Lion Resurgent

by Stuart Slade

  “What’s happening up there?” Cardew was fascinated. His Captain had never spent this long on the periscope before.

  “Four Argentine Skyhawks ditching. One, no, make that two, are already in the water, the others getting ready. First bird dead-sticked, the second came in under power. Looks to me like they were heading for Stanley but ran out of fuel. I’d guess they decided to stick together once the first bloke ran dry. There goes number three.”

  Cardew thought for a second. “Number One, prepare to surface. Rig for picking up survivors. What’s the largest Australian Ensign we have on board?”

  “We have a 12 by 18 foot Ensign, Sir.”

  “Then hoist it. As prominently as you can as soon as we surface. Come to think of it, if we have any other Australian ensigns, hoist them. Then have every lookout available up top and watching. If the radio traffic we have picked up is anything to go by, there’ll be shot-down pilots all over the place. As soon as we’re topside, elevate the ESM mast and listen out for distress beacons.”

  Beecham felt the submarine angle upwards as the control room crew brought her to the surface. As soon as she was soundly ‘upstairs,’ he transferred up to the surface conning station built into the front of the sail. By the time he got there, a detail from the crew was already on the deck forward and getting ready to pull the four life rafts in. Three of the Skyhawks had already sunk and the fourth was about to go under. Beecham watched it go. Then he realized that by doing so, he had missed the rescue of the first Argentine pilot. He was already wrapped in a blanket and being hustled down the forward hatch. The Argentine pilots realized what was going on and were paddling over to the waiting submarine.

  “Sir. First pilot is in the wardroom with a tot of rum inside him. It’s as we guessed. They’re refugees from the Argentine fleet. The British got their carrier and they were trying to make it to Stanley. One ran out of fuel so they decided to go in together. He says there are dozens of aircraft down, all over the area.”

  “Well, we’ll have to start picking them up then. We’re probably better off on the surface anyway. Make sure the pilots get as much rum as they need.”

  Cardew grinned. Shock at ditching, a quick rescue and a few shots of hundred percent proof naval rum worked wonders when it came to getting people to lose control of their tongues.

  Stanley Airfield, Falkland Islands

  The wailing air raid sirens blasted out. Men spilled out of their tents and ran across the airfield. Major Grigorio Mazza was already at his action station, inside the control cabin for his Scudo air defense system. Six twin 47mm anti-aircraft guns with one fire control radar for each pair of mountings. Three triple mounts for the land-based version of the Folgore anti-aircraft missile. The radar plot showed a small formation of aircraft coming in from the sea. Mazza checked the inbound flight schedule. It showed a Pelican transport aircraft from the mainland would be arriving that night but no other air activity.

  “All guns and missiles prepare to engage inbound aircraft.” Mazza checked the display. The bearing was constant, but the height finder radar showed the inbound aircraft were steadily losing altitude. It was a slightly strange attack pattern for aircraft that were about to engage a heavily-defended base. Despite the incongruity, the 47mm guns were already lining up on the target. The approach altitude was already too low for the Folgore missiles. Mazza shook his head and scanned the area with his binoculars. Wherever the aircraft were, whatever they were, they were invisible in the gray mist.

  Mazza sighted the lead aircraft a split second before his guns opened fire. He recognized the long fuselage, the dark blue paint job with the light blue and white-striped rudder,. They were Navy F9U-5 Crusaders, undoubtedly from the Veinticinco de Mayo. Whatever he may have thought next was interrupted by the crackle as his guns opened fire.

  “Cease fire, cease fire immediately. Aircraft are friendly! Say again those are our aircraft!”

  The Argentine gun crews were well-trained. The fire stopped instantly but the damage was done. The lead F9U was bracketed by the shell bursts and crashed just short of the runway. About the only redeeming feature was that the pilot managed to eject and floated down well clear of the wreckage of his aircraft. The other three Crusaders managed to come in to land without problems. On the whole, Mazza thought, it would probably be better if I didn‘t go over and introduce myself to the Navy pilots. Then, as he always did at times of stress, he reached out and touched the picture of his wife and child pinned over the main fire control display.

