Lion Resurgent (30 page)

“They’re moving behind us on our right, Sergeant. Take third squad and refuse the right flank. Prevent their armor getting behind us. We’ll disengage from here and fall back to Lady Elizabeth Bay with your squad acting as rearguard. From there, we’ll get over the bridge and blow it behind us.”
Those of us who survive, which won’t be many.
Fitzhugh thought gently to himself. “That’ll buy us a little time.”

“Very good, Sir.” Jordan slipped off. Fitzhugh took another careful look at the beach through his night-vision binoculars. The Argentines were already organizing themselves and starting to assault his beach defense positions. Some of the groups laid down suppressive fire while others slowly moved up the beach. His left flank was already beginning to crumble under the pressure while his center and right were still holding. Now was the time to pull back, while he still could. Once the troops were locked into a firefight, he would have to stand here. That was a bad idea with those cruisers shelling the beach.

“Order all three squads to fall back, towards Lady Elizabeth Bay. We’ve done all we can here.”

Major Caceres’s Column, Approaching Port Stanley Airfield

Every so often, things did work out the way they were supposed to. The road, such as it was, had been where the map showed it to be. It was only gravel with two thin tire tracks the width of a Landrover apart. The ‘heavy’ armor was tearing it apart, spraying the small stones to either side in shotgun blasts. For all that, it was better than nothing. The map also showed the road making a long curve before straightening up for the run into the airfield. Caceres saw the curve approaching. That’s when things stopped working the way they were supposed to.

Three rockets streaked out from a rocky outcrop on his right. Two shot harmlessly overhead. The third hit the second of his four M92 tanks. The tank exploded; immediately dissolving in a fireball as its ammunition cooked off. Light tanks did not take well to getting hit. The response from the Argentine column was instantaneous. They had rehearsed this often enough and had performed the maneuver for real when ambushed by insurgents. The three surviving M92s peeled away from the column followed by the second platoon of three LVTP-7s. They headed straight for the source of the rockets. The semiautomatic 76mm guns on the tanks were firing steadily. Most of the shots went wild as the vehicles lurched on the rock-covered ground. That wasn’t the point. They, and the streams of machine gun fire from the sub-turrets on the M92s and the LVTP-7s, were intended to force the ambushers to take cover. Killing them would come just a little later.

Back on the road, the seven LVTP-7s accelerated. Standard ambush procedure; the nearest forces attacked the ambush while the rest cleared the killing zone as quickly as possible. Caceres didn’t worry about what was happening at the ambush site. He had competent officers; they knew what they had to do and they could be trusted to do it. Instead, he concentrated on commanding his reduced force as it swept around the curve in the road and accelerated along the straight stretch of road towards the airfield. He could see it now. The lights in the control tower gleaming yellow in the darkness. His amtrack vibrated and shook from the gravel as it surged forward. Behind him, the firing from the ambush site reached a crescendo, then abruptly stopped.

Third Squad, Second Platoon, NP8901

There were a dozen machine guns at least, most of them .50-calibers, firing on the squad position. They saturated the area with fire. Sergeant Jordan was already down to three men. He’d lost two when a 76mm shell had plowed into their position. That shell had also cost him one of his two remaining anti-tank rockets. He had the other and he was waiting for the opportune moment to use it. That would be soon; he was all too aware that there weren’t very many moments left. The three LVTP-7s had already dropped their ramps. The infantry inside were deploying, covered by the never-ending hail of machine gun fire. Almost forty Argentines, three tanks and three APCs against a sergeant and three men.

The tanks had stopped moving. Now they picked their shots with deliberation. The remainder of his squad were firing on the vehicles, but their rifles just didn’t have the hitting power to penetrate the armor. They scratched and scarred it but they did no real damage to the vehicles it protected or the men who sheltered by them. The muzzle flashes from their rifles were different. They revealed the position of the British marines to the M92s. The flat cracks of the 76mm guns quickly ended the gunfire.

That was what gave Jordan his chance. While the tanks dealt with the three survivors of his squad, he took careful aim with his rocket launcher. The nearest of the three LVTP-7s had three radio antennas, not two. That suggested it was a command vehicle. That sealed its fate. Jordan fired his rocket carefully into its side. Shooting at amtracks with small rocket launchers was a dicey proposition at best since the flotation tanks and bulky hull shielded most of the vehicle’s vital parts. There were only a few areas where the rocket launcher could actually hurt. Jordan’s rocket hit one of them. The LVTP-7 exploded into flame, its crew leaping out of the top hatches and out of the rear.

