Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Read online

  Deborah is also a committed vegetarian – and I suppose vegetarians, by definition, don’t make good assassins!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hughie, Mike and Ritchie – The three little pigs.

  ***

  “Can you spare some change for the dog, skip?” the heavy Glaswegian accent had floated up to me from a beggar sitting on a crumpled sleeping bag, a smooth haired black dog lying asleep, next to him.

  I had just come out of the tube station at Sloan Square. It had been a pleasant warm June evening in ’83. I had been at the Embankment Offices for the most of the day and was on my way back to the London House, via a nice restaurant in the Square, where I had occasionally dined. I had looked down at the man, and he had looked back up at me with the eyes of a chronic alcoholic, dulled and red rimmed by sustained heavy drinking. I had been somewhat shocked – I knew the man and, judging by the tears forming in his eyes, he had evidently recognised me.

  “Hughie,” I had greeted, squatting down in front of him, so that he had not been forced to look back up at me…you should never force friends to look up at you – ever.

  “Skip,” his breath had reeked of stale alcohol. “It’s been a few years since we’ve had a spot of fun together,” he had slurred.

  In reality, it had only been just over twelve months since we’d had ‘a spot of fun together’ – that’s if you could call it ‘fun’.

  ***

  Huddling up under a camouflaged poncho, in a seemingly useless attempt to keep dry from the constant drizzle, had not been my idea of fun, whatsoever. The hilly savannas of Tierra del Fuego, on the outskirts of Rio Grande, would not have been my normal holiday resort, of choice – but I was there on ‘business’. It was May 1982, and my unique skills had been required.

  The Falklands war had been at its height and, after initial successes, the British fleet had been coming under ever greater threat from the Argentinean Dassault-Breguet, Super Étendard fighters, equipped with their extremely effective Exocet anti-ship missiles. There had already been severe losses and casualties amongst the Task Force; and there had been a desperate need to reduce that threat – especially to the planned amphibious landing; which needed to happen before the end of May, the start of winter in the Sothern Atlantic and the onset of unpredictable weather. An initial plan had been developed, by the Director of the SAS, to attack the Argentinean airbase at Rio Grande, where the Exocet carrying Super Etendards had been based. The plan had been audacious, in the extreme. It had been proposed that an airborne landing, comprising of two C-130 Hercules aircraft, carrying fifty or more SAS troops, would land directly on the runway at the Rio Grande airbase. They would destroy as many planes, missiles and as much equipment that they could, and kill as many service personnel and aircrew that they could find. The C-130’s would remain on the tarmac; ready to evacuate the SAS after they had completed their mission. If, however, the C-130’s were damaged or destroyed, then the SAS would escape, by whatever means, overland to rendezvous points over the border in Chile. This had been an extremely high risk plan, which would only have had the remotest chance of succeeding if the Argentinean Command and Communications infrastructure, at the airbase, had been neutralised prior to any airborne landing taking place. And that is where I had come in – to lead a small unit to infiltrate and neutralise the Command and Communications Centre, at the airbase, in advance of an airborne landing by the main SAS force.

  Because the bleak terrain of the Tierra del Fuego had afforded little ground cover, it had been felt that a small group would stand greater chance of infiltrating, and remaining undetected, than a larger force. According to British Military Intelligence, the airbase at Rio Grande had been guarded by just two companies of conscripts, at the very most – anything between two and four hundred poorly trained and poorly motivated troops. Furthermore, Intelligence had also indicated that, during the hours of darkness, the airbase had been only very lightly guarded. Three or four personnel manning the main entrance to the base – and no more than eight on duty in the Command and Communications Centre, adjacent to the control tower. At night, the control tower at the airbase was only ever manned by just the one civilian air traffic controller, and a radar operator – not that they had ever really been needed, as there were no night time operations from the base. A team of four experienced personnel had been considered to be more than adequate to carry out the initial strike. They had to be Spanish speaking, preferably Latin American Spanish; have experience with explosives; possess a comprehensive understanding of communications equipment…plus one other additional vital skill set – they all must have killed before. Out of all the military personnel in the Southern Atlantic, only four had matched all of the criteria required: a Corporal, from the twenty second SAS Regiment, B Squadron; and two Corporals, from Four-Two Commando – oh, and me.

