The Speaker now pointed to Richard Cawley, a former chief executive of a high-tech surveillance corporation, and now Conservative Member for Barrow-in-Furness, home of Britain’s submarine builders. “Mr. Speaker,” he said, “I imagine most of the Honorable Members realize the Royal Navy’s conventional-weapon submarine fleet has been cut from almost thirty to only ten. It is perfectly obvious that the new aircraft carriers may not show up until 2016.
“We have no Harrier FA2 strike force. That was scrapped four years ago and does not exist. When it was withdrawn from service, that little fighter jet was generally regarded as the most capable, most respected All-Weather, Beyond-Visual-Range fighter in the entire European inventory. Its look-down, shoot-down, state-of-the-art Blue Vixen radar provided the capability to detect and destroy four targets simultaneously.
“Its AMRAAM weapons system was designed to detect and engage high-threat, small, fast targets like sea-skimming missiles. It was the only UK weapons system capable of defending the fleet against the new generation of antiship weapons, including the Krypton and the Moskit supersonic missile. And now it’s gone. And it was of course the first major step taken by this government toward British military impotence.
“I have no doubt that today you will be told we still have four squadrons of GR7/9 aircraft. They do fly off an aircraft carrier, but their radar and missiles are not in the same league as the Harrier FA2, and less capable than the Harrier FA1 of 1982.
“This also applies to the new Typhoon, which for years has failed to come up to scratch in any of its trials. Aside from being grotesquely late in its production, when it does arrive it will be touch and go whether the damn thing hits the enemy or a friend.
“Is the government finally admitting we cannot go to war with the equipment the Ministry of Defense has provided? If not, what is the reason the Prime Minister seems so reluctant to go to the South Atlantic?”
The enormity of Great Britain’s scandalous lack of naval air capacity was very steadily becoming obvious to the House. And MP after MP stood and regaled the House with assessments of the sheer humiliation Great Britain would suffer in the world community.
These patriotic pleas for the Government to show some resolution were interspersed by other Honorable Members railing against the deprivations of the military under this Prime Minister.
One MP stood up and revealed the scale of the cuts to the military budgets, which have resulted in mass reductions in training exercises, especially overseas; huge fuel reductions; reduced track mileage for tanks and other armored vehicles; reduced amounts of training ammunition; and less money for overseas training.
He explained how instant financial savings are made by delaying recruitment of trainees for six months of the year, and then attempting a recruiting drive for the second six months, thus avoiding paying salaries for maybe 6,000 recruits for a six-month period. Of course that doesn’t work because too many of them get fed up waiting.
One Member of Parliament pointed out that six British military policemen who were killed in the 2003/4 conflict north of Basra, surrounded by a rioting mob of five hundred Iraqis, had only radios that did not work in an urban environment. One mile away, he said, the paras fought it out for four hours with terrorists, but had satellite comms and were able to call in reinforcements for their decisive victory.
“The new British forces’ radio system is years late,” he added. “The soldiers’ clothing is moderate, especially their waterproofs, and their boots are a disgrace, often splitting in half in the first couple of weeks. Almost all British troops heading for a theater of war buy their own.
“I am unsurprised,” he said, “this government is not anxious to go south and fight for the Falkland Islands.”
The debate wore on into the late afternoon, and finally a motion was agreed: That the government should instruct the British Army to prepare to retake the Falkland Islands by military force from the Argentinians. And that the Ministry of Defense be ordered to show good cause within forty-eight hours if for any reason they considered the task untenable.
The motion was carried by a majority of 159 votes. Barring a major objection by the Royal Navy, Great Britain was going to war against the Republic of Argentina.
The Prime Minister looked as if he had seen a ghost. Exposed finally in the House of Commons for his folly in listening to his Chancellor and ignoring his Generals and Admirals, he found himself heading for the forefront of an ensuing battle, which, if lost, would surely see him removed in disgrace from Number 10 Downing Street.
He was the man who may have penny pinched his way to a military humiliation for Great Britain. What a total indignity for a politician as ambitious as the British Premier. As Darien Farr and his lovely wife, Loretta, might have put it at the Chequers dining table, I mean, this was like, wow!
0800, FEBRUARY 15, OFFICE OF THE C-IN-C
HOME FLEET, PORTSMOUTH DOCKYARD
SOUTHERN ENGLAND
The ministerial limousine was cooling its wheels outside the official home of Admiral Mark Palmer, the Royal Navy’s Commander in Chief, Home Fleet. This was a grand, imposing Queen Anne house hard by the jetties toward the end of the dockyard. Admiral Palmer’s formal office was in fact on board the nearby HMS Victory , Admiral Nelson’s magnificently restored flagship at the Battle of Trafalgar.
But much of the C-in-C’s work was carried out in naval offices here in his residence, with its views out to the waters of Great Britain’s still-feared fighting ships.
It was a place steeped in naval history. Portraits of legendary battle commanders and their ships adorned the walls. The whole building felt like an elegant ops room from the nineteenth century. If an admiral could not plan strategy in here, he probably couldn’t plan it anywhere.
Quite frankly, it gave Peter Caulfield the creeps. He never felt at home here, faced with the hard-eyed men who ran the Royal Navy, despite the obvious truth that he was their lord and master, as head of the Ministry of Defense.
He appreciated their courteous treatment of him, and their impeccable manners. But when he mentioned any government course of action of which they did not approve, their silent, penetrating stares made him feel, unaccountably, as if he was ripping the very heart out of England.
And this morning he dreaded the meeting more than usual. He was shown into Admiral Palmer’s drawing room and introduced to a heavily built, uniformed naval officer, the four stripes on his sleeve indicating the rank of Captain.
“Minister, I’d like you to meet Captain David Reader, commanding officer of our one serviceable aircraft carrier, HMS Ark Royal .
“She’s over there at the minute,” he added, pointing through the window. “As usual David’s brought her home safe and sound, with about a half million pounds’ worth of repairs to complete in the next couple of weeks.”
Captain Reader stepped forward and offered his hand, nodding coolly. “Good morning, Secretary of State,” he said. “Rather a rough ride you chaps endured in the House yesterday?”
Peter Caulfield stared across the Captain’s shoulder, out through the window toward the 20,000-ton, 685-foot-long Ark Royal , the modern successor to the first Ark Royal , which carried fifty-five guns as the flagship of Lord Howard of Effingham against the Spanish Armada in 1588.
Somehow, even without one shred of knowledge of naval history, the Defense Minister felt like a little boy in the presence of the man who operated that towering modern fortress at sea, moored on the other side of the harbor.
“Yes, it was a rather difficult time for the government,” replied Peter C
aulfield. “You see, strange as it may seem, we are incredibly concerned about loss of life in our armed forces, particularly in a potential war zone such as this in the South Atlantic, which holds just about nothing for us.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” interrupted Admiral Palmer, amiably. “I think there’s something to be said for honor. The Navy’s built on it, you know.”
Slightly embarrassed, feeling rebuked, Britain’s Minister of Defense said quickly, “Of course I understand that, Admiral. But even with our honor at stake, do you really wish to see perhaps two or three hundred of our best troops killed or wounded, essentially for nothing?”
“My dear Minister,” replied the Admiral, “we do not enter any conflict counting our dead before anything happens. We expect to enter a conflict and win; to misquote General Patton, we don’t intend to die for our country. We anticipate making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.”
“Yes, yes. Quite,” said Peter Caulfield. “That’s the way you must think…”
At that moment an orderly came into the room bearing hot coffee in a silver pot on a silver tray. There were three china cups and a plate of cookies.
“I’ll pour,” volunteered the Admiral. “Thank you, Charlie.”
“This is very kind,” said Peter Caulfield. “And I shall do my level best to have this over in a very short time, so you won’t have me for lunch…”
“Come now, Minister, we’re all on the same side in the end. I would be most hurt if you were not here for lunch…”
“Well, we’ll see how things turn out. But, as you know, I have a very specific purpose here. I am compelled to ask you whether the Royal Navy believes it possible to sail to the South Atlantic, fight off the Argentinian Navy and their quite formidable Air Force, and then put a sizeable land force on the beaches somewhere on the Falklands, and fight yard by yard for the territory? That’s my question.”
“Do you want my personal opinion or my official response?”
“Let’s start with the official response.”
“Very well, Minister. I, and all my officers, are loyal servants of the Crown. If the Parliament of Great Britain decides we must go and fight for those islands, we’ll go. It’s not our place to argue the toss whether it’s worth it, even whether it’s right. We have all taken the Queen’s shilling, as it were, for most of our service lives. If we are asked to go out and earn it, possibly the hard way, then so be it.”
“Captain Reader?”
“Same.”
“And your personal view, Admiral?”
“We have a rather greater chance of defeat now than we had in 1982, and even that was a bit of a close-run thing.”
“And your principal reason for that view?”
“Oh, definitely the loss of the Harrier FA2, Minister. With that, we always had a chance in the air. Now we do not even have a fighter aircraft.”
Peter Caulfield nodded. “And may I ask the commanding officer of our aircraft carrier the same question?”
“Again, much the same, sir. Except to add that Ark Royal is a quarter of a century old. She’s tired, she’s feeling her age. Every time we go out we return with some operational defect. This time it’s her starboard driveshaft. May need a new one.
“It’s a very distant war for an old lady. Eight thousand miles down there, and if she goes wrong, we’d be in shocking trouble, thousands of miles from a garage, in bad weather and under constant enemy attack.”
“But you’d still go if you were asked?”
“Yessir.”
Admiral Palmer stood up. He poured himself a little more coffee, and said, “Minister, it’s how we were all brought up. It’s what I call the Jervis Bay syndrome. That was an old fourteen-thousand-ton passenger ship converted into an armed merchant cruiser for convoy escort in the North Atlantic in World War Two. They mounted seven old six-inch guns on her deck.
“She was commanded by Captain E. S. Fogarty Fegen RN. And one morning they came in sight of the German pocket battleship Admiral Scheer . Instantly Captain Fegen ordered the seventeen-ship supply convoy to scatter, and, in an action he must have known was suicidal, he turned his ship to engage the enemy.
“It took the Scheer about thirty minutes to lambaste and sink the Jervis Bay , by which time the convoy had vanished, far and wide, over the horizon. When rescuers turned up that evening to pick up survivors, Captain Fegen was not among them. They gave him a posthumous Victoria Cross for that.
“It was the same with Lt. Commander Roope VC, of the Glow-worm , also in World War Two. In desperation, with his ship on fire and sinking beneath him, he turned and rammed the big German cruiser Hipper . Took her with him.
“That’s what we do, Minister. We’ll fight, if necessary to the death, just as our predecessors did, just as we’ve been taught. And should, one day, our luck run out, and we should be required to face a superior enemy, we’ll still go forward, fighting until our ship is lost.”
Peter Caulfield took a few moments to compose himself after that. He stood up and walked to the sideboard to refresh his coffee cup, and he did not turn to face the two commanders because he did not wish to seem so affected.
But he was. And all he could manage was, “Then you will not declare the Royal Navy unable to sail to the South Atlantic to fight for the Falkland Islands?”
“No, Minister, I will not say that. Not on any account. And neither would any other Admiral who has occupied this office during the last two or three hundred years.”
“However bad it may look? However the odds are stacked against you?”
“No, Minister. The Royal Navy will not refuse to go. Jervis Bay sacrificed herself to save the convoy. If, of necessity, we must do the same, to save you and your boss, we will not refuse to go.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
Peter Caulfield vacated Portsmouth Dockyard shortly before noon and headed straight back to Downing Street. Which was significant only because he missed lunch with the Chief of the Defense Staff, Sir Robin Brenchley, and the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Rodney Jeffries, who arrived in Portsmouth in a staff car directly from Whitehall.
Peter Caulfield had made a sensible move in leaving before lunch. Because the following two hours would be as grave and depressing as the late afternoon of October 21, 1805, when Admiral Nelson died on the lower deck of HMS Victory at Trafalgar.
The two Admirals, one Captain, and one General were after all discussing the total demise of the Royal Navy, and the likelihood of possibly the worst defeat in the history of Britain’s Senior Service.
“We don’t have much,” said Admiral Palmer. “So, do we take everything down there, and leave just sufficient here to fight another day? Or do we just say the hell with it and take the lot?”
“We have so little, I’m afraid we’ll have to take the lot, the whole Navy,” said the First Sea Lord. “If it’s anybody, it’s everybody. We don’t have fifty destroyers and frigates anymore, we have only eighteen, and three of them are in refit. We hardly have enough to provide a proper escort for the carrier.”
“You say carrier in the singular,” said General Brenchley. “I thought we had two?”
“One of them, Illustrious, is more than thirty years old. We can’t take her, she’d probably never make the journey, never mind a battle.”
“Can Ark Royal make it?”
<
br /> “Just about,” said Captain Reader, “but not for long. The wear and tear on any warship in a sea-battle environment, and that weather, is very high. I’d give her six weeks maximum, and that’s only if our luck holds.”
“If anything,” said Admiral Palmer, “the aircraft situation is even more serious. I suppose we could rustle up a couple of dozen GR9s, but they cannot fly at night, and in bad weather they can’t see a bloody thing.
“Robin,” he added, “we have no air defense. None. And the quicker everyone accepts that the better. This damn government has dug a bloody great hole for itself and jumped into it.”
General Brenchley, a powerfully built son of a Kentish pub owner, had fought his way up the ranks of the British Army to the very pinnacle of the service. He would have made it big anywhere. He was tough, inclined not to panic, inhumanly decisive, and had commanded his paras in both Iraqi wars. Also, he had been a close friend of Admiral Jeffries since childhood, both having attended Maidstone Grammar School, in Kent.
Never in their fifty-year friendship had Admiral Jeffries seen the bullnecked Army chief so utterly distraught. General Brenchley was pacing the room, shaking his head, torn between obedience to Her Majesty’s government, which he had sworn to serve, and the shocking possibility of casualties beyond the call of duty.
“Rodney, old boy, I suppose we have to decide,” he murmured. “Will we allow X thousand men to die, or do we all resign and let this witless Prime Minister and his shoddy little group of ex-communist friends get on with it?”
An appalled silence enveloped the room. “It seems to me,” said the First Sea Lord, “the PM is finished either way. If we, and our principal staff, quit, he’d have to resign because of the uproar. No politician could weather that storm. If we agreed to go and fight for the islands, and were defeated by a greater enemy, he’d also have to quit. Either way, he’s done. But in the first instance we’d save many thousands of lives.”
Ghost Force Page 17