by Stuart Slade
“Ahh, the fuel dump. Of course.” Caceres looked at Truscott with curiosity. The Warrant Officer was standing with his mouth hanging open in shock. “Why the surprise? Surely you knew what a fuel explosion would look like.”
“Of course, just a bit sooner than I expected, that’s all. Damned time fuses.”
Caceres nodded understandingly. His demolition men also had problems with the erratic performance of time fuses. He gestured, and three of the marines took the RAF team down the steps, outside the control tower and over to a waiting LVTP-7. As they took their seats inside, Scott whispered very quietly. “Mister Truscott, we didn’t rig the fuel dump to blow.”
“I know lad; I know.”
Headquarters Section, NP8901, Lady Elizabeth Bay Bridge, Falkland Islands
The wreckage of the bridge had joined the old rusting hulks that littered the Bay. The number of discarded hulks around Port Stanley were hardly tribute to British stewardship of the Island. They had the ironic nickname of the “Port Stanley Yacht Club,” but in reality, they were nothing but eyesores. A few pounds of C-4 had sent the bridge into the water with them. It was now just another twisted blemish on the water.
“Think that will hold them?” Fitzhugh started at the unfamiliar voice. The long-familiar tones of Sergeant Jordan had gone. Fitzhugh was sadly certain he would not hear them again.
“For a little while, Sergeant. The rest will depend on us. Men in position?”
“Sir. But it’s a thin front, Sir.”
Fitzhugh nodded. Of the two platoons, eighty men, who had held Yorke Bay, only nineteen had survived to fall back to this position. He had no idea yet how many wounded had been taken prisoner by the Argentines, but the hammering from the eight-inch guns on the Argentine cruisers hadn’t left him hopeful that there would be very many. His men had lost most of their heavy weapons in the hurried retreat from Yorke Bay. He had two machine guns and a single rocket launcher with two rounds left.
“It’ll have to do. The bridge being down will slow the Argies up a bit. The M92s they’ve got aren’t amphibious.”
“They won’t have to be, Sir. Look across the bay.”
Fitzhugh swung the night vision binoculars across the front and looked past the rusting wreck of the Lady Elizabeth. The heat signatures of a group of LVTP-7s were easily seen against the bitterly cold water. At least six and possibly more were swimming the bay, heading parallel to the coast. Fitzhugh guessed what their commander had in mind. They would swing south soon and come ashore eight or nine hundred yards behind what little was left of his command. He sighed. This had been a good position but the enemy would be coming up the road behind him. That meant it was already lost. The only real option left was to try and disengage again and move to engage the Amtracks behind him. That way the blown bridge would be guarding his rear, not pinning the enemy in his planned kill-zone. That was better than nothing.
He wouldn’t even get that. Before he could issue the orders, brilliant flashes split the night in front of him. 76mm shells started tearing into the ground his side of the creek. The semiautomatic guns on the M92s fired fast and the gunners were good. They were picking out the obvious defensive positions and pummeling them hard. The chance of actually killing some of his men wasn’t high. The 76mm was designed as a tank-killer, not an infantry support weapon, but the barrage of fire was stopping him disengaging to handle the amtracks. It was a classic maneuver, hammer and anvil. The tanks and the creek were the anvil and the Amtracks crossing behind him were the hammer. Fitzhugh became uneasily aware that his gonads were exposed to the two converging slabs of steel.
Major Caceres’s Column, Port Stanley Airfield
“Delfina, is the airfield secure?”
“Delfina-Actual here, Sir. The airfield is secure but the control tower and landing lights have been thoroughly wrecked. The fuel dump has been blown up as we expected. I would recommend we check the runway for mines before anybody lands here.”
“There will be some engineers on the way as soon as they’ve finished clearing the beach and the access roads. The Anglos laid a lot of mines at Yorke Bay. The place is thick with them. How many prisoners have you?”
“Four, Sir. They’re in an Amtrack on its way back to the Almirante Brown. All RAF enlisted personnel. I made getting them out a priority.”
“Good man. It is essential we don’t allow the political people anywhere near any prisoners we take. God knows, this will cause our country enough problems without that. Secure the airfield, guard it with a platoon and bring the rest of your force along the Surf Bay Road.”