  Flag Bridge, HMS Furious, North East of the Falkland Islands

  “More orphans coming in, Sir.” Admiral Kinnear watched the deck crew at work. What was happening down there looked like a well-rehearsed ballet dance but it was deadly serious. Thirteen of the twenty Buccaneers had made it back along with three of their escorts. With his own twelve planes up as CAP, that meant Furious had seventeen fighters and thirteen bombers left. She’d lost a quarter of her air group; but in doing so she had gutted the Argentine Navy. The camera film was conclusive. The Veinticinco de Mayo was a goner, along with her escorts.

  Things had improved a little since then. For Furious anyway, although Kinnear was worried about the larger picture. Two Sea Mirages had landed from Glorious’s CAP. They had told a story of a bombed and burning carrier, dead in the water and with a wrecked flight deck. Now four Buccaneers were coming in and they had to have the oddest configuration he had ever seen. They’d been inerted on Glorious’s hangar deck but in the few minutes the hangar deck crews had available, they’d got them off. They hadn’t had time to purge the internal fuel tanks, so they’d hung drop tanks on the inner wing pylons and the aircraft had flown down on those. Kinnear hoped that the pilots wouldn’t absent-mindedly jettison the tanks before landing.

  Assuming they got in all right, he would be nearly back to his pre-war air strength. Thirty two aircraft; half bombers, half fighters. Furious was still in business.

  “CAG, get the Bananas bombed up for an anti-shipping strike.”

  “Target, the carrier group, Sir?” CAG was surprised. The four old Gearings left afloat weren’t worth another strike surely?

  “No. Just have them ready to go. We can’t guarantee that there isn’t another carrier out there. Until we can, we keep our guard up. The Argie Admiral forgot about us and I don’t want to emulate his mistake. We’ll keep a CAP and strike group ready until we’re more than sure there’s no more threats from the Argie Navy. If we get smacked as well, the task force is screwed beyond redemption. Signals? There you are. Get a message out to somebody in Glorious’s group. I want to know what is happening up there. Find out if we’re alone or not.”

  Savoy Hotel, London

  “Guys, come and watch this. Looks like our discussion with Sir Humphrey will have to wait.” The television in Igrat’s room showed a picture of the MoD press briefing room. Ian Macdonald was just entering, “Hurry up! It’s got to be real news. The speak-your-weight machine is on.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Over the last twenty four hours, a major naval action has been fought between the Argentine Navy and the Royal Navy task force operating in the South Atlantic. During the course of this action, the Argentine aircraft carrier, the Veinticinco de Mayo, a light cruiser and three destroyers have been sunk. Two other Argentine destroyers are reported to have been damaged and at least sixty Argentine aircraft have been shot down. While carrying out their duties as part of the Task Force, the Royal Navy destroyers Electra and Grafton have been sunk. The aircraft carrier Glorious and the destroyer Glowworm have been damaged. British aircraft losses are reported to be approximately forty aircraft.”

  “Have we any idea of casualties?” A woman from the Telegraph was first to jump in.

  “We believe that at least four hundred of our sailors and airmen have lost their lives. We have no idea what Argentine losses are like, but we must presume they are proportionately as heavy as our own.”

  “The Prince of Wales is Captain of Glorious. Is he s
afe?” This time it was a gentleman from the Times.

  “I’m sorry, I have no information on that topic.”

  “Why has it taken so long to get this information to us?” The speaker was Bernie Tatlock, a well-known nemesis of the Government in general and the Ministry of Defence in particular.

  “Mister Tatlock, I seem to recall that it took six weeks for news of Trafalgar to reach England,” MacDonald said with a degree of languid exasperation. “I don’t think anyone much complained then. I regret that I cannot answer any questions or provide any further information at this time. Thank you.”

  MacDonald picked up his papers and left the room amid a buzz of confusion. The camera panned over the journalists struggling to be first out with their stories. Somewhere in the confusion, Tatlock yelped as a stiletto heel jabbed into his foot. His professional colleagues did not appreciate the shut-down in question time that had followed his aggressive intervention.

  Igrat switched the television off. As if the two instruments were linked, the telephone rang as soon as the picture faded. She reached over and picked the phone up.

