by Stuart Slade
“The Argies are ahead of us. They’ll get there first now. Our best bet is to slip away, head east and then try to come in at night. The Argies have a base camp at Leith Harbour. It’s just possible they’ll go there. If they do, we can slide into King Edwards, pick up the civvies and run before they wise up. If they decide to go for Gyrtviken first, then we’re bollixed. We’ll have to slide off somewhere and ask for orders.”
“Sir, bearings on Abbey Hill changing. SPS-40s, now designated as Bandit-Able, are still on bearing one-eight-zero. RAN-10S and Deccas, now designated as Bandit-Baker, are on bearing one-seven-five. It’s within the error margin of the system but I think Bandit formation has split Sir. And Bandit-Able is coming straight at us.”
Blaise thought carefully despite doing so at frantic speed. Abbey Hill wasn’t accurate to within five degrees by any manner of measurement; twenty would be closer. On the other hand, a good EW operator would see things on the scanner that he shouldn’t be able to. It wasn’t just the contacts, but how they moved and changed that gave the clues. “On the other hand, Number One, we could be bollixed anyway. Hit action stations. Close up for surface engagement.”
ARA Catamarca, North of South Georgia
“Radar contact Sir. Nothing solid, could be atmospheric shadowing. In a storm like this. .. “
Captain Isaac Leonardi acknowledged the report by nodding his head briefly. Fleeting contacts were all too common in a South Atlantic storm. “Keep watching the bearing. If it appears again, alert me immediately.”
“Sir, communications report message from La Plata by signal lamp. Message reads ‘Transient radar contact bearing zero degrees.’ That’s all, Sir.”
Leonardi looked out of his bridge windows into the gloom that pervaded everything outside. The clouds were iron-colored; a blue-black shield against the light. Rain from them was lashing down across his ship, streaming off the decks and swirling as it made its way into the areas inside. The Italian-built destroyers had been designed for the Mediterranean, not the rigors of a South Atlantic that was almost in the Antarctic and had storms no other sea could match. Oh, other storms could be vicious, have stronger winds and heavier rain, but they passed. Here, in the South Atlantic, a good blow could last for weeks and was accompanied by a bitter, chilling cold. Leonardi corrected himself; by a bitter, killing cold. Go into the sea down here and a man could expect barely few minutes of life.
Over to starboard, Leonardi watched Catamarca’s sister-ship La Plata dig her bows into a great wave. The green water flowed over her bows up to her ‘A’ turret before breaking and flowing off down the ship’s side. For all their size, the two destroyers were making heavier weather of the storm than the two frigates behind them. Catamarca and La Plata might be very large destroyers, after all, they had started life as light cruisers, but they were old. They’d started life before the Second World War and the years of fighting while the Allies had tried to batter their convoys through to Murmansk and Archangel had taught designers much about designing ships for those conditions. Leonardi thought about Archangel for a second and shuddered; even the thought made his bridge seem warmer by comparison. The two frigates, Querandi and Punta Alta, were able to handle much heavier seas than the destroyers.
“One, not two.” Leonardi was reflective. “It is unlikely that two radar sets would see the same ghost?”
In fact, it wasn’t. Winds could whip clouds and rain into a tall spiral, a larger-than normal wave could crest above the rest and the result would be a radar contact, solid and substantial until it dispersed as if it had never been. Lieutenant Brian Martin was an electronics specialist, one of the few top men in his field that the Argentine Navy had. He knew radars and he knew how contacts behaved. He’d seen the blip on the SPS-40 display and it hadn’t faded away like a ghost. He wouldn’t bet his life on it, but he would consider it an excellent hand for a poker game.
“Sir, I think there is a ship out there.”
“And, therefore, not one of ours. It is not a Yanqui by any chance?” Every officer in the Argentine Navy was terrified of the possibility they might fire on an American warship by accident. They all knew the tiny margin that had separated Argentina from nuclear destruction - and knew that reducing the margin to such tiny proportions had cost the Americans one of their precious bombers. And its crew. One ill-judged shot and that margin could vanish.
