Land of Fire Page 3

  I turned away and looked at Tom, sitting quietly on his bunk. He was the best man in the squad, and everyone knew it. "You're crazy leaving Tom out because you're so fucking jealous you can't bring yourself to take me along. If you won't see reason, I'll go to the OC myself," I shouted, storming out.

  "That's right," Andy jeered after me. "And while you're at it, put in for a commission, why don't you?"

  Up on the deck I breathed in the cold air, shaking with anger and humiliation. It was as though Andy was determined to frustrate my attempts to prove myself a soldier and a member of the Regiment. He wanted to keep me always in his shadow.

  Carrying my grievance to the OC was an empty threat, and we both knew it. No officer would override the decision of a senior NCO in charge of a patrol on selection. Andy had chosen his three team members to accompany him, and that was that. As far as he was concerned I could spend the war kicking my heels.

  I saw the four of them trooping up the stairs, making their way aft to the Portakabin for the OC's briefing. Fuck them, I thought. In my anger I was hoping they'd all get cut up by the Argies and serve them bloody right. Tom and I would stay behind and get drunk. That was something we were good at.

  Tom was unfazed at being left behind. "There'll be plenty more battles," he observed. He'd scar fed us a can of lager each from the mess, and we cracked them open. I took a deep slug and sat back, feeling my anger slowly ebb away. I envied Tom his placid outlook. He hadn't much education but he never let it worry him. He just took life as it came, one day at a time. He had done a lot of fighting but he would probably never make better than corporal and he was quite content with that. He lived simply. In his quarters in Hereford there was no furniture; his family sat around on the floor watching television and drinking beer, and they were happy too. I wished I could be more like him.

  We had just finished and were crumpling our cans when Taffy stuck his head round the door. "Change of plan," he grinned. "The OC wants you in the cabin pronto. They're upping the team to six and you buggers are coming with us."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The OC's office wasn't much larger than our bunk room. It had no windows and there was a permanent guard on the door. Major Clayton's regimental nickname was Claymore, and he was one tough-looking bastard, with pouched eyes and a reputation as a hard drinker. His junior officers used to take it in turns to sit up, at nights, keeping him company, and he could drink any of them under the table.

  I was glad Andy had a pissed-off look He'd been made to eat his own words, and serve him right.

  I took my seat, feeling completely keyed up. This operation must be important, I reckoned, for the OCto override the decision of a senior

  NCO.

  With the door was locked behind us again, Claymore launched into his briefing. The objective was to destroy the Argentine bomber capability. There were particular fears over the Exocet AM-39 air-launched missiles, which were evading our most modern de fences "If the Argies should succeed in sinking either of the aircraft carriers, Hermes or Invincible, then the task force would no longer have an air defence worth the name. Effectively the war would be lost. One missile hit is all it takes."

  That sobered us considerably. With more than 2000 troops ashore we had pretty much assumed the war was as good as won and here was a senior officer telling us we were up shit creek.

  "According to intelligence," Claymore continued, scowling at us, 'the Argies have only a handful of missiles left, and no more than five of the Dassault Super Etendard bombers capable of launching them. They're doing their best to buy replacements on the world market and our agents are attempting to block them, but that's another story. The point is each of those missiles is sufficient to sink a ship. The threat has to be neutralised somehow. And that's our job."

  At a sign from him, the operations officer, a gaunt-faced major in his thirties, uncovered a map of the southern tip of the South American continent. "Now, we believe the bombers and their missiles to be currently stationed at Rio Grande on Tierra del Fuego, an island which as you can see belongs partly to Argentina and partly to Chile. Rio Grande is approximately 350 miles distant from Port Stanley, so the bombers can make the round trip with air refuelling."

  He paused to let this sink in, then continued. "The decision has been taken that the SAS should mount an assault on the base with the objective of destroying the bombers and missiles."

  Tapping the map with his pointer, he proceeded to expand on the plan. "D Squadron is currently embarking for Ascension Island. There the squadron will transfer to a pair of C-130 transports. They will fly in at low level below the radar net, and approach the base from the north-west to make a surprise landing on the main runway."

  As we listened, amazed, he explained how the planes would lower their tail ramps and, before the defenders had time to react, the SAS would race out from the aircraft in their heavily armed Land Rovers. "Troops One, Two and Three will fan out across the base to attack the aircraft in their revetments, while Troop Four will storm the officers' mess and shoot down the pilots and crews found there."

  I sat up, electrified. Infiltrating an OP into enemy territory to report back on aircraft movements was one thing the Argies might well anticipate some such move on our part. But a full blown attack at squadron strength was an enormously ambitious plan. It was a classic mission, the kind that had made the Regiment's reputation in the Second World War. If successful it would be a huge blow against the Argentines and quite possibly end the war.

  "Your role in this is vital," Claymore continued, sweeping us with his bleak gaze. "You will provide advance reconnaissance for the main party. It will be your job to identify the targets and report on aircraft movements. You will note the position of anti-aircraft de fences and prepare the way for the attack by neutral ising them at the appropriate moment."

