Ghost Force

by Patrick Robinson

  “Well, sir, Lenny’s going for the passenger list from the nonexistent aircraft in the tundra. It’ll sure be interesting to find out precisely who the Kremlin admits is no longer alive.”

  Arnold smiled and passed around the menus. “Order anything,” he commanded. “I’ve ordered us another bottle of this Meursault because I know Kathy will probably have fish. For us, my boy, I’ve ordered an excellent bottle of 1998 Pomerol—remember, all of you, that was the year the frost and rain hit the left bank of the Gironde and the great chateaux had a very difficult time.

  “But on the right bank, the sun shone sweetly and the harvest was bountiful, and the wine all through St. Emilion and Pomerol was rich and plentiful…”

  “Jesus,” said Kathy, “would you listen to him? He thinks he’s at the Last Supper.”

  “I hope to hell he’s not,” said Jimmy. “This is just great—and all because the ole Kremlin staged one of its periodic mass murders.”

  “Every cloud,” replied Arnold, philosophically, “somehow has a silver lining. Even that big bastard darkening the east side of Red Square.”

  0900, MONDAY, OCTOBER 4

  RUSSIAN NAVAL HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW

  Three of the four men who attended the meeting in the rotunda of the Senate were now seated around a much smaller table in company with the President: Prime Minister Kravchenko, Foreign Minister Nalyotov, and the Energy Minister, Oleg Kuts.

  “Very well,” called the President, “send for Admiral Rankov, will you?”

  A Navy guard turned smartly on the marble floor of the grandiose room and marched toward the huge double doors. Moments later, the mighty figure of Admiral Vitaly Rankov strode into the room. The veteran Naval Commander, in his new status as Deputy Minister of Defense, wore no uniform.

  He was dressed in a dark gray suit with a white shirt and military tie, and he still looked as if he could pull the bow-side five-oar in a Russian Olympic eight, which he once did.

  Despite a passion for caviar served on delicious blinis, and Siberian beef topped with cheese, plus all manner of desserts, Vitaly Rankov somehow remained fit, and for a very big man, trim. This had much to do with a lifelong iron regimen on his ergometer, the killer rowing machine used by international oarsmen the world over.

  With his eyes glued to the flickering computer as he hauled himself into Olympic selection, Vitaly could stop that digital clock at 6 minutes and 18 seconds for 2,000 meters. That’s world-class, and that was his regular time in the run-up to the 1972 Olympics in Munich.

  Today, at sixty, the towering Vitaly Rankov fought a daily battle to “break seven”—the young oarsman’s mantra—and even this morning, fighting through the final “yards” on his stationary machine in his basement, he hit the 2,000-meter line in 6:58. Nearly killed him. But here he was.

  “ Dobraye utra —good morning, Admiral,” greeted the President of all the Russians.

  “Sir,” replied Vitaly sharply, pushing his great shock of gray curly hair off his forehead. He took the chair left vacant on the President’s right and nodded to the other three Ministers, all of whom he knew relatively well.

  “As I mentioned to you on the telephone,” said the President, “this is a matter of the utmost secrecy. Nonetheless, our Intelligence Service leads us to believe the forces of Argentina are preparing to launch another attack on the Falkland Islands, some twenty-eight years, I believe, after their last disastrous attempt.”

  This was of course the biggest single lie the President had told this week, but it was only Monday, and it was essentially kids’ stuff compared with his record last week.

  As it happened, the young Lieutenant Commander Rankov had received his first command, of a missile frigate, back in 1982. And like all of his colleagues he had watched with rapt fascination as the Royal Navy fought that epic sea battle off the Falkland Islands, during which they lost seven warships, including two Type-42 destroyers. Two remain on the bottom of the ocean; the other, HMS Glasgow , took a bomb amidships, straight through her hull and out the other side.

  Admiral Rankov, as it happened, knew a great deal about that war in the South Atlantic. And he looked quizzically at the President. Then he said sternly, “I’m not sure the result would be the same today, sir. The British have been very, very shortsighted about their war-fighting capability. The Argentinians may be successful this time.”

  The President nodded, and continued, “At present we are only discussing a sudden, preemptive strike, which would certainly overrun the very flimsy British defenses of the islands. But I would like your opinions upon the likely outcome if the British again sailed south with the intention of blasting the Argentinians off their territory.”

  “Sir, that is a very complicated question. Mainly because we do not know the relative strength of the Argentinian fleet, nor its land forces. However, we do know they are quite formidable in the air.”

  “Vitaly, if I may take a worst-case scenario,” said the President. “The Argentinians occupy the islands, and the airfields. Their Marines are in tight control. There is no internal resistance. The British send down an aircraft carrier packed with fighter-bombers and whatever guided-missile frigates and destroyers they have left, okay? Who wins?”

  “Sir, all battles depend to a large degree on the will and brilliance of the overall commanders. In 1982 that Royal Navy Admiral outsmarted them, held his nerve, made no real mistakes, and in the end clobbered them. He was the first Admiral whose fleet ever defeated an Air Force. Knocked out more than seventy Argentina fighter-bombers.”

