by Stuart Slade
“We will retire now and allow you to continue with your deliberations undisturbed.” The Queen paused for a second. “Igrat, you have received your appointment as a temporary Royal Courier?”
“I have indeed, Your Majesty, and am honored by the confidence shown in me.”
“Deserved by all reports. But tell us, if you were to receive orders from us that contradicted those given to you by The Seer, who would you obey?”
“The Seer of course, Your Majesty.”
“And why is that?”
“Because he is my father.”
“And as a hereditary monarch, we cannot disagree with you there. Igrat, would you take a very late high tea with us?”
“It would be an honor, Your Majesty.”
Heather watched the Queen leave with Igrat in tow. “Well, that was a surprise.” She thought she had said the words under her breath, but she realized that Henry McCarty had overheard her.
“That Igrat didn’t get squelched?” McCarty was amused. Not just that Heather had been disappointed, but that British security had slipped up. They’d taken his Colt revolvers and Achillea’s Model 50 pistol plus all three of her knives. They’d even had to walk through a metal detector afterwards. For all that, they’d missed the tiny knife hidden in Igrat’s hair. When metal detectors had started becoming commonplace, she’d replaced the tiny metal knife she’d carried for so long with one of the new ceramic blades. It was no bigger than her old knife but was wickedly sharp. Just touching the blade could cause it to slice deep into a careless finger. In this case, it was a harmless lapse. McCarty was in two minds over whether to tip off the security people to the loophole.
“Heather, Igrat is a chameleon. She adapts to whatever the circumstances around her demand. On the street, she’s a street-girl; in a Royal Palace, she’s a princess. She doesn’t do it deliberately. It just happens. Just like a chameleon.”
“So what is she really like? When she is in private and just herself?” Heather Watson was confused by the change.
“I don’t know. I think Igrat’s original personality was shattered at an early age and has never put itself back together again. Her childhood was the sort of nightmare we can only imagine. Subconsciously, she created whatever personalities she needed to protect herself. Even after The Seer found and adopted her, the pattern continued. I don’t think even Igrat knows who she really is or what she might have been like under normal circumstances.”
Field Exploration Camp, Penguin River, South Georgia
Georgina Harcourt moved slightly in the rocks and scanned again with her binoculars. She and Cynthia had changed a lot since the Marines had arrived to protect them. Their bright orange high-visibility clothes had been put away. Now they wore white and gray camouflaged overalls. Instead of walking around openly, they now kept down, moved carefully and kept in the rocks as much as they could. Behind her, their hut had changed as well. Rocks had been placed around and on top of it to break up its outline. It had been painted to match the blend of white snow and gray rocks that surrounded it. It was very hard to see but that posed dangers all of its own. She very much doubted whether she would be able to find it again if she got lost.
She jumped as a hand touched her foot. It was one of the Marines, the one the others called Jocko. Keeping noise to a minimum was another lesson that had been absorbed over the last few days. It was in a near-whisper that Jocko asked her what was happening.
“Nothing now. It’s all gone quiet down there.” Her voice matched his. “After all that gunfire earlier, everything is quiet now. There’s two big ships out to sea, though.”
She handed the night vision binoculars over to the Marine and he stared out to where she had indicated. “Destroyers, Georgy, big ones. They’re probably waiting for dawn to come in. I wouldn’t want to bring a big ship in here at night.”
“Any word from your Captain, Jocko?”
“None. No word at all. We don’t think he and the rest of the boys got out of Grytviken. They didn’t expect to, that’s for sure.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Comes with the job description, Georgy. Comes a time when taking down a decent honor guard is the only way left to go. Anyway, enough of that. Meal’s ready.”
The two slid back off the rocky rim and made their way back into the hut. Once inside, the smell of a hot meal was a delight to Georgy. There had been a strong wind blowing that night, so Sergeant Miller had taken the chance of cooking a hot meal for the group. The wind would disperse the smell and not lead any Argentine search parties this way. Previously, the air had been too still and the group had made do with cold food.
“Ohh, this is nice.” Georgina climbed out of her cold-weather equipment and hastened over to the table. There was a filet of meat with onion gravy and some vegetables on her plate. The meat was a bit fatty, tough and had a fishy flavor. It was still a relief from the canned meat they’d eaten cold.
“Made a pudding as well, Ma’am. A nice jam rolypoly. Even got some custard made from powdered milk and flour.
“Dusty, you’ll make a marvelous husband for some lucky lady some day. You know my father’s got oodles of land everywhere, don’t you?” Cynthia fluttered her eyelashes at him and inserted a hopeful note into the banter. While she did so, two of the Marines slipped out and took over guard duty.
“Already spoken for, Ma’am. And three kids.” Miller went over to the radio set up in one corner. Earlier, he had recorded a situation report that included as much information as he knew on the battle at Grytviken. That message had been run through a system that compressed it into a single burst of less than a second. Once the schedule came up, that burst would be transmitted on a tight beam to a satellite and then rebroadcast to London. There, it would be decompressed and taken to the war room in Downing Street and its equivalent in St George’s Hall.
