Lion Resurgent (50 page)

“One of the penalties of being the most glamorous woman around.” Achillea chimed in, realizing what McCarty was trying to do.

“Any girl can be glamorous,” Igrat said. “All she has to do is stand still and look stupid.”

McCarty snorted with laughter. Igrat was far from stupid and people who assumed she was tended to end up deeply embarrassed and without their wallets. “And nobody does that better than our Iggie.”

“Thanks, Henry. I think. Anyway, your efforts to cheer me up are appreciated but we all know this is political. So I think we had better have a nice long chat with Sir Humphrey.

Royal Australian Navy Submarine
Rotorua,
North of the Falkland Islands

“Now there’s a sight you don’t see very often.” Captain Steven Beecham was fascinated by the sight in his periscope. An Argentine was making a dead-stick ditching in the sea. It was obviously out of fuel. Its three flight mates were circling around; one obviously making preparations to ditch as well. He swung the periscope to watch the first plane to crash. It was sinking fast, but the pilot was out and already in his rubber raft.

“What’s happening up there?” Cardew was fascinated. His Captain had never spent this long on the periscope before.

“Four Argentine Skyhawks ditching. One, no, make that two, are already in the water, the others getting ready. First bird dead-sticked, the second came in under power. Looks to me like they were heading for Stanley but ran out of fuel. I’d guess they decided to stick together once the first bloke ran dry. There goes number three.”

Cardew thought for a second. “Number One, prepare to surface. Rig for picking up survivors. What’s the largest Australian Ensign we have on board?”

“We have a 12 by 18 foot Ensign, Sir.”

“Then hoist it. As prominently as you can as soon as we surface. Come to think of it, if we have any other Australian ensigns, hoist them. Then have every lookout available up top and watching. If the radio traffic we have picked up is anything to go by, there’ll be shot-down pilots all over the place. As soon as we’re topside, elevate the ESM mast and listen out for distress beacons.”

Beecham felt the submarine angle upwards as the control room crew brought her to the surface. As soon as she was soundly ‘upstairs,’ he transferred up to the surface conning station built into the front of the sail. By the time he got there, a detail from the crew was already on the deck forward and getting ready to pull the four life rafts in. Three of the Skyhawks had already sunk and the fourth was about to go under. Beecham watched it go. Then he realized that by doing so, he had missed the rescue of the first Argentine pilot. He was already wrapped in a blanket and being hustled down the forward hatch. The Argentine pilots realized what was going on and were paddling over to the waiting submarine.

“Sir. First pilot is in the wardroom with a tot of rum inside him. It’s as we guessed. They’re refugees from the Argentine fleet. The British got their carrier and they were trying to make it to Stanley. One ran out of fuel so they decided to go in together. He says there are dozens of aircraft down, all over the area.”

“Well, we’ll have to start picking them up then. We’re probably better off on the surface anyway. Make sure the pilots get as much rum as they need.”

Cardew grinned. Shock at ditching, a quick rescue and a few shots of hundred percent proof naval rum worked wonders when it came to getting people to lose control of their tongues.

Stanley Airfield, Falkland Islands

The wailing air raid sirens blasted out. Men spilled out of their tents and ran across the airfield. Major Grigorio Mazza was already at his action station, inside the control cabin for his Scudo air defense system. Six twin 47mm anti-aircraft guns with one fire control radar for each pair of mountings. Three triple mounts for the land-based version of the Folgore anti-aircraft missile. The radar plot showed a small formation of aircraft coming in from the sea. Mazza checked the inbound flight schedule. It showed a Pelican transport aircraft from the mainland would be arriving that night but no other air activity.

“All guns and missiles prepare to engage inbound aircraft.” Mazza checked the display. The bearing was constant, but the height finder radar showed the inbound aircraft were steadily losing altitude. It was a slightly strange attack pattern for aircraft that were about to engage a heavily-defended base. Despite the incongruity, the 47mm guns were already lining up on the target. The approach altitude was already too low for the Folgore missiles. Mazza shook his head and scanned the area with his binoculars. Wherever the aircraft were, whatever they were, they were invisible in the gray mist.

