Lion Resurgent

by Stuart Slade

  “Transport?”

  “You can rely on having either Albion or Bulwark. Possibly both.”

  “That’s good. The helicopter assault ships are ideal AirMech platforms. Capacity is low though; if I’m going to go in as a single wave, we’ll need both. We could really use Centaur.”

  General Howard grimaced. The helicopter assault ship Centaur had been on the 1969 request list but the then-government had cancelled her. Her loss had been a constant low-level problem ever since, causing the planning staff to juggle refits so that one ship would be available when needed. “Perhaps, if this mess really goes down, we’ll get her in years to come. But, at the moment, plan on one of the assault transports.”

  Casa Rosada Presidential Palace, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  The dull boom rattled windows, causing President Videla to look up from the report he was reading. “That is the second one today. The norteamericanos have become much more active recently.”

  “It means nothing.” Defense Minister Galtieri was dismissive, both of the President’s concerns and of the pair of Valkyries that had just flown overhead. “It is like everything they do these days, much noise but no teeth. They have lost whatever spirit they may have had.”

  Videla sighed. He had an unpleasant feeling that Galtieri was very wrong. “And this sudden spurt of visits to Chile? Valparaiso is full of warships and there are B-70s at Santiago’s airport. Lined up by the passenger terminal where everybody can see them. Our man in Valparaiso says that there is a Chipanese submarine there which is unprecedented and some of their officers attended a party on the American cruiser which is far more than just unheard-of.”

  “Posturing, just posturing. The bombers will flee fast enough when we take out the airport and the ships will have to take their chances when we do the same to the port.” Galtieri stared at the President. He was beginning to feel that Videla was too soft, too cautious to lead the country. Perhaps it was time for a change.

  “Are we ready to do more than posture?” Videla knew exactly what Galtieri was thinking and wondered again if the man understood what the world was like outside his narrow, focused little clique.

  “We are. The two assault cruisers are finishing their yard maintenance now. Both will be assigned to the attacks on Picton, Nueva und Lennox islands. The Veinticinco de Mayo is also finishing her refit.” Galtieri was careful not to mention that it had only been possible to refit her by stripping her sister, the Neuve de Julio for spare parts. Technically, the latter carrier was in dock for a long reconstruction. The truth was, she lay in the yard like a gutted fish. “And the amphibious groups are ready. If the Chileans resist, our cruisers will make them rue the day they decided to do something so rash.”

  It wouldn’t be so rash if the Chileans got their air force off the ground. The Argentine fleet was weak on air defenses; they had always thought to rely on the fighters based from the two carriers. But, now one carrier was gone. Even by merging the air groups, the Veinticinco de Mayo could only just make up a full air group, 36 fighters and 24 bombers. That would have to be enough. It just had to be.

  Pack Gun Race Course, Kingston, Jamaica

  “GLOWWORM! GLOWWORM! GLOWWORM!” “JAMAICA, JAMAICA, JAMAICA!”

  The roars echoed across the race ground, battling to drown each other out, for this was a special match, one that was the ultimate prize in Pack Gun racing. A team might win the Diamond Cup or the Hood Holdfast, they might rack up a record time on the King of the Kopje ascent, but they would never be considered a real Pack Gun racing team until, win lose or draw, they had faced the Jamaican Team on their home ground. The Jamaican Navy might be a few small patrol craft. The Jamaican Army might be a single (albeit well-regarded) battalion. The Jamaican Air Force might still be flying F-63 Kingcobras left over from World War II. The Pack Gun team fielded by the consolidated armed forces of Jamaica was an entity to be feared. On their home ground, with the crowd to urge them to greater efforts and the jangling music of the steel drum bands to stir their hearts, they dominated the Pack Gun racing community.

