Lion Resurgent (20 page)

“Look, I’m just the postmaster here. I can’t be expected to... “

“You were quick enough to claim the leadership though weren’t you? Get me that schedule now. MOVE! Harry, get our stuff ashore. We’ve stepped right into the middle of a situation here. Curly, pick four of the boys; get started on your way to Leith Harbor and do a scouting job. Assume the opposition are Argentine Marines until we learn different. Dusty, get another four, then set off after those women as soon as we’ve found their schedule. What happens then, that’s up to you and what goes on here. Either come back in or go into hiding out there. That leaves us with ten of us here. Lofty, start working out how to defend this place.”

“Defend, Boss?”

“We’ve lost the initiative already. We have to assume they’ll hit us first, especially if they’ve got a spotter out there and see us arriving.” Behind him, an elephant seal on the beach roared its annoyance at the disturbance. Hooper could see his point.

Washington International Airport, Washington DC, USA

Supersonic airliners had made more of a difference to international politics than anybody might have suspected. It took a Fairey Aviation Concord just three and a quarter hours to fly from London to Washington; that made it possible for the Prime Minister to make this emergency trip over and return within a single working day. With the Anglo-Argentine confrontation rapidly reaching boiling point, that ability was of inestimable value.
Exactly why that was so would be,
the Prime Minister thought,
an unexpected surprise to the Americans.
Whether they would be relieved or concerned at the development would be an interesting question.

The sleek airliner was already parked in the VIP reception area, far removed from the big terminals where passengers were poured on to the waiting people-haulers. There were several other aircraft in the area including two of the new VC-170s, the military version of the North American-Boeing 3707. One of them sported the blue-and-white paint scheme of the aircraft allocated to the President; the other was an Air Force VC-170A, presumably to move key staff around. The NAB-3707 had been one of the weapons used against the Fairey Concord in the bitter campaign waged to have the aircraft cancelled. After all, as the critics of the British program had pointed out, it was two thirds of the American aircraft at three quarters of the price. On paper that was true enough. It carried 120 passengers against 180, cruised at Mach 2.05 instead of Mach 3.15 and had a range of 4,500 miles as opposed to 5,750. What those numbers didn’t say was that the British aircraft also had a running cost that was also two thirds of its American rival. On lower-density routes, where an airline could find 120 passengers per aircraft but not 180, that meant it generated more profits. The Concord had done well on those shorter, lower density traffic patterns, vindicating Fairey’s faith in their design.

Newton reflected that it hadn’t been the first time Fairey had had to fight a determined campaign against those who wanted to shut one of their projects down. The memory of an older fight came back to him, one that had done much to shape the European aircraft industry. It was keyed by the Presidential Rotodyne that was already spooling up its engines. The VC-138 would fly him direct from the airport to the White House. There had been a grimly determined effort by parts of the British establishment to kill the whole Rotodyne project. What might have happened if it had succeeded chilled Newton, Fairey had fought off the attack and turned their concept into a spectacularly successful military and civil aircraft. It was hard to imagine a world without Rotodynes. How else would people get from their homes in the centers of cities and towns to the airports that lay well beyond the city limits?

Unlike the transports used by airlines and armies, the VC-138 had no rear ramp. Instead, it was fitted with large side doors that were served by retractable stairways. The British delegation filed on board and settled down in the well-upholstered seats. The doors slammed shut and the sound from outside diminished abruptly, even though the Kuznetsov turboprops that powered the Rotodyne were already reaching maximum power. With the odd whistling whine that was its characteristic trademark, the VC-138 took off and headed for the White House.

A helicopter would have taken 20 minutes to make the flight from Washington International to the city center; the Rotodyne made it in ten. It touched down on the landing pad just behind the White House and the doors hissed as they opened. It was another quick transit for the party before they were out of the early morning chill and inside the comforting warmth of the White House.
It wasn’t bad going
Newton thought,
Breakfast at home in Britain, Brunch in Washington, back home in Britain for dinner.
An eight hour day, six hours travelling and two hours deciding the fate of the world between meals.

