by Stuart Slade
HMS Argus, Helicopter Support Ship, Off South Georgia
The whistle of the Rotodyne powering down made the rumble of thunder all the more obvious. Georgina Harcourt shivered as she stepped out of the back of the aircraft. “At least that was one thing we were spared. I hate thunderstorms.”
“That’s not thunder Ma’am. That’s the cruisers bombarding the Argie garrison at Grytviken.” Stroud listened to the gunfire with satisfaction. “They’re really working the place over.”
“But there were people in there! I mean our people.”
“Miss Harcourt?” An officer had come out to meet the party. As he got close, Georgina saw his nose wrinkle. She decided to get a shower as soon as humanly possible. “Do you have relatives in the Antarctic Survey Group or the civilians in Grytviken?”
“No, but Cynthia and I met them when we arrived.”
“Well, most of them were evacuated inland just before the invasion. They’re being picked up now. Three were left in Grytviken: the Postmaster, one other fit person and another who had a leg injury making him unfit to travel. All three are reported to have been killed.” The Officer paused, uncertain about how much the two women needed to know. “We have every reason to believe that you two were intended to join them. Anyway, you’re safe now. May I offer you the hospitality of HMS Argus?”
That was, Georgina decided, a pointed suggestion that she ought to get her shower and some fresh clothing. “Why, thank you Lieutenant….“
“Dunwoody Ma’am. Harold Dunwoody. Seamen Styles here will show you to your quarters. Sergeant Miller, Marine Stroud, the First Officer wishes to debrief you two immediately. If you would follow me, please.”
Thirty minutes later, Dunwoody was back on the bridge. “How are our guests?”
“Very good, Sir. The two women are having a long and much needed shower now. We’ve issued them with new clothing from the stores. Our two SBS friends are telling the men from Northumberland Avenue everything they know. Any developments in the situation, Sir?” Dunwoody was the ship’s Operations Officer, responsible for keeping the tactical plot up to date.
“Go look at the plot.” Captain Anthony Ralph grinned. “It is up to date. You’ve trained your team well. To save you a trip, there are two Bananas doing a swing south and east, another pair are scouting south and west. That’s all. The Rotodyne on the deck is taking off soon, going over to Grytviken to see if the Argies want to chuck in the towel. I almost hope they don’t. The things I’ve been hearing about those swimmer commando people turn my stomach.
Dunwoody nodded; both agreeing with the sentiment and appreciative of being saved the trip to the Ops Room. Argus was a conversion from a civilian ship and a lot of equipment had been fitted in wherever there was room for it. That meant the Operations Room and its plot were three decks down from the bridge. It was fortunate that telephones had been invented to keep the two in communication, a point that was demonstrated by said telephone ringing.
“Ops Room here. We’ve just had a message from Spyder-One. They report seeing a small freighter, no more than a trawler really, a bit to the south of where our operations are taking place. Freighter has identified itself as the motor vessel Nikogas Nevidel.” The speaker’s voice stumbled badly over the name and paused before recovering. “She’s on the Macedonian registry, Sir.”
“Macedonian? What the devil is she doing down here? Check the confidential books, Harry; see if she’s mentioned. Ops, tell the Bananas to keep an eye on her.”
Dunwoody vanished for a few minutes and then returned with a grin on his face. “No mention in the CBs, Sir, nor in the naval reference book. But, I checked through the Admiralty Bulletin and she is mentioned in there. Small freighter, Macedonian Registry, was carrying supplies to South Georgia but was unable to complete her voyage due to the Argentine Occupation. Her skipper negotiated an agreement with the Admiralty to stay in these waters in case she was needed to pick up splashed aircrew.”
“A service for which their Lordships are paying handsomely I would guess.” Ralph snorted in indignation. “I suppose it’s one less thing our ships have to do. Pass the word through to the Bananas. Tell them to buzz her and then proceed with their patrol.”
Grytviken, South Georgia.
