Ghost Force am-9

by Patrick Robinson

  Captain Vanislav would run underwater some fifty miles off the Norwegian coast, past the fabled Lofoten Isles, a windswept, hundred-mile-long cluster of islands that jut out from the mainland, forcing submarines out into the 4,000-feet-deep Voring Plateau.

  All through these waters, which were not particularly sensitive and were the regular exercise grounds for Russian ships, Viper would make almost five hundred miles a day. They would make a course change off the port of Namsos, swinging more westerly out into the Norwegian Sea, before running down to the Iceland — Faeroe Rise and the unseen line that marks the waters of the GIUK Gap.

  Making only seven knots, they reached this relatively shallow water, only 850 feet deep, on the morning of March 22. And now they really were moving on tiptoes above the electronic lines on the ocean floor, as lethal as cobras, just waiting to detect any significant underwater movement, before raising all hell in the American listening station.

  Captain Vanislav ordered their speed cut to five knots, and oh so slowly the most deadly attack submarine in the Russian Navy eased her way forward, her great turbines just a tad above idling speed as she slipped south into the Atlantic, with just three commands from Admiral Rankov in the mind of her commanding officer:

  1. Do not under any circumstances be detected anywhere along the route to the Falkland Islands.

  2. Locate the Royal Navy Task Force and hold your position until hostilities begin.

  3. Sink the Ark Royal.

  1130 (LOCAL), TUESDAY, MARCH 22

  NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

  MARYLAND

  Lt. Commander Ramshawe was staring at the front covers of the major U.S. news magazines. Without exception they carried large photographs of the Royal Navy Task Force sailing for the South Atlantic. Most of them had shots from helicopters showing the decks of the aircraft carrier and the big assault ships, lined with the GR9s and helicopters.

  The British military's ultimatum, that they would be unable to hang around in bad weather beating up the ships if not permitted to fight, had not been made public. However, the U.S. ambassador to London was in receipt of that knowledge and had informed President Bedford of the situation.

  The Pentagon had been alerted, as had the NSA and the CIA. Jimmy Ramshawe was among those who knew that when the Royal Navy Fleet cleared the English Channel, it was going to war with the Republic of Argentina.

  He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and continued to look at the U.S. coverage of the crisis. "Jeez," he muttered. "These bastards are actually going to fight for those islands all over again."

  And he realized that this time there was a lot more involved than was immediately apparent. For a start, the U.S. President was under enormous pressure from ExxonMobil to do something about the Falkland Islands oil fields, for which they had paid an arm and a leg to the British government for drilling rights, and for the massive investment in drilling-rig equipment, miles of pipeline, enormous pumps and transportation.

  ExxonMobil had $2 billion tied up in that operation, and all of their guys had been frog-marched, at gunpoint, off the island by Argentinian troops. The oil giant wanted action. In fact, the oil giant wanted President Bedford to get down there with a U.S. Carrier Battle Group and "roust these bastards back to where they came from…doesn't seem right to let the Brits go it alone."

  But President Bedford did not want to take his country into another war, especially with Argentina, which had always extended the hand of friendship to the USA. The problem was that when Uncle Sam picked up his musket, any ensuing war had to be won, and the High Command in the Pentagon knew how thoroughly the Argentinians were prepared for this conflict.

  The political ramifications of American boys fighting and dying in that godforsaken group of rocks, which anyway belonged to someone else, filled the President with horror, never mind the oil. And the Pentagon chiefs themselves were not mad about such an adventure either.

  The U.S. military was willing to assist Great Britain, willing to run the base at Ascension Island in a way that would make life much, much easier for the Task Force in terms of supplies and fueling, even assistance with missiles. But President Bedford, like President Reagan before him, would not commit American troops, and he would not commit U.S. Navy ships, and he would not commit any U.S. fighter attack aircraft.

  After two or three weeks of hard negotiating, he accepted that the Brits needed help, but it would need to be arm's-length help, which did not entail one single death of an American serviceman.

