Lion Resurgent

by Stuart Slade

  “So, who is in charge there?” President Reagan sounded confused.

  “The truth is that we have no real idea at the moment. Nor, I think does anybody else including the Argentines. The Argentine armed forces appear to be the only organized group capable of maintaining order so no change there. Seer, I don’t envy you trying to make head or tail of this situation at the next Friday Follies.”

  The Seer shook his head. “Something will shake down out of this, Rick. I’ve got three days to think of some profound-sounding things to say. Fortunately, it’s not something that greatly affects us. We have few strategic interests down there and our attitude towards governments is that we deal with the ones we approve of and don’t have anything to do with those we find abhorrent. Regime change is not our job unless somebody actually threatens us or our friends.”

  “I think you two are missing the point.” President Reagan sounded both thoughtful and reproving. “The people who are removing the Galtieri regime are the very ones we would have slaughtered if we had bombed Argentina. There is a contradiction here.”

  “It’s one that’s been at the heart of our national policy ever since The Big One, Sir.” The Seer was also thoughtful, although it was an issue he had considered before. “We don’t do war any more. We simply destroy those who threaten us. That was a strategy that evolved during the era of total warfare when the civilian population was an essential part of a country’s ability to make war. Even then though, we never actually targeted the civilian population. We took out industry, transportation, fuel supplies and so on. The problem always was that by the time we did that, there wasn’t much left. When we took out The Caliphate’s biological warfare facilities fifteen years ago, by the time we had finished, there wasn’t much left in the target areas.” The Seer became aware that Reagan was staring at him curiously. “Family history, Sir.”

  “Of course. Carry on please.”

  “We’ve never really wanted to consider the possibility that something short of a full-scale war may exist. To do so would mean we would have to consider a drawn-out conventional war and that is something the American people will not tolerate. The specter of the Russian Front and more than a million American boys dead in the snow still haunts us. So, even our ‘limited response’ options are basically full-scale assaults on limited objectives. We still don’t target the population, of course, but… .”

  “That makes little difference.” Reagan finished the phrase off for him. “We’re still holding the bulk of the population hostage against the acts of their government. Forgive me if I find that unsettling.”

  “But, if the population of a country are not responsible for the acts of their government, then who is?” McColl asked the question, knowing that its implications could keep philosophers arguing for decades. “Somebody has to be held accountable for what governments do.”

  “Our strategic position comes out of the Second World War.” The Seer picked up the thought. “If the German population had done in 1933 what the Argentine people have done today, we probably wouldn’t be having this discussion. Or if the British people had done the same to Halifax in 1940, come to that.”

  “Yet Halifax did get into power.” Reagan sighed. “How long has it taken Britain to recover? And what impact does that have on us?”

  “Over forty years.” The Seer knew it was a rhetorical question but he couldn’t help putting the number on it. “What this means for us is that Europe has become important again. We’ve essentially ignored them for most of that time; primarily because they were too weak and damaged after World War Two to be of any account. That’s changed now. They’re back. Algeria showed that for the French and now this South Atlantic War does the same for the British. We’re going to have to pay attention to what they say now. A little attention, anyway.”

  “Not a bad thing all considered. Look into these questions, come up with answers that I can live with. We need a fundamental rethink and now is a good time for one.”

  Naval Attaché’s Office, Australian Embassy, Santiago, Chile.

  “A visitor for us, Garry.” Captain Lachlan Shearston was grinning broadly. “An officer from the Argentine Embassy.”

  “Argentine?” Graeme Gavin was genuinely shocked. There had been an Argentine Embassy in Chile throughout the recent unpleasantness, but for obvious reasons they had kept a very low profile. “What does he want?”

  “We’re about to find out I think.” An Argentine naval officer in civilian clothes was being ushered in. Gavin took a quick look around the office to make sure everything confidential, classified or embarrassing was hidden. It was, the office was in fit state to receive visitors.

  “Gentlemen, I am Captain Roberto Brown of the Argentine Naval Attaché’s Office. Officially, I am here to thank you on behalf of our Navy for the work carried out by your submarine in rescuing our ditched pilots. We are not unaware of the risks your submarine accepted by carrying out this mission of mercy in an active war zone.”

  “Thank you, Captain. We will pass your words through to the submarine’s commander and crew.” The fact that nobody had mentioned the submarine’s name was not an accident.

