Ghost Force

For this, my ninth techno-thriller, set in the future and, hopefully, sailing perilously close to the wind, I needed to be more careful than usual with my sources.

For reasons that I hope are obvious, I would not wish to implicate any senior officers, either naval or military, on either side of the Atlantic, within the many politically lethal issues contained in these pages.

I decided therefore to accept no direct advice or instruction from anyone; rather, I based the story on the strongly held views mentioned to me by so many commissioned officers over several years.

This book involves a new journey to the cold South Atlantic, and the ever-vexing questions surrounding the ownership of the remote Falkland Islands. And I have inevitably drawn on the mountain of knowledge I received from the Task Force Commander of the 1982 war, Admiral Sir Sandy Woodward, whose autobiography I helped to write fourteen years ago.

This time, however, I did not go to him with every twist and turn in the road, nor did I drive him mad for detailed explanations of the myriad of high-tech naval data at which he is a world-acknowledged master and commander, and I remain ever the layman.

I plowed a lonely furrow, distilling many, many highly controversial opinions into my own story. I hope its subliminal message will be enjoyed by serving, and indeed, retired, officers. With perhaps a chilling lesson for the kind of politician we all despise.

Any mistakes, and wayward opinions, either technical, tactical, or strategic, are mine alone. And nothing should be laid at the door of any present or past Commander, naval or military, whose acquaintance or friendship I have long valued.

This applies to perhaps a dozen people, but in particular it applies to Admiral Woodward, who, on this occasion at least, remains shining-white innocent of any involvement with my occasionally acid-dipped pen.

—P
ATRICK
R
OBINSON
, 2005

CAST OF PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

United States Senior Command

Paul Bedford (President of the United States)

Admiral Arnold Morgan (Private Adviser to the President)

Admiral George Morris (Director, National Security Agency)

Lt. Commander Jimmy Ramshawe (Personal Assistant, Director NSA)

Admiral John Bergstrom (SPECWARCOM)

Central Intelligence Agency

Agent Leonid Suchov (Deputy Chief, Russian Desk)

United States Navy SEALs

Commander Rick Hunter (Assault Team Leader)

Lt. Commander Dallas MacPherson (2 I/C, Explosives)

Chief Petty Officer Mike Hook (Explosives)

Petty Officer First Class Don Smith

Petty Officer First Class Brian Harrison

Seaman Ed Segal (helmsman)

Seaman Ron Wallace (helmsman)

Chief Petty Officer Bob Bland (Military Breaking and Entering)

Captain Hugh Fraser (CO, USS
Toledo
, SEAL team insert commander)

United Kingdom Political

The Prime Minister of Great Britain

Peter Caulfield (Secretary of Defense)

Roger Eltringham (Foreign Secretary)

Commander Alan Knell (Conservative Member of Parliament, Portsmouth)

Robert Macmillan (Conservative MP)

Derek Blenkinsop (Labour MP, East Lancashire)

Richard Cawley (Conservative MP, Barrow-in-Furness)

Sir Richard Jardine (Ambassador to the United States)

United Kingdom Armed Services

General Sir Robin Brenchley (Chief of Defense Staff)

Admiral Sir Rodney Jeffries (First Sea Lord)

Admiral Mark Palmer (C-in-C Fleet)

Admiral Alan Holbrook (Task Force Commander)

Captain David Reader (CO, HMS
Ark Royal
)

Major Bobby Court (Company Commander, Mount Pleasant)

Captain Peter Merrill (Commander Immediate Response Platoon, Falkland Islands)

Sgt. Biff Wakefield (RAF Rapier Missiles, Mount Pleasant)

Brigadier Viv Brogden RM (Commander Landing Forces, Falkland Islands)

Lt. Commander Malcolm Farley (CO, Royal Navy Garrison, Mare Harbor)

Captain Mike Fawkes (CO, HMS
Kent
)

Captain Colin Ashby (CO, HMS
St. Albans)

Commander Keith Kemsley (CO, HMS
Iron Duke
)

Captain Rowdy Yates (CO, HMS
Daring
)

Commander Norman Hall (CO, HMS
Dauntless
)

Captain Colin Day (CO, HMS
Gloucester
)

Captain Simon Compton (CO, submarine
Astute
)

United Kingdom 22 SAS

Lt. Colonel Mike Weston (CO, Hereford HQ)

Captain Douglas Jarvis (Team Leader Fanning Head Assault)

Combat Troopers: Syd Ferry (Communications); Peter Wiggins (Sniper); Joe Pearson; Bob Goddard; Trevor Fermer; Jake Posgate; Dai Lewellwyn

