came back and spoke to Andy. Had the mission been compromised or not?
"We have to abort now, damn it!" the pilot was shouting. "If the Argies reckon we're out here they'll scramble fighters to shoot us down."
Andy told Guy, "I reckon the pilot's shitting his pants at the thought of ditching in the sea."
This was true, but I didn't blame the crew for wanting a way out from what would be almost certain death. If we aborted now they probably had just enough fuel to fly to neutral Chile, land the helicopter and turn themselves in.
"We've come this far," Andy said. "I'm not bottling out without taking a crack at the mission."
The seconds were ticking by. We were eating into precious fuel. Guy was hesitating in two minds over whether to abort or continue. If he delayed much longer we wouldn't have any choice.
Exasperated, Andy pushed past him to the hatch and swung himself up on to the flight deck. "Listen, you gutless bastards," we heard him shout. "Get us back to the drop point. After that you can do what you like."
We listened anxiously to the radar operator, but the signal to the south had faded out. There were no more flares. It must have been a nervous sentry on the base.
Andy crouched by the navigator, plotting a course to the landing point. We planned to set down near an isolated estancia three kilometres to the west of the air base. It was only a couple of minutes away, so everyone started getting their gear together.
"OK, this is it," the pilot shouted into the headsets. "Touch down in one minute. I'll give you exactly thirty seconds to get your gear out before I lift off again."
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was 5.05am and still pitch dark as we settled in to land. The helicopter touched down in a cloud of dust. Taffy was first out, followed by Tom and then me. We spread out in a rapid circle around the aircraft, covering all the arcs, weapons at the ready. Taffy made a sweep with his night-vision goggles. "All clear," he announced. We were in the centre of a shallow bowl surrounded by steep hills. There appeared to be no trees, only tussock grass and some kind of prickly bush. There was a dusting of snow on the ground. After the aircraft it was bitterly cold. My nausea vanished as I filled my lungs with fresh air.
We began rapidly passing out the berg ens while the Sea King sat there, motors running and rotors spinning, ready to lift off at a moment's notice. It was vital to get the helicopter unloaded and safely away before its presence was detected.
"Get a fucking move on, can't you?" Doug hissed at me as I fumbled a pack.
"Up yours," I told him, heaving the 501b bergen on to Taffy. After the anxieties of the trip it was a relief to have our feet on the ground and be active. The mission was on schedule and we were confident we could pull it off. Our map would guide us to the edge of the airbase. We would set ourselves up an OP and be ready to play our part when D Squadron hit the place in two or three days' time.
We were just removing the last of our kit when a blaze of light filled the sky to the east of us, the direction of the airbase. Another flare. Instantly we froze, expecting shots from the darkness. Had we walked into a trap? Was it the signal for an attack?
The Sea King pilot didn't hesitate a second. He yanked on the collective lever and pulled maximum power. The helicopter rocketed up into the air with the navigator clinging on to the open hatch. Doug, who was nearest, was knocked ofF his feet by the rotor wash. He jumped up swearing. "Bloody gutless crabs!" Actually they were Navy aircrew but to Doug they were still fliers.
From the sound of the engines they were heading back westwards. They had decided to try to make for the Chilean border.
As officer, Guy had to make a quick decision. The helicopter was less than a mile away, still within radio range. Should he summon it back to evacuate us, aborting the mission? This was the last chance. Was he going to bug out for Chile or were we going to grit our
"We have to abort now, damn it!" the pilot was shouting. "If the Argies reckon we're out here they'll scramble fighters to shoot us down."
Andy told Guy, "I reckon the pilot's shitting his pants at the thought of ditching in the sea."
This was true, but I didn't blame the crew for wanting a way out from what would be almost certain death. If we aborted now they probably had just enough fuel to fly to neutral Chile, land the helicopter and turn themselves in.
"We've come this far," Andy said. "I'm not bottling out without taking a crack at the mission."
The seconds were ticking by. We were eating into precious fuel. Guy was hesitating in two minds over whether to abort or continue. If he delayed much longer we wouldn't have any choice.
Exasperated, Andy pushed past him to the hatch and swung himself up on to the flight deck. "Listen, you gutless bastards," we heard him shout. "Get us back to the drop point. After that you can do what you like."
We listened anxiously to the radar operator, but the signal to the south had faded out. There were no more flares. It must have been a nervous sentry on the base.
Andy crouched by the navigator, plotting a course to the landing point. We planned to set down near an isolated estancia three kilometres to the west of the air base. It was only a couple of minutes away, so everyone started getting their gear together.
"OK, this is it," the pilot shouted into the headsets. "Touch down in one minute. I'll give you exactly thirty seconds to get your gear out before I lift off again."
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was 5.05am and still pitch dark as we settled in to land. The helicopter touched down in a cloud of dust. Taffy was first out, followed by Tom and then me. We spread out in a rapid circle around the aircraft, covering all the arcs, weapons at the ready. Taffy made a sweep with his night-vision goggles. "All clear," he announced. We were in the centre of a shallow bowl surrounded by steep hills. There appeared to be no trees, only tussock grass and some kind of prickly bush. There was a dusting of snow on the ground. After the aircraft it was bitterly cold. My nausea vanished as I filled my lungs with fresh air.
We began rapidly passing out the berg ens while the Sea King sat there, motors running and rotors spinning, ready to lift off at a moment's notice. It was vital to get the helicopter unloaded and safely away before its presence was detected.
"Get a fucking move on, can't you?" Doug hissed at me as I fumbled a pack.
"Up yours," I told him, heaving the 501b bergen on to Taffy. After the anxieties of the trip it was a relief to have our feet on the ground and be active. The mission was on schedule and we were confident we could pull it off. Our map would guide us to the edge of the airbase. We would set ourselves up an OP and be ready to play our part when D Squadron hit the place in two or three days' time.
We were just removing the last of our kit when a blaze of light filled the sky to the east of us, the direction of the airbase. Another flare. Instantly we froze, expecting shots from the darkness. Had we walked into a trap? Was it the signal for an attack?
The Sea King pilot didn't hesitate a second. He yanked on the collective lever and pulled maximum power. The helicopter rocketed up into the air with the navigator clinging on to the open hatch. Doug, who was nearest, was knocked ofF his feet by the rotor wash. He jumped up swearing. "Bloody gutless crabs!" Actually they were Navy aircrew but to Doug they were still fliers.
From the sound of the engines they were heading back westwards. They had decided to try to make for the Chilean border.
As officer, Guy had to make a quick decision. The helicopter was less than a mile away, still within radio range. Should he summon it back to evacuate us, aborting the mission? This was the last chance. Was he going to bug out for Chile or were we going to grit our
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