‘Down!’ I snapped. ‘For fuck’s sake get down.’
I grappled him to the ground. More rounds cracked past overhead.
‘Don’t fire back!’ I called. By shooting back we’d give away our position — and in any case, for the moment no targets were visible.
The compound was a fantastic sight — flames leaping and smoke billowing in a framework of primeval jungle.
‘So much for your billion fucking pesos,’ Murdo cried.
‘We’re not out of it yet,’ I told him. ‘Stew — you and Mel hang on here while we go ahead. If you see anyone coming, drop them, but don’t fire without a good target. RV at the dinghies as soon as we can.’
‘Fair enough.’
I turned to the DA and said, ‘Right — we’re off.’
We started down the road at a fast walk. The darkness was such that at the first bend we walked straight off the track and into a patch of undergrowth without seeing it. Suddenly I found myself caught up in those bloody awful thorns known as ‘wait-a-while’ which dig into you like barbed fish-hooks and rip you to shreds if you try to pull away.
I was struggling to disentangle myself when a sudden, rushing roar ripped past us, instantly followed by a flash and an explosion in the tree canopy beyond. I dropped to the ground, oblivious of the thorns tearing at my arms.
‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Murdo. ‘They’ve got an RPG.’
I got up again and shouted, ‘Keep going!’
No harm to use a torch now. I switched mine on, taking care not to flash it backwards. On we went, more quickly.
Small-arms fire rattled out behind us — our own guys were keeping the enemy pinned in the compound — then we got some incoming rounds cracking past us into the trees. Then another rocket — but this time we weren’t so lucky.
The missile must have hit a tree trunk right beside us. All at once I was on the deck, knocked down by the blast and temporarily blinded by the flash. I got up, my ears ringing, and I knew straight away that I wasn’t hurt.
‘Everyone OK? Murdo?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Johnny?’
‘OK.’
‘Sparky?’ I waited. ‘Sparky?’
I shone the torch towards where I’d last seen him. He was still on the deck, stretched straight out, face down. I ran across. A pool of blood glistened darkly beside his head. I moved the torch closer and saw more blood welling from a hole at the base of his right ear. Instinctively I started struggling out of my bergen to get at the med pack, but before I’d even slipped the straps I knew it was too late. Sparky’s eyes were shut. His face was dead white. I’d hardly begun to feel his pulse before I knew the answer: nothing. A piece of shrapnel had driven deep into his head, severing the jugular. Gently I turned his head over. It moved without any resistance in the neck, and I knew the top of the spinal column had been smashed.
‘He’s gone,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to take him with us.’
Behind us, the firing had died down.
I turned to the DA. ‘You all right?’
‘Fine.’ At last he’d found his voice.
‘Can you carry this?’ Holding Sparky’s torso upright, I disengaged the 319 in its webbing cover and straps, and handed it over. ‘It’s heavy, but we haven’t far to go’
‘I’ll manage it.’
‘Good.’
I took Sparky’s bergen and slung it over my left shoulder. The other two were pulling out a hammock, which had handles on the side and could double as a stretcher. They just about had Sparky in it when we heard movement on the road behind us.
‘Stew,’ I called softly.
‘Hello.’
‘We’ve got a casualty.’
‘Oh Christ — who is it?’
‘Sparky. He copped it from that RPG.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yep. We’ve got to get him to the boats.’
‘Shit!’
‘What’s happening back there?’
‘We dropped at least six of them. Couldn’t tell which. The 203s may have done for more. Ditto the big bang. The survivors are thinking things over. The lab’s destroyed, anyway.’
‘Come on, then.’
We went on as fast as we could, weaving along the road, with four guys lugging Sparky’s body. We reached the airstrip without further harassment. It was a tremendous relief to come out of the claustrophobic blackness of the forest and into the open. Thunder still rumbled in the distance, but the clouds seemed to have lifted and the night was slightly less dark.
The plane was still in the same position. It offered a tempting target — but I didn’t feel like making more noise by firing at it. We had enough trouble already.
‘Wait one while I whip over and slash its tyres,’ I said. ‘At least, no, you lot carry on, and I’ll meet you above the cache.’
The others picked up their limp burden and continued diagonally across the open strip, heading for the tall single tree. On my own, I ran to the plane, not bothering about the tracks I was making. By the time anybody followed up in daylight, we’d be well away upriver.
It took all of ten seconds to drive the point of my Commando knife into the side of each tyre, and as I made away the air was still hissing out.
I caught up with the others as Murdo scrambled down to check the dinghies. Then from below came a curse and an exclamation.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘The boats have gone!’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘They fucking have.’
In a flash I was down on the edge of the roots beside him. I shone the torch at the bank. There were the blue painters, still tied to branches.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘They haven’t gone. They’ve swamped, that’s all.’
I pulled on one of the ropes and got a soggy response. When the dinghy at last came to the surface, we were shattered. The rubber skin had been slashed all over, ripped to shreds.
‘Fucking crocodiles!’ exclaimed Murdo. ‘Can you believe it!’
The other dinghy was the same. We had repair kits, but this damage was far beyond anything they could cover. God only knew why the croc had taken exception to the rubber crafts — but he’d torn them to kingdom come.
We didn’t look for the engines — there was no point. Back on top of the bank we held a little O-group.
‘There’s basically two alternatives,’ I said. ‘Either we make our way to the LZ overland, or we call in help and lie up somewhere close.’
‘How far to the LZ?’ asked Mel.
‘Maybe nine ks.’
‘We’ll never make it through the jungle.’
It didn’t need to be said that, without the extra burden of the hostage and the dead man, we could have done it.
‘Let’s get on the radio, then. Murdo — you’re our signaller now.’
‘Where’s the 319?’
‘The DA’s got it. Here.’ I moved across, took the radio pack off him, and handed it over.
Murdo began to open it up, but a moment later he said, ‘We’ll not get many messages out with this thing.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s fucked.’
He held the set up, shining his torch on it, to show that a piece of shrapnel had blown its guts out.
By 0200 a fresh westerly breeze had sprung up round the island of Desierto.
‘That’s great,’ said Merv as he breathed down his diving gear on the little beach. ‘This ripple on the water will suit us fine.’
He and his partner, Terry Llewellyn, checked each other off, pulled on their rebreathing kits, went through their routine against possible oxygen hits, checked again, and slipped into the water. Besides his usual gear Merv was carrying two five-pound charges of plastic explosive in waterproof bags, already made up, with detonators embedded in them. In another bag he had det cord and timers.
The pair swam out round the point of the headland. The sky was overcast, and no lights were showing, either from the ship or from the quay. The chances of being spotted seemed minute, but Merv was not one to take risks. As soon as they came in line of sight of the Santa Maria he dived, and swam in at three-metre depth on a bearing of eighty-two degrees, surfacing every three minutes to check his line of advance.