  In truth, President Bedford felt somewhat guilty about the whole operation, because ExxonMobil was ultimately the biggest player in the Falklands oil business and would thus be the biggest benefactor of any victory achieved by the forces of Great Britain.

  And there was also the question of the massive natural gas strike on the island of South Georgia. President Bedford understood that the Task Force could only attend to that after recapturing the Falklands themselves. And he had a disturbing vision of the Union Flag once more fluttering above Port Stanley, with the battered remnants of the Royal Navy Fleet, with all of its burned and wounded sailors. Then turning southeast to South Georgia in order to save 10,000 British national penguins and to wrest 400 billion cubic feet of ExxonMobil's natural gas holdings from the hands of Argentinian brigands.

  It was not at all fair. He knew that. But then nothing was, and the prospect of a couple of hundred body bags arriving back in the United States was more than he could risk. Because in the end it would cost him his Presidency. And, good guy or no, Paul Bedford was a politician, and ensuring his own survival came as natural to him as breathing.

  He would do damn near anything to help the Brits, except take his country to war, which would be tantamount to throwing himself on his sword.

  Jimmy Ramshawe understood the high stakes. He had read, over and over, the carefully constructed assessments of the forthcoming war by Ambassador Ryan Holland. He knew the heavy strength of the Argentinian fighter aircraft, the Mirage jets, the Skyhawks, and the Super-Etendards stationed at the newly active Rio Grande base.

  And he knew that when battle commenced, the Argentinians would launch everything at the Royal Navy Fleet. It would be an overwhelming aerial armada, and yes, the Brits would down several of them. But they would not down them all, and many bombers would get through and probably blast the British Task Force out of the game. Because the Brits had insufficient air power.

  And no one understood the real issues here more thoroughly than Admiral Arnold Morgan. Recalled from his winter vacation on the Caribbean island of Antigua he had arrived back in the States, on board Air Force One, and flatly refused to see the President until he had read the assessments by Ryan Holland and the summaries from the Pentagon.

  "There's quite enough political assholes briefing you on subjects they do not understand," he grated, "without me joining them. Gimme two days and we'll talk."

  That had been Friday, February 18, and since then the President and the former National Security Adviser had been in constant communication. And as ever, Arnold Morgan had brought a clarity to the situation, which the President simply could not ignore.

  "I understand you do not want to take the United States to war," said the Admiral. "But that is only the simple part of your problem. The difficult issue is that the Brits are plainly going to get beat. There's no ifs, ands, or buts, they cannot win.

  "I know they pulled it off last time. But they had infinitely bigger resources then. Many more ships, fifty percent more fighter aircraft, all of them Harriers, which were vastly superior to these no-radar GR9s they're fucking about with. And above all they had replacements. Sandy Woodward lost two of his major Type-42 destroyers, but they brought out more.

  "They cannot do so this time. They're too small a fleet, too thinly stretched, and they cannot defend themselves against iron bombs. Quite frankly I'm astounded the Royal Navy agreed to go. As for the Army, God knows what's going to happen to them. If they manage to land on the Falklands, to form an
enclave preparing to march on the Argentinian positions, and the weather's bad, they'll get blasted out of sight, because those GR9s can't stop an incoming enemy air assault.

  "In my view we're looking at the most shocking military defeat for Great Britain since Dunkirk."

  President Bedford walked across the Oval Office. He said nothing, but his concern was obvious. "Can we ignore it, if that happens?"

  "Christ, no," replied Arnold. "Refuse to help our best friends in the international community? A nation that stood shoulder to shoulder with us, twice, in the Gulf? Our one completely trustworthy ally in Europe? Hell, no. We can't just leave them to it. It would be construed as something close to treachery. No one would ever count on us again.

  "And, of course, the lion's share of the oil and gas fields in the Falklands and South Georgia is held by ExxonMobil. That's about as American as it gets.

