattered he didn’t answer. From the smell I knew he’d shat himself.

‘We haven’t far to go,’ I told him. ‘Only to the airstrip.’

We came to Johnny’s barrier. He’d seen us approaching, silhouetted against the fire. ‘This end,’ he called softly. ‘It’s easier here.’

Our own covering fire had died down. Looking back, we saw Stew and Mel running like hares to join us. I rapped out a warning so that they didn’t go arse-over-tit into the felled tree. Just as they reached us, rounds began to crack past and smash their way into the jungle farther down the road. Our guys hit the deck, but the DA just stood there.

‘Down!’ I snapped. ‘For fuck’s sake get down.’

I grappled him to the ground. More rounds cracked past overhead.

‘Don’t fire back!’ I called. By shooting back we’d give away our position — and in any case, for the moment no targets were visible.

The compound was a fantastic sight — flames leaping and smoke billowing in a framework of primeval jungle.

‘So much for your billion fucking pesos,’ Murdo cried.

‘We’re not out of it yet,’ I told him. ‘Stew — you and Mel hang on here while we go ahead. If you see anyone coming, drop them, but don’t fire without a good target. RV at the dinghies as soon as we can.’

‘Fair enough.’

I turned to the DA and said, ‘Right — we’re off.’

We started down the road at a fast walk. The darkness was such that at the first bend we walked straight off the track and into a patch of undergrowth without seeing it. Suddenly I found myself caught up in those bloody awful thorns known as ‘wait-a-while’ which dig into you like barbed fish-hooks and rip you to shreds if you try to pull away.

I was struggling to disentangle myself when a sudden, rushing roar ripped past us, instantly followed by a flash and an explosion in the tree canopy beyond. I dropped to the ground, oblivious of the thorns tearing at my arms.

‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Murdo. ‘They’ve got an RPG.’

I got up again and shouted, ‘Keep going!’

No harm to use a torch now. I switched mine on, taking care not to flash it backwards. On we went, more quickly.

Small-arms fire rattled out behind us — our own guys were keeping the enemy pinned in the compound — then we got some incoming rounds cracking past us into the trees. Then another rocket — but this time we weren’t so lucky.

The missile must have hit a tree trunk right beside us. All at once I was on the deck, knocked down by the blast and temporarily blinded by the flash. I got up, my ears ringing, and I knew straight away that I wasn’t hurt.

‘Everyone OK? Murdo?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Johnny?’

‘OK.’

‘Sparky?’ I waited. ‘Sparky?’

I shone the torch towards where I’d last seen him. He was still on the deck, stretched straight out, face down. I ran across. A pool of blood glistened darkly beside his head. I moved the torch closer and saw more blood welling from a hole at the base of his right ear. Instinctively I started struggling out of my bergen to get at the med pack, but before I’d even slipped the straps I knew it was too late. Sparky’s eyes were shut. His face was dead white. I’d hardly begun to feel his pulse before I knew the answer: nothing. A piece of shrapnel had driven deep into his head, severing the jugular. Gently I turned his head over. It moved without any resistance in the neck, and I knew the top of the spinal column had been smashed.

‘He’s gone,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to take him with us.’

Behind us, the firing had died down.

I turned to the DA. ‘You all right?’

‘Fine.’ At last he’d found his voice.

‘Can you carry this?’ Holding Sparky’s torso upright, I disengaged the 319 in its webbing cover and straps, and handed it over. ‘It’s heavy, but we haven’t far to go’

‘I’ll manage it.’

‘Good.’

I took Sparky’s bergen and slung it over my left shoulder. The other two were pulling out a hammock, which had handles on the side and could double as a stretcher. They just about had Sparky in it when we heard movement on the road behind us.

‘Stew,’ I called softly.

‘Hello.’

‘We’ve got a casualty.’

‘Oh Christ — who is it?’

‘Sparky. He copped it from that RPG.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yep. We’ve got to get him to the boats.’

‘Shit!’

‘What’s happening back there?’

‘We dropped at least six of them. Couldn’t tell which. The 203s may have done for more. Ditto the big bang. The survivors are thinking things over. The lab’s destroyed, anyway.’

‘Come on, then.’

We went on as fast as we could, weaving along the road, with four guys lugging Sparky’s body. We reached the airstrip without further harassment. It was a tremendous relief to come out of the claustrophobic blackness of the forest and into the open. Thunder still rumbled in the distance, but the clouds seemed to have lifted and the night was slightly less dark.

