Exclusion Zone Read online

  As Shark pulled up outside the Ops Centre he pointed to an ugly grey concrete building next to it. ‘If you like gourmet eating, you’re in for a treat. That’s the Mess. We call it “Chips” because that’s about all you can get there.’

  The briefing room was nearly full. The ground troops and the other six aircrew who had flown out with us were lounging on the benches. The departing crew sprawled around the room looked as if they had already begun their celebrations.

  I nodded to a few familiar faces, friends from other squadrons, and joined in the banter for a few minutes until the Boss strolled to the podium clutching a sheaf of notes.

  He glanced briefly around the room. ‘Welcome to the last outpost of Empire, a vital part of our defensive commitments. You may think that there is no threat, but sixteen years after the Falklands War, we’re still at Military Vigilance here. Those of you who have not served on a front-line base in a war zone before will find some things a little strange and maybe even alarming at first.’ He paused and gave a reassuring smile.

  ‘The defence of the Falklands boils down to the protection of a strip of concrete here at Mount Pleasant. Nothing else matters. The nuclear submarine, HMS Trident, patrolling the Exclusion Zone, the guardship, HMS Sea Wolf, in Mare Harbour, the Rapier missile sites on the hilltops, and the detachment of four hundred Royal Marines, including this week’s new arrivals’ – he inclined his head towards the troops on the benches – ‘are all here for that purpose and no other.

  ‘Our first line of defence is 1435 Flight, equipped with Tempest GR7S – for the non-aircrew here, that’s the latest generation of fighter/ground-attack aircraft – which are on permanent Quick Reaction Alert, at fifteen minutes notice to get airborne and protect the Exclusion Zone. To assist them in that task, they can be armed with Skyflash and Sidewinder air-to-air missiles, Sea Eagle air-to-surface missiles and CRV7 rocket pods. We also have mountains of old-fashioned iron bombs.

  ‘The Rapier sites augment that air defence, while Trident and Sea Wolf are added insurance against seaborne attack, but the runway at Mount Pleasant is where it starts and finishes. Our task is to keep it open at all costs, not merely so that we can fly sorties ourselves but, much more important, so that the Cobra Force reinforcements – two further Tempest squadrons and two thousand ground troops – can be flown in during any fresh crisis.’

  He glanced towards the Marines. ‘Unless there are any questions, the remainder of the briefing is for the air and ground crews only. I hope you all enjoy your time here.’

  He waited as the soldiers filed out, his hand straying upwards to rearrange the few wisps of hair covering his pate. As the door closed behind the last of them, he cleared his throat. ‘The Marines are here to defend the perimeter, but in any alert, all base personnel will be issued with weapons.’

  He paused, confident that he had everyone’s attention. ‘At the first hint of any impending trouble, you will be issued with an SA80 and we expect you to be able to use it effectively. Some of you will not have laid hands on a weapon in earnest since your basic training, but you will all be required to do regular firing practice on the ranges here.

  ‘Any man who does not meet the exacting standards set by our weapons instructor, Jack Stubbs, will find himself returning to the ranges again and again until he does. Mount Pleasant has a small garrison and every man – and woman – must play their full part in the defence of the base. The runway is what keeps the Falklands British. Lose it and we lose the Falklands too.’ There was a murmur of ‘Good riddance,’ from somewhere at the back of the room.

  David ignored the interruption. ‘Despite what you may have heard, the Falklands isn’t a punishment block – a gulag for dissident aircrew.’ He gave a weary smile at the barracking from those departing. ‘I admit it’s no Cyprus,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard above the hubbub, ‘but there’s just enough activity from the Argentinians to keep us all on our toes and there’s some great flying to be had here.

  ‘I must stress one point, however. I know you’re nine thousand miles from home, and there are no factories, MPs, or Nimbies to worry about here, but we still stick to the rules. Anyone exceeding permitted speeds or dropping below minimum permitted levels over land will be in trouble. Noel?’

