The Falklands Intercept (13 page)

As part of the training programme and as a courtesy to Lady Nevinson, during Jacot's visit the garrison would practise one of its defence plans for the RAF base at Mount Pleasant to counter a particular Argentine attack scenario. It was one that Lady Nevinson had expressed an interest in personally – in other words it was keeping both her and the prime minister awake at night.

On the third day of his visit very early in the morning Commodore Mayne arrived to pick Jacot up in a white Land Rover Discovery. He was clearly in a good mood and keen to show Jacot what the garrison could do in a crisis. He smiled a lot and gave the odd chuckle as he outlined the exercise scenario.

‘Basically the whole thing has been going on for some hours. We've seen the
Buzo Tactico
off. I really wanted you to see the climax. Our aircraft are out of action but we have established that even if the Argies manage to get a few special forces types onto the airfield, they can't do it in strength. And we doubt they would be able to bring with them the stores required to deny the runway to British reinforcements. They would have to
bring in additional aircraft. HMS
Dauntless
the new destroyer which is steaming to our east just within territorial waters can track and destroy forty-eight air or surface targets at any one time. Its Sea Viper missile travels at Mach Four. One enemy aircraft might get through but not much more and the airfield has its own protection with the latest Rapier Missiles and anti-aircraft guns.' Jacot was impressed. Mayne chuckled ‘Haven't had so much fun since I was down here for real. But just to set Lady Nevinson's mind at rest we have for the purposes of the exercise cut the length of the runway by two thirds.'

They were waved through the front gate by a heavily armed detachment of RAF Police. Commodore Mayne, driving at breakneck speed, drew up to one of the fortified hangars where the RAF Typhoons were stored supposedly out of harm's way. A number of disgruntled looking fast jet pilots were in attendance. Scrambled in the early hours of the morning they had rushed to their aircraft only to be told that all four Typhoons were out of action because of contaminated fuel. It was a fighter pilot's deep instinct to take to the air and they were unimpressed to be left out of the exercise. After all, the entire defence of the islands was supposed to revolve around them and their extraordinarily capable machines.

A military Land Rover pulled up. A tall, tough looking man leapt from the driver's seat. Jacot could see from his badges of rank that he was the Sergeant Major of the infantry detachment. He couldn't have been anything else. He saluted, smiled
conspiratorially
at the Commodore and started unloading SA 80 rifles, GPMG machine guns and boxes of blank ammunition from the back of the vehicle.

‘Don't just stand around', the Commodore bawled at the group of RAF personnel, ‘go and help the infantry.'

Once the pilots and their ground crews had been deployed at the double into what passed for a defensive position around the hangars, the still grinning Sergeant-Major disappeared off at high speed to rejoin his men on the other side of the airfield.

‘Let's get back in my vehicle Colonel. I need to listen to the radio.' The Commodore drove rapidly to the side of the runway, lit a cigarette and listened intently to the
air-traffic
control net. There was only static. ‘We might have a couple of minutes to wait. Let me explain one thing quickly. I said we had shortened the runway by two thirds as if the Argies had managed to block it off in some way. See that red and white marker post – that marks the end of the usable runway – for the exercise anyway. We haven't put any barriers up – too dangerous.'

The radio burst into life. ‘Mount Pleasant Control this is Blackbuck leader, over.'

‘Mount Pleasant, send over', the control tower replied.

‘Blackbuck leader, entering Falkland Islands airspace in figures five. Are we clear for low-level pass, over?'

‘Mount Pleasant, yes, over.'

‘Blackbuck leader, roger. Blackbuck Three is a few minutes behind us and looking good. Out.'

The Commodore smiled. ‘Here we go'.

They waited for a few minutes. The Commodore's binoculars were fixed on the Eastern approach to the airfield.

