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It took Gus only a few seconds to assemble the telescopic pole which had travelled strapped to his back. As he fitted the lengths together, the No. 3 swimmer, Jack Ashby, was unrolling the thirty-foot kevlar ladder. Then, with two of the others holding him steady on short ropes, Gus swam out a few feet, hoisted the pole and hooked the ladder over the ship’s rail.

Al was the first up. His jungle boots made only faint scuffling sounds on the ship’s side. When his head reached deck level he paused, listening. Then with a quick scramble he was over the rail and against the hatch cover, Browning in hand. A moment later he holstered the pistol and brought his MP 5 to the ready. A tug on the ladder: two up. Another tug: three up. The fourth man, Sonny Mitchell, came up and took station to secure their entry point.

The other three moved cautiously aft, keeping in the deep shadows thrown by the single light high on the derrick. Al was thinking to himself, ‘Now we’ve got this far, why don’t we go in and rescue the hostage?’ The trouble was, they didn’t know which part of the ship the poor bastard was in — he could have been down in one of the holds — and in any case, he was bound to be guarded.

The night air was hot and moist. Inside his suit Al was sweating freely. Creeping aft, he came level with the start of the accommodation block. The first doorway stood open. Beyond it was a porthole, also open. Through it Al could hear the hiss of water moving through pipes. The john. Just the place, except that he wanted somewhere higher, on an upper deck. It was odds on that all the plumbing systems were stacked on top of each other.

A metal companionway led upwards. Leaving Jack to guard the base of it, Al and Gus went up. Another open doorway. Another porthole in a similar position. There was one more deck above them, but there was no more external companionway, and this was the highest they could go without penetrating into the heart of the accommodation.

Al pointed to the porthole and stuck up a thumb, meaning ‘This will do’. Gus stood guard with his MP 5 at the ready while he stepped carefully over the sill. The metal door of the john was ajar. He applied pressure very gently, in case it squeaked, but the hinges gave silently. With the door open, there was enough light for him to see all he needed: a cistern above the twin urinals on the outside bulkhead.

The metal lid was held in place by small bolts with wing-nuts on them, one at either end. The threads of the bolts had been painted over, and he couldn’t shift the nuts with finger and thumb. Pulling out a pair of pliers, he unclipped them from their lanyard, reached up, and got the nuts moving. In a few more seconds he had lifted off the metal lid and laid it carefully on the floor. Then he drew his knife from its sheath, slit the wrappings of the transponder, pulled out the pin to activate the device and held it firmly to prevent any sudden jerk as its powerful circular plate-magnet clamped itself to the underside of the lid. A moment later he had the lid back in position. It was fractionally tilted forward by the aerial wire leading out over the rim and propping the back up, but no Colombian seaman was going to notice that. He screwed the wing-nuts back down by hand, leaving the upper threads of the bolts bare of paint. Nothing he could do about that — but again, it was highly unlikely that anyone would notice so small a change. Providentially, a metal pipe ran up and down the bulkhead behind the cistern, giving him an ideal conductor. He wound the naked end of the wire round it, and pushed the rest of the coil down out of sight.

Out in the open again, he faced in the direction of the rear party, onshore across the bay, and turned on an infra-red torch, invisible to the naked eye, but instantly detectable to someone with the correct receiver. Seconds later a voice in his earpiece said, ‘OK, Al. We’re just going to check your signal strength with base. Stand by.’

He waited, thinking of the satellites passing overhead, and reflecting on how extraordinary it was that the little device he’d just stuck in the john could communicate with them. Then came the voice from the shore again. ‘OK, Al. They have you loud and clear. Signal strength six. That’s as good as you’re gonna get.’

He doused the torch and raised a thumb to Gus. The two of them checked each other in whispers:

‘Pliers?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Knife?’

‘Yeah.’

‘All screws back in position?’

‘Two screws back.’

Both knew full well that the slightest trace of their presence, the smallest alien object, could destroy the secrecy of their visit. Satisfied that all was well, they crept down the companionway to the main deck. Back at their entry point, they unhooked the ladder and secured it temporarily with long lines of paracord tied in slip-knots, which would fall away when pulled from below. Al saw the other three down, then went over the side. Two tugs on the cords brought the ladder splashing softly down on them. With their rebreathing kits back on, they sank away into the black depths of the harbour, and the Santa Maria bore no more trace of their entry than if she had been visited by a ghost.

FOURTEEN

Most of the time I was worrying about Peter Black. The poor bastard was going to get skinned alive by the PIRA. I tried to stop myself thinking of all the things they’d do to him to make him talk.

It was good to hear that the SEALs had successfully planted the transponder, and that satellites were picking up its signals. Then Tony came through to say that the ship had sailed from Cartagena at 0830, and that she was heading north into the Caribbean. The head-shed in Hereford told us that a consignment of stores was on its way down to us from Belize, and that a quick-reaction force put together from B and G Squadrons was standing by to fly in.

We unpacked the dinghies and inflated them to make sure they weren’t punctured. All day, on and off, I nagged the local boss about the Huey spares, and he made radio calls about them. But it wasn’t till 1500 that at last an aged Dakota came droning in from the west, bringing the parts and a couple of mechanics. We watched from a distance as they went to work, and we could hardly believe it when, around 1630, they announced that they’d cured the problem. The pilot and navigator walked out, started up, and took the Huey for a test flight around the area. Back on the deck, they reported that everything was fine.

At 1700 I held a final O-group to confirm details. By then I’d drawn out a bigger plan on the side of a cardboard ration box, and I used it for reference. Also we had a fairly good map that the DAS had provided. ‘Operation Crocodile,’ I began. ‘Voice comms out of the forward operating base will be insecure, so we’ll refer to locations by call-signs only. OK? Our locations are as follows. The Bogotá Embassy is Green One. The training camp at Santa Rosa’s Green Two. This forward mounting base here is Green Three. And finally, the FOB, close to or on the target, is Green Four. It’s easy to remember, because the locations are numbered in the order we’ve been through them, or will be through them.’

‘Green!’ exclaimed Murdo sarcastically. ‘Everything’s fucking green, as far as the eye can fucking see.’

‘OK,’ I went on. ‘So it’s the four greens. Now, personnel. Murdo, Sparky and I will chopper in to a point approximately here.’ I indicated a spot on the bank of the Cuemani. ‘If the Huey can land, so much the better. Otherwise we’ll fast-rope down. We’ll identify the spot by displaying the cloth, either pegged down in the open or tied to a tree. Then we’ll launch the boat, proceed downriver and get ourselves in position for a CTR. During tomorrow, the second wave of three will chopper out to the same point and come downriver to join us. After that, we’ll have to play things by ear.’