  A sandy-haired squadron leader with a corned-beef complexion rose to his feet. ‘I’ll keep this short. We all have better things to do tonight. The Boss is absolutely right, though I have to tell you that this is the only place in the world where people phone up to complain because they haven’t had low-flying jets over their houses.’

  He waited for the rumble of laughter to fade. ‘Our job is to police the Exclusion Zone, which extends in a one hundred and fifty mile radius from Mount Pleasant Airfield. The radar sites see three hundred miles out and warn us of incoming trade, so there should be plenty of warning, but the motto here is “No surprises”.’ He smiled. ‘Not that we’re expecting any. The quality of Intelligence on enemy aircraft movements suggests we may also have men on the ground inside Argentina with eyes on the airfields at Rio Grande and Rio Gallegos.

  ‘There’s been no real pattern to Argentine air activity recently. There was a flurry of incidents three weeks ago, but nothing much since then, though they regularly probe the edge of the Exclusion Zone, testing the capability of our radar and our reaction times. They tend to come in at low-level, pop up to have a look, then hightail it back before we even get them visual.

  ‘We’re at Readiness State 15 and you do nine nights on Quick Reaction Alert and five nights off. You’ve timed your arrival perfectly, because you’ll get five days off before beginning your first spell of QRA on Saturday. We fly with live weapons at all times, though the chances of authorisation to use them coming down the chain from London in time to stop an Argentine invasion are pretty slim.’ He acknowledged the laughter from his audience. ‘Intruders are warned, intercepted, escorted down, and shot down in that order; or that’s the theory anyway.

  ‘There are a couple of routines we observe here that you should know about. On take-off every jet will do a Fiery Cross, as we call it – a simulated attack run across the airfield.’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘We have a lot of very bored radar, missile and gun crews sitting in Portakabins on hilltops for months on end. The least we can do is to give them some occasional entertainment. The Hercs do the same thing, except we call it a Smoky Cross, since they never get up enough speed to ignite the fires.

  ‘We also stage an intercept on every aircraft coming in to Mount Pleasant, which basically boils down to the twice-weekly Tristar and the charter flights from Argentina bringing relatives to visit their war graves. Give the Tristar as close a buzz as you wish – they’re used to it – but for your own and the Argentinians’ safety, give those charter flights plenty of room. They tend to be nervous about flying in here.’

  ‘Intelligence brief.’ A dark-haired woman in her early thirties but with the look of a 1950s librarian stood up, smoothing out imaginary creases from her pencil skirt. One or two of the aircrew wolf-whistled mechanically and she flushed a little in response, though I felt sure that the same tired scenario had been played out at every Intelligence briefing since she arrived.

  ‘A very confused picture at the moment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Louder.’

  She paused, cleared her throat and began again. ‘You may have seen some slightly alarming news reports from Argentina in the last few days, but we have no reason to believe they are anything other than the traditional macho posturing. However, the government in Buenos Aires has made a manifesto pledge to regain the Falklands by the year 2000 and the discovery of oil in the northern sector of the Exclusion Zone will certainly do nothing to cool their ardour.

  ‘On the military front, the good news is that Intelligence suggests that their Air Force Mirages and Daggers are wasting assets. They saw long service with France and Israel before being bought by Argentina, and have been in service with them for twenty years now. They’re increa
singly unreliable and it is questionable how many they could get airborne in a crisis.’

  ‘Unlike our Tempests, of course,’ Noel said.

  The Intelligence Officer gave him an uncertain smile. ‘The bad news – and there’s plenty of it – is that Peru has recently bought thirty Mig 29 Fulcrums.’ She paused and glanced around the room, ‘That is a suspiciously large number, far in excess of Peru’s own realistic needs. We have no solid proof of it as yet, but Intelligence suggests that the Peruvians may be warehousing at least a dozen of them for Argentina. There are reports that Argentinian pilots have been training on them in Peru.

  ‘As you know, the Fulcrum is a very fast, agile and capable aircraft. It’s an alarming development, particularly in the light of the other bad news: President Clinton’s lifting of the arms embargo on South America which has allowed Argentina to significantly upgrade its weapon systems. Coupled with the suspected purchase of the Fulcrums, it has given them a Beyond Visual Range attack capacity for the first time.

