by Stuart Slade
A helicopter would have taken 20 minutes to make the flight from Washington International to the city center; the Rotodyne made it in ten. It touched down on the landing pad just behind the White House and the doors hissed as they opened. It was another quick transit for the party before they were out of the early morning chill and inside the comforting warmth of the White House. It wasn’t bad going Newton thought, Breakfast at home in Britain, Brunch in Washington, back home in Britain for dinner. An eight hour day, six hours travelling and two hours deciding the fate of the world between meals.
“David, welcome to the White House. It’s a pleasure to see you. We have a briefing on the latest intelligence from the South Atlantic all waiting for you.” President Reagan’s warmth at seeing his visitor was, on one level, quite genuine. A gregarious and sociable man, he was always pleased to have visitors to the White House. On another level, the warmth was highly deceptive. He was a man who drew a sharp distinction between his personal feelings and his official duties. The phrase “a man who would do things in his professional capacity that he would view with disgust in his private capacity” might have been written for him. His genuine friendliness towards the representatives of a country would not affect a decision to destroy that country should it become necessary.
The conference room was set up and waiting. The National Security Advisor was already behind the podium, arranging papers and checking that the graphics up on the display screen were fully updated. Newton looked around, recognizing the familiar figures of the Secretary of Defense, Chief of Naval Operations and the Head of Strategic Aerospace Command. Newton also saw the less-familiar but still distinctive figure of the President’s Executive Assistant, quietly making sure that the briefing booklets were distributed and folders of supporting documentation given to those present. Newton reflected that she’d had enough practice at such meetings. Naamah Sammale had served as Executive Assistant to four Presidents. Her distinctive red hair was streaked with gray now and she had crow’s feet around her eyes and mouth. Even so, twenty years of responsibility had been kind to her. Newton smiled and accepted the package of documents from her hands, then sat down in the front row, beside President Reagan.
“Mr. President, Prime Minister. …” The briefing had started and Newton stared at the material he had been given. The theme was quite simple. The effort made to scare off the Argentine attack on Chile had been successful; the invasion had been aborted with the loss of a dozen or so Chilean and Argentine aircraft. It had been dismissed as an unfortunate incident, one that was of no great consequence. It was better to downplay the whole thing that risk further escalation. Profuse diplomatic apologies had been exchanged; threatening troop concentrations had dispersed. Peace was descending on the Chilean-Argentine border. The Chileans were relieved, the Argentines furious, but the storm had blown over.
“And that is where the problem lies. Argentina has been defeated, we know it, they know it, but they can’t let their population know it. All the intelligence we have, imagery, communications intercepts and overflight data, points to the fact that they are switching their attention to the Falkland Islands and South Georgia. Their naval movements are already heading in that direction. Their argument, we expect, will be that this is simply their attempt to remove an illegal occupation of their territory. We anticipate they will draw parallels with the Chipanese-Indian confrontation over the Southern Pescadores ten years ago. They will define that conflict closely and they will argue that since the Chipanese action to expel the Indians was tolerated, so also should their attempt to expel British forces.”
“Thank you, Seer.” Reagan turned to his guest. “Now, David, the question is this. War over the Falklands appears to be inevitable. How do you see the position of the United States in this eventuality?”
Newton braced himself slightly for the shock his answer would cause. “Mr. President, the parallels with the South China Sea fighting a decade ago are, as the National Security Advisor has pointed out, compelling. They emphasize that this is a problem Britain must face and we must do so from our own resources. In this conflict, our traditional friendship with the United States means much and your guarantee against a nuclear dimension to any hostilities is most welcome to us. But this is a battle Britain must fight and one that she must fight alone if we are to have any future claim to being a nation of consequent. We have rebuilt our economy from the dregs of ruin. We have reconstructed our armed forces from the debris of destruction. We have rescued our nation from the shame of defeat. Now, we must show that we can stand on our own feet, that we are no longer the emaciated survivor of a cataclysm. The British Lion must be resurgent, Mister President, or it will never again be able to hold up its head.”
Up on the podium, the Seer blinked. He’d been expecting a British request for support; logistic at least, possibly even the commitment of combat forces. The blunt announcement that the British would handle this alone had shaken him. Then he thought the situation over. Newton was right; there was no doubt about that. If Britain was to have any claim to having recovered from the disaster of the Second World War, they had to show that they could defend their own interests against incursion. This crisis was the opportunity they had to do it.
In the audience, Reagan also nodded. “Very well, Prime Minister. We will, of course, comply with your wishes in this matter. And we wish the men and women in your armed forces good fortune in the days and weeks to come.”
Karoo Desert, South Africa
The line of fourteen Boomslang tank destroyers was an impressive sight but Bastiaan van Huis couldn’t help but feel the dark green and black camouflage used by the British looked odd to eyes used to the grey-yellow used by the South African Army. He also had the feeling that these vehicles should have been in South African camouflage and their sale to Britain had been at the expense of South African security. On the other hand, the money earned from exports financed further developments. Perhaps it all evened out.