Jacot caught a glimpse of sun glancing off something metallic in the distance and then heard that strange tearing noise made by fighter jets just before you can hear the roar of their engines. A pair of RAF Typhoons, perfectly aligned, screamed in from the East and flew the length of the airfield. They banked and disappeared over Wickham Heights, the hills to the north of the air base and into the distance. It was suddenly quiet again and along with the moaning of the wind Jacot could hear cheering from the troops taking part in the exercise.

‘I didn't tell them what was going to happen', said the delighted Commodore before chattering into the radio for a few minutes.

Again Jacot heard that slight tearing noise. This time the Typhoons came in from the West, even lower. As they came into view plumes of red, white and blue smoke billowed from their exhausts. They flew the length of the runway and then soared almost
vertically
into the sky.

‘Marvellous, bloody marvellous', said Jacot. The cheering continued in the
background
.

‘Mount Pleasant, this is Blackbuck leader. We'd love to do it again but we don't want to run out of fuel. Heading for our first tanker rendezvous. Should be back at Ascension in time for tea.'

‘Blackbuck leader, thank you and good luck. The weather looks good at Ascension.'

Jacot turned to the Commodore, ‘Great stuff. Lady Nevinson will be most
re-assured
.'

The Commodore replied, ‘Those aircraft were not armed. Obviously, if they were bombed up it would take more re-fuelling tankers to get them down here from Ascension Island but it should be no problem for the RAF. They got very good at it once again last year flying direct from their bases in East Anglia to Tripoli, and we did it in ‘82.'

‘Mount Pleasant, this is Blackbuck Three.'

‘Hang on, this is the climax', said the Commodore fixing his eyes to his binoculars once more.

A single C130 Hercules transport aircraft hove into view on the horizon, the pilot adjusting his approach with the aid of air traffic control. He was coming into land.

‘It will be tight for a Herc on the shortened runway', said Jacot.

‘Don't worry these guys have had years of practice in Helmand. If the pilot knows what he is doing he'll be fine. The Yanks once landed an early variant on one of their carriers, without arrestor gear.' Just as the plane reached the start of the runway it was hit by a fierce side wind. The pilot corrected … ‘Jeez, he's too high to make it.' The Commodore looked a little concerned.

All they could hear on the radio was the stressed heavy breathing of the pilot. At the
last minute he applied full power and with a roar of engines overshot the runway. As the plane climbed slowly they could hear the co-pilot anxiously calling out the airspeed. For just a couple of seconds the high-pitched stall alarm kicked in shrieking its warning. The Commodore went pale. Once he had enough speed the pilot banked, went around, and started his approach again.

A worried looking Commodore grabbed the radio ‘Hallo Blackbuck Three this is Commodore Mayne, Commander British Forces South Atlantic Islands. Look, just land normally. Maybe the wind is too strong.'

‘Blackbuck Three, sorry about that sir. We got distracted by the in-flight movie. Don't worry we'll make it this time. Out.'

It was a text-book short landing. The pilot dropped the aircraft hard on the runway right at the edge of the tarmac, slammed the engines into reverse, deployed a parachute to increase the drag and crunched to a metallic and smoky halt with fifty metres to spare before the red marker post. The rear ramp came down and a platoon of soldiers from the same regiment as the garrison took up fire positions around the plane. Jacot noticed one of them throwing up. A bumpy flight and a spectacular landing were hardly the best way of keeping breakfast down.

‘There we are. I think we have proved the point. Provided we can fly aircraft from Ascension then these islands are safe. We need a drink Colonel Jacot. Do you army types drink pink gin?'

The fourth day of his visit Jacot had arranged for personal matters and the military had kindly laid on a helicopter. As he ran towards it at the helipad just outside Government House it was so windy Jacot hardly noticed the downdraft. Tucked away inside his combat jacket were two beautifully wrapped bunches of flowers. The last time he had been in a helicopter in the Falklands he was being evacuated to the field hospital at Port San Carlos – “The Blue and Green Life Machine” – called after the completely
marvellous
Royal Navy and Royal Marine medics who staffed it. Put together partly in an old sheep shed it was a far cry from the sophisticated medical facilities available to the
contemporary
British Army and it took many hours for a casualty to get there.

