Land of Fire (38 page)

More tracer and cannon fire sprayed around. From the rear of the truck came a furious pounding as Kiwi opened up with the Browning. The steel-cored slugs were like cannon shells, smashing through light armour. I loosed off a couple more grenades towards the flash of infantry weapons ahead of us. From the number of shots I estimated half a company at least, maybe fifty men.

The rest of our team was firing from the rear. I could trust my guys to fire aimed shots and not just blaze away wasting ammunition like the Argies.

Something struck the roof of the cab a hammer-blow, and the truck rocked under the impact. Almost at the same moment the windscreen starred and cracked as two holes were punched through by bullets. I leaned back inside for a moment to slot in a fresh magazine. I was aware of Nobby gripping the wheel and shouting at the top of his voice, but the noise of gunfire was so loud I couldn't make out the words. He was steering straight for the hangar which was now less than a hundred metres away, looming at us like a huge wall. Dimly through the smoke of battle I became aware of Concha's face beside me. Reaching out, I pushed her head down below the level of the dashboard.

A spray of bullets rattled against the side of the truck another machine-gun had found our range. I heard the squeal of tyres to our rear and a couple of quick-firing cannons opened up, sizzling round us like infuriated hornets. It felt like the entire Argentine army was shooting at us. A huge ball of fire flared up, away to the left our guys in the back must have hit a fuel bowser or a tanker. The lurid flames belched upward and blazing fuel spewed out across the concrete apron.

The searchlight still had us in its beam. "Fuck you," I screamed at the top of my lungs. I worked the slide of my grenade launcher, ejecting the spent casing and slotting in a fresh round. The range was right at the limit. I aimed high and let fly. Someone in the back must have fired at the same time because I saw two bursts detonate just beneath the light source. The beam stayed on but swung round jerkily, pointing up at the sky. We must have knocked out the operators.

We were fifty metres from the hangar now. Another Jeep came roaring alongside, an Argentine standing up in the rear with an M-60 machine-gun, blazing away at us like a madman. A burst ripped through the roof of the cab, almost taking my head off. I fired back, aiming low to take out the driver. I saw him slump against the wheel and the Jeep swerved, hurling the machine-gunner around like a doll, his tracer cutting away through the night, scything towards his own side. The Jeep careered onwards, striking the snow plough blade a glancing blow. The huge metal prow flipped the vehicle over and it vanished behind us in a cloud of dust and snow.

More rounds screeched overhead, and I saw an armoured car that had us in its sights, pursuing us from the left rear one of those fast, lightly armoured tank-killers with an outsized cannon. Luckily for us, probably because the gunners were afraid of hitting the hangars, the shells were falling behind us.

I could feel Kiwi's big gun pounding away at the back, firing in short, aimed bursts. The immense bullets, based on a German anti-tank rifle round, have a muzzle velocity of almost 1000 metres a second, and the weight and speed of the rounds produce a devastating impact.

The flames and smoke from the burning fuel were spreading out among the attackers to our rear, and their fire was slackening off for the moment. The heavy cannon had stopped shooting altogether either its gunners couldn't see any longer or they were afraid of hitting the hangar. Nobby was steering for the huge main doors with grim resolution. I saw a bunch of soldiers in front of us scatter as the huge truck thundered inexorably down on them. The doors were only thirty metres away now.

"Hang on!" I screamed out of the window. I might as well have been pissing into the wind for all the good it would do. We were travelling at over fifty miles an hour and bullets fired wildly from behind were punching holes in the side of the hangar like giant hail. A burst of 30mm cannon chewed up the apron right before our wheels, gouging chunks from the concrete.

In the last seconds before impact Nobby dropped the blade of the plough so it would take the full impact. He was steering for the centre of the left-hand door, aiming at the widest part where the thin metal covering would be more likely to give way. The door came rushing towards us like a cliff face. I braced myself for the crash.

Nobby was still yelling inaudibly as the point of the plough struck the sheet metal, ripping it back like a giant tin opener. With a shriek of tortured steel the truck tore on through. Nobby and I ducked our heads as flaps of broken sheeting clanged across the bonnet but amazingly the windshield remained unscathed. A huge supporting beam bounced against the side of the hull with a boom that set my teeth rattling inside my head, as we burst inside the brilliantly lit hangar in a cloud of flying debris.

