The Falklands Intercept by Crispin Black Page B

bearing a single or double M in military crayon on the forehead to show that they had been given morphine. In the background the noisy hum of helicopters as the wounded were evacuated, the rotors biting into the air as the Sea King helicopters hovered over the deck. It was too dangerous to land. At the back of the boat a chopper hovered low over an inflated orange life raft using its powerful downdraft to push the raft and its occupants away from the burning ship. Nearby the shouted instructions of officers and non-commissioned officers and the grunting as men were lifted onto stretchers were oddly re-assuring. The panic and shambles of a few minutes ago was slowly being transformed bit by bit and thanks to deeply ingrained discipline into a military operation. And some protection was at hand. Jacot could hear the thud thud of the British half-inch machine guns in the bay as they put up a curtain of tracer to deter further attacks. They were firing ‘four bit’ – every fourth round was tracer leaving a burning trail in the sky. It allowed the firer to see his fall of shot and deterred enemy pilots. But the Rapier anti-aircraft missiles which really could make a difference moved crazily around in their stands – pointing first at the sky and then straight at the ground – their radars could sense enemy aircraft but their gyroscopes, still not bedded in properly after a month at sea, were confused as to which direction was up and which down. It was too late anyway. The Mirage Super-Etendard bombers would have launched their missiles from many miles away.
    More than the fear and pain Jacot felt humiliated. They had sailed 8,000 miles just to get themselves caught in a stupid military fuck up – without even landing a blow on the Argentines. But worse than the humiliation was the ghastly realisation that flooded Jacot’s consciousness and seemed to surge into every part of his body: his platoon, his men would not have been caught in the inferno on the tank deck if he had listened to Jones’ advice. God knows how many were dead or dying or burnt beyond suffering.
    And then Jacot heard another roar. Faint but growing stronger. Jet aircraft flying low and fast, straining at maximum capacity. He prayed that they were British Harriers…
    Â 
    Jacot got up from his chair. The fire was burning low. Most of the Calvados was gone.

VI
Set C 5, Pilgrims’ Court, St James’ College Cambridge
– Wednesday, 18th January 2012
    It had been a mainly frustrating day consisting of long talks about police procedure and fairly tedious alibi checking on some peripheral players. The low point had been a difficult telephone conversation with Verney’s deputy, a prickly Air Vice Marshal who wanted minute by minute updates on the investigation. When Jacot declined he made it pretty clear that he ate army colonels for breakfast. In the end Jacot had referred him to Lady Nevinson but it had been a humiliating and bad-tempered exchange. The arrival of Charlotte Pirbright in his rooms just a few minutes after the Air Vice Marshal had hung up on him lifted Jacot’s spirits – helped also by the arrival of the cocktail hour. Jones was right thought Jacot – she was extraordinarily good looking. Every lovesick poet in the book had tried but no one had ever pinned down in words that kind of beauty. Some had come close. Jacot liked Philip Marlowe’s great reaction to being shown a photograph of Mrs. Lewin Lockridge Grayle. “It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.” She was blonde but she wasn’t that at all. The curves were interesting enough and she was well dressed to make the most of her figure but the allure did not come from an in your face sexuality. It was the face itself. It was perfect. And perfect in what seemed to Jacot a perfectly English way. A high forehead descended into a strong nose – not a Barbie doll nose so popular