Exocet (v5) (10 page)

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.'