Ghost Force (42 page)

“Correct.”

“And what about the East Cove guys? How far away are they? And when do they rejoin the submarine?”

“Mare Harbor is approximately a hundred and thirty-five miles away from the eastern headland of Pebble. But the water’s relatively deep and the SSN will make it in a little over five hours.

“The ship will pick up each group as it completes its task. Maybe it’ll be yours, maybe the others. Then, with all twenty-eight of you on board, including the SAS, it makes all speed for the Magellan Strait, four hundred and forty miles away, where we rendezvous with a Chilean freighter, which will land you all at Punta Arenas to prepare for Rio Grande. All being well, Rick, you and your guys will leave almost immediately, by helicopter.”

“Time frame, sir?”

“Both SEAL teams leave here by air tomorrow afternoon at 1600,” said the Admiral. “And that will put you over the drop zone north of the Falklands at 0700 Sunday morning, that’s first light. We don’t have a problem being seen that far north, and the submarine will have Group One right off Pebble Island by around 1700, just as the light starts to fade.

“The Pentagon has no record of any Argentine patrol up there for the past week after 1400. And anyway, we got depth to stay submerged right up to a couple miles offshore. At midnight, there’ll be a HALO drop straight into your landing beach from a United States military aircraft flying higher than thirty thousand feet and transmitting only civilian radar.

“Rick, you’ve done this before, so you’ll carry in the beam to guide the canister down. It’ll contain all the explosive and detcord you’ll need, timers, fuses, wire cutters, screwdrivers, shovels, extra food, a powerful satellite transmitter, and a big machine gun in case of emergency. You can bury the canister, and load the stuff into the inflatables for the outward journey to East Falkland, where you’ll find Captain Jarvis.”

“Normally we’d carry a lot of this stuff, right, sir?” asked Dallas. “It’s just the ocean drop—can’t get too weighed down with the gear?”

“That’s correct. None of you have made a drop like this and the planners decided to land the equipment separately. You won’t have any trouble. Commander Hunter knows all about it. He did it in darkest Russia, and no one caught him. Anyway, that’s the broad game plan, and now we better get down to details.

“First off, there’s six A4P Skyhawks parked on Pebble Island with nine of those Israeli Daggers. These are the guys that delivered the big thousand-pound bombs into the Royal Navy Fleet. The air base has a new, extended concrete runway, installed a couple of years ago by a consortium of the oil companies exploring offshore to the north. The new buildings, like the runway, were unused and have now been converted into an Argentinian command headquarters. They were, of course, unharmed during the recent conflict.

“There may be a seventy-five-strong force in there, that’s aircrew,
ground crew, and guards. It’s really the only stronghold Argentina has in the north. But the last thing they’ll have on their minds is having the air base assaulted. Remember, their enemy, the Brits, have very publicly left the area, and the Argentinians still hold many prisoners of war.”

Rick Hunter nodded. “Sir, there’s four eight-man hard-deck inflatables on board this damn great Navy submarine, right? Two for us, two for the others. Now they are going straight into East Cove to do their business and then straight out again to the ship—that’s a round trip of less than ten miles.

“On the other hand, according to this chart, our best place to meet the SSN, after we locate Douglas Jarvis, is going to be the south end of Falkland Sound, and that sucker’s fifty miles long, all the way down to Fox Bay.

“Now, Captain Jarvis is almost certainly on the west coast of East Falkland, probably trying to find a boat he can commandeer to get the hell out of there. So we are faced with a journey of around sixty miles from our landing beach all the way down the Sound, in a couple of high-powered Zodiacs, which burn gas like a fucking 747. I just want to make certain we’ve got enough…”

Admiral Bergstrom referred to his notes. “One of those inflatables, running at ten knots without making much noise, uses a gallon every forty-two minutes. You’ll hit the beach with full tanks—that’s twenty gallons—enough for fourteen hours or a hundred and forty miles. If, for any reason, you have to floor it to make some kind of escape, which is unlikely, both boats carry two full four-and-a-half-gallon spare cans. Basically the boats can make two hundred miles apiece.”