“Sir, we had to fight through an ambush on the way down. I can bring over three tanks and four Amtracks.”
“That will do. Move fast, Delfina. We want this operation over by dawn.”
Headquarters Section, NP8901,Lady Elizabeth Bay Bridge, Falkland Islands
“Sir, Sergeant Jordan on the radio.”
That’s a relief. Fitzhugh grabbed the speaker. “Jordan, what’s happening your side of the island?”
“Nothing good Sir. We knocked out a tank and an amtrack but the rest of our squad bought it. The Argies have the airfield. There’s a platoon dispersing round it. The crabs did well, they bashed in most of the lights and blew up the fuel dump. The real nausea is that the rest of the column is already pulling out. They’re heading along the Surf Bay Road and that’ll take them straight on to your right flank. Three M92s, four amtracks. You’re outflanked, Sir. They’ll be on your right in ten minutes or so.”
“On both sides, Sergeant. Another group of Argie amtracks swam Lady Elizabeth Bay and they’re coming ashore on our left. Jordan, evade and hold out if you can, otherwise surrender. This will be all over here as soon as the jaws close.”
“Understood, Sir.” The radio went off the air.
Another salvo of 76mm rounds slammed into the defensive positions. The Argentine M92s were moving slowly forward as their fire neutralized any obvious defenses. Now, they were close enough for their .50 machine guns to hose down the ground near the wrecked bridge. Fitzhugh watched them spraying the old rusty wrecks offshore as well and admired the thoroughness. He’d have used those wrecks for cover if he’d had enough men to do so. The men he could have used were dead or prisoners and that thought made him cringe. No matter how long he lived, he knew he would never forget the fighting this night.
Viewed objectively, it was a beautiful sight. The criss-crossing lines of tracer and the brilliant red streaks of the 76mm shells reminded him of a really good November 5th party. The problem was, they also were defining just how small the area his troops held was. The definition was improved by the increasing amount of gunfire coming from his left. The amtracks were ashore. It seemed like the Argentines were advancing dismounted,
using the LVTP-7s as support. Underneath the crash of the 76mms and the thudding of the .50s, he could hear the crackle of the British L1A2s and the deeper bark of the Argentine FAS rifles.
“Sergeant Macy on the left, Sir. He says he can’t hold. He’s got three men down.”
Out of six Fitzhugh thought. Before he could reply, another blast of gunfire came out of the darkness on his right. The column from the airfield had arrived. Jordan’s report had suggested a reinforced infantry platoon with M92s in support. There was no way he could hold that as well.
“Tell Sergeant Macy to give it up. We’ve done all we can here.”
“Sir.” The radio message went out and Fitzhugh felt sick. Giving it up now seemed to put him on a par with That Man. But, with tanks on two sides of him and closing in on his flanks and rear, he really had no choice.
“Smash the radio and give me the antenna.”
There was a crash as the radio was broken up. Fitzhugh took the antenna, hung a handkerchief over the end and squirmed through the rocks to his right. Then he held it up and started to wave. It took what seemed like hours for it to be noticed, but the firing from his right stopped. A few seconds later, the attack on his left and the shelling from the t
anks over the creek followed.
Major Caceres’s Column, Port Stanley
Caceres saw the British officer waving his flag through the thermal sight on his amtrack. He passed the news to the other units and heard the barrage of fire from the Argentine units peter out. Once the night was silent, he climbed out and walked across to the man with the flag.
“I am Captain Fitzhugh, Naval Party 8901, Falkland Islands garrison. Major, I recognize that our position here is hopeless and request terms.”
“Major Caceres, Argentine Marine Corps. Captain, your men have fought well but your position is indeed hopeless. I must advise you that our forces have also made a successful landing at Lake Cove and are approaching from the east. I have already been authorized to offer you an honorable surrender. Your men may walk out bearing their arms and pile them by my Amtracks. They will be treated as prisoners of war and the Red Cross in Geneva will be informed of their capture. I must inform you that we already have some of your men as prisoners and others have been wounded. If you will provide identification of your men, we will also advise the Red Cross of the dead and wounded.”