“David, welcome to the White House. It’s a pleasure to see you. We have a briefing on the latest intelligence from the South Atlantic all waiting for you.” President Reagan’s warmth at seeing his visitor was, on one level, quite genuine. A gregarious and sociable man, he was always pleased to have visitors to the White House. On another level, the warmth was highly deceptive. He was a man who drew a sharp distinction between his personal feelings and his official duties. The phrase “a man who would do things in his professional capacity that he would view with disgust in his private capacity” might have been written for him. His genuine friendliness towards the representatives of a country would not affect a decision to destroy that country should it become necessary.

The conference room was set up and waiting. The National Security Advisor was already behind the podium, arranging papers and checking that the graphics up on the display screen were fully updated. Newton looked around, recognizing the familiar figures of the Secretary of Defense, Chief of Naval Operations and the Head of Strategic Aerospace Command. Newton also saw the less-familiar but still distinctive figure of the President’s Executive Assistant, quietly making sure that the briefing booklets were distributed and folders of supporting documentation given to those present. Newton reflected that she’d had enough practice at such meetings. Naamah Sammale had served as Executive Assistant to four Presidents. Her distinctive red hair was streaked with gray now and she had crow’s feet around her eyes and mouth. Even so, twenty years of responsibility had been kind to her. Newton smiled and accepted the package of documents from her hands, then sat down in the front row, beside President Reagan.

“Mr. President, Prime Minister. ...” The briefing had started and Newton stared at the material he had been given. The theme was quite simple. The effort made to scare off the Argentine attack on Chile had been successful; the invasion had been aborted with the loss of a dozen or so Chilean and Argentine aircraft. It had been dismissed as an unfortunate incident, one that was of no great consequence. It was better to downplay the whole thing that risk further escalation. Profuse diplomatic apologies had been exchanged; threatening troop concentrations had dispersed. Peace was descending on the Chilean-Argentine border. The Chileans were relieved, the Argentines furious, but the storm had blown over.

“And that is where the problem lies. Argentina has been defeated, we know it, they know it, but they can’t let their population know it. All the intelligence we have, imagery, communications intercepts and overflight data, points to the fact that they are switching their attention to the Falkland Islands and South Georgia. Their naval movements are already heading in that direction. Their argument, we expect, will be that this is simply their attempt to remove an illegal occupation of their territory. We anticipate they will draw parallels with the Chipanese-Indian confrontation over the Southern Pescadores ten years ago. They will define that conflict closely and they will argue that since the Chipanese action to expel the Indians was tolerated, so also should their attempt to expel British forces.”

“Thank you, Seer.” Reagan turned to his guest. “Now, David, the question is this. War over the Falklands appears to be inevitable. How do you see the position of the United States in this eventuality?”

Newton braced himself slightly for the shock his answer would cause. “Mr. President, the parallels with the South China Sea fighting a decade ago are, as the National Security Advisor has pointed out, compelling. They emphasize that this is a problem Britain must face and we must do so from our own resources. In this conflict, our traditional friendship with the United States means much and your guarantee against a nuclear dimension to any hostilities is most welcome to us. But this is a battle Britain must fight and one that she must fight alone if we are to have any future claim to being a nation of consequent. We have rebuilt our economy from the dregs of ruin. We have reconstructed our armed forces from the debris of destruction. We have rescued our nation from the shame of defeat. Now, we must show that we can stand on our own feet, that we are no longer the emaciated survivor of a cataclysm. The British Lion must be resurgent, Mister President, or it will never again be able to hold up its head.”

Up on the podium, the Seer blinked. He’d been expecting a British request for support; logistic at least, possibly even the commitment of combat forces. The blunt announcement that the British would handle this alone had shaken him. Then he thought the situation over. Newton was right; there was no doubt about that. If Britain was to have any claim to having recovered from the disaster of the Second World War, they had to show that they could defend their own interests against incursion. This crisis was the opportunity they had to do it.

