by Stuart Slade
They didn’t do as well as the four fired at Rivadavia. The skippers of the Cervantes and Juan de Garay had realized what was coming. Their fingers must have been poised over the emergency shut-down switches. The destroyers’ radars went silent. The two ships accelerated, turning tightly to present the smallest possible targets to the Martels. It didn’t save them, quite. Both were hit but the missiles took out the ships’ after superstructures. The forward area with its vital command and control spaces escaped.
Lombardo held his breath as the five surviving Buccaneers made their runs. It was almost a repeat of the first groups attack only the Cervantes and Juan de Garay were already presenting their sterns to the bombers. That was good against missiles; not so good against bombs. Juan de Garay got away with it. The bomber targeting her made an error in deflection and that, combined with her turn, meant the bombs went clear. Cervantes suffered for her sister; the aircraft attacking her made a perfect run. Four bombs were neatly spaced along her deck. Lombardo saw the rippling explosions and the gouts of black-orange fire that erupted from the stricken destroyer.
That was when the Admiral realized how much his chest hurt. He had been holding his breath during the bombing runs and he was slowly turning blue. He forced himself to breathe, then looked out again where the surviving Buccaneers were heading for the horizon. We got eight, he thought, eight out of sixteen. Then he shook his head. He had the maths wrong. The British had concentrated on my screening ships and done a good job of wrecking them. Two of my three missile ships are sinking and the third is badly hurt. One, Lombardo looked out of the bridge and corrected himself two of my ASW destroyers are hurt as well. The second British carrier has to be out there. If the British weren’t certain another strike was on its way, they’d have thrown everything at our carrier.
“Air group situation?” The question was blunt and terse.
The answer he got was equally so. “We’ve got eight CAP and seven escort fighters coming back. All low on fuel and ammunition. We have five Skyhawks from our strike on their way back. All damaged. We have a reserve of six bombers and six fighters ready to go.”
Lombardo nodded. “Reports?”
“Fighters are claiming more than forty enemy fighters shot down. Bombers claim they have sunk two cruisers, two destroyers and left the British carrier burning.”
“Get our second strike off. There’s another British carrier out there. Send the planes south west of the original mission plan. The returning aircraft will have to wait until the strike is on its way. Then get them down, reload the fighters on the deck and get them off again. There’s another British strike coming.”
“Sir, we’ve got six more Crusaders armed and fuelled, they’re part of the CAP that we couldn’t get up before the British hit us. What should we do with them?”
“Get them up as CAP of course.” Lombardo was furious that precious seconds were being wasted with stupid questions. “With the CAP aircraft out of fuel and the missile ships hit, we’re defenseless.”
Naval Attache’s Office, Australian Embassy, Santiago, Chile.
There were a number of reasons why Lieutenant Graeme Gavin considered himself a fortunate man. It wasn’t just that he had a beautiful and wealthy wife although that was a great deal of it. It was also that every morning he had a packed lunch waiting for him to bring to the office. Not just a cut lunch either; a proper meal, with a half-bottle of local wine to wash it down. One or two days a week, Emilia would come in herself and they’d eat together in his office. He wasn’t just a fortunate man; he was also a very happy one.
“Have you heard the news, Garry?” Captain Lachlan Shearston, the Australian Naval Attaché to Chile stepped into the office. He looked at the lunch Gavin had just taken out and sighed. “You know, I told Narelle about your lunches and suggested she might do one for me. Her reply was indescribable. Basically, it boiled down to asserting that the cut lunches her mum made had kept her old man working for years and now one would do me.”
“Grab a fork and tuck in.” Gavin was beginning to get the hang of the diplomacy thing. “Emilia always makes sure there’s plenty of food. Why don’t you and Narelle come up one weekend? We have great barbeques. What’s happening in the outside world?”
“For us? Chilean Navy is biting on the R-class submarines. The Lieutenant they’ve got out of Rotorua is most impressed and the commercial boys have been negotiating like mad. The Italians and French are most displeased with them. Anyway, the Chilean Navy is going to order four Batch IIs. Looks like you’ll be staying here a bit longer than expected to help get them into the fleet. The real news is the poms out in the Falklands. Word from the Septics is there’s a hell of a carrier battle going on. One of their manned orbiting stations radioed the news down. In clear, by the way, so the whole world is getting the message. Burning ships on both sides, so they say. My God, this is good. What is it?”
“Pastel De Choclo. It’s a sort of chicken and sweetcorn stew with raisins and hardboiled eggs. Have some wine. Emilia put in a half of the family white to go with it. Any word on how many ships lost?”
Shearston looked sadly at the rapidly disappearing meal. “I suppose I should offer you my sammies in return, but cheese and bread would be a come-down after this feast. Don’t know yet; all we have is ships on both sides burning. Now we’ll find out whether the British are really back or not.” He hesitated for a moment. “I don’t suppose Emmy gave you any afters, did she?”
Sitting Room, Private Apartment, 10 Downing Street, London.