  "Mr. President, I obviously appreciate your problems with taking this nation into a war. But it might be a whole lot easier to join the Brits right off the bat, in the hope we may frighten the shit out of the Args and they'll withdraw from the islands in the face of American fury."

  "Something tells me, Arnold, they're not budging from that pile of rocks," replied the President. "And I don't think the oil and the wealth under the land is the true issue. I think they're all nuts, and feel they are fighting some kind of a pampas jihad, battling for the birthright of every Argentinian. They've been simmering over their defeat in the Malvinas for nearly thirty years.

  "They have said, plainly, they would have fought for the islands even if the oil had never been there. In my view the oil and gas are merely the casus belli. Sooner or later the Argentinians would have attacked the pathetically weak British defenses in the Falklands. And then battled 'til the last drop of blood to hold on to their conquest. I agree with you. The Brits, and in a sense us as well, have our backs to the goddamned wall trying to fight these fucking fanatics."

  Admiral Morgan nodded, in a clearly somber mood. He leaned back in his chair and suggested another pot of hot coffee. The President pressed a bell, then leaned forward to hear what the Admiral was about to say.

  When he finally spoke, it was more like a father to a son than an ex — submarine commander to a President. "Paul," he said, "you and I have known each other for a while. We both served in the United States Navy. And I want to ask you one question…"

  "Shoot," said the President.

  "What would you do if you were in command of the Argentinian military and wanted to win this forthcoming war in the fastest possible time?"

  "I'd take out the Royal Navy carrier, the one with the entire air force embarked on board."

  "Correct. So would I. In fact I'd aim to hit the Ark Royal and about a half dozen other warships. I'd launch a hundred fighter-bombers and send half of 'em after the Ark Royal. That way I'd put her on the bottom of the Atlantic about four hours after the start of the war."

  "Well, I guess they knew that last time, but they either could not or would not do it."

  "Last time," replied Arnold, "they had only five Exocet air-to-surface missiles. And Admiral Woodward kept the Hermes well out of range during the daylight hours. This time it's all different. The Arg Air Force is much bigger, much more efficient.

  "They probably have two hundred Exocet missiles, because they've been stockpiling for this very day. However, the Brits have improved their antimissile systems and they might actually stop most of the Exocets, but they won't stop the bombs from the A4s. They cannot stop them.

  "The Args will take their losses and in the end break through, and smash the carrier. And that, ladies and gentlemen, will be the end of the game."

  "Christ," said President Bedford. "Then what?"

  "Then what, indeed?" said the Admiral. "But in my view that's where we're likely to stand four weeks from now. So we better start thinking about it."

  "You staying for lunch?"

  "Depends what you're offering. Tuna sandwiches, forget it. Decent steak and salad, count me in. Tell you what, I'll even go for a roast beef on rye, so long as you run to mayonnaise and mustard. But we better start thinking. This Falklands bullshit gets to be more of a goddamned problem by the day."

  "If my wife catches me eating roast beef sandwiches with mayonnaise she'll have a heart attack," grinned the President.

  "Then I guess we'd better be good boys, and have two nice little grilled steaks with grass and fucking dandelions," confirmed Arnold.

  "But what we really need to do is think. Because the day's not far away when some comedian walks through that door and says the Brits just conceded defeat and left the Falkland Islands, which remain in Argentinian hands. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs wants to know where we stand, and the Chairman of ExxonMobil is fit to be tied."

  "That," added Admiral Morgan, "would be a darned awkward moment."

  "You said that right," said the President. "Let's take a stroll along to the dining room, clear our heads and make a few decisions."

  "We may as well," replied the Admiral. "Because when this happens, it'll happen real quick and the lines will be very clearly drawn. Do we or do we not help the Brits? And the answer to that one must always be yes. The question is, what do we do?"

  The two men stood up and pulled on their jackets. They left the Oval Office and walked along the West Wing corridor to the President's small private dining room. The butler met them, and poured them each a glass of sparkling water, knowing that neither man ever touched alcohol during the day.