Fitzhugh nodded. The Argentine Marines were offering terms that were indeed honorable and proper. “Very well, I will give the necessary orders. Major Caceres, I have wounded; may I request the services of your medics?”
“I only have the platoon Medic here but we will get your wounded to the cruisers where there are decent medical facilities.” Caceres dropped his voice. “A quiet word Captain. Tell your men to keep their mouths shut. There are political officers in our force who only look for an excuse to do things no honorable soldier would stomach. The less your men say, the better it will be for them.”
Terminal Three, Heathrow Airport, United Kingdom
“Heather, how are you?” Igrat had swept out of the diplomatic arrivals channel with Henry McCarty and Achillea in tow. That alone suggested how much things had changed in the last few hours. Normally, she made the London trip alone. With a war on, her usual bodyguards were with her. She seized and hugged Heather Watson, holding the hug just long enough to make the rigidly heterosexual Heather distinctly uncomfortable, “and the rest of the Circus?”
“I’m fine thank you.” Heather disengaged herself, feeling her ears turn pink as she did so. “As for the Circus, well, all the boys in the services are either heading south or getting ready to do so. I’ll tell you more in the car; there’s one waiting just outside.”
“Not a Rotodyne?” Achillea sounded slightly resentful.
Heather shook her head. “Not tonight and not for a hop this short. The civilian rotodynes have all been impounded for military use. Anyway, we’re not going to London; we’re going to Windsor. The Castle, to be specific. In any case, all but a limited number of flights are closed down this evening. There’s military air movements all over the place and air traffic control are afraid of collisions. Your Machliner was one of the few civilian flights allowed in, I think that was probably because you were on it.” Heather seemed suddenly sad. “I wish I had your job, Igrat; travelling all over the world the way you do. It sounds so exciting.”
“It’s not all fun, Heather. Remember a few years ago I got picked up by an opposition group and they beat me into a bloody mess. If Henry and Achillea hadn’t been on the ball, I would have died. As it was, it took me a year to recover. And that wasn’t the first time.”
“Thank Branwen.” Henry sounded friendly but the keen eyes never stopped scanning the semi-deserted terminal. It had the strange atmosphere of a deserted amusement arcade after dark. “She’s the one who thought to put a backstop tail on you. Is this our car?”
“It is indeed.” Heather grinned impishly. It was ostentatiously parked in a no-parking area. Three traffic wardens stared furiously at it. Igrat was reminded of horror movies where a group of vampires were being held at bay by a crucifix. This time the traffic wardens were being foiled by a simple badge in the car’s window. It was a crown, a greyhound and the letters OHMS. On Her Majesty’s Service Igrat mentally translated them. Heather noted her glance. “That certainly works doesn’t it? I’ve got something for you, Igrat.”
She handed over a slim, black wallet. Inside was a golden version of the same crown-and-greyhound crest opposite Igrat’s picture. “You’re a Royal Courier now, Igrat. For the duration anyway. That means you can go anywhere in the world and walk into the British Embassy there unchallenged. Show that badge and even the Ambassador himself has to do what you want.”
“Oh goody.” Igrat managed to inject a remarkable amount of lechery into two words.
“In a professional context, of course.” Heather tried to speak severely but gave up. Igrat’s reputation made the effort pointless. “Oh, get in the car.”
The Rolls-Royce looked and smelt luxurious. Igrat sank into the soft leather upholstery with a sigh. “Let me guess. From the Royal Garage?”
“That’s right. I’ve wanted to drive one of these all my life. Before we get to the Castle, any private messages for us?”
“Not this trip. To be honest, the Boss has been too busy getting the other aspects of this war sorted out. Hey, how come we haven’t hit a red light since we left the airport?”
“Car’s equipped with a gizmo that turns the lights to green as we approach them. All Royal Garage cars have one. Can’t have Her Majesty waiting at traffic lights.
“I want one for my Ferrari.”
“Sony Igrat. It’s illegal to have one installed on anything other than a Royal vehicle.” Heather made a mental note to have all the cars in the Royal Garage checked when Igrat left to make sure they still had their traffic light override system. She had an uncomfortable feeling that the check would show one was missing.
