Ghost Force (48 page)

At 1030 it was still silent in Many Branch Harbor. No fishing boats. No boats of any kind. Although from the bluff, Brian Harrison reported a couple of trawlers heading north up Falkland South, maybe two or three miles from their little bay.

At 1030 in Mare Harbor, however, things were not silent. Lt. Commander Stafford’s twelve limpet bombs, stuck on the warships’ hulls, below the waterline, for’ard, midships and aft, all detonated together with a dull underwater
k-e-r-r-u-m-p!!
, which caused the jetties to
shudder and the harbor waters to rise up into a boiling maelstrom, which crashed onto the shore, obscuring for a moment the savage destruction of all four ships.

When Argentinian naval personnel looked again, staring through the spray and billowing smoke, they were unable to comprehend what they were most certainly observing. Four warships, calmly moored on the jetties, with no enemy on the horizon, ablaze from end to end. And the skies were completely empty—no one had dropped a bomb, never mind four bombs.

Officers gathered together and quickly leapt to the alarmingly false conclusion that someone’s Navy had lambasted the ships with guided missiles, well-aimed guided missiles at that.

But no one had seen anything, no dart-shaped winged killer with a fiery tail hurtling out of the skies. And these ships must have been hit by more than one missile apiece since all of them were ablaze in three different places. Great fires were raging below the foredecks, huge flames and billowing black smoke were surging upward from the engine room area, and one of the frigates looked as though its stern was blown clean off the hull. This was a big multi-hit, carried out by forces who knew precisely what they were doing.

But whose forces? The surrendered Brits, what was left of them, were limping home.
Caramba!
Everyone in Argentina had seen the aerial photographs of the defeated Royal Navy Fleet heading north back up the Atlantic. No, the Brits had not done this. Then who had? There was not a sign of a foreign warship in the waters surrounding the Malvinas within a two-hundred-mile radius. And the skies were clear of military aircraft. Any aircraft, for that matter.

And if it was not bombs or missiles, then what was it? The gathering of Argentinian naval officers, still staring in disbelief at the torrid scene of absolute devastation in the harbor, were totally baffled. Nonetheless, they moved into action, trying to organize stretcher parties to evacuate the wounded, trying to connect fire hoses to aim at the ships, which were growing hotter by the minute.

They were also trying to work out how quickly to evacuate the entire area when the first fire blazed into one of the ships’ missile magazines and unleashed the kind of power that could swiftly knock down a town, never mind a few stone buildings in a scarcely used harbor.

As a matter of fact, the scene was much like that which faced the British in February, when their 1,400-ton lightly gunned patrol ship
Leeds Castle
was obliterated by Argentinian missiles. As Saint Matthew mentioned in Chapter XXVI,
Those who take the sword, will perish by the sword.
And, since Matthew was quoting Jesus Christ, those words were presumably equally applicable in both the Roman Catholic church in Rio Grande and in the Protestant Christ Church cathedral in Port Stanley.

And on the subject of death, Lt. Commander Stafford’s men had caused a lot more of it than Rick Hunter’s team, and they made Douglas Jarvis’s skirmish on the mountain look like kids’ stuff.

There were crews of at least twenty-two officers and men resident in each of the warships, some on watch, some asleep, some working on maintenance in the engine rooms. A total of only nine survived the savage blasts, the ramifications of which would be heard around the world.

By 1100, there was virtual chaos in the Argentine military headquarters at Mount Pleasant, as commanders tried to make sense of the barbaric unprovoked attacks on their bases by an unknown enemy. Just the previous day, the Marine Major Pablo Barry had flown in for a visit, and the entire officer community, on sea, air, and land, was now looking to him for guidance. Major Barry had, after all, been the commander who conquered the damn place in the first case.

But he was as bewildered as any of them, and, generally speaking, was greatly concerned that the enemy, whoever the hell it might be, would probably be considering flattening the only Argentine military base on the Malvinas they had not already eliminated: that is, the very ground on which they stood.

The news from Pebble was plainly terrible. But the news from Mare Harbor was much worse, given the heavy loss of life. Major Pablo Barry stared out at the airfield in silent rumination. Lined up were Argentina’s all-conquering Skyhawks, Daggers, and Etendards, the most dangerous air combat force in South America. And he did not have the slightest idea at whom to unleash them.

The entire situation was, in his opinion, extremely unnerving. Here they were being smashed to pieces by an enemy who was refusing to identify himself, an enemy they could not see, nor even discern. Only
one thought evolved in his mind:
Those ships were not hit by incoming bombs, nor missiles. And, given the near-simultaneous attack on Pebble Island, there was no question of sabotage.

No
, thought Major Barry.
Those ships were blown up inside the harbor, by bombs that must have been attached to the hulls
. Nothing else fit. Nothing else made the slightest bit of sense. Someone, somehow, had crept into the little dockyard, underwater, and planted bombs under the surface, all timed to go off bang at once.

Major Barry now knew that someone had done something very similar to the fighter aircraft at Pebble. The question was, who? Which country hated Argentina so badly they would do such a thing? And did it all have anything to do with the sheep stealers up at Port Sussex? And, if so, where the hell were they? Why had they not been found? And where was the missing patrol? Major Barry had about a thousand questions and no answers to any of them.

But shortly after noon, someone provided him with just one answer. Luke Milos, wandering among his sheep up in the high pastures above his house, had found the Jeep, and all four men inside had been assassinated, shot to pieces, dozens of bullet wounds. What’s more, they had been dead for at least three days, probably since Sunday night. The Goose Green garrison had a medical team up there already and were towing the Jeep out, bringing its grisly cargo back in body bags.

On the face of it, the Argentine military had now been slammed three times, and Major Barry considered it inconceivable the three were not, somehow, connected. Although what the sheep stealers had in common with possibly two highly trained groups of Special Forces…well, heaven alone knew the answer to that.

But the Major was aware the sheep stealers were very possibly a British SAS assault team trapped, and surviving, on East Falkland after the surrender. Were the bombers of Pebble and Mare somehow connected? Did Great Britain have an ally who was prepared to fight on when all seemed lost?

None of it stacked up for the Major. And deep in his soldier’s soul, he sensed the perpetrators of these atrocities had already left. They did not, he pondered, come in by air or road. And they did not land on the Falklands in a surface ship. Therefore they must have come in
by submarine, and if they did, they’d most certainly gone. He considered a massive air and shoreline search by Argentina’s military forces to be a waste of time. Except for the sheep stealers, who may be still in residence.

They might be caught, if a search was concentrated for long enough in the correct place. And if they were, that might shed substantial light on the source of the other two attacks. Argentina was still in control of several hundred British prisoners of war, and that gave them some heavy leverage.

The key was to catch the sheep stealers. That was Major Pablo Barry’s opinion. And the Marine Commander, conqueror of the Falkland Islands, was very certain about that.

But, judging by the events of the morning, it was entirely possible the entire airfield was mined and seeded with timed limpet bombs like Mare Harbor and Pebble. The Major advised a general evacuation to the outskirts of the area, with all personnel warned to stay away from the airfield.

He also decided that a search of Pebble Island was a total waste of time, and that the helicopters of Goose Green and Mount Pleasant should all return to the Goose Green garrison and launch their search for the SAS men from there.

Meanwhile, he took a large chart of the Falkland Islands and stuck the point of his compass into the hill behind Port Sussex. From there he described a thirty-mile radius that ran way out to sea and took in all the little near-deserted harbors down the west coast of East Falkland, Kelp Harbor, Egg Harbor, Cygnet, Port King, Wharton, and Findlay.

“They’re in there somewhere,” said Pablo the Conqueror. “They’re either in the hills or, more likely, on the coast. But we
will
find them.”

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 27

At 1400 Major Pablo Barry ordered all aircraft out of the Pebble Island area and back to base, three helicopters to Goose Green, the rest to Mount Pleasant.

At 1500 a military aircraft bearing General Eduardo Kampf, and the C-in-C Fleet, Admiral Oscar Moreno, landed at Mount Pleasant for a high-emergency meeting with the commanders on the ground.

Major Barry spent a couple of hours debriefing them about the devastating events of the past twenty-four hours. And at 1700 they convened in an Army situation room, inside the old Mount Pleasant Airfield passenger terminal, to formulate a plan.

Each one of them was in agreement, the key to discovering the secret enemy was to round up the rustlers, and grill them, metaphorically, of course, before executing them all for the murder of four Argentine military personnel, several days after hostilities with Great Britain had formally ceased.

General Kampf was certain any SAS group would make for the coast, in order to seize their only possible chance of escape. The occupied fortress island of East Falkland had much in common with Alcatraz. It was surrounded by wide, dangerous waters, with no other way out.

“To remain here would mean certain capture,” said the General. “These men are well trained and likely to be ruthless. I suggest they now have one aim in this life, and that’s to beg, borrow, or steal a boat. They have no other option, and even that might not work.”

“I agree,” said Admiral Moreno. “If we want to find them, we have to comb the shore by land and air. It will require a lot of troops, but we have a lot of troops. And we have as many helicopters as it takes.”

He glanced at his watch, and said quietly, “It’s heading for 1800 and growing dark. We must prepare to launch this manhunt at first light tomorrow. Therefore we should start to get organized right now, gas up the aircraft, establish pilot and aircrew schedules. That way we can go to work as soon as it’s light over the airfields.”

If solutions were becoming simple in the front line of the Argentinian military, back in Buenos Aires they were becoming highly complex. The President of Argentina, in company with his principal ministers, had received this afternoon a somewhat perplexing note from the United States Ambassador Ryan Holland.

It came directly from the White House, and it was signed by the President himself, even though the letter itself had been crafted by the delicate hand of Admiral Arnold Morgan.

It read:

The Argentine President at first read the letter with equanimity, but as he did so, he was aware of a certain sense of foreboding. The letter contained only three paragraphs, and the third was an expression of goodwill.

The first two were enormously more important, and they each
seemed, at first sight, unrelated to the other…(1) Sorry about your mysterious losses of fighter aircraft and warships, (2) Perhaps you would now like to talk about an amicable solution.

“Jesu Christo!”
he breathed. “Is this a threat? Because if it is, there’s no way I’m going to condone any kind of a conflict with the USA.”

His Defense Minister, the trusted veteran Vice-Admiral Horacio Aguardo, asked to read the communiqué from Washington once more. And he took several seconds to make a comment afterward. But he said, very firmly, “Two things,
Señor Presidente
. First, the letter is almost certainly a veiled threat. Second, we are most definitely not going to have any kind of military altercation with the United States.”

“Are you telling me the United States of America was responsible for the atrocities on the Malvinas?”

“Sir, I cannot say that. But that letter suggests the perpetrators of these military strikes against us may somehow answer to the United States.”

“As indeed, we ultimately will do, if we are not very careful.”

“Sir, I thought we were all agreed before we went into this conflict with Great Britain, it would be a straight fight between us and our very weakened opponents. With just a little help from our friends in the frozen north. We did not anticipate any U.S. involvement.”

“And until now, we were right,” replied the President. “And even now we cannot be sure they had anything to do with the actual attacks at Pebble Island and Mare Harbor.”

“Nonetheless, there is an undercurrent in that letter from the U.S. President,” said Admiral Aguardo. “You don’t read it, you feel it. Because it is telling us if we don’t come forward and toe the line, as laid down by the White House, something else will happen and we will not like it.”

“I know. I know. The feeling is hiding between every line of the letter.”

“Remind us, sir. What did that other communiqué from Washington suggest?”

“Well, the first one delivered ten days ago made it clear the USA did not approve of our military action, and when the time was right, Washington would step in on behalf of ExxonMobil.”

“Yes, of course,” said Dr. Carlos Montero, the Minister for Indus
try and Mining. “But was there any indication of Washington’s solution to the problem?”

“Absolutely,” replied the President. “The President of the United States proposes that Argentina and Great Britain enter into a joint governing and handover period of two years. After that, with proper institutions put into operation, the Malvinas become a solely owned sovereign territory of the Republic of Argentina.

“At that point we wave good-bye to our friends from Great Britain, and Spanish becomes the official language of the islands, which will be ruled from Buenos Aires.”

“And the oil?”

“As a part of the agreement, that will immediately be handed back to ExxonMobil and British Petroleum, on a fifty-year contract between them and the Argentine government. The Americans will negotiate us a very fair royalty deal long into the future.”

“And how about for the next two years?”

“We will share that royalty with the government of Great Britain, sixty-six percent for us, thirty-three percent for them. They did, after all, manage the exploration and licensing for many years.”

Admiral Aguardo nodded gravely. “And how about our friends in the Kremlin?” he said.

“Well, they will understand the sudden intervention of the Americans has rather changed the game,” replied the President. “I’ve had a private word with the U.S. Ambassador, Ryan Holland, and he thinks the Russians will be happy to fade away, once they know we do not own the oil free and clear.”

“Yes, they probably won’t want to raise their heads above the parapet,” said the Admiral. “After all, the entire exercise cost them no more than a couple of plane fares and two torpedoes, I believe.”

“Perhaps,” said the President, “but I don’t much like being manhandled into a corner by the Americans. And quite frankly I do not think we should jump just because Uncle Sam has growled. And he’s done that pretty quietly.”

“So he may have, sir,” said the Admiral. “But he has big teeth, and he can be very vicious, especially when someone runs off with a couple of billion dollars’ worth of assets that belong to a U.S. Corporation.”

“I am aware of that,” said the President. “Nevertheless, I believe we
have one chance, only one, to come out on top in this thing. We need to capture that Special Forces group that is rampaging around the Malvinas. If they will talk…under…er…duress, we just might be able to hang the Americans out to dry in front of the United Nations…you know, launching clandestine attacks on us, murdering our seamen in Mare Harbor, assassinating our soldiers in Port Sussex.

“But I am inclined to agree. If we don’t capture these men, we would have a very difficult time persuading the Americans that the Malvinas, and the contents of the islands, rightfully belong to us.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Montero. “And then they might get very, very angry, and that would not be to our advantage, either economically or militarily.”

“So what do you think?” asked the President. “Do we continue to defy them, refuse to answer their communiqué, and double our efforts to catch those renegades in the islands?”

“That’s a possibility. But if things do not work out, and the Americans demand justice for Exxon, what do we tell the United Nations?”

“We tell them as a result of a long-running territorial dispute between the Republic of Argentina and Great Britain, and as a result of broken-down negotiations, we found it necessary to assert our rights over our own sovereign territory.

“When the government of Great Britain decided to send a battle fleet down here, plainly to attack the brave servicemen of Argentina, we were obliged to sink it. This was a fair fight between two nations with very entrenched positions. In the end we won, the British were defeated, surrendered and went home. End of story.

“The assets of the Malvinas plainly belong to us in the ancient traditions of the spoils of war. And we are always open to talks with the Americans. However, we are not prepared to be blackmailed by them.”

“One thing, sir,” added the Admiral. “What happens if our mysterious enemy strikes again, in secret, and vanishes just as comprehensively, as he has done this week? What then?”

“Well, that depends on the degree of damage.”

“Well, say he wipes out the Mount Pleasant air and military base—destroys everything?”

“That would be very serious. And if we still had no idea who the
culprits were, I think we would have to give very serious consideration to the proposals put to us by the President of the United States. Assuming, of course, he possessed sufficient influence to put a stop to these…er…most unfortunate events.”

Admiral Aguardo smiled a slightly lopsided smile. “I don’t think you’ll find he has much trouble doing that, sir.”

“No. Possibly not. But I think we should try to bring this entire business to a close as soon as possible, perhaps do nothing for a week, and then consider our position…but, Admiral, it is imperative you urge our forces to catch those intruders on the Malvinas. And catch them fast.”

2000, SAME EVENING, WEDNESDAY,
ABOVE EGG HARBOR
EAST FALKLAND

Douglas Jarvis and his team were tired and hungry. Tired of roast lamb, and hungry as hell. The problem was, however, academic, because they had run out of lamb, and with the sudden increase in military activity in the air, the Captain had decided their regular evening pastime of rustling sheep was unwise.

All day long aircraft had been coming and going, and the SAS team was still unaware of the events on Pebble Island or Mare Harbor. Douglas was certain the Argentinians had now discovered the bodies in the Jeep, and this plainly made their position ever more dangerous.

So far he surmised they were confining their search to the immediate area around Port Sussex, but he expected the manhunt to intensify tomorrow morning at first light. He was confident in the camouflage that covered the hide. At least he was confident they could never be seen from the air. But they were vulnerable to a massed ground search by hundreds of troops.

The trouble was they had nowhere to run. They had no access to any aircraft, or any ship to get them off this confounded island. They had one chance, Sunray and his team, and if
they
did not show up in the next few hours, tomorrow might be their last day on this
earth, since he neither hoped for nor expected mercy from the Argentinians.

Quietly, lying back on the ground sheet, he watched Trooper Syd Ferry switch on the satellite radio and pull the big padded headset down over his ears, like he did every night at this time. He saw Syd shake his head miserably, at the same old, same old—just that mushy background electronic noise.

Suddenly, at six minutes past eight o’clock on that chill Wednesday evening, Trooper Syd sat bolt upright. “Fuck me,” he snapped. “I’m getting something…there’s a voice, sir…it’s a definite voice…and I’m bloody sure it’s not Spanish…wait a minute…it’s American…
Yes, this is Foxtrot-three-four receiving, Sunray…Foxtrot-three-four receiving, Sunray…please hold for Dougy…”

He whipped the headset off and handed it to Captain Jarvis…“It’s an American, sir, asking for Dougy…dunno how he knows your name…”

Captain Jarvis came across the trench like a mountain lion, grabbed the headset and spoke into the comms system…
This is Foxtrot-three-four receiving, Sunray…Dougy here…repeat, Dougy here…

The response was all business.
Free-range dockside 2200…left or right main jetty query?”

My right two hundred yards looking at you.