Land Force Commander to OCs of all units: 13/5/82 16.00 hrs: Gains are being made in all sectors. It is my belief that one final heave will bring a solution to the battle. Good Luck.
Sam started by going over the mission again, only this time, using a cue, he was able to point to some definite features on the map they’d drawn. Robbie Knox had brought back one definite measurement to give some indication of the scale. That gave some accuracy to the distance between the tower position, which with a tall radio mast obviously included the communications centre, the main accommodation blocks, the hard standing for aircraft and their hangars. The sentry posts were marked, as well as the times for changes. Two hours on, four off, normal Green Army routine. The runway, a single long tarmac strip running from east to west, was between those and the river, with the western landing beacons on the edge of the town of Rio Grande.
Anti-aircraft guns, identified by Serious Sid from Robbie’s sketch as four Bofors 40mm L/60 batteries, were concentrated at that end of the runway. Of World War Two vintage, they would definitely have added fire-control systems. But according to Robbie, they were without wheels, to aid firing stability, and thus were static. More important, they were unmanned, the assumption surely being that any warning system would allow the gunners to get to them in time to take on any incoming threat. The estimated distance from the main gate to the nearest houses was marked in kilometres.
Ideally it should have been to scale, the kind of model that the Green Slime would occasionally produce in Hereford. But few were gifted in that direction and, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, they lacked the tools to compensate. Nor was there enough battery power in the patrol torches for the time it would have taken to formulate such a thing. There was a big N on the far side of the green baize so that everybody knew the whereabouts of north.
Surrounded by faces made ethereal by the torchlight, Sam went through the necessary appreciation of the ground they would cover, the kind of going they should encounter, what enemy dispositions Robbie and his team had sussed and the nature of the sentries they had posted. To this was added the information that Digger had brought back. He’d done better than expected, spotting first a guard tower that overlooked the southern approaches to the main accommodation area, then what looked like a pair of earth-covered bunkers on the opposite corner of the field to the room they were now in. They had a guard of their own, housed in a flimsy-looking breezeblock hut. Sam provided a schedule of what they’d observed from the house, the perimeter patrol timings made by jeep.
Sam stated twenty minutes as the time within which the mission would have to be completed once it went noisy, before detailing the team tasks. That was standard SOP. The only way you could hold to a timed plan, and make sure it was feasible, was to work back from completion. There was a slot allocated to each section of the plan, from the moment of departure from the estancia, through the river crossing, to the FRV from which the bulk of the patrol would execute the assault. These included speed of movement, rates of advance and approximate distances to be covered. The group would then split up, the GPMG parties taking up stations to provide covering and suppression fire. That was followed by an outline of possible enemy reactions.
There’s no such thing as a perfect plan, and no one listening to Sam Clark expected one. But the biggest grey area was how the Argies would respond, especially since they were still unclear as to how many they would face. Robbie had reported the maintenance hangars to be lit up and seemingly working through most of the night. That meant people awake and alert close to some of their targets, aircraft undergoing servicing or repair. The single Roland battery he’d seen was operational twenty-four-hours and mounted on armoured carriers. This, according to Serious Sid, was probably a French AMX 30 tank chassis. Would they stay where they lay, or use their mobility to interfere? The missiles would be useless, but an armoured vehicle was always tricky to handle for ground troops in what would be a messy, uncertain environment. Unless you knew their orders, you couldn’t tell.
The level of traffic between the base and the town was another variable. It consisted of two fully laden trucks, which probably carried ordinary jundies, and cars and jeeps which must contain officers, some of them the pilots they should be trying to kill. Return times varied, but the trucks came back first, and the others drifted in throughout the next few hours. All it indicated was that a lot of the Rupertinos were out enjoying themselves, when they should have been either sleeping or supervising their troops.
Sam talked for about three-quarters of an hour, rarely pausing, doing so only to answer the odd question put by one of the troopers. Robbie’s patrol was designated as the gun team on the GPMGs and would work in pairs. Sam would lead the main assault group, ten of the twelve men who would go in and divide inside the wire, which sounded like a strong party until you outlined the tasks. The means of entry and exfil had to be held, and the main gate too must be secure. Blue was taking one patrol after the bunkers, which left only four men to take on the rest of the mission, the planes and the people who might be working on them. Movement was to be silent up to the point when action would be initiated. The signal to go noisy was simple. The first bang, either from a gun or an explosive charge.