  Their racing ground was a tribute to the pride the Islanders had in their team. The run out consisted of two long strips of grass, a wall halfway down each. By tradition, the teams tossed a coin for the choice of strip. Really serious teams, which was every one that competed here, had been studying the grass, the weather and the ‘form’ of teams that had competed earlier. The Glowworm team had won the toss and they’d chosen the portside track. The Glowworm Team Captain, the “Gunny” in the language of the Pack Gun Race had run the results of every Pack Gun Race held here through the ship’s computers. He’d noticed there was a slight tendency for the home team to chose Portside when they run the toss. Working on the basis they knew something he didn’t, he’d taken Portside himself when given the chance.

  There wasn’t much in it, but Captain Foster thought his Glowworms had just the slightest of leads when it came to manhandling their gun over the Wall. That was the first obstacle, five feet high. It was no great feat for a man normally, but for a team of ten dragging a 3.7” Pack Howitzer No.2 it was a feat worth noting. He couldn’t help noticing that the steel drum band had done this before. They had the timing of their music worked out to the split second. Their drum roll for the run up to the wall was perfect; the crescendo coming as the barrel was swung over the obstacle and down to the other side. Then the two teams were off again and if one of them had a lead over the other, Foster couldn’t see it.

  Up ahead of the teams was ‘the mountain.’ A square pyramid sat fifteen feet high, two of the sides were smooth ramps, the other pair made of three ‘steps,’ each five feet high. The smooth ramps came first. The teams had to scramble up them, no easy task dragging the load of the pack howitzer. Going up was the easy part compared with turning the gun around on the small platform at the top then rolling it down the slope with only their strength and the grip of their boots to brake its roll. Then they had to climb up on to the first step, prepare their gun and fire off three rounds at low elevation ‘to engage the enemy.’ To Foster’s amusement the band had their music perfectly synchronized with the artillery fire. The chanting of the crowd blended with the drams and the smoke drifting from the guns to create a spectacle unmatched elsewhere. would be a man who lacked any soul, thought Foster, who could watch a Pack Gun Race and not be stirred by the sight.

  The teams were hard at work. They stripped their guns into twelve parts, 14 with the two boxes of ammunition; the heaviest of which weighed 250lb. They then threw the parts up to their team-mates who had formed a human chain to get the dissembled gun over the crest of the ridge and down to the first step on the other side. There the gun would be assembled and fired at high angle for a three round ‘defiance of the enemy.’ Then, it would have to be dropped down to the ground again for the run home. Foster held his breath. It was so easy in the urgency of the race to forget one of the ammunition boxes and leave it on the steps of the mountain. That was a disaster; one of the team would have to ran back and get it, costing his team irrecoverable seconds and giving the crowd a chance to shout a barrage of ribald, if good-natured, advice. He relaxed. His team had both their ammunition boxes and they were starting the run home. Just the run left: down the track again, over the wall and back to the starting line where they would bring their guns “home.” The team to get the muzzle of its gun past the finishing line first was the winner. Foster couldn’t honestly tell who that was. To his eyes, the two guns had crossed the line together.

  After the roaring of the crowd, the deafening music and the crash of the guns, the silence around the sports ground was eerie. The umpires and stewards were gathering around the guns. It was obvious the issue was so close that it would come down to the photographs taken on the finishing line to decide. Both teams were lined up in perfect order, trying not to gasp for breath too obviously and equally trying not to watch the umpires too keenly. Finally, a steward came out with the pictures and handed them to the Head Umpire. He studied them int
ently, nodded and spoke to the other Umpires who also nodded. The die was cast.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen. In today’s Pack Gun Race between the Home Team, the representatives of the Jamaica Defense Forces… “ There was a surge of cheers from the local supporters. “… and the Visitors, the representatives of HMS Glowworm… “ There was another surge of cheers from the ship’s company.

  “The time for the Home Team is four minutes, twelve point nine seconds. The time for the Visitors is four minutes, twelve point three seconds.” There was a moment’s silence as the crowd took in the figures. “I therefore declare the Visitors to have won today’s Pack Gun Race!”

