Lion Resurgent (36 page)

“About twenty years or so.” He dropped his voice slightly. “To have a good gentlemen’s club is a problem for us ye know. Times are when I think we should start our own.”

“Well, you can help a girl out then. What do you recommend?”

Byrnes laughed. “If ye like really strong flavors, then the Arbroath Smokie pate with a horseradish dressing is very fine. To follow, the carving table here is without equal. I’d recommend the venison. They serve it with a juniper berry and whisky sauce that ye won’t find bettered anywhere I know of.”

“That sounds perfect, I’ll have that please. A carving table, they’ll have somebody to do the carving I suppose.”

“They do,” Byrnes dropped his voice again. “But I heard ye were an artiste with a knife.”

Igrat dropped her voice to match. “I am, especially close in, at body-contact range. Although Achillea is the one who is a real bladeswoman under any conditions. But those are skills we both prefer to keep well concealed.”

“Aye. With ye it would be a shock I warrant. But one look at Achillea, and a wise man feels a chill run down his spine. There’s no soul behind those eyes. Where are your friends by the way?”

“Around. Events like this, they stay in the background but they’re around.” Igrat hesitated and then was relieved to see the waiter approaching . “Ohh, look, my broached smoky is coming.”

“Arbroath smokie. It’s a very special kind of smoked haddock. I did warn ye it was strongly flavored.”

“You did, Robbie, and you weren’t joking. This reminds me of way back when, times when smoked fish was the only kind we had.”

“Aye, smoked or salted. Youngsters don’t know how lucky they are.” Once again, they shared a conspiratorial grin. “Smoked herring is a rare thing these days. The North Sea and Baltic still haven’t recovered. What there is gets imported from the Atlantic. I have na’ had a kipper for breakfast these many years. Just Finnan Haddie”

“Poor Robbie. Doesn’t Heather get you one now and then?” Igrat stared at her host and Byrnes got a disturbing sensation that those heavy-lidded sleepy eyes were looking straight through him. Her next words confirmed that impression. “Does she know I am here with you by the way?”

Byrnes decided honesty was the best policy. In any case, he was reasonably certain Igrat could spot a man lying to her at fifty paces. “No, that she does na’. I’ll be honest with ye, she is scared of ye. She thinks ye are trying to seduce her.”

“Perhaps I am.” Igrat smiled at the thought and glanced around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. The way the dining room was laid out, privacy was guaranteed. She guessed that was absolutely essential. The deals struck in this room would shake the establishment to its foundations if word of them ever got out. Idly, she thought of Gusoyn and how his net of informants amongst the Washington limousine drivers kept the Seer better informed than any regular intelligence service.
Did one of the waiters here serve the same role for Sir Humphrey?
“Why, Robbie, would you want to watch us?”

To her delight Byrnes spluttered slightly and flushed. “Igrat, ye will be the death of me. Be kind to Heather though. She was born when conventions were different and she has na’ shaken off the prejudices of that time yet. Even being a man’s partner rather than a wife is hard for her to accept. The idea of another woman, t’is shocking for her.”

One of Igrat’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Looking at how carefully it had been shaped, Byrnes realized how much care Igrat took over her appearance. It was slightly humbling and he felt quite ridiculously flattered by it. “Robbie, tell her not to worry. I only go gay for pay or when I need to so I can do my job. I just like the people around me to be a little off-balance, that’s all. Ah, the carving trolley is coming. You were right; that looks incredible.”

Trolley was a misuse of words. The carving trolley was huge and required two people to push it into place. Igrat fought hard to stop herself drooling at the joints arrayed before her. She spoke quietly to the carving waiter. Her hands moved quickly but discretely as she specified the cut she wanted. As she did so, the waiter’s expression turned to respect. Then, his knife moved deftly and the slices Igrat had specified found their way on to her plate. Byrnes asked for his favorite Beef Wellington.

“What are these, Robbie?” Igrat nodded at the dishes of vegetables that were arriving.

“Those are champit tatties and bashit neeps. That means just creamed potato and mashed swede. Then we have tarragon mashed mushrooms, baked onions in a cream sauce and the little bowl is the sauce for your meat. If you would be a true Scot, you should dip each piece of meat you cut in the sauce, nay pour it over your plate. Your health my dear.”