  Now I understood why Tom and I had been called in. That last line gave it away. Our section's part in the mission had been upgraded from simple recon to playing a major role in the attack. As a sniper it would be my job to take out the enemy AA gunners as the transports were lining up for their landings.

  Elated as I was to be part of the mission, I couldn't help thinking of the risks. The C-130 Hercules were our standard transport big lumbering beasts, capable of carrying a hundred paratroops. If the element of surprise 'was lost they would be sitting ducks. Surely an air strike by the task force's Harriers guided to their targets by us on the ground would be a better option?

  Extraction was going to be the biggest problem. Assuming the Hercules were undamaged, the plan called for them to refuel at the base then fly the surviving members of the squadron, us included, back to the Falklands. Taffy nudged me. "It's a fucking suicide mission. If either one of the bleeders is hit that leaves you and me yomping fifty miles to the Chilean border with half the Argentine army at our backs."

  But I wasn't worried. Infiltration by night, lying up in concealment observing enemy dispositions, then guiding in an assault force this was the kind of mission we had trained for. And I was a trained sniper. I could pick off a target at 600 metres. A single armour-piercing bullet would destroy a missile as effectively as a bomb. Even the tab out to the border didn't alarm me. We exercised that kind of trek often enough on our training area in Wales. I was confident I could handle it.

  The operations officer took over the details. Rio Grande lay close to the sea, and the obvious way to insert a clandestine team ashore was by submarine. Unfortunately the only submarine available was a nuclear boat, and it was too big and too valuable to be risked so close to the Argentine coast. So it would have to be an airdrop. We would be going in by helicopter.

  There was a pause while the Navy crew of the Sea King assigned to us was called in to join the briefing. For security they were to be kept in the dark about the main mission so they wouldn't be able to blow it if captured. The pilots and their navigator took their seats, looking nervous.

  The ops officer explained that we would embark on board the car
rier HMS Invincible. "Invincible will close to the coast during the night for maximum range and fly the party off. The plan is to fly a course for the Beagle Channel at the southern tip of Tierra del Fuego, where the Chilean border comes down to the Atlantic coast. The helicopter will then turn northwards and fly up the border, keeping to the Chilean side, and approach Rio Grande from the west." He coughed and continued. "After setting down the recon party, it will fly on out over the sea."

  "What happens then?" Taffy asked.

  "The team will have been dropped close to the Argentine base. You will then work up to a point where you can keep the runways under observation and establish an OP."

  "And what about the Sea King?" Taffy persisted. "Suppose we have to abort, does it have fuel to bring us out?"

  The ops officer exchanged glances with Claymore. Both looked unhappy. The ops officer swallowed. "Negative," he said. "Once you've reached the coast the Sea King will have insufficient fuel to reach the fleet. It will fly as close in as possible and ditch in the sea. The crew will be recovered by Search and Rescue."

  There was a pregnant silence. The helicopter crew were staring at the table. They didn't like the prospect one bit. Shit, I thought. If anyone had drawn the short straw on this mission it was these three. Ditching a helicopter in the South Atlantic swells probably gave them a fifty per cent chance of survival if they were lucky.

  "Why not fly back to Chile and land there?" I suggested. The Navy guys looked up. The same idea must have occurred to them.

  The ops officer shook his head. "Too risky. Could blow the main operation." He put on a cheerful aspect. "Don't worry. The Navy takes care of its people. There'll be a frigate on standby with a helicopter to pick them out of the water."

  I looked at the crew. They were staring at the table again. I could read their expressions as clearly as if they had spoken out loud. That Search and Rescue helicopter would recover their bodies.

  That was the way it was going to be, though. There was no argument. This was wartime and some missions are tough.

  The briefing continued. We covered details of the flight: where to set down; what to do in the event we were detected on the run-in which basically amounted to aborting the mission and heading for Chilean territory.

  Major Clayton stood up again. Realising that morale was in danger of slipping, he treated us to a short pep talk. The mission was vital, he stressed. It was of crucial importance that the bombers and their missiles be destroyed. "Otherwise the task force could sustain hundreds of casualties and the war be lost."

  The Navy crew went out, and we went through communications procedures, recognition codes with the assault force, how to link up and what our role would be in the final attack. We also touched on escape and evasion in the event we had to tab out on foot. There was a British agent providing intelligence in the area. He had been alerted to set up a ratline across the border for us. We discussed a procedure for getting in contact with him and a rendezvous point.

  At the back of my mind all the time was the thought of those Navy guys flying off after leaving us, knowing they were going to almost certain death. Our job was a picnic compared to that.

  "This mission stinks," Taffy muttered as we filed out. "Those bleeders in the Hercules don't stand a chance. By the time they reach Argy airspace they'll be committed. They won't have fuel to return. If they're picked up on radar they'll have no choice but go in. If one of the planes makes an error and has to circle round for a second attempt those Argy marines will blow it out of the sky."

  I shrugged. What could we do? "You heard what Claymore said. Either we go in or a couple of carriers get burned."

  "Fuck to that," was Taffy's reply. "We're talking about an entire squadron getting wiped out."