Lt. Jim Perry (Team Leader SBS, Lafonia)

Russian Senior Command

The President of the Russian Federation

Valery Kravchenko (Prime Minister)

Oleg Nalyotov (Foreign Minister)

Gregor Komoyedov (Minister for Foreign Trade)

Boris Patrushov (Head of FSB, Secret Police)

Oleg Kuts (Energy Minister)

Admiral Vitaly Rankov (C-in-C Fleet, Deputy Defense Minister)

Russian Navy

Captain Gregor Vanislav (CO,
Viper K-157
)

Siberian Political and Oil Executive

Mikhallo Masorin (dec.) (Chief Minister, Urals Federal District)

Roman Rekuts (New Leader, Urals Federal District)

Jaan Valuev (President, OJSC Surgutneftegas Oil Corp.)

Sergei Pobozhiy (Chairman, SIBNEFT Oil Corp.)

Boris Nuriyev (First VP Finance, LUKOIL Corp.)

Anton Katsuba (Oil Ops Chief, West Siberia)

Argentina Senior Command

The President of the Republic

Admiral Oscar Moreno (C-in-C Fleet)

General Eduard Kampf (Commander Five Corps)

Major Pablo Barry (Commander Marine Assault, Falkland Islands)

Principal Wives

Diana Jarvis (Mrs. Rick Hunter)

Mrs. Kathy Morgan

UK Prime Minister’s Principal Guests

Honeyford Jones (pop singer)

Freddie Leeson (soccer player), wife Madelle (former nightclub employee)

Darien Farr (film star), wife Loretta (former TV weather girl)

Freddie Ivanov Windsor (restaurateur)

PROLOGUE

As a general rule, Admiral Arnold Morgan did not do state banquets. He put them in the same category as diplomatic luncheons, congressional dinners, state fairs, and yard sales; all of which required him to spend time talking to God knows how many people with whom he had absolutely nothing in common.

Given a choice, he would rather have spent an hour with a political editor of CBS Television or the
Washington Post
, each of whom he could cheerfully have throttled several times a year.

It was thus a matter of some interest this evening to witness him making his way down the great central staircase of the White House, right behind the President and his guests of honor. The Admiral descended in company with the exquisitely beautiful Mrs. Kathy Morgan, whose perfectly cut dark green silk gown made the Russian President’s wife look like a middle-line admin clerk from the KGB. (Close. She had been a researcher.)

Arnold Morgan himself wore the dark blue dress uniform of a U.S. Navy Rear Admiral, complete with the twin-dolphin insignia of the U.S. Submarine Service. As ever, shoulders back, jaw jutting, steel-gray hair trimmed short, he looked like a CO striding toward his ops room.

Which was close to the mark. In his long years in service as the President’s National Security Adviser, he considered the White House
was
his ops room. He always called it “the factory,” and he had conducted global operations against enemies of the United States with an unprecedented free hand. Of course, he had kept the President posted as to his activities. Mostly.

And now, with the small private reception for the Russians concluded in the upstairs private rooms, Arnold and Kathy stood aside
at the foot of the stairs, alongside the Ambassador and a dozen other dignitaries, while the two Presidents and their wives formed a short receiving line.

This was deliberate, because the Russians always brought with them a vast entourage of state officials, diplomats, politicians, military top brass, and, as ever, undercover agents—spies, that is—badly disguised as cultural attachés. It was, frankly, like seeing a prizefighter’s goons and bodyguards dancing a minuet.

But here they all were. The men who ran Russia, being formally entertained by President Paul Bedford and the First Lady, the former Maggie Lomax, a svelte, blonde Virginian horsewoman, fearless to hounds, but nerve-wracked by this formal jamboree in support of U.S.-Russian relations.

So far as President Bedford had been concerned, the presence of Arnold Morgan had been nothing short of compulsory. Although the telephone conversation between the two men had been little short of a verbal gunfight.

“Arnie, I just got your note declining the Russian banquet invite…Jesus, you can’t do this to me!”

“I thought I just had.”

“Arnie, this is not optional. This is a Presidential command.”

“Bullshit. I’m retired. I don’t do State Banquets. I’m a naval officer, not a diplomat.”

“I know what you are. But this thing is really important. They’re bringing all the big hitters from Moscow, civilian and military. Not to mention their oil industry.”

“What the hell’s that got to do with me?”

“Nothing. ’Cept I want you there. Right next to me, keeping me posted. There’s not one person in Washington knows the Russians better than you. You gotta be there. White tie and tails.”