‘At its very lowest, it falls into three objectives and one aim. To gain access to the base, to go for the targets while part of the patrol holds open the window in which we have to operate. The targets are dispersed, so we need to either hold off going noisy to allow time to cover ground, or just go for it as soon as possible. That depends on being able to take possession of a vehicle. If we can achieve that, all teams are to operate simultaneously. If not, the assault goes in on the aircraft and everyone will then try and divert attention away from the men assigned to the bunkers. Our final task is to get out and slow any pursuit. I will tell the Headshed that we are moving out as soon as it gets dark, at around 17.30 hours. Time to get your kit sorted out.’
Most of the troopers stayed at the table, taking a final look at the rough map, before moving away to redistribute the weaponry, so that those tasked to the specific jobs had what was needed. Guns were checked as well as the magazines, the pre-prepared explosive charges with adhesive tape loaded into the dry sack. The 66mm anti-tank rockets, their main firepower, were redistributed. One-shot, throwaway weapons, they had a big fire signature that told everybody and their mother where you were coming from. That didn’t matter as long as the man firing it was gone as soon as the rocket left the tube.
In every headquarters from Northwood to Hereford, in Ascension Island, aboard Hermes and in Downing Street, the last forty-eight hours had been agony, as the battle for Port Stanley reached a climax. The only people who managed to maintain an air of calm were in the field headquarters of the Land Force Commander. They saw the same picture unfold on their maps, the steady progress of British troops as they dislodged the Argentine defenders from their prepared positions.
They were taking casualties but inflicting more. The British Army was fighting in appalling conditions – wet, hungry and cold – yet still taking ground. But there was another reason for their air of confidence, and that was the one that Cornelius Hosier, in the War Room at Hereford, was watching, having specifically requested to be kept informed. The prisoner count! Nothing tells a general more about the state of his opponents than that. And a collapse is usually proceeded by a rash of surrenders. With Special Forces troops in on the ground in Argentina, he had a right to be told that vital figure.
A hint had been dropped by the Intelligence Officer in the War Room that B Squadron’s attack might prove unnecessary. The glare he earned for that not only silenced the Green Slime but anyone else who doubted the Director’s wisdom. They had all seen how ruthless he could be with dissent, and were well aware of his dissatisfaction with the way the Rio Grande operation was being handled. Sergeant Sam Clark was watering down his increasingly tart instructions, which Hosier believed any officer would have obeyed. So his name and abilities were added to the mental file of those who said that discretion was the better part of valour.
But no one could doubt, seeing position after position fall, that the Argies were on the rack. If Hosier and some of the other brass hats were right, and there was some last throw prepared, then surely this was the time to launch it. In fact, to most of the people present, unless the enemy air force had a suicide plan, it was already too late.
‘Read your history books, gentlemen,’ Hosier said suddenly. He’d not turned round, but he must have picked up the vibrations of the room. ‘Even with the surrenders we have achieved, our troops have a bare parity with the enemy. If they decide to hold a shrinking perimeter, we could be in for a bloody few days.’
Sam Clark led the way out of the billiard room, with Blue Harding even closing the shutters so that no one would suspect they’d been forced until they saw the bar missing from the inside. The table had been recovered, though the attempts to erase the plan had proved difficult. The chalk left a faint stain that only a stiff brush would remove. The only evidence that the room had been occupied was the lack of dust on the floor. Everything else had been removed, just in case. A long shot, but for the sake of the time it took to clear up, not one worth taking.
The sky was five-eighths cloudy, perfect conditions for what they had to do, with a light breeze just cold enough to keep anybody standing stag inside the nearest shelter. Hoods would be up on their parkas as well, cutting off a high percentage of their ability to hear. They followed a single path, close together, till they were a hundred metres from the estancia, so that no one looking at the ground could count their number by boot impressions. Then, at a signal from Sam, they got themselves into normal patrol order and headed for the river.