  “There is another matter, one that is deeply embarrassing to me personally. You may have heard that there are major political disruptions in our country. These, I must tell you, are of such significance that it is questionable who presently constitutes the established government. Various elements of the armed forces are fighting. Some support the existing government but most aid those who would see it removed from power. As part of the conflict, a force of Argentine Marines occupied the Swimmer-Commando base in Puerto Belgrano and freed a large number of political prisoners held there. What they found was infamous.”

  Brown handed over a thick file, filled with documents and pictures. “The women rescued by the Marines have been placed in the hands of the Swiss Embassy until they can be properly protected. Australia’s care for the pilots who would otherwise surely have died sets an example for us all and leads us to ask another such act from you. Please, circulate these files amongst your allies, help identify the women who died without a name and find their families. Allow them to find some peace at least.”

  “And you want us to do this for purely humanitarian reasons?” Shearston sounded deeply suspicious.

  “No. Not just for that. More importantly, the political situation in my country is finely balanced. If this information becomes public knowledge, if it becomes known how the present government used the state of emergency to profit from this barbarous trade, then it will become impossible for them to remain in power. They know this and are doing everything in their power to ensure the details are suppressed. In the name of common decency, I beg you to make sure they do not succeed.”

  HMS Argus, Helicopter Support Ship, Off The Falkland Islands

  Once again, HMS Argus knew the sound of a Rotodyne powering down as it unloaded another group of Argentine prisoners. With the airfield at Stanley destroyed by naval gunfire, the survivors of the Argentine garrison were being airlifted by Rotodyne to Argus where they were processed and then transferred onwards to the internment facilities in Uruguay. Listening to the noise, Lieutenant Harold Dunwoody wondered how the world could possibly have survived without the ubiquitous Fairey Rotodyne. As the noise level dropped, he returned his attention to the officer sitting in front of him.

  “So, you are Grigorio Mazza, and your rank is Major. Serial number 4665352. Your next of kin is your wife, Antonella Mazza, and your address is as given here? Is this correct?”

  Mazza sipped his tea, savoring the strong shot of rum it contained. “That is all correct, yes.”

  “We will be advising the Red Cross of your detention so that Madam Mazza may be informed of your safety.”

  Dunwoody picked up Major Mazza’s wallet to return it to him. As he did so, the picture of Mazza’s family fell out on to the desk. A female officer picked up the picture to return it to him. “Your wife and son? He looks just like you.” I
t was a woman’s instinctive defense of a wife who might just possibly have something to hide.

  Mazza laughed for the first time in weeks. “Thank you for saying so, but my son is adopted.”

  Dunwoody looked sharply at the Argentine Major, noting that the woman from the Directorate of Naval Intelligence was doing the same. He took a picture out from a file. “Do you recognize this man?”

  Mazza was on his guard but the strong dose of rum in his tea had lowered his inhibitions. He honestly couldn’t see why this particular piece of information should be guarded. “Yes, that is Captain Alberto Astrid. Why do you ask?”

  “Did he have any connection with your adoption process? Did he tell you where the baby came from?”

  “He organized the adoption for us. The mother had an affair with a sailor but he was already married and she was too young to care for a baby so the Navy arranged for an adoption. We had to pay for the mother’s medical care of course and give her a year’s salary for her support while she looked for work after the delivery but that was a small price to pay for completing our family.” Mazza looked around and felt his stomach congeal into a solid, ice-cold lump. “Why, what has happened?”

  Dunwoody looked at the DNI officer who gave a tiny nod. “Major, I am deeply sorry to tell you this. There is currently a state of major political disruption in Argentina. There is widespread fighting between parts of the armed forces who support the existing government and those who wish to see it removed from power. As part of that conflict, the Swimmer-Commando base in Puerto Belgrano was overrun by Argentine Marines. They discovered a number of young women held as political prisoners on the base, many of whom were in various stages of pregnancy.

  “It appears that you and Madam Mazza have been cruelly mislead and cheated. We are reasonably sure that the mother of the child you adopted was a female political prisoner who was raped and impregnated. She was then killed immediately after delivering the child. This appears to have been part of a ‘business’ run by Captain Astrid. That man has many other crimes to answer for, but this is probably the most shameful. Your Marines have freed surviving prisoners held there and released them to the custody of either their embassies or to the Swiss Embassy for protection. The Marines have also arrested the staff at the Puerto Belgrano naval hospital who were complicit in this business. The authorities are trying to piece together what happened now but you and your lady should prepare yourselves accordingly. We’ll try and get you home as soon as we can so you can be with her before the storm breaks.”

  “I do not believe you.” Mazza’s voice was a wail of angry and desperate protest.

