This was different. This was a one-on-one with a military hard man, some fucking Napoleonic figure from the pampas who’d just conquered 300 British islands in about ten minutes.
Jesus. What the hell did Bedford want from him? And what if he took the country to war? And what if the British lost? What then? This was probably the worst day of his life. He’d always wanted a place in someone’s history book. But not like this.
And where the hell was South Georgia? He remembered, vaguely, from back when he was a student, that a group of Argentinians had somehow landed there in 1982 and raised their flag. He could not remember whether they were civilians or military, or whether they had finally fled or been forcibly removed. But it all seemed much more difficult now.
The memorandum from Buenos Aires suggested today’s raiders were trained professional troops, and that like the assault on the Falklands, the operation had been planned in great detail and carried out with absolute ruthless efficiency. The PM did not like it. And the prospect of all these damn Argentinian flags being raised all over the place quite frankly gave him the creeps.
A further note on his desk reminded him that a few weeks ago an angry crowd in Plaza de Mayo had carried in a huge cardboard banner showing him, with a black patch over his eye, and scrawled across it the words… Bandito de las Malvinas.
The PM did not speak Spanish but he got the drift of that one, and he had been none too pleased to hear the crowd had set fire to it, chanting whatever was Spanish for “Public Enemy Number One.” The crowd, of course, had no idea whatsoever that he was actually their best friend, and it was his swinging cuts to the British military and Royal Navy that would make the reconquest of Las Malvinas darned near impossible.
And now what? Every member of his government knew what they had done. Though they would all duck and dive out of harm’s way when the blame began to be hurled at them. Damn cowards. He’d see about that. He was not prepared to take the rap for this. No. He most definitely was not.
And in the back of his mind, there was one most terrible dread. What happens when the media nails some high-ranking military officer who says flatly, “We warned this damn government dozens of times, it was emasculating the Army and the Navy, and now for the first time in four hundred years we are unable to answer a bullying foreign aggressor, some common garden dictator, with a military response of our own.”
At that point the Prime Minister of Great Britain understood very clearly the roof would fall in. The right-wing section of the press, which had been gunning for him for years, would finally have the ammunition they craved. And they would be utterly merciless. The prospect of the headlines that would appear in the next forty-eight hours filled him with ice-cold horror.
And the trouble was, everything was way out of his control. The world news was breaking from Buenos Aires, and the global media system would be consumed with the devastating victory of the Argentinians. He, Great Britain’s Prime Minister, was a bit player at the scene of his own potential destruction.
The press would want to know exactly two things from him. Should someone have known this was about to happen? What was he going to do about it?
To the former, the answer was plainly yes; and the most junior reporter would take about fifteen minutes to prove it. To the second, the answer was a plain, simple, unequivocal God knows.
By ten minutes to midnight, his colleagues were arriving. The Foreign Secretary, Roger Eltringham, was first, followed by the Minister of Defense, Peter Caulfield. He had taken the time to call in the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Rodney Jeffries, and the Chief of the Defense Staff, General Sir Robin Brenchley. The Home Secretary was there, plus the Transport Secretary.
Peter Caulfield, however, had considered it a waste of time to invite people like the Education Secretary and the Minister of Health. But he did request the presence of the Lord Chancellor and the Chancellor of the Exchequer, both of whom could be counted on to have a joint heart attack at the very mention of war with its attendant expenditure.
The Prime Minister mentioned to Peter Caulfield that he may have gone beyond his brief to summon the Navy and military. But the Defense Minister replied, “Sir, we’re talking war here. We have been attacked. And we may be obliged to hit back. We need the military for advice and assessment.”
“Very well,” replied the PM, who had himself invited one press secretary and three of his personal political advisers. He called the meeting to order and opened by stating, “As you all now know, Argentina has attacked the Falkland Islands, apparently with some success, and now declares the islands, las Malvinas, free of British rule for the first time in one hundred eighty years.”
Roger Eltringham immediately informed the Cabinet members he had sent the strongest possible protest to the United Nations, demanding the Security Council take action of censure against the Argentinian Republic. It had been nothing short of a pre-emptive and brutal military strike at a peace-loving sovereign people, loyal to the British Crown, who now stood under the jackboot of a South American dictator.
The Prime Minister nodded his thanks and turned to Peter Caulfield, who said, “I think you should perhaps decide whether or not you wish to retain the possibility of a military response, in which case I think we should first hear from Admiral Sir Rodney, and General Sir Robin. I say this because they may consider a military response is impossible, in which case your options are very narrowed.”
The Prime Minister visibly winced at being asked to consider the possibility of going to war, and at the prospect of being lectured first by the General and then by some bloody battle-hardened Admiral.
Slowly, he turned over the pages of the notes in front of him and then said, in a statesmanlike way, “No country with our traditions and position in the hierarchy of the world’s nations can afford to dismiss the possibility of a military response to an attack on its people. But before I make any decisions, I think Roger should enlighten us to the likely reactions of the rest of the world.”
