by Stuart Slade
“You should appreciate the International Zone more.” General Brock spoke chidingly, as if he was rebuking impertinent children. “An opportunity to steep oneself in the glories of ancient history, to see sights that have endured for millennia. To be responsible for the guardianship of the oldest treasures of mankind and receive the gratitude of the world. Not to mention the fact that we agreed to take the responsibility and, in payment, our Air Force now flies C-133 transport aircraft and F-110 Spectre fighters. Such great gains for such a small commitment. And what opportunities; why I’d go out there myself if it wasn’t for this accursed allergy I have to dates.”
Geldenhuys and van Huis were slowly going green as the horror of a two year tour of duty in the International Zone sank home. Veterans who had been there told of the excruciating boredom in areas so small that within ten minutes a man knew every stone by name. They had also told of the constant vigilance needed, and of the Caliphate tribal levies who always were waiting for a soldier who had dropped his guard. They’d also spoken, in hushed and sickened tones, of what had happened to those soldiers once they had been snatched away. Watching them, Brock decided that enough was enough.
“I really pity you, missing out on a magnificent opportunity like that.” He shook his head and watched while Geldenhuys and van Huis tried to hide their relief. “I have another assignment for you, one that offers none of the pleasures of the International Zone. The British have signed an order for two hundred Boomslangs, but there are conditions.”
“Offsets?” van Huis was very familiar with the way arms deals were put together. Being the son of the founder of one major armaments company and the son-in-law of another tended to do that for a man. In the closely-knit clan that comprised the McMullen-van Huis-Vermaak families, it was a standing joke that they could all negotiate international sales contracts before they could walk.
“Surprisingly no. The British didn’t even ask for them. Just a straight cash purchase. But, as a part of the deal, they asked for two things. One was the right to use Simonstad as a base for their South Atlantic squadron, rent free.”
Van Huis nodded. It made a lot of sense. The British got a first-class naval base whose operating costs were paid for by South Africa. “And?”
“They also want a South African Army team to help them incorporate the vehicles into the British Army, train their people, that sort of thing. Now, Lieutenant van Huis, your family makes the engine for the Boomslang and you, Geldenhuys, worked on the field trials team for the Mamba missile. So, you two get the job.”
“When will we be leaving for Britain, Sir?”
“You won’t. The British are sending their people here. Funny thing, the whole deal was conditional on them getting the first dozen vehicles off the production line. We, and the Indians, will have to wait. So you fly out tomorrow for Kaapstad. Of course, if you really want to go to the International Zone, I suppose I could pull some strings for you and arrange it… “
“That won’t be necessary Sir.” Geldenhuys almost tripped over his tongue trying to speak quickly enough. “The lieutenant and I will look after the Englanders. It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it.”
B-70 Shield Maiden, MacDill Air Force Base, Florida
“Canard flaps down.” Yates gave the order as he held Shield Maiden on her brakes at the end of the runway. Her six great engines were barely idling over. “Fuel and weapons status?”
“Internal tanks one to seven topped off. Four 1,000 gallon underwing droptanks. Aft bay contains a fuel tank, forward bay, two AIM-47s, four AGM-76s, all nuclear. Bomb bay doors closed.”
Yates nodded, absorbing the information. With the fuel load she was carrying, Shield Maiden could easily make it down to Buenos Aires and back. Still, there would be a tanker available if they ran short. After all, they might have a failure and be unable to use some or all of their external fuel. It had happened before.
“Did you hear about Axe Lady and War Mistress! They got sent to Santiago on a ‘friendly visit.’ Stayed there for three days, and more importantly three nights. The guys still go into a trance every time Chilean senoritas are mentioned.”
“Yeah, and they were guests of honor every where they went. Even the cab drivers refused to take their money.”
“When Casey and Donnette went to the Sergeant’s Mess, every man there stood up and wouldn’t sit until the ladies were properly seated. They’ve been a bit dream-like ever since as well.”
