Around nine the PIRA crowd joined forces with some of the guys in DPMs, sorting out weapons and boxes of ammunition, and the whole lot drove off down the track to the airstrip in a decrepit old truck which backfired viciously. Soon we could hear the rattle of small-arms fire in the distance, and it was obvious that the PIRA guys were into training the locals. Their fame as professional terrorists had spread to the jungle, and here they were using the airfield as a range. Then we heard the odd loud crump as well, as if demolition instruction was being thrown in.
With them temporarily out of the way, I felt that the air had cleared. This would have been a good moment to launch our attack, if we hadn’t been constrained by the need to co-ordinate with the Boat Troop. I almost decided that one of us could slip round through the jungle, scurry across the road, and creep up behind the accommodation block to whisper through the ventilation slits and let the hostages know that help was at hand. Then it seemed better to wait until dark, and until we were organized to strike.
A plan was forming in my mind. One 203 grenade into the store of ether drums would cause a major explosion and put the lab on fire in seconds. But better still, a timed charge of PE; if things began with a big bang from the back corner of the camp, the narco forces might be bluffed into thinking that the attack was coming in from that quarter, rather than from the direction of the airfield. If, during the initial confusion, we blew the bolt of the cell room with another small charge, we could get the DA out. He could tell us where Luisa was, and we should be able to spirit the hostages away down the airfield road without much of a firefight. At least we’d get a start. If we could somehow block or booby-trap the road we might get clear. Then it would be into the dinghy and away upriver with the outboards. If the Islander was still on the field, we’d put enough rounds through it as we went past to make sure it couldn’t take off.
Talking quietly, I put the plan to the others.
‘The idea of starting it with a bang’s good,’ said Murdo, ‘but we still need more firepower.’
‘Well, the other guys will be here this evening.’
‘We’ll be better off when it’s dark, too.’
‘Agreed. But let’s confirm what’s happening on the ship. Sparky, get that fucking radio going.’
Luckily, as Sparky began fiddling his dials, the bulldozer started up. Its noise was so loud we could have yelled at the tops of our voices without being heard, and voice communication became by far the most satisfactory option. In a minute or two we got through to the base at Puerto Pizarro. Johnny Ellis must have been right beside the Colombian signaller, because he came on within seconds of our making contact.
‘Green Four,’ I told him. ‘I confirm one hostage is on site. Second hostage presumed here also. Not the one with blond hair. Three PIRA also on site. Plus maybe ten local guards. On pass to head-shed. Over.’
‘Green Three. Roger.’ He told us that the Blue team were on their objective. Also, the head-shed had reiterated that any assault we planned must be synchronized with theirs.
‘We’re ready when they are,’ I told him. ‘Any time after dark, provided you guys can get here. Is the chopper operational?’
‘Green Two, affirmative.’
‘Green Four. In that case, we’ll expect you this evening. Tell the pilot to fly to the same place as yesterday. You’ll need to rope down. But see if you can borrow a chain-saw. There’s one tree that prevents the chopper landing. Cut that down if you can, and bring the saw with you. Then launch your dinghy and drift. Don’t use the engine. There’s no need to paddle, except to steer, because the current’s quite fast. Aim to launch at 1800 hours. After one hour forty, watch the right bank for a big clearing. We’ll be there to meet you. We’ll give you double flashes from a torch. Over.’
‘Green Three. Roger. We’ll see you there.’
‘Green Four. Try for a pair of bolt-cutters, also. And inform Green One we’re in good order. Anything else? Over.’
‘Green Three. Yes. The narcos are demanding a ransom of one billion pesos for the return of the British hostages.’
‘Green Four. Billion or million? Over.’
‘Green Three. Bravo for billion. Over.’
‘Green Four. That’s peanuts. Emphasize that recovery is fully possible, and keep the negotiators talking. Out.’ I turned to Murdo and said, ‘A billion. That’s about a million quid.’
‘Bollocks to them. They can whistle for it. Pity Johnny can’t line up a fucking great tin-opener and bring it with him. Then we’d just carve open the roof of the shed and lift our two out.’
The day seemed to last for ever. By noon, with the sun dead overhead, the heat was overpowering. Back under the jungle canopy it wasn’t quite so bad, but out in the open it hit you like a blow over the head. I kept thinking that under the tin roof of the accommodation block it must be fearsome. We still had to go easy with our water; we’d brought two bottles apiece, and could have drunk twice as much. After dark we’d be able to refill them from the river — we had Stereotabs to kill the bugs. I wondered what the narcos were doing about their own supply. Getting it from the small river and boiling it, I supposed.
The shooting party came back and debussed into the cookhouse area for lunch and, we presumed, a siesta. A man brought food and drink to the DA’s cell. Construction work stopped, and silence fell on the compound. What with the heat, the mosquitoes, and processions of inch-long ants marching into our OP, we didn’t have that comfortable an afternoon.
The highlight was the appearance of a decidedly unwelcome visitor. I was dozing when Murdo suddenly nudged me and said, ‘Hey! Look at this!’
I rolled over and peered out through the leaves. Halfway across the open ground was a monstrous snake, slithering towards us from the far side. If I said it was the length of a cricket pitch, I’d be exaggerating. But I’m sure it was twenty feet at least, and a foot in diameter at the thickest point.
‘Fucking python!’ Murdo whispered.
‘No, it’s an anaconda.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘No pythons in South America. I read it somewhere.’
‘Whatever it is, it could swallow a bloody goat.’
‘And crush you like an egg. Thin out, snake.’
As if it had heard me, the huge reptile hung a right turn and headed away down the approach road, leaving a trail as deep as if a heavy log had been dragged through the dust. With the binoculars I could see its tongue flickering in and out.
Around four o’clock thunder began to rumble in the distance, and the sky darkened as a big storm built up. Back at Santa Rosa somebody had mentioned that the dry season was about to end, so maybe this was the beginning of the rain? The forest birds, which had been screeching away merrily all day, went quiet. Then the trees began to stir in a hot wind, and the storm came steadily closer, the noise growing all the time, until at about five o’clock it burst over us.
Being so close to the enemy, we didn’t want to pitch our ponchos, which shine like hell, so we simply had to endure the rain, which came hammering down with such force that in a couple of minutes everything was flooded; cascades started running down the side of our rampart, and every hollow was full of water. When I looked across the compound, I couldn’t see the far end for the sheer volume of rain falling. What I could see was that the deluge was raising a kind of brown froth several inches from the ground as the incoming drops beat air into the dust soup. The noise was phenomenaclass="underline" a background roar of rain as loud as a train in a tunnel, and through it sizzling crackles of lightning, instantly followed by earth-shaking thunderclaps.