  “This is she….Why, General Howard, Sir, I didn’t know you cared… .” Igrat dropped the attitude a split second later. “I see Sir. That will be no problem. I’ll be right over. I’ll have two bodyguards with me. There’s a Sonic Clipper leaving London in two hours. I can be on that… . Yes, Sir, that will be very helpful….I’ll call ahead and make sure The Seer is in his office ready to receive them….Yes, Sir, I do have that degree of discretion in such matters.”

  Igrat paused and looked around. “Move, everybody. We’ve got to go to the MoD to get the preliminary action reports that have just come in. General Howard wants the Boss to have them ASAP. He says there is a lot in there our Navy needs to know.”

  CHAPTER FOUR INVASION

  Operations Room, HMS Bulwark, East of the Falkland Islands

  “Colonel Jones, you will take Second Battalion, The Parachute Regiment and carry out an airmech assault on the Argentine fortress at Goose Green. Herbert, you will seize that base and its associated airfield, securing the same for our use. You may expect an Argentine counter-attack and will prepare your defenses to defeat the same. Are these orders clear to you?”

  “Yes, Sir.” The enthusiasm in the response was immediate and obvious.

  “Good man. Colonel Hill, you will take First Battalion, The Parachute Regiment and carry out an airmech assault on Mount Tumbledown and Wireless Ridge. John, you will seize and occupy that position and prepare it for the field guns that will be lifted in to join you. You may expect an Argentine counter-attack and will prepare your defenses to protect the guns and defeat that attack. Are these orders clear to you?”

  “Yes Sir.” No less enthusiasm and possibly some exultation. It would be One Para that closed the noose on Stanley. A sharp twist of the tail to their old rivals in Two Para.

  “Excellent. Colonel Hartmann, you will take First Battalion, the Royal Regiment of Marines and carry out an airmech assault on Mount Kent. You will seize and hold that position until relieved by the troops advancing from San Carlos. Karl, you have the hardest job here. You will have to wait here in the assault ships until the Junglies that landed One and Two Para have returned and rearmed. That means you will be going in some three hours later than they will. One and Two Para will have the advantage of surprise. You will not. Your Marines can expect a heavy counter-attack developing early. You will stop that attack in its tracks. Are these orders clear to you?”

  “Jawohl! I mean, Yes, Sir.”

  A ripple of laughter at the deliberate ‘mistake’ ran around the briefing room. “Gentlemen, the Marines have a deadly task here. We don’t have the capacity of going in as one wave; the cancellation of Centaur saw to that. We had to seize two out of three objectives and leave the third for a second wave. We can thank the dockies who worked triple shifts to get both our amphibious transports ready that we are able to hit two. Before Bulwark came out of dock three months early, we were going to have to assault each target in turn. But, two out of three it is. On the way down, the operations staff went over all the possible permutations of landing. We evaluated taking Goose Green and Mount Kent, Mount Kent and Mount Tumbledown and Goose Green and Mount Tumbledown. Each permutation had its advantages and disadvantages. We decided that the element of surprise would be critical in taking Goose Green and Mount Tumbledown but less so on Mount Kent. Yet without Mount Kent we would have two isolated positions at almost opposite ends of the island. With Mount Kent we can give the troops advancing from San Carlos a smooth highway garrisoned by our brigade all the way to Stanley.”

  “A smooth highway, Sir? Here?” Again a ripple of laughter at the disbelief in Jones’s voice spread around the briefing room.

  “All right, a smooth dirt track with occasional swamps, streams and rocky outcrops. But it will be garrisoned by us and that makes it as good as a smooth highway. By the way, reinforce the warning to all your men. Nobody drink the water here, it’s got liver flukes in it.”

  There was a murmur of agreement. Strachan waited for a moment and then continued, “Karl, with your permission, I would like the honor of accompanying your Marines on their assault.”

  “The honor would be ours, Sir.”

  “Thank you. Any other questions?”

  There was a long pause as the officers studied the maps showing the battle plan. They’d all had their own parts of it for some days but this was the first time everything had been put together for them. “I’ll say one thing. The Septics couldn’t even begin to pull this off.” Hill’s voice was loaded with satisfaction.

