Land of Fire (41 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I sprinted up the road through the snow with every ounce of speed I possessed. My rifle thumped against my back but there wasn't time to dump it. At all costs I had to reach the truck before it could gather speed. It was twenty-five metres ahead of me. I had no idea what was happening. Could a bunch of Argentines have come down the road from the other direction and taken over the truck? Suddenly anything was possible. They might have shot Josh, Concha and her friends, but surely they would have waited to catch the rest of us?

The truck was still a dozen metres ahead. It slowed and there was another crash of gears. Whoever was driving was a novice with big trucks. The wheels were slipping on the gradient; he would have done better to keep his speed down and go for a steady pace. I pounded on, straining for the glow of the rear lights, the others tearing after me. If I could only reach the tailgate and grab a hold. What I was going to do then, I had no idea. The truck could be full of Argentine soldiers.

I'd left Concha in the cab. Was the shot I heard the one that killed her? Fury at the thought drove me on. I was so close now that the slush thrown up by the rear wheels was hitting me in the face. The engine was snorting and coughing as if the mixture was too rich. Any moment now it might cut out altogether. The driver obviously thought the same, because he changed down. There was a momentary hiatus as the engine disengaged and the truck's momentum slowed still further.

My breath was pounding in my lungs, my heart labouring. The tailgate was less than a metre away now, but the truck's speed was picking up again. It was now or never; I put everything I had into one final convulsive effort. In the glow thrown out by the rear lights I could dimly make out the rungs of a ladder up the near side. My fingers stretched for the lowest rung and found a handhold. The momentum of the truck plucked me forward. I clawed with my other hand and swung myself up. The truck's speed had picked up suddenly, and when I put a foot down to kick off it was whipped from under me. I bent my knees and tensed my biceps just as Josh had done on the beam back in the hangar, then snatched upwards in the dark, found the next rung and pulled myself up.

Now I could get a foot on to the ladder, and for a moment I hung there like a human fly, sucking air back into my lungs. The truck was rattling away up the slope from the river at a gathering pace. I had made it just in time. I didn't know what had happened to the others but I knew they would be racing in pursuit. If I could halt the vehicle I would have some back-up soon enough.

As soon as I had got my breath back I climbed to the rim of the tailgate. For a moment I paused. It was still pitch dark. Above me the muzzle of Kiwi's machine-gun gleamed faintly. If the truck had been seized by Argentines then I needed to work out a strategy. My rifle was still on my back but it was a cumbersome weapon for close-quarter fighting. Tucked into my waistband I still had Major Oliveras's .45 automatic. I dug it out and, wedging an arm through the ladder, cocked it and flicked off the safety. Then I gathered myself together, put a hand on to the rim and in a single movement heaved myself up and over into the truck body.

I landed awkwardly, caught my foot in the tripod of the machine-gun and fell forward into the sand with a clatter. I rolled over, bumping against someone in the dark and swung the automatic round, seeking a target.

There wasn't one. The darkness was total up here but from where I lay I could look upwards against the snow drifting down and there was no one else on their feet. I reached out with my free hand and encountered a leg. Was that Josh? I gave it a squeeze. There was no answering movement. My heart sank. The stillness around me told its own story.

Picking myself up, I crawled towards the front. I now recognised Josh's body by the field dressing against his stomach. One hand was still clutching the IV drip that had been his lifeline. There was sticky blood on his chest "where he had taken another hit. Tears of rage came into my eyes. I swore I'd make the bastards pay for this in gunning down a badly injured man who couldn't possibly have posed a threat.

Crawling on, I discovered the bodies of Concha's friends. One had been dead already but the others lay heaped where they had been shot. As far as I could tell each had been slotted with a single hit to the head. Whoever had done this had killed them first, then gone on to finish off Josh where he lay helpless to defend himself and I swore again that I'd make the cunt suffer.

I knew who it was then, too. My God, I kept thinking, how could I have been so stupid all this time? The Argentines had been playing us for patsies all along, and I had never once suspected.

