Ghost Force

by Patrick Robinson

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  The most astonishing aspect of the lightning-fast Argentinian military action on that Sunday in mid-February was the failure of the British land forces to make any form of communication with their High Command. The same applied to the survivors in the Royal Navy garrison.

  Under normal circumstances one would have expected Lt. Commander Malcolm Farley to have instantly contacted the closest Naval Operations base. The problem was, Lt. Commander Farley had a 1,400-ton warship on fire right outside his front door, with many dead and some wounded. The nearest help was all of 2,400 miles away—the north-heading frigate—and his home base was 8,000 miles away in Portsmouth.

  The problem for Major Bobby Court was much the same. There had been a ferocious attack on the missile system that protected the airport, his men were under serious small-arms fire, and generally speaking everyone was just trying to stay alive. The nearest help was thousands of miles away, and they were all in a life-or-death fight with the Argentinians.

  Neither Lt. Commander Farley nor Major Court lived to make the communication, and it was not made by anyone until six p.m. (local) on a telephone in the passenger terminal at Mount Pleasant Airfield.

  Sergeant Alan Peattie, who had manned one of the heavy machine guns, and somehow emerged unscathed, called the British Army HQ in Wilton, near Salisbury, where the duty officer, stunned by what he heard, hit the encrypted line to the Ministry of Defense.

  That represented another duty officer absolutely stunned, and he in turn called Britain’s Defense Minister at his home in Kent.

  At 10:24 p.m. the telephone rang in the British Prime Minister’s country retreat, the great Elizabethan mansion Chequers, situated deep in the Chiltern Hills, in Buckinghamshire to the west of London. The Defense Minister, the urbane former university lecturer Peter Caulfield, personally relayed the daunting news.

  The Prime Minister’s private secretary took the call and relayed the communiqué:

  Argentinian troops have invaded the Falkland Islands. The British garrison fell shortly before ten p.m. GMT. Port Stanley occupied by Argentinian Marines. HMS Leeds Castle destroyed. Governor Manton under arrest. The national flag of Argentina flies over the islands.

  The color drained from the PM’s face. He actually thought he might throw up. Twice in the previous month he had been alerted to the obvious unrest in Buenos Aires. He had been informed by his own Ambassador of the shouted words of the Argentinian President from the palace balcony on New Year’s Eve.

  There had even been reports from the military attaché in Buenos Aires of troop movements, and more important, aircraft movement at the Argentinian bases in the south of the country. He also recalled ignoring reports of Argentinian anger at the oil situation on East Falkland.

  He had three times spoken to the Foreign Minister in Cabinet, mildly inquiring whether there was any need to sit up and take notice. Each time he had been told, “We’ve been listening to this stuff for over twenty years. Yes, the Argentinians are less than happy. But they’ve been less than happy for the biggest part of one hundred eighty years. In point of fact we’ve had exceptionally agreeable relations with Buenos Aires for a very long time. They won’t make a move. They wouldn’t want another humiliation.”

  The Prime Minister had accepted that. But the decisions in the end were his, and so was the glory, and so was the blame. And this was a Prime Minister who was allergic to blame, at least if it was pointed at him.

  He excused himself from the crowded dinner table and walked with his secretary through the central hall, past the huge log fire that permeated this historic place with the faint smell of wood smoke in every room. He entered his study and picked up the telephone, greeting the Minister of Defense curtly.

  “Prime Minster,” said the voice on the other end. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Argentina just conquered the Falkland Islands. Our troops defended as well as they could, but we have at least one hundred fifty dead, and HMS Leeds Castle is still on fire, with her keel resting on the bottom of Mare Harbor.”

  “God almighty,” said the PM, his thoughts flashing, as they always did in moments of crisis, on to the front pages of tomorrow’s newspapers, not to mention tonight’s television news.

  “I’m sure you realize, sir,” continued the Minister, “we have no adequate military response for thousands of miles. I regret to say you are in an identical situation to Margaret Thatcher in 1982. We either negotiate a truce, with some kind of sharing of authority, or we go to war. I firmly recommend the former.”

  “But what about the media?” he replied. “They’ll instantly compare me with Margaret Thatcher. They’ll find out about the warnings we received from Buenos Aires, then blame me, and to a lesser extent you, for ignoring them. The Foreign Secretary will have to resign, as Mrs. Thatcher’s did. And then they’ll ask what we’re made of.”

  “Prime Minister, I do of course understand your concerns. But right now we have one hundred fifty dead British soldiers, sailors, and airmen on East Falkland. Arrangements have to be made. Someone has to speak to the President of Argentina. I am happy to open the talks—but I think you are going to have to speak to him personally.

  “Meanwhile, I think the Foreign Office should start by making the strongest possible protest to the United Nations. I’m suggesting an emergency Cabinet meeting in Downing Street tonight, perhaps attended by the military Chiefs of Staff.”