The plane was still in the same position. It offered a tempting target — but I didn’t feel like making more noise by firing at it. We had enough trouble already.

‘Wait one while I whip over and slash its tyres,’ I said. ‘At least, no, you lot carry on, and I’ll meet you above the cache.’

The others picked up their limp burden and continued diagonally across the open strip, heading for the tall single tree. On my own, I ran to the plane, not bothering about the tracks I was making. By the time anybody followed up in daylight, we’d be well away upriver.

It took all of ten seconds to drive the point of my Commando knife into the side of each tyre, and as I made away the air was still hissing out.

I caught up with the others as Murdo scrambled down to check the dinghies. Then from below came a curse and an exclamation.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘The boats have gone!’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘They fucking have.’

In a flash I was down on the edge of the roots beside him. I shone the torch at the bank. There were the blue painters, still tied to branches.

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘They haven’t gone. They’ve swamped, that’s all.’

I pulled on one of the ropes and got a soggy response. When the dinghy at last came to the surface, we were shattered. The rubber skin had been slashed all over, ripped to shreds.

‘Fucking crocodiles!’ exclaimed Murdo. ‘Can you believe it!’

The other dinghy was the same. We had repair kits, but this damage was far beyond anything they could cover. God only knew why the croc had taken exception to the rubber crafts — but he’d torn them to kingdom come.

We didn’t look for the engines — there was no point. Back on top of the bank we held a little O-group.

‘There’s basically two alternatives,’ I said. ‘Either we make our way to the LZ overland, or we call in help and lie up somewhere close.’

‘How far to the LZ?’ asked Mel.

‘Maybe nine ks.’

‘We’ll never make it through the jungle.’

It didn’t need to be said that, without the extra burden of the hostage and the dead man, we could have done it.

‘Let’s get on the radio, then. Murdo — you’re our signaller now.’

‘Where’s the 319?’

‘The DA’s got it. Here.’ I moved across, took the radio pack off him, and handed it over.

Murdo began to open it up, but a moment later he said, ‘We’ll not get many messages out with this thing.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s fucked.’

He held the set up, shining his torch on it, to show that a piece of shrapnel had blown its guts out.

By 0200 a fresh westerly breeze had sprung up round the island of Desierto.

‘That’s great,’ said Merv as he breathed down his diving gear on the little beach. ‘This ripple on the water will suit us fine.’

He and his partner, Terry Llewellyn, checked each other off, pulled on their rebreathing kits, went through their routine against possible oxygen hits, checked again, and slipped into the water. Besides his usual gear Merv was carrying two five-pound charges of plastic explosive in waterproof bags, already made up, with detonators embedded in them. In another bag he had det cord and timers.

The pair swam out round the point of the headland. The sky was overcast, and no lights were showing, either from the ship or from the quay. The chances of being spotted seemed minute, but Merv was not one to take risks. As soon as they came in line of sight of the Santa Maria he dived, and swam in at three-metre depth on a bearing of eighty-two degrees, surfacing every three minutes to check his line of advance.

Five lots of three brought him under the stern of the vessel. She was moving gently in the swell, and waves were slapping against her side. He gave Terry’s arm four squeezes to indicate that they were on target, then felt his way down the swept-out curve of the hull until his gloved hand bumped gently against one blade of the starboard propeller. Down there, well underneath the ship, they were far out of sight of anyone on deck, so he switched on his helmet lamp, and in less than five minutes he had the first charge in place, tied round the prop-shaft at the point where it disappeared into the hull. Then, paying out the white det cord as he went, he swam down, under the end of the keel, and back up to the other prop. By the time he had the second charge in position and wired up his watch said 0235; so he set the timer for twenty-five minutes and swam quickly away.

Twenty minutes later he and Terry were back on the beach. Freddie Taylor, the single guy on stag at the boats, welcomed them in as they peeled off their kit.

‘No problems?’ he asked.

‘Piece of cake,’ Merv answered. ‘We’ll whip up to watch the fireworks.’

Freddie had the boats fully inflated, ready for the quick carry to the water. Merv and Terry just had time to scramble to the top of the headland ridge.

‘Blue One to other Blues,’ he said quietly over the covert radio. ‘All go at our end.’

