Lion Resurgent

by Stuart Slade

  Mullback snorted gently. “I’ll roust the boys out and we better talk to the Mirage pilots. Get some suggestions on how to do this fighter thing.”

  Mount Kent, Falkland Islands

  “Over on the left. They’re coming through the gap in the rocks.” The light machine gun fired a burst into the rock pile over on the position’s left. The Argentine troops trying to infiltrate through the gaps were caught and tumbled backwards. Strachan didn’t fool himself that they had been wiped out. At best the burst had caught one or two. As if to confirm his thoughts, a grenade arched out from behind the same rocks and exploded a few feet to the right of the machine gun next. Fortunately, the thick boulders absorbed some of the blast and sent the rest skywards where it would do little harm. The explosion caught the attention of a Chevalier crew though. The two 120mm recoilless rifles threw high explosive rounds at the source of the grenade. In this battle of rifle, pistol, knife and hand grenade, the 120mm rounds were heavy artillery indeed. The orange flashes as the shells exploded lit up the rocks and Strachan saw a figure being hurled backwards. Or, he thought he did. It could have been a trick of the light, a few random shadows somehow linked into an image.

  Another image caught his eye. Another figure coming through the rock pile that formed the left of his position. The target image was wrong. It had the long rifle of the Argentine infantry, not the short, stubby British L1 bullpup. He already had his trusted old Webley revolver in his hand and he felt the comforting heavy kicks as he fired two .455 shots. One of them connected and he heard a gasp as the figure fell. Strachan aimed carefully and fired again. The target stopped moving. It never hurts to shoot a corpse, the old adage ran through Strachan’s mind as he placed a fourth shot into the man’s head. There would be no doubt about that one, the slow, heavy .455 was a deadly bullet. That was why Strachan had stuck with the Webley all these years. He broke it quickly, dropped the empty casings and reloaded.

  Above him he heard the slow, heavy thudding of the 15mm BESA machine gun mounted on a Boarhound armored carrier. Calling it armored was a joke. It had the same paper-thin steel as the Chevalier but it did have the heavy machine gun mounted in a protected turret. The rounds ricocheted off rocks and howled away into the darkness. He didn’t know what the crew had seen but they had night vision sights in the turret and something must have attracted their attention. He hoped it was Argentine. In the confusion of a night infantry battle, it was all too easy to shoot up one’s own men.

  “Colonel Hartmann’s compliments, Sir, and the Colonel says if you are finished playing private, could you honor him with your presence at the CP?” Sergeant Harper had a smirk on his stained and dirtied face.

  “Cheeky Hun bastard.” Strachan chuckled and shook his head. “This area seems stabilized. Let’s go. Lieutenant, make sure you keep that rock pile under surveillance. Don’t hesitate to use the armor if the Argies make a serious push. That’s what we’ve got it here for.”

  The young Lieutenant nodded and made a quick survey of his position. By the time he had finished, Strachan and Harper had slid away. They looked back quickly and saw him moving some of his men to cover the position a bit better. The Argie push had come close to dislodging the Marine platoon, but it had been beaten back. “That young man promises well.”

  “They all do, now they have a little experience under their belts.” Harper agreed. “Colonel Hartmann thinks we’re settled in for the rest of the night now. The relief force is a couple of miles down the road and he believes the Argies will disengage rather than get caught between us.”

  Strachan nodded as he climbed up through the rocks that littered the slopes of Mount Kent. “Sounds right to me. Just as long as we don’t get careless.”

  Argentine Headquarters, Stanley.

  “The damned fool did what?” Menendez could hardly believe the disastrous news.

  “He attacked the relief column with his armor, Sir.” Fernandez shook his head. “The British tank destroyers tore the cavalry unit apart. Colonel Maldonado says the tank destroyers were present in at least battalion strength. They ripped up the tank battalion and drove back the mechanized infantry. He sent his leg infantry to attack Mount Kent. They lacked the firepower to break through and they were too closely mixed in with the British for effective use of artillery. He’s ordered them to disengage; they were about to be hit in the flanks and rear by the British armor.”