“Thank you, sir. Just checking.”

“You’re welcome, Commander.”

“Tell you something,” said Dallas. “With full tanks those boats are going to be darned heavy to drag up the beach and conceal while we blow the airfield.”

“We thought of that,” replied the Admiral. “The boats are each fitted with eight heavy-duty canvas handles. I agree they’d be darn heavy for a four-man team—no trouble for eight of you.”

Dallas nodded. “Anyway, sir, I was forgetting. The Commander could probably carry the damn thing by himself.” The enormous
strength of the SEAL Team Leader was still a well-known standard at Coronado; a standard that, it should be recorded, hardly anyone ever attained.

Right now Rick Hunter was making careful notes. Without looking up, he asked, “We got an accurate GPS on the landing beach where the HALO’s coming in?”

“It’s 51.21.50 south, 59.27.00 west.”

“Midnight, right?”

“Affirmative.”

“We got a chart for the phases of the moon?”

“Right here.”

“What happens if the sea conditions are very severe and we have to hole up on the landing beach for a day or even two?”

“Not a problem. Just keep the SSN informed on the satellite. And Captain Jarvis, assuming you find him right away, which I think you will.”

The meeting had moved from a slightly haphazard beginning into a high-octane military planning session. And it stayed that way, an enclave of the most minute detail and forward thinking, until the five SEALs who would join Rick’s team arrived at 1600.

There were two more demolition specialists, both Petty Officers First Class—Don Smith, from Chicago, another great bear of a man like the Commander, and Brian Harrison from Pennsylvania, whose exploits in the Iraq War had gained him a major reputation.

Seamen Ed Segal and Ron Wallace, both from Ohio, had also served in Iraq and were experienced in combat and boat handling. The final man, Chief Petty Officer Bob Bland, from Oklahoma, was inevitably known as “Pigling,” but mostly behind his back, since he had won the station heavyweight boxing championship and was apt to react on a very short fuse.

Bob’s specialty was breaking and entering. Any fence, wire, wall, door, or gate, old Pigling could get it open, quietly. His task was to silently cut the airfield fence and then move on to attack a metal gate that barred their exit point. He would again move out in front for the final stage of the operation.

Everyone in the room knew of Rick Hunter, but of the five new arrivals, CPO Bland was the only one who had met him before. Admiral Bergstrom motioned them to be seated at the big table and intimated
he required only a further twenty minutes, before Commander Hunter would take over and begin a thorough four-hour briefing of his team.

The twelve-man underwater group was in another section going through the same process. They would not meet until the following morning shortly before final preparations for departure.

1400, FRIDAY, APRIL 22
EAST FALKLAND

Douglas Jarvis and his team had walked south for about fifteen miles. It was a frustrating journey, carried out in wet, squally weather down the landward side of Carlos Water. The objective was to reach the coast, but not to become stranded on the western fork, which guards Carlos from the open twelve-mile-wide Sound. The SAS team did not on any account intend to be caught with their backs to the ocean.

And that meant a walk of another few miles south to where the land became less of a peninsula, and where there was the prospect of a fishing boat in a little place called Port Sussex.

They had arrived in wide grazing land within clear sight of Mount Usborne and stared down at the deserted harbor. They could see moorings, possibly four of them, but no boats, which Captain Jarvis remarked was “bloody dull.”

It was already growing dark, and there was just a scattering of buildings around the harbor, two of them with lights on. And the problem that faced the young Commander was the same as always—could they bang on the door and announce themselves, running the risk of Argentine soldiers being in residence? Or even the risk of a swift phone call from the occupants to the military HQ at Mount Pleasant?

