Lion Resurgent

by Stuart Slade

  LION RESURGENT

  Stuart Slade

  Dedication

  This book is respectfully dedicated to the members of the Comision Nacional sobre la Desaparicion de Personas, (CONADEP) whose work on Argentina’s Dirty War started the “justice cascade” trend leading to the implementation of new practices that provide more accountability for human rights violations

  Acknowledgements

  Lion Resurgent could not have been written without the very generous help of a large number of people who contributed their time, input and efforts into confirming the technical details of the story. Some of these generous souls I know personally, others I know only via the internet as the collective membership of “The Board” yet their communal wisdom and vast store of knowledge, freely contributed, has been truly irreplaceable.

  I must also express a particular debt of gratitude to my wife Josefa for without her kind forbearance, patient support and unstintingly generous assistance, this novel would have remained nothing more than a vague idea floating in the back of my mind.

  Caveat

  Lion Resurgent is a work of fiction, set in an alternate universe. All the characters appearing in this book are fictional and any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental. Although some names of historical characters appear, they do not necessarily represent the same people we know in our reality.

  Copyright © 2011 Stuart Slade

  ISBN 978-1-257-89964-7

  Previous Books In This Series Available From Lulu Press

  Winter Warriors….(1945)

  The Big One….(1947)

  Anvil of Necessity….(1948)

  The Great Game….(1959)

  Crusade….(1965)

  Ride of The Valkyries….(1972)

  Lion Resurgent….(1982)

  Coming Shortly

  A Mighty Endeavor….(1940)

  PART ONE SOBERANIA

  CHAPTER ONE TOOLS OF THE TRADE

  Karoo Desert, South Africa, October 1981

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, McMullen Industries is proud to present the corporation’s latest contribution to the defense of our country, the Boomslang tank destroyer!”

  A low, sinister-looking vehicle accelerated out of its hide in front of the gathered crowd and turned to face the six target vehicles parked on the range in front of it. Its tracks threw a cloud of dust as they churned the thin, dry soil of the Karou, almost hiding the vehicle in its own private smokescreen. The Boomslang stopped. Something happened on the superstructure aft of the driver’s compartment. Two half-cylinders mounted on the upper decking rotated, exposing the anti-tank missiles mounted on the rails integral to the cylinder. A tongue of red flame shot out as one of the anti-tank missiles streaked across the range, burning up the 4,000 meters to the first target. It hit squarely on the front of the old tank, sending a great pyre of smoke shot with rolling orange flames skywards.

  Before the missile had reached the halfway point to its target, the Boomslang fired again. The second missile streaked off towards the target at the other end of the range. This time, the audience gasped in dismay, the missile was obviously flying too high and would overshoot its target. It did. The instant it started to pass over the old tank it had been aimed at, the warhead detonated. Fragments lashed through the thin top armor of the vehicle. The second tank joined the first; reduced to wreckage crowned by the column of black, flame-laced smoke. The crowd erupted into cheers as the implications of a top-attack missile sank in.

  The third and fourth missiles followed the same pattern, rapid fire pairs that turned their targets into blazing wrecks. For a second, the Boomslang was silent. Only two targets were left, the outer members of the original line almost two kilometers apart.

  Suddenly, the Boomslang fired two missiles simultaneously. The weapons raced across the desert to see which would reach its target first. As it happened, it was a dead heat. Both remaining targets exploded simultaneously. The crowd went wild at the demonstration.

  “And, ladies and gentlemen, let’s see an SU-130 do that!”

  Out on the range, the Boomslang turned around and drove towards the watching spectators. A few meters short of them, it stopped. Inside the driving compartment, the driver reached for the suspension controls. He lowered the nose of the vehicle and raised the rear so that it appeared to be taking a bow in response to the applause. The crowd thundered their approval. Hatches opened and the crew emerged; the driver from his position beside the forward-mounted diesel, the commander behind him and the two missile controllers from their positions just in front of the missile launch rails.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause for the McMullen Industries Boomslang and its crew!”