“Slainte Mhor.”

“So ye know the Scottish toast do you? And what would that be where your home was?” Byrnes was very careful not to say where and when that was.

“Vashi nush.” Igrat smiled nostalgically. “It means ‘be at one with your food’. But there are few who speak the language these days. Even back then we used Attic Greek most of the time. After I learned it of course.”

To Byrnes’s surprise Igrat managed to put away a repeat slice of the venison before they both finished. Much less surprisingly, she seemed to have become the carving waiter’s favorite guest. However, by the time Igrat had finished her cranachan, even she had to admit defeat and leave the cheese plate unsampled. The Caledonian Club had filled her to bursting point.

“Robbie, that was the finest meal I’ve had in as many years as I can remember. Tell me something. When I read the information you sent me, I noticed they had rooms for the members here.” Igrat looked across the table at Byrnes who was also unable to contemplate eating anything else but whose eyes suddenly opened at the implication of her question.

“Aye, that we do. And very fine ones they are. But I had’na reserved one. It would ha’been presumptious.”

“Well, next time, you’ll have to remedy that oversight. I would like there to be a next time, Robbie. If you want to of course. Just make sure Heather doesn’t find out.”

Byrnes nodded happily. “It would be my honor to entertain you here again Igrat. And to be sure, Heather will not find out from me. It took her months to forgive me for the time I once called her Jean by mistake.”

The account mysteriously materialized under his hand and he signed it with a flourish. “Igrat, you should be here for Burns Night. It’s January 25th each year. You’d be a natural to make the reply to the Lassies Toast.”

“Robbie, remember where I come from. I haven’t got a drop of Scottish blood in my veins, although after the meal here tonight, I’m beginning to understand what I’ve been missing out on. But, if I’m still doing runs here next year, I’d love to take you up on the invitation.”

“That’s fine to know Igrat, but don’t count on the war going on that long. Between us, for your ears and those of your father, one way or the other this war will finish fast. If it goes the way the Service Chiefs think, it’ll be over in days once we strike back. If it doesn’t, then we’re gone as a power worthy of the name.”

Igrat lifted her after-dinner glass of Laphroig. “Then, we had better lift our glasses to the forces down south hadn’t we?” Though she hadn’t apparently raised her voice, for the first time her husky tones carried around the room. Byrnes was not the only man there who lifted his glass in response.

Military Transport
Drakensburg
South Atlantic.

“So there we have the basic plan. The air-mech brigades land across the island, seizing the dominant points of terrain here, here and here. The key ones are the base here, at Goose Green, and the heights above Stanley. The former guards the southern flank while the ones here mean that Stanley itself will be under direct artillery fire. Our function, gentlemen, is to land here at San Carlos. The beaches are suitable for armor. In fact they are the only beaches suitable for armor except for those around Stanley itself. For obvious reasons we do not want to conduct a direct assault on Stanley. Naval Party 8901 suffered almost a hundred and twenty dead and wounded out of one hundred and sixty. Argentine casualties were proportional, we’re fairly certain they had more than three hundred dead, nobody knows how many wounded. Their Marine Regiment was so badly chewed up it had to be pulled back to the mainland.”

Lieutenant Colonel Rigsby looked around. “So, a direct assault in Stanley is out. Instead, our brigade will be landing at San Carlos and advancing along the line of airmech units, relieving each one in turn. However, there is a danger. There are armored units stationed here at Teal Inlet that are perfectly positioned to strike into the flank of our advance. Countering that threat will be the job of an armored task force supported by the company of tank destroyers carried on this transport. Any questions?”

“Armored units, Sir. Tanks?”

“The technical description is, I believe, armored cavalry. Regimental strength. Light tanks and armored personnel carriers. Their mobility won’t be too good but they’ll still be a menace sitting there. The tanks are American M92s. 76mm high velocity semiautomatic. Armored carriers are a locally built design. A suitcase on wheels armed with a 7.65 or 13.2 mm machine gun. No threat to your Boomslangs, eh, Shumba?”

Shumba Geldenhuys believed that answering that question would be tempting fate. Instead, he looked at the pictures pinned up on the bulkheads. “These are very good pictures jongmens. If we had these, our work on the border would be much easier.”

“We can thank the Septics for them. They’re doing overflights of the area daily.”

