Lion Resurgent (44 page)

“Prepare a strike. Eighteen Skyhawks and twelve Crusaders. After they’re gone, we’ll get another twelve Crusaders on deck alert in case the British get their strike in. The remaining aircraft, get them ready for a second anti-shipping strike in case the second carrier turns up.”

His Air Group commander started rattling out orders. Then, he paused for a second, “Admiral, thousand pounders and Bullpups on the Skyhawks?”

Lombardo nodded. “Make it so.”

CAG finished his orders off. By the time the last words were out, the results had already started to become apparent. Skyhawks and Crusaders were being rolled out of their positions in the deck park and towards the lifts. They were being struck down below, ready to be fuelled and armed up. Below decks, men would be pulling the thousand pounders from the magazines and installing the impact fuses on them. Other crews would be in the missile magazines getting the Bullpups out of their racks and readying them for installation on the Skyhawks. Beside them, other men would be getting the Sparrow and Sidewinder missiles out of storage and readying them for the Crusaders.

“Sir, the Crusaders can get to the carrier position now. Should we launch a fighter sweep first?” CAG was as undecided as he sounded.

Lombardo thought it out.
The F9U had a tactical radius of 435 nautical miles. They could get to the enemy position very quickly; in less than 15 minutes if they went out on full power all the way. Of course, if they did that, they would be running desperately low on fuel. And if they did show up, they would be telling the British that the strike planes were following. Doing a fighter sweep first was American doctrine that was certain, What worked for Americans with their huge resources was not so good for others.
Another thing weighed with Lombardo. He was reading a history of the Battle of the Orkneys,
‘Shattered Club’
it was called. It made great play of how the German carrier admiral had been so desperate to get off his strike, he hadn’t got his full fighter force up when the American strike groups hit. Lombardo had shaken his head at that. Now he realized just how easy it was to be seduced into thinking the strike was the only thing that mattered.

“No. Our first blow will be the heavy one. We must try and catch the British before they launch. And make sure the crews down below get the rest of our fighters ready as soon as the strike is spotted on deck.”

Lombardo turned away and looked out of his bridge windows on to the turmoil below. It was hard to see order in the maneuvers going on down there but getting aircraft struck down to the hangar deck and then moving them back up to the spots on the flight deck was well-rehearsed. As he watched, the elevator forward between the two catapults started to drop. Almost unconsciously, he started counting seconds. He reached 45 when the empty elevator re-appeared and another F9U was pushed on to it. For a round trip that involved getting the aircraft off the lift as well, 45 seconds was very good. The flight deck crews might be in turmoil but it was a well-ordered turmoil. The crews knew what they were doing.

Going into the first carrier battle in the history of the Argentine Navy, Lombardo just prayed that he knew what he was doing.

Control Room, HM Submarine
Saint Vincent

“Lot of surface ship propeller noise, Captain. Many screws in the water, I think we’re hearing multiple twin-screwed ships and at least one four-screwed. Bearing is of-four-seven, course due west.”

“The Argentine carrier group?”
Saint Vincent
was one of four nuclear-powered attack submarines strung out as a picket line between the Falklands and the Argentine naval bases. There should have been five but
Collingwood
was off the air and showed no signs of reappearing. That was causing an increasing level of concern. Her absence had been made up by
Vanguard
arriving from the Pacific.

“Could be, Captain. The sound signatures are distorted but I think one of the ships is an Essex class. Unless either the Brazilians have joined in or the Argies got the
Neuve de Julio
working, it’s the
Veinticinco de Mayo.
And that means the main Argie fleet is out.”

Captain Wiseart tapped the screen showing the plot. It was a long-range passive sonar contact. That meant the range data was very approximate. “What was the weather report? Wind direction?”

“Wind’s from the Southwest Captain. It’s a prevailing pattern, unlikely to change much.”

Wiseart nodded thoughtfully. “If they’re getting a strike off, their A-4Ds will be loaded to the max and the F-9Us are marginal for an Essex anyway. Even a rebuilt one. They’ll swing into the wind. That means they’ll be coming this way. We’ll establish a baseline. Reel our tail in, then make thirty two knots course one-eight-zero for thirty minutes. At the end of that time, stream our tail and get another bearing and course.”