Outside there was a sudden uproar from the penguins. The marines tensed but the two women remained calm. “It’s just the penguins. They do that now and then when the weather is bad. We think it’s a way of encouraging them all to huddle closer together against the cold. Sometimes it’s a lot worse, there are a hundred thousand Emperor Penguins out there you know.
Sergeant Miller looked at his plate and grinned. Ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine, he said to himself.
King Edward Point, South Georgia
Captain Alberto Astrid strode down the gangplank joining the destroyer Catamarca to the shore in the foulest of tempers. His head throbbed and there was a lump the size of a pigeon’s egg over his right ear. He knew what had caused it; a flashlight swung with considerable force. Oh, he would never be able to prove it. The official story was that he had lost his footing on the deck as a result of inordinately rough seas and the concussion of the guns firing. In doing so, his head had struck some overhead ducting hard enough to render him unconscious. That’s what all the bridge crew had said anyway. Astrid knew what had happened. The ship’s Master at Arms had a family; one that doubtless contained female relatives. He contented himself with the promise that they would be pulled in and would disappear. One day, then, the Master at Arms would get a film of how they had died. Then he could live with the results of his action.
The quay at King Edward Point was chaotic. It was barely large enough to accommodate the Catamarca, forcing the La Plata to anchor in mid-bay. Over by Grytviken, the frigate Punta Alta was moored at a quay but was listing badly. She was blackened and battered, her forward gun obviously knocked out of action. The town behind her wasn’t in particularly good shape either. Rapid-fire naval guns at close range tended to do that. The transport Bahia Thetis and the other frigate were also anchored in mid-bay.
The Marines landed from the Bahia Thetis were working their way through Grytviken, securing the buildings and trying to find the bodies of the men who had shot up the Punta Alta. So far, six bodies in British uniform had been located. It seemed incredible that just six men could have created the destruction that had scarred Pun
ta Alta so cruelly. But, six men were all that could be found. The search had to be completed, but it seemed unlikely that there would be any more.
The bodies of the dead Marines were not the only things the Argentine search teams had found. Three civilians had been found in the town. Just three. Two were in Grytviken itself and they’d been quite honest about what had happened. Some Marines had come to evacuate them. The ship that was supposed to take them away had never arrived, so the civilians had evacuated inland while the Marines stayed to fight. The third man was at King Edward Point. He had also told of how the civilians had left to go inland. Asked why he had stayed, he had replied that he was the Queen’s Postmaster and he would not abandon his post office. That had rather impressed the Argentine Marines and they had treated him quite cordially.
The news that the civilians had gone inland had not pleased Astrid. His swimmer-commando unit had been supposed to prevent that from happening, but they had failed to be in position on time. He’d heard the story without much sympathy. A fuelling accident had knocked out two of the sno-cats. Then a trail had been blocked by an avalanche; another cut by a recently-opened crevasse. He hadn’t accepted any of the excuses and made it quite clear that the unit commander would answer for his failure. The maneuvering necessary to ensure that the man on the spot suffered without any blame transferring to Astrid was one of the things that had led to his present ill-humor.
Astrid’s attention was drawn by a large pile of ashes in the middle of the quay. It was already spreading as the debris was blown around by the steady wind,. The core of what had obviously been a substantial fire was distinct and still slightly warm. He looked at this curiously. “What was here?”
“The Queen’s mail. Burned to prevent its capture.” The voice was slightly high-pitched and querulous.
“And who are you?”
“James Walsingham, I’m the Postmaster here and, in the absence of the appointed Commissioner, in charge of this settlement.”
Astrid stared at the man. He knew the Commissioner wasn’t here. The man had been taken away and quietly dropped into the sea like so many others whose continued existence the swimmer-commando units had found inconvenient. “Take off your hat when you speak to an Argentine officer.”
“I am the Queen’s Postmaster and I will not bow down to you… . Sir.” The late timing of the word ‘sir’ was a masterpiece.
Astrid’s face flared bright red. He took one pace forward and swung his fist, knocking Walsingham’s hat off. The Postmaster caught it as it fell and he rammed it back on his head, his jaw thrust out pugnaciously. Walsingham himself wasn’t quite sure why he was making an issue of the point. He did know he’d been pushed around and ridiculed for days and it was going to stop.
Astrid couldn’t believe it. Who was this pathetic man to defy him? He swung his hand again, this time not just striking the Postmaster but removing the hat from his head. The trilby clutched in his hand, Astrid strode to the quayside and threw the hat into the water. It spun through the air, struck the side of the Catamarca and fell into the sea. As it did so, Astrid caught the ripple of derision from the ship and the Marines. He knew it was aimed at him.
As he turned around, he saw that Walsingham had a handkerchief in his hands and his fingers were working quickly. He took one step towards the Postmaster and then stopped in surprise. Walsingham had tied four knots, one in each corner of his handkerchief. Now he defiantly rammed it on to his head. It was a very poor imitation of a hat, but the act was symbolic and everybody knew it. He stood there, handkerchief on his head and a supercilious grin on his face. Another ripple of laughter went across the side of Catamarca, mixed with applause and even a few cheers. This time, Astrid knew that the sounds were certainly not directed at him. One of the Marines even gave the Postmaster a quick salute.