“I
never
wear white tie and tails.”

“Okay. Okay. You can come in a tuxedo.”

“Since I don’t much want to look like a head waiter, or a goddamned violinist, I won’t be wearing that either.”

“Okay. Okay,” said the President, sensing victory. “You can come in full-dress Navy uniform. Matter of fact, I don’t care if you turn up in jockstrap and spurs as long as you get here.”

Arnold Morgan chuckled. But suddenly an edge crept back into his voice. “What topics concern you most?”

“The rise of the Russian Navy, for a start. The rebuilding of their submarine fleet in particular. And the exporting of submarines all over the world.”

“How about their oil industry?”

“Well, that new deepwater tanker terminal in Murmansk cannot fail to be an issue,” replied the President. “We’re hoping they’ll ship two million barrels a day from there direct to the USA in the next few years.”

“And I guess you know the Russian President already has terrible goddamned problems transporting crude oil from the West Siberian Basin to Murmansk…” Arnold was thoughtful. And he added slowly, “…And you know how important that export trade is to them.”

“And to us,” said President Bedford.

“Give us a little distance with the towelheads, right?”

“That’s why you gotta be at the banquet, Arnie. Starting with the private reception. Don’t be late.”

“Silver-tongued bastard,” grunted Admiral Morgan. “All right, all right. We’ll be there. Good morning, Mr. President.”

Paul Bedford, who was well accustomed to the Admiral’s excruciating habit of slamming down the phone without even bothering with “good-bye,” considered this a very definite victory.

“Heh, heh, heh,” he chortled, in the deserted Oval Office, “that little bit of intrigue on a global scale. That’ll get the ole buzzard every time. But I’m sure glad he’s coming.”

Thus it was that Arnold and Kathy Morgan were now in attendance at the State Banquet for the Russians, gazing amiably at the long line of incoming guests entering the White House.

So many old friends and colleagues. It was like an Old Boys’ reunion. Here was the Commander of the U.S. Navy SEALs, Admiral John Bergstrom, and his soignée new wife, Louisa-May, from Oxford, Mississippi; Harcourt Travis, the former Republican Secretary of State, with his wife, Sue. There was Admiral Scott Dunsmore, former CNO of the U.S. Navy, with his elegant wife, Grace. The reigning Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Tim Scannell, was with his wife, Beth.

Arnold shook hands with the Director of the National Security Agency, Admiral George Morris, and he greeted the new Vice President of the United States, the former Democratic Senator from Georgia, Bradford Harding, and his wife, Paige.

The Israeli Ambassador, General David Gavron, was there with his wife, Becky, plus, of course, the silver-haired Russian Ambassador to Washington, Tomas Yezhel, and the various Ambassadors from the United Kingdom, Canada, and Australia.

Arnold did not instantly recognize all of the top brass of the Russian contingent. But he could see the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Josh Paul, talking with the Russian Foreign Minister, Oleg Nalyotov.

He vaguely knew the Chief of the Russian Naval Staff, a grim-looking, ex-Typhoon-class ICBM Commanding Officer, Admiral Victor Kouts.

But Admiral Morgan’s craggy face lit up when he spotted the towering figure of his old sparring partner, Russian Admiral Vitaly Rankov, now C-in-C Fleet, and Deputy Defense Minister.

“Arnold!” boomed the giant ex-Soviet international oarsman. “I had no idea you’d be here. They told me you’d retired.”

Admiral Morgan grinned, and held out his hand. “Hi, Vitaly—they put you in charge of that junkyard Navy of yours yet? I heard they had.”

“They did. Right now, Admiral, you’re talking to the Deputy Defense Minister of Russia.”

“Guess that’ll suit you,” replied the American. “Should provide ample scope for your natural flair for lies, evasions, and half-truths…”

The enormous Russian threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Now you be kind, Arnold,” he said in his deep, rumbling baritone voice. “Otherwise I may not introduce you to this very beautiful lady standing at my side.”

A tall, striking, dark-haired girl around half the Russian’s age smiled shyly and held out her hand in friendship.

“This is Olga,” said Admiral Rankov. “We were married last spring.”

Admiral Morgan took her hand and asked if she spoke any English since his Russian was a little rusty. She shook her head, smiling, and
the Admiral took the opportunity to turn back to Vitaly and shake his head sadly. “Too good for you, old buddy. A lot too good.”

Again the huge Russian Admiral laughed joyfully, and he repeated the words he had used so often in his many dealings with the old Lion of the West Wing.