  But, by the time that I had arrived on HMS Hermes at the end of April, having leapfrogged my way down via the Ascension Islands, Operation ‘Mikado’ had already been radically changed. Instead of using C-130 Hercules, to launch a direct attack on the airbase, the new plan had been to drop SAS units and members of the Special Boat Service, the SBS, several miles off shore and, using inflatable’s, for them to land on the coast and launch a land based attack on the airbase at Rio Grande. It had also been intended to send an airborne SAS reconnaissance team ahead, by Sea King helicopter, to carry out preparations for the incursion of the main force of SAS and SBS units. But, to do this successfully, and undetected, they had still needed to neutralise the radar at the Rio Grande airbase. And, because of my past experience in similar covert operations, I had been asked to take charge of the team that was to carry out the initial strike on the Command and Communications Centre, at the airbase. At that time, I had ‘held’ the rank of Captain, with MI9. So, to all intents and purposes, I had more than sufficient military seniority to lead the raid – or so the senior officers of the Task Force had been led to believe. But why not one of their own officers to lead the mission. While all the members of the team had killed before – and I daresay that they could have found an officer to lead them, who had also killed before – whether they would kill helpless bound captives, or not, was an entirely different matter…whereas I, on the other hand, could – and would.

  “There is also the matter of silence,” Sir Malcolm C…, Section 9’s Head during the Falklands War, had remarked, when initially offering me the assignment.

  He had also been known as ‘Cheerful Cheesy’, due to his bright and happy nature – but I digress, somewhat.

  “The SAS are more than up for a bit killing, but they do tend to be a bit rowdy when they go about it – far too much noise. Whereas, Martin, you on the other hand are silence personified.”

  My primary objective had been to take the team in and neutralise the Argentinean Command and Communications Centre, prior to the main attacking force landing. After the main force had successfully landed and dispersed, Sir Malcolm C…had been quite keen that I should then search out some ‘high-value’ targets, and assassinate them. To this length, I had been provided with a ‘wish’ list; a comprehensive list of names and addresses where these ‘high-value’ targets might be located – which, of course, I committed to memory.

  I had met up with my team in a small briefing room, on board the Hermes. Standing up to crisp attention, the three of them had saluted me as I had entered the room. In a fashion, I had returned the salute back to them – my three little pigs.

  Why my three little pigs – because, if need be, all three had been expendable.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  We had remained standing during the brief introductions.

  In a strong Glaswegian accent, Hughie, who was to be my second in command, had been the first to introduce himself as Corporal Hughie M…, of ‘The Regiment’, B Squadron. Six foot tall and decidedly gangly in limb, his face had seemed to be well worn and lived in – but there again, he’d probably been around a bit during his thirty odd years. Corporal Ritchie
K…, of Four-Two Commando, had introduced himself next. Hair cropped down close to his perfectly proportioned round head, he was a couple of inches shorter than his Scottish counterpart, his wide shoulders and chest indicating a strong solid build. At six foot two, Corporal Mike F…, had been the last of the team to introduce themselves, his voice loud and powerful. Also of Four-Two Commando, he had formerly been a member of 2 Para, transferring successfully over to the Royal Marines, some years previously. I had then briefly introduced myself to them. Basically, just name and rank – for there had been little else that I could tell them about either my background or history. However, judging by their collective stares, it had been clearly obvious that they had all noted that my battle dress contained neither regimental insignia, nor flashes.

  ‘We’d all guessed that you were a member of the funny firm.’ Hughie had confided to me, a few days later, while we were all guests of the Chillan Government.

  Introductions over, I had then asked them all to sit at the room’s only table, a long narrow metal table, which had also doubled as a mess table. In front of each of them, a transparent water proof map case – time to brief my three little pigs.