“Hey Mike, we going to Chile soon?” Lieutenant Archie Gautreaux sounded hopeful and his question was met by a round of laughter from the flight deck.
“Not this time, Archie. Down the Andes on 168, swing to oh-nine-oh to Buenos Aires and then back up here. But, I have heard that we’ve got one more flight to do that will involve a four day layover in Santiago.”
The laughter on the deck turned to cheers. Yates finished off his checklist and then advanced his throttles. The night ahead was black, the stars shining clearly, a good night for a high altitude run. He advanced the throttles, waited until the engines had spooled up to max and the released the brakes. Shield Maiden accelerated smoothly down the runway until she reached 200 knots. Then he rotated and climbed away from the runway feeling the bumps as the undercarriage retracted. MacDill had a shorter-than-desirable runway. The money to lengthen it had been held up under the Carter regime but work would start soon. He held the climb rate to 2,000 feet per minute, allowing his aircraft to gain altitude smoothly. At 40,000 feet, he would switch over to drop tanks, and then climb to 60,000 and hold speed at Mach 3.2. That would do fine until the tanks were empty and could be dropped. He settled back in his seat. It wasn’t going to be that long a flight but it was still better to be comfortable.
Royal Australian Navy Submarine Rotorua, Puerto de Valparaiso, Chile
Entering a foreign port on a visit with the civilian population turned out to cheer the arriving warship is one of the great pleasures of Navy life. Nothing else quite generates the sheer delight experienced by the crew at the spectacle. And so it was with Rotorua as she entered Valparaiso Bay and made her turn to follow the sea lane into port. She was putting on a good show for herself. Her flat forward deck was ideally suited to manning the rails, something few other submarines could do well. The men were in dress whites, spaced out forward of the sail in a double line. On the after end of the bridge, the ‘waving detail’ was industriously returning the waves and salutes from the people lined up along the outer breakwater. Finally, on the deck aft of the sail was the submarine’s band. It was not large but made up in vigor that which they lacked in numbers, as they thumped out “Waltzing Matilda”.
It was, as Captain Steven Beecham had to admit, a pretty damned good show after the high-speed underwater run across the Pacific. Snorting was rough on the crew. All it took was a wave to shut the snort valve for the diesel engines, better known as the donks, to suck the air out of the engine compartment and then from the rest of the boat. The experience for the crew was unpleasantly similar to being sucked inside-out. Still, Rotorua had made her run in record time. For a diesel-electric that is.
“The Fleet’s in Sir, no kidding.” Lieutenant-Commander Cardew sounded impressed. “There’s our old friend Sacramento.’” Cardew looked harder through one of the pairs of powerful navigational binoculars on the bridge. There was a long queue of people waiting to board the American cruiser, a line that seemed to terminate on the ship’s huge flight deck. “Sir, I don’t believe it. The Septics have got a nuclear warhead out on their flight deck and are lining people up to stroke it.”
“I always said there was something unhealthy about the Septics and their fondness for nukes.” Beecham spoke lightly but he knew there was more to it than that. The cruiser was here to show people that America smiled on Chile. The nuke was on open display as a message. “Who else is in?”
“Pommies have got a sloop; moored just in front of Sacramento. She’s Chessie, Sir. I wonder how she got around here.”
“Those
sloops keep turning up wherever something interesting is going on. I think the Andrew has quietly discovered the secret of teleporting them around the world.”
“Sir, you have to see this, inside the breakwater. It’s Vanguard.”
“What!” Beecham was genuinely shocked. Vanguard was the Royal Navy’s latest nuclear-powered submarine and was supposed to be running trials in the North Atlantic. How the devil had she got down here?
“There she is Sir. No mistaking the curved front to her sail, she’s Vanguard all right.”
“My God, you think that’s surprising? Take a look behind her.”
Beecham looked where he was told and nearly dropped his binoculars. “It can’t be. A Chimp nuke-boat? Here?”
“It is Sir, I-700 class hunter-killer by the look of her. Dear God, she’s got her masts up as well. The spooks must be having a field day with cameras.”