By the time return fire arrived, Jordan had grabbed his rifle and was away, squirming through the rocks as he made his escape. He was off to Lady Elizabeth Bay. Before that he needed to know what the Argentine column was up to. The group on the road had already reached the outskirts of the airfield and were about to turn on to the taxiway. The group that had wiped out his ambush were starting to move out, paralleling the road. Jordan guessed they were heading for the end of the runway so they could advance down it. That made sense. With the information filed away, he started to head for the rest of NP8901.

Control Tower, Port Stanley Airfield, Falkland Islands.

“Come on lads, put some muscle into it. Thump it, don’t tap it!”

His words were rewarded by a redoubled effort. The noise of destruction increased exponentially. His two “lads” were furiously wielding heavy axes as they smashed in the radar displays and communications equipment. Warrant Officer Trascott had a 20-pound sledgehammer that he swung with all the berserk enthusiasm of a medieval bishop swinging a mace at the ungodly. He hated being stationed in the Falklands instead of the West Indies or Ascension. He hated the equipment he had to work with here and he hated his job in general. So, the opportunity to wreck everything in sight was a precious one. He meant to take every advantage of it. Outside, the runway lights were going out one-by-one as the third of his “lads” took them out with the other 20 pound sledge. The lad had always liked running. Now he was getting the chance.

There was a hammering on the steps outside. The door to the air traffic control center crashed open. A sweating Argentine Major stepped through, his pistol drawn and his presence backed up by armed men. Men with the Argentine FAS rifles; weapons that looked almost absurdly large compared with stubby British L1A2. “Drop those weapons.” The major snapped out the order in perfect English.

“Do it, lads.” Truscott kept his voice calm and even as he let the sledgehammer fall from his hands. Only a fool took on a 7.65mm Argentine FAS with a sledge. Or an axe. Truscott heard the axes hit the wooden floor with relief. He’d been afraid one of his lads would get carried away with testosterone and try something stupid.

The Argentine officer was looking around at the wreckage of the control tower, struggling not to laugh at the devastation. “You three must really hate the Malvinas.”

“Not a prime posting, the Falklands.” Truscott said agreeably, making sure his hands stayed in sight. “Give us a few more minutes and we’ll finish the job off if you like.”

“That will not be necessary.” The major’s voice was theatrically grave. “You have another man out there smashing the lights? Stop him please.”

Truscott picked up the microphone that fed the Tannoy System. “Give it up Jimmy. The Argies are here. Drop the sledge and walk back to the control tower with your hands raised.”

“Thank you. I am Major Caceres, Argentine Marine Corps. This airfield is now under our control. You are our prisoners and under our protection.” There was an emphasis on the last three words that Truscott didn’t quite understand.

“Warrant Officer Winston Truscott, Sir. These are my lads, Leading Aircraftman Steven Handley and Leading Aircraftman William Scott. The lad outside is Aircraftman Jimmy Fish. All Royal Air Force.”

“Very good. My men will take charge of you. I hope you do not mind riding in an Amtrack back to the beach. I need to get you on to a ship as quickly as possible. Warrant Officer, have you set demo ...”

Caceres was interrupted by a massive orange fireball rising into the sky from the outskirts of the airfield. A split second later, the dull boom of the explosion set the control tower rattling.

“Ahh, the fuel dump. Of course.” Caceres looked at Truscott with curiosity. The Warrant Officer was standing with his mouth hanging open in shock. “Why the surprise? Surely you knew what a fuel explosion would look like.”

“Of course, just a bit sooner than I expected, that’s all. Damned time fuses.”

Caceres nodded understandingly. His demolition men also had problems with the erratic performance of time fuses. He gestured, and three of the marines took the RAF team down the steps, outside the control tower and over to a waiting LVTP-7. As they took their seats inside, Scott whispered very quietly. “Mister Truscott, we didn’t rig the fuel dump to blow.”

“I know lad; I know.”