That pushed Astrid over the edge. His face brilliant crimson with rage, he stepped forward and swung his foot in a savage arc. The kick caught Walsingham squarely in the groin. The man dropped to his knees with a howl of pain. He crouched down, rocking from side to side and clutching himself. Astrid took a single pace forward so he was standing over his victim. Then he drew his pistol and shot Walsingham in the back of the head. The Postmaster lurched forward and fell; his head surrounded by a spreading pool of crimson blood.
For a second, there was a stunned silence. Then a tide of rage spread from the ships and the Marines. Several of the latter started forward in fury at the murder, only to be restrained by the more realistic of their comrades. It was not the time or the place to start a fight with Astrid and his men. Anyway, all the Marines had family back in Argentina. Up on the ship, a hiss of sheer rage spread all along the decks, mixed with catcalls and derisive whistles. Amidst it all, the ship’s siren sounded a long blast; a tribute to the cantankerous, officious man who now lay dead on the quayside.
Bridge, ARA Catamarca, King Edward Point, South Georgia
“That was murder. Pure, cold-blooded murder.” Commander Michael Blaise was white-faced with shock and his voice was strained with fury. He’d been born too late to experience the Occupation and that meant he’d never seen a man summarily executed before.
“I will not argue that.” Captain Leonardi knew that such things were commonplace when the swimmer-commando units were around. This and much more. “Commander, I will ask you to do me a kindness. Please write up what you have just seen, in your own words, over your signature. When you have done so, I will insert it in my ship’s log along with my account of that brutal act. It will be a first step, just a first step, but one I hope that, one day, it will bring that monster to justice.”
Blaise was silent, staring at the pathetic body stretched out on the quayside. Astrid was walking way, down the quay towards some buildings at the extreme end of the settlement. If I was you, I would be seriously worried about an ‘accidental discharge’ at this point Blaise thought.
Quietly, a group of sailors from the destroyer made their way down the gangplank and placed the body on a stretcher. As they returned with it, Blaise heard the distinctive sound of it being “piped” on board.
“We will bury him at sea.” Leonardi spoke quietly. “With full honors, as befits a courageous man.”
Governor’s House. Port Stanley, Falklands Islands
“Just blow the building down and have done with it.” Major Patricio Dowling yelled the words at the slab-sided LVTP-7 amtrack.
Inside, Major Facundo Caceres raised his eyebrows in mock-comic despair. He was tired, dirty and wanted to get this job finished with the minimum of problems. He was also growing increasingly exasperated with the military police major outside who was emitting sounds that sounded suspiciously like a cow giving birth. It hadn’t escaped his notice that while his men had come ashore loaded down with weapons and ammunition, Dowling had arrived carrying a list of local islanders who were believed to be particularly anti-Argentine. He sighed wearily and climbed back up into the cupola of his amtrack.
“You said something Major?”
“I said, just blow the building down and have done with it.” Caceres lifted an eyebrow, forcing a reluctant “Sir” out of Dowling Despite their equivalent rank, Caceres had seniority; a lot of it.
Caceres had what was left of his command, his three M92s and seven LVTP-7s, lined up in front of the Governor’s mansion. He deliberately had left the back way open. The occupants could escape if they wished. The battle for the island was over and there was no point in anybody else getting killed. If the defenders wanted to leave, they could.
“I don’t think so, Major. It’s a pretty building and our Governor will want to stay there when he arrives. Anyway, it’s got the only long-range communication system on the Island. He’ll need that to speak with Buenos Aires.”
Dowling growled and stomped away. As he did so, there was a bang from inside the Governor’s mansion. It was followed by a whine as the bullet bounced off the armor of an amtrack.
“Have they hit anybody yet?” Caceres wanted th
at information immediately. It would have a profound effect on how he handled the situation.
“No, Sir. They’re not trying to. I think there’s four men with rifles in there and somebody with a pistol.”
“That’ll be the Governor.” Caceres was thinking over his options. “Is there anything behind the house?”
“Only scrub, Sir. If there is anybody up there, it’ll be plain bad luck on their part.”
“Then fire a burst from a .50 over the house. Short burst, we don’t want to waste ammunition.” The cupola-mounted machine gun on one of the amtracks snapped out a quick burst, the tracers just clearing the roofline. “Mount up, we’ll take the amtracks over the circular lawn up to the flower bed that divides it from the rectangular one. If anybody fires a shot, fire a burst over the house. If they hit somebody, then we take the gloves off. Spray the windows before taking the house by storm. But, I want to avoid that and talk these people out. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.” The amtracks lurched as the Marines bordered them, then the bulky vehicles moved forward. The flower garden surrounding the circular lawn was crushed and the grass itself ruined by the tracked vehicles. By the time the LVTP-7s had stopped, they were barely twenty meters from the house. Dowling was nowhere to be seen, which didn’t surprise Caceres in the slightest.
“Governor, the position here is hopeless. Your Marines have surrendered and are being well cared for. There is no organized opposition on the island so please, lay down your arms. Further loss of life will be quite pointless.”
“I am not authorized to surrender my post except under duress.” The call came from inside the house and was quite indignant.
