by Stuart Slade
“Ha.” Takeda sounded slightly scornful. “And what will confidence be worth?”
“One day, when those inside Japan face off against your Spirit Warriors and seize power back from them, it will mean that our people can trust the new government to try and put things right, not just to continue the same old policies under a different name. That will be of the greatest possible importance. Excuse me; what’s up, honey?”
“Boss, a message has just come through from the National Reconnaissance Office. It appears that the Argentine Navy has just sunk a British frigate north of South Georgia. The war is on out there.” Lillith shook her head. “Anyway, the White House and the Chiefs of Staff are holding a meeting in thirty minutes. Obviously, you’re invited.”
“Oh well; we knew it was coming. What are the British up to?”
“Emergency session of Parliament. Formal declaration of war I believe.”
“Over some small bits of frozen rock?” Takeda was contemptuous.
“More than that. Argentina is caving in economically and the aborted attack on Chile has made things much worse. This is their last chance at surviving as a functioning state. For Britain? It’s their chance to show the world that they are back as a functioning state. There’s a lot more here than just a few frozen rocks.”
House of Commons, Parliament, London, U.K.
“And so it is, with great reluctance and with a heavy heart that I am forced to support my Right Honorable Friend’s motion that, with immediate effect, a state of war be declared between the Republic of Argentina and the United Kingdom.” The leader of the Labour Party acknowledged the thunderous roll of applause and sat down. Dennis Skimmer, unaffectionately known as ‘The Beast of Bolsover’ and regarded as probably the best reason why the Labour Party had lost the last election, sat down.
“The House recognizes the Honorable Member for Linlithgow.”
“Mister Speaker, I cannot agree with the sentiments expressed by my Right Honorable Friend and leader of our party. I will resist a war with every sinew in my body. Why must we ask young men to die for the possession of a few ice-covered rocks in the desolate South Atlantic? If another nation wants them so badly, let them have the things. They are not worth the life of a single human being.”
Skimmer jumped up. “Must we listen to That Man again?” There was a stunned silence in the house at the invocation of Lord Halifax; the one name that, by convention, was never spoken in the House of Commons.
The Speaker banged his staff on the floor. “I would remind the Right Honorable member for Bolsover that unparliamentary language is not permitted in this House and ask him to retract his statement.”
“Mister Speaker, you are right. My apologies, my feelings overcame me and I will retract the word ‘man’.” An explosion of laughter ran around the chamber.
The Speaker shook his head. “That isn’t what I meant and you know it. Out you go.” Skimmer rose to his feet and limped out of the Chamber to a thunder of applause that the Speaker’s efforts couldn’t quell. He shook off an attempt to help him. The fact that he had been the youngest member of the resistance to survive a Gestapo interrogation, albeit one that had left both his legs broken, was a major part of his parliamentary persona.
After that, the debate was an anti-climax. The Government motion was passed with only one vote against.
Ernest Mullback’s Home, Yeovil, UK.
“Leave it.” The sleepy protest from his wife, and the implicit promise in it, almost made Lieutenant-Commander Ernest Mullback ignore the telephone that was ringing so urgently. It really was a most uncivilized time to call. It was eleven PM, he and Sam had only got to bed a few minutes earlier.
“Can’t do that, darling. Nobody will call here unless it’s an emergency and Lord knows, we’re expecting one.” It was true. Mullback’s squadron mates had been united behind an effort to make sure he was disturbed as little as possible during the brief time he and his wife were likely to have available. So, he picked up the phone, knocking it off the nightstand in the process. “Mullback here.”
“Jerry? Alastair. Everything has just dropped in the pot. The Argies went and sank Mermaid a couple of hours ago. Now the booties on South Georgia are under attack. Government declared war five minutes ago. Furious is out in the Solent right now; she needs her air group ASAP. Air Group Commander asks you to get to Yeovilton and bring down XT-279 right away. It’ll be a night landing I’m afraid. Alex is already on his way over. Jerry, be careful. We’re loading more aircraft than the book says. It’s not just the four extra fighters we heard about. We’ve got four additional Bananas on board as well. So, the deck’s already crowded. Got to run, there’s the rest of the squadron to alert.”
