Lion Resurgent (31 page)

“On both sides, Sergeant. Another group of Argie amtracks swam Lady Elizabeth Bay and they’re coming ashore on our left. Jordan, evade and hold out if you can, otherwise surrender. This will be all over here as soon as the jaws close.”

“Understood, Sir.” The radio went off the air.

Another salvo of 76mm rounds slammed into the defensive positions. The Argentine M92s were moving slowly forward as their fire neutralized any obvious defenses. Now, they were close enough for their .50 machine guns to hose down the ground near the wrecked bridge. Fitzhugh watched them spraying the old rusty wrecks offshore as well and admired the thoroughness. He’d have used those wrecks for cover if he’d had enough men to do so. The men he could have used were dead or prisoners and that thought made him cringe. No matter how long he lived, he knew he would never forget the fighting this night.

Viewed objectively, it was a beautiful sight. The criss-crossing lines of tracer and the brilliant red streaks of the 76mm shells reminded him of a really good November 5th party. The problem was, they also were defining just how small the area his troops held was. The definition was improved by the increasing amount of gunfire coming from his left. The amtracks were ashore. It seemed like the Argentines were advancing dismounted,

using the LVTP-7s as support. Underneath the crash of the 76mms and the thudding of the .50s, he could hear the crackle of the British L1A2s and the deeper bark of the Argentine FAS rifles.

“Sergeant Macy on the left, Sir. He says he can’t hold. He’s got three men down.”

Out of six
Fitzhugh thought. Before he could reply, another blast of gunfire came out of the darkness on his right. The column from the airfield had arrived. Jordan’s report had suggested a reinforced infantry platoon with M92s in support. There was no way he could hold that as well.

“Tell Sergeant Macy to give it up. We’ve done all we can here.”

“Sir.” The radio message went out and Fitzhugh felt sick. Giving it up now seemed to put him on a par with That Man. But, with tanks on two sides of him and closing in on his flanks and rear, he really had no choice.

“Smash the radio and give me the antenna.”

There was a crash as the radio was broken up. Fitzhugh took the antenna, hung a handkerchief over the end and squirmed through the rocks to his right. Then he held it up and started to wave. It took what seemed like hours for it to be noticed, but the firing from his right stopped. A few seconds later, the attack on his left and the shelling from the tanks over the creek followed.

Major Caceres’s Column, Port Stanley

Caceres saw the British officer waving his flag through the thermal sight on his amtrack. He passed the news to the other units and heard the barrage of fire from the Argentine units peter out. Once the night was silent, he climbed out and walked across to the man with the flag.

“I am Captain Fitzhugh, Naval Party 8901, Falkland Islands garrison. Major, I recognize that our position here is hopeless and request terms.”

“Major Caceres, Argentine Marine Corps. Captain, your men have fought well but your position is indeed hopeless. I must advise you that our forces have also made a successful landing at Lake Cove and are approaching from the east. I have already been authorized to offer you an honorable surrender. Your men may walk out bearing their arms and pile them by my Amtracks. They will be treated as prisoners of war and the Red Cross in Geneva will be informed of their capture. I must inform you that we already have some of your men as prisoners and others have been wounded. If you will provide identification of your men, we will also advise the Red Cross of the dead and wounded.”

Fitzhugh nodded. The Argentine Marines were offering terms that were indeed honorable and proper. “Very well, I will give the necessary orders. Major Caceres, I have wounded; may I request the services of your medics?”

“I only have the platoon Medic here but we will get your wounded to the cruisers where there are decent medical facilities.”  Caceres dropped his voice.  “A quiet word Captain. Tell your men to keep their mouths shut. There are political officers in our force who only look for an excuse to do things no honorable soldier would stomach. The less your men say, the better it will be for them.”

Terminal Three, Heathrow Airport, United Kingdom

“Heather, how are you?” Igrat had swept out of the diplomatic arrivals channel with Henry McCarty and Achillea in tow. That alone suggested how much things had changed in the last few hours. Normally, she made the London trip alone. With a war on, her usual bodyguards were with her. She seized and hugged Heather Watson, holding the hug just long enough to make the rigidly heterosexual Heather distinctly uncomfortable, “and the rest of the Circus?”