The next stage had been one of the most hotly disputed in the Chinese parliament. It was necessary to make a Bergen cache, which would also act as an emergency rendezvous point, in any area clear of obstacles. No one could persuade Sam Clark of the sense of carting the heavy rucksacks across the river, only to dump them on the other side. Yet many hated the idea of being separated from their kit by a natural obstacle. Sam argued his corner, then took a decision that was, anyway, his to make as patrol commander. Bergem would be cached this side, and a secondary ERV would be set up on the opposite bank, using one patrol radio as the meeting point. The rope line they’d use to cross would be left in the water, so that they could evade quickly on their return.
They were all going to get wet, but the poor bastard who took the rope over would be soaked, and so would the last man, who’d have to cross using a submerged line. Luke Tuikabe put himself up for the first job, joking that since he didn’t need to be cammed up, there was no way the river water could wash his off. Dinger Bell, an Olympic standard swimmer, would bring up the rear.
The trees both ends were tied to hardly rated the name. They were stunted bent affairs, pointing to the west, growths that achieved so little height that most troopers were in up to their waist. The water, in a river wide and slow, was ice cold, the kind that comes off a mountain glacier. That made the move even quicker than standard, no one wanting their body temperature to be dropped by lengthy immersion in the kind of chill from which they could not recover.
Even without their Bergens, each trooper bore a heavy load. The 66mm carriers had their own personal weapons and ammo to transport as well. The gun teams had belts strapped round their waist so heavy that it had been a moot point whether to take them off and ship them over on their own, using a loop of rope to hold them, and another to pull. But that was discarded. Best to take everything with you: then you knew where it was at all times. While this was going on, those men who would cross last set up a stag to protect the position. The first over the other side afforded the same.
As soon as Dinger joined, Sam restated the tasks and times, checked watches and compass settings, then led the way off to the arranged ERV. In two groups, the troopers moved forward, slow and careful, some of the lights from the air base indicating the location of their target.
‘Signal, sir’, said the scaley, as he exited the comms room and approached Hosier’s back. The Brigadier read it, not once, but twice. He then stood up, and turned slowly, a smile on his face.
‘Gentleman, this is from 2 Para, routed through HQ. The Argentine forces have hoisted a white flag, and are requesting negotiations to cover a formal surrender.’
There was no cheering, but a lot of quiet smiling, before the Green Slime spoke. ‘Permission to send a signal to Bravo One One, sir.’
That clouded Hosier’s brow, causing him to hesitate. He was being asked to bin an operation that stood as his sole contribution to the conflict. Without that raid, the kudos for Special Forces success would reside elsewhere. The scaley coughed, which brought Jock the Sock back to the present. Asked later by his superiors, he justified his action with the same words he used now.
‘It may well be some kind of trick.’
As a position to defend, the ERV was crap: not dead ground, just a point on a compass with no cover to speak of. Twelve of the sixteen men formed an all-round defence, as Sam went over the orders for Robbie Knox’s gun teams. They, with their GPMGs, were tasked to move out thirty minutes before the main party. Two would seek a position to the west of the main operational area of the airfield, while the other pair would move on to the designated position Digger had spotted, which would allow them to pour down suppression fire on most of the main targets. There were no final handshakes or thumbs up. All that had been done back at the estancia. Good luck wasn’t going to help anyone. Good soldiering would.
The men who remained were totally silent, a visual appreciation of what was about to happen running through each of their minds. If a bomb exploded in this personal vision, it was only as a prelude to a trained reaction. All their SAS life ran in a seamless film before them; all the agony and the practice, the things they’d learned easily and those they’d found hard. Every one of them would be tested on this operation. The breathing was easy and controlled, the puff of steam from each throat even. But the heartbeats were a little racy, and the nerve ends on the skin absorbed the increased blood flow. The minutes counted off, only twenty, seemed like hours, until Sam called them in to issue his final briefing.
‘Blue on point as agreed, with Luke at number two. Fire Team Alpha just behind me and Paul, at three and four. 66s in the centre, exfil demolition team next, Digger and Graunch bringing up the rear. You all know your spot. Second man aim right, third aim left. You have your grid reference for the first and second forward assault position. Any man goes down on the way, for whatever reason, to inform the trooper to his front, pull out and head back to the ERV.’