He didn’t expect, or get, any answer. By then the assault party was at close quarters, and nobody would want to speak. In the event Roger had taken six men with him. One of them was to head out along the airstrip road before things went noisy, so that he’d be well placed to put down diversionary rounds without having to out-sprint everyone else.

As the watchers lay on top of the ridge, the wind was coming from behind them, blowing onshore. Through 8 × 56 binoculars the buildings were clearly visible. A Russian-built Gaz jeep was parked outside, a few yards to the left of the objective.

‘There!’ said Terry suddenly. ‘Somebody crossed the front of No. 2. And another. They’re on the target, all right.’

‘Thirty seconds to go,’ said Merv over the radio link. ‘Twenty. Stand by, Stand by. Fifteen. Ten. Five. Four, three, two…’

Before he could finish, a heavy, dull thump sounded from across the water. A fountain of ‘water and spray flew into the air at the Santa Maria’s stern, and the whole ship gave a heave, a kind of slow flip from stern to bow. Then she settled back to her normal attitude, as if nothing had happened.

Lights went on in the ship’s accommodation. Men began shouting. Merv and Terry saw people running aft along the cargo decks — but they didn’t care too much about what was happening on board, their attention was focused on House No. 2. Now two men were visible outside, backed up against the wall, five or six yards apart, either side of the entrance.

‘They’re going to blow the door,’ said Merv tersely. ‘There she goes.’

A flash sparked out from the front of the house, and seconds later the boom of an explosion reached them. White smoke and dust billowed out in a ragged cloud. The assaulters disappeared. Then came two short bursts of automatic fire, the first and loudest in the watchers’ earpieces, the second more muffled and through the air.

Suddenly they heard Roger call, ‘Bolt-cutters!’ A moment later they picked up a snap, followed by clinking noises.

At that instant Merv saw a dark figure running up the road from the left.

‘Blue One,’ he snapped. ‘Watch out. One X-ray approaching from direction ship.’

Roger must have had a man outside on stag, because two more bursts rattled out, and the running figure dropped. Immediately afterwards they heard Roger say, ‘Let’s go. Run!’

Men poured out of the doorway — one, two, three, four, five. A sixth sprinted from the left to join them. Four ran to the right, while two temporarily vanished, having gone down to give covering fire. Then the two were on their feet and running. Hardly had they passed out of sight to the watchers’ right when a far louder explosion — the loudest of the night — took House No. 2 apart. In a few seconds the structure was on fire, flames pouring from the roof. More men appeared, running from the ship, but the sight of the blazing house brought them to a halt. The last radio call Merv heard was Roger telling Charlie — his man down the airstrip road — not to stage any diversion, because none was necessary, but to head for base.

The watchers were about to pull back to the beach when Merv took one more look at the Santa Maria.

‘Jesus!’ he cried. ‘She’s down at the stern. She’s sinking.’

‘Arse on the bottom, anyway,’ Terry agreed. ‘Let’s go.’

Five minutes later the assault group tumbled on to the beach, panting but elated. Peter Black still had a shackle and a few links of chain dangling from his left wrist; for the past forty-eight hours he’d been chained to the structure of whatever gaol he’d been in — one night in a safe house used by the narcos in Bogotá, then in a cabin on the ship, then in the island building. He was still in his party gear, or at least the remains of it: the jacket of his suit had disappeared somewhere along the way, and his shirt, once white, was now filthy and torn. But his dark city trousers and black shoes looked ridiculously out of place. He was holding a pistol that Roger had thrust into his hand in case of emergency.

‘Good to see you, boss,’ Merv said cheerily. ‘Had a nice holiday?’

‘Charming, thanks. Five-star treatment.’

‘Seriously — are you OK?’

‘Absolutely. But, Christ, am I glad to see you guys. What a fantastic effort!’

‘All part of the service. Now, let’s go for a little voyage.’

After a quick sweep to make sure they’d left nothing behind, they fitted the engines, launched the Geminis, and motored out into the wind. As they cleared the headland, well out to sea, they looked back and saw flames rising high above the creek. Merv switched on the satcom and went through to Tony Lopez in Bogotá to report the success of the operation.

Somebody lent Black a sweater, because the night was quite cool, and once he’d got some food and drink down him, he seemed pretty much himself. As the party headed out to sea, they filled him in on their side of the operation, but he seemed desperately eager to find out what had happened to ‘the others’.

‘Who are they, boss?’ Merv asked.

‘You don’t know?’

