Ghost Force (27 page)

The launching point for this principal assault could not be the landing place for the amphibians, which had to arrive in secrecy, on an obscure stretch of coastline. But Lt. Perry and his men knew what was required, and they knew the dimensions of the various terrains they were looking for.

As Admiral Arnold Morgan had thoughtfully forecast in faraway Washington the previous week, Britain’s Special Forces were in. And not one member of the now-massive Argentinian invading force had the slightest idea they were there.

The three British Special Forces recce teams were not merely surprised by the level of Argentina’s naval and military buildup on the Falkland Islands. They were uniquely stunned. None of them had ever seen anything quite like this.

Veterans of two wars, in the Persian Gulf and Iraq, they thought they’d seen it all. But this was incredible. Clinging to the cold, wet rock face of Fanning Head, Captain Jarvis’s men had watched the Argentinians airlift not only multiple-launch missile systems but heavy 155mm howitzers.

All of them were ferried from the supply ships coming in at night to Mare Harbor, and then transported by helicopter across the mountains to the summit of the towering headland where Douglas Jarvis and his men lay hidden.

Any ships trying to make passage through the narrows into Falkland Sound were on a suicide mission once this lot was in place at the top of the cliff.

Sergeant Clifton and his boys arrived in the southern foothills of Wickham Heights shortly after midnight on Sunday night. They completed their forty-five-mile trek in a total of twenty-five walking hours. Below them, Mount Pleasant Airfield was well lit and extremely busy. All through the night they had both seen and heard military aircraft arriving and taking off.

Of course, no one knew yet what was actually incoming, nor indeed outgoing, but whatever it was, it was big. This was one of the busiest airports Jack Clifton had ever seen, and through the night glasses he could make out several parked military helicopters and a line of fighter
aircraft, as well as several Army and Air Force trucks parked near the terminals. There seemed to be people everywhere.

Down on the south shore of Choiseul Sound, Jim Perry’s team had crossed the channel for the second time, rowing the little boats hard across the tide, hardly daring to take a rest in case they were swept off course.

It was a tough pull, but they had discovered a lonely, uninhabited little island right on their route, and it made a useful stopping point just after the first mile, a place to get their breath back after pulling hard for twenty minutes.

The final stretch lasted for around a half hour; they could of course have made it in one shot, but everyone agreed the stop-off, for just ten minutes, made an enormous difference. In fact, Jim Perry calculated it probably made no difference in terms of time spent rowing. The first half mile after the break was always the fastest.

On the far shore they had a carefully selected landing point, a thousand-yard spit of rock and sand jutting out to the east, about four miles west of Mare Harbor, and 150 yards from the actual mainland. They made this their forward base, mostly because it seemed to have plant life, some high bracken and a few scattered gorse bushes. A cluster of thick tussock grass grew over some hefty boulders, and inside the thicket there was a place to hide the boats.

Lt. Perry had personally hacked out a pathway into this unlikely undergrowth, and last night, Saturday, they had left four men out there with sleeping bags and ground sheets, to continue through the day monitoring Argentinian aircraft, both coming into and leaving Mount Pleasant Airfield. They had taken it in turns, two on duty, two off. And there was hardly a moment for twenty-four hours when they were not writing and recording. The verdict of trooper Fred Morton:
the Args must have more fighter aircraft than the fucking Luftwaffe in 1941.

As an assessment, that was a tad wild. But it revealed one thing of critical importance. The Argentinians really did have a formidable air attack capability, and they were most definitely planning to launch opening strikes against the Royal Navy from this stronghold on East Falkland.

Worse yet, at first light Lt. Perry’s spotters had made positive identification of three incoming Argentinian Skyhawk A4s, which can
deliver thousand-pound bombs at very high speed. Once launched, nothing could stop the bombs, but everyone in the Navy and Royal Marines knew the now discontinued Harrier FA2
could
have stopped the Skyhawks before they had a chance to launch their bombs.