“The latest expression of developments within current military affairs has just arrived Prime Minister.” Sir Humphrey Appleday had brought the messages up himself. “There appears to be a major exchange of hostilities between the Task Force and the Argentine fleet. Message from Admiral Lanning says the destroyer Electra has been sunk, Glowworm badly damaged. Glorious has been hit but she’s still operational. Our own strike is claiming five Argentine destroyers sunk. I think it would be fair to suggest that a major naval battle is in progress.”
Prime Minister Newton wiped his mouth and put down the egg sandwich he was eating. “Aircraft losses?”
“The reports from the personnel involved in executing hostilities suggest that claims at least fifty Argentine aircraft shot down in exchange for twenty of ours would not be amiss. If the claims of the forces there have anything like a reasonable level of veracity, I would say that we have made a substantial start of eliminating Argentine naval aviation capability vis a vis their aircraft carrier force.”
“It isn’t true, Humpty. You know that. Divide by three; that’s the rule. I’d say we’re probably running loss for loss at the moment. How are the forces taking it?”
“Here, Prime Minister? The greatest concern of the forces remaining in the national homeland is that the war will be over by the time they are able to complete their transit to the theater of operations. The second wave of expeditionary forces will be ready to implement its departure shortly. Courageous is completing her refit and will be extracting herself from drydock next week. The Navy has been working on assembling a new air group for her exploiting the assets still remaining in this country, accepting that some of them may not represent the peak of our military capability.”
“In other words, the Navy is scrabbling around trying to find enough aircraft to put on her.” Newton sighed. “I thought two airgroups for three carriers was a bad idea. We’ll have to fix that in the future. How goes the other matter?”
“The question of the culpability assignable to Astiz and our ability to implement the required legal action necessary to bring him to the justice many, indeed I would say a majority, of the non-Argentine population of the world in which we have the good fortune to reside believe he so richly deserves?”
“That’s right. When can we sell him to the highest bidder?”
Sir Humphrey Appleday looked appalled. “Prime Minister, I must object. Our decision on to whom we should render Astrid for trial should be taken in full ac
cordance with international law and with due consideration for the strength of the case that can be brought against him and whether the appropriate legal penalties can be imposed under the system of national law prevailing.”
“Humph. Not soon then. Thank you Sir Humphrey. Please make sure I get the news as it comes in.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
Flag Bridge, HMS Glorious, North East of the Falkland Islands
“We’ve got eight Mirages and a round dozen Buccaneers left.” Captain Wales sounded tired. So far he’d lost half his air group and the enemy carrier was still out there, unhurt. “A lot of the birds are damaged; how some of the Bananas got back is beyond me. The good news is our fires are out and we’ve got the flooding perimeter established. We’re counter-flooding to eliminate the list now. We’ll be able to get twenty-four, possibly twenty-six knots as soon as we’ve sealed up. Flight deck is operational although we’ve got precious little to fly off it right now. We’re down to our missile ships for cover against the next air attack.”
“You can expect it soon enough, Charles. Can you get at least something up as CAP? And throw out another strike? The Argies will be hurting as badly as we are.”
“Worse. The Bananas really did a number on the screen. We’ve got two Seadart and a Seaslug ship left. We don’t think the Argies have anything. They’re wide open.”
“Remember we’re not in this alone. Furious is south of us somewhere. She’ll be throwing a full strength strike at the Argies any time now. All twenty Bananas; some of them Highball birds. Charles, don’t worry about getting out another strike. Get everything up on CAP that you can. If we can ride the next strike out, we’ll be through it. Get the Bananas sealed down and inert the fuel system as soon as CAP is up.”
“Sir, report from Glowworm. Fires are out and machinery is undamaged but she’s down to her four-inch gun and that’s it. She’s moving on to the threat axis as a bomb sponge.”
“That is exceedingly nice of her.” Lanning looked around his bridge. “Well, it is. Charles, I suggest you invite Captain Foster to your mother’s next garden party.”
“If you insist Sir, but I’d rather do something nice for him.” A chuckle of relieved tension ran around the bridge. It was interrupted by a whine forward as the bow elevator brought a Sea Mirage up to the flight deck. The ballet on the deck started as the aircraft was moved forward to one of the catapults. By the time it was in place, a second Sea Mirage had been brought up. “We’ve loaded them to the max, Sir. Four R-530s and four R-550s. Cut the fuel load back to compensate. Launching now.”
There was a bang and roar as the two Mirages were catapulted off. They dipped slightly on leaving the carrier but recovered and swept upwards. Lanning had his combat air patrol up and felt absurdly pleased at the effort. It was absurd; he knew it. Two aircraft was hardly an adequate air defense against the strikes that were being thrown, but it was all he had and it was much better than nothing. He felt a bit better about it a few seconds later when another pair of Sea Mirages were brought up from below. With four aircraft up, Glorious had a fighting chance.