They all stood as Sam looked at his watch, Blue moving just before he gave him the nod. They had two kilometres to cover and no set time to do it in. The signal for suppression support was noise, which meant they would hold their fire until the assault teams either initiated the attack or responded to a compromise. So they could move slowly and carefully, with Blue Harding setting an easy pace. The headlights on the road had them all crouching down. And they were flat as the truck, turning towards the bridge over the Rio Grande River, swept the twin beams weakly across their inert shapes. As they faded, Blue stood up and signalled with his arm that they should proceed.
He had to halt once more, for much the same reason, as the jeep patrolling the perimeter swept round inside the wire fence. The halt that caused was used to check the timings. Observation had shown that they were haphazard, but only within a limited time frame, which indicated a lack of punctuality rather than staggered runs designed to catch out potential intruders.
They stayed to the north of the road, far enough away to be invisible to anyone walking. Traffic was so light to the east of the air base, and the terrain so flat, that they had ample warning of any threat. The vehicles that were around, exiting from the air base, tended to turn towards the town, not away from it. The point of greatest danger was the minute at which they crossed in front of the main gate. This was dimly illuminated, just enough to allow the sentries to identify anyone approaching. So Blue tended north, to stay well out of the arc of light, until he reached the point at which they were designated to turn due south. That brought Sam Clark forward to restate the tasks. It was a full minute before he spoke, the time used to check the security of the environment.
‘We go from here. Fire Team Alpha first. The rest of us will move forward as the jeep goes past. We need to be near the fence when Alpha take out the sentries.’
That was a calculated risk, based on what Robbie Knox and his team had observed. that the Argies headed for town before seven and that the gate was generally quiet until well after ten, when the first of the revellers, the ordinary Joes in the trucks, returned. Not once had a car or jeep preceded the trucks, the officers staying out longer than the men. If anyone inadvertently broke that pattern, they would probably die before they got inside the wire.
Dinger Bell and Tony D’ Ambrosio made up Fire Team Alpha. They were tasked to crawl to the wire mesh fence, crossing the road to the east of the main gate, signalling when they were in position with an infra-red filtered torch. The wire would be cut immediately the response was communicated, the point at which the rest of the patrol would prepare to move forward. The sign to do that was the passing of the perimeter patrolling jeep. Robbie Knox had observed that they had a habit of stopping at the main gate so that the driver could exchange a bit of gossip, perhaps to have a moan, or pass on jokes at the expense of the static sentries.
The distraction of that exchange would get Alpha through the wire. The supporting teams would use the noise to get to the gap in the fence, ready to infil when advised it was safe to do so. Dinger and Tony strapped their M203s round their backs, checked that their Welrods were secure, and at a tap signal from Sam, set off. They had a time for at least to get in position. Blue reckoned they were safe enough. He couldn’t see them after five seconds, and he was looking. Five minutes later, Sam Clark saw the tiny flash in his goggles, and tapped Blue to be ready to move out, a signal he passed on. Now all they needed was the jeep.
A Mercedes based on the old World War Two design for the Kubelwagen, it swept past the point where Fire Team Alpha lay, using the wire and the longish grass that accumulated near the base to avoid detection. As soon as the headlight glare faded Blue moved out at a crouch. This was no time for crawling, it would take too long. The ping of the cutters on the wire was audible enough to induce haste, though they had to hope the idling engine of the jeep would drown that out.
A quick look through his night sight confirmed to Blue that Dinger and Tony were through the fence, inching towards the gate, where the sentries could be heard exchanging laughing insults with the mobile patrol. As the jeep drove away, they raised themselves up, walked quietly but confidently towards the two sentries, whose eyes were fixed on the shrinking red taillights.
A Welrod makes little sound, the level of which can be drowned out by a decent wind or the muted roar of a departing engine. Given those conditions you can fire it past someone’s ear when their back is turned and they will not react. Developed during the war for quiet assassination, it had never been surpassed for silence, and was a favourite weapon of many SAS troopers. The two sentries, simultaneously, took a bullet right in the back of their heads. One of them was still chortling at some joke he’d made, the sound of laughter dying in his throat as the front of his head was blown off.