“There can be no doubt that Grytviken is indefensible. With the ships sunk, there is no need to stay here. We will retreat to our original position at Leigh Harbor.” Astrid gave out the orders without any sign of emotion. Around him, the Argentine naval facility at Grytviken was a blazing shambles. The barrage of heavy gunfire had been short, sharp, and incredibly destructive. There was little left of the supplies and equipment that had been assembled for the occupation of the other islands in the chain.
“And Leith Harbor is any better protected from bombardment and air attack?” Marine Captain Teobaldo Castro spoke with heavy irony larded thick in his voice.
“No, but we have supplies there we can use.”
“And how are we supposed to get there? Have any of the Snowcats survived to carry us?”
“Of course.” Astrid sounded impatient with the argument. “Some were lost but there are enough to carry my men to Leith Harbor.”
“Your men.” Castro’s voice was flat. “And us?”
“You will act as the rearguard. Fight the enemy here and delay them. Deny this harbor to them as long as possible.”
I had thought as much. Internally, Castro seethed with anger at the obvious plan that lay underneath Astrid’s words. To throw the Marines to the wolves while the Swimmer-Commando group made its escape. Doubtless, they plan to be picked up on the coast somewhere. Probably by submarine. Time to throw some obstacles into this set-up.
“A very courageous decision, Captain Astrid. Certainly, to try and hold Grytviken now, even as a rearguard will be a desperate task. To undertake the journey to Leith Harbour by Snowcat under constant air attack in the hope of one last glorious stand, that is truly heroic.”
Astrid paled slightly but looked suspiciously at the Marine Captain. I know what he’s thinking. Castro looked at Astrid steadily. He thinks I’ll hand this place over to the British as soon as he’s gone and tell them where he is heading for. Nobody said he was stupid, that’s exactly what I’ll do if he goes through with pulling out.
“Perhaps to split our forces in the face of the enemy is not the best of plans.” Astrid sounded pompous. He paused and went over to speak with some of his men. Castro couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they quickly left the room. “We will concentrate our forces here, in Grytviken. And fight to the last man.”
You mean fight to the last of my men. What the hell have you got planned? Castro stared at Astrid again and tried to work out what was running through his mind. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t end well for the marine detachment, Castro was very sure of that.
The long, silent wait was interrupted by the radio crackling. “Commander, Argentine Garrison in Grytviken. This is Royal Navy Rotodyne Dog-One. We have you under our guns and you are defenseless against naval bombardment and air attack. In order to prevent unnecessary loss of life, we offer you the opportunity of surrendering immediately. If you fail to do so, the bombardment will resume. The burst of fire earlier was just a small example of the firepower at our disposal.”
Astrid looked around at the other occupants of the room before picking up the radio microphone. “Dog One, this is the Argentine expeditionary force commander. In view of the hopelessness of our position, we are prepared to negotiate surrender terms. Please land your Rotodyne on the helicopter pad just south of the Grytviken area.”
As Astrid finished, Castro saw an evil grin spreading over the Swimmer-Commando officer’s face, His mind flashed back to the surreptitious orders a few minutes earlier and his stomach sank. What has this idiot done? He lunged forward and grabbed the microphone from Astrid’s hands before he react. “Royal Navy rotodyne, do not, repeat do not land on that helicopter pad.”
Royal Navy Rotodyne Dog-One, Over Grytviken, Sou
th Georgia
“What the hell is going on down there?” The scream of warning and the sounds of fighting came clearly over the radio. In the back of the Rotodyne, Admiral Chupe and the party of Royal Marines were on edge.
“Don’t know Sir. We got warned off, then they’re fighting amongst themselves. Fists and feet by the sound of it. We’re having a look at that helicopter pad right now.”
The rotodyne copilot was scanning the area through the thermal imager built into the Fairey Defender’s under-nose gun turret. Fie sucked his teeth very audibly. “Interesting sight down there, Jim. Most of the ground is cold but the helicopter pad has a number of warm spots on it. About a dozen of them. The sort of spots one gets when digging a shallow hole and burying something.”
“Something like a landmine?”