  The intelligence officer produced another file, one that had arrived a few minutes before from the Australian Embassy in Santiago. “Major Mazza, read this file. You will note that it comes from Australia, a neutral country whose only stake in this conflict has been the purely humanitarian act of rescuing shot-down pilots from both our nations. They have no reason to take part in a fraud; they have nothing to gain and, indeed, they would only suffer from so doing.

  Mazza started to read the file his face whitening with shock as he did so. About half way through the file, he turned one page then broke down, weeping into his hands. “This cannot be true. Anna called him a saint for what he did for us. How could he do this?”

  Dunwoody sighed as the Major was led out. He looked at the DNI officer who was dabbing her eyes. “Well, that made me feel like a real swine. Did you notice though? He, his wife and the child all had blond hair and blue eyes. Not that common in Argentina. Remember that circular about any possible link to a Swedish girl who vanished about a year or eighteen months ago? Isn’t she on that list?”

  The DNI officer folded her handkerchief away and nodded. “When he saw her picture, that’s when he broke down. We had better tell Northumberland Avenue.”

  The Caledonian Club, Belgravia, London, UK

  “Well, you said it would be over very quickly once the counter-invasion started. Even my father wasn’t expecting 36 hours, though. He’s impressed and that doesn’t happen very often.” Igrat looked across the table at Sir Robert Byrnes and smiled gently. This would be the last time she would be eating at the Caledonian Club and she was going to miss the exquisite meals she had experienced here.

  “Aye, the Army came through aw’right. It has cost us though. Nine ships sunk, six badly damaged and over three thousand men dead. More than sixty aircraft shot down. I tell ye this, Iggie, we cannae do this again now, not for years. Just to rebuild our carrier air groups now will take that much time. And Old Glory is one hell of a mess. I dinnae know if she is worth repairing.”

  “Well, you might get some help.” Igrat was suddenly speaking in the flat tones of The Seer and Byrnes knew that this was word he was supposed to be getting, albeit on an unofficial basis. “If your government feels like asking for it.”

  “Aye, they might well want to do that. But we’ll pay our way. We’re standing on our own feet now and standing proud at that. I have words for ye too, for your father. The Swedish girl he was interested in? Karyn Sunderstrom? I think we may ha’ a lead on her. The news though will nay be pleasant to hear.” Byrnes relayed the news that had come in from Santiago and from the prisoner reception station on HMS Argus. After he had finished, he hesitated before continuing. “Igrat, I do na wish to be rude but ye have seen more of this world than I, by a long shot. How could even that apology for a man have done a thing such a’ this?”

  Igrat sighed. Later, alone and privately she would weep for Karyn Sunderstrom but now was not the time and she masked her feelings. “Robbie, the sophisticated people try to deny it, but there is plain evil in this world. Sometimes it is there in little doses we can overlook but just once in a while we meet the real thing in packages so large nothing can avoid it. Astrid is such a man. I have met such people before and I have suffered for it. What will you do with him?”

  “He will stand trial for the murder of Postmaster Walsingham. If found guilty, he will go to prison for the rest of his life. If not, he will na’ escape justice. He will be handed over to the Italian Government who have questions to ask about their citizens who disappeared. After they ha’ finished, he will go to Spain and then to every other country that has an interest. If he is imprisoned here, then representatives from those countries will come to us. There is an accounting to be paid for what he did, Igrat. He will pay it in full, I promise you tha’.”

  They broke off the conversation as the carving trolley arrived and the waiter sliced off Igrat’s favorite cut of the roasted venison. Byrnes noted that she knew the staff by name now, something that even long-standing members of the Club sometimes did not. By the time their meal was served, Igrat had recovered her composure and looked at her venison with regret. “I really will miss this, you know.”

  “You don’t have tae do so. The invitation is always open to ye.” Byrnes looked hopeful but in his heart he knew what Igrat did, that this particular part of their lives was over. For a long time anyway.

  “I know and I shall treasure the fact. Just as I treasured my Silver Greyhound but I had to give that back as well when it’s time had come. Now, I’m giving you back to Heather. Tomorrow morning anyway. The war’s over Robbie, and life must go on as it once did. Heather and I have had a little talk and she understands a few things now. Better than she did anyway.”

  “She still hates you though.” Byrnes didn’t like to mention that in case Igrat was offended but he was relieved to see her smiling.

  “Most women do. It’s men who like me. But, she’ll come around.” Well, after she forgives me for stealing a traffic light control board from a Royal Rolls. Igrat thought. Sