Ghost Force (56 page)

And so they hoisted him up, Dallas and Brian holding the front
poles, Doug, using his good arm, with Don Smith, at the rear. The mighty Bob Bland carried the heavy machine gun, with the ammunition belts around his neck. Lt. Banfield carried the main satellite transmitter. Mike Hook somehow held on to its other parts. And they set off through the wood, walking slowly, carrying their heavy burden through the trees, then out into the light. And still there was no beat of Argentinian helicopter blades.

They rested after a mile, placing the Commander on the ground, trying to give him water, but he seemed unaware and his head kept falling back, and Doug was worrying the morphine had somehow had a bad effect.

But they could see the channel out in front now, and the remainder of the walk was downhill, and they hoisted up the stretcher again and walked on down toward the water. Rick’s eyes were open now, but it was obvious that some kind of delirium was setting in, and he was murmuring something none of them could make out.

“Come on, guys, keep going…I’m afraid we’re losing him…if that poison gets right into his system we will lose him
…
”
There was an urgency to Doug’s voice now.

They all knew the clock was ticking for Rick. It was 1105, and they could not expect any rescuer, whoever it might be, to hang around in this hostile Argentinian territory for long. Doug said, “Gimme one of the ammunition belts round my neck…that’s about all I can manage.”

They reached the riverbank and stumbled down the steep slope toward the water. Mike was aiming the TACBE everywhere along the shore. But there was a light mist over the water and they could not see more than about fifty yards. And they waited for five minutes and then ten…and then Mike Hook heard it, the unmistakable growl of big engines crawling along the shoreline.

Two minutes later they saw it, a gray, 450-ton fast-attack naval patrol craft, flying a national flag off its mast, red and white horizontal halves, with a white star on black in the top left-hand corner.

“It’s Chile,” said Dallas.

But now the craft had seen them and the helmsman held her on the engine in the fast current. The SEAL team waved, and they could see a big rubber inflatable being launched, and then heading into the deep rocky shore. On board was a young Chilean officer, who just
said, “No speak, yet. Just hurry. Get injured men in right now. I come back for last two.”

Five minutes later they were all on board the Israeli-built gunboat
Chipana,
speeding across the channel toward Chilean waters and the Navy base at Puerto William on Chile’s own south side.

The young officer smiled and said, “I’m not too sure who you are, but you must be real important. Orders came down from very high, right from HQ at Valparaiso…very simple…get you guys out of Argentina no matter what. GPS very accurate…good, eh?”

They all shook hands at last, but Rick Hunter was now unconscious, and the Chilean Sub-Lieutenant Gustavo Frioli told them, “Doctor waiting. We get messages.”

And they made it just in time. The naval doctor, Commander Cesar Delpino, had trained at Houston Medical Center, and he recognized a dire emergency when he saw one. They took the Commander immediately into a spotless, white-painted emergency room, and he administered a powerful dose of antibiotics, and placed him instantly on an IVD.

By the following morning, Tuesday, May 3, Rick was stabilized, the poison in his system under control. He was still extremely feverish, and Commander Delpino thought they should wait another twenty-four hours before removing two machine-gun bullets embedded in his thigh.

Rick asked him if he would perform the operation himself. But the Chilean doctor told him no, someone else had arrived.

“A top Chilean specialist, I hope,” said Commander Hunter, grinning.

“No. Your surgeon will be American.”

“American!” said Rick. “Where’s he coming from?”

“I don’t know, but he’s here. They arrived about two hours ago.”

“Who? How?” said Rick, sounding much like a Chinese waiter.

“The American submarine. It’s right out there, beyond those buildings, alongside.”

“What submarine?”

“Well, Major, I can see it’s a U.S. Navy L.A.-class nuclear boat, maybe seven thousand tons…it’s called
Toledo…
I hear the plan is for her to wait here for a few days and then take you all home.”

“How’s she going to do that, straight along the Beagle Channel and up the Atlantic?”

“No, Major. They’ll go the other way, slowly west through the much deeper water around Gordon Island and then Cook Bay, out into the Pacific. They can go deep there and then turn north up the coastline to your aircraft carrier.”

“That’s a long way, eh?”

“Ah, yes, Commander. A long way, but a safe way. Out of shallow enemy waters, not on the surface.”

“How about the doctor?”

Commander Delpino laughed. “I don’t know about him.”

The following morning Lt. Commander James Scott met Rick Hunter for the first time, in the operating room. They shook hands briefly, and the U.S. Navy surgeon said, “This isn’t going to take long. You’ve been in good hands. No infection. We’re leaving for home this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Doc,” said Rick.

“I’m going to give you a shot of Pentothal…in your forearm…try to count to ten, but you won’t get there…then I’m going to take those two bullets out.”

Rick counted, made it to three, and the world went blissfully blank for just thirty minutes. When he awoke, it was done. The leg was strapped, the pain bearable, and Dallas MacPherson and Douglas Jarvis were standing by his bed.