  There was a wild burst of cheering as the crowd saluted the victors. In some places, in some sports, the supporters of the losing team might have booed the winners but this was a Pack Gun Race. Anyway, the Jamaican people were made of finer stuff than that, and would consider displaying such a lack of sportsmanship despicable. The Jamaican Defense Forces team broke ranks and ran over to the Glowworms, pumping their hands and slapping them on the back to congratulate them on their win. It was a sight and a sound that made the heart feel good.

  “Well done Captain.” A grinning Jamaican patrol boat commander grabbed Foster’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “That’s a race that will be headlines on the news tonight!”

  “Thank you, Commander. Your men ran a damned fine race; there couldn’t have been more than a hair in it.”

  “Point six of a second, a result that close does credit to both teams, Sir. Better to lose a well-run race than to win one unfairly run.”

  Foster knew exactly what the Jamaican Commander was referring to: the notorious race where the American SEALs had stolen their opponent’s gun. They may have thought it was amusing, but it still rankled a Jamaica where sportsmanship and ‘playing the game’ were still regarded as high virtues. The Americans had had their fun and made their point, but they’d left a residue of ill-feeling behind them. It was so typical of them, gaining a short-term point at the expense of longer-term interests. And yet, that brought him back to the question that was quietly debated in political science circles, one that was called The Septic Paradox. The Americans frequently took actions that only benefitted them in the short term and harmed their long term position, yet behind all that there was a consistency and purpose to American actions that spoke of long-term planning. A paradox indeed.

  “I was admiring Glowworm as we came in Captain. Fine looking ship, first time we’ve had a G Class out here. You’ve still got the low bridge on her though.”

  “We’re the last; the other three Batch Ones have all been refitted with the raised bow and enlarged superstructure. We’ll be getting the same rebuild when we return from this commission. I’ll be sorry to see the old bridge gone though; down low like that we got a real feel for the sea.”

  “Out for two years Jimmy?” The voice was familiar and Foster turned slightly to welcome an old friend to the group. “Mickey, how are you. Still driving Mermaid around in a cloud of diesel smoke?”

  Commander Michael Blaise grabbed Foster’s hand and pumped it. “We may be a bit slow, Jimmy, but we’ll still be thumping along when you gas turbine types are wallowing round looking for fuel. Have you met Alice?”

  “I’ve not yet had that honor. Mrs. Blaise, pleased to meet you.” One of the benefits of serving on the sloops was that the crews were allowed to bring their wives and families out with them. The sloops had been built with extra accommodation, so it was no great problem fitting in the crew’s families on the run out and the three-year tour of duty on foreign station made bringing out the families a popular policy. It also allowed the families to see what their husbands and fathers actually did for a living. Sometimes, the families had even joined in, helping out when needed. On her way out to station, Mermaid had stopped at a small island called Tristan da Cuhna to evacuate islanders threatened by a volcanic eruption. The ship’s small medical staff had been aided by the families on board for the journey down and that had made a major difference. The sloops were happy ships and their crews were quick to defend their virtues from aspersions cast by the more glamorous members of the fleet.

  “Pleased to meet you, Captain Foster, Commander Quigley. Congratulations to both your teams, that was a good race. The children were shouting themselves hoarse.”

  “Well, we’ll have to get them some tea, won’t we.” Commander Quigley knew his duty as a host and offered his arm to Alice Blaise.

  As they set off, Blaise and Foster dropped back slightly. “You got the word too?” Foster didn’t know if the quiet message that was going around the fleet had reached here yet.

  “We most surely did. We’re getting Mermaid ready now. Nothing too obvious but we’ve been asked to do a fast run down to South Georgia. There’s people down there and we’re supposed to get them out. I’ve heard…” Blaise dropped his voice still lower, “that the Booties have put some people in there as a garrison in case we can’t get there in time. They’ll be coming out with us as well if we are. Once the civilians are out, I hear there’ll be a proper garrison put in place.”

  “This is serious Mickey. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be earning our salaries sooner than we think.”