Foreign Secretary Eltringham looked doubtful. “So far as I can see,” he said, “most of the world will be damn glad not to be involved. Our nearest neighbor, France, has, of course, sold the Argentinians practically every piece of military hardware they own, particularly their Mirage fighter jets, the Super-Etendards, and the Exocet missiles. And they will mostly hope to sell them more. They probably hope we will be defeated.”
“I thought we already had,” interjected Admiral Jeffries.
“And just to conclude,” added Roger Eltringham, “the only other nation with any real interest in this conflict is the United States. I can state right now they will not want to fight alongside us. But neither will they want to lose that oil situation down there. Like last time, they’ll help. But they won’t join us in a ground or even a naval war.”
“I spoke to President Bedford a short while ago,” said the Prime Minister, “and he said more or less what you just outlined…I suppose the question I must ask is, do we have the capacity to fight a war in the South Atlantic, eight thousand miles from home?”
“Rather more pertinent, Prime Minister,” said General Brenchley, “is whether or not you have the courage to stand up in the House of Commons and tell them we don’t.”
The Prime Minister bridled. “General,” he said, “you are here to offer military and naval advice, perhaps you would restrict yourself to those areas. And perhaps you would answer my question. Do we have that capacity?”
“No, Prime Minister,” said the General gruffly, glaring at the professional politician he utterly despised. “We don’t. And if we went, we couldn’t win.”
The Cabinet room went silent. “Surely there’s some cou
rse of action open to us?” said the PM.
“How about surrender?” grunted the General.
Admiral Jeffries chuckled, at the perfectly hideous but ultimately inevitable way all of their chickens had come home to roost; the defense cuts year after year, the reductions in recruits, equipment, ships, aircraft, regiments, and in the end morale.
Like General Brenchley, he sensed the onrushing feeling of power. If the military chiefs said no, there could be no armed response to the Argentinian assault. They both knew that. So did the Prime Minister and his Cabinet colleagues.
In the end, it was General Brenchley who stood up, towering over the table of professional politicians, not one of whom had ever served in the military, not one of whom had ever had a proper job, outside of political parties, trade unions, or general public rabble-rousing. Maybe a couple of lawyers, specializing in human rights, or some such bloody nonsense. All of them, in the opinion of the military, were, generally speaking, either beneath contempt or hard on the border line.
And right now the military held sway. General Brenchley said coldly, “Prime Minister, I feel I owe you an explanation. And I’m going to give it. You and your Chancellor, over the past several years, have made the following increases in government spending budgets: sixty-one percent for the International Development Department, whatever the hell that is. Sixty percent for the Home Office, that’s several million more civil servants; fifty-one percent for Education, mostly trying to teach the unreachable; and fifty percent more for Health.
“Alternately, the Defense budget has been increased by three percent, which represents of course a massive net loss to us who try to serve in it. It used to be one civil servant for every eleven soldiers, it’s now one and a half civil servants for every one soldier, which is, of course, bloody ridiculous.”
The words of the General absolutely stunned everyone around the table. But Robin Brenchley had the beleaguered Prime Minister on the run. And they both knew it. Right now, General Brenchley, Chief of Great Britain’s Defense Staff, was unsackable, and he intended to make the most of it.
“Because you and your Chancellor for some reason regard us, disdainfully, as spenders of the nation’s wealth, you have systematically undermined every branch of the armed services, all in the cause of your constant desire to seek savings. Your disdain for us has reached all ranks—their morale, their sense of self-worth, and their concerns for their future careers.
“Defense expenditure in this country has declined by thirty-five percent. One-third of our personnel has vanished. Our conventional submarine force has gone from thirty-five to twelve. The destroyer and frigate force is down from forty-eight to twenty-eight, our infantry battalions are down from fifty-five to thirty-eight. Our tank strength has fallen by forty-five percent. The number of effective fighter aircraft in the Royal Air Force remains at zero, where it has been ever since the Phantom was taken out of service.
“Prime Minister, five years ago, you and your Chancellor scrapped the only decent fighter-bomber the country possessed. Not only was it a highly effective all-weather interceptor, it could also operate as a ground attack fighter, a recce and probe aircraft, and as a ship strike aircraft. Furthermore, it could operate from the steel deck of an aircraft carrier anywhere in the world.
“I must tell you, Prime Minister, the loss of the Sea Harrier FA2 capability represents the loss of our fleet’s ability to defend itself. This applies also to its associated land forces and their ability to defend against any form of sophisticated air attack.
“We have no new carriers in sight. Which means we are left with Ark Royal , which is small, twenty-five years old, with only ground attack aircraft and helicopters on its deck. And the Illustrious at three months’ notice, and even older.