“You said an armored task force; how many battalions?” Geldenhuys was already lost in the terrain, trying to work out the character of the battle he would be fighting.

“Four squadrons. Two with Cavalier tanks; two with Bulldog APCs. And your Boomslangs, of course.”

“So we are outnumbered two or three to one?” Geldenhuys sucked his teeth.

“A bit more than that. If it wasn’t for you and your men, this would be looking bad. But, your tank destroyers even things up for us.”

“Sir, air and artillery support?” Cross had heard stories from his father about how devastating air support could be.

“Air support will come from the carriers. We’ll have to hope the Bananas will be around enough to do the job. Artillery, we have the towed guns. Lightweight 25 pounders, with the Airmech units and the 105mms we’ll be landing. The Argies have American-supplied 105s. Not many of them so I understand and they are short on ammunition. They haven’t been able to get a major supply ship in since the invasion.”

“Thank you sir.” Cross sat down again, his mind chewing over the information. One thing suddenly seemed clear to him, this counter-invasion was being fought on a shoestring.

“Sir, what’s happening over in South Georgia?” Another voice from the group of officers present at the briefing.

“The relief of the garrison there is under way as we speak. Troops are already being inserted into the interior of South Georgia to pick up the civilians and the survivors of the SBS garrison force. Others will be landed after airstrikes take out the ships there and pound the Argie shore positions. The only real question there is how long the Argies will hold out. They are not real soldiers; they’re a swimmer-commando unit. Very brave when it comes to shooting a helpless man in the head.”

A hiss went around the room; the resistance of Post Master Walsingham and his subsequent brutal murder had made newspaper headlines worldwide. Idly, Rigsby realized just how bad the catastrophic Argentine propaganda error of releasing the prisoners from the sinking of the
Mermaid
had been. Even though they were now living in a detention center in Uruguay, they had been interviewed by the press. The image of the old postmaster refusing to take off his hat to an invader and being shot dead for it had become iconic for the war in general.

“What about prisoners, Sir?” Another unidentified voice from the audience.

The question was met with a derisive jeer. Rigsby slammed the flat of his hand down on the table very hard. The sound echoed around the room, silencing the crowd as effectively as a pistol shot. “We’ll have none of that. Let’s make this quite clear right now. Word from Brigadier Strachan: this is not the Kola Peninsula. That was then, this is now. It is becoming increasingly obvious that the Argentine forces are split right down the middle. We have murderous thugs like the swimmer-commando types on one side and the regular Argentine forces on the other. Do I have to remind you of the way their sailors went into the water to rescue the survivors from
Mermaid?
A lot more British wives would be widows today if it hadn’t been for them. And the survivors from NP8901? The Argie Marines went out of their way to keep them away from the political types and get them to safety. So we play this one strictly by the book. If Argies get killed, well, we all take that risk. That’s what we get paid for. But there will be no, repeat no, unofficial settling of accounts or quiet payback. Any allegations of such events will be investigated and will, if substantiated, result in the perpetrators being court-martialed on a charge of murder. Is that quite clear?”

Rigsby waited until the murmuring faded. “It’s not just that we have to hold the moral high ground here. We have to think what will be happening after the war. If the present mob stay in power over in Argieland, we’ll be doing this whole thing over again some ten or twenty years down the line. But, we play the game, show people that doing the right thing is the proper way to go and brings its own rewards, then we might just see a change over there. That could resolve the problem for good.

“Another thing. We have to remember the Septic’s attitude on this. They’ll allow small wars, to let people blow off steam, provided they stay small and the people fighting them behave decently. The Chimps set the pattern there. They treated their Indian PoWs well and stuck by the book. We can’t do any less. If we do, we’ll lose Septic support. Amongst other things that will mean no more nice reconnaissance pictures. So its Geneva and Hague conventions all the way. One final thing; those swimmer-commando bastards didn’t just kill a lot of their own. They ‘disappeared’ people from a number of countries. Any prisoners we take might be the only means of getting an accounting for those victims. If we do manage to wrap up a few of those cases, then not only do we give their relatives some closure, we also earn our government a few brownie points where it counts. So play it by the book or we’ll want to know the reason why. And on that note, gentlemen, get some sleep and make sure your men do the same.”