It was a standard maneuver, one the
Saint Vincent
had practiced many times before. This time there was a tension during the 30 minute ran due south that betrayed the fact this time the circumstances were different. After what seemed an age, the submarine slowed down and streamed her towed array. It took another few minutes for the data to be analyzed and plotted. When it appeared on the screens, it caused Wiseart to stare intently at the plot.

“She’s there, but heading south west?” The question was rhetorical only. “To do that she must have turned almost as soon as we stopped our run.”

There was a nod of agreement around the control room. The weapons officer voiced the thought everybody else had in mind. “Getting ready to launch now.”

“And the airdales need to know that.” Wiseart snapped out the orders that followed his conclusion. “Periscope depth, establish satellite link and get the warning out to
Furious
and
Glorious.
Comms, tell them they’ve got visitors coming. Then set up an intercept course for that carrier group.”

Flag Bridge, HMS
Glorious,
North East of the Falkland Islands

“That recon bird
Furious
saw off must have reported back.” Admiral Charles Lanning was stamping backwards and forwards, running the permutations through his mind. “But there’s not much land-based aircraft can do to us out here.”

“The marines left on the Falklands say that there’s at least a squadron of Macchi Ciclones at Stanley Airfield.” Lieutenant Dunbar was leafing through the intelligence reports. “And we have satellite data that the Argentine carrier may be out.”

“Is out, Admiral. Permission to enter?” Captain Wales was standing at the hatch leading to the Admiral’s Bridge. By convention, even a ship’s captain had to ask permission before entering the Flag Bridge.

“Step right in, Charles. You’ve got word for us?”

“Hot line from Northwood.
Saint Vincent
has radioed in. She’s picked up what she thinks is the enemy carrier group almost due west of us. About 400 miles west of us. She says the group turned south west just as they made a position fix.
Saint Vincent
is steering to intercept and attack. Their message was dated just under twenty minutes ago.”

Lanning reminded himself that he was not supposed to salute Captain Wales. Not here, anyway. “They’re launching aircraft. Must be. They’ll fly due east and if we turn into the wind to launch . . .”

All eyes turned to the tactical display. Dunbar typed the position of the report in and then added the course of the two British carrier groups if they also turned to launch. The conclusion was obvious. If the Argentine strike flew due east based on the Superstream’s report, they would miss the
Furious
group but pile straight into
Glorious.
Lanning wasted no time in his decision. “Get the fighters up now please, Captain Wales; no delay. That strike could be on us in 30 minutes.”

Captain Charles Wales spoke quickly into the intercom. “We can get twelve more Sea Mirages up, full point defense load, two 530s and four 550s each. We’ve got four Sea Mirages up now. They’ve got 450 gallon drop tanks and they’ve been tooling around saving fuel. Bad news is they’re short on missiles; one 530 and a pair of 550s each.”

He was interrupted by the sound of the bow lift bringing the first of the Sea Mirages up from the hangar. Almost simultaneously, the aft lift was striking down one of the deck park of Buccaneers. Wales looked at the Sea Mirage moving forward on to the catapults. Behind it, the lift was already descending. “We’ll have these off in just under ten minutes, Sir. Then we can spot and launch a deck strike of Buccaneers. CAG says we can have sixteen off but they’ll only have four Sea Mirages to escort them.”

The pensive silence was interrupted by the blast of the first Sea Mirage taking off. “You’ve done well Charles. How did you have the birds ready?” Lanning was buying time to make a very unpleasant decision and everybody knew it.

“We were readying the group to hit Stanley Airfield. The load on the Bananas is a long way from optimal for a shipping strike. They’ve got four one thousand pounder retarded bombs and a pair of Bullpups or Martels each. But, better they’re in the air with anything than....“

“ . . . . than on the deck here when that Argie strike gets in. I know. It’s still going to be rough on them going in that way. Launch the strike as soon as the CAP is up. What about the four remaining Bananas? “

“Hangar deck will inert them. We can’t get them fuelled, bombed up and off in time.”