“Where is she… Where is she…” Navigating Officer Graeme Gavin known as ‘Horsey’ to the crew, was using the other pair of bridge binoculars to scan the shore.
“Inside the breakwater Navs. By Sacramento. It looks to me like the Chileans put the three nuclear-powered ships together.”
“I think he’s looking for his girlfriend, Sir.” Cardew sounded almost despairing.
“Girlfriend? He’s never been to Valparaiso before.”
“That has never stopped Horsey before, Sir. Ah, there we are, I think he’s spotted her.”
Beecham swung his binoculars to where the Navigating Officer was looking with such diligence. There was a Corvette Fancy Free convertible parked on the headland with a girl standing on the seat, waving furiously. It didn’t take much of an inspection to realize she was gorgeous.
“How does he do it, Sir?” Cardew was in despair.
“He’d better be careful. Chilean senoritas are known for being charming, beautiful, affectionate and warm-hearted but they also have affectionate, warm-hearted fathers with loaded shotguns. One step in the wrong direction and our Navigating Officer is likely to find himself emphatically married. We’d better confine him to the ship.”
“With respect, Sir, bad idea, Sir. Shouldn’t interfere with people’s love lives. Cemeteries are full of people who tried to interfere with other people’s love lives.”
“That’s true Number One. Europeans thought the Black Death was bubonic plague but it wasn’t. It was the result of too many people interfering with other people’s love lives. Ah, the Pilot’s coming out. Stand by to receive.”
As the pilot boat pulled alongside, Rotorua shuddered when a roar appeared to fill the sky. Overhead, a pair of B-70 Valkyries were taking off from Santiago and climbing away on their flight back to the United States. Beecham guessed they would be crossing Argentina on their way. After all, those who arranged this little naval fiesta had the Argentine government firmly in their sights.
Ministry of Defence, Whitehall, London
“Brigadier, good to see you. How are the Airmech brigades doing?” General Howard leaned back in his office seat. “Pull up a pew and have some tea.”
“Thank you, Sir. Oh, Jaffa Cakes; good-oh.” Strachan knew the MoD rules far better than anybody could possibly suspect. Plain rich tea biscuits were official issue, but chocolate ones came out of the host’s private purse. The presence of Jaffa Cakes meant either the guest was being honored or asked to volunteer for something suicidally dangerous. Probably both. He munched for a second, savoring the blend of orange jelly, sponge cake and dark chocolate while using the interval to put his thoughts in order.
“First is up, running and ready to crack some heads, Sir. Fully equipped with vehicles, both Boarhound infantry carriers and Chevalier gun busses. The Paras and Marines have finished beating each other up and settled down to a wary truce. Second, well, Sir, it’s only just formed up. They’re short on everything. Vehicles, supplies, even the new unit insignia. Not short on fighting spirit though. They wrecked three pubs on Camberley High Street last night. God help a town with both brigades stationed near it.”
Howard snorted with laughter at the thought. “I think that even if God himself declared a truce, the Paras and Marines would dispute it. They can fight each other; how about an enemy?”
Strachan thought for a few seconds more. Howard waited patiently for the answer. He preferred a man who thought his replies through before giving them to one who just galloped in.
“All the exercises we’ve run show that Airmech works, Sir. The great secret is to keep the operations close, to commit the troops so that the follow up forces can get to them fast. The way to do it is to use the Airmech units to grab the critical terrain and hold it so they form a corridor for the troops to advance through. Make sure the corridor isn’t too long and is wide enough and it’s a deadly tactic. Put the two brigades side by side and its perfect. Put them one behind the other for a long, thin corridor and they’ll get massacred.”
“And the Junglies?”