Directly in our path and, seen from the ground, more enormous than ever stood the huge plane. The soaring tail, as big on its own as a medium-sized airliner, reared up into the roof. The ramp was down and I could see straight into the cavernous hold. Amid the noise and smoke I was vaguely aware of hundreds of men in full battle kit with packs and rifles running like ants to escape the lumbering behemoth that had smashed in upon them the marines, caught in the act of boarding for their mission! Only moments had passed since the shooting had erupted outside, and they stood wondering what to do as the world suddenly came crashing in around them.

We had burst in under the portside tail-fin. Immediately in our path was a mobile work gantry being towed out of the way by an electric tractor. Racing on, the point of the snow plough caught the tractor just behind the rear wheels, flipping it over like a toy. The fragile gantry toppled over, crashing down on to the outer tip of the wing like a heap of sticks. Dead ahead of us gaped the exhaust of the inboard engine.

Our tyres shrieked on the slick flooring as Nobby spun the wheel desperately. The truck heeled over, skidding between the inner and outer engine pods. As the shadow of the wing passed overhead I held my rifle out of the window, muzzle upwards, and emptied the magazine into it.

The hammering sound of the Browning from the rear told me that Kiwi had brought his gun to bear. I pictured the heavy slugs ripping through the fuselage, tearing off great chunks, severing hydraulic lines and slicing through control surfaces. There was a swoosh and a deafening bang that echoed so loud through the hangar that for a second I thought the Argies had lost all control and were shelling us inside. Then I realised it was Doug with one of his RPGs.

I slammed in another magazine and raked the cockpit through the window as we shot by. "Take that, you fuckers!" I shouted as I saw splashes of metal and glass fly.

There was another swish as someone else launched a rocket. This one I saw strike high on the fuselage, by the wing root a terrific red flash followed by a spurt of flame that blossomed across the wing as a fireball sprouted upwards, mushrooming into the roof space. A wave of heat swept over us. The plane must have been fully fuelled up for the mission.

"Fuck, we've done it!" I shouted to the others in the cab, delirious with excitement and battle fury. No way could this baby be made serviceable again. The hangar was filled with men running for their lives to get out before the whole place went up in another couple of minutes the flames would reach ammunition aboard the plane and we'd be done for.

Nobby was standing on the brakes and the truck's nose was slewing as the rear wheels broke away and we spun around like a rally car. Our tail smacked into another gantry, sending it flying into the hangar's rear wall. For a moment I thought we were going to follow it. I saw two soldiers running for their lives as we slid sideways on to them, smoke spewing from our tyres. Then they were gone, crushed into nothingness by the lethal blade of the plough.

The Globemaster's mid-section was a mass of flame by now, smoke belching up in oily clouds. Nobby was fighting to gain control of the wheel as we slid past the plane's bulbous snout. His clear intent was to circle right round the aircraft and drive back out the door again before the whole thing exploded on us. A hatch up on the flight deck was open and three figures were clawing their way down a ladder to the ground the flight crew, trying to escape from the cockpit. Poor bastards, they stood no chance.

Nobby dropped down through the gears, pumping the throttle to get us moving round the aircraft's nose and down under the starboard wing to the hangar door a hundred metres away. I heard the thud of another detonation as a second fuel tank went up and the wingtip in front of us exploded into flame. The truck lumbered forward, engine racing. Billowing clouds of smoke rolled across the hangar, filling the cab with choking fumes. Everything went dark and the sudden heat was suffocating.

Jets of fire spurted up through the darkness as fuel lines burst in the heat. We were moving under the starboard wing now, Nobby desperately steering to avoid the burning engines. Smears of liquid avgas spattered the windshield. A fiery drizzle of flaming droplets shot through the smoke. Any moment now the whole wing could break up, drowning us in blazing fuel.

