Captain Jarvis and his still-intact SAS team had made it to the southern end of Brenton Loch and had gone to ground close to the water at the northern end of the causeway that crosses Choiseul Sound. This rectangle of land is about five miles long and only a little more than a mile wide. The Argentine garrison at Goose Green was in the diametrically opposite southeastern corner, a distance of perhaps five and a half miles from the SAS team. No more.
The land there is flat, but the shoreline is craggy, with a lot of rocks on the landward side of the pebbled beach. Jake Posgate had found an ideal spot, a group of eight huge, flattish boulders that overlapped, two of them resting on the shoulders of three others.
This did not provide much space, but it provided enough for eight hard-trained combat troops to hole up, mount their defensive position, and remain invisible from any direction. The only way anyone could locate them would be to squirm straight into the low tunnel formed by the boulders, and then kiss life on this planet a very sharp good-bye.
The main trouble for Douglas was that there was no possibility of cooking the three joints of lamb they still possessed. At least not until nightfall, and even that was a little risky.
But they had water, and some chocolate, and there was little to do except wait until dark, and then attempt to cross the causeway and head down to the next harbor without being located.
So far the day was passing very slowly and very boringly. But at 1110 they heard the whine of a military helicopter, flying low, maybe a couple of miles to the east. Douglas himself wriggled out of their hide and, lying flat on the pebbles, saw it heading north, making a circular course back toward the coast.
'That's the enemy,' he muttered. 'They've decided their patrol has gone missing. Guys, we just became the target of an Argentinian manhunt that is likely to get bigger and bigger over the next few hours.'
'What do we do?' asked Trooper Wiggins.
'Nothing. We stay right here, and hope to Christ they concentrate their search six miles north of here around Port Sussex. If our luck holds, they may not bother with this stretch of exposed coast 'til tomorrow. Meanwhile, we'll make our move south soon as the light fades.'
'How close to the Argentine garrison do we go?'
'Probably within a mile. We'll just keep crawling along the coast and make darned sure no one sees us. In daylight we stay right where we are. Hidden.'
And that's precisely where they stayed until, at 1300, they heard another helicopter take off from the south end of the causeway. They then saw what was probably the original one fly back. Then they heard two more helos come in from the south — probably, in Captain Jarvis's view, from Mount Pleasant.
'Jesus, we got 'em worried,' said Douglas. 'They now believe something happened to their guys. And they're about to scour this fucking island to find out who did it.'
'Who's more worried, us or them?' asked Bob Goddard.
'Us. By fucking miles, since you ask,' replied the Team Leader. 'This is beginning to look very, very hairy.'
'If they corner us, do we fight, or surrender?'
'I guess we fight. Because if we surrender they'll shoot us for murdering their colleagues, when the war we came for was plainly over.'
'Jesus Christ,' said Trooper Wiggins. 'Are we dead in the water?'
'Hell, no,' said Douglas. 'First of all, they're not going to find us; secondly, we know someone is certainly trying to rescue us; and thirdly, we must have a chance of getting a boat out of here. We are British, and any citizen of these islands is effectively a British citizen in captivity. We just need a break, a friendly fisherman with a trawler full of gas that will get us to the Magellan Strait.'
'You sure about that rescue stuff?' asked Bob Goddard.
'No,' replied Douglas, curtly.
And they all fell silent, trying not to consider themselves trapped in this hellhole, from which right now there was no escape. And for three more hours they lay flat on the ground awaiting the fading of the light.
At 1800 Trooper Joe Pearson switched on the satellite radio communication and put on the headset, same as every night. In the background there was that faint electronic 'mushy' sound, but, as usual, no other variation.
Fifteen minutes later, Joe Pearson was almost nodding off to sleep when he heard it…a voice, indistinct, but a voice.
'Careful it's not the fucking Args,' snapped Douglas. 'Give it to me!'
Joe ripped the headset off and handed it to the boss.
And right away, Douglas heard the voice:
The unseen line of communication from Douglas Jarvis's makeshift cave shut down. And the comms mast of USS
And this left Douglas and his boys to work out the details. Sunray is U.S./UK military code for Commander. And the SEALs were plainly on their way. But
As codes go, that one was not trying to fool the entire world. In fact it was not heard by anyone except Douglas Jarvis. And it took about four minutes peering at the coastal map of the western side of East Falkland.
'Right here,' said Douglas, spreading out the map. 'About fifteen miles east-southeast of this place — tiny little place, sheltered inlet off Falkland Sound…see it? That's where we're going…Egg Harbor.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