“I’m fine thank you.” Heather disengaged herself, feeling her ears turn pink as she did so. “As for the Circus, well, all the boys in the services are either heading south or getting ready to do so. I’ll tell you more in the car; there’s one waiting just outside.”

“Not a Rotodyne?” Achillea sounded slightly resentful.

Heather shook her head. “Not tonight and not for a hop this short. The civilian rotodynes have all been impounded for military use. Anyway, we’re not going to London; we’re going to Windsor. The Castle, to be specific. In any case, all but a limited number of flights are closed down this evening. There’s military air movements all over the place and air traffic control are afraid of collisions. Your Machliner was one of the few civilian flights allowed in, I think that was probably because you were on it.” Heather seemed suddenly sad. “I wish I had your job, Igrat; travelling all over the world the way you do. It sounds so exciting.”

“It’s not all fun, Heather. Remember a few years ago I got picked up by an opposition group and they beat me into a bloody mess. If Henry and Achillea hadn’t been on the ball, I would have died. As it was, it took me a year to recover. And that wasn’t the first time.”

“Thank Branwen.” Henry sounded friendly but the keen eyes never stopped scanning the semi-deserted terminal. It had the strange atmosphere of a deserted amusement arcade after dark. “She’s the one who thought to put a backstop tail on you. Is this our car?”

“It is indeed.” Heather grinned impishly. It was ostentatiously parked in a no-parking area. Three traffic wardens stared furiously at it. Igrat was reminded of horror movies where a group of vampires were being held at bay by a crucifix. This time the traffic wardens were being foiled by a simple badge in the car’s window. It was a crown, a greyhound and the letters OHMS.
On Her Majesty’s Service
Igrat mentally translated them. Heather noted her glance. “That certainly works doesn’t it? I’ve got something for you, Igrat.”

She handed over a slim, black wallet. Inside was a golden version of the same crown-and-greyhound crest opposite Igrat’s picture. “You’re a Royal Courier now, Igrat. For the duration anyway. That means you can go anywhere in the world and walk into the British Embassy there unchallenged. Show that badge and even the Ambassador himself has to do what you want.”

“Oh goody.” Igrat managed to inject a remarkable amount of lechery into two words.

“In a professional context, of course.” Heather tried to speak severely but gave up. Igrat’s reputation made the effort pointless. “Oh, get in the car.”

The Rolls-Royce looked and smelt luxurious. Igrat sank into the soft leather upholstery with a sigh. “Let me guess. From the Royal Garage?”

“That’s right. I’ve wanted to drive one of these all my life. Before we get to the Castle, any private messages for us?”

“Not this trip. To be honest, the Boss has been too busy getting the other aspects of this war sorted out. Hey, how come we haven’t hit a red light since we left the airport?”

“Car’s equipped with a gizmo that turns the lights to green as we approach them. All Royal Garage cars have one. Can’t have Her Majesty waiting at traffic lights.

“I want one for my Ferrari.”

“Sony Igrat. It’s illegal to have one installed on anything other than a Royal vehicle.” Heather made a mental note to have all the cars in the Royal Garage checked when Igrat left to make sure they still had their traffic light override system. She had an uncomfortable feeling that the check would show one was missing.

St Georges Hall, Windsor Castle

Heather Watson paid her respects to the Queen then stepped unobtrusively to one side. A part of her rather maliciously expected to see Igrat slapped down by the Queen who was known for her dislike of vulgarity. As a matter of fact, Heather felt slightly guilty about the malice but knew she was not alone in that. Igrat had many male friends but very few women liked or trusted her. Outside the confines of her immediate circle, feelings towards her ran from mild distaste to outright loathing. It didn’t occur to Heather that a womans’ instinctive dislike for Igrat was inversely proportional to how well she knew her.

To Heather’s surprise, the woman who followed her through the doors of St George’s Hall was quite different from the flamboyant figure she’d met at Heathrow airport. It wasn’t the clothes or the jewelry, both of which were unchanged, but the bearing. Somehow, at some point in the walk from the car to the Hall, Igrat had picked up the persona of a princess. She approached the throne and made a formal curtsey, dipping her head in the prescribed manner as she did so. “Your Majesty does me great honor.”

“Welcome to Windsor. You have material to deliver to us?”

“Communications intercepts and satellite imagery, Your Majesty.” Igrat hesitated. “I am commanded to place them in the hands of the Prime Minister or Minister of Defence only.”