  Auditorium, McMullen Industries Head Office, Capetown, South Africa.

  A thunderous round of applause swept the room as the film finished. The last few inches of the 35mm reel rattled as it went through the projector gate. The hammering as delighted stockholders pounded on the desks built into their seats sounded almost like gunfire; it went on for minutes. In front of the audience, three men sat watching the display with broad grins on their faces. This wasn’t the first such applause they’d received at one of these meetings but that didn’t make it any the less welcome. Eventually, the ovation subsided and quieted completely as the man at the center of the head table raised one hand.

  “Thank you, but I’m pleased to say that we have more good news for you.” John McMullen looked at the audience who were virtually holding their breaths. He’d come a long way since he and the two men sitting beside him had started this company up in the desperate days of 1949. He’d arrived in South Africa with a wife, a few sovereigns as capital and very little else. He still had the wife. Now he had children and grandchildren to go with her and more sovereigns than he could count. “The South African Defense Forces have, this morning, placed an order for 800 Boomslang tank destroyers to re-equip the anti-tank battalions in all twelve of our infantry divisions.”

  He paused again as the audience once more erupted into cheers. Eight hundred vehicles was a big order, one that would keep McMullen Industries (President John McMullen, Vice-President Jorgie Vermaak, CEO Deke Van Huis) working full-time for years. A company that was working full time with a packed order book was a sound investment. That meant good dividends for the stockholders. As the audience allowed their delight to subside, one of the stockholders tapped the microphone in front of him.

  “I think I express the feelings of us all when I say, congratulations, gentlemen! A great day for the company I am sure. Can we assume that the Boomslangs on order will be armed with the anti-tank missile we have just seen?”

  McMullen spoke to the figure on his right. It went without saying that VerTech Inc (President Jorgie Vermaak, Vice President Deke Van Huis, CEO John McMullen) would be supplying the missiles for the new tank destroyer but it did no harm to confirm the fact. Vermaak leaned forward slightly. “I am not sure, John, will you be ordering our Mamba missiles for the Boomslang?”

  “Provided the price is right Jorgie, I think you can count on it.” This time the laugh in the theater was full-bodied and almost outdid the applause of a few minutes before. Everybody in the room took it for granted that an order for the Boomslang meant an order for the Mamba. Just as certainly it also meant an order for the TV8 diesel engine produced by Van Huis Engineering (President Deke Van Huis, Vice President John McMullen, CEO Jorgie Vermaak). Cartoonists in the South African press never tired of depicting the conglomerate as a three-headed beast wielding a sword against South Africa’s enemies. Whether the beast in question was a hound, a snake or a buffalo depended on the newspaper. The three companies were joined at the hip and that was simply how things were. Now the original founders were gett
ing on in years and starting to think of making a graceful exit from the companies they had founded. The next generation were moving up to take their place. Their links were even tighter than those of their parents for the three families had thoroughly intermarried over the years.

  “Is the Boomslang available for export?” Another shareholder spoke up as the laughter ebbed away.

  “It is indeed, and I am pleased to say we have already had a letter of intent for our first export order. I cannot say who it is from, other than the country in question is European, until the order is signed. We expect that to happen next week and we will announce the customer then. Now, ladies and gentlemen, if there are no further questions?” McMullen looked around, the room was quiet. “We have a lunch buffet in the next room. Please help yourselves.”

  There would be a good spread out there; everybody knew it. Some companies prided themselves on bringing in rare delicacies and exotic dishes for their company luncheons. Not McMullen Industries. There would be roasts out there, the best meat that money could buy, but simple roasts none the less. The side dishes would be equally simple; vegetables and puddings, roasted, baked or steamed. There was just one peculiarity about hospitality at McMullen Industries. Surplus food was never thrown away. If it wasn’t eaten by the guests, take-home packages would be available for them. Any still left would be donated to a hospital, local shelter for the homeless or anything else that seemed appropriate, but never thrown away.