  “The fool. I ordered him to block the armor with the infantry. Those missile-shooting tank destroyers would have been almost useless against them. And the cavalry with its armor would have shot the British unit on Kent to pieces. That moron has cost us the battle.”

  Fernandez looked at the map. The British were advancing fast across the island, taking full advantage of the fact that every key piece of terrain had been seized in advance by the airborne forces. The map showed something else. The British guns were already in place overlooking Stanley.

  “Maldonado is regrouping at Teal Inlet but he’s been badly mauled. We can probably hold Stanley for a while, Sir.”

  Menendez looked at the map as well and sighed. “Those guns will tear us apart and there will be nothing we can do about it. And do you want to be under another bombardment like last night’s? There is something else to consider.” His finger tapped Stanley. “These houses are full of civilians and are made of wood. The British guns will tear them apart as well. If the airbase here was still operational, it might be worth holding on, but it isn’t. And won’t be, not for a long time.”

  Menendez thought again, weighing odds and numbers. The answer was one he didn’t like but couldn’t avoid. “We have an obligation to protect those civilians. If there was any military objective to be gained by exposing them to British artillery fire, then we could justify doing so but there is not. Contact the British headquarters by radio and tell them I wish to discuss terms.”

  CHAPTER FIVE CONSOLIDATION

  Anti-aircraft Battery, Stanley Airfield, Falkland Islands

  “Destroy all the codes and IFF information.” Major Grigorio Mazza looked around the control cabin for his Scudo air defense system. The radar fire control screens were blank. The radars themselves had been destroyed by the Buccaneer strikes and the naval bombardment two nights earlier. The missile launchers had gone completely but three of his six twin 47mm anti-aircraft guns had survived. Before he had received his orders from General Menendez, he had ordered his men to reduce the height of the sandbag walls around them so they could fire at ground targets. Privately, Mazza was glad it hadn’t come to that. With the British guns on the hills that dominated Stanley, his display of resistance would have been short before the artillery took him out.

  “Is it really all over Sir?” One of the privates seemed on the verge of tears. Whether from the humiliation of surrender or relief that the prospect of sudden death had receded, Mazza wasn’t quite sure.

  “For us, yes. General Menendez has negotiated an honorable surrender. We cannot hold on here without support and with the airfield gone, there is no point in trying. Now, swing the barrels of the guns up to 90 degrees elevation.” That was part of the surrender terms. The British Brigadier had known how much damage the fully-automatic 47mm guns could have done and had insisted they be placed in a posture that removed the risk they presented. To Mazza, the elevated gun barrels looked like arms raised in surrender.

  It took only a few minutes for the British airborne forces in their armored vehicles to appear. Some diverted to the positions held by the infantry battalion. Others made a straight line for the airport and its defenses. Mazza stayed in his control van. It only needed one fanatic to take control of his guns and there would be two massacres. One would be of the British troops taking the surrender of the Argentine garrison; the other the surviving British wiping out the Argentine troops they would believe had betrayed their word. So he stayed at his guns until there was a pounding on the van door.

  “Everybody out, gentlemen, if you please.” The words seemed forced and stra
ined, as if the speaker was using phrases carefully dictated by somebody else. Mazza sighed and left his command console, stepping out of the van into the bright sunshine outside. The contrast made him blink and his eyes started to water. That didn’t stop him recognizing the light tank and a pair of armored carriers that were covering his unit. A squad of British troops, led by a sergeant in a maroon beret decorated with black paratrooper wings, went inside. A couple of minutes later the Sergeant came out.

  “Hey, you. Argie officer. Is this yours?” The Sergeant held out the picture of Mazza’s wife and son.

  “It is. Thank you Sergeant. That was kind of you.”