Jacot's painful journey as a casualty had been interrupted by another Argentine air raid coming in. The immediate action was to land the helicopter as quickly as possible to avoid becoming a target for the air-to-air missiles carried by the Argentine Skyhawks and Mirages. Jacot thought they were going to crash and had nursed a dislike of helicopters ever since. As the helicopter took off from Government House it was buffeted by the strong prevailing Westerly winds. It would be a bumpy, lumpy journey to his three
destinations
. At each of the first two the helicopter deposited Jacot and returned after half an hour spent on navigational exercises.

The first stop was the Celtic Guards Memorial at Port Louis. Twenty or so miles to the north-west of Port Stanley and with a fine natural harbour the small settlement had been the first established on the islands, by French sailors from St Malo, in Brittany – hence Isles Malouines in French and Islas Malvinas in Spanish and, more recently, American usage. Charles Darwin visited, twice, but the capital moved to Stanley in 1845. It was a pretty little place lucky enough to be completely bypassed by the Falklands War until a few days before it was over. A stark granite Celtic Cross in the shape of the
regimental
cap-badge overlooked the bay where the
Oliver Cromwell
had been attacked all those years ago. Jacot came smartly to attention in front of it. His burned hands snapped in salute to his fallen comrades. Although alone, he said the Lord's Prayer aloud in both English and Welsh according to regimental custom and laid a small posy of daffodils at the foot of the cross. There was no card – he didn't have to identify himself to these men. He stood absolutely still at attention for nearly half an hour until he heard the sound of the returning helicopter, saluted again and got back on board.

The same process was repeated at the next destination the main Argentine military cemetery at Darwin. Jacot had wanted to lay flowers in the beautiful Argentine national
colours of pale blue and white but anything suitable was difficult to come by this far south and daffodils would have to suffice. Once again he saluted, and then stood absolutely still for nearly half an hour. The wind buffeted his body and the short
slightly
greying hair underneath the army beret ruffled in the wind. As the hum of the rotors came to his ears once again his arm snapped upwards to the salute and was then brought down to his side once again. Longest way up, shortest way down as the instructors at Sandhurst had shouted during drill periods.

And then he climbed back on board the helicopter for a third time en route to the southernmost tip of East Falkland, Porpoise Point, dramatically overlooking Drake Passage: the stretch of water that separated the islands from the Antarctic Continent.

There it was, a solitary cottage with a corrugated iron roof held down by turf slabs. There was smoke coming out of the chimney. A huge bear of a man came out of the front door and made for Jacot roaring a happy hallo. But he didn't stick his hand out in the usual way but just stood close and looked Jacot directly in the eye.

‘It's good to see you young man after all these years. I hope your hands are more
comfortable
than when we first met. Come on in.'

Jacot had not seen William Say for nearly ten years. They had first met thirty years before when Will had been helping at the field hospital near Blue Beach at San Carlos. Nearly overwhelmed by the burns casualties on
Oliver Cromwell
, some of the local
inhabitants
had volunteered to change dressings, reducing the burden on the military nursing staff. In agony and waiting to be evacuated to the hospital ship
SS Uganda
Jacot had been helped and comforted by this no nonsense Falklander. Like many big men Will was both light on his feet and nimble with his hands. His sense of humour and light touch meant that Jacot and others had found the ordeal of changing dressings and reapplying the
glutinous
Flammazine paste just about bearable.

From the moment they were put on board the helicopters at Port Louis the casualties had been doped with morphine. But you can only rely on morphine for a short space of time. Within a day or two all but the most severe casualties were weaned off it – except at night. Jacot had fainted the first time his dressings were changed without morphine. He was still slightly ashamed of it. But once Will became the main dresser for his little group things really did seem to improve. Will had also written a short note on a “Bluey”, the nickname for the official military air letter forms, to Jacot's widowed mother who had assumed that her only son had been killed. The butcher's bill on
Cromwell
had been high particularly among Jacot's regiment but not as high as some of the initial reports
suggested
.