  McMullen watched the shareholders leaving the auditorium and sighed happily. He’d never quite lost the feeling of insecurity that had come from a youth spent working in a British shipyard where a man could lose his livelihood at literally a minute’s notice. It left him with an urgent desire to ensure that his companies had full order books and for that fact to be well-known to even his lowliest employees. “You think the Brits will go for Mamba, Jorgie?”

  Vermaak nodded. “They will. We’ve got the range edge over the Yank and Ivan missiles and the top attack capability is a big thing running for us. With the armor the newtanks are carrying….“

  The three men nodded sagely. For their own, wildly differing, reasons, the Americans and Russians both needed to reduce their manpower losses in war. The Americans had an aversion to casualties that was irrational almost to the point of being pathological. The Russians, bled white during the Second World War, simply didn’t have the men to lose. One effect of their joint concern had been the development of a generation of battle tanks with massive frontal armor protection. Both the new M-81 Abrams and the T-80 Koniev had frontal armor that was virtually impregnable. The Indian Saradara tank was much the same and it was rumored that the Australian Monash III was also being designed along the similar lines. Vertech had come up with an answer. The Mamba missile would, as the film of the trials had shown, overfly the target and direct a downward-facing shaped charge jet into the vulnerable top surfaces. How it was done was a South African military secret although nobody had any illusions about how long that would last once somebody else got hold of one.

  “What does your boy reckon, Deke?” McMullen had more than a professional interest, Bastiaan van Huis wasn’t just a conscript serving out his three years in the South African Army, he was the husband of McMullen’s youngest daughter, Linda. Their daughter, Kimberley, would be having her fourth birthday soon. They were a good Boer couple: modest, devout and honest, a credit to their upbringing and community. In public, anyway. The Van Huis and Vermaak families had followed in the Afrikaans tradition of large families; after a delayed start, the McMullens had followed suite. Between them, the three had twenty first-generation offspring and the whole lot had run as a pack ever since they were old enough to walk. Eventually, as they’d grown up, they had split into pairs, married and settled down. They still kept together as a tightly-knit group. They kept up appearances and maintained the outward facade of being a set of exemplary young couples. Beyond that, their parents were careful not to ask.

  Van Huis stretched his legs out under the table. “Bassie doesn’t say too much about what’s happening on the border when Linda’s around.” The other two men nodded wisely. The details of soldiering weren’t for the ears of the womenfolk. Logically that was ridiculous; all the Afrikaans and English women were part of the local Kommando and knew how to defend their homes when their men were away. Old habits died hard, especially in the Afrikaans community. “But, over brandy, he doesn’t sweat too much about the Caff tanks. Mostly old and they don’t use them too well. It isn’t even the Caffs that are much of a problem any more. They’re never seen on the border any more since they went back into their shell after the Yanks bombed them ten years back. The French have smacked them stupid in Algeria and that put a stop to most of their games. It’s mostly tribal groups up there, none of them sane or civilized, and very pleased Bassie is to be in a tank I can tell you. Even an old Centurion.”

  McMullen looked around, they had the room to themselves while their shareholders were gorging themselves next door. “Might be he won’t have to be in an old Centurion much longer. I hear the Army’s looking at the Saradara. Big issue now is whether the Army buys them directly from the Indians or whether it gets a license to build them here. We might need to expand our plant if they go for license production. Assuming a good contra-deal can be worked out of course.”

  “And the contra-deal would be Boomslangs?” Vermaak was grinning broadly at the thought of the huge Indian Army buying his Mamba missiles. An order that size would mean his plant would need expanding as well.

  “Could be, could be.” McMullen contemplated the same idea with satisfaction. “Now, let’s join our shareholders before those vultures eat all the food.”

  Blackburn Buccaneer S4H XT-279, North Sea.

