Ghost Force

by Patrick Robinson

  They rested after a mile, placing the Commander on the ground, trying to give him water, but he seemed unaware and his head kept falling back, and Doug was worrying the morphine had somehow had a bad effect.

  But they could see the channel out in front now, and the remainder of the walk was downhill, and they hoisted up the stretcher again and walked on down toward the water. Rick’s eyes were open now, but it was obvious that some kind of delirium was setting in, and he was murmuring something none of them could make out.

  “Come on, guys, keep going…I’m afraid we’re losing him…if that poison gets right into his system we will lose him … ” There was an urgency to Doug’s voice now.

  They all knew the clock was ticking for Rick. It was 1105, and they could not expect any rescuer, whoever it might be, to hang around in this hostile Argentinian territory for long. Doug said, “Gimme one of the ammunition belts round my neck…that’s about all I can manage.”

  They reached the riverbank and stumbled down the steep slope toward the water. Mike was aiming the TACBE everywhere along the shore. But there was a light mist over the water and they could not see more than about fifty yards. And they waited for five minutes and then ten…and then Mike Hook heard it, the unmistakable growl of big engines crawling along the shoreline.

  Two minutes later they saw it, a gray, 450-ton fast-attack naval patrol craft, flying a national flag off its mast, red and white horizontal halves, with a white star on black in the top left-hand corner.

  “It’s Chile,” said Dallas.

  But now the craft had seen them and the helmsman held her on the engine in the fast current. The SEAL team waved, and they could see a big rubber inflatable being launched, and then heading into the deep rocky shore. On board was a young Chilean officer, who just said, “No speak, yet. Just hurry. Get injured men in right now. I come back for last two.”

  Five minutes later they were all on board the Israeli-built gunboat Chipana, speeding across the channel toward Chilean waters and the Navy base at Puerto William on Chile’s own south side.

  The young officer smiled and said, “I’m not too sure who you are, but you must be real important. Orders came down from very high, right from HQ at Valparaiso…very simple…get you guys out of Argentina no matter what. GPS very accurate…good, eh?”

  They all shook hands at last, but Rick Hunter was now unconscious, and the Chilean Sub-Lieutenant Gustavo Frioli told them, “Doctor waiting. We get messages.”

  And they made it just in time. The naval doctor, Commander Cesar Delpino, had trained at Houston Medical Center, and he recognized a dire emergency when he saw one. They took the Commander immediately into a spotless, white-painted emergency room, and he administered a powerful dose of antibiotics, and placed him instantly on an IVD.

  By the following morning, Tuesday, May 3, Rick was stabilized, the poison in his system under control. He was still extremely feverish, and Commander Delpino thought they should wait another twenty-four hours before removing two machine-gun bullets embedded in his thigh.

  Rick asked him if he would perform the operation himself. But the Chilean doctor told him no, someone else had arrived.

  “A top Chilean specialist, I hope,” said Commander Hunter, grinning.

  “No. Your surgeon will be American.”

  “American!” said Rick. “Where’s he coming from?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s here. They arrived about two hours ago.”

  “Who? How?” said Rick, sounding much like a Chinese waiter.

  “The American submarine. It’s right out there, beyond those buildings, alongside.”

  “What submarine?”

  “Well, Major, I can see it’s a U.S. Navy L.A.-class nuclear boat, maybe seven thousand tons…it’s called Toledo… I hear the plan is for her to wait here for a few days and then take you all home.”

  “How’s she going to do that, straight along the Beagle Channel and up the Atlantic?”

  “No, Major. They’ll go the other way, slowly west through the much deeper water around Gordon Island and then Cook Bay, out into the Pacific. They can go deep there and then turn north up the coastline to your aircraft carrier.”

  “That’s a long way, eh?”

  “Ah, yes, Commander. A long way, but a safe way. Out of shallow enemy waters, not on the surface.”

  “How about the doctor?”

  Commander Delpino laughed. “I don’t know about him.”

  The following morning Lt. Commander James Scott met Rick Hunter for the first time, in the operating room. They shook hands briefly, and the U.S. Navy surgeon said, “This isn’t going to take long. You’ve been in good hands. No infection. We’re leaving for home this afternoon.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” said Rick.

  “I’m going to give you a shot of Pentothal…in your forearm…try to count to ten, but you won’t get there…then I’m going to take those two bullets out.”

  Rick counted, made it to three, and the world went blissfully blank for just thirty minutes. When he awoke, it was done. The leg was strapped, the pain bearable, and Dallas MacPherson and Douglas Jarvis were standing by his bed.

  “Well done, sir,” said the Lt. Commander from South Carolina. “We all wanna thank you.” And, with an obvious air of admiration, he offered his hand to the SEAL Team Leader. Dallas himself would never comprehend the majestic embrace of that compliment.

  And Rick Hunter’s war was over.