Blackburn Buccaneer S4H XT-279, HMS Furious, North East of the Falkland Islands
Catapult launching was always an interesting experience, especially when it took place in a heavily-loaded Buccaneer. Lieutenant Commander Ernest Mullback positioned himself carefully; his head resting firmly on the padded seatback. His harness straps were as tight as he could pull them, his arms and legs positioned just so. The last thing he wanted now was to screw up his launch and miss what he knew would be the culmination of his career. Training missions were a bore. Hitting ships in harbor was close to shooting fish in a barrel. But a strike against an enemy carrier at sea was what he had trained for. His faithful Banana had her two Highballs in her belly. That was all she could carry; her wing racks were empty. The same wasn’t true of the aircraft waiting behind her. The Highball aircraft were being followed by eight conventional strike birds with eight one-thousand pound bombs each and four missile-armed anti-radar aircraft. They, along with the eight escort Sea Mirages, were still in the hangar. The aft elevator would be bringing them up as the on-deck aircraft were launched. It would take a little time for the strike to form up, but it was worth taking in order to deliver a coordinated punch at the enemy.
The launch control officer dropped his flag. Mullback felt the slam as the steam catapult hurled XT-279 forwards. He heard the odd thwang noise as the bridle catcher retrieved the cables that had secured his aircraft to the catapult. Then, he saw the sea appear in front of him as the Buccaneer nosed down. Then, the Spey engines pushed him upwards and away from the sea. Mullback relaxed; the dangerous part was over now until he and the other Buccaneers would have to punch though the enemy defenses. Then, all that was left was to find his carrier and land on it. Put like that, he wondered why he didn’t find himself another profession.
It took two orbits for the strike to be launched and then to form up properly. The problem they had now was that the position for the Argentine carrier group was already almost an hour old. It would take another 30 minutes to reach them, so they could be anywhere within a 45 mile circle of their reported position. That wouldn’t sound much to a landsman but Mullback was part of a Navy and knew better. A circle with a radius of 45 nautical miles covered a lot of sea and a ship was a small target. In the old days, finding a ship group would have been a matter of chance, but radar changed that. The Sea Mirages were already moving to the front of the formation, their Cyrano V radars searching for the enemy ships. That was the other reason why the fighters ran ahead of the bombers. It wasn’t just to protect them; they had to find the targets as well.
“Targets located.” The message over the radio was terse and to the point. “Bearing three-four-eight. Range eight-five miles; course southwest.” Mullback watched the exhausts on the twin engined Mirages light up as they swept ahead in an effort to get the Argentine fighters before the Argies got through to the bombers.
Argentine Aircraft Carrier Veinticinco de Mayo
“Strike is off, Sir. We got six Crusaders and nine Skyhawks out.” The Air Group Commander sounded justifiably proud of the effort. He’d not only got the reserve strike out, but his deck crews had managed to refuel and rearm three Skyhawks in time to rejoin them. The same crews had managed to get eight more Crusaders armed and fuelled and they were launching as well. That left four Crusaders and two Skyhawks on the decks. There was no hope of getting them ready. There wasn’t time and, anyway, they were too badly damaged. Lombardo briefly considered pushing them over the side but rejected the thought. Who knew, the way this aerial slugging match was working out, there might come a time when four damaged fighters and two shot-up bombers were the margin that brought victory.
“Well done. The remaining aircraft, are they safed?” Lombardo meant ‘were the aircraft defueled and their armaments stored?’
“They are, Sir. And we’re inerting the carrier fuel system now.”
“Bandits, Sir.” Air Warfare had sent the message up from the CIC below decks. “At least 30 aircraft coming in from due south. Two formations; a small one leading, much larger formation behind them.”
There was a brief but agonizing pause before the CIC updated the report. “The larger formation is dropping of the radar now. Our fighters are moving in to attack.”
Super-Crusader 3-A-204. Over the South Atlantic
Overhead, the six fighters that had taken off earlier were engaging the British Sea Mirages. Anton Marko twisted around in his seat to see if he could work out what was going on up there but it was a brief effort. His job was to go after the Buccaneers that were already streaming towards his carrier. The long rooster-tail of white spray both revealed their position and masked them. These pilots were more skilled than the ones from the other British carrier, Marko could see that easily. They were flying lower, if that were possible. Their pilots were holding them steadier in what had to be a barrage of turbulence from the sea surface a scant few m
eters underneath.
Behind him, the remaining Super-Crusaders were burning fuel in an effort to get out as far as possible. That would give the maximum possible time for intercepts. The Argentine pilots already knew that the Buccaneer was hard to hit that close to the sea and the aircraft could take a phenomenal amount of punishment before going down. Every second spent in engagement was essential. Especially with the missile ships crippled, Marko thought grimly. Rivadavia had already sunk. Cervantes was a blazing wreck; not much longer for this world. If the fighters failed, their carrier was wide open.
He picked a Buccaneer and fired off two of his AIM-7 missiles at it. Neither hit since both homed in the spray thrown up by the bomber. The fragmentation from their warheads did nothing more than stipple the surface of the sea. He racked his Crusader around, hearing the structure of the fighter groaning with stresses than pushed it far beyond the limits laid down by the manufacturer. His annunciator was warbling but the tone was intermittent, not steady. That told him the missiles had a partial lock at best. Still, he fired one pair. Sure enough, one missed but the other exploded close behind the Buccaneer. It lurched in mid air, while black smoke erupted from both engines. Incredibly, it kept going. What did Blackburn build in their English factory Marko asked himself, aircraft or tanks?