  There was an old joke about the Buccaneer. Blackburn didn’t build them, they took a block of solid steel and carved them out as one piece. Known affectionately as ‘The Banana’ to its crews, the Buccaneer might not be the fastest naval strike bomber around. It wasn’t the longest ranged and it didn’t carry the largest bomb load but it was undoubtedly the toughest. It was probably also the most stable. Making its attack runs skimming a few feet above the waves meant it had to be. Those were characteristics that were indispensable to use the weapon it carried, Highball had to be dropped at a very specific speed and altitude. The speed was high and the altitude low. Put together they represented a demanding set of requirements. Too demanding in many ways. Highball had been a brilliant idea when it had first been conceived back in the 1950s but times had changed. Devastating it might be, but using it meant that the Bananas had to approach dangerously close to their targets. A new missile was being developed to replace Highball but that wouldn’t be available for years.

  Three green lines emerged on the head-up display; two vertical green bars at the side, one a horizontal bar at the base. The art was to keep the bottom line aligned with the horizon while the two green bars moved inwards. When they touched the bow and stern of the target ship, in this case an old A class destroyer, it was time to press the release and drop the two Highballs stowed in the rotary bomb bay under the Banana.

  Lieutenant-Commander Ernest Mullback felt more than heard the whine as the bomb bay opened. However, the vibration as the Highball installation spun its two bombs up to speed was very clearly distinguishable from the thumps caused by fast, low-altitude flight and the shaking from the Spey engines. Ahead of him, the target hulk was approaching fast. The green lines on the head-up display edged in towards the old ship’s hull. He kept his hands on his controls, using very precise, delicate movements to shift the target to the center of the display panel. This low, this fast, any violent motions on the controls were a recipe for disaster. Another way of killing oneself was to concentrate on the target display to the exclusion of all else. That happened now and then. Usually, it resulted in a Buccaneer flying straight into the sea.

  The green lines touched the bow and stern of the target ship. Mullback thumbed the release. Beneath h
is aircraft, two spherical Highballs dropped clear. This was the remarkable thing. As the bombs hit the surface of the sea, they skipped, a long flat arc that ended with another impact. Another skip then took them closer still to the old destroyer. By that time, they were far behind the racing Banana. Mullback flashed over the target ship long before the two Highballs slammed into its side. That was when another remarkable thing happened, remarkable to those who’d never seen Highball at work anyway. The bombs had a backspin. When they hit the side of the ship, they rolled down it, to explode under the keel. If the bombs were fully charged, the impact was devastating. The Highballs would snap the ship’s back and send a jet of water clean through her. A ship so hit would go down in minutes.

  But, these bombs weren’t fully charged. They just had a small burster and a large amount of red dye. In his mirror, Mullback saw the two bright crimson columns reaching up from the target ship. Both hits were square amidships, right under the single funnel. If they’d been real bombs, that destroyer would be finished. Even now, with reduced charges, her survival was in doubt. She was thirty years old and at the end of her life, her welds had deteriorated, her internal structure decayed. The Navy had done their best for her; everything possible was welded up and the ship was full of empty 55 gallon oil drums. They’d try to keep her afloat as long as they could. Behind him, Mullback saw his wingman make his run. Two more great crimson columns; two more solid hits. Highball may be an ageing weapon but it was still a deadly threat to any surface ship.

  “Time for home, Jerry?” The voice over the radio had a broad Scottish accent. Alasdair Baillie was a clansman through and through and wore his tartan proudly. He even had a SAC-like band of the green and dark blue-gray painted under his cockpit.

  “Hold one, Jock. We’ll see how second section does. They’re a pair of Sasenachs you know.”

  There was a snort over the radio, Baillie and Mullback frequently exchanged good-natured jabs over their respective ancestry and today was no exception. The two Buccaneers curved around and climbed, partly to get clear of the bombing range and partly so Mullback could watch the other two pilots in his flight make their bomb runs. Paul Carter would be fine, Mullback didn’t doubt that for a moment. Freddie Kingsman was a newbie and on his first bomb run.