“You are a terrible man, Arnold Morgan. A truly terrible man.” Then he spoke in rapid Russian to Mrs. Olga Rankov, who also burst out laughing.

“I understand we are sitting together,” said Arnold. “And I don’t believe you have actually met my wife, Kathy.”

The Russian Admiral smiled and accepted Kathy’s outstretched hand. “We have of course spoken many times on the telephone,” he said. “But believe me, I never thought he’d persuade you to marry him.” And, with a phrase more fittingly uttered in a St. Petersburg palace than a naval dockyard, Vitaly added with a short bow and a flourish, “The legend of your great beauty precedes you, Mrs. Morgan. I knew what to expect.”

“Jesus, they’ve even taught him social graces,” chuckled Arnold, carelessly ignoring the fact he was a bit short in that department himself. “Vitaly, old pal, seems we both got lucky in the past year. Not too bad for a couple of old Cold Warriors.”

By now the guests were almost through the receiving line and a natural parting of the crowd established a wide entrance tunnel to the State Dining Room. Within a few moments, President and Maggie Bedford came through, escorting the Russian President and his wife to their dinner places, with all of the guests falling in,
line astern
, as Arnold somewhat jauntily told Vitaly.

The President took his place next to the former KGB researcher directly beneath the Lincoln portrait. Maggie Bedford showed the boss of all the Russians to his place next to her at the same table, and everyone stood until the hostess was seated.

The banquet, on the orders of Paul Bedford, was strictly American. “No caviar, or any of that restaurant nonsense,” he had told the butler. “We start with Chesapeake oysters, we dine on New York sirloin steak, with Idaho potatoes, and we wrap it up with apple pie and American ice cream. There’ll be two or three Wisconsin cheeses for anyone who wants them. California wines from the Napa Valley.”

“Sir,” the butler ventured, “not everyone likes oysters…”

“Tough,” replied the President. “Russians love ’em. I’ve had ’em in Moscow and St. Petersburg. Anyone who can’t eat ’em can have an extra shot of apple pie if they need it.”

“Very well, sir,” replied the butler, suspecting, from vast experience, that Arnold Morgan himself had been somehow in the shadows advising Paul Bedford. The tone, the curtness, the sureness. Morgan, not Bedford.

As it happened, there had been one short conversation when the Oval Office called Chevy Chase to check in on the menu content. “Give ’em American food,” Arnold had advised. “Strictly American. Big A A A. The food this nation eats. We don’t need to pretend sophistication to anyone, right?”

“Right.”

And now, with the apple pie just arriving, the Strolling Strings, a well-known group of U.S. Army violinists, began to play at the rear section of the room. It was a short mini-concert, comprising all-American numbers, such as “Over There!”…“True Love” (from
High Society
)…a selection from
Oklahoma
…“Take Me Out to the Ball Game”…and concluding with “God Bless America.”

Finally the President rose and made a short speech extolling the virtues of the Russian President and the new and close trade links developing between the nations.

The guest of honor then stood and echoed many of the Presidents’ statements, before responding with a formal toast “to the United States of America.”

At this point the entire room stood up and proceeded toward the door that led out to the Blue Room, where coffee would be served, followed by entertainment in the East Room, and then dancing to the band of the United States Marines in the White House foyer.

Everyone was on the move now, except for one guest. Mikhallo Masorin, the senior minister from the vastness of Siberia, which fills one-twelfth of the land mass of the entire earth, had suddenly pitched forward and landed flat on his face right in front of Arnold, Vitaly, Olga, and Kathy.

In fact, the huge Russian Admiral had leaned forward to break his fall. But he was a fraction of a second too late. Mr. Masorin was down,
twisted on his back now, his face puce in color, gasping for breath, both hands clutched to his throat, working his jaws, writhing in obvious fear and agony.

Someone shouted,
“Doctor! Right now!”

Women gasped. Men came forward to see if they could help. Arnold Morgan noticed they were mostly Americans. He also considered Mr. Masorin was very nearly beyond help. He was desperately trying to breathe but could not do so.

By now two or three people were shouting,
“Heart attack! Come on, guys, let the doctor through…”

Within a few minutes there were two doctors in attendance, but they could only bear witness to the death throes of the Siberian head honcho. One of them filled a syringe and unleashed a potent dose of something into Mr. Masorin’s upper arm.

But there was no saving him. Mikhallo was gone, in rapid time, dead before the Navy stretcher bearers could get to him. Dead, right there on the floor of the State Dining Room in front of his own President and that of the United States.

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