They had kept in touch and on the twentieth anniversary of the war Will had visited London. It was the first time he had ever left the Falklands. Jacot and various other
casualties
Will had looked after enjoyed showing him round London. His wide-eyed and
innocent
admiration had been a joy to behold. It had all been, on the surface at least, a little like that great Aussie film of the 1980s,
Crocodile Dundee
. Jacot's liver had barely survived
and Will and he had rekindled their relationship of years before over numerous visits to the opera. Will had insisted on seeing live performances of every one of Mozart's great operas and Jacot had been happy to organise it all. He had been a great hit with Jacot's friends who both liked him and were grateful for his spontaneous kindness to Jacot and his wounded guardsmen during the Falklands War. Will had stayed at Jacot's flat in Marylebone. They had had a ball. Of course it turned out that Will was no ingénue from a remote half-forgotten colony at all but a highly educated and highly sophisticated
individual
. In his remote settlement on East Falkland he had made a serious study of Mozart's operas that put Jacot's dilettante interest in the shade. Also, he knew his history of England – king by king, queen by queen, battle by battle. He was, like Jacot, both devout and an ardent patriot. But unlike many of those in the modern world who clung to their faith and their monarchy inwardly but didn't make too much of it in public – for a quiet life – Will had no embarrassment at all about these pillars of his personal and
professional
life.

They had kept in touch by Christmas card and then email. There were few weeks when Jacot's inbox did not have some outrageous message from [email protected] in it. Unlike Jacot he had married and had a family who were his pride and joy. Jacot was envious. The children were away at school and his wife was in Stanley. They got inside the house.

‘It's good to see you but we could have met up for a few beers in the Upland Goose. Tell me what have you come for?'

‘Well it seemed a shame to waste the helicopter. The governor here is clearly either keen on or frightened of my boss. Actually, I need your help Will. I have got a kind of hunch about something. It's a delicate matter. National security and all that stuff.'

Will smiled.

‘You were busy during the war weren't you?' said Jacot, deadpan.

‘Well amongst other things I helped out at the hospital if you remember.'

‘No. I don't mean that I meant your then hobby – the radio.'

‘I am still very much an amateur radio man to this day and even in this crazy
technological
age they still call us “Hams”. But yes you were right those were the glory days. In a way I was On Her Majesty's Secret Service listening in to the Argentine radio
transmissions
and passing on what I could to the Task Force. If they had found out I think I would have been shot. It was like being in the French Resistance. The Argentine military government had banned the use of amateur radios and confiscated a lot of the
equipment
but they didn't get my stuff, though they had a jolly good look.'

Jacot giggled like a schoolboy at the memory. ‘It was hidden under a sheep pen. Very clever for a Falklander.'

‘Yes. And the Argies were too dim to find it. They were a grotty lot, most of them. Especially the conscripts from the wrong side of the tracks in Buenos Aires. Felt a bit sorry for them. But they did not like going anywhere near piles of damp and gooey sheep
shit. It was still risky setting it up as they did have a direction finding capability. But I was mainly listening and went to the other end of the point to transmit. They were never quick enough off the mark and in the end I hid the whole apparatus up on the rocky outcrop you can just see from this window. Job done. I think I made a proper patriotic contribution to the war effort.

‘Actually, I was a bit disappointed when the Task Force landed as there was no further requirement for me to listen in. So as you know I switched to monitoring our own
military
transmissions – just for fun mind. It was amusing to spot the difference between the official transmissions and what the soldiers and young officers were actually saying on their own nets. You explained it all to me I remember. One tone for the battalion radio net. All “Yes sir, no sir, very good sir. Things are going well sir.” And another for what you young officers called “chat nets” on obscure frequencies where you could
communicate
without the knowledge of your rather heavy handed superiors.