Around him, the British crews were looking into the rear compartment of the Boomslang, taking in details of the magazine arrangements contained in there. “As you can see jongmens, the magazine is automated. There are two separate twelve-round feeding rings. Each one feeds rounds to the launcher in the cylinder mounted in front of it. Both magazine and launcher pairs are completely independent, so if one gets knocked out, the other can still function. In an emergency, both rings can be removed and then this compartment can be used for other purposes. That is for emergency only; we do not recommend it as a standard practice.”
“How reliable is the magazine system?” Lieutenant Conrad Cross made the question sound tentative, as if he wasn’t quite certain whether it should be asked or not. Van Huis looked at him carefully. He’d read the files on the men he would be training and this Cross had an impressive record for a man who had never seen a shot fired in anger. It was interesting that the British were giving their new tank destroyers to the infantry, not the cavalry units.
“A very good question.” Van Huis looked around. “The honest answer is better than it could be, not as reliable as we would like it to be. The main problem is a jam caused by the tube in the launch cylinder not being properly aligned with the loading ring. That is a maintenance issue, of course. We urge that a crew check alignment before taking their vehicle out. This is why removing the magazine system is not recommended except in an emergency. It is easy to take out but the devil’s own work to get it back in and properly aligned.”
“What happens if there is a fire back there, Sir?” One of the sergeants had spoken up. Three of the four vehicles in each platoon of the company would be commanded by Sergeants.
“Bail out. All of you.” There was a ripple of laughter around the audience. “There is an automatic fire suppression system in the rear compartment. A sensor detects a fire and drenches the compartment with inert gas. That is very well but rocket fuel has its own oxidizer and burns without need for air. If the fire has spread to that, nothing will put it out. So g
et out of there and watch from a safe distance. If the fire has not spread to the missiles, the suppression system will deal with it. If it has, then nothing can save the vehicle. Either way, you being in it will do nothing. So get out of there.”
“Why such a complex suspension, Sir?” It was Cross again. “Surely the missiles don’t need to be aimed precisely?”
“They do not jongmens, but the suspension has other uses. Watch this.” Van Huis waved and the Boomslang in front of him started up its diesel. It rumbled quietly for a moment, then there was a hiss and the vehicle dropped nearly three feet as its suspension contracted. In its new position, the Boomslang’s belly was almost touching the ground. “See, jongmens, the first armored vehicle that can duck!”
This time the laughter that went around the group was much louder. Van Huis took a mental bow, then picked up where he had left off. “You must remember that the Boomslang is a tank destroyer, not a tank. It fights from ambush, picking off its enemies at long range. It stresses speed and agility, not armor. It is designed to fight from concealment. Later, when we work with the Mamba missile we will show you how that can help to do so. But, for now, it is enough to know that the Boomslang can get behind cover and duck so it is invisible. The missile gunners can dismount and take positions up to 100 meters from the vehicle. So, the Boomslang can sit behind a berm, completely invisible and fire its missiles over the ground between.” Behind him, there was another hiss and the front of the tank lifted so that the vehicle was sitting at an angle of over 20 degrees. “The driver can also use the suspension to correct for irregularities in the ground. Remember that the Boomslang is armed with missiles, not a gun. Missiles drop when they are fired and the launch position must compensate for that. A line of sight does not mean a line of fire.”
“Sir, what is a jongmens?” A corporal had asked the question.
“A jongmens is somebody who has just joined a unit. One that has not yet seen blood spilled. Once he has seen his first action, he is no longer a jongmens. He becomes a broer, a brother within the unit.”
The man nodded and seemed thoughtful. Van Huis knew why; the entire British Army consisted of jongmens. It had been rebuilt, reconstructed and reformed. Its ancient heritage had been repolished and the stains of defeat removed but it was untried, untested. Worst of all, its officers were inexperienced and unseasoned. Cross was a good example. He was a man with an exemplary record and well-regarded by his superiors. Yet, he had never fired a shot in anger. Compared with van Huis and his veterans, he was indeed a jongmens. There was another problem. It was significant there were only eleven crews here for the 14 vehicles in the tank destroyer company. They were the three four-vehicle platoons, two of which still lacked a commanding officer. The Company headquarters section still had not arrived. Did that mean the British were finding it hard to decide on suitable candidates? van Huis did not know. But, without the headquarters section it would be hard to exercise the new unit the way it would have to perform in the field.
“Any more questions? No? Then come to the next vehicle. We will show you how to reload the missile magazine. Note that this can be done at any time; it is not necessary to wait until the magazine rings are empty. We start by opening the doors at the rear of the vehicle. There is a trick to this, one not in the manuals. Watch closely, jongmens.”
A hard six hours of work later, Bastiaan van Huis treated himself to a cold beer in the Officer’s mess. It cut through the gritty dust that lined his throat perfectly, and led him to contemplate the virtues of a second. The old principle “one to cut the dust, one to wet the throat” kept creeping into his mind.