“Sir.” Dunbar spoke quietly.
“Furious
is south of us. Can we assume they got the message?”

“We’ll have to. If we start transmitting, it’s a come-and-get-us invitation. That Argie strike is going to be bloody enough as it is. No need to give them an engraved invitation.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Wales sounded vaguely amused. “My mother always says that nothing scares people quite like one of her engraved invitations.”

Flag Bridge, HMS
Furious,
North East of the Falkland Islands

“Glorious
is going to catch it.” The word around the bridge was unanimous. Both
Furious
and
Glorious
would turn into the wind. That would take
Glorious
right into the path of the inbound strike from the Argentine carrier. The same maneuver would take
Furious
well clear. She had been south east of the
Glorious
to start with. That position plus her maneuvers to launch had left her even further south east. The Argentine pilots would find
Glorious
first. That was very hard luck for her, but it gave the strike aircraft on
Furious
a real break.

“And Charlie knows it well.” Admiral Kinnear sighed slightly. “He’s getting his CAP up now and throwing whatever strike aircraft he can get ready out. And praying he gets his decks clear and hangar inerted before the Argie strike arrives. We’ve got a chance to do a bit better.”

“Anti-shipping strike, Sir?”

“With everything we’ve got. We’ll swing a little south and then come at the Argies from the south. All twenty Bananas. The Highball-fitted aircraft carry those; the rest Martel anti-radar missiles and retarded thousand pounders. We’ll give them eight Sea Mirages as escort and keep a dozen more back here as CAP.”

There was a moment’s hesitation on the bridge. Kinnear sensed it and looked around. “Our strike will be going in an hour later than Charlie’s. The Argie skipper will have most of his CAP down for refueling and rearming. Plus he’ll have his deck full recovering what’s left of his strike. He won’t have much up in the way of fighters. What he does have will be out to the west, either intercepting Charlie’s birds or chasing them back to their carrier. But, he might have a reserve strike held back in case we turn up. So we need our CAP.” There was a slight pause. “And we know the F9U has a hell of an edge over our Sea Mirages. It’s four hundred miles per hour faster, it can out-climb and out-turn them and it’s got better missiles than we do. If they’re escorting a strike in we’re going to need that CAP.”

He relaxed and watched his command group go to work. All he had to worry about now was whether the Argies really would lob their strike at
Glorious.

Savoy Hotel, London

Igrat liked the Savoy. There was something about the place that appealed to her more old-fashioned instincts. The renovation that had been finished a few years before had only added to the charms it held for her. It had needed the work badly. Bomb damage from the war and almost twenty years of near-total neglect had come close to leaving the hotel derelict beyond restoration. But, it had been saved. The new owner had invested almost another decade and millions of sovereigns in rebuilding its glories. Now, it was something quite unique. It was a hotel that appeared to belong in the 1920s. It was full of the promise of a golden age before the horrors of the depression and World War Two had given the world a darker and less optimistic shadow. Yet within the shell of the past was a modern and very well equipped hotel. Igrat approved of the blend.

What she didn’t approve of was the way her instincts were working overtime to tell her something was wrong. It was a lesson she had both known for herself and one that she had been patiently taught. The one had reinforced the other.
Instincts are your senses picking up information below the level at which you are consciously aware of them. But, your brain knows they are there and is frantically screaming warnings.
Then one thing did catch her eye. She had left a horse hair trapped in the doorframe when she had left. That hair was now on the carpet.

Casually, seemingly by accident, Igrat lightly kicked the door of the room next to hers twice. The kicks were too rapid to be a real accident. A slight pause and then a third kick. Then she went into her own room. Her senses kicked into overdrive. Heather Watson was already there.

“You’re a whore.” Her voice was a near scream, loaded with viciousness and spite. There was even a trickle of saliva from one corner of her mouth. Heather’s sheer rage seemed to charge the air in the room with electricity

“I know,” Igrat smiled politely. “I’m one of the best whores around. Everybody knows that. It’s just that I stopped charging for it a long time ago; well, mostly anyway. Now, I just accept the presents they give me. Just out of interest, how did you get in?”