  “They wouldn’t even try. They’d just drop a damned great nuke on the place and call it quits.” Jones sounded slightly derisive. “The last time they tried an opposed landing, the Caffs wiped the floor with them.”

  “It was not quite that bad.” Hartmann felt compelled to defend his brother Marines even if they were Septics. They held the beach and blocked the way to where the rescue was carried out. Those were their orders, yes?”

  “One other thing.” Brigadier Strachan rapped sharply on his podium. “I have just received word from HMS Glorious. Her fires are out and the flooding has been contained. She is now retiring to South Georgia, escorted by Glowworm and Greyhound, where she will make further repairs before heading home. Her surviving aircraft have been transferred to HMS Furious.” He paused, bringing his voice under control before the next part. “I regret to have to inform you that the body of Captain Wales has been located and recovered from the wreckage of the island. It appears that the Prince of Wales died in the finest traditions of the Navy, remaining at his station and doing his duty. He will, of course, be buried at sea along with the other casualties from Glorious. Gentlemen, his funeral will be taking place while you are carrying out your assaults. Let us make very sure that our conduct honors the sacrifice he has made.”

  Darwin Road, Port Stanley, Falkland Islands

  Major Patricio Dowling was a very angry man that morning. For night after night, he had been woken up by a series of telephone calls at unspeakably early hours of the morning. Each call had been routine reports that were nothing to do with him. He had asked one caller why would anybody think he was interested in the number of sacks of garbage removed from the cookhouse? The caller had simply hung up. After the fifth call in a two and a half hour period, he had realized the calls were not intended for him at all. They were routine calls that had somehow become misdirected in the telephone exchange. By the time he had finally got back to sleep, the sun had been rising and it was too late for any rest that night. He had spent the first few hours of the new day having the telephone switchboard checked thoroughly. The problem hadn’t been there. The telephone engineers had suggested that water seeping into the lines from the bogs had caused short-circuits.

  It was not as if the work here was going the way he had planned. He had expected this to be a relatively simple job. The garrison would be eliminated, the islanders r
ounded up and either deported or otherwise disposed of. He’d had files on all the local leaders. They would have been the first to disappear. Nothing had gone the way he has expected. The British garrison had been brutally mauled, but the Argentine Marines had made sure their prisoners had been safely delivered to Uruguay and the care of neutral powers. The surviving Royal Marines had been waging a steady war of attrition; nothing elaborate but a man shot by a sniper here, a mine placed in a roadway there. And always, the litany of stupid accidents that seemed to accompany the Argentine Army wherever it went. Fuelling accidents, trucks running off the road and into the swamp or over sharp drops. The list seemed endless. Minor, avoidable accidents all of them but each bringing its toll of dead and wounded.

  Dowling had begun to think the Argentine Army on the Malvinas was cursed. There had been so many accidents. The number was so far above the norm for any reasonable kind of operation. As any good intelligence officer would do, Dowling had started to look at those accidents with growing suspicion. When losses from sheer stupidity reached those levels, they stopped being accidents and started to become sabotage. Dowling was becoming increasingly convinced that the Army was infiltrated by traitors. If he couldn’t bring them in for judgment, he was uneasily aware that he might be considered in league with them.

  That thought made Dowling hit the accelerator hard as he came over the hill top and start the long descent down. He was on his way to the airbase at Stanley. There had been another accident. One of four Argentine Navy Crusaders making an emergency landing had been shot down by the air defenses. That was another uneasy thought. Dowling had heard there was a great naval battle going on offshore, but he had no idea how the battle was going. The Argentine communications network was being remarkably quiet about it, but the fact that four orphaned Navy aircraft had tried to make it back to Stanley did not bode well for the battle.

  Half way down the slope, Dowling realized he was going too fast to make the turn at the bottom safely. One more annoyance to add to a day that was already one he would rather forget. He stabbed at the brake pedal with his foot but the mushy response told him there was something seriously wrong. The Landrover showed no sign of slowing down. Thoroughly frightened, Dowling yanked on the handbrake but that simply caused the vehicle to swing out of control. Dowling twisted the steering wheel with one hand, trying to stay on the road, while with the other he knocked the gear lever into neutral. By then it was too late, and he saw the white concrete cylinders that marked the end of the bridge railings looming in front of him.