  Flight Deck, USS Sacramento CGN-169, Puerto de Valparaiso, Chile

  This was a strange meeting by any standards. The arrangements were eminently sensible, the Americans and Australians had set up barbeques on the downwind side of the rotodyne deck and their cooks were busily competing to turn out the best food. Over on the other side, the crew of the Imperial Japanese Navy (everybody had been cautioned not to refer to the force as Chipanese) submarine had set up tables loaded with sushi, sashimi and tempura, to be washed down with copious drafts of sake. Finally, on the broad fantail, the British had set up a fairly authentic-looking Pub bar and had even found a buxom barmaid to hand out beer and single-malt whisky with a generous hand. The Sacramento had managed to put together a good band and they were on a stand in front of the hangars, playing a miscellany that varied from romantic favorites to good old Dixieland Jazz for the members of the ships’ companies who were dancing with their wives or local guests. With the sun setting over the hills that lay between the harbor and the open sea and the lights on the ships twinkling in the growing twilight, it was a magical setting.

  “Anyway, so there we were, minding our own business, when suddenly this Australian submarine pops up in the middle of our formation and asks for directions to Chile.” Captain Ernesto Karposi, commanding officer of the Sacramento, shook his head sadly.

  “Actually, it wasn’t quite like that. We knew you were on your way here but you were heading west not east, so we asked if you knew the way to Chile.” Beecham sounded almost apologetic as he delicately inserted the barb. He took a bite of the sashimi on his plate and sighed softly with delight. “This is really excellent. Captain Sazuko, how did you manage to get fish this fresh?”

  “A single pulse from the bow sonar and we had all the fish we needed.” It was a sign of the informality of the party that the Japanese officers had actually unfastened the collars of their tunics. The Japanese submarine skipper looked around innocently at his audience, then chuckled. “In truth, yesterday, we saw some of the Chilean fishermen and told them of our needs. They made a special trip out this afternoon for us and brought the fish back alive to make sure it stayed fresh. We offered to pay them, but they would accept nothing but a few bottles of sake.”

  Which probably had much to do with the fact that the yen was worthless, thought Karposi. Still, it was true that the Chileans were going out of their way to make the foreign warships in their ports welcome. There was no doubt that this really was a unique occasion. All week, ships had been pulling in to Valparaiso, some staying only a few hours, others for the full week. And yet, for all the festivities of what was apparently an impromptu international fleet review, there was an increasing edginess, a tension in the atmosphere that

  was growing daily. Th
e Argentine presence along the border was still growing. Their units were still moving up into position in a threat display that was obviously deadly serious. They were being monitored by space-based assets and by the now-continuous American overflights but the Argentine military government was showing little inclination to be deterred by that fact. Quite the reverse, in fact. Looking around the party being held on the fantail of his ship, Captain Karposi had the unpleasant feeling that he was watching the band playing on the deck of the Titanic.

  From high overhead, the dull thump of sonic booms momentarily interrupted the band and rattled the glasses behind the Royal Navy’s bar. Karposi looked up at the dark blue bombers, almost invisible in the darkening sky.

  “Your Vigilantes I think.” Captain Sazuko was also staring skywards. “On their way to watch our friends over the border. From North Dakota?’

  “Probably.” Karposi was slightly guarded. Despite the current situation, Chipan and American interests were rarely aligned and one had to be careful what was said. “North Dakota is still officially running trials so she’s getting in all the air operations she can.” There was more to it than that of course. With two carriers out there, somewhere, one was carrying out the offensive operations, the other was riding guard. Even now, 35 years after the sinking of the Shiloh, the U.S. Navy was still cautious about protecting its carriers.

  “Vanguard also ran her trials on her way down here. You know she came under the ice?” Sazuko was impressed. A transit from the Atlantic to the Pacific by way of going under the Arctic ice was a remarkable feat for a newly-built submarine. “She is very modern.” The Japanese captain sounded almost wistful. His country’s navy was falling further and further behind world standards as the economic crisis back home slowly bit deeper. He’d been almost embarrassed to conduct the foreign skippers around his boat when his turn had come to return the invitations extended to him.