  Andy overheard this and came down on him like a load of bricks. "Shut the fuck up, you hear? It's not your business. We carry out our mission and that's an end to it. If the main mission is successful we fly out with the rest of the squadron. If it goes pear-shaped and we have to tab out, fine. We'll do it, no sweat. And if you're gutless, say so now and I'll have you replaced."

  It was put up or shut up and Taffy backed down. He was a doom merchant, but no coward. Andy moved away without speaking to me.

  Doug was following behind and had heard the exchange. "What's the matter, Taffy, you scared or what?"

  Taffy grunted. "Fucking rookie, you think you know it all." We stepped out through the door on to the open deck and he had to shout to make himself heard against the wind. "Well, I'll tell you something else. A couple of blokes from B Squadron flew in from Ascension this morning. According to them the OC of D Squadron was RTU'd over the weekend and his sergeant major with him. And you want to know why? Because they told the Headshed this mission was a one-way ticket and that none of the guys would be coming back. So they were both replaced."

  Doug and I both stared at him. "Fucking hell," Doug whispered. To replace an OC and his senior NCO on the eve of a major operation was unheard of. I couldn't imagine how the situation would have arisen. It was part of the SAS creed that nothing was impossible to determined men. To admit otherwise was tantamount to mutiny. The OC concerned must have felt he was being asked to send men to certain death. For the first time I felt a sense of real unease.

  Taffy saw he had us worried and grinned sourly. "Bet you that assault never goes ahead. We'll be stuck out there on the mainland, all to no purpose. And another thing," he added, dropping his voice as we moved into the lee of the superstructure,

  'that talk of your brother's about flying out with the rest of the squadron is just bullshit. The only way we're getting home is on our own feet."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Final preparations started immediately. The aircraft carrier Invincible, escorted by a single frigate, would transport the recon team with its Sea King in towards the coast during darkness and fly them off at midnight. That meant a great deal of cross-decking of supplies, and we were taking a mountain of kit along. The Navy people all seemed to know their guys were not expected to make it back and were blaming us. There was a generally bad atmosphere and non-cooperation on all sides. We wouldn't have anything to do with them, and they weren't having anything to do with us.

  Our kit went over first. It took a long time to get everything together. We had Norwegian arctic warfare clothing, Goretex bivvy bags, night-vision scopes, weapons, satellite communications equipment, food, ammunition and surveillance gear -enough to enable us to carry out our mission and survive for two weeks in the tundra if need be. Each man would be carrying his bergen, plus weapons and his share of kit, a load of 1201bs in most cases.

  It was late afternoon by the time we were ready. The carrier with its escorting frigate was already out of sight to the southwest, proceeding towards the Argentine coast.

  As well as the six of us there were eight other guys making the crossing, six of them SAS from another troop who were being positioned for another mission against East Falkland in two days' time. One of them, Nick Brown, was a mate of mine, a fellow Scot from life with white Celtic colouring and blue-black hair. We'd completed the induction course together and been friends ever since. Nick was a family guy. He was looking forward to going into action, but worried for his wife and kids in case anything happened to him.

  The helicopter reappeared and touched down on the heaving deck. It had refuelled on the carrier. We piled in and it lifted off directly. We sat on narrow seats along the side of the cabin, facing into the cent reline I was sitting next to Nick with Tom on the other side, and Andy sat opposite with Taff, Doug and Guy. The rest of the guys were back in the tail. Our huge berg ens were stacked down the middle between the two rows of seats. The pilots and navigator were on the flight deck, which was accessed through a hatch forward and up a few steps. Even with the side door shut the noise in the confined space was deafening.

  We had barely cleared the deck and were coming out of the hover, moving over open water, when there was a loud bang overhead. A terrific concussion sh
ook the helicopter and a shower of heavy impacts hammered the fuselage. In the same instant the aircraft lost forward speed and lurched towards the sea.

  As the cabin tilted, I grabbed the straps holding me into my seat and braced my feet for a possible crash. The helicopter wallowed for a second or two, and for a moment I thought it was recovering and would put back to the ship. I guessed there had been an engine failure. But the next instant the fuselage dropped like a stone, so fast I felt myself lifting out of my seat. We hit the surface with a bone-jarring smash and rolled straight on to the starboard side, so that I was hanging up in the air from my seat belt straps. Water surged violently into the cabin and in no time at all it was over our heads.

  We had all trained for this. Many of our exercises had been helicopter-borne, and we had all spent time on the simulators -they strap you in a large box, turn it upside down and dunk you in the drink. It had been drilled into us that speed is vital in this situation. Helicopters all behave the same way on a ditching: their engines are on top, so they turn over and sink like bricks. The only chance is to get out fast.

  The water was shockingly cold. It seemed to strike straight through to my bones. We would die quickly from hypothermia if we didn't drown like rats trapped in the sinking fuselage.

  A heavy weight was pressing against my arms and legs, pinning me against the seat. It had to be the berg ens they must have rolled on to my side in the crash. I thrashed about in the darkness trying to work myself free and push aside the packs. They were sodden with water and weighed a ton, and there seemed no end to them.

  At last I broke free and swam upwards, trying to picture in my mind where the entrance hatch would be. With everything turned upside down and only a faint emergency light to guide me it was next to impossible to orient myself. And I was running out of air fast.