‘No. We came out so bloody fast, we never got a full briefing. All we knew was that we had to lift you, off the boat or wherever it stopped.’

‘Well…’ Black seemed at a loss for words. ‘It was the DA from the embassy, and the… woman who runs the comms office.’

‘They’re at some location in the jungle, and the training team from D Squadron’s gone after them. Their operation was due to go down at the same time as ours.’

‘Let’s ask the embassy what’s happened, then.’

They went through again on the satcom, and Black talked to Tony direct — but all the anchor-man could report was that no news had come up from the south.

‘What about the 319?’ Black asked Merv. ‘Can’t we raise them on that?’

‘We can try.’

The radio was in the other boat, so they closed on it and called across. But presently the answer came back: no contact.

At 0440 Merv took one last fix with his Magellan and saw that they were almost on their rendezvous, a few minutes early, so both coxswains throttled back their engines and cruised gently forward into the swell. Then a couple of men in each boat dangled their triangle-like signalling devices in the water, fishing for the submarine.

In fact the Endeavor had been listening to their engines for the past half-hour, and had been shadowing them. By the time they began to signal, she was almost underneath them. A couple of minutes later they saw her periscope break the surface a hundred metres to their east; next the conning tower hove into view, and finally the long, gleaming whale-like upper body. Within quarter of an hour they, together with all their kit, were safe in the belly of the leviathan.

It can’t have been long after that we at last managed to separate the DA’s handcuffs. All we had to sever a link of the chain between them was a hacksaw blade I’d been carrying in my ops waistcoat. Taking turns, concentrating so as not to break the blade by exerting too much pressure, we gradually cut through the link.

At the time that seemed a bit of an achievement. Certainly it was better that he could use his hands independently. Apart from having chewed-up wrists, he didn’t seem much the worse, but he was exhausted and in shock. At any rate, he was very quiet, and it was only when I asked how he’d been lifted that he at last became articulate.

‘My fault entirely,’ he said. ‘We’d had a few drinks, you remember. I was driving. I stopped outside the door of the restaurant, and we stared in. Then we drove off, came back, and did the same again. The next thing we knew, we were cut out by two cars full of armed men — and that was it.’

‘And they brought you and Luisa here?’

‘Yes, but we got separated as soon as we arrived.’

‘Then what?’

‘I’m afraid they gave her a bad time. I could hear her screaming…’ His voice faltered and stopped.

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You needn’t go on.’

‘I can,’ said Murdo. ‘Her body was lying on the floor in another room. She was naked, and it looked like she’d been badly beaten.’

I didn’t answer, but I was thinking one name only: Farrell. That was his hallmark: rape and torture. Probably he’d been trying to make her divulge what SAS forces there were in the country. Once again my resolution to avoid personal vendettas had been blown to the winds, and I bitterly regretted my failure to take the bastard out while I’d had the chance.

We’d withdrawn into a small open area just inside the jungle at the north end of the airstrip. The rain had held off, but the mosquitoes were a major pain. The DA was still wearing the DPMs that the Colombians had given him, so that at least his arms were covered; but he had no hat, and the only way to protect his head was to drape himself in a little tent of netting.

We sat around miserably in the dark, debating our options. One faction, led by Murdo, was in favour of going back for a second hit on the compound. He argued that surprise would be on our side once again. The narcos and the PIRA — however many were left of them — must think that we’d somehow slipped away downriver, and they wouldn’t be expecting a repeat performance.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘We came to lift the hostages. Now we’ve got one, and the other’s dead, we want to get the hell out. We’ve lost one guy already. We don’t want to risk any more. If any PIRA have survived, they’ll be well into the jungle by now.’

‘In that case,’ said Murdo, ‘for fuck’s sake let’s get back to the LZ, so that the chopper can pick us up.’

That made good sense — and I didn’t think we’d have much difficulty navigating. Our basic need would be to head due north. Obviously we’d have to weave about, taking the easiest route through the jungle, probably along animal tracks. But if ever we seemed in danger of getting lost, we could make our way back to the river and steer by that. The trouble was the physical difficulty of making progress. As I knew from past exercises, the jungle grows thickest along river banks, and our best hope would probably be to keep in the thinner areas, further inland.