In the audience, Reagan also nodded. “Very well, Prime Minister. We will, of course, comply with your wishes in this matter. And we wish the men and women in your armed forces good fortune in the days and weeks to come.”

Karoo Desert, South Africa

The line of fourteen Boomslang tank destroyers was an impressive sight but Bastiaan van Huis couldn’t help but feel the dark green and black camouflage used by the British looked odd to eyes used to the grey-yellow used by the South African Army. He also had the feeling that these vehicles should have been in South African camouflage and their sale to Britain had been at the expense of South African security. On the other hand, the money earned from exports financed further developments. Perhaps it all evened out.

Around him, the British crews were looking into the rear compartment of the Boomslang, taking in details of the magazine arrangements contained in there. “As you can see jongmens, the magazine is automated. There are two separate twelve-round feeding rings. Each one feeds rounds to the launcher in the cylinder mounted in front of it. Both magazine and launcher pairs are completely independent, so if one gets knocked out, the other can still function. In an emergency, both rings can be removed and then this compartment can be used for other purposes. That is for emergency only; we do not recommend it as a standard practice.”

“How reliable is the magazine system?” Lieutenant Conrad Cross made the question sound tentative, as if he wasn’t quite certain whether it should be asked or not. Van Huis looked at him carefully. He’d read the files on the men he would be training and this Cross had an impressive record for a man who had never seen a shot fired in anger. It was interesting that the British were giving their new tank destroyers to the infantry, not the cavalry units.

“A very good question.” Van Huis looked around. “The honest answer is better than it could be, not as reliable as we would like it to be. The main problem is a jam caused by the tube in the launch cylinder not being properly aligned with the loading ring. That is a maintenance issue, of course. We urge that a crew check alignment before taking their vehicle out. This is why removing the magazine system is not recommended except in an emergency. It is easy to take out but the devil’s own work to get it back in and properly aligned.”

“What happens if there is a fire back there, Sir?” One of the sergeants had spoken up. Three of the four vehicles in each platoon of the company would be commanded by Sergeants.

“Bail out. All of you.” There was a ripple of laughter around the audience. “There is an automatic fire suppression system in the rear compartment. A sensor detects a fire and drenches the compartment with inert gas. That is very well but rocket fuel has its own oxidizer and burns without need for air. If the fire has spread to that, nothing will put it out. So get out of there and watch from a safe distance. If the fire has not spread to the missiles, the suppression system will deal with it. If it has, then nothing can save the vehicle. Either way, you being in it will do nothing. So get out of there.”

“Why such a complex suspension, Sir?” It was Cross again. “Surely the missiles don’t need to be aimed precisely?”

“They do not jongmens, but the suspension has other uses. Watch this.” Van Huis waved and the Boomslang in front of him started up its diesel. It rumbled quietly for a moment, then there was a hiss and the vehicle dropped nearly three feet as its suspension contracted. In its new position, the Boomslang’s belly was almost touching the ground. “See, jongmens, the first armored vehicle that can duck!”

This time the laughter that went around the group was much louder. Van Huis took a mental bow, then picked up where he had left off. “You must remember that the Boomslang is a tank destroyer, not a tank. It fights from ambush, picking off its enemies at long range. It stresses speed and agility, not armor. It is designed to fight from concealment. Later, when we work with the Mamba missile we will show you how that can help to do so. But, for now, it is enough to know that the Boomslang can get behind cover and duck so it is invisible. The missile gunners can dismount and take positions up to 100 meters from the vehicle. So, the Boomslang can sit behind a berm, completely invisible and fire its missiles over the ground between.” Behind him, there was another hiss and the front of the tank lifted so that the vehicle was sitting at an angle of over 20 degrees. “The driver can also use the suspension to correct for irregularities in the ground. Remember that the Boomslang is armed with missiles, not a gun. Missiles drop when they are fired and the launch position must compensate for that. A line of sight does not mean a line of fire.”