  0930, THURSDAY, MAY 5

  CASA ROSADA

  BUENOS AIRES

  The military communication from the commandant of the Rio Grande air base had been decoded and presented in hard copy by Admiral Oscar Moreno to the President of the Republic of Argentina.

  It read:

  Rio Grande, Wednesday, May 4. Attack on this base on the night of May 1 and the subsequent air and ground pursuit of the heavily armed intruders has resulted in the total loss of twelve Super-Etendard fighter-bombers, two military patrol Jeeps, eleven guards, four Puma attack helicopters, and twelve aircrew. The identity of the enemy remains unknown. None have been killed, wounded, or detained. Lt. Commander Ricardo Testa, head of air base Security, is currently under arrest awaiting court-martial.

  The President of Argentina could hardly believe his eyes. And yet, somehow, he could. And his mind flashed back to the veiled threats contained in the communiqué from the White House that had arrived the previous week, the one to which he had not replied.

  He turned to his Defense Minister, Admiral Horacio Aguardo, and then to Admiral Moreno and General Eduardo Kampf. “Gentlemen,” he said, “either directly or indirectly we are being sucked into a war with the United States of America…and, by any means, we have to stop it.”

  All three of them nodded in agreement. “Further defiance from us,” said Admiral Moreno, “may very well mean the Pentagon will come out into the open and slam the entire Rio Grande base, not to mention Rio Gallegos and maybe even Mount Pleasant…and there appears to be nothing we can do about it.”

  “Also, we scarcely have a leg to stand on,” said Admiral Aguardo. “The USA will plead its case to the United Nations, explaining that Argentina committed an act of international piracy, smashed the Royal Navy Fleet in international waters, and stole a legal British colony, plus two billion dollars’ worth of U.S. oil and gas.”

  “I think we are of accord, gentlemen,” said the President. “I shall accept the America
n terms for the future of the Islas Malvinas . Not because I want to, but because I have no choice.”

  Again, all three men nodded their assent.

  0900, THURSDAY, MAY 5

  THE OVAL OFFICE

  Admiral Morgan liked what he saw. He liked it very much. President Paul Bedford was just smiling and shaking his head. The communiqué from the President of Argentina was perfect:

  My regrets for the delay in replying to your previous dispatches, and I trust you will understand my government has been totally preoccupied in reestablishing normal working and living conditions among the good citizens of the Islas Malvinas.

  Now, in the interests of peace and trade, we are prepared to accept your terms and suggestions for a lasting treaty, and a thoughtful handover of the islands from Great Britain to the Republic of Argentina over a two-year period.

  We do require international acceptance of the Islas Malvinas becoming a sovereign territory of Argentina by the year 2013, and we call upon both Great Britain and the USA to ensure this is understood by the Security Council of the United Nations.

  We regret the unfortunate events that led to the expulsion of the innocent personnel of both ExxonMobil and British Petroleum from the legally owned oil and gas fields on the islands. And we agree to their immediate restoration—under fair royalty considerations for the Republic of Argentina.

  I will be joined by my senior envoys and advisers in Washington next week, beginning May 9, and look forward to a cordial meeting with you in order to bring these matters to a mutually agreeable conclusion.

  “Thank you, Admiral,” said President Bedford.

  “My pleasure,” replied Arnold Morgan.

  MONDAY, MAY 16

  EASTERN PACIFIC OCEAN

  The Nimitz-class aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan steamed steadily north, a thousand miles off the coast of Peru. The eight-man Navy SEAL team had been on board for almost a week, and would remain so until they docked in San Diego, 2,640 miles and five days hence.

  Commander Hunter was still recuperating from his thigh wound, and was undergoing daily therapy in one of the ship’s gyms. The Navy surgeon had decided to insert ten stitches into the gash on Captain Jarvis’s upper arm.

  The two of them were watching a satellite broadcast of the evening news before dinner when the anchorman announced that terms had been agreed for the peaceful transition of power from Great Britain to Argentina over the Falkland Islands. He added that executives of ExxonMobil and British Petroleum had been present at the talks in the White House and that the two oil giants were returning to the oil and gas fields in both South Georgia and East Falkland.

  There was a film clip of the men arriving at Mare Harbor in an ExxonMobil tanker, and a further clip of Exxon’s President, Clint McCluskey, saying what a privilege it had been to work with the President of the USA and reach a “one hundred percent oilman’s deal.” Fair but firm, that’s the Texan way, the way George Dubya himself would have done it. Yessir.

  “You think we had something to do with all that, Rick?” asked Captain Jarvis.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised, kid. Not at all,” said Commander Hunter, knowingly.

  SATURDAY, MAY 21

  SPEED 7, DEPTH 400, COURSE 360

  Captain Gregor Vanislav was tiptoeing slowly north up the Atlantic. They’d been running for five weeks now, and Viper K-157 was 8,000 miles north of the Falkland Islands, 8,000 miles north of the sunken war grave that was once HMS Ark Royal .