“No, Sir. But we believe, our intelligence tells us…” Leonardi listened to that differential. Intelligence was dominated by the army and he didn’t trust what they said at all. “The British have sent a sloop down to remove their civilians from South Georgia. Probably the one from West Indies Station. I believe she is Mermaid.”
“If she is West Indies Station, then yes, she is Mermaid. An elegant ship.” Leonardi had been in Kingston with Catamarca once and he had seen the sloop anchored the other side of the port. “If she is coming to extract the civilians, then we should let her pass. Having them out of the way would be a good thing.”
“No it would not.” Captain Alberto Astrid almost snarled the words. “If the British have landed troops on the island, we can use the civilians as hostages. Tell them that we will shoot one every hour until they surrender.”
“Hijo de puta.” Martin hissed the words under his breath.
“You said?” Astrid swung his bulk off the bridge chair and moved threateningly towards the Lieutenant, his hand dropping to the pistol at his waist. Behind him, the Master at Arms and a particularly burly sailor seconded from the engine rooms also started to move. Leonardi ordering their presence on the bridge had not been a coincidence or an afterthought. He was a religious man who believed in the existence of pure, undiluted evil. When he had first met Astrid, he had recognized the marks of that evil on him. It left a stain somehow on the face and in the eyes. And he had kept strong, loyal seamen on his bridge ever since.
“I will call the flotilla commandante.” Astrid’s head snapped around. The expression in his eyes changing from anticipation to fear when he saw the two seamen much closer to him than he had expected. “He must make this decision. Signals, patch me through to Bahia Thetis.”
The storm was making radio reception difficult, but the connection was made. “Commandante Romero? Sir, Captain Leonardi. We have a radar contact, very vague but due north. No more than that. We believe it may be a British sloop, possibly the Mermaid. We think she may be heading for South Georgia to remove the civilians.”
“A sloop.” The voice on the radio was tired and shaky. “Yes, she might be doing that. But she could also have a couple of hundred marines on board. We cannot chance that. One humiliation however carefully hidden, is enough. Take La Plata with you, find that ship and sink her. Or at least hunt until it is proved she is not there.”
“Very good, Sir.”
“And Captain Leonardi, remember you are a seaman.” The radio connection broke.
“Helm, come to course oh-oh-oh. Make maximum speed, crew come to battle
stations.”
Simonstad Naval Base, South Africa.
“One day the oerwoud, the next the ocean. It’s a man’s life in the Republic’s Army, eh Randlehoff?’
“Just what the devil is the oerwoud?” Lieutenant Cross was almost desperate to learn everything he could from the South Africans who had suddenly turned up to complete his tank destroyer company. The trouble was that he couldn’t understand half of what they were saying.
Lieutenant Zander Randlehoff, his officer’s pips still so new they had a wholly undesirable shine on them, looked at the British officer with amusement. He reminded the South African of a young puppy, anxious to please but not quite knowing how to do it. “Oerwoud is forest, jongmens. Not as dense as true jungle, but tough to get through. Down here in the Republic, we have the plains and the grass but go north and the trees close in.”
Cross nodded and stored the information away. Randlehoff looked at the commander of the unit. “Captain Geldenhuys, we have authorization to join these men now?�
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“Not yet. Lieutenant van Huis is at the signals office waiting for it. It will come soon. Taylor, I wish you to join me in company headquarters. Van Huis can take command of the first platoon. Cross, you will take second. Randlehoff can take third.” There were enough South Africans to provide one officer for the platoons and one crew member per tank destroyer. Geldenhuys was hoping that enough experience would rub off on the British jongmens to give them a fighting chance.
“Very good, Sir.”
“A very professional sounding reply.” Geldenhuys sounded amused. “You come from a British military family?”
“No Sir. My father served in the 29th Panzer Grenadiers.”
“Ahh, German.”
“With respect, Sir, no Sir. My father was German, but there is no Germany now. After it was destroyed, Britain took him in, looked after him and protected him. Now, I repay that debt for him. I am British.”