  ‘They also have two squadrons of Skyhawk bombers which, though elderly, are still viable, and the navy has its Super Etendards. In theory the French have held to the EC embargo and refused to supply them with Exocets; in practice, it would not be a complete surprise if they had some.

  ‘There have been reports of a build-up of troops around Rio Gallegos but nothing of any significance. Their navy’s only remaining cruiser, the Eva Peron, left Rio Gallegos two days ago with an escorting guardship, the destroyer La Argentina, but that appears to be for routine manoeuvres. They’re running north parallel to the coast at the moment, near the territorial limit. Obviously we’re keeping a close watch on the situation.’

  She gave Noel a sideways glance and a nervous smile, then sat down as he stepped back to the podium.

  ‘Just two more vital pieces of business. Familiarisation flights for all incoming aircrew begin tomorrow morning, briefing 0800 hours. The lateness of that briefing is not unconnected to the final piece of information I have to communicate: welcome drinks for the new crews and bon voyage drinks for those lucky sods going home tomorrow will begin as soon as I’ve finished speaking. Whoever’s getting the first round, mine’s a pint.’

  There was a ragged cheer and a stampede for the door, but I hung back a little as the rest of the crews disappeared in the direction of the Mess. ‘What’s up?’ Jane said. ‘It’s not like you to hesitate when there’s free drink on offer.’

  ‘I know, it’s just that… Listen, I’ll get some fresh air and join you in there in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘No need to go outside then, there’s plenty whistling through the cracks in the walls.’

  I didn’t respond to the joke.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine.’ I saw her doubtful look. ‘Honestly. I just need a couple of minutes on my own.’

  She shrugged, then walked away down the corridor.

  I buttoned my jacket and stepped outside. I stood motionless for a few minutes, staring into the gathering dusk, then turned and made my way to the control tower.

  I climbed the stairs and nodded to the crew lounging in their chairs, their feet propped on the desks. ‘Sean Riever. I’m with 1435 Flight. Mind if I look around?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ one said, ‘but you’ll soon be heartily sick of the view, I can promise you.’

  There were no more incoming flights that day and the radar screens were blank save for the clouds of green traces, as faint as dust motes, showing the flocks of seabirds returning to their roosts.

  A fat marmalade cat uncurled itself from the in tray, where it had been sleeping. It gave me a disdainful look, yawned and stretched, then stalked to the other end of the desk and lay down again in the out tray.

  ‘Another busy day over Boddington?’ one of the crew asked, ruffling its fur. It ignored him and began grooming itself.

  I walked to the far side of the tower and pressed my forehead against the blue-tinted glass, blocking out the dim lights inside the control room as I stared out over the airfield. Rough stone sangars were dotted at intervals along the perimeter track and clustered around the low mounds concealing the bomb dumps and fuel stores. Beyond them, the razor wire of the fence glinted red in the low light of the setting sun. There was not a human being in sight, no visible movement and no sound but the steady moan of the wind.

  Pleasant Peak’s long shadow across the runway blurred and faded into the surrounding darkness as the red rim of the sun sank below the horizon and the brown of the hillside darkened to a velvet black.

  Nothing broke the gloom but the gleaming white fuselage of the Tristar by its cavernous hangar and the white quartz boulders of the memorial on the hillside. I kept staring out until the darkness deepened and the fading, ghost-grey outline of the stones became as faint as old memories. Then I turned without speaking, walked back down the stairs and out into the night.

  A wall of noise, cigarette smoke and beer fumes greeted me as I pushed open the door of the Mess. In between Falklands horror stories, the departing aircrew were drowning the last taste of their four-month tour in a tide of cold lager.

  I caught a glimpse of Jane through the scrum as I pushed my way to the bar and ordered a drink. As I turned to survey the room, I found Shark at my elbow. ‘She’s a good-looking woman, isn’t she?’