  “Tuck it away safe. The booties will be here soon and those bastards will nick anything not nailed down.” The Sergeant gave a slightly twisted grin and disappeared into the control van. Mazza put the picture in his wallet and shook his head. It sounded as if the relationship between the British Army and Navy was no better than anywhere else.

  Casa Rosada Presidential Palace, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  “Traitors! Kill them all! Send the Air Force to bomb them.” President Galtieri screamed the orders out in a voice that ricocheted around the Presidential Office and echoed outside. At his desk in the anteroom, an aide heard the sound, thought for a second and then picked up a telephone. He had come to a decision and there were calls he had to make.

  “The Ciclone Squadrons aren’t available, Your Excellency. They took too many losses yesterday and too many aircraft are damaged. It will be tomorrow before they can strike again.”

  “Then use the other aircraft.” Galitieri was still bright red with rage and shaking with anger. “We have other bombers.”

  “They do not have the fuel to get there and back. And they have no escort. The British carrier fighters will cut them down.”

  “So the Ciclones must fly regardless. Send the orders.”

  Officers Mess, Argentine Air Base, Puntas Arenas, Argentina

  “Lieutenant Devin, we have orders. The Army on the Malvinas has surrendered to the British. We are to send every available aircraft to bomb them.”

  Devin shook the sleep out of his eyes. “Bomb the British? Their ships or the troops ashore?”

  “Neither. Our orders are to bomb our own men.” The disbelief in the adjutant’s voice was unmistakable.

  Cold water splashed on his face did not make the orders more acceptable. Devin stared at the image in his mirror and thought with astonishing speed. “How many aircraft are left?”

  “Seven.’’

  “And four of those were down for their periodic maintenance. That was why they did not fly yesterday, right? When will they actually be available?”

  The adjutant got the message loud and clear. “At least tomorrow, possibly the day after. If we get the needed parts.”

  “I thought so. And the aircraft damaged yesterday?”

  A sad shake of the head and a sound of teeth being sucked. “In a bad way. Spares you know, we are short of spares. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “So we have no available aircraft. Ah well. Acknowledge the orders and say we will comply with them to the best of our ability. Add that we know our duty.”

  La Avenida 9 de Julio, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  Word that the Army in the Falklands had surrendered to the British had spread quickly. It had followed right on the heels of the news that the Argentine Navy had been defeated in a great carrier battle and that thousands of seamen had died in the sinking ships. Together, the two reports had been the last straw. The population of Buenos Aires had poured on to the streets and were marching down the avenues. As they marched, more news had come in and word had spread still faster. President Galtieri had ordered the air force to bomb the surrendering troops and the Air Force squadrons had refused to obey. Rage had joined with grief in the ranks of the crowd.

  At the heads of the processions were women, wearing black. They were the wives, mothers, sisters, daughters of sailors who had been in the battle. They did not know if their men had survived or not, but each wore black. If it was not for their own families then in solidarity with those who had lost members of theirs. Their grief was contagious, as was their dignity. This was not a riot for the crowds marched in silence and were all the more terrifying for that fact.

  In this part of the city, the crowds were converging on the obelisk that marked the center of the Plaza de la Republica. Blocking access from the Avenida 9 de Julio to the Plaza was a line of riot police, in close order with their shields interlocked. The soundless image of the procession approaching the police was eerie as the two groups closed. Then, the riot police about-faced and joined the procession. Their shields surrounded and protected the black-clad women at its head.

  All over the city, the sight was repeated as the security forces joined the processions and converged on the Casa Rosada.

  Outside the Swimmer-Commando Barracks, Puerto Belgrano Naval Base, Argentina

  “Lay down your arms and surrender.” Some orders were a pleasure to give. Major Facundo Caceres found that one to be in that category.