Mazza sighted the lead aircraft a split second before his guns opened fire. He recognized the long fuselage, the dark blue paint job with the light blue and white-striped rudder,. They were Navy F9U-5 Crusaders, undoubtedly from the
Veinticinco de Mayo.
Whatever he may have thought next was interrupted by the crackle as his guns opened fire.

“Cease fire, cease fire immediately. Aircraft are friendly! Say again those are our aircraft!”

The Argentine gun crews were well-trained. The fire stopped instantly but the damage was done. The lead F9U was bracketed by the shell bursts and crashed just short of the runway. About the only redeeming feature was that the pilot managed to eject and floated down well clear of the wreckage of his aircraft. The other three Crusaders managed to come in to land without problems.
On the whole,
Mazza thought,
it would probably be better if I didn‘t go over and introduce myself to the Navy pilots.
Then, as he always did at times of stress, he reached out and touched the picture of his wife and child pinned over the main fire control display.

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

“More orphans coming in, Sir.” Admiral Kinnear watched the deck crew at work. What was happening down there looked like a well-rehearsed ballet dance but it was deadly serious. Thirteen of the twenty Buccaneers had made it back along with three of their escorts. With his own twelve planes up as CAP, that meant
Furious
had seventeen fighters and thirteen bombers left. She’d lost a quarter of her air group; but in doing so she had gutted the Argentine Navy. The camera film was conclusive. The
Veinticinco de Mayo
was a goner, along with her escorts.

Things had improved a little since then. For
Furious
anyway, although Kinnear was worried about the larger picture. Two Sea Mirages had landed from
Glorious’s
CAP. They had told a story of a bombed and burning carrier, dead in the water and with a wrecked flight deck. Now four Buccaneers were coming in and they had to have the oddest configuration he had ever seen. They’d been inerted on
Glorious’s
hangar deck but in the few minutes the hangar deck crews had available, they’d got them off. They hadn’t had time to purge the internal fuel tanks, so they’d hung drop tanks on the inner wing pylons and the aircraft had flown down on those. Kinnear hoped that the pilots wouldn’t absent-mindedly jettison the tanks before landing.

Assuming they got in all right, he would be nearly back to his pre-war air strength. Thirty two aircraft; half bombers, half fighters.
Furious
was still in business.

“CAG, get the Bananas bombed up for an anti-shipping strike.”

“Target, the carrier group, Sir?” CAG was surprised.
The four old Gearings left afloat weren’t worth another strike surely?

“No. Just have them ready to go. We can’t guarantee that there isn’t another carrier out there. Until we can, we keep our guard up. The Argie Admiral forgot about us and I don’t want to emulate his mistake. We’ll keep a CAP and strike group ready until we’re more than sure there’s no more threats from the Argie Navy. If we get smacked as well, the task force is screwed beyond redemption. Signals? There you are. Get a message out to somebody in
Glorious’s
group. I want to know what is happening up there. Find out if we’re alone or not.”

Savoy Hotel, London

“Guys, come and watch this. Looks like our discussion with Sir Humphrey will have to wait.” The television in Igrat’s room showed a picture of the MoD press briefing room. Ian Macdonald was just entering, “Hurry up! It’s got to be real news. The speak-your-weight machine is on.”

“Ladies and gentlemen. Over the last twenty four hours, a major naval action has been fought between the Argentine Navy and the Royal Navy task force operating in the South Atlantic. During the course of this action, the Argentine aircraft carrier, the
Veinticinco de Mayo,
a light cruiser and three destroyers have been sunk. Two other Argentine destroyers are reported to have been damaged and at least sixty Argentine aircraft have been shot down. While carrying out their duties as part of the Task Force, the Royal Navy destroyers
Electra
and
Grafton
have been sunk. The aircraft carrier
Glorious
and the destroyer
Glowworm
have been damaged. British aircraft losses are reported to be approximately forty aircraft.”

“Have we any idea of casualties?” A woman from the Telegraph was first to jump in.

“We believe that at least four hundred of our sailors and airmen have lost their lives. We have no idea what Argentine losses are like, but we must presume they are proportionately as heavy as our own.”

“The Prince of Wales is Captain of
Glorious.
Is he safe?” This time it was a gentleman from the Times.