Geldenhuys laughed and clapped him on the back, sending the young officer staggering. “Well said, jongmens. My family, we are Griqua, you know what that is?”
Cross shook his head. “No, Sir.”
“Griqua is what the British called us because they did not like our real name. We are the descendents of the original colonists here and native women. So we call ourselves Baastaards.” Geldenhuys laughed at the expression on Cross’s face. “And if you write that in a letter to your girl, remember, four letter a, two and two.”
“The Griqua are great fighters.” Randlehoff spoke quietly to Cross. “And the Captain is a very good soldier. You are most fortunate.”
“I know. I just hope we can learn enough.”
“You know you must learn. That is the first and greatest step of all. Wait, I think we have word.”
Van Huis’s sports car barreled through the base and skidded to a halt near the line of Boomslangs. He hauled himself out of the driving seat and ran over to the Captain, waving papers in his hand.
“We have our orders. We are to remain with the British unit. The story is we are assigned to McMullen Industries as technical advisors and they are sending us with the unit to help them get their vehicles ready. And, of course, if attacked, we must defend ourselves.” He wagged a finger at Cross. “So if you shoot at us, we will shoot back.”
“Then I will try and avoid doing so.” Cross gave the reply gravely and for a second time, a clap on the back sent him staggering.
“I also have a movement order for you jongmens. In two days, no more, a vehicle transport will be arriving here. We will load the Boomslangs on her for transport. If the world stays calm, she will head for England and we will train you on the way. And stay with you for a few weeks until you can stand on your own feet. But if the world does not stay calm, then we will not be heading for England. And then, we will be doing much more than just training.
HMS Mermaid, North of South Georgia
“The cut isn’t good enough to tell.” The report from the ESM station didn’t ease Captain Blaise’s mind at all. He needed to know whether the Argentine landing force was heading for King Edward and Grytviken or Leith Harbour. A lot depended on that simple piece of information.
“Where are they?”
“Bandit-Baker is still due south of us, course is for South Georgia. Their estimated time of arrival is about four hours in this weather. Bandit-Able is south west of us. They’re still heading on an intercept with our original course, so we should be gradually gaining range on them. I can’t confirm that of course.”
It was an interesting tactical situation Blaise thought. We ‘re in a dark basement and being hunted by two men with shotguns and flashlights. All we’re doing is trying to work out what’s happening by watching the flashlights. “We’re not going to make our pick-up from South Georgia. Even if we break clear now, the Argies will beat us in. We can’t assume they’ll do anything other than head for Grytviken; that’s where everybody is. We’ve got to warn the SBS boys down there that we won’t be coming.”
“As soon as we do, Sir, we’ll tip Bandit-Able off to our course change. They’ll have a good fix on our position.” Number One gave his advice quietly but firmly.
“I know. We’re just going to have to be sneaky. We’ll swing south. That’ll put us on a reciprocal to Bandit-Able but about 18 miles east of them. We’ll send out a burst transmission and then head north at maximum speed. With luck the Argies won’t be able to read the code, so they’ll assume it’s a ‘get ready we’re coming’ message and we’ll be heading south. By the time they realize we’re not there, they’ll be twenty or thirty miles behind us and too far out to catch us. Then we swing east again, wait until we’re well clear and make for the southern coast of South Georgia. We can hide in the fjords and inlets down there.”
Keighley shook his head. It was all very well to criticize but to come up with an alternative plan was much more difficult. “We’ve got to let them know. I can’t think of anything that gives us a better chance.”
“We’ll make it so then. Sparks, what’s the signal strength on Bandit-Able?”
“Well below detection threshold, Sir. They were getting odd anomalous spikes earlier. That’s probably how they spotted us, but we haven’t seen one of them for a while. I think they’ve lost us.”
“Very well. Helm, bring us around to one-eight-zero. Sparks, ready a Kourier burst transmission to the SBS team. Message reads ‘Regret chased from party by gate crashers. More of same coming your way. Suggest you leave by back door with other guests.’ Code it and repeat it three times. Alert me the moment the transmission is complete.”