  “Who do you think you are?” The reply from the barracks guardpost was laden with arrogance. What came next was also something that Major Caceras found a pleasure and one that was long overdue. The .50 caliber machine guns on his amtracks raked the guardpost with gunfire, sending it crumbling into the dirt. They surged forward, their bows rising slightly as they crushed the wreckage beneath their tracks.

  In front of the armored vehicles, the barrack parade ground was dirty, unswept. The swimmer-commandos prided themselves on being the new elite who did not have to worry about such niceties as policing their barracks. Faced with armored vehicles in the hands of men trained to use them and who had fought others of their kind in open combat, the swimmer-commandos panicked. A few fired shots at the vehicles. Such resistance was quelled by return fire from the LVTP-7s and M92 light tanks. Within a few minutes of the opening burst of gunfire, the Marines were herding the swimmer-commando personnel into their parade ground. There, the prisoners sat, hands on their heads.

  Leading his men through the captured barracks, Caceras was quietly shocked by what he found. Not by austerity or any signs of the funding shortages that plagued the rest of the armed forces but by the luxury that surrounded him. He guessed that the swimmer-commandos had been looting the homes of those they had ‘disappeared.’ That was when he got the message that his presence was required in the basement.

  The sound of women crying had reached him before he got there and made him guess what he would find. The basement area had been subdivided into small cells. Viewed objectively, they weren’t actually bad conditions as prisons went. Caceres guessed that the intent had been to keep the inmates healthy. It also hadn’t surprised him to find out that the prisoners were women. What had shocked him was the number that were in varying stages of pregnancy. His men were unlocking the cells and letting the women out but the prisoners were too terrified to take advantage of the situation.

  “Please, my men will take you to a hospital for treatment.” Caceras was shocked when his words, intending to be comforting, caused a renewed outburst of misery. He looked around, confused, then picked one woman who seemed to less distressed than the rest. “What is the problem? We are here to help you.”

  “When our time comes and we are taken to hospital, we never come back.” The woman spoke in very poor Spanish that made her words difficult to understand.

  For a moment, Caceras assumed that he hadn’t heard what she had said correctly. Then the implications of the words sank in. He tried to control his anger. To buy time while he did so, he spoke to the woman. “You are not Argentine?”

  “Italian.”

  “We will call the Italian Embassy and they will take care of you. Are there any other foreign women here?” A couple reluctantly raised their hands. “We will call your embassies as well and they will come here and look after you. Sergeant, get through to the Italian and other embassies, as soon as possible. That means n
ow. And call the Swiss Embassy; get them down here to take care of these woman. They don’t trust us and I don’t blame them. The rest of you, if you have families or friends who can look after you, we will help you call them.”

  Caceras had his temper under control by then and turned back to the Italian woman. “You are with child? How far along?”

  “I think six months.”

  “And you have been held here for how long?”

  “Eight months.”

  That confirmed what Caceras had known in his heart. “Very well. At some point please write out all that has happened to you as a statement. Your embassy legal department will make sure it is properly notarized as an affidavit. The people responsible for this atrocity will pay for it. That I promise you.”

  Conference Room, White House, Washington D.C.

  “Over the last few hours, the situation has broken wide open. Mister President, the Argentine armed forces on the Falklands surrendered overnight. Stanley went down first, Teal Inlet followed a couple of hours later. When news got back to Argentina, it brought down the government there. Not so much a coup; that would imply organization. There were mass demonstrations all over Buenos Aires and the security forces joined them. Parts of the armed forces that tried to stay loyal were attacked and disarmed by the rest. Ex-President Galtieri tried to make a run for it, but his private jet taxied out on to the runway, then stopped and waited there until somebody came to collect him.”

  Director of Central Intelligence Richard McColl paused and shuffled his papers. He had a string of reports from the various civilian and military intelligence agencies. It had long been established that the needs of gaining good intelligence were best served by numerous competing agencies whose varying viewpoints and priorities made for a more rounded and comprehensive picture. This time though, the intelligence data was remarkably consistent.