They hit the ground without noise, crumpling rather than falling. Another advantage of the Welrod was a low muzzle velocity, enough to tear apart flesh and bone, but insufficient to throw the body violently forward. There were two more sentries in the gatehouse. They didn’t hear Dinger and Tony pull back and twist the mechanism of the pistols to put another bullet in the chamber. But at least they saw they were going to die.
The troopers stepped through the open door, Welrods out, arms extended in the classic firing position. To men trained in counterterrorism, fighting in dark, confined spaces, the sentries were sitting ducks, taking the four remaining rounds at a decreasing range, the only sound that of the single-shot Welrods being re-cocked, immediately followed by the noise of the bullets hitting the bodies.
Taking his cue from the same set of disappearing taillights, Blue Harding was through the wire before the sentries died, followed by the rest of the patrol. The exfil team dropped back to lay the charges that would act to protect them when they bugged out, Claymore mines set as booby traps, which could either be detonated by remotes, or by interference. Sam stopped everyone inside, on the edge of the perimeter road, his hand tapping a shoulder and giving a direction to each team.
Blue, Digger and two of the 66mm carriers headed for the guardhouse to join Tony and Dinger, taking the Argentine forage caps that had been removed from the dead sentries and sticking them on their heads. The 66mms went inside, laid away their tubes and, re-emerging, used their rifles to cover the approaches from the town to the gate, at a point practically invisible from the inside of the camp.
Sam Clark moved over the road with the rest, moving through a narrow alley behind a set of what Robbie Knox reckoned were storerooms. There all four men removed their anti-tank missiles,. too bulky for the surreptitious approach they wanted to make, laying them with some care in the deep grass right against the wall. Then they fell in behind Sam Clark, who’d recced the way out into the open and pronounced it clear. As silently and as swiftly as they could, all four men dashed across the open space towards the hangars. Two of these were dark, while the other showed a rim of light around the huge sliding door.
There should have been sentries on the darkened hangars, which had to contain the aircraft they’d seen flying that day. If there were guards, it was certain they were not doing their job. If too many of their superiors were off the base, enjoying themselves in town, then their inferiors would skive off. And who could blame them? To Sam the real worry was that the sentries were on the inside of the doors, keeping out of the wind, and would be alerted as soon as he tried to prise them open.
The noise of the sliding door opening was a blessing. It moved and creaked long before enough of a gap opened up for anyone to see through. By the time the light spilled out onto the concourse in front, Sam and his men were well concealed. Two men in greasy overalls emerged, one stopping to pull the door shut, the other talking loudly. Then, lighting cigarettes, they set off towards the main building block, a square, brick-built construction dominated by the glass-fronted tower, still chatting as they walked.
Blue Harding, standing by the main gate, had a brief sight of them until the lack of light cut them off. But the direction they were heading was a worry. A quick check on his watch put them very close to the road when the jeep was due to return. He had to decide whether they represented a threat, and what to do about it.
‘Digger,’ he whispered, ‘clock the two that have just left the workshops. Get dose to them. If they react when we go to work, take them out.’
Digger nodded and was off, while Blue looked into the darkness, towards the two positions that should, by now, be occupied by the fire support teams.
Robbie Knox and his mate had the toughest task. They’d penetrated the wire with ease, right at the western end of the base, bending it back into position and taping it so that everi a suspicious sentry would have trouble spotting that a gap had been cut. They’d seen the jeep pass, as arranged, then moved forward along the edge of the tarmac. But Robbie’s location for the coming assault was manned. He had to take out the two men guarding the tower before he could perform his function, and how to do that was a decision that could only be taken on the spot.
There was a ladder, but it had been raised so that it was beyond reach. The structure of the tower was flimsy enough to register any movement, so if they tried to climb the frame to release the ladder it would alert the men above them. Dopey they might be, since they didn’t seem to be moving around much, but that wouldn’t stop them raising the alarm, quite possibly by field telephone. They had to take that position, because it had such a commanding view of the main buildings. It faced directly on to the front door, some five hundred metres distant, of what Digger and Robbie had identified as the accommodation block. As a kill point, when the action started, it was priceless.