“War?” Sam was sitting up in bed, her eyes wide. Expecting something didn’t make it any the less shocking when it actually happened.
“War. The Argies went and …” Mullback was interrupted by the telephone ringing again. He picked it up. “Mullback. Oh, right. Hold one.”
“Darling, it’s for you. Features desk.”
Sam mouthed an ‘oh’ and took the telephone while Mullback scrambled into his kit. By the time he got back, she was dressing. “I’m on call. Photosession tomorrow morning at six. The fleet’s putting to sea and the desk want shots of me on the foreland waving good-bye to you.”
“They’ll be lucky. Fury is already out in the Solent. I’m flying down to her right now.”
“Glorious is leaving port at six and I’ll wave her good-bye. Nobody else will know the difference.”
“Easy to tell. Furious has three HF antennas forward of her island; Glorious has four.”
Sam threw a pillow at him. “And who knows that but you? Get dressed, we’ll take my car and I’ll drop you off at the base on the way down.”
HMS Hotspur, Alongside, Vickers Fitting Out Basin, Barrow
The whistle blast pierced every compartment of the ship, bringing the banging and clattering of work to an abrupt standstill. “Attention all hands. Effective as of 2300 tonight, a state of war exists between Great Britain and the Republic of Argentina. We will be putting to sea in two hours time for a run down to the Channel where we will be meeting with the rest of the task force. All hands will darken ship and we will be at action stations on the way down. Civilian workers, you will remain with us and we will put you ashore at Ascension Island for a free flight back to Blighty. Now, the Padre wishes to speak to you.”
The voice was grave and solemn. “I fear I must confirm what many of you may already have heard on the grapevine. The Mermaid was sunk by an Argentine destroyer earlier today. We have no word as yet of the casualties but given the sea and weather conditions, we must presume they were heavy. Please will you join me in a moment’s prayer for the safety of our fellow seamen who are now in enemy hands and to ask God’s blessing on those who are now in his.”
There was a long two-minute silence throughout the ship. Then the sound of work resumed with renewed frenzy.
“You hear that.” Able Seaman Tunney sounded mournful. “Darken ship and run at action stations all the way down. There’s Argie submarines waiting to pick us off as soon as we stick our nose out of port, you mark my words.”
“In which case, you’ll be glad you’re sleeping in the hangar tonight, won’t you Tunney?” Sub-Lieutenant Hargreaves’ voice cut across the clamor.
“Right there. … Eh what? Sorry Sir, didn’t see you there. Sleep in the hangar Sir?”
“Not tonight, Tunney. The rotodynes are arriving at dawn. Very special birds so I’m told; crews are instructors from the training establishment. Nothing but the best of the best for Hotspur. Captain Lanchester is having us at action stations so we can work out any bugs there while we’re still in home waters. No submarines around here, not hostile ones anyway. So, get this ship ready and we’ll start paying the Argies back for poor old Mermaid.” Hargreaves ambled off, apparently nonchalantly, but actually keeping a careful eye on his men. At times like this, an encouraging word went
a long way.
Simonstad Naval Base, South Africa.
“Up, up jongmens! The kaffirs have risen and are storming the gates. Every rifle needed on the wall.” Randlehoff bounced into the barracks displaying an unhealthy amount of zeal.
“It’s started?” Cross rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He and his men had been working on the Boomslangs all day, trying to get a handle on its systems and keep them working.
“War has been declared and your transport ship is here. We must get the Boomies on board without delay. Get your men to the docks now; mine are already on their way.” He swept out again, leaving the British officer exhausted but awake.
Cross ran his hand over his chin and decided to take a few seconds to shave. It never hurt to look calm and collected, even when everything imaginable had just dropped into the pot.
HMS Glowworm, Kingston, Jamaica
“How did she take it, Sir?”