“Something exactly like a landmine. The bastards.”
“Not all of them. We got warned off, remember? Admiral, Sir, the proposed landing point was a minefield. We’re circling around again.”
The ground link crackled back into life. “Royal Navy Rotodyne, this is Captain Castro, Argentine Marines. We wish to negotiate a surrender, but as you value your life, don’t go near that landing pad.”
“We won’t, Captain. It’s mined. Who was the first person who spoke?”
“That was Captain Astrid.”
In the back of the Rotodyne, Chupe’s head snapped up. That name featured heavily in his secret orders. “Who commands there now?”
The Rotodyne pilot relayed the message. The answer was immediate. “I do. Captain Astrid has been … detained.” There was an almost humorous undertone to the message. Chupe formed a picture in his mind of Astrid prone on the floor with half a dozen marines sitting on him.
“Tell Captain Astrid that we will land on that pad provided he leads a line of his men in marching backwards and forwards over it.”
There was a pause. When Castro spoke again, the amusement was more obvious. “Captain Astrid respectfully declines the invitation. We are in the Kino Building, this is our headquarters. You know where it is?”
Chupe nodded. There was more to that message than it sounded. By revealing the location of their headquarters, the Argentine Marine Captain had given a clear indication that his intentions were genuine.
A few minutes later, the Rotodyne had landed beside the Kino Building. Two dozen Argentine Marines were gathered around the building, surrounding another dozen or so men who were sitting on the ground with their hands on their heads.
“Captain Castro?” Admiral Chupe picked out the Marine Captain and acknowledged the salute. “I must thank you for your warning. Had we landed on those mines, there would have been a bloodbath here.”
“I think that was the intention Admiral. To make any kind of surrender impossible while the perpetrators of that crime slipped away in the chaos of the fighting.”
“I agree. Is Captain Astrid here?” The question was rhetorical. It was answered by a dishevelled figure being pushed forward. “Ah, Captain Astrid. I must advise you that you are under arrest as a suspect in the murder of Postmaster Walsingham.”
“You cannot…”
Astrid’s words were interrupted by one of the Argentine marine sergeants. He spoke after glancing at Castro and getting a nod of approval. “Admiral, Sir, I and my men, we all saw that happen. A brutal, cowardly murder of a brave old man.” There was a stir of approval and agreement amongst the Argentine Marine unit.
Mixed up with the British Marine contingent, Sergeant Miller heard the description. He whispered to Stroud, “Actually, he was a cantankerous old fart but he’ll never go down in history that way now.”
CHAPTER TWO SHAPING A BATTLEFIELD
Royal Australian Navy Submarine Rotorua, East of the Beagle Channel, South Atlantic
“The underwater navigation equipment is remarkable.” Lieutenant Marco Elorreaga was genuinely impressed. Rotorua had spent her time at sea in a cruise down to Chilean waters on the Pacific side of Tierra del Fuego then nosing around the maze of inlets and channels that characterized the coast. As she had done so, Elorreaga had become steadily more impressed with the submarine’s handling characteristics. Those were waters he had been familiar with. Indeed after two years on the Chilean Navy submarine Simpson, he considered himself intimate with them. For all that, the Simpson had never gone through the Beagle Channel submerged. On the rare occasions a Chilean submarine had gone through the Channel, she had made the run surfaced.
Not Rotorua. She had made the run submerged, all the way. The transit had been made possible by the submarine’s bottom-mapping sonar. It allowed her to thread her way through the maze of channels and reefs that had obstructed the passage. There had been a few anxious moments as the seabed had reared up and appeared to block the way but Rotorua had managed to find her course through despite her bulk. All in all, it had been a stunning demonstration of navigational expertise. Elorreaga had been mesmerized by the continuous picture the bottom-mapping sonar had revealed. The bottom of the Beagle Channel had never been mapped properly before. The structures that the sonar revealed were as unfamiliar as the far side of the moon.