  He had been ultra-wary all the way, sliding quietly through the deep waters, slowing and listening for the sounds of a U.S. or British attack submarine, staying clear of the land, following the line of the North Atlantic Ridge.

  And now he was beyond the ridge, 450 miles west of southern Ireland, headed for the shallower waters of the Rockall Rise, and then 600 miles farther to the northeast, into the GIUK Gap.

  Right now, moving stealthily in deep waters, west of County Kerry, Captain Vanislav was entering the most dangerous waters of his long journey. This was the business end of the North Atlantic, where the U.S. Navy’s underwater surveillance system (SOSUS) was likely to miss nothing.

  It was right here, many weeks ago, when Viper had first been detected, but then lost. If Gregor Vanislav could negotiate the next eight hundred miles safely he would have a trouble-free run home to Murmansk. If he were picked up on the grid of SOSUS wires on the seabed, he could expect the navies of the U.S. and UK to come looking.

  The Russian submarine commander assumed that by now, someone, somewhere, knew that the Ark Royal had been sunk by torpedoes, and not by bombs delivered by the Argentine Air Force. The key to the safety of his ship and his crew was stealth, slow, quiet running.

  And the farther north he went, the less suspicion there would be. Any Russian ship had the right to run through these international waters. Indeed, they had to run through here, since it was the only way the Russian Navy had to reach the rest of the world.

  “Just get through the gap,” he muttered. “That’s all. And then we’re safe.”

  SIX DAYS LATER, FRIDAY, MAY 27

  LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY

  The U.S. Army’s latest Bell Super Cobra helicopter came clattering out of the sky above the long lawn alongside the main house at Hunter Valley Farm. It had traveled eighty miles from Fort Campbell Military Base on the Tennessee border, and it was carrying just two passengers.

  Diana Hunter had been worried almost senseless for the past five weeks, because the rigid secrecy surrounding highly classified Special Forces operations had made it impossible for her to discover anything, not even whether her husband and brother were dead or alive.

  She watched the Cobra land with her heart missing every other beat, half expecting to see Admiral John Bergstrom emerge personally to break the worst possible news to her. But the first person to disembark was the unmistakable Captain Douglas Jarvis, lean, athletic, hatless, wearing a short-sleeved U.S. Navy white shirt.

  She saw him raise up his left arm to assist the second passenger down the steps, and she watched the mighty figure of her husband step carefully down onto the grass, betraying only the slightest limp. And then she literally ripped open the French doors, flew down the wide stone steps, and ran across the grass, hurling herself into the arms of Commander Hunter, tears streaming down her face.

  She could manage no words except, “Thank God, thank God!” over and over. Until finally she turned to her beloved little brother, who was standing there grinning, a picture of health, his profession betrayed only by the bandage still covering his upper right arm.

  Helplessly she shook her head, and asked lamely, “Are you both injured? Were you in the most terrible danger?”

  “Nah,” replied Rick Hunter. “But I guess we had our moments.”

  EPILOGUE

  SATURDAY, MAY 28, 2011

  NORTH ATLANTIC 62.40N 11.20W

  SPEED 7, DEPTH 400, COURSE 53.00

  Viper K-157 ran slowly northeasterly up through the GIUK Gap, heading stealthily for Mother Russia. At times Captain Gregor Vanislav cut the speed even more, to only five knots, which was just sufficient to make the surface on emergency propulsion, without wallowing, should the nuclear system fail. He was a very sound submarine CO.

  And he understood fully the perils
of the GIUK, where the U.S. and Royal Navy listening systems were so electrifyingly sensitive. He knew he might be detected, at whatever speed, and simply concentrated on trying to bend the odds in his favor.

  They were west of the Faeroe Isles now, just east of the central dividing line between the UK and Iceland, heading into the Norwegian Sea. And Captain Vanislav did not consider they had been detected. But in this he was wrong. The U.S. listening stations on the east coast of Greenland and the one on the southeast coast of Iceland had both detected a transient contact moving slowly northeast.

  They had each assessed the tiny paint on the screen as a submarine, and in Iceland they had sufficient data to list it, “Russian nuclear, probably Akula class. Nothing else correlates on friendly or Russian nets.” The clincher came from the British, from the ultrasecret surveillance station near Machrihanish on Scotland’s far western Atlantic shore of Kintyre.

  The sonar operators there, positioned considerably nearer than their American colleagues, had picked up Viper two days ago and identified it immediately, a Russian nuclear boat, running deep, slowly, almost certainly an Akula class, series II.

  They immediately had the submarine positioned in a wide hundred-mile square, but over the next forty-eight-hours, by process of elimination, and two further detections, they now had the submarine in a ten-mile square. The SOSUS system was on red alert for her predicted position the next time she crossed the undersea wire.

  In the blackest of all possible Black Ops, two U.S. hunter-killer submarines, fifty miles apart, guided by the satellites, were patrolling the northern reaches of the GIUK, closing in as the Viper moved unsuspectingly forward.