  “But what about the media?” repeated the Prime Minister. “Can we stall them? Can we somehow slow it all down? Call in the press officers and our political advisers? See how best to handle it?”

  “It’s a bit late for that, Prime Minister. The Argentinians will have the full story on the news wires, probably as I speak— Heroic forces of Argentina recapture the Malvinas—British defeated after fierce fighting—the flag of Argentina flies at last over the islands…Viva las Malvinas!! We can’t stop that.”

  “Will the press blame me?”

  “Undoubtedly, sir. I am afraid they will.”

  “Will it bring down my government?”

  “The Falklands nearly brought down Mrs. Thatcher. Except she instantly went to war, with the cheers of the damned populace ringing in her ears, and the military loved her.”

  “They don’t love me.”

  “No, sir. Nor me.”

  “Downing Street. Midnight, then.”

  “I’ll see you there, sir.”

  The British Prime Minister walked back across the central hall of Chequers with a chill in his heart. He was not the first PM to feel that emotion since first Lord Lee of Fareham gifted the great house to the nation in 1917, during the premiership of David Lloyd George.

  And he probably would not be the last. But this was a situation in which there was no room for maneuver. And it was a situation that would require him to address the nation, immediately after the Cabinet meeting. He knew instinctively the press would give him a very, very rough ride…

  Surely, Prime Minister, you were aware of the unrest in Buenos Aires…? Surely, you must have been told by your diplomatic advisers that all was not well in the South Atlantic…? Stuff like this never happens without considerable preparation by the aggressors…surely someone must have known something was going on?

  But the one he really dreaded was… Prime Minister, you and your government have spent years making heavy cuts to the defense budget, especially to the Navy…do you now regret that?

  He would take no questions at that firs
t announcement, that was for certain. He needed time to think, time to confer with his media advisers (spin doctors), time to arrange his party line, time to deflect the blame onto either Whitehall or the military. But time. He must buy himself some time.

  Meanwhile, he must not display panic. He must return to his guests. And he thanked God he had not invited anyone for this Sunday night dinner who was connected in any way with the military.

  Seated around the table were the kind of people a modern progressive Britain admired. There was one hugely successful homosexual pop singer, Honeyford Jones, who was reputed to be a billionaire. There was the international football striker Freddie Leeson and his gorgeous wife, Madelle, who once worked in a nightclub. There was the aging film star Darien Farr and his wife, Loretta, a former television weather forecaster. Plus the celebrity London restaurateur Freddie Ivanov Windsor, who sported a somewhat unusual name for an English lout.

  These were the kinds of high achievers a contemporary Prime Minister needed around him, real people, successful in the modern world. Not those dreadful old establishment politicians, businessmen, diplomats, and military commanders so favored by Margaret Thatcher.

  These were people who were proud to be his acquaintances. They were people who hung on his every word, and did not ask a lot of unnecessary questions. And when he sat down he decided to tell them what had happened.

  “I’m afraid our armed forces have had a bit of a setback in the South Atlantic,” he said gravely. “The Argentinians have just attacked the Falkland Islands.”

  “Where’s that?” said Loretta.

  “Oh, it’s in the South Atlantic—just a tiny British protectorate going way back to the nineteenth century,” he replied. “Of course we knew there was a lot of unrest in the area, but I don’t think my Foreign Office realized quite how volatile the situation was.”

  “Jesus. I remember the last time that happened,” said Darien. “I was in my, like, dressing room on the set…and they announced on the television we’d been attacked…I was…you know…like, wow!”

  “Oh, that must have been, like, awful for you…in the middle of a movie and everything,” said Madelle.

  “Well, we all knew it was very uncool,” he replied. “You know, like really, really bad, getting attacked by a South American country…but I mean everyone was totally, like, wow!”

  “So what’s it with these fuckin’ Argeneeros then?” asked Freddie. “I mean, what are they on about? First up, they got a bloody big country, ain’t they? Second, do I look as if I care there’s a war or whatever in the Falktons, I mean, like who gives?”

  The Prime Minister, for the first time in his premiership, suddenly wished he had chosen different friends for tonight’s dinner. He stood up and said, “I’m sorry. But I’m sure you all understand I have to return to London.”

  Everyone nodded, and Loretta called out, “Get on your mobile, babe. The Army will get down there. Best in the world, right? Sort them Argeneeros out, no pressure.”

  The PM shuddered as he made his way back across the central hall to the government limousine waiting outside. He had staff to sort out the details of his return to Downing Street. He just climbed in the rear seat of the Jaguar and sighed the sigh of the deeply troubled.

  Like all Prime Ministers, he loved the grandeur of this seven-hundred-acre country retreat. And he was aware of the immense decisions that had been reached down the years within its walls. He also knew, and the knowledge caused his soul a slight quiver, that Margaret Thatcher had sat in her study at Chequers to compose her perfectly brilliant personal account of the mighty British victory in the Falklands nearly thirty years ago.

