Ghost Force

And he stood in the glare of the light as the two Argentinians approached, dazzled by the beams, and unable to see who was carrying them. But Trooper Goddard, using the night glasses, could see.

'Fuck me,' he muttered. 'These guys are Argentinian military. Peter…Peter…they're armed soldiers.'

Trooper Wiggins did not hesitate. Ernesto Frasisti was almost level with Douglas, who still could not see his uniform. And the Argentinians were baffled by the sight of this unkempt beachcomber. And that bafflement, that split second of confusion, cost them both their lives. Trooper Wiggins cut them down in their tracks with two bursts from his machine gun. And the only other sound was the dull crunch of the pebbles as they fell.

But now all five of the rearguard SAS ran forward and gathered around the two bodies. Douglas, who was slightly shaken at his obvious brush with death, could only think, What if they'd fired first?

Instinctively he swung around and shook the hand of Peter Wiggins. But other thoughts were cascading into his mind. What if Sunray was out there, and had seen the lights and even heard the gunfire?

He grabbed for his flashlight and hit the buttons, firing five more quick beams out to sea. Still pulling hard on the oars in the inflatables, and still more than a half mile from the shore, Rick Hunter caught the message and made one of those decisions that had made him a legend in Coronado. Every impulse he possessed was telling him, Speed, nothing more, just go, go, go!

'Fire up both engines!' he yelled. 'And floor those throttles…make straight for that last signal…Now! Now! Now!'

Segal and Wallace hit the ignition and rammed open the throttles. The bows of the Zodiacs arched upward as the engines howled, as the two Yamahas forced them through the water. Seconds later both boats surged up over the stump and settled onto their fastest angle, flying across the top of the short, choppy waves. Don Smith and Bob Bland were both upside down, legs in the air, flung back by the sheer force of the power-drive to the beach alongside Egg Harbor.

The SAS men could now clearly hear the roar of the motors as Commander Hunter gunned his SEALs into the shore. Douglas hit them with five more quick-fire beams as they reached the shallows.

'Engines up!!' roared the SEAL chief. 'Engines up!' And the two Zodiacs came slicing into the beach, where Troopers Ferry and Lewellwyn, up to their thighs in water, grabbed the painters and hauled the boats in.

'Okay, guys…grab your stuff and get aboard…four men to each boat…eight of you, right?'

None of the SAS men had any idea who he was, this giant officer, with his face painted black and drive-on rag wrapped around his forehead. He looked like Geronimo's personal trainer.

'Captain Jarvis…your very bossy sister sent me to get you…and I've crawled through broken glass to make it!'

Douglas Jarvis stared in amazement at the mighty figure, whom he had met only twice in his life, but who now most certainly stood before him. 'Ricky?' he said. 'Jesus Christ! Is that you? I thought you'd retired. What the hell are you doing here?'

'Damn good question, old buddy. But I just told you. Di sent me to get her kid brother home.'

'How'd she know where I was?'

'I think she phoned the Prime Minister. You know Di. Fearless.'

Doug Jarvis flung his arms around his brother-in-law. 'Jesus, Rick, you'll never know how glad I am to see you.'

'I bet I do,' chuckled the big SEAL leader. 'And by the way, those two guys right there spread out on the beach, are they just resting, or are they dead?'

'Dead. Argentine military. Kinda jumped us. Had to blow 'em away before they blew us.'

'Yeah, I know the feeling,' replied Rick. 'Better load 'em in the boats. One in each. Don, Brian…give the guys a hand. Dump 'em inboard and then let's go. Fast, before someone comes looking.'

'You don't wanna just leave the dead guys, Rick?'

'Hell, no. If we do, they'll get found in an hour, if they came from one of the those houses. If we take 'em out to sea and dump 'em, it'll probably take a week. Missing soldiers are nothing like so urgent as murdered ones, right?'

'Right,' said Doug. 'Let's dump 'em, like the man says.'

And so they all clambered aboard. Two of the SEALs shoved the boats out, stern-first into the tide. The helmsmen dropped the engines and backed out into deeper water, while the two boatmen, Mike Hook and Don Smith, hauled themselves up onto the bow.

Moments later they were heading directly out to sea, back into the south-running channel of Falkland Sound, all sixteen of them, eight to a boat, plus the late Ernesto and Carlos, whose journey would be somewhat shorter.

'How far, Rick?' asked Douglas, when the introductions were more or less complete.

'Thirty miles. We'll be running down the Sound between the islands at around ten knots all the way to our meeting point. That's a spot just south of Elephant Cays, north of Speedwell Island. Way down at the south end of the Sound. You probably saw it on the map.'

'I did,' said Douglas. 'What are we meeting?'

'U.S. Navy submarine. USS Toledo. She had another pickup around at East Cove at 2100. That's a hundred miles away from our meeting point. She'll be there, right off the Elephants, at 0200, in about two hundred feet of water.'

'Beautiful,' said Douglas. 'They got any showers on board?'

'That submarine's got more bathrooms than the Waldorf-Astoria,' said Rick. 'Get you guys smartened up. I forgot to mention, Dougy, you look like shit.'

'And of course you look absolutely fucking wonderful, all dressed up for the enclosure at Royal Ascot, right?'

Everyone laughed at this typical exchange between the two brothers-in-law, until Ed Segal asked, 'Rick, you got any idea what's up ahead?'

'We got a clear run steering course two-two-five,' said Rick. 'For about nine miles. Then we have to jog left through a narrow seaway off Great Island. There's a wreck to the south, and a goddamned sandbank the size of the Sahara.'

'Two-two-five?' asked Bob Bland, checking, like all good navigation officers.

'Right. Just gotta be careful around the island. It's uninhabited, unmarked, and totally fucking unnecessary, but it's there.'

And so they slipped quietly across the pitch-back waters of Falkland Sound, unseen by anyone, making a steady ten knots. It was a little after 2300, and simultaneously, USS Toledo, making a swift twenty knots 150 feet below the surface, was somewhere off Sea Lion Islands, the most southerly point of the Falklands, fifteen miles off the mainland. On board were the twelve U.S. Navy SEALs who had blown to smithereens every ship in Mare Harbor.

And right now, this particular Dirty Dozen had it all over the sixteen backs-to-the-wall warriors from Egg Harbor. Because it was beginning to rain, a violent, gusting squall coming up from the southwest, freezing cold, lashing rain sweeping sideways over the surface.

Inside the Toledo no one even knew. The big L.A.-class submarine moved serenely through the depths, no swell, no chop, no wind, perfect temperature. Excellent soup and steaks for the SEALs, clean dry clothes, and a large selection of movies.

Out in the Zodiacs the rain was awful, pelting down on the rubber hulls as they made their way south. The SEALs, who still wore their wet suits, were best equipped to cope with it, but Douglas Jarvis and his men were not so well insulated, huddled down inside their waterproof smocks, wearing hoods and Gore-Tex trousers. It was a wet and cold ride through seas that grew rougher every mile as they approached the open waters of the Atlantic.

Nonetheless it beat the hell out of being trapped in their hide trying to get off the island without a boat.

Meanwhile, back in Egg Harbor, Ben Carey and his wife were wondering what had happened to Ernesto and Carlos—'such nice young gentlemen.'