Robbie and his number two, Glynn Davies, crouched below it, hidden in the shadows. By a series of taps and moves, they discussed the next move. Glynn had a grenade, while Robbie lifted the GPMG, indicating that he could fire it upwards if he could wedge the muzzle in the guard tower frame to steady it. The only bummer would be if Glynn missed his throw and slung the grenade down their own throats. But he was an exfly half for Welsh schoolboys, so Robbie was prepared to trust him.
Over the other side, Tommy Laidlaw and Frank Mills were as happy as pigs in shit. They had a clear field of fire, decent cover to the rear of an undesignated outbuilding. The GPMG was on its bipod, ready and waiting for the fun to start. Tommy had already whispered that they were so well off that he felt they could stir up a brew.
The lock on the hangar doors reassured Sam Clark. If they were secured on the outside, that guaranteed there was no lazy bastard slumbering inside. But each one was a big, complex bugger, too difficult to pick in the dark. They would have to be blown, with no idea if there was anything worthwhile to trash on the other side. He put Luke and Graunch on the workshops. Initially, he’d wanted to leave them till he set his charges in the others. But when he blew the padlocks, that was going to be the closest point of interference. You had to figure that if those two flung the door open, one huge black bastard, and one really ugly white man, it would scare the shit out of those on the inside.
The jeep was late. Not by much, but definitely not on time. Digger had seen the two overalled individuals into the accommodation block, getting close enough to the swinging door to hear the babble of voices from inside. There were a lot of guys in there, all of whom were going to be coming out that door when they heard a boom. They’d be well fucked if Robbie was in place, and doubly so if Dinger and Tony D’ Ambrosio got in amongst them.
The distant headlights made him move, and he was back with Blue before they got close enough to pick him out.
‘Shit!’ Blue exclaimed, as he saw the jeep pull up outside the door Digger had just moved away from. The driver went inside, leaving the engine running. He made a sign to the two hidden troopers, telling them to wait. They’d been doing that already, but neither moved so much as an inch, staying in the shadows into which they’d retreated once Blue had arrived.
The engine revved as the driver climbed back in, and he swung round heading for the gate. Blue and Digger stayed out of the light, guns loose but loaded, waiting as the Kubelwagen approached. The guy was gunning the engine, showing off a bit, and even slewed the tyres round in a mild screech as he drew alongside what he thought were two fellow countrymen. That thought died in his eyes as they slowly turned, rifles pushed forward, their cammed up faces startling in the orange glow of the sodium lighting. Tony and Dinger were behind them, firing their reloaded Welrods before either man could open his mouth. ·within a second that option was removed, permanently.
Silently, they were lifted out, Blue catching the Coke bottle the driver had stopped to buy. Dry in his own mouth, he took a slug, before passing it to the others. Funnily enough, it was Dinger, the roughest of the bunch, who declined to drink a dead man’s beverage. The 66mms were loaded into the jeep within seconds and Blue and Digger climbed into a vehicle that still had its engine running. Then they were off, leaving the two assassins to set up their M203 grenade launchers, and to take a sight on the nearby buildings.
Did one of them contain pilots, men who’d decided on a night in? None of the patrol knew. If they did kill any flyers it would be by luck. Sam had decided, regardless of what the Headshed thought, that he had no time to look for their billet. If they came across them well and good -if not, so be it. The aircraft would suffice for him. That and getting all of his patrol out alive.
Blue killed the lights on the jeep before he spun it out onto a hard standing that ran onto the runway. The target he had was at the other end of the base. Typical of the kind of berks who built these things, to put their bunkers on the town side of the base, when all that lay to the west was wilderness. As he crawled along, he was mentally preparing himself for the next stage of the assault. When the balloon went up, he would drive like buggery, headlights blazing, for that small satellite guard post Digger had spotted. The hope was that there was only one. If Digger was wrong, then being along for the ride he would pay for it.
Sam Clark looked at his watch. Timed it wasn’t, but there was a limit to how long he could wait. Quite apart from the danger of discovery, there was the need for a decent period of darkness to get clear of the area. He signalled to the guy with him to set his charges on the padlocks, then to take cover. That done, he offered up a silent prayer, looked at his watch to check the time, waited till the second hand reached twelve, then flicked the timer on his own.