Bitter experience, on training and previous operations, had taught us that it was impossible to move through the jungle in the dark. All the same, Murdo insisted on having a try, and he set off in company with Mel, announcing that they would move on a northerly heading. They never made more than a couple of hundred metres. For the next twenty minutes we could hear them cursing quite close to us as they tried to push their way through the undergrowth, and in half an hour they were back, with skin and DPMs ripped into shreds by the wait-a-while thorns. We agreed that we’d start trying to blaze a trail north as soon as it was light. In the meantime, at 0500, we pulled out the pin from one of our TACBE beacons, hoping that the international distress call it put out would be picked up at Puerto Pizarro and alert our rear-party to the fact that we were in the shit.

Thereafter, all we could do was sit and wait for the light. As we were in thick cover, we got a brew on, and that cheered things a bit, but time seemed to be moving at the pace of a constipated snail. I kept looking at the wretched bundle in the hammocks, all that was left of Sparky. You poor bugger, I was thinking. All your money-saving didn’t do you much good in the end. Also on my mind was Luisa’s naked body, lying on the floor, with flies and ants getting at it.

‘Let’s hope the Boat Troop have had better luck,’ I said, and everyone grunted assent.

Eventually dawn broke, retarded by the fact that the sky was still overcast. Grey light filtered down through the tree canopy, and we were just sorting ourselves out for the off when, to our consternation, we heard an engine splutter and start up out on the strip.

‘Jesus!’ I cried. ‘The plane!’

In twenty seconds we were out on the edge of the cleared ground. The Islander was some 600 metres off, at the other end of the strip and facing away from us, but even in the half-light we could see that both its props were turning.

‘They’re nuts!’ I shouted. ‘I fixed the tyres. They’ll never get off.’

‘If they do, we can drop them,’ said Murdo. ‘They’ll have to take off this way. They’ll be right over our heads. Just go on automatic and give the plane plenty of lead.’

I watched, half-hypnotized, as the Islander started to move. Was it possible that someone had come down to the field and changed the wheels during the past couple of hours? Or was the pilot in such a panic that he hadn’t checked the tyres before he went aboard?

Slowly the plane turned right-handed and straightened. We heard the pilot winding up his engines. But then we heard something else.

My TACBE, which had been beeping quietly for the past hour, sending out the emergency beacon, suddenly came to life. An English voice was saying, ‘Green Four, this is the QRF. Do you read me? Over.’

I seized the set and switched to the voice channel. ‘Authenticate!’ I shouted. ‘Authenticate!’

‘Operation Crocodile,’ came the answer. ‘Op Croc.’

‘Green Four, roger. You’re loud and clear. Where are you?’

‘Estimate zero eight ks from your location. We’re airborne towards you.’

‘Roger. We’re on the north end, repeat north end, of the new airstrip beside the river. There’s an Islander trying to take off at this moment. It’s the narcos’ transport. If it gets airborne, shoot it down.’

‘Roger. We have eyes on the river. Turning downstream now. There’s smoke rising from the jungle to the west. Is that you?’

‘Negative. That’s the laboratory. We hit it during the night. We’re one k east of the smoke, right by the river. Repeat. One k east of smoke.’

‘Roger. We’ll be with you in two minutes. Wait out.’

I put the set down, hardly able to believe my ears.

‘Bloody hell!’ shouted Murdo. ‘Who is it?’

‘QRF from the Regiment. For fuck’s sake let’s not have a blue-on-blue.’

‘Green Four,’ I called again. ‘I confirm, our location is on the northern end of the airstrip, on the edge of the forest.’

‘Roger,’ called the QRF leader. ‘Location coming in sight. We have eyes on the aircraft.’

On the ground the Islander was still teeing itself up, engines screaming at full revs. At last it started forward, towards us, but not accelerating quickly, as it should have been. Rather, it began weaving from side to side in a sluggish, drunken stagger. After no more than a couple of hundred yards of that, it veered off to its left, coming to a halt a few yards from the jungle wall.

As the pilot doused the engines, we became aware of another sound: the heavy thudding of helicopter blades and the scream of turbines. A second later two Hueys swept overhead, with side-gunners sitting in the open doorways. We waved frantically, and one of the pair went into a hover above us. The other carried straight on, to land well beyond the stranded aircraft.

The Islander’s door had popped open. Two men jumped to the ground and began to run. One was aiming for the end of the road, the other came our way, heading for the jungle on our right. Instantly the machine-gun overhead opened up with a heavy hammer. A line of bullets flickered across the strip, kicking up puffs of dirt ahead of the farthest runner. No warning could have been clearer: stop or you die. The man continued to run, and within seconds he’d been cut down by another burst.