“Alice? Very calm, very quiet. She’d made a pot of tea and was just sitting there. I suppose she’s lucky being here with the kids and all. All the Mermaid families are the same I think. They’re keeping together, but she’s Mrs. Captain and has got to be the tower of strength. Apart from that, they’re all just waiting to hear the worst. Like the rest of us I suppose.”
HMS Glowworm was edging out of Kingston Harbor, Port Royal off to port, the lights of the airport twinkling in the night. The airport was busy tonight. Three BOAC Fairey Airbus airliners hurriedly drafted into military service had landed at dusk, bring out personnel. Foster thought they were men on leave or drafts to fill out depleted crews. A little later a Concord had arrived. Its sonic boom had sent seagulls scattering into the air. More personnel; this time of the VIP variety. The big surprise had been a Canadian Air Force C-133 touching down. Foster had a nasty feeling that the paint on its maple leaf roundels was still wet. That aircraft was not bringing personnel. Instead, long boxes had been unloaded from its belly and hurried off to the munitions dumps. A few minutes later, he’d received an urgent call; were his vertical launch systems full? He’d acknowledged the call and confirmed that he had a full load of Seadart and Seawolf missiles. That probably explained what those long crates had contained.
“What was the word, Sir? South for Saint Vincent and out?”
“No, Simon. The brass has too much mistrust of the people that way. Nobody likes the Argies but they’re worried about Latin American solidarity and all that. We don’t want too much word of our location getting out. Once we’re clear, we’re to head east, rounding the south of Cuba and then down to Ascension. We’ll be meeting the rest of the fleet there. We’ll be screening the carriers.”
“Makes sense, I suppose. Who’s going to be looking after the Station while we’re gone?”
“The Cuban Navy?” Foster offered the possibility and caused a laugh to run around the bridge. The ‘Cuban Navy’ had precisely one ship, an Italian-built light frigate that spent its time taking tourists out to sea so they could fire the ship’s guns. For a fee, of course. It was probably the only navy in the world that ran at a profit.
“Seriously, Sir. The Canucks?”
“Possibly. They’ve got some frigates they could send down here. Take over the station the way the Ozwalds have taken over Indian Ocean Station. We’ll see. Full ahead both; we’ve a long way to go.
Headquarters, First AirMech. Brigade, Aldershot, UK
The curiously whistling whine of the rotodynes was drowning out much of the noise caused by the brigade moving out. Vehicles were lining up to drive into the holds of the Junglie assault rotodynes while men seethed around the slung loads that would be carried by others. Fortunately, Strachan had got much of the heavy equipment and supplies down to the two ships waiting in Devonport earlier in the day. That eased the burden on the aircraft, but getting everything needed down to the two assault carriers was still a major undertaking.
“Oh-six-hundred.” Harper yelled the latest word into Strachan’s ear. “They’ll be pulling out then.”
“We’ll have time beyond that.” Strachan yelled back over the whine turning to a roar as another Junglie took off and headed for the ships waiting at Devonport. “We can shift more kit down to them as they go down the Channel. We’ll be able to get two more ferry runs into each before we have to jack it in. We’ll make it.”
Harper looked doubtful at that. There were chains of men passing crates down the line and stowing them in the rotodynes as fast as the laws of physics allowed, but the loading work was slowly falling behind schedule. Nothing major had gone wrong; just the usual plethora of small problems that added to the time needed.
Strachan caught the look. “Don’t worry Harper. There’s a Plan B. Anything we can’t get aboard now will be flown to Ascension and we’ll pick it up there.”
“Ascension.” Harper sounded concerned. “Everything depends on Ascension doesn’t it?”
“Almost. We have Simonstad as well. But Ascension is the key.”
Personnel Office, MacDill Air Force Base, Florida
“There’s a vacancy for a senior maintenance NCO at the 100th, up at Kozlowski. You started your career up there, didn’t you?” It was late evening; the meeting was being held after duty hours.