  “Yes. I read that during the weekend,” mused the President. “But, Vitaly, could you put your finger on perhaps one single aspect of the war at sea that cost the Argentinians victory? One critical path along which they failed?”

  Admiral Rankov pondered the question. He was silent for a few moments, and then said, “Sir, the critical path for the Argentinians was always simple: take out either of the Royal Navy carriers, before they have established an airfield ashore, and the operation is over. You always need two decks in case one goes out of action even for a couple of hours—otherwise you lose all the aircraft you have in the air.”

  “Why so important?”

  “Because that would have robbed the British land forces of adequate air cover. That would have meant the Army would have refused to go ashore. Because without air cover they would have had Dunkirk all over again, being pounded by Argentine bombs instead of those of Hitler.”

  “Hmmmm,” said the President. “And why did the Argentinians not go for the carrier? And end it?”

  “Mainly because they couldn’t get to it. The South Atlantic is a very, very big place, and that Royal Navy Admiral was a very, very cunning Commander. He made damn sure they would never reach it. He never brought the carrier within range, except at night, when he knew the Argentinian Air Force did not fly.”

  “Well, if the same war happened again, how would they get to the carrier this time?”

  “With great difficulty, sir. Unless they had a very quiet, very skillfully handled submarine that could locate and track it. But that’s extremely hard to do, and I don’t think the Argentines have the skill.”

  “Does anyone?”

  “Possibly. But the Royal Navy Commanders are traditionally very good at this type of thing. Getting in close to a ship of that size would be damn near impossible. All carriers are permanently protected by an electronic ring of underwater surveillance. I suppose the Americans might get in and perhaps fire a torpedo, but even that’s doubtful.”

  “How about our Navy? C
ould we do it?”

  “The issue is, sir, could we do it without getting caught and sunk? I would not put my life savings on it. ’Specially against the Royal Navy…but you know, sir, I think the problem this time might not be quite so grave. Because I think modern advancements in rockets, missiles, and even bombs is so great, any commander would prefer to sink a carrier from the air.

  “The damn things carry about a billion gallons of fuel. If you get in close enough, with a modern supersonic sea-skimming missile, that’s the trick.”

  “And where would that leave the Argentinians—same as before?”

  “Not if they could get a submarine in, maybe seven miles from the carrier, and take an accurate GPS reading on its precise position on the ocean. Then they could vector their fighter-bombers straight at it.”

  “And do they have that submarine capacity?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. The Royal Navy would almost certainly locate and sink them.”

  “If Argentina were to recruit an ally, to help them with this critical aspect of submarine warfare, who do they need?”

  “The USA, sir.”

  “How about China?” asked the President, shrewdly trying to keep his Admiral off his own critical path.

  “China! Christ, no. The Brits would pick them up before they reached Cape Town.”

  “How about France?”

  “Possibly, but they lack experience. The French have never fought a war with submarines.”

  “Neither have we.”

  “No, sir. But I’d still make us the second choice if I were the C-in-C of the Argentinian Navy. We still have top flight commanders, and we probably have the ship that could do the job…”

  “Oh, which one…?”

  “Well, I’d go for one of our Akula-class nuclear boats myself. Hunter-killers, about ninety-five hundred tons, packed with missiles and torpedoes, excellent radar and sonar. The most modern ones are ten to fifteen years old, but lightly used, and very quiet.”

  “Where do we keep ’em?”

  “Oh, there’s a couple in the Pacific Fleet, two more in the Northern Fleet up near Murmansk.”

  “Do you know the ships personally? I mean are they ready to go?”

  “One came out of refit last spring, sir. She’s on sea trials right now, just completing. A very good ship, sir. I went out in her a month ago.”

  “Aha, and what’s her name, this Akula-class hunter-killer?”

  “She’s Viper , sir. Viper K-157. ”

  “Thank you, Admiral. That will be all for the moment.”

  4:30 P.M., MONDAY, OCTOBER 11

  FLORIDA GARDEN CONFITERIA

  CORDOBA AVENUE DISTRICT, BUENOS AIRES

  It was always a favorite haunt of the military junta that ruled Argentina so spectacularly badly in the late 1970s and very early 1980s. It made for a kind of clamorous escape from the fierce undercurrents of unrest that were edging the great South American Republic of Argentina toward outright revolution.

  It was a sanctuary from the hatred of the populace, a sanctuary with sweet tea, sugary pastries, and piped tango music. And it still stands today, still frequented by Argentinian military personnel, right next to the venerable old Harrods building, that far-lost symbol of a far-lost friendship.

  The Generals and the Admirals always met here pre-1982 to indulge in military plots and plans against the British government. At that time they were just working out ways to look better, to stem the engulfing tide of the seething, restless middle classes. They were trying to stay in power. So unpopular was the junta that they really needed a rabble-rousing foreign policy to hang on to their limousines.