I moved cautiously up to the cab, careful to keep my shadow from falling on the driver, and peered through the hole in the back. The solitary headlamp cast its beam into the falling snow, the lights of the dash cast a dim glow inside, and I could make out the shape of the driver hunched over the wheel. There seemed to be no one else in the cab no sign of Concha. A bend was approaching, the driver's head shifted as he hauled the steering wheel round and I caught the unmistakeable outline of a beard.

I waited till we were round the corner and the truck had straightened up again. Then I stowed the pistol away, unslung my rifle and pushed it through the hole. He was so intent on the road ahead that he didn't notice till I jabbed the muzzle into the side of his neck.

He stiffened and the truck's nose jerked round, swinging outwards. "Watch yourself!" I snapped. "No sudden movements."

Carefully he straightened up again. Keeping the muzzle pressed firmly against his neck, I reached a foot down through the gap in the rear bulkhead and kicked the gear lever into neutral. The engine roared as it spun free, the truck slowed, and Seb took his foot off the throttle.

"Put the hand-brake on," I snarled at him. "Put the hand-brake on or I'll fucking shoot you where you sit, you bastard!" I jabbed the rifle deeper into his neck. He gave a grunt of pain and reached out and jerked the brake lever up. The truck slithered to a halt on the gravel amid the empty pampas. "Keep both hands on the wheel where I can see them."

He obeyed, his big hands gripping the wheel tightly. Looking straight ahead, he spoke for the first time, his voice harsh and controlled. "It isn't what you think," he said.

"Shut the fuck up!" I told him. "Open your mouth once more and I'll blow your head ofF your fucking shoulders!" I was so mad with hatred and fury it was as much as I could do not to kill him there and then. I squeezed through the gap that had been torn in the bulkhead, keeping my rifle in his neck and my finger on the trigger. I climbed down on to the front passenger seat and crouched next to him, resting against the near side door.

I had kept the gun trained on Seb all the time. "This thing is on full automatic. One move and you get the entire box in the belly. You'll die screaming. Now, take your pistol out by the muzzle and slide it across the seat. Do it slowly."

He did as he was told. I took the weapon and put it in my pocket, then lowered my left hand into the foot well and touched something soft. Concha's hair. The scalp was matted with blood.

"She's still alive," he said tersely.

"She would be," I said. "You climbed into the cab to speak to her and hit her on the skull with your gun when she wasn't looking. You had to do it quietly for fear of alerting the others. Then you went back into the rear and whacked the others one by one."

"It is all war," he sighed. "You killed many of our people tonight. Those men who burned in the hangar they suffered. We do what has to be done."

"We?" I yelled at him. "We?"

He was silent for a spell. Finally he replied, "My father was

British. My mother was Argentinian. When the war came I had to make a choice."

"And you chose your mother's side?" I said bitterly.

He nodded slowly, as if he had been giving the matter much thought. "The British approached me at the outset of the campaign, asking me to work for them. I reported the contact to our intelligence people and they told me to accept the offer."

"So, way back in 1982 you were a double agent then?" I asked. "You met us at the border and deliberately guided us into the ambush? My brother Andy was killed because of you?"

"You were supposed to have been picked up at the rendezvous point. If you had surrendered, there would have been no shooting and you would all have been set free after the war."

"Fuck that," I told him. "What about this time round? You met us off the beach and led us into the airbase, but first you wrecked our communications gear so we couldn't call in to report what we had seen. Then, when we contacted you over the phone, you told the marines the location of the RV point. When Concha and I escaped you waited for us at the emergency RV and brought us in. But then you helped us to take the guard post. What happened did I interrupt when you were warning your pals on the base over the phone?"

"Yes," he admitted. "I only had a chance to tell them you were aiming to attack the planes."

"And so they were waiting for us."

"You were too good for us, though. You shot yourselves out of the ambush and destroyed the planes and with them our hopes of retaking the Malvinas."

I held the rifle on him. "You shouldn't have killed Josh," I said levelly.

He shrugged. "He was a brave man. I was going to leave him but he grabbed me by the leg and threw me off balance. He fought like a tiger, even though he was dying. There was no time to lose. You might have come back any moment. I had no choice but to shoot him."