‘I can remember hearing your voice somewhere before you ended up in the hospital', said Will. ‘And I have got recordings of some of you guys. Didn't give them to the inquiry into the
Cromwell
disaster – you would have all been court martialled for cheek and dissent. The language was rather shocking too I remember. What did they teach you all at your fancy schools? I made some recordings on my old tape recorders. More than two hundred hours in all. Thought it might be in the historical interest.'

‘Where are they now?'

‘Oh I got rid of them long ago. The tape recorders I mean. But the recordings
themselves
are still around, digitised, as you would expect for a techie like me.'

‘It's those chat nets that I am interested in Will. I don't know if you have heard about the death of General Verney in rather Agatha Christie-like circumstances a couple of weeks ago in Cambridge. Not the ones with me and my mates mouthing off about life. But others, with perhaps more senior officers talking amongst themselves. 21st Infantry Brigade transmissions and Celtic Guards transmissions for the night 8/9 June 1982. And I am looking for a particular voice, a Captain Verney. Now General Verney.'

‘I'll help you but you have to tell me why.' His face held no expression but the eyes were serious. He knew enough about what Jacot did for a living to understand the
implications
.

‘OK Will, I'll let you in on the secret but please don't go blabbing about it in the Upland Goose after a few too many beers. And if you defect to the Russian Embassy in Stanley, my career is finished.'

Will got up, went into the small kitchen and re-appeared with a bottle of whisky. ‘Famous Grouse is what you young officers used to drink. It's going to be a long
afternoon
looking for your dead general's voice. We might need a little help.'

The wind buffeted the small house, little more than a shack.

‘William, consider yourself back on Her Majesty's Secret Service and here's why. I have been tasked by my boss, the formidable Lady Nevinson, to check up on the
circumstances
of Verney's death just to make sure that everything is shall we say “kosher”. She was not originally a spook herself and basically views most members of the
intelligence
establishment as lying, devious, double-crossing scheisters.' He knocked back a large whisky and laughed. ‘I'm exaggerating of course but you get my drift. Anyway, Verney's death looks innocent enough. Just one of those things for a man in late middle age. He smoked a lot too. The tests and all that suggest that he died of a heart attack or some kind of seizure on his own inside a locked room in a Cambridge College. End of chat as they say. I have been able to find nothing suspicious… except a connection to the Falklands War. The head butler in this college was in my regiment and lost a brother on the
Cromwell
which he himself was lucky to survive. It's a sad story which I will spare you. The details will have us crying into our whisky. Verney was a staff officer of some sort I think, and I just wondered if there was any connection between him and the ghastly affair of the
Oliver Cromwell
? I certainly remember his name at the time. It's a long shot and it's not really why I am here but let's give it a go.'

They drank whisky through the afternoon. Laughing as they heard Jacot's young voice chatting in colourful terms to another young officer. They didn't just talk about the war. They discussed the present. Say seemed unconcerned by the posturing of President Kirchner. ‘The Malvinas are a kind of crazy national G Spot. Every shady Argentine politician eventually can't resist pressing the button and President Kirchner is no
different
. Good-looking lady mind.' Say laughed and drank more whisky. ‘Hell's teeth, if I said that in the Upland Goose the lads would throw me into Stanley Harbour.' But the humour was gone as he expressed forcefully what he and some others believed – that the Americans were backing Argentina in the dispute because of the massive oil reserves being discovered in the islands' territorial waters. ‘It's oil. It's always oil with the Americans. They can't help it. We are going to have between 8 billion and 60 billion barrels of the stuff. If the islands belonged to the Argies how convenient would that be for the big American oil companies. A guaranteed supply on their own continent.' He returned to the war. ‘You didn't like the people in charge of you did you?'