“Well done, sir,” said the Lt. Commander from South Carolina. “We all wanna thank you.” And, with an obvious air of admiration, he offered his hand to the SEAL Team Leader. Dallas himself would never comprehend the majestic embrace of that compliment.

And Rick Hunter’s war was over.

0930, THURSDAY, MAY 5
CASA ROSADA
BUENOS AIRES

The military communication from the commandant of the Rio Grande air base had been decoded and presented in hard copy by Admiral Oscar Moreno to the President of the Republic of Argentina.

It read:

The President of Argentina could hardly believe his eyes. And yet, somehow, he could. And his mind flashed back to the veiled threats contained in the communiqué from the White House that had arrived the previous week, the one to which he had not replied.

He turned to his Defense Minister, Admiral Horacio Aguardo, and then to Admiral Moreno and General Eduardo Kampf. “Gentlemen,” he said, “either directly or indirectly we are being sucked into a war with the United States of America…and, by any means, we have to stop it.”

All three of them nodded in agreement. “Further defiance from us,” said Admiral Moreno, “may very well mean the Pentagon will come out into the open and slam the entire Rio Grande base, not to mention Rio Gallegos and maybe even Mount Pleasant…and there appears to be nothing we can do about it.”

“Also, we scarcely have a leg to stand on,” said Admiral Aguardo. “The USA will plead its case to the United Nations, explaining that Argentina committed an act of international piracy, smashed the Royal Navy Fleet in international waters, and stole a legal British colony, plus two billion dollars’ worth of U.S. oil and gas.”

“I think we are of accord, gentlemen,” said the President. “I shall accept the American terms for the future of the Islas Malvinas
.
Not because I want to, but because I have no choice.”

Again, all three men nodded their assent.

0900, THURSDAY, MAY 5
THE OVAL OFFICE

Admiral Morgan liked what he saw. He liked it very much. President Paul Bedford was just smiling and shaking his head. The communiqué from the President of Argentina was perfect:

“Thank you, Admiral,” said President Bedford.

“My pleasure,” replied Arnold Morgan.

MONDAY, MAY 16
EASTERN PACIFIC OCEAN

The Nimitz-class aircraft carrier USS
Ronald Reagan
steamed steadily north, a thousand miles off the coast of Peru. The eight-man Navy SEAL team had been on board for almost a week, and would remain so until they docked in San Diego, 2,640 miles and five days hence.

Commander Hunter was still recuperating from his thigh wound, and was undergoing daily therapy in one of the ship’s gyms. The Navy surgeon had decided to insert ten stitches into the gash on Captain Jarvis’s upper arm.

The two of them were watching a satellite broadcast of the evening news before dinner when the anchorman announced that terms had been agreed for the peaceful transition of power from Great Britain to Argentina over the Falkland Islands. He added that executives of ExxonMobil and British Petroleum had been present at the talks in the White House and that the two oil giants were returning to the oil and gas fields in both South Georgia and East Falkland.

There was a film clip of the men arriving at Mare Harbor in an ExxonMobil tanker, and a further clip of Exxon’s President, Clint McCluskey, saying what a privilege it had been to work with the President of the USA and reach a “one hundred percent oilman’s deal.”
Fair but firm, that’s the Texan way, the way George Dubya himself would have done it. Yessir.

“You think we had something to do with all that, Rick?” asked Captain Jarvis.

“Wouldn’t be surprised, kid. Not at all,” said Commander Hunter, knowingly.

SATURDAY, MAY 21
SPEED 7, DEPTH 400, COURSE 360

Captain Gregor Vanislav was tiptoeing slowly north up the Atlantic. They’d been running for five weeks now, and
Viper K-157
was 8,000 miles north of the Falkland Islands, 8,000 miles north of the sunken war grave that was once HMS
Ark Royal
.

He had been ultra-wary all the way, sliding quietly through the deep waters, slowing and listening for the sounds of a U.S. or British attack submarine, staying clear of the land, following the line of the North Atlantic Ridge.

And now he was beyond the ridge, 450 miles west of southern Ireland, headed for the shallower waters of the Rockall Rise, and then 600 miles farther to the northeast, into the GIUK Gap.

Right now, moving stealthily in deep waters, west of County Kerry, Captain Vanislav was entering the most dangerous waters of his long journey. This was the business end of the North Atlantic, where the U.S. Navy’s underwater surveillance system (SOSUS) was likely to miss nothing.

It was right here, many weeks ago, when
Viper
had first been detected, but then lost. If Gregor Vanislav could negotiate the next eight hundred miles safely he would have a trouble-free run home to Murmansk. If he were picked up on the grid of SOSUS wires on the seabed, he could expect the navies of the U.S. and UK to come looking.

The Russian submarine commander assumed that by now, someone, somewhere, knew that the
Ark Royal
had been sunk by torpedoes, and not by bombs delivered by the Argentine Air Force. The key to the safety of his ship and his crew was stealth, slow, quiet running.

And the farther north he went, the less suspicion there would be. Any Russian ship had the right to run through these international waters. Indeed, they had to run through here, since it was the only way the Russian Navy had to reach the rest of the world.