The SBS men were Marines, and in the back of their minds, every one of them knew they had somehow been let down by their government. Lt. Perry knew precisely why, but he never, of course, discussed it. Not in a theater of war. Especially when they were so isolated from the main force.

0400, MONDAY, APRIL 11, 51.45S 56.40W
SPEED 15, DEPTH 300, COURSE 180

Viper K-157
was still in more than two hundred fathoms when she arrived on station fifty miles off the northern coast of East Falkland, her mighty nuclear-powered turbines still running sweetly after her 11,000-mile voyage from the frozen north.

Captain Vanislav’s orders, delivered from Admiral Rankov in person, were to patrol the waters east of the islands awaiting the arrival of the Royal Navy Task Force. He was then to track the carrier from a distance, and with the utmost stealth, stay in satellite communication with the Rio Grande air base, and sink the
Ark Royal
with torpedoes one hour after the Argentine air assault was launched.

This of course would all have been much more difficult had the Task Force already arrived on station, but Captain Vanislav had given himself all the advantages of being in place first, in position, quietly awaiting the arrival of the enemy, transmitting nothing, moving slowly, betraying no sound, no radar paints in the dark underwater caverns of the South Atlantic.

The Royal Navy Fleet would be on high alert and extremely sensitive, not to mention trigger-happy. The slightest mistake from the crew of
Viper
would probably cause the roof to fall in, and not just metaphorically. The Royal Navy antisubmarine capability was legendary.

But now, in the small hours of this Monday morning, the Russian nuclear boat was in place, precisely where she wanted to be—in an
area through which the British Task Force must pass if they were to fight this war.

Admiral Rankov had been specific…
The British will not go west of the islands because that brings them within a much closer range of the Argentine air attack. They will stay east, as Admiral Woodward did last time. Position yourself in those eastern waters, stay quiet, and the Royal Navy will come to you. At the correct time, in the pandemonium of the air-sea battle, you will sink the
Ark Royal
. Then come home.

Captain Vanislav knew what to do. What he did not know, however, was the precise position of Captain Simon Compton’s
Astute,
now patrolling some fifteen miles out to the west. He assumed at least one Royal Navy SSN was quietly patrolling these waters somewhere. And he guessed correctly it would be moving very slowly, virtually silent.

Astute
’s towed array was operational and she was listening for engine lines from an Argentinian submarine, as she had been for the past two days, and would continue to do until the Task Force arrived. Captain Hacking had
Ambush
doing precisely the same thing.

But there were no Argentinian warships anywhere outside the close-in coastal waters around the Falklands, and out here, where the seas were mostly deserted, there was no trace of any intruder.

At 0438, however, a decision was made in
Viper
that in retrospect might be judged as careless. Almost everyone on board knew there was still a slight noise in the indicator buoy stowage area, suggesting something was still loose, and had been all the way from the North Atlantic, where the buoy had broken loose.

Captain Vanislav, in the middle of this dark, overcast night, elected to surface and have it fixed or removed. And
Viper K-157
blew her ballast and came sliding up out of the deep. It looked smooth, it was smooth, but in the underwater caverns of the South Atlantic, the sound of the high-pressure air expelling the ballast was loud, extremely loud to a patrolling Royal Navy SSN.

In HMS
Astute
, there was a glimmer of activity in the sonar room. Chief Petty Officer Roddy Matthews suddenly thought he may have heard a slight rise in the background noise…“Only a small increase in the level,” he murmured. “Wait…it might have been rain, swishing on the surface. But I thought I heard something…give me a few minutes.”

The sonar operators froze. No one spoke, hearts momentarily paused. And three minutes later, at 0441, Chief Matthews spoke again…“I have a definite rise in the level…
Christ! It sounds like a submarine blowing ballast…”

At 0451 a lightning bolt went through the sonar room…there was now a note of urgency in Chief Matthews’s voice…
Captain—sonar
…
I have definite sounds of a submarine surfacing…several miles away
.