  ***

  Less than forty-eight hours later and we had been squeezed on board a Sea King helicopter, with its three aircrew and its other occupants; nine bemused SAS, led by a gaunt faced lieutenant. For the flight, I had worn my Captain’s ‘rank slide’. Its three ‘pips’, and the lack of any other insignia, had the desired effect of ensuring no idle conversation or unwelcomed questions, during the long flight.

  The weather had been truly dreadful, the Westland Sea King, with its additional long range fuel tanks, bucking and kicking against the squalling winds of the South Atlantic. There had been a few, very pale white faces on some of the occupants, as they had fought back down the nausea that had threatened overwhelm them and spill out into the confined interior of the Sea King. The four of us, on the other hand, had made the best that we could of the rough trip, closing our eyes and, if not actual sleeping, pretending to sleep.

  It’s quite difficult to strike up a conversation with someone who is asleep; and, because of the sensitivity of our mission, we had no desire, whatsoever, to engage in conversation with any of our fellow travellers.

  After almost four hours, in that confined cramped cabin, the green warning light had been illuminated and one of the aircrew had made themselves known to me. To avoid any radar, our pilot had crossed the Argentinean coast some fifty miles north of Rio Grande. He had then flown directly south, close to the border with Chile, hugging the ground and the low grassy hillocks, as best he could. Just after midnight, we had dropped down on to a dirt road – ‘Highway C’ on my map – which had led directly into Rio Grande and the airbase, some ten kilometres away. The four of us had quickly disembarked the Sea King, along with two of the SAS troop, who had been quickly ordered back into the Sea King by their furious thin faced officer. Ducking down from the wash of the rotor blades, we had scurried to the side of the road as the helicopter had taken off again, this time heading west and towards Chile. Once across the border, the pilot would drop off his SAS passengers at a pre-arranged rendezvous point, before flying on and landing at Punta Arenas, where the crew would then simulate a crash landing and burn out the helicopter. The official story would be that the crew, disorientated by the bad weather conditions, had simply got lost. This had been an attempt, by British Intelligence, to deliberately mislead the Argentineans into believing that the actual mission had been to insert an SAS reconnaissance unit, at Rio Grande, prior to an airborne landing taking place there. And, when the Sea King helicopter and the SAS unit had turned up unexpectedly, in Chile, this was meant to give an air of credibility to the intended subterfuge. Furthermore, as the SAS recognisance mission had obviously ‘failed’, British Military Intelligence had hoped that the Argentineans would have presumed that any intended British landing would now have to be postponed, until after a full reconnoitre had been carried out – if not delayed, indefinitely; due to the onset of winter in the South Atlantic, and the beginning of the storm season.

  We had been grateful to the pilot of the Sea King for dropping us where he had, on the dirt road. As unmade as it was, it had been more preferable to walk along its rough flat surface than venture across the hazardous, uneven grass covered steppes, on either side of it – especially in the dark. Relatively lightly equipped, we had made good progress. In addition to each of us carrying Colt Commando Carbines, fitted with M203 40mm grenade launchers; sixteen, thirty round magazines and eight 40mm grenades; we had each been armed with 9mm Berettas, complete with suppressors. In our back packs, we had carried Detcord and blocks of C4 plastic explosive; concussion and stun grenades; flares, radios and radio controlled detonators – all comparatively light weight in comparison to the twenty-five kilo ‘Bergen’ rucksacks, which were normally carried. Despite the relentless drizzle, it had been a comparatively easy stroll, rather than an arduous forced march. As we had neared the airbase at Rio Grande, we had moved off the road, setting up an observation post just bellow the low rise of a moss covered hillock, well out of view of the road. But, there had been little to observe, though. What moonlight, that there was, had been unable to penetrate the low cloud cover, and the base had been in darkness – almost certainly ‘blacked out’ against possible air strikes by our Canberra bombers. We had all settled down for a long, cold, damp night. It had been at precisely 0230 hours when Mike, who had been manning one of our two radio sets, had suddenly put his hand up – a sign that he was receiving a transmission.

  “What have you got, Mike?” I had whispered as I had moved over and sat down next to him – Hughie and Ritchie huddling round, too.