  "Well, Oh Great Oracle," said the President, "what will we do?"

  "Dunno," said Arnold, unhelpfully.

  "You mean I sent the most expensive jet aircraft in the country halfway across the world to some goddamned Caribbean paradise to drag you off the beach with that goddess who married you, and at the end of it I get ‘Dunno.' Jesus Christ."

  Arnold chuckled. "And the really bad news is I've just spent three weeks thinking about nothing else, night and day, and it's still ‘Dunno.'

  "However," he added, uttering the one single word the President was waiting to hear, "I know what we cannot do, under any circumstances. And that's rustle up fifty thousand troops and somehow storm the place, with all guns firing, air, sea, and land."

  "Why not?" said the President, with synthetic innocence.

  "Because we don't even own the goddamned islands, and we would be universally accused of going to war over that oil and gas, which is a charge we've heard quite enough of for one century."

  "True," said the President. "Well, what's left?"

  "Dunno," said Arnold.

  "Jesus Christ," added the President.

  "Tell you the truth," replied the Admiral, "I'd really like time to think about this, and I'd like to have a talk with some of the Pentagon guys, in particular the Special Forces officers.

  "Meanwhile, there is something that concerns me. And I've been trying not to dwell on it…but in the last few months we have been exercised by two substantial events.

  "The first was the murder in the White House of old Mikhallo whatsisname, the Siberian. And that was also a part of what the CIA believes was a massacre of Siberian oilmen and politicians in Yekaterinburg.

  "From that we must deduce that somehow Moscow is hugely concerned to the point of neurosis about developments in Siberia, and the possibility that in the end they may prefer to sell their oil not to Moscow but to their good and wealthy southern neighbors in China.

  "The second great event was the Argentine invasion of the Falkland Islands, conducted with scarcely a warning, with massive confidence, and total disregard for the possibility of a vicious counterattack by the Brits.

  "Both of those drastic scenarios were conducted within weeks of each other. They were brutal, ruthless, and betrayed no apparent fear of consequences. And both of them were about oil and gas — the West Siberian reserves, which Moscow wants but may not keep. And the Falkland and South Georgia reserves, which Argentina has grabbed.

  "I'd sure ha
te to think that somehow those two events were in any way connected. Because that would sure as hell be bigger trouble than either you or I, or anyone else, could ever have imagined."

  The Admiral's global view invariably astounded President Bedford. And the two naturally garrulous men slowly ate their steaks and "fucking dandelions" in somber, uncharacteristic contemplation.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HMS Ark Royal crossed the fifty-degree line of latitude in the western reaches of the English Channel, twenty miles south of the ancient Royal Navy city of Plymouth. The weather was foul, blowing a force-eight gale, and the carrier pitched through ten-foot waves, the crests of which were beginning to topple, with dense streaks of foam marking the direction of the wind.

  Rain that had swept up the Atlantic in the approaching depression was light but squally, sweeping across the deck in lashing bursts against the base of the carrier's island. The two Type-45s Daring and Dauntless ran a half mile off the carrier's port and starboard bow.

  Two miles astern of the Ark Royal there were three of the frigate squadron, Grafton, Iron Duke, and Richmond, in company with a massive fleet oiler. Captain Farmer had the Ocean positioned three miles off the carrier's port quarter, with Jonathon Jempson's Albion a mile astern, all of them making twenty knots.

  Several hundred miles out in front were two 6,500-ton nuclear submarines, Astute and Ambush, both recently built in Barrow-in-Furness, as the newest, state-of-the-art improvements on the old Trafalgar class.

  Single-shafters with two turbines apiece, they each carried submerged-launch Tomahawk cruise missiles and thirty Spearfish torpedoes. They were equipped with the outstanding Thompson Marconi 2076 sonars, with towed array, and were probably the quietest attack submarines in the deep, quieter even than Viper K-157, which right now was still fighting its way down the coast of Norway.