“And you always obey your commands to the letter.” The Queen spoke approvingly. “When you were selected as a courier, your employer picked well. Proceed with the meeting.”

“Prime Minister? I have words that go with the material in the case.” Igrat’s voice adopted the flat tones of The Seer. “The C-133Bs taken out of storage in Arizona have been delivered to the Canadian Air Force on lease. By a clerical error on our part, the agreement was back-dated a year. We have heard from the Government of Uruguay. They have offered to provide neutral ground for the detention of prisoners of war and the treatment of the wounded.”

“Aren’t they afraid that Galtieri will attack them? Uruguay has been the subject of Argentine ambitions for many years.” The Foreign Secretary sounded concerned. If this war started to expand, its end would be explosive.

“No, Sir. They have a powerful and very supportive Uncle.” A ripple of amusement went around the room. “The Uruguayan Navy is painting a naval transport in hospital ship colors so that they can collect the prisoners and wounded but they require the agreement of both sides that the ship’s immunity will be respected and that any prisoners taken will be submitted to their care.”

“That could be a great burden for a small nation.” Prime Minister Newton was thoughtful. “Certainly we agree to their proposal and will announce our declaration to that effect immediately.”

“The United States has agreed to reimburse Uruguay for the costs it will incur. In the interests of peace and international amity of course. I am also tasked to request whether Her Majesty’s Government will be declaring a combat zone around the Falkland Islands and South Georgia.”

Newton nodded. “Two hundred nautical miles around each, the two circles joined to form an oval. Any hostile ship in that region will be attacked and sunk. Please tell The Seer that we already have nuclear-powered submarines in that area to enforce that declaration. Ships outside that area may be attacked but only if their operations appear to be posing a direct threat.”

Igrat nodded, her eyes almost blank as she mentally recorded the message. Then she clicked back to the meeting. “General Dyess, the new Commander of SAC, has included a message with the imagery we have included in this package. He says that we did an SR-71 overflight of the combat area late last night. It appears that organized resistance on both South Georgia and the Falkland Islands has ceased and Argentine forces had surrounded the Governor’s house. We expect that he will have surrendered formally by the time this meeting is held.”

“The last communication we had from the Governor was that his house was in process of being surrounded. No word since then.” The Foreign Secretary spoke grimly. As a non-military man, he had entertained hopes that the reinforced garrison might actually have held out against the Argentine onslaught.

“We also have a communications intercept from one of the Argentine destroyers. She reports having sunk HMS
Mermaid
and picked up the survivors. She included a long list of those she had picked up. The message was transmitted in clear and on international distress frequencies. The presumption at the National Reconnaissance Office is that we were intended to intercept that message and that your people might do well to ponder upon its implications.” Igrat dropped her facsimile of The Seer’s voice and reverted to her own. “Those are all the words I am carrying.”

“We will retire now and allow you to continue with your deliberations undisturbed.” The Queen paused for a second. “Igrat, you have received your appointment as a temporary Royal Courier?”

“I have indeed, Your Majesty, and am honored by the confidence shown in me.”

“Deserved by all reports. But tell us, if you were to receive orders from us that contradicted those given to you by The Seer, who would you obey?”

“The Seer of course, Your Majesty.”

“And why is that?”

“Because he is my father.”

“And as a hereditary monarch, we cannot disagree with you there. Igrat, would you take a very late high tea with us?”

“It would be an honor, Your Majesty.”

Heather watched the Queen leave with Igrat in tow. “Well, that was a surprise.” She thought she had said the words under her breath, but she realized that Henry McCarty had overheard her.

“That Igrat didn’t get squelched?” McCarty was amused. Not just that Heather had been disappointed, but that British security had slipped up. They’d taken his Colt revolvers and Achillea’s Model 50 pistol plus all three of her knives. They’d even had to walk through a metal detector afterwards. For all that, they’d missed the tiny knife hidden in Igrat’s hair. When metal detectors had started becoming commonplace, she’d replaced the tiny metal knife she’d carried for so long with one of the new ceramic blades. It was no bigger than her old knife but was wickedly sharp. Just touching the blade could cause it to slice deep into a careless finger. In this case, it was a harmless lapse. McCarty was in two minds over whether to tip off the security people to the loophole.