  He was assailed by doubts, the kind of doubts that cascade in upon a self-seeking career politician who does not possess the guiding light of goodness and purpose that always gripped Margaret Thatcher. Gloomily, he doubted his manhood, and he gazed out at the Chequers estate, which was frosty in the pale moonlit night.

  He truly did not know if he would pass this way again, given the Brits’ unnerving habit of unloading a Prime Minister before you can say knife. Out of Downing Street in under twenty-four hours; glorious weekends at Chequers…well…those became instant history. Pack your stuff and make a fast exit.

  Traffic returning to London was light, and the PM had only an hour or so to ruminate on his recent exchange with Sir Jock Ferguson, the Chairman of the hugely influential Joint Intelligence Committee. In two very private phone calls, Sir Jock had tipped him off there was trouble brewing in Buenos Aires over the Falkland Islands.

  This had been precisely the news no government wanted to hear with a general election coming up in less than seven months. No PM wants to be seen to take his nation to war, and then ask for everyone’s vote. Even Winston Churchill was unable to pull that one off after World War II in 1945.

  And if they could throw the Great One out, they could sure as hell throw him out. “Jock,” the Prime Minister had said, “let me have a nice little memorandum, would you? One that mentions there are popular rumblings in Argentina about renewed military action over Las Malvinas. But in your opinion there is not one shred of hard evidence on any of the diplomatic grapevines to suggest any such thing has a basis in reality.”

  “Well,” replied Sir Jock, “that is more or less true.”

  “Absolutely,” replied the PM. “But it gives me a bit of cover if everything blows up and we’re caught unaware. You will not regret this, I assure you.”

  From this Prime Minister, that last statement meant one thing: Sir Jock, old boy, stand by for an elevation to the peerage in the next Honor List.

  Lord Ferguson of Fife, that’s got a fine ring to it, thought the JIC Chairman. That memorandum, the one that would partly exonerate the Prime Minister, was tucked away in a desk drawer in Downing Street, in readiness for the day when it might be needed.

  Driving swiftly through the suburbs of West London, the chauffeur had the head of the British government home in his official residence before 11:30 p.m. And when he arrived, there were three further shocks awaiting him.

  First, the Argentine Marines had pressed on to both of the major oil-drilling rigs on East Falkland, to the north of Darwin Harbor, and to the south of Fitzroy. According to the message from ExxonMobil in Rio, they had arrested every last one of the British and American oil personnel and flown them out in an Air Force C-130 to Rio Gallegos. No one thought they would be returning any time soon.

  Just as malevolent was news of a further Argentinian Marine landing on the island of South Georgia, another purely British protectorate 1,100 miles southeast of the Falklands. South Georgia was the Alps of the South Atlantic, a far-flung remnant of the British Empire, a forbidding land of glaciers and towering mountains, the last resting place of the legendary British explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton.

  None of the above, however, prevented the Argentinians from raising their national flag above the islands, when they landed there in 1982, and it took a very determined group of Great Britain’s finest to recapture it.

  The British Prime Minister was right now staring at a message from government house in Buenos Aires informing him the Argentinians had not only done it again, they had arrested all U.S. and UK oil personnel working on the gigantic new South Georgia natural gas strike zone, which ExxonMobil and BP had been organizing for the past eight months.

  To make matters infinitely worse, there was a disgruntled message from the President of the United States, requesting a call-back to discuss what Great Britain planned to do in order to rectify this disgraceful military aggression against the citizens of both countries.

 
The Prime Minister retreated immediately to his private office and put in a call to the President of the United States. And, as communications between the two allies went, this one was not encouraging.

  The President recommended immediate negotiations with Argentina. He did not recommend a war, but he wanted a deal done over the oil. In the event the Westminster Parliament felt they needed to declare some kind of war against the military occupiers of this British colony, the U.S. President stated his country would help and assist all they could, but they would not send in troops.

  “The Falklands are British islands. And if you guys really want them back, that’s up to you. As friends we’re here to help. But I will not take my country into someone else’s war in someone else’s country unless the reasons are overriding, as they were in Iraq.

  “If you want ’em back you’ll have to go get ’em on your own,” said Paul Bedford. “We’ll do what we can. But we do want a deal over that oil, hear me? You better speak to Pedro whatsisname in Buenos Aires and see what you can agree.”

  The British Prime Minister was highly skeptical about Pedro whatsisname. Like most of his Cabinet, the PM had never had a proper job in the private sector, where money and results count. He was essentially a politician, a bureaucrat, paid for from the public purse, and used to spending enormous amounts of government money, living high on the hog, surrounded by spin doctors who tried to manipulate the press in his favor, day after day.

  A down-and-dirty powwow with a South American President, ex-military, ex–cattle rancher, and horse trader from way back—well, that was not really the PM’s game. He knew nothing of the cut and thrust of big business, preferring obscure, abstract speeches about saving the starving children of Africa, and AIDS, and democracy. Stuff where you can’t get caught out.