Our speed was picking up. Above the roar of the fires I could hear the note of the engine surging. There was the tail ramp ahead to our right now. Two hundred Argentine marines were struggling down it, throwing away their weapons and kit, frantic to escape the flames. I saw one, braver than the others, whip up his rifle as we passed, but the sound of his shots was swallowed up in the cacophony. Other men by the door of the hangar were firing their rifles at us, the bullets pinging off the truck's heavy structure.

A furious marine leapt up against the door on my side, thrusting his machine pistol through the window. The muzzle caught me in the face, knocking me backwards. Christ, this is it, I thought.

There was a deafening explosion in my ear. Concha had picked up my45, the one I had taken from Oliveras, and fired it two-handed into the man's face. The marine's head burst into a bloody cloud and he flew from the truck. Concha had fired instinctively. Another second and the marine's weapon would have shredded me.

Nobby was swinging wide to build up speed. Through the smoke I could make out the shattered door of the hangar, hanging crazily from one end. Christ, I thought, how are we ever going to get through that without bringing the whole hundred-ton section crashing down on top of us?

Heaving on the wheel, Nobby wrestled the sluggish truck towards the gap. Fleeing marines scattered before the plough blade as we cleaved a path through the mob. An electric truck driven by a panicking Argentine powered past us, bowling men over without stopping.

As we neared the door I saw a great beam lying across the floor in front of us. A terrific blast shook the building and more wreckage crashed down from the roof. A mass of tangled metal sheeting blocked our path. Without slackening speed, Nobby swerved under the plane's giant tail. A marine plunged across our path, making for the hangar doors, risking being crushed in the desperation to escape. I grabbed the dash as the front tyres thudded over bits of debris, the truck's body lurching wildly.

Nobby was shouting to me. "It's no use, the door's fucking blocked!"

"We must leave the truck!" Concha cried, her eyes round and staring at the destruction all about us.

"No way!" I shouted back. "The marines outside have automatic weapons, they'd cut us down on foot. Try the rear again!" I yelled to Nobby. "There must be another way out!"

Before I'd finished there was a boom from our rear followed by a devastating crash that split the apron under the wrecked doorway fifty metres ahead of us. Bits of concrete fountained upwards, spraying the hangar. An armoured car had found its range and was shooting at us regardless of its fleeing comrades. Nobby spun the wheel over to the right and swung round beneath the burning Globemaster's tail, ploughing through the smoke towards the rear of the hangar, heedless of the faces that loomed up before him. There was a second boom and another shell screeched by, exploding against the wall of the hangar. The Argentine gunners must have been raging at the destruction we were causing. They were obviously determined to stop us now whatever the cost.

There came another ear-splitting crash and a huge shell tore in through the wall beside us, missing the truck by inches. It skimmed past the tail of the aircraft and exited through the far wall, detonating outside.

At the same moment a hail of small-arms fire broke out in our rear. Bullets whined and skipped overhead. Another shell crashed through the hangar wall and plunged into the fuselage of the Globemaster, exploding in a fireball of burning fuel. The armoured car outside was now firing full-calibre rounds directly into the hangar and to hell with the consequences. An anti-tank rocket whizzed through the partly open door and detonated against a beam as the infuriated marines joined in with the clear intent of burning us alive.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The aircraft was a mass of flames now. We had cut across the tail, completing our circle of the plane and were running along the port side again, swinging wide to avoid the blazing wing. An RPG, fired from outside, whizzed overhead and slammed against the rear wall of the hangar, detonating in a shower of molten steel fragments. More volleys of automatic fire from the marines outside sprayed through the doorway and peppered the sides of the building. Underlying the rifle fire came the deeper thud ... thud ... thud of a 30mm cannon. An armour-piercing round struck the edge of the snow plough in front of me, slicing neatly through the steel. A lubricant cart caught in a burst of incendiary rounds was ripped apart, spewing torrents of flaming oil across the floor.

There was a terrific crash behind my head and the cab bounced under the impact of a direct hit as the windshield dissolved in a hail of fragments. I looked round to see a gaping hole in the bulkhead behind me. A cannon shell had smashed through the thick steel of the tipper's body and continued into the cab, punching through the back of the seat where Concha had been sitting, and blowing through the glass. If I hadn't pushed her down into the foot well she would have been torn in half.