Headquarters Section, NP8901, Lady Elizabeth Bay Bridge, Falkland Islands

The wreckage of the bridge had joined the old rusting hulks that littered the Bay. The number of discarded hulks around Port Stanley were hardly tribute to British stewardship of the Island. They had the ironic nickname of the “Port Stanley Yacht Club,” but in reality, they were nothing but eyesores. A few pounds of C-4 had sent the bridge into the water with them. It was now just another twisted blemish on the water.

“Think that will hold them?” Fitzhugh started at the unfamiliar voice. The long-familiar tones of Sergeant Jordan had gone. Fitzhugh was sadly certain he would not hear them again.

“For a little while, Sergeant. The rest will depend on us. Men in position?”

“Sir. But it’s a thin front, Sir.”

Fitzhugh nodded. Of the two platoons, eighty men, who had held Yorke Bay, only nineteen had survived to fall back to this position. He had no idea yet how many wounded had been taken prisoner by the Argentines, but the hammering from the eight-inch guns on the Argentine cruisers hadn’t left him hopeful that there would be very many. His men had lost most of their heavy weapons in the hurried retreat from Yorke Bay. He had two machine guns and a single rocket launcher with two rounds left.

“It’ll have to do. The bridge being down will slow the Argies up a bit. The M92s they’ve got aren’t amphibious.”

“They won’t have to be, Sir. Look across the bay.”

Fitzhugh swung the night vision binoculars across the front and looked past the rusting wreck of the
Lady Elizabeth.
The heat signatures of a group of LVTP-7s were easily seen against the bitterly cold water. At least six and possibly more were swimming the bay, heading parallel to the coast. Fitzhugh guessed what their commander had in mind. They would swing south soon and come ashore eight or nine hundred yards behind what little was left of his command. He sighed. This had been a good position but the enemy would be coming up the road behind him. That meant it was already lost. The only real option left was to try and disengage again and move to engage the Amtracks behind him. That way the blown bridge would be guarding his rear, not pinning the enemy in his planned kill-zone. That was better than nothing.

He wouldn’t even get that. Before he could issue the orders, brilliant flashes split the night in front of him. 76mm shells started tearing into the ground his side of the creek. The semi-automatic guns on the M92s fired fast and the gunners were good. They were picking out the obvious defensive positions and pummeling them hard. The chance of actually killing some of his men wasn’t high. The 76mm was designed as a tank-killer, not an infantry support weapon, but the barrage of fire was stopping him disengaging to handle the amtracks. It was a classic maneuver, hammer and anvil. The tanks and the creek were the anvil and the Amtracks crossing behind him were the hammer. Fitzhugh became uneasily aware that his gonads were exposed to the two converging slabs of steel.

Major Caceres’s Column, Port Stanley Airfield

“Delfina, is the airfield secure?”

“Delfina-Actual here, Sir. The airfield is secure but the control tower and landing lights have been thoroughly wrecked. The fuel dump has been blown up as we expected. I would recommend we check the runway for mines before anybody lands here.”

“There will be some engineers on the way as soon as they’ve finished clearing the beach and the access roads. The Anglos laid a lot of mines at Yorke Bay. The place is thick with them. How many prisoners have you?”

“Four, Sir. They’re in an Amtrack on its way back to the
Almirante Brown.
All RAF enlisted personnel. I made getting them out a priority.”

“Good man. It is essential we don’t allow the political people anywhere near any prisoners we take. God knows, this will cause our country enough problems without that. Secure the airfield, guard it with a platoon and bring the rest of your force along the Surf Bay Road.”

“Sir, we had to fight through an ambush on the way down. I can bring over three tanks and four Amtracks.”

“That will do. Move fast, Delfina. We want this operation over by dawn.”

Headquarters Section, NP8901,Lady Elizabeth Bay Bridge, Falkland Islands

“Sir, Sergeant Jordan on the radio.”

That’s a relief.
Fitzhugh grabbed the speaker. “Jordan, what’s happening your side of the island?”

“Nothing good Sir. We knocked out a tank and an amtrack but the rest of our squad bought it. The Argies have the airfield. There’s a platoon dispersing round it. The crabs did well, they bashed in most of the lights and blew up the fuel dump. The real nausea is that the rest of the column is already pulling out. They’re heading along the Surf Bay Road and that’ll take them straight on to your right flank. Three M92s, four amtracks. You’re outflanked, Sir. They’ll be on your right in ten minutes or so.”