Despite the equipment and the skill with which it had been used, Captain Beecham and the rest of the crew were heartily pleased to get out of the narrow waters that had confined them. The narrow channel was no place for a submarine; there was a danger Rotorua would have been ran down by a merchant ship in the shallower sections. Even in deeper areas, their room to maneuver was severely limited. There had been a collective sigh of relief around the submarine when she had finally debouched from the Beagle Channel into the comparatively unrestricted waters around Picton Island.
“These submarines have gathering electronic intelligence as one of their primary purposes.” Beecham was uneasily aware he was dropping into sales pitch mode again. “That means we have to get into and out of some pretty tight places sometimes. The bottom mapping sonar was developed just after World War Two as part of the effort to find out how bad the radioactive contamination of the North Sea was going to be. Nobody liked the answers we got, of course, but we learned much about seabeds and their history in the process. The current Australian FOSM, Admiral Fox, made some of those early voyages in the submarine Xena.”
Elorreaga nodded. The disaster that had struck the North Sea after the 1947 bombing of Germany was still forcing the world to deal with its consequences. An entire sea had been left an unusable wasteland, its fish and resources unobtainable. Only in the last few years had the slow decline of the contamination begun to open it up again. He decided it was time to try one of the more provocative questions he had been instructed to ask when the time was right. The answer was anticipated; the important thing was how that answer was given. “Electronic intelligence gathering. From the Chipanese I suppose?”
Beecham smiled, very well aware of how the game was played. “You might think so, I couldn’t possibly comment. We are very well equipped for the work though. We have both communications and radar intercept antennas, installed on separate masts. The processing and analysis units are in the communications room just aft of this compartment. We like to think we can give a Septic nuke boat a run for its money in that area. Both scopes have radar warning systems as well, of course. As does the snort. We don’t want to be caught by a patrol aircraft using any of our masts.”
“What about our own navigational radar? Isn’t using that a risk?”
Beecham paused, thinking carefully. “We have a frequency-modulated continuous wave navigation radar. Its maximum power output is low so detecting it should be difficult. Having said that, personally, I prefer not to use it. I don’t think a submarine should emit anything unless it has to. We came through Beagle relying on our mapping sonar and that’s the way I like it. The mapping sonar itself is detectable of course but it’s a lesser risk than the radar set.”
“I wonder what’s going on up there.” It was phrased as an abstract question about radar and communications emissions but Beecham knew
Elorreaga really meant news about the war.
“Let’s find out.” Beecham turned away to give the orders. “Sonar room, any signatures out there?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good. Bring her up to periscope depth. Comms, be ready to raise COMINT and ELINT masts and gather all electronic data.”
Rotorua creaked slightly as she changed depths. When she leveled out, the creaks were replaced by a subdued whine as her periscope extended. Beecham’s standing orders were that whenever his submarine came to periscope depth, the surveillance scope should be raised unless he had specifically ordered to the contrary. As the eyepiece rose, he grabbed hold of it and did a rapid 360 degree scan. As soon as he’d finished, he made a sharp gesture with one hand and the periscope slid down.
“Up surveillance masts.”
“You are very concerned about what is happening on the surface.” Elorreaga wasn’t critical, if anything his voice carried approval.
“This is a war zone and we don’t want to get sunk. Really, we shouldn’t be here. However, my main concern is getting hit by a merchie. We think we probably lost Penelope that way.”
The reference caused a momentary sadness around the control room. The Australian submarine service was a small and close-knit family. The disappearance of the submarine Penelope a year earlier had been a blow, one made worse by nobody knowing what had happened to her. She had simply left on patrol and never returned. The consensus of opinion was that she had been run down by a merchant ship, but there were other, dark rumors of a Chipanese boat ambushing her. Nobody knew. Unless her wreck was found, nobody ever would.
“Comms here, Sir. You’d better come and see this. We’ve got contacts all over the sea.”
“Follow me, Marco.” Beecham led the way into the Comms Room. Standing at the hatchway, he could see what the problem was. The big multi-colored display showed a mass of contacts to the north, and east of them.