“I did, Sir. But, respectfully Sir, I would prefer to stay down here. Mike’s father lives here and my parents will be coming down often. They’ll help with the kids.”
The detailer grunted. It was preferred policy to get the dependents of aircrew killed in an accident off-base as quickly as possible. This was a different situation though. “How are you settling in?”
“Pretty good, Sir.” Selma Hitchins-Yates had found a new apartment off-base for herself and her children remarkably quickly. She didn’t know, and never would, that another family had actually outbid her for the place. They’d stepped back when they’d learned she and her children were the family of one of the dead Valkyrie crewmembers. All she knew was that she had secured an apartment in a good part of town. It was large enough for the three of them and had amenities that made it suitable for her children to grow up in.
“Bird ingestion. Nothing anybody could have done.” The detailer was still tapping his pencil, trying to make a decision. “Going back to Kozlowski would be good for your career you know.”
“Yes Sir, but there’s SAC-funded post-graduate work going on at University of Florida. I’d like to apply for that. One of their projects is related to some stuff I did with the 100th, applying it to the Dynasoars and the hypersonics.”
“Ah yes, the electronic warfare problems on the Valkyrie.” The detailer came to a decision. “Very well, why don’t you stay at your present posting until your application for the post-grad work is finalized? Then, if you are in, that’s sorted; if your application is turned down, then we’ll find another place for you. The 100th vacancy will be gone by then of course, so you’ll have to take your chances on what’s available. Might not be such a favorable opportunity.”
“I understand that Sir. But the University program leads me into the space program and I want to go that way if I can.”
“Understood. Well, best of luck and I hope you make it.”
Outside, Selma Hitchins-Yates looked across at the expanse of MacDill Air Force Base. Even with the sunset, the massive black scar that disfigured the end of the main runway was still painfully obvious. The wreckage had been cleared away; the radioactive contamination cleaned, from the base at least. The plume from the fire had stretched across the county and that was still being remedied. A new B-70 and a new crew had already arrived to take Shield Maiden’s place. A new family had already moved into the married quarters she and her husband had once lived in. Life at SAC went on; they’d absorbed the loss, closed ranks and moved on.
She got into her Studebaker Eclipse and turned on the car radio. She’d just caught the end of the evening news and heard the somber tones of the newsreader. “And so, the main point of the news again. Following the sinking of the British battleship the HMS Mermaid by Arg
entine forces, Great Britain has declared war on the Republic of Argentina. Sources close to the Ministry of Defence in Britain say that a task force is being prepared and will be sailing for the area soon.”
Selma sighed. She wondered if, somewhere in England a service wife had just seen her detailer about a new posting since her husband was dead.
Ten Downing Street, London, UK
Prime Minister David Newton stared out of the window, across at Horseguards. It was done. War was declared. Now all that remained was to see whether the forces that had been so carefully rebuilt would be adequate for the task they faced. One thing they would not have to face was the danger of a stab in the back. The old system of Conservative Party leadership selection that had been so ably exploited by That Man had been swept away. Now, a new party leader had to be voted in by all the sitting MPs of the party. If that made him Prime Minister, he would face an immediate, automatic, vote of “No Confidence” in the House. If he lost that, then an election would follow. That was one line of defense against That Man’s actions being copied.
There was another line. One that did not exist. Men and women who did not exist, whose real names appeared nowhere in the vast records of British bureaucracy. Their units did not exist. Their headquarters did not exist. Their lines of command did not exist. They were myth and legend. There was, quite literally, no way their reality could be confirmed. If they had existed, which they didn’t of course, they might have had several responsibilities. One of them might be making sure that what had happened in June 1940 never, ever happened again. For a second, Newton remembered his youth in the Resistance and his anti-tank rocket slamming into the car carrying Richard Austen Butler. Hitting right beside him so that his body was consumed by the explosion from the rocket. No, what had happened in June 1940 wouldn’t happen again. With that thought, Newton went to bed and slept soundly.