At the same moment rounds came snapping across the tops of our heads. Belatedly I saw a group of two or three Colombians way down the field. As we returned fire I suddenly realized that the single figure disappearing to our right was running with a limp. Farrell! I swung round and put in a burst from the MP 5 just as he disappeared into the trees.

‘Stay with the DA!’ I yelled, throwing Murdo my spare magazines. ‘Keep them off. I’m going after him.’

Incoming fire was still cracking past, but I was possessed by the realization that this was my last chance, and I gave no thought to the rounds going past. In a few seconds I was on the edge of the jungle at the spot where I’d last seen the fugitive. There, on a big leaf, was a splash of fresh blood. He was wounded, at least. Possibly dead, but anyway wounded.

I dropped on one knee, listening for sounds of movement. Behind me rounds were still going down, and I could hear the choppers landing, but my whole attention was focused on the wall of vegetation ahead. A wounded animal is the most dangerous of all. What weapon was Farrell carrying? I hadn’t seen any long, but he could well have a pistol.

There was more blood on a plant ahead. On the forest floor some dead leaves had been turned over. Further on, at the edge of a clearing, I saw threads torn out of a shirt and hanging on the wait-a-while thorns. I guessed he wasn’t far in front.

Twenty yards across the clearing, a bush moved. I whipped a burst into the foliage and heard a yell. The branches thrashed about and Farrell half fell into the open. I raised my weapon to engage him again, but when I pulled the trigger, nothing happened. With a sickening lurch of the stomach I knew I was out of rounds — and I’d given Murdo my spare magazines.

Farrell was on all fours, struggling to stand up. I raced straight for him and kicked him full belt in the ribs. The blow sent him flying on to his back. I saw blood all down his right side — one burst had got him in the arm and flank.

Never before in my life had I lost control, but I did then. Holding the MP 5 in both hands, I smashed the butt down on to Farrell’s jaw. With his good hand he grabbed my sleeve and tried to drag me down on to him. Caught off-balance, I toppled and landed with all my weight on my left forearm, right on the old break. A stab of pain shot through me, like a shot from my recurring nightmare.

I gave a yell, drew back, kneed him in the bollocks, ripped free and stood up, panting. Blood had started to trickle from his mouth. I kicked him again in the side of the head and knocked him flat sideways — but still he was trying to get up. I was on the point of using the MP 5 on him again when I felt a touch on my arm. I whipped round, and there was Murdo, offering me his weapon.

‘Shoot the bastard, Geordie. It’s easier.’

I took the MP 5 and levelled it at Farrell’s head. Still he was struggling to prop himself on his left elbow. He looked straight at me and spat. Then, in a snarl, he said, ‘Don’t fucking miss.’

‘Go on!’ snapped Murdo. ‘Top him!’

‘No.’ I handed the weapon back. The hatred had suddenly drained out of me. ‘No,’ I repeated, ‘the cunt’s far more valuable alive.’

Back on the airstrip, the occupants of the plane had given themselves up. Everybody had been searched and lined up in the open. The second Huey had landed; six more armed SAS troops in full combat kit rapidly debussed, and the pilot shut down the engine. Silence fell over the airfield.

Murdo and I propelled our prisoner towards the commander of the QRF, whom I recognized as Billy Bracewell — big, blond, muscular, a staff sergeant with G Squadron.

‘Geordie!’ he shouted. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine. Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Declan Farrell. One of the key members of the PIRA. He’s volunteered to come back with us, to help the police with their inquiries.’

‘OK. Hand him over to two of those guys there. What about the hostages?’

‘That’s the DA. He’s all right.’ I pointed to our group behind me. ‘But they killed the woman. You’ll find her body in the concrete building. Sparky’s dead as well. That’s him there.’ I gestured to a little mound under a poncho.

A minute later, as people were milling around, I got Billy to one side and whispered fiercely: ‘Farrell. That’s the fucker who killed my wife.’ I felt choked. Suddenly I was hit by everything at once: the let-down of tension, lack of sleep, frustration over Farrell, grief over the loss of Sparky. I sat down on the deck with my head in my hands and tried to get myself together.

Presently I felt a hand on my shoulder. There was Murdo, with his moustache drooping fearsomely in the grey dawn light.

‘Come on, Geordie,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a proper brew and a bloody great breakfast. Then we’ll all feel better.’