  I smiled to myself, knowing where the conversation was leading. ‘She’s a good navigator too.’

  ‘And are you?’ He hesitated.

  I shook my head. ‘We work together, that’s all.’

  A smile began to spread across Shark’s face. ‘So you wouldn’t mind if—’

  ‘I’m not Jane’s guardian; she can do whatever she likes. You should be having this conversation with her, not me.’ I paused. ‘But she is going out with my best mate.’

  Shark stared at me for a moment, his mouth frozen like a fish struggling for breath.

  I took a long pull on my beer as he walked away.

  ‘What was that about?’ I almost spilled my drink. Jane had sidled up to the bar just behind me.

  She laughed. ‘You’d better have another one, your nerves are obviously playing up.’

  I gave a rueful smile. ‘It was the shock. I was afraid you might have heard me slagging you off.’

  ‘What were you really talking about?’

  ‘The only thing anyone ever wants to talk to me about these days. Shark was checking out his chances.’

  ‘With you?’

  ‘No, the sheila from Guneela.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘That he’d have to get in the queue with the rest of the Falklands garrison.’

  She signalled to the barman. ‘That was almost a compliment, Sean, now I’m definitely going to buy you another drink.’

  We chatted for a few more minutes, then I stood up, stretched and yawned. ‘I’m knackered. I’m going to hit the sack.’

  She nodded. ‘Me too, I never can get any sleep in an aircraft.’

  ‘Just as well, considering what you do for a living.’

  As we headed for the door, there was a burst of beery banter. I exchanged a resigned look with Jane, then acknowledged the shouts and catcalls with a raised hand and a smile. We shook hands with a few of the outgoing aircrew and then walked off down the corridor, more ribald shouts echoing in our ears.

  As Shark had predicted, we were soon lost among the maze of identical corridors, but after two false starts we found ours. Jane paused outside my door. As she said goodnight, she held my gaze for a moment and laid a hand on my arm. Then she kissed my cheek and walked slowly down the corridor.

  I was still staring after her when she paused on the threshold of her own room and glanced back. She hesitated a moment, a half-smile on her lips, then stepped inside and softly closed her door, leaving a faint trace of her perfume on the air.

  Tired though I was, I could not get to sleep for some time. I tossed and turned, then reached up and opened the curtains. I lay back i
n the darkness.

  I awoke bolt upright, streaming with sweat, my heart pounding. Faceless, steel-helmeted figures had been advancing over a black hill towards me. White rock, like bone, jutted from the ground beneath their feet and the stink of decay carried to me on the wind.

  I shuddered, got out of bed and rinsed my face with cold water. I put on the light and read for a while before settling down to sleep, but I could not shake off a sense of foreboding. The images from my nightmare stayed in my mind with every creak as the building flexed in the wind.

  I shifted my position and lay with my eyes open watching the clouds scudding over the black, huddled mass of the hills, as the sky slowly lightened towards dawn.

  Chapter Two

  When I knocked on Jane’s door at seven thirty the next morning, there was a muffled reply. I stuck my head round the door. ‘Come on, even you can’t oversleep the first mor—’ I stopped as I heard the shower. ‘I’ll go on ahead, see you at breakfast.’

  ‘No, wait for me. I’ll only be a minute.’

  I sat down on the end of the unmade bed and glanced around the room. We had only been there twelve hours but already it looked as if a bomb had been detonated in her suitcase, blowing clothes, papers, books, magazines and tissues all over the room.

  On her bedside table was a pyramid-shaped, Japanese talking alarm clock and a photograph in a battered leather frame. I picked it up: three familiar faces, side-lit by the lurid glare of Las Vegas neon. Jane was in the middle, one arm round Geoff’s shoulders, the other round mine.

  ‘Hope you haven’t been reading my diary too.’ Jane emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.

  I gave a guilty start and put the photograph down. ‘No, I only read non-fiction.’

  ‘Well, can you get interested in something for a minute while I put my clothes on?’

  ‘Apart from you putting your clothes on, you mean?’

  ‘You’re not interested in that.’