Blaise paced his bridge and looked outside, as if by doing so he could will the transmission on its way. “Remember when we were in London for Navy Day, Number One? And the woman from the Sea Scouts wanted to bring deck chairs on the bridge. Her troop really told her off, didn’t they?”
“That they did, Sir.” The bridge crew laughed at the memory of a stout, middle-aged woman being told off by her charges.
“Signal transmitted, Sir. And acknowledged.”
“Very good. Helm, course zero-zero-zero. Engines, get those diesels cranking out every revolution they can generate. Ignore the gauges and the book.”
King Edward Point, South Georgia
“Sir, message from Mermaid. She’s been intercepted by hostile forces and won’t be able to pick us up. There’s more hostiles coming in fast. They suggest we evacuate the area and hole up somewhere on the Island.”
“Thanks, Mickey. Damn.” Hooper thought for a second. “Get the British Antarctic Survey Team people out. They can take the other civilians inland. I want their team leader here now.” The man arrived before Hooper had a chance to turn around. “Mister Duncan?”
“Captain?”
“Mermaid isn’t coming and the Argies are on our doorstep. I want you to get the civilians out the back, into the hills. Is there a base camp you can hide in out there?”
“A small one, yes. It’s about two days out though. I’m not sure the civilians can
make it.”
“Take as many as you can. Any who want to stay here and take their chances with the Argies can do that. But warn them, there’s going to be a hell of a fight.”
“Captain, why don’t you come …” Robert Duncan’s voice trailed away.
“We gave up and got occupied once and it’s taken us more than thirty years to recover. We roll over now and we might as well have handed the keys to the jerries in ‘47 and done ourselves in. We can’t stop the Argies taking this port, but by God, we’ll make sure they know they’ve been in a fight. Now get moving.”
“Sir, we got on the set to Dusty and his boys and girls. Told them hope of any pick-up’s gone pear-shaped and they’re going to have to hole up. They didn’t seem too upset about it.”
“Nor would I. By all accounts, the girls up there are quite tasty. And they weren’t expecting to get out anyway. Oh God, what does he want?” Hooper had seen Walsingham running up the quayside to see him.
; “Mister Hooper, Sir. What’s this I hear about Mermaid not picking us up?”
“That’s right, Mister Walsingham. We’ve had word that she’s been intercepted out there and can’t get to us. So, the BAST team are taking the civilians out while we have the chance.”
“Well, you listen to me.” Walsingham had seen how Hooper had looked at him when he had salvaged his own bag from the pile on the quay and he wasn’t going to repeat the experience. “That is the Queen’s mail and I am the Queen’s postmaster. I will not abandon it to a bunch of Argies.”
Hooper lost control of his eyebrows for a brief second then managed to retrieve them from his hairline. “Those civilians who wish to remain here and take their chances may do so. There is going to be one hell of a fight though.”
“I will not abandon the mail. It’s more than my job’s worth.’ Walsingham had his jaw set. He had made himself look foolish twice; he was not going to do so again.
“Very good, Sir. But I suggest you take cover. What do you want us to do with the mail when the Argies arrive?”
“Burn it.”
Hooper nodded. That made sense; there could be valuable information in there. “Curly, get some thermite charges and rig the mail to burn. Postmaster Walsingham doesn’t wish it to fall into enemy hands. He’ll be staying with us to make sure it doesn’t.”
CHAPTER TWO FIRST SHOTS
ARA Catamarca, North of South Georgia
“There’s nothing out here, Sir. Radar is completely clear. Whatever the contact was, it’s gone.”
Captain Leonardi scanned the gray mass of fog, rain, clouds and sea. It was very hard to tell which was which. Almost anything could be hidden in this mass of foulness that passed for weather in the South Atlantic.
“They’re out here. I can feel it.” Leonardi spoke the truth. He could sense another ship out here somewhere not so very far away.
“Woman’s intuition?” Astrid’s voice was sneering and derisive. He took some satisfaction from the stir of anger that ran around the bridge crew.