St Georges Hall, Windsor Castle
Heather Watson paid her respects to the Queen then stepped unobtrusively to one side. A part of her rather maliciously expected to see Igrat slapped down by the Queen who was known for her dislike of vulgarity. As a matter of fact, Heather felt slightly guilty about the malice but knew she was not alone in that. Igrat had many male friends but very few women liked or trusted her. Outside the confines of her immediate circle, feelings towards her ran from mild distaste to outright loathing. It didn’t occur to Heather that a womans’ instinctive dislike for Igrat was inversely proportional to how well she knew her.
To Heather’s surprise, the woman who followed her through the doors of St George’s Hall was quite different from the flamboyant figure she’d met at Heathrow airport. It wasn’t the clothes or the jewelry, both of which were unchanged, but the bearing. Somehow, at some point in the walk from the car to the Hall, Igrat had picked up the persona of a princess. She approached the throne and made a formal curtsey, dipping her head in the prescribed manner as she did so. “Your Majesty does me great honor.”
“Welcome to Windsor. You have material to deliver to us?”
“Communications intercepts and satellite imagery, Your Majesty.” Igrat hesitated. “I am commanded to place them in the hands of the Prime Minister or Minister of Defence only.”
“And you always obey your commands to the letter.” The Queen spoke approvingly. “When you were selected as a courier, your employer picked well. Proceed with the meeting.”
“Prime Minister? I have words that go with the material in the case.” Igrat’s voice adopted the flat tones of The Seer. “The C-133Bs taken out of storage in Arizona have been delivered to the Canadian Air Force on lease. By a clerical error on our part, the agreement was back-dated a year. We have heard from the Government of Uruguay. They have offered to provide neutral ground for the detention of prisoners of war and the treatment of the wounded.”
“Aren’t they afraid that Galtieri will attack them? Uruguay has been the subject of Argentine ambitions for many years.” The Foreign Secretary sounded concerned. If this war started to expand, its end would be explosive.
“No, Sir. They have a powerful and very supportive Uncle.” A ripple of amusement went around
the room. “The Uruguayan Navy is painting a naval transport in hospital ship colors so that they can collect the prisoners and wounded but they require the agreement of both sides that the ship’s immunity will be respected and that any prisoners taken will be submitted to their care.”
“That could be a great burden for a small nation.” Prime Minister Newton was thoughtful. “Certainly we agree to their proposal and will announce our declaration to that effect immediately.”
“The United States has agreed to reimburse Uruguay for the costs it will incur. In the interests of peace and international amity of course. I am also tasked to request whether Her Majesty’s Government will be declaring a combat zone around the Falkland Islands and South Georgia.”
Newton nodded. “Two hundred nautical miles around each, the two circles joined to form an oval. Any hostile ship in that region will be attacked and sunk. Please tell The Seer that we already have nuclear-powered submarines in that area to enforce that declaration. Ships outside that area may be attacked but only if their operations appear to be posing a direct threat.”
Igrat nodded, her eyes almost blank as she mentally recorded the message. Then she clicked back to the meeting. “General Dyess, the new Commander of SAC, has included a message with the imagery we have included in this package. He says that we did an SR-71 overflight of the combat area late last night. It appears that organized resistance on both South Georgia and the Falkland Islands has ceased and Argentine forces had surrounded the Governor’s house. We expect that he will have surrendered formally by the time this meeting is held.”
“The last communication we had from the Governor was that his house was in process of being surrounded. No word since then.” The Foreign Secretary spoke grimly. As a non-military man, he had entertained hopes that the reinforced garrison might actually have held out against the Argentine onslaught.
“We also have a communications intercept from one of the Argentine destroyers. She reports having sunk HMS Mermaid and picked up the survivors. She included a long list of those she had picked up. The message was transmitted in clear and on international distress frequencies. The presumption at the National Reconnaissance Office is that we were intended to intercept that message and that your people might do well to ponder upon its implications.” Igrat dropped her facsimile of The Seer’s voice and reverted to her own. “Those are all the words I am carrying.”