“We do not even have the air defense capability of Sea Harrier FA1, which we had in 1982. Today we face a greatly improved Argentinian Air Force. The FA2, which you so carelessly discarded, was, I must remind you, armed with a fully integrated missile system that could engage four aircraft, or even sea-skimming missiles, simultaneously, at ranges out to thirty-five miles, at speeds up to Mach 3.
“That little Sea Harrier effectively won the war for us in the Falklands in 1982.
“As you know, you and your financial ministers forced this brilliant little warhorse out of service, well before the planned date, purely because of cost. And with a statement we all regarded as madness, your Defense Minister—” Barely pausing, the General rasped, “Not you, Caulfield”—and then continued, “Your Defense Minister announced the Harrier’s replacement would be the Harrier GR7 or 9. Understandable. That’s the only fixed-wing aircraft we have left, which will operate from the deck of a small carrier.
“ But , the GR7/9 is a small STOVL ground attack aircraft with no radar. It can carry two advanced short-range air-to-air missiles—ASRAAM—for strictly visual launch. That means daylight and good visibility only. And the damn thing flies for only one and a half miles. By the way, it was called advanced more than thirty years ago. Now the bloody thing belongs in the Victoria and Albert Museum.
“And you may require me to order the Navy into battle—with that ? And I should remind you, we don’t have even one fighter attack aircraft on the Mount Pleasant Airfield. And if we did, it would sure as hell be destroyed by now. So much for your economies. I suggest you stand up in the House of Commons later today and tell them what you have done.”
For the second time in just a very few hours, the Prime Minister of Great Britain thought it entirely possible that he might throw up. He felt as though he had been hit by a truck, and this bombastic damn General was walking all over him. Christ , he thought, if this man ever gets loose in the newspapers, he’ll finish me. He could actually bring down the government .
But it was the newspapers and the television that really bothered him, and it was clear there was no sense arguing with the military. “General,” he said, in his most conciliatory manner, “I am certain that all of my colleagues understand your point of view…”
“Not a point of view, Prime Minister,” interjected the General. “Just a few plain, simple, irrefutable facts.”
“Of course—nothing you say is in dispute. It’s just that this has all been so damned sudden, it came at us all like a bolt from the blue…”
“Did it?” said General Brenchley. “Did it indeed, Prime Minister?” His voice dripped with irony.
“Well, certainly it has tonight. And I think it would be wise for us to fight the battle we’re in, rather than several battles that have been fought, won, and lost in the past. I mean that, of course, metaphorically.”
Peter Caulfield stepped in to save his boss. “General,” he said, “I think the Prime Minister is actually looking at a worst-case scenario. What happens if Parliament demands we go and retake the Falkland Islands with military force? We cannot just tell them it’s impossible.”
“Well, it is.”
“General, I realize there are substantial difficulties. Of course, we all do, and most of them certainly not your doing. But if Parliament demands we act, is there any hope we could pull something out of the bag like last time, in 1982?”
“We have two old aircraft carriers and four active squadrons of the Harrier GR7/9. I suppose we could muster a naval force at least to go down there. The GR9 can fly off a carrier, but without the Harrier FA2 we have no Combat Air Patrols, CAPs…only last-ditch air defense for the fleet.
“By that I mean we have nothing to stop all incoming Argentine bombers, and some are bound to get through. I’m only talking about aircraft carrying two thousand-pound iron b
ombs, any one of which is capable of sinking a ship. They will explode this time too, like they did in HMS Coventry in 1982. She sank in twenty minutes.
“Our missile system has no time to do anything about it, except shoot down the A4, after it’s delivered its bombs and is on its way home. By which time it’s a bit bloody late.”
The General offered hardly a ray of hope. “If we had the new aircraft carrier the government promised, and just a dozen of those Harriers, we’d probably beat them…high CAPs swooping down on the A4s before they could attack. If we had both the aircraft carriers, as promised, and two dozen Harriers, we’d wipe them out. But we don’t.”
“Any chance of the new Eurofighter being advanced in time?”
“None. The bloody thing will be two years late, never mind one year early.”
“Will the Army have a view?”
“Yes, a very simple one…they will refuse to make a landing without air cover…and the only air cover they have is the GR9, which can’t see anything in bad weather and carries a missile that flies only a mile and a half.”
“And we cannot provide anything else?” asked Eltringham.
“Not against those French Mirage IIIs. But Foreign Minister, in answer to the original question…yes, I suppose we could mount some sort of a show, although the soldiers don’t even have decent boots, unless they bought them themselves.
“And there is one thing I want to make absolutely clear. If you propose to send several thousand of my troops and the crews of Royal Navy ships to what I regard as certain death, you’d better make up your minds which of you will stand up before the British people and accept responsibility, as Members of Parliament who were acting against military advice.”
No one in the Cabinet room was anxious to step into that role. And the Prime Minister himself looked positively ashen.
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