“They’re a revolution, Sir. They’re three times a helicopter. Three times faster, three times longer-ranged, carry three times the load. We’ve got them rigged with unguided rocket packs forward so that they can hose down the landing area as they come in. Others carry anti-tank missiles to pick of any heavy armor they see. There was a bit of a barney about that, Sir. Some thought giving them that much weaponry would tempt the pilots to go hunting instead of delivering their load. Well, that is a factor, but the benefits of coming in shooting outweigh it. They carry flares and chaff to handle anti-aircraft missiles and, of course, the range means we can plot safe routes in. It’s the same as the troops really, Sir. Handle the operation properly, keep remembering that these units aren’t the be-all and end-all of warfare and we do fine. Get a case of the God-like delusions and there’s a disaster waiting.”
“God-like delusions. Where have I heard that phrase before?” Howard spoke thoughtfully and Strachan cursed to himself. “Anyway, so the key to using one of these units is to use it properly. That’s a very, very old story, Brigadier.”
“And as true today as it ever was, sir. I bet Caesar heard the same thing when he was a cadet.” And I know for a fact that Alexander did, before the Granicus. And ignored the lesson.
“Well, Brigadier, you’re going to have a chance to prove an old adage. Effective as of January 1st, 1982, you will be gazetted to the command of the First AirMech Brigade. We believe you will have three months, possibly less, to get the brigade ready to move out.”
“May I ask where to, Sir?”
Howard pressed a button on his intercom. “Please send the young lady in. The Cousins have been kind enough to send a bag of intelligence data over, one of their OSS couriers arrived with it a few minutes ago.”
The door opened. A sultry-looking young woman with a waist-length mane of silky black hair walked in with a bag handcuffed to one wrist. She and Strachan knew each other very well, but neither of them gave a sign of that.
“Isn’t that a bit melodramatic? And tempting fate?” Howard and Strachan had stood up as she came in and Strachan politely seated her.
“It’s to make sure the bag and I don’t get separated accidentally. I’ve got the key so there would be no need to cut my hand off. My name’s Igrat Shafrid, by the way.”
“Welcome to Whitehall, Miss Shafrid. I think I may have seen you around before.”
“London’s part of my regular run now, although usually I go to the Foreign Office. It’s a convenient drop-off point on my way to Moscow. Anyway, my principal has asked me to deliver the latest intelligence scope on the Argentine build up. They’re definitely on the move. Some of the material is imagery and we have intercepts as well. The Seer says, you had better watch your backs. Two things by the way. The Seer asks if you hear anything related to a young woman called Karyn Sunderstrom, he would regard it as a personal kindness if you would let him know the details in full.”
“Karyn Sunderstrom. She’s the Swedish girl who disappeared in Argentina a year or so back isn’t she?”
&n
bsp; “That’s right. The Seer stresses that this is a personal interest of his. The other thing is…” Igrat reached into her bag and got out a photograph of a young Argentine naval officer. “This man is of considerable interest to a lot of people. His name is Captain Alberto Astrid. Every horror you can imagine, this man has performed. Every story you have read about him so far is true, and the worst of his deeds have yet to be revealed. The Seer says that if you get your hands on this man, whoever you hand him over to will owe you big-time. Don’t waste the opportunity.”
Howard and Strachan nodded. They looked at picture of the naval officer again. At first glance, he appeared a handsome and intelligent officer, but Strachan looked closely. Even in a photograph, the signs of madness could be seen behind the eyes. The sort of madness one saw in a rabid dog.
“Will you thank the Seer for his thoughts and assure him that we will be delighted to keep him advised of any news we hear on Karyn Sunderstrom?” Howard was in no doubt that his words would be transmitted back exactly as he has said them, down to the intonation and hesitations. Just as Igrat had repeated the messages from The Seer. That was a gift a skilled courier had, to transmit a spoken message perfectly. It was called ‘the word’ and was as important as the documents. Despite her appearance which, in honesty, Howard felt was just a little vulgar, this woman had the reputation of being one of the best couriers in the world.
“I will do that. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Igrat left and Strachan sighed with relief. If Igrat wanted to, she could create chaos.
“Three months, General?”
“Three months. There is a chance, how great a chance we do not know, that the Argentines will strike at the Falklands. We can’t do anything obvious, not yet but the Prime Minister wants plans made and assets readied. You will do both with First AirMech.”