Of course they could take out the enemy instantly. But what good would that do? The soldiers would be missed, then found, and a manhunt for the outlawed British Special Forces would surely begin. The men from Hereford were, as Douglas put it, buggered. Their options were narrow. There was little they could do, except feast on roast lamb, whenever possible, and try to steal, hire, or borrow a boat to get away at the earliest time.

Tonight was plainly a roast lamb situation. And they also had to
find shelter. It was raining like hell, and it would be completely dark inside an hour. Their waterproof clothing and boots had all held up well, and no one was suffering from illness or injury. But this was getting depressing, with no discernible enemy, the constant threat of an Argentinian manhunt being launched, and no sign of a proper objective. The only ray of hope seemed to be the vague, encrypted satellite promise from Hereford several days ago that a rescue operation was being mounted.

Douglas dispatched Troopers Wiggins and Pearson to what he called the “local butcher,” the 4,000-acre pasture to the east, on which there were sheep and lambs as far as the eye could see. And while they were gone, the rest of them groped around in the sparse undergrowth for a spot to light the oven. In fact, they were getting very good at this, wielding the axe, chopping both the wide bushes and the carcass of the lambs, before lighting the fire in the hole they just dug in the damp ground.

Douglas toyed with the idea of moving quietly down into one of the empty buildings on the quayside, but again the risk was too great. What if a fishing boat pulled in during the night and they were discovered? What if the fishing boats were accompanied by Argentinian Marines?

The truth was, the SAS team could cope with anything except discovery, because that might very well mean death from an Arg helicopter gunship combing the area where someone had located them.

No. Tonight looked like another night in the open. And thank God for the excellent waterproof sleeping bags, and may the morrow bring a ship into the hitherto deserted harbor of Port Sussex. Privately, Douglas thought it just a matter of time before some angry shepherd grew irritated by someone stealing his lambs, and reported the matter to the authorities. They’d snatched eight of them by now, and a good detective might easily put two and two together and make four.

He shuddered and checked the lamb, which was beginning to sizzle cheerfully, and once more they made their fast evening communication to their command HQ, and as usual there was only silence. But they left the radio switched on, ready to receive, although no one held out much hope. If they were going to be rescued, they would plainly have to rescue themselves.

Dinner was again very good, and they supplemented the lamb with their own concentrated vegetable bars. But tonight there would be no walking, principally because there was nowhere to go. Captain Jarvis decreed this harbor with its obvious active moorings was as good as any. The best plan was to sit and wait, through the weekend, and hope to hell a boat came in.

“We might even get a bit of fish,” observed Trooper Wiggins. “Make a change from lamb, eh?”

And they drifted off to sleep under the bushes, leaving one man at a time on a one-hour sentry watch, just in case someone had spotted their fire deep in its roasting hole.

And at thirteen minutes past one a.m., Trooper Goddard saw a sight that made his hair stand on end. Winding up the coastal track to the right of the long sea inlet of Breton Loch was an unmistakable pair of headlights, moving fast. He grabbed the night binoculars and stared at the green-hued landscape to the south.

Jesus Christ! It’s an Army Jeep…and if it stays on that track it’s going to pass less than a half mile from right here.

Trooper Goddard awakened Captain Jarvis, who almost leapt out of his sleeping bag in surprise, since long, undisturbed nights were the rule around here in this desolate southern wilderness.

“What’s up, Bob?”

“There’s an Army Jeep, sir, moving fast, coming more or less toward us. Right now it’s a couple of miles south of the harbor.”

Douglas Jarvis said softly, “Wake everyone, get into combat gear, weapons primed, and pack up everything in case we have to move fast. If we have to, we’ll take ’em out, but I’d like to avoid that, because if we do, there’ll be all hell let loose.”

“Okay, sir…binoculars are right there near the sniper rifle.”

Swiftly the SAS men slipped into fighting mode, boots tightened, gloves on, hoods fastened, ammunition belts slung into place. The sleeping bags and ground sheets were all packed by two troopers. All of the other six were ready either to repel an attack or launch one of their own.