Land of Fire (25 page)

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 shining 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 ships 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."

"Assuming 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 assault 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 bastards 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 space 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. Shit, 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 snatched 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 pass 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 God!"

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 hell 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 bastard.