“And how are our Britse friends doing?” van Huis jumped as the question cut into his train of thought. Captain Shumba Geldenhuis was standing behind him with a beer in hand.
“Very well Sir. They are keen and smart, just very inexperienced. And we are still short of men for the whole unit.”
“And will remain so. There is a war coming for the British. The Argentines, angry and humiliated from their fiasco in Chile, will pick on them next. The Britse know it and are already moving their forces south. There are few enough as it is and those they have are not needed in a training unit.” Geldenhuis narrowed his eyes as he thought over the situation. “And yet our Boomslangs could be of great use to them. It is a pity the unit is not complete.”
“It is not so far from being so.” Van Huis had his eyes narrowed as well and he was sure that he and Geldenhuis were thinking along the same lines. “They just need a company commander and two platoon commanders.”
“A pair of lieutenants and a captain in fact.” The narrowed eyes had become a grin, “and some veterans to give the new unit a backbone.”
“My thoughts exactly, Captain.”
“I am pleased to hear it, Lieutenant.” The two men smiled broadly at each other and touched their glasses. “Now I will make some discrete inquiries and see what our much-loved superiors have in mind.”
HMS Hotspur, Alongside, Vickers Fitting Out Basin, Barrow
“At ease.” Hargreaves looked at the men assembled on the ship’s hangar deck. “There have been some rumors of late that we will be cutting short our fitting out period and sailing for parts unspecified very shortly. Well, just for once, the rumor mill is right. We will be setting sail within 48 hours and our destination is, as stated in the rumors, unspecified. Of course, we’ve all been reading the newspapers and it doesn’t take much to guess where parts unspecified are likely to be. That means we have 48 hours of really hard work ahead of us. Everything that needs dockyard equipment to complete either gets done in the next two days or it doesn’t get done at all. We’ll be taking on stores and equipment at the same time. That means no rest for anybody. All watches will be on duty all the time for the next two days, no exceptions.
“Also, I’m pleased to say that many of the dockyard staff have volunteered to sail with us and they will be continuing to work on the ship once we have put to sea. You old hands, remember these men are dockyard workers, not sailors. They won’t have a clue about shipboard routine so help them out.
“Finally, another two drafts are on their way up and they will complete our crew. Again, help them out. They won’t know their way around and they’ll have to learn fast. No pranks and practical jokes; we just don’t have time. We’ll be getting our two Rotodynes fairly shortly as well. I’m told that a full load-out of Sea Dart and Sea Wolf missiles are already on their way up to us. So our teeth are coming.
“That’s it men. This is the real thing, I believe we all know that. The Septics saw the Argies off from Chile but they don’t care what happens to us, so we’ll have to show them we can look after ourselves. Hotspur might be incomplete and missing a few important parts but I think we’re already the finest ship and crew in the Navy. Now, we have a chance to prove we’re the finest in the world. Dismissed.”
Hargreaves watched the men disperse back to their work stations. There was an urgency in their steps, a sense of purpose. He hoped it would keep them going for the next two days. Then he turned and set off for the ship’s galley. He had to strip it of all unnecessary manpower so the stores and equipment arriving would be loaded and stowed. But, he also had to make sure that enough men were left to provide hot food for the crew. Then there was the problem of finding somewhere for the dockyard workers to sleep. He shook his head. Compressing six months work into two days was going to be hard enough. Getting the crew ready was going to be even harder.
King Edward Point, South Georgia
The pile of parcels, suitcases and steamer trunks on the jetty was growing steadily. Captain Hooper looked at the mess with almost bewildered disbelief. What part of ‘hand luggage only’ did these people fail to understand? For an insane moment, he had a suspicion that King Kong himself was hidden away somewhere in the settlement and was being used as the standard for ‘hand-carried.’ “Mister Walsingham, a moment of your time please.”
Beside the growing pile, Postmaster Walsingham pre
tended not to hear the call. Since the arrival of the Special Boat Service team, he had been carefully nurturing his sense of outrage and injustice at the slights he believed they had poured on his head. Making the officer come over to him was a small but, to him, significant first step in evening up the score.
“Officer calling you, Sir.” Sergeant Wharton kept his voice quiet and polite.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Walsingham spat the words out. Being slighted by an officer was bad enough. Having an ranker doing the same was intolerable.
“Yes, Sir, but getting a bruised arse won’t help with your work, will it?”
“How dare you….“
“And arses do tend to get bruised when people bounce off them while being hurried to answer my officer’s request. So, if you really are busy, I’d suggest you see what Captain Hooper wants. Pronto.”
Walsingham wattled furiously, but took a discrete look at the marine Sergeant and decided not to press the point. Instead he stalked over to Hooper. His mind greedily added this latest exchange to his already overflowing mental file of complaints and grievances.
“Captain Hooper, your sergeant just…”
“I’ll speak to him about it. We have more important matters to address. Did I not advise you that the nine members of your party should prepare to embark upon HMS Mermaid as soon as she arrived? And the nine members of the British Antarctic Survey Team should do the same? With hand baggage only? So where are they and what is the meaning of this pile of cases?”
