Heroes of the South Atlantic. Shaun Clarke
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Название: Heroes of the South Atlantic
Автор: Shaun Clarke
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9780008154868
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‘Are there any contingency plans in SAS files or elsewhere for a recovery of the Falklands, if necessary?’ the astute Ricketts asked.
‘No,’ Hailsham said bluntly. ‘All of the long-term planners who considered it felt it would be next to impossible to sustain such a campaign.’
‘How come?’
Hailsham nodded to Captain Grenville, who was in constant contact with SBS intelligence. ‘The nearest feasible base from which to launch an amphibious assault is the very Ascension Island you’ve just mentioned,’ Grenville said. ‘That’s nearly 7000 kilometres from the UK ports and airfields. As for Port Stanley itself, it’s a further 6250 kilometres from Ascension – and there’s only open ocean, apart from Ascension, between the UK and the Falklands.’
‘That may be a problem for desk-bound planners,’ Ricketts said. ‘It’s not a problem for us.’
‘Correct,’ Parkinson said briskly, proud to hear such a remark from one of his men and eager to jump back into the briefing. ‘So tomorrow, 5 April, a small advance party from this squadron – the 80 men gathered together here – commanded by Major Cedric Delves, will fly out to Ascension Island to take part in the highly secret Task Force 317.9 – being formed to recapture South Georgia.’
A general murmur of approval spread around the briefing room, only silenced when Trooper Winston asked: ‘Who divides and rules?’
‘The work of all special forces, including the Special Air Service and the Special Boat Squadron, is to be coordinated through a command cell in Rear-Admiral Woodward’s HMS Hermes, the flagship of the Royal Navy Task Force. I’ll be aboard with some of you men.’
‘Do you think there’s going to be conflict, boss?’
‘Not immediately,’ Major Parkinson said. ‘You’ll fly out to Ascension and familiarize yourselves with local conditions as best you can.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Ascension is a small island that can hardly sustain its civilian population of a thousand,’ Captain Grenville explained. ‘For this reason, the Royal Navy is going to severely limit the numbers of commandos and other forces who can be ashore at any one time. The opportunities for further training will therefore be limited.’
‘Any more questions?’ Major Parkinson asked when the silence stretched on too long.
‘Yeah,’ Trooper Gumboot Gillis said, licking his lips and grinning like a mischievous schoolboy. ‘Apart from its thousand head of human sheep, what else is on Ascension Island?’
‘A British telecommunications centre, a US airbase, a US space-research centre, and a US gin-palace called the Volcano Club. That should see you right, Trooper. Any more questions?’
They all had a good laugh at that, but no hands went up.
‘Then I suggest you all return to your bashas, open those reports, and ensure that you’ve memorized them by tomorrow. You’ll be kitted out in the morning. Thank you, gentlemen.’
Major Parkinson and his two captains stepped away from the blackboard as the 80 soldiers pushed back their chairs and started to file out of the briefing room, most looking happy.
The selected members of D Squadron flew out of England on C-130 Hercules transport aircraft specially converted to flight-refuelling tankers. With their passenger and carrier holds containing long-range fuel tanks, the aircraft were short on breathing space, as well as noisy and bumpy, making for a long, uncomfortable flight that put no one in a good mood.
After landing on Ascension Island, the 80 men were driven in Bedfords from Wideawake airfield, located in featureless, wind-blown terrain, to be billeted in an equally desolate, disused school surrounded by flatlands of volcanic rock. There they made up their bashas, then attended the first of what would be many boring briefings from the ‘green slime’. The Intelligence Corps staff informed them that no war had yet broken out and they would therefore be spending their days on the island undergoing limited, special training for the Falklands. This news was greeted with a universal groan of frustration.
‘Christ, what a hell-hole,’ Jock said that first evening as he drank beer with his mates in the Volcano Club, the American bar on Wideawake airfield, its windows giving a view of the rows of aircraft outside, including Vulcan bombers, Victor tankers, Starlifters, Nimrod recce planes and their own cumbersome Hercules transports. ‘It’s no more than a lump of scraggy rock in the middle of the bleedin’ South Atlantic. What the hell are we doing here?’
‘This is the nearest base for an amphibious assault on South Georgia,’ big Andrew explained. ‘That’s why we’re here, mate.’
‘And not alone either,’ Taff said, sitting beside Baby Face Porter. ‘Just look around you.’
He was referring to the other men in the packed, smoky bar, representing M Company, 42 Commando, Royal Marines, the RAF, the Royal Naval Aircraft Servicing Unit, Royal Engineers, and other members of the British Forces Support Unit. Though no more than a volcanic dust heap, nine miles across at its widest, the island had a BBC relay station, a 10,000-foot runway built by NASA, a satellite tracking station and a firing range. Now being used as a staging post for the Task Force, it was receiving an average of six Hercules flights a day, as well as a constant stream of men and equipment ferried in from the fleet anchored out at sea. As there was not enough accommodation for the personnel arriving daily, the men were forced to spend most of their time aboard ship, only being ferried to the island when it was their turn for weapons testing on the firing range, craft drills on the beach, other forms of training, or work. A lot of those men were here now, filling up the formerly quiet Volcano Club.
‘Fuck ’em,’ Gumboot said, polishing off the last of his inch-thick steak in garlic butter and washing it down with another mouthful of beer. ‘Them Argie bastards made British RMs lie face down on the ground. I say crash a couple of Hercules into the fucking runway at Port Stanley. Two C-130s filled with our men. We’d have the Argies running like scared rabbits before we were out of the planes.’
‘If you got that far,’ Ricketts said. ‘Rumour has it the airfield is ringed with 7000 Argentinian troops and an anti-aircraft battalion equipped with ground-to-air missiles. The C-130s, not fast at the best of times, would be sitting ducks.’
‘Right,’ baby-faced Danny put in, nodding emphatically. ‘We would not beat the clock, my friend.’
‘Well, when are we going to do something?’
‘When the diplomats fail, as they will. Only then will we move.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Gumboot exploded.
The special training began the next day and covered a wide variety of situations. Though the eighty-odd troops were already sweating in the tropical heat of Ascension Island, they were compelled to wear outfits suitable to the Arctic conditions of their eventual destination.
‘The Falklands are notable for cold weather and wind,’ Sergeant Ricketts explained as the men prepared. ‘The two together can result in windchill, which can freeze exposed flesh in minutes. So СКАЧАТЬ