  “Alpha-Mike followed by Echo-Romeo-Papa,” he had replied, looking up from his crouched position over the radio set.

  We were being recalled.

  “There’s more, Skip,” he had added, frowning, his forehead lined into tight furrows as he had deciphered the dots and dashes of the Morse code message. “India-Alpha-Uniform-Oscar-Delta-Foxtrot,” he had repeated the code back using the phonetic alphabet, a bemused look on his face.

  “What the fuck is that, Skip?” Hughie had asked, expressing exactly what the others had been thinking.

  “Imperative Avoid Use Of Deadly Force,” I had translated the abbreviation to them. “Which, simply means, that we don’t kill anyone on our way out of here.”

  “What the fuck are we suppose to do, Skip, if we come across the Argies?” Hughie had then scoffed. “Snog them!”

  “In your case – that would definitely be use of deadly force,” Ritchie had joked, his soft Manchurian accent emphasising ‘force’. “Your breath would take the paint off a fucking tank!”

  “Time to go.” I had instructed them.

  It was then that I’d suddenly realised that the three little expendable pigs had become four – ‘Oink Oink!’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I had been rather surprised by the issuing of the ‘Abort’ and ‘Evacuation’ orders, especially at such relatively short notice – we had only been on Argentinean soil for less than three hours!

  But, at the time, none of us had known that the intent to mislead the Argentineans, with the staged crash of the Sea King helicopter, had utterly failed. Instead of lulling the Argentineans into a false sense of security, it had done the exact opposite…it had caused them to suspect an SAS incursion – and they had deployed some two thousand troops to search for us! The Argentinean border with Chile had been some forty to fifty miles from where we had set up our observation post, back along ‘Highway C’. Far too risky, even at night, to try and cover that sort of distance on foot. We had needed transport of some kind. Even then, it would also have been too risky to be out on the road, in a stolen vehicle, that early in the morning – we could have easily drawn unwanted attention to ourselves.

  We would have to wait until there were other vehicles moving about, in and around Rio Grande, before setting
out on ‘Highway C’, and the border – that is, providing we could find a suitable vehicle to steal.

  For a short while, we had rested – trying to keep dry under the constant drizzle of rain and to keep warm in the bone chilling night air. We had some physical activity, though. While we had waited patiently for the traffic to start moving in Rio Grande, I had decided that it would not be a particularly good idea to attempt to cross the border with the explosives that we had carried. So, individually, we had each gone off into the grassy hillocks to bury all of it. The rolls of Detcord and C4 plastique explosive had been buried separately from the detonators; and the radio controlled triggers were disassembled, their contents also being buried separately, under individual damp sods of earth. At around 0600 hours, or just slightly after that, we had started to see the pencil like beams of a few vehicles moving in and around the main part of the town. It had still been dark; sun rise was another two, maybe three, hours away – time to go.

  Cautiously, we had made our way down in the direction of Rio Grande town, itself. It had taken us a good thirty minutes to find a suitable vehicle – an old battered F150 pickup truck, parked up on shale next to a builder’s yard. Ritchie did not even have to ‘hot wire’ the truck – the keys had been left in it, placed under the sun visor! Hughie and Mike had got into the back of the truck, nestling themselves down between some lengths of four by four timber and clay building blocks, covering themselves with a tarpaulin sheet. With Ritchie at the wheel, I had jumped into the right hand side of the cab, throwing my back pack on top of his in between us on the torn bench seat. Like Ritchie, I had also placed my carbine in the foot well, close up to the seat – out of immediate sight, but still close at hand. The shocks on the old battered neglected pickup were completely wrecked. Just as well really, as they had acted as impromptu speed governors, our speed governed by the savage shaking of the vehicle, and the violent crashing down of the suspension on to its stops. The drive west had been quite uneventful, apart from where the road had taken a very sharp right angled turn, directly through the middle of a large sprawling sheep ranch, at Estancia San Julio. There had been a number of people up and about at the ranch, on either side of the road, as we had slowly driven through – and they’d been waving to us!