Sonar—captain
…I’ll be right there.

The CO literally ran into the room to be told immediately, “It’s not very close, sir. But no one could miss it. That was a submarine surfacing.”

Three minutes later the trail went cold, and the sounds of the Russian submarine slipped away. It was the last time she would be detected in these waters, because in the next couple of hours Captain Vanislav would slow down to five or six knots, as instructed by Admiral Rankov. And then she would be as silent as
Astute
and
Ambush
. Or very nearly so.

Captain Compton put a satellite signal on the net to the advancing Royal Navy fleet, directed to the Admiral’s ops room in the
Ark Royal
. It read:
110458APR11: SSN
Astute
picked up unidentified submarine surfacing app. 51.50S 56.40W 0451 today. Estimate forty-five miles offshore. Request orders should possible Russian prowler stray again into Falklands battle zone. Compton, CO
Astute.

Admiral Holbrook relayed it on to the UK, Fleet Headquarters, Northwood. Admiral Palmer was in the situation room in conference with the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Rodney Jeffries, and the two men both gazed somewhat quizzically at the signal from the depths of the South Atlantic.

“Possible Russian SSN? Christ, what’s that about?” Admiral Palmer looked extremely disconcerted.

“Well, before we give it serious thought, I think we should alert the Americans. They may know more than we do about a Russian prowler, and they may have an immediate answer.”

Sir Rodney nodded and handed the signal to a young Lieutenant and requested it go immediately to U.S. Naval Intelligence, Washington. Five minutes later it was circulated to Fort Meade, and four minutes
after that, at 0430, the NSA duty officer called Lt. Commander Ramshawe at home.

Jimmy was just out of the shower, intending to leave almost immediately for the office. With the Royal Navy about forty-eight hours from a head-on armed confrontation with the armed forces of Argentina, he and Admiral Morris were regularly meeting in the Director’s office shortly after 0530.

He listened carefully to the signal that had come from Royal Navy HQ, Northwood, and snapped, “Get it on my desk and on Admiral Morris’s desk right now. We’ll both be there inside an hour.”

In fact he was there inside forty-five minutes, and having read it carefully could think only one thought…
I have to tell the Big Man. He’ll probably have a fit if I wake him at 0530, but not as big as the one he’ll have if I don’t.

“This better be fucking critical,” growled Arnold Morgan down the telephone, not caring one way or another who was on the end of the line.

“It is, Arnie,” said Jimmy, all business. “That possible Russian submarine, the one we almost concluded was an Akula-class boat,
Gepard, Cougar
, or
Viper
, just showed up in the middle of the battle zone, forty-five miles off the eastern side of East Falkland. Royal Navy SSN picked it up on sonar, surfacing, couple of hours ago.”

“Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Nossir.”

“Is George in yet?”

“No, but he’ll be here in ten.”

“I’m coming over right now.” Bang. Down phone.

For some obscure reason, the Admiral’s flat refusal to utter the word
good-bye
, or even
thanks for calling
, always took Jimmy by surprise.

He was not, however, as deeply startled as Mrs. Kathy Morgan, who very nearly fell out of bed when her husband actually bellowed at the top of his lungs, one hour before the sun rose over the Potomac,
“Ch-a-a-a-a-rlie!!! Quarter deck ten minutes with the car!”

“God Almighty,” she said. “Did you have to yell like that?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” replied the Admiral. “Charlie’s used to it…gotta go.”

Downstairs, Charlie did indeed hear the Admiral’s bellow. The
people who lived three houses away probably heard the Admiral’s bellow.

Fully dressed, in readiness for just such a call, the chauffeur rushed outside, pulled the car up to the door, engine running, and was waiting patiently when the Admiral came piling out into the dawn, nine minutes later, dressed immaculately in a dark gray suit, white shirt, Annapolis tie, and highly polished shoes. Since his days as a midshipman, he always shaved right before he went to bed, just in case there was an emergency. As this most definitely was.