Ghost Force (38 page)

It was a pressure day for Rear Admiral John Bergstrom, Commander Special War Command—Emperor SEAL, that is—lord of the most feared fighting force in all the U.S. armed services.

His old friend Admiral Arnold Morgan had been on the line at 0700 checking if he was able to fly immediately to Washington. His new wife, Louisa-May, wanted him to attend a performance by the Bolshoi Ballet in Los Angeles this evening, and there was a general buzz around the SEALs’ California base that the U.S. government was likely to intervene in the Great Britain–Argentina negotiations over the Falkland Islands.

At 0845, his private line rang again. Arnold Morgan was calling from the White House, where he was ensconced with the President.

“I don’t know why the hell they don’t just make you President and have done with it,” said the SEAL boss.

“Out of the question,” replied Arnold. “I’m just helping out. Remember, I’m officially retired.”

“Sounds like it,” said Admiral Bergstrom. “Peaceful days in your twilight years. This is your second call this morning. I guess you’re planning to start a war somewhere.”

“Well, only in the most limited possible way.”

“Don’t tell me. It’s the Falklands, right? The U.S. government cannot afford to let this bunch of Argentinian cowboys rampage all over someone else’s legal territory.”

“Well,” said Arnold, disliking the concept of being second-guessed by the suave and shortly-to-retire SEAL chief, “I’ll just say you’re kinda on the right lines.”

“And what would you and the President like me to do? Send in a couple dozen guys and chase ’em back to Buenos Aires or wherever the hell they live?”

“Again, John, I’d say you were on the right lines. But both the President and I would like you to come in and have a private visit with us here in the Oval Office.”

“Tomorrow okay?”

“Tomorrow!”
roared Arnold. “This afternoon would be pretty damn late…”

“Okay, okay. I’ll leave now. Take off in one hour, which will get me into Andrews at 1750.”

“Thanks, John. We’ll have the helo waiting at Andrews. See you at 1800.”

“Bye, Arnold.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Rear Admiral Bergstrom, picking up the phone to dial his soon-to-be-furious new wife. But before he could do so, his private line rang again, and not many people had that number. So he always answered.

“Admiral, this is a voice from the past, Rick Hunter from Lexington, Kentucky.”

“Hey, Commander Hunter!”
John Bergstrom was genuinely pleased to be talking to the best Team Leader he ever had, a combat SEAL who had carried out three awe-inspiring demolition missions—one in the heart of Russia, another way behind the lines in Red China, and one in the middle of a brand-new Chinese naval operational base in the steamy jungles of southeastern Burma, or Myanmar, or whatever the damn place was now called.

“Now this is an unexpected pleasure,” said Admiral Bergstrom. “I often think about you, Ricky. For a lot of years I believed it would probably be you taking over the helm when I finally vacated this chair.”

“Can’t say I haven’t missed it. Just guess I didn’t feel quite the same after they court-martialed Dan Headley.”

“No, I understood then, and like a lot of other people, I still understand. It was a source of the greatest regret to me that Lt. Commander Headley was driven out, and you went with him…”

“Sure. But life goes on. Dan’s fine now. He and I run my family’s thoroughbred farm, Hunter Valley, out in the Blue Grass. We still have some fun.”

“Fun like you had when you worked for me?”

“Nossir. Not that much.”

John Bergstrom chuckled. “Ever thought about coming back?”

“Not more than about twice a day.”

“Well, let me ask you this—if that damned court-martial four years ago had never happened, how long would you have wanted to stay a Navy SEAL?”

“’Bout a thousand years.”

Both men were silent as the tragedy of the past seemed to sweep over them. “You were the best, Ricky. The best I ever saw…”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, perhaps you better tell me what you wanted from me?”

“Sir, a year ago I married an English girl, Diana Jarvis. Her brother Douglas is a Captain in Twenty-two SAS. I’ve only met him twice, but he’s a real good guy, an ex-para, won a Military Cross in Iraq.

“And right now he’s somehow trapped on the Falkland Islands with his troop. Listed as missing in action. I was wondering whether you could find out anything for us…Diana was very close to him and she’s completely distraught. Thinks he might be dead.”

“Jesus, Rick. I’m leaving for Washington in the next five minutes. But I’ll do what I can, and I’ll get back to you tomorrow…I know the CO at Hereford pretty well…Captain Douglas Jarvis, right? Gimme your number…”

Ten minutes later, with the words of another distraught wife still ringing in his ears, Admiral Bergstrom was on his way out of the office, having escaped the rigors of Tchaikovsky’s
Swan Lake
.

Thirty minutes after that he was hurtling down the NAS runway on North Island, San Diego, headed east in a U.S. Navy Lockheed EP-3E Aries, nonstop to Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland. He had dismissed Louisa-May and Pyotr Tchaikovsky temporarily from his mind.

But the memory of Rick Hunter lingered in the mind of the Coronado boss:
he was the toughest, strongest, steadiest SEAL leader I ever knew. Brilliant marksman, deadly, and fearless in both armed and unarmed combat, could probably swim the Pacific, and expert with high explosive. He must be nearly forty now, but I never met one that good in all my years with the SEALs. Shame about his brother-in-law.

They rustled up a couple of ham-and-cheese sandwiches during the flight, and there was coffee supplied by one of his assistants, Petty Officer Riff “Rattlesnake” Davies, assault team machine gunner by trade, wounded with Commander Hunter on that last mission in Burma.

The five-hour journey dragged by. The Admiral and Rattlesnake swapped yarns, mostly about the newly topical Commander Hunter. “I guess you’ll never know how brave he was,” said Davies. “Jesus, when we came under fire in that boat from those Chinese helicopters, I thought we’d never get out alive.

“And there was Commander Hunter, almost unconscious in the boat, blood pumping from a major wound in his thigh, still blasting away with a machine gun, yelling orders at the rest of us…I never saw courage like that…”

“I know, Riff. Don’t think I don’t know.”

They landed on time, and the U.S. Marine helicopter flew them directly to the White House lawn. Three minutes later, Admiral Bergstrom entered the Oval Office and shook hands with the President and Admiral Morgan, who glanced at his watch and observed it was two minutes and thirty seconds past 1800, which made the SEAL chief from California very marginally late. Nonetheless, Arnold couldn’t understand what was happening around here. Nearly three minutes late for the last dog watch! Jesus, standards were sure as hell slipping.

All three of the men in the Oval Office had served in the U.S. Navy, and Arnold’s insistence on charting the time of day in strictly naval warship terms unfailingly made the President laugh. Which was just as well. Right now he did not have a whole lot to laugh about, since the top execs at ExxonMobil were growing angrier by the day that “these goddamned gauchos had somehow run off with about two billion dollars’ worth of our oil and gas, and no one seems to be doing a damn thing about it.”

President Bedford could see their point. And it was a source of immense relief to him that his two guests were probably the only two men in all of the United States who could do a damn thing about it. And, better yet, they were apparently ready to do so.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m glad to see you both. And I should say, right away, that this Falklands problem has been extremely difficult for me, for all the obvious reasons. Arnold is the only person with a really solid plan. And I think he should outline it for us both…I’ll send for some coffee…”

“John,” Arnold began, “you know the problem we have sending our armed services to fight someone else’s war. The President does not want to do it, and I agree with him. However, we have another problem damn nearly as big. ExxonMobil think we have sat back and passively allowed the Argentinians to run off with their very expensive oil and gas.”

“Yeah, I’ve been following it,” said Admiral Bergstrom. “And I’ve been wondering what was going to happen. You want my guys to go in and blow the place up?”

John Bergstrom was a droll man, with a sardonic sense of humor, which is a common virtue in his line of work. Nevertheless, neither
Arnold Morgan nor the President of the United States ever quite knew whether he was joking.

This time he was not. “You aren’t going to negotiate the Argentinians out of there,” he said. “Because they see the place as some kind of birthright. Which kinda brings us back to the ancient mantra of the U.S. Navy SEALs…
there are very few of the world’s problems that can’t be solved by means of high explosive.”

The President laughed. Nervously. “Go on, Arnold,” he said.

“In a sense, I have to agree with John,” he said. “We are not going to persuade Buenos Aires to get out of Great Britain’s Falkland Islands. I actually think they would probably fight ’til the last drop of their blood had seeped into the soil of their beloved Malvinas.”

“Jesus, we’re getting briefed by a poet,” said Admiral Bergstrom. “I like that—culture before the mayhem.”

Arnold grinned. But he remained extremely serious. “In order to get them to back down, we gotta first frighten them, then move in as the great conciliators. We need to be the voice of reason, and we have to get that oil and gas back on the road.

“In broad terms, we want a deal where the Brits volunteer to give up their sovereignty in twenty-four months, in return for British Petroleum being allowed back in there with ExxonMobil.

“But right now we have reason to believe the Argentinians plan to hand that oil project over to the Russians, and we cannot allow that. So we need to persuade Buenos Aires that unless they come to heel, they will lose everything. And we gotta do that without the world knowing how hard we are putting the arm on them.”

“Will the Argentines realize how hard we’re putting the arm on them?” asked Admiral Bergstrom.

“Yes, but they will not be able to prove it’s us. I am proposing we launch a succession of highly classified assaults on their military hardware—fighter aircraft, warships, missile launchers.”

“Lemme have a sip of coffee, Mr. President,” said Admiral Bergstrom. “I just realized what I’m doing here, and I’m trying not to go into shock.”

“You’re here, John,” said Arnold, “to tell us whether your guys could go into the islands and take out the very few warships patrolling those waters, and then get rid of all the fighter aircraft stationed at
Mount Pleasant and that other airfield of theirs on Pebble Island.”

“You mean, presumably, quietly and without getting caught?”

“Correct. I mean to put the Argentinians in a position where they know they are being badly knocked about militarily, but do not wish to admit it, and will finally agree to negotiate—for both the territory and the oil and gas…I have a hunch the Brits will be happy to get out with a little pride, and their share of the oil.”

“Anyone given any thought to how my guys get in there?”

“Not really,” said Arnold. “But it obviously can’t be by air, we can’t risk a parachute drop. So that means by sea, and we can’t send in a warship, so that means a submarine, I guess.”

“Uh-huh,” said John Bergstrom. “Any idea how many guys this will take?”

“Not really. Would you think, maybe, two teams of sixteen?”

“That’s not many—not to take out all the fighter jets on two airfields, not when you consider the recce.”

“No, it’s not. But my first question is, John, can it be done?”

“Sure it can be done. My guys are specialists. They can do it, and they won’t get caught. I would have just one request, and that’s for you to arrange an immediate evacuation by air, if somehow they get cornered. I want to help, and I will conduct the operation, but I’m not sending the guys into the goddamned Malvinas on a suicide mission.”

Arnold Morgan knew Admiral Bergstrom was about to retire, and he smirked at the SEAL chief. “I don’t want to give you a chapter for your book,” he said. “We’re seeing the Chilean Ambassador right here early tomorrow morning. We’ll have an evacuation plan.

“First sign of serious trouble, the guys are out of there, direct to the Magellan Strait, land at Punta Arenas on the Chilean side.”

“Since we can’t get a fixed-wing transporter in there, Arnie, guess you’re talking helicopters?”

“Just one, John. We’ll use one of the Navy’s new Sikorsky Super Stallions, the CH-53E, holds fifty-five Marines. We’ll bring it in under fighter escort, and immediately out again. She’s fast, and she’s armed with three heavy machine guns. Flies above eighteen thousand feet. We’ll be fine, especially if your guys have achieved even half their objectives.”

“Any thoughts how we get the guys in there?”

“The final part of the insert will definitely be by submarine and inflatables. And we do have an L.A.-class boat on the way down there. But we need to move fast. And I know you’ll want a few days’ training for the SEAL teams. We can’t really afford another two-week journey after that—you think we could make a drop landing at sea?”