Within half an hour the storm had rolled on. It left us soaked through and miserable, but at least it cooled the air by a few degrees, and enabled us to fill our bottles with fresh water: I’d sent Sparky back into the jungle to spread a poncho and use it as a miniature catchment.
As soon as full darkness had fallen, Murdo and I set out to meet the incoming party, leaving Sparky to man the OP. The storm had turned the dust to mud, and we couldn’t help leaving tracks, but we kept to the edge of the road to make our trails as inconspicuous as possible. When we reached the airstrip we stopped for ten minutes’ observation. The Islander still sat in the same place and, except for the insects and the sound of water dripping, everything was quiet. Skirting the edge of the open area, we made our way to the river bank, identified our cache by the high tree, and came down on to the dinghy first time.
From its mooring among the roots there was no view out over the water, because the outer branches of the trees hung down to the surface, so we cast off and pulled ourselves out until we were in the very fringe, then made fast to the end of a branch to hold ourselves against the current.
By then it was 7.30. ‘What do we do?’ asked Murdo. ‘Start flashing?’
‘Yeah. I reckon so. If there’s been heavy rain upstream, the river could be running faster. They could be here any minute.’
So we sat in the dark and waited, with Murdo giving a double flash upstream every thirty seconds. There was time to think of a hundred things that could have gone wrong. The helicopter could have gone US again and never taken off. It could have taken off and been forced to turn back. The pilot could have failed to find the rock outcrop. The dinghy could have got punctured. My mind flew to the propaganda tower in Bogotá, and Tony cooped up there on the fourth floor. I imagined wretched Peter Black, sweating in some oven of a cabin on board the Santa Maria. I saw Tracy and Tim in England. What time was it there? Two-thirty. They’d just have had lunch. Maybe they were walking in the spinney behind the cottage. I hoped they’d had no more strange phone calls…
Suddenly, from out on the water to our right, came a low whistle, which Murdo returned. Seconds later a black lump with heads sticking up out of it bore down at us out of the dark. Murdo kept the torch on to guide them in, and the second dinghy bounced gently into ours.
‘How’s that for fucking navigation?’ said a Scots voice, which I recognized as Stewart McQuarrie’s.
‘Shit hot,’ I told him. ‘Good on yer, Stew. Who’s with you?’
‘Me,’ said Johnny Ellis.
‘Me,’ said another voice.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Mel. Who else?’
‘Great!’ I said. ‘Welcome to Shitsville.’
‘Can’t be. We’ve just come from there.’
‘This is another.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Fucking horrible. But you’ll get used to it. Did you bring a power saw?’
‘Sure did. We cut down that prick of a tree, too.’
‘Brilliant. What about bolt-shears?’
‘Nothing doing. None to be had.’
‘Too bad. Any news from the north?’
‘Yeah. The Boat Troop are still on target. What’s the plan, then?’
‘The boat guys’ operation’s going down at 0300. I told Tony we’d go in then too, unless we tell him different.’
‘Christ! We’d better shift our arses. What weapons have you got?’
‘Only the one 203, and MP 5s. There’s supposed to be a load of stuff coming down from Belize, but the Colombian aircraft went US somewhere up country.’
‘¡Carajo! What about ammunition?’
‘Loads.’ Somebody tapped on a metal box.
‘Good. Let’s get ashore, anyway. Watch yourselves on these tree roots. They’re slippery as hell.’
We pulled both dinghies in, secured them deep among the root tangle, and hid the engines about twenty yards along the bank.
Up on the edge of the airstrip I gave a quick briefing to bring the new guys up to speed. It was easier to talk out there in the open, well away from the compound. I had to choose words carefully to give them a good idea of the layout without drawing any diagrams, but they got it well enough. I repeated the outline of my rescue plan.
‘How many guys are there on the site?’ asked Johnny.
‘There’s the three PIRA, maybe ten guards — guerrillas, or whatever they are — and some technicians, brewing the coke. Plus a few Indians. The bank we’ve established the OP on is a natural strongpoint. It commands the whole open area. From there, I’d say we could drop most of the guys on the spot, as they react to the explosions and run out into the compound. Now we’ve got the saw, we can also fell a tree across the road, so they won’t be able to follow by vehicle. If we put rounds into the plane as well, they’ll be grounded. Then we motor upriver to the LZ, and have ourselves choppered out.’
‘What about their comms?’ asked Stew. ‘It would be good to knock them out, so they can’t report what was happening.’
‘We haven’t identified any VHF mast or aerial, so we assume they’ve got satcoms — and the same on the ship. The bastards are probably comparing notes all the time.’ I paused, then added: ‘The sooner we get out of here, the better.’
Back at the ranch, I settled everyone on the rampart, and in whispers explained the layout again, this time pointing to the various locations. Members of the garrison were on the move, but the centre of activity was the cookhouse.
After the rain, the mozzies were out in force, and even with liberal smearings of repellent, everybody was swatting and cursing.
I decided that Murdo should be the man to hit the stack of ether drums, so, when movement in the compound had died down, I took him with me on a recce beyond the buildings.
This time, as we crept behind the accommodation block, I looked up at the first ventilation slot — a horizontal slatted opening about eight feet off the ground. It was only six feet from the end of the building, so it must go through into the room where the DA was held.
At the far back corner of the lab, I pointed out the stack of drums, and we briefly discussed possible approaches. In fact only one spot was practicable — where we were.
‘No problem,’ Murdo breathed. ‘This’ll do just fine.’
As we were returning, I said, ‘Listen, I’m going to make contact with the DA. Give me a platform.’
Under the ventilation slot Murdo bent over and braced himself against the wall. With a bit of a jump I was up on his back, my head level with the opening. The stink that came out was anything but reassuring.
‘Hey!’ I hissed. ‘Major Palmer!’
For a moment there was no answer, but I heard movement inside.
‘Major Palmer!’ I hissed again.
‘Who is it?’
‘Geordie Sharp. SAS. We’ve come to get you out.’
The DA gave a kind of grunt. ‘Thank God! When?’
‘Three o’clock in the morning. Listen — where’s Luisa?’
‘I don’t know. They took her away.’
‘When was that?’
‘Can’t remember. I heard her screaming.’
‘Oh. Shit! Are you tied up?’
‘Only handcuffs.’
‘Not chained to anything?’
‘No.’
‘OK.’
I tried to think. It wasn’t on to stay where we were any longer, I just said, ‘All right. I’ll tap on the door just before three. It’ll start with a big bang from the far end of the compound. A few seconds after that we’ll blow the lock on your door. When you hear the first explosion, get your hands over your ears and keep them there until your door comes in — but be prepared for take-off. OK?’