Poor, brave Josh. He had fought till his last breath, and saved our lives at the cost of his own.

There came a groan from down in the foot well Concha was stirring, moaning softly. I squeezed her shoulder gently to let her know I was there. How long could she have been out? A few minutes only. With luck she would have suffered only mild concussion. She was fortunate to be alive.

I heard boots thudding outside, then a bang on the door. Doug and the others had reached us. They stood in a gasping circle, weapons trained on the cab.

"Get down," I said to Seb. He climbed stiffly out into the snow and I followed him down. "Watch him," I told Nobby, who pushed Seb against the side of the truck with his arms out and kicked his legs apart.

"Jesus! What the fuck's been going on?" said Doug. "Who topped the guys in the back?" He was bewildered. To the three of them it looked as if there had been a fire-fight between the Argentines and me, in which Josh had somehow got killed.

"It was him," I told him, with a nod at Seb, adding, "You were right all along not to trust him."

"He killed Josh?" Doug couldn't have cared less about Julian and the rest. As far as he was concerned, the more dead Argentines the better. But killing a mate was something else.

His face went hard. "You want to whack the fucker, or can I?" Doug meant what he said. He would have taken Seb into a ditch and let him have one in the head right then. Josh had meant a lot to me; I'd seen a bit of myself in him, and now a part of me was dead along with him. This had been my last mission; I'd fucked up, and Josh was dead because of it.

"I'll do it," I said. I handed Doug my 203 and took out the pistol again. The others watched.

I grabbed Seb by the shoulder and spun him round.

"Wait!" he cried. "I can still help you. I was a double agent, yes. So I have intelligence vital to your superiors. They will be very angry if you kill me now. You have to take me back with you."

"Fuck to that, you arse hole Doug's anger boiled over.

Swinging his gun like a club, he caught Seb in the gut. Seb fell to his knees, gagging, and Doug kicked him savagely in the ribs, knocking him into the snow.

"Leave it out, Doug," I said.

Seb writhed in agony in the roadway. "You'll never make it across the frontier without my help," he gasped. "The border is heavily garrisoned now. At first light there will be patrols out, helicopters searching."

"Yeah, and you'll show us a way across like the last time, cunt!" Doug raged, launching another kick at him. "I lost two mates in that show thanks to you, you bastard!"

Seb pulled himself back against the wheel of the truck. He spat blood from his mouth. "MI6 has a helicopter on stand-by on the Chilean side. I have my phone. If I call in from the border it can pick you up."

"You have the phone on you?" I asked.

He nodded. "In the pocket of my coat."

I patted him down and found the device.

"It has a GPS unit built into the receiver," Seb went on. "I transmit the position and the helicopter flies in to the rendezvous."

I weighed the phone in my hand. "You told me this thing only works within a short distance of the border."

"Within two to three miles," he agreed. "We have to be within range of the base station at San Sebastian."

"Fuck this!" Doug stormed. "Don't listen to him. It's another of his tricks."

I ignored him. "So the deal is, we keep you alive and you send the code to bring in the helicopter to lift us out?"

"Don't trust him," Doug snarled.

"If I am lying then you will kill me," Seb countered. "The road is bad from here on it was washed out in a storm two weeks ago. It will take you most of the night to reach the border. Then I will make the call. What have you to lose?"

I wanted to get away from here and until we were safely out of Argentina Seb might be useful, traitor or not.

I slipped the phone into my pocket. "Put him in the back of the truck," I ordered. "Tie his hands and feet so he can't escape." Doug hissed between his teeth. "OK, boss, if that's how you want it." He sighed and jabbed Seb with his gun. "On your feet,

you."

"And, Doug," I called after him, 'don't mess him up. We need him in a fit state to make that call."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Seb had been right about the state of the road. Within a couple of miles the hard surface had crumbled into a morass of loose gravel and mud in which the truck lurched and swayed, crawling along at a snail's pace. While I cradled Concha's head in my lap Nobby fought the wheel as we struggled northwards. The snow had changed to a light powdery dusting, which seemed to add little to the depth on the ground but made visibility next to impossible. If our single headlamp had given up on us we would have been finished.