  And in so many ways the year 2010 was not much different. The shattering defeat of 1982 still rankled with the populace down all the years. And the visions of the Falkland Islands—their very own Malvinas—still stood stark before them; high, wide, and handsome, very British and now chock-full of oil.

  The inflamed, reckless ambitions of a junta of long ago was just as virulent in 2010, but now it lurked in the minds of a new breed of Argentinian military officer, better equipped, better trained, and better educated.

  Which was why, on this cool, sunlit Monday afternoon, two senior Argentinian officers, one a General, the other an Admiral, plus a medium-rank Cabinet minister, were sitting quietly at a corner table in the confiteria , awaiting the arrival of a Russian emissary on an obviously secretive mission.

  The appointment had been arranged by the Russian embassy, but it was stressed their official would not be in residence there. And the Russians had stressed they preferred the meeting to take place somewhere discreet.

  And now the Argentinians waited, staring out through the wide windows onto tony Florida Avenue, down which their visitor would probably walk from the Claridge Hotel.

  And they were not kept waiting long. At 4:32 p.m., the stocky, quietly dressed Gregor Komoyedov arrived. He was in his mid-fifties, wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark red tie, and carrying, as arranged, a copy of the New Yorker magazine. He stepped into the crowded confiteria and stared around. The Argentinian Minister, whose name was Freddie, turned and held up his hand. The Russian nodded and made his way through the throng to the corner table.

  Freddie stood up and introduced General Eduardo Kampf and Admiral Oscar Moreno. All three of them were wearing civilian clothes, and they each shook the hand of the Russian Minister for Foreign Trade, whom the President had selected for this mission on the basis of his superior worldliness.

  “I expect you would like some coffee, being a Russian,” General Kampf said and smiled.

  “That would be very civilized,” replied the Russian. “Perhaps we should speak in English, your second language, I believe…?”

  “No problem,” replied the General. “And I should confirm we are extremely anxious to hear your business here—your embassy was very closemouthed about it…for a minute we thought you might be declaring war!”

  “Ah, you military guys, that’s all you think about. My own background is deep in the Russian oil industry, strictly commercial. To us, war is unthinkable, mainly because it gets in the way of making money!”

  Everyone laughed. Mostly because the Argentinians were not yet aware of the colossal insincerity of that remark. But old Gregor was a wily Muscovite wheeler-dealer from way back. He knew how to coax a subject along gently.

  The coffee and pastries arrived, and, at a nod from the Admiral, the piped tango music began to play a tad higher. “I don’t think we will be overheard,” he said. “And I am looking forward to your proposition.”

  Gregor smiled. “But how do you know I have one?”

  “Because you would not be here otherwise, having flown halfway around the world, on obvious orders from the President, in a dark and clandestine manner.”

  “Well, let me begin by assuming you all know of the recent massive oil strikes in the Malvinas,” he said, skillfully banishing the British name for the islands from his vocabulary.

  All three Argentinians nodded.

  “And I imagine you continue to feel the same sense of injustice you had in 1982. After all, the oil is yours by rights, and most fair-minded people in the world understand that. How London can possibly proclaim they own those islands, eight thousand miles from England, and a mere three hundred miles off your long coastline…well, that’s a mystery no one really grasps. But the British have some inflated vie
ws of both their past and their present.”

  “The Americans understand,” said General Kampf.

  “They’ll understand anything they choose to,” said Gregor Komoyedov. “Just so long as there’s a good buck in it for them, ha?”

  “They’re going to make a good buck in the Malvinas,” added Freddie. “We understand Exxon are in there already in partnership with British Petroleum.”

  “I did hear,” added the Russian, “there was some talk the Argentinian military might be assessing the possibility of a new campaign against the Malvinas—a sudden, brutal, preemptive strike, and an occupation of the islands that could easily withstand a counterattack from the Royal Navy?”

  “I wish,” replied Admiral Moreno. “But no one’s told me.”

  “Well, perhaps I transgress into military secrets that are none of my, or my country’s, business.”

  “Perhaps you do,” said the Admiral. “But we would all prefer you to go on talking…”

  “If, for instance, you did find yourself owning the oil, you would find a very willing partner in the Russian government, to help you drill, pump, and market it, in the most profitable way.

  “We could do for you what the Americans did for the Saudi Arabians. We have the know-how. And our pipeline techniques are probably second to none, since we pump directly out of the West Siberian Basin. And we are used to working in extreme weather conditions.

  “No one could help you quite like we could. We would take over the operation completely, and pay you a generous royalty for every barrel. We would allow you to oversee the daily output, and we would build you a tanker terminal in order to maximize the exports. Our aim would be the U.S. market along their Gulf Coast.”

  “The snag is, of course,” replied Freddie, “we do not own the Malvinas, nor have I discerned any anxiety on our government’s part that we should own the Malvinas. I mean, we do get periodic bouts of anger from the media, that our birthright to those islands has somehow been grabbed away from us by an outmoded colonial power.