“I’m sorry, I have no information on that topic.”

“Why has it taken so long to get this information to us?” The speaker was Bernie Tatlock, a well-known nemesis of the Government in general and the Ministry of Defence in particular.

“Mister Tatlock, I seem to recall that it took six weeks for news of Trafalgar to reach England,” MacDonald said with a degree of languid exasperation. “I don’t think anyone much complained then. I regret that I cannot answer any questions or provide any further information at this time. Thank you.”

MacDonald picked up his papers and left the room amid a buzz of confusion. The camera panned over the journalists struggling to be first out with their stories. Somewhere in the confusion, Tatlock yelped as a stiletto heel jabbed into his foot. His professional colleagues did not appreciate the shut-down in question time that had followed his aggressive intervention.

Igrat switched the television off. As if the two instruments were linked, the telephone rang as soon as the picture faded. She reached over and picked the phone up.

“This is she....Why, General Howard, Sir, I didn’t know you cared. . . .” Igrat dropped the attitude a split second later. “I see Sir. That will be no problem. I’ll be right over. I’ll have two bodyguards with me. There’s a Sonic Clipper leaving London in two hours. I can be on that... . Yes, Sir, that will be very helpful....I’ll call ahead and make sure The Seer is in his office ready to receive them....Yes, Sir, I do have that degree of discretion in such matters.”

Igrat paused and looked around. “Move, everybody. We’ve got to go to the MoD to get the preliminary action reports that have just come in. General Howard wants the Boss to have them ASAP. He says there is a lot in there our Navy needs to know.”

Operations Room, HMS
Bulwark,
East of the Falkland Islands

“Colonel Jones, you will take Second Battalion, The Parachute Regiment and carry out an air-mech assault on the Argentine fortress at Goose Green. Herbert, you will seize that base and its associated airfield, securing the same for our use. You may expect an Argentine counter-attack and will prepare your defenses to defeat the same. Are these orders clear to you?”

“Yes, Sir.” The enthusiasm in the response was immediate and obvious.

“Good man. Colonel Hill, you will take First Battalion, The Parachute Regiment and carry out an air-mech assault on Mount Tumbledown and Wireless Ridge. John, you will seize and occupy that position and prepare it for the field guns that will be lifted in to join you. You may expect an Argentine counter-attack and will prepare your defenses to protect the guns and defeat that attack. Are these orders clear to you?”

“Yes Sir.” No less enthusiasm and possibly some exultation. It would be One Para that closed the noose on Stanley. A sharp twist of the tail to their old rivals in Two Para.

“Excellent. Colonel Hartmann, you will take First Battalion, the Royal Regiment of Marines and carry out an air-mech assault on Mount Kent. You will seize and hold that position until relieved by the troops advancing from San Carlos. Karl, you have the hardest job here. You will have to wait here in the assault ships until the Junglies that landed One and Two Para have returned and rearmed. That means you will be going in some three hours later than they will. One and Two Para will have the advantage of surprise. You will not. Your Marines can expect a heavy counter-attack developing early. You will stop that attack in its tracks. Are these orders clear to you?”

“Jawohl! I mean, Yes, Sir.”

A ripple of laughter at the deliberate ‘mistake’ ran around the briefing room. “Gentlemen, the Marines have a deadly task here. We don’t have the capacity of going in as one wave; the cancellation of
Centaur
saw to that. We had to seize two out of three objectives and leave the third for a second wave. We can thank the dockies who worked triple shifts to get both our amphibious transports ready that we are able to hit two. Before
Bulwark
came out of dock three months early, we were going to have to assault each target in turn. But, two out of three it is. On the way down, the operations staff went over all the possible permutations of landing. We evaluated taking Goose Green and Mount Kent, Mount Kent and Mount Tumbledown and Goose Green and Mount Tumbledown. Each permutation had its advantages and disadvantages. We decided that the element of surprise would be critical in taking Goose Green and Mount Tumbledown but less so on Mount Kent. Yet without Mount Kent we would have two isolated positions at almost opposite ends of the island. With Mount Kent we can give the troops advancing from San Carlos a smooth highway garrisoned by our brigade all the way to Stanley.”