Ghost Force (51 page)

Then he leaned out and cast off the second boat before stepping onto the rope ladder, no harness, and hauling himself up onto the casing with a shout of,
“Cast her away!”

With one of the Zodiacs already sinking, the other began to ship water at a fast rate. Before Rick was inside the sail, with the door clipped shut, and making his way down the companionway, both the boats, which had served them so well, were on their way to the bottom in thirty-five fathoms, leaving no trace.

It was an expensive way to run a Navy, but not so expensive as it might have been hanging around on the surface for a half hour, trying to drag the heavy-engined boats inboard, and being picked up on Argentine radar. Submarines like the
Toledo
cost a minimum $500 million apiece.

Nineteen minutes after she had broken the surface, USS
Toledo
made her turn to the south and was about to vanish with all the Special Forces safely on board
…“Down periscope…and bow down
ten…five hundred…make your speed twenty…steer course one-three-five…”

Captain Hugh Fraser had one thing in common with Douglas Jarvis. He just wanted to get away from the Falkland Islands, or whatever the hell they were now called, as fast and as silently as possible.

1200, THURSDAY, APRIL 28
THE WHITE HOUSE

Admiral Arnold Morgan had seen a few angry men in his time. But rarely had he sat in the Oval Office, in the presence of a leading U.S. industrialist, who was, quite literally, fit to be tied.

“Mr. President, I just cannot understand how this goddamned banana republic can ransack a massive U.S. oil and gas field, march my men out at gunpoint, and not raise as much as a squeak from the world’s so-called superpower…not a threat, not even a goddamned postcard. Nothing.

“And you want me to go back and tell my shareholders, the Americans who actually own ExxonMobil, that not only have we just been robbed of two
billion
dollars—the President of the United States of America is not prepared to raise one goddamned finger to help us get it back.”

“Steady, Clint,” said Arnold, a fellow Texan. “This is not quite as simple as it seems. We
are
doing something; we’ve got guys out there risking their lives to get this thing resolved in our favor. Two days ago we sent a communiqué to Buenos Aires, direct from the President, suggesting we all meet, right here in Washington, DC, and come to terms as laid down by us.”

“What kind of terms?”

“The kind that will give you back both of those big oil and gas fields along Choiseul Sound, and the one in South Georgia.”

“But we don’t have any leverage down there, Admiral,” replied the President of ExxonMobil. “No warships, no big guns, no goddamned muscle. That’s the only language these guys understand. Jesus, we could raise an army out of Texas shareholders who’d go down there and do
something
.

“I keep saying we just can’t sit here, losing millions of dollars a
day, not to mention our entire investment in cash, time, expertise, and plain ole Texas know-how. Goddamnit, President George Dubya would not have put up with it.”

And now President Bedford stepped into the conversation. “Clint,” he said, “I have decided to take you into our confidence. You just have too big a stake in this to be kept on the outside.”

Clint nodded. Vigorously. “Sure do, Mr. President. Sure do.”

“Well, are you sworn to secrecy? Because there is no one outside this room and the U.S. Navy Special Forces who knows what’s going on. You will tell no one, not your wife, your children, your neighbors, your best friends, your fellow directors, or even your dogs. Because this is about as highly classified as it gets. So tell me, are you sworn to lifelong secrecy, so help you God?”

Arnold thought those last few words, delivered by the most powerful man in the world, had a resonant, damn near holy ring to them. He liked that.

“As my old granddaddy used to say,” replied Clint,
“To the grave, guys, I’ll take this one to the grave. Swear to God.”

“Okay,” replied Paul Bedford. “Just so long as you remember, one word of this ever leaks out, the Secret Service will come looking for you, because you’re the only person outside the military who could have leaked it. Right here, I’m talking treason against the United States of America. It’s that serious. No one must ever know.”

“Like I said, Mr. President. To the grave.”

“Right, I’ll tell you what’s going on. In the past few days, our Special Forces have obliterated an entire Argentinian air base at the north end of the Falklands, taken out all fifteen fighter-bombers on the ground, and blown sky-high probably the biggest storehouse of bombs and missiles in South America.

“A second team of U.S. Special Forces has hit the Argentinian naval base at Mare Harbor on the Atlantic side of East Falkland and wiped out the entire Malvinas defensive fleet, two destroyers and two guided-missile frigates.

“Basically, Clint, we’re gonna go on kicking the shit out of Argentina until they come around to our way of thinking. I probably do not need to inform you this entire strategy was created by Admiral Morgan here.”

“That’s good. Now you’re talking my kind of language. Takes a Texan, right? Big
T
, little
e
—little
x-a-n
.”

Arnold chuckled. So, for that matter, did President Bedford, who continued, “Our suggestions to the Argentinian President have bordered on blackmail, intimating, somewhat elusively, that we may be in a position to have this wanton destruction of their naval and military capability stopped. Although, we of course have no idea who the culprits may be.

“But our last communiqué was very…well, arched…though I imagine the Mafia have a more graphic way of expressing it. And I should tell you that if the Argentinians have not come to heel within the next twelve hours, we’ll hit ’em again. Until they do.”

“Jeez, this is beautiful,” said Clint, beaming. “Really beautiful. And I’d like you both to accept my apologies, for my presumption in assuming nothing was happening.”

“It’s happening, all right,” said the Admiral. “We’re just waiting for a communiqué from Buenos Aires, confirming the Argentinians agree to our solutions. And, as the President explained, one of the critical points of the agreement is the return of all the oil and gas on both islands to ExxonMobil.”

“Gentlemen, you can’t say fairer than that,” said the oil chief. “And I’m real grateful to you both. And I wanna thank those brave guys down there for all that they’re doing on our behalf. By the way, you said Special Forces…did y’all mean those Navy Sea Lions?”

Paul Bedford smiled. “They’re SEALs, Clint. SEALs. And not even I would dare to tell you whether they’re involved.”

“Will there be any announcement of the next mission, I mean after it’s completed?”

“Not a word, Clint. Ever. Like you, we go to our graves.”

“Well, gentlemen, this has been a very informative and uplifting discussion. Your confidences are safe with me, and I must wish you both good afternoon.”

He stood up and nodded politely to them both…“Mr. President…Admiral Morgan…it’s been my pleasure.” And with that the Chief Executive of Exxon left the Oval Office, cheerfully whistling that Lone Star classic, “Get Your Biscuits in the Oven, and Your Buns in the Bed,” originally performed by Kinky Friedman’s Texas Jewboys.

“What the hell’s that song he was whistling, Arnie?” asked the President.

“I couldn’t tell you that,” replied the Admiral. “But that was one happy oil driller when he walked out of here.”

“Probably feels he’s won the state lottery after being two billion down,” said the President. “Anyway, on behalf of Big Clint, what’s our next plan in the South Atlantic?”

“Well, we got twenty Special Forces on their way into Punta Arenas, and Bergstrom is in favor of an attack on Rio Grande, Argentina’s most southerly air base. In the past eighteen months they’ve taken delivery of a squadron of brand-new Dassault-Breguet Super-Etendard F5 fighter-bombers from France.

“According to the National Security Agency surveillance pictures, they’re all parked at Rio Grande, twelve of them. These things can deliver an air-to-surface laser-guided missile with a nuclear warhead. They’re lethal and could be launched from that new carrier they just ordered from France. Well, according to Ryan Holland they just ordered it. I’d say those Super-Es would be the Argentine military’s pride and joy.”

“You want to send the guys in again?”

“Only if I can be absolutely sure no one’s likely to be caught—and so long as Chile remains onside to help us.”

“Okay, Arnie, you’re calling the shots on this one. Even if those shots are ultimately in my name…”

2200, SAME DAY, THURSDAY, APRIL 28
SOUTH ATLANTIC 52.19S 67.35W

USS
Toledo
came smoothly out of the deep to make her rendezvous with the 3,000-ton Chilean Navy transport auxiliary
Aquiles
. They were sixty miles north of Rio Grande, twenty-five miles east of the Atlantic entrance to the Magellan Strait.

All twenty-eight of the embarked Special forces—SEALs and SAS—gathered up their kit and left the submarine on board two Chilean Naval launches, which transported them fifty yards to the light-gray, almost empty troopship, sent especially to bring them in by the President of Chile himself.

Before them was a 130-mile journey, firstly into the 20-mile-wide entrance to the channel, and then on down the long left-hand sweep of the strait to Punta Arenas, the great Chilean seaport that sits at the foot of the Andes.

Once the
Aquiles
passed the headland of Point Dungeness, three miles off their starboard beam, the rest of the shoreline, on either side of the seaway, was Chilean. They expected to dock in Punta Arenas at 0700 on Friday morning, April 29.

It was a relaxed, uneventful journey, conducted almost entirely in the dark, the Chilean CO following the buoyed ten-fathom channel for a hundred miles. The SEALs and the SAS team had dined the previous evening on board
Toledo
, bowls of excellent minestrone soup and steaks.

But the spread laid out before them in the dining room of the
Aquiles
brought joy to their hearts—the CO had laid on a banquet for the
Americanos
—it was called
curanto
, a hearty stew of fish, shellfish, chicken, pork, beef and potato, accompanied by both
chapalele
and
milcao,
delicious Chilean potato breads. Douglas Jarvis and the sheep stealers had found their heaven on a twenty-three-year-old former hospital ship with German diesel engines.

They all slept for six hours and prepared to leave shortly after 0630. They were showered and shaved, with freshly laundered clothes, and carried further clean stuff in their bergans. In fact most of the SAS shirts, trousers, vests, and undershorts were incinerated, and Captain Fraser had instantly come up with a new supply, the way Americans do.

It was a long time since Captain Jarvis and his men had felt quite so good. And when they finally docked in the Chilean Navy’s Punta Arenas, about an hour later, on a cold crisp morning, there was a spring in the step of the SAS men for the first time for two weeks.

Commander Hunter’s men felt very good too. And so did their leader, until he saw with some dread a hideously familiar figure standing at the bottom of the gangway to greet him. He was standing in front of a long black Chilean Navy staff car, the unmistakable figure of the head of SPECWARCOM, Admiral John Bergstrom.

Good grief!
thought Rick.
There’s only one goddamned reason on this earth he could be here. Where the hell does he want us to go now?

A voice right behind him muttered, “Holy shit, that’s Bergstrom.
What in the name of Christ does he want now? Blood?” Dallas MacPherson was thinking precisely the same thoughts as his leader.

“Morning, Rick, and very well done,” said the Admiral, holding out his right hand. “Everything went according to plan?”

“Most of it,” smiled the SEAL leader. “You’ll have received the signal that Captain Jarvis is safe…he had a few difficult moments, but he’s right behind me, if you would like to meet him…”

“I’d like to meet him very much.”

“But I can tell you did not come all the way down here just for that.”

“No. I guess not. And perhaps you and Captain Jarvis, and your deputy, Lt. Commander MacPherson, would like to have breakfast with me for a very highly classified chat.”

“Admiral, I would very much like to do that. But first I need to know what’s happening to my guys.”

“Rick, everyone’s flying out of here this afternoon…Chilean Navy aircraft to Santiago. It’s about thirteen hundred miles from here, ’bout three and a half hours. A United States Navy aircraft is already waiting there, and everyone flies directly back to San Diego North Island.”

“Everyone?”

“Nearly everyone.”

“Jesus,” said Commander Hunter. And just then Douglas Jarvis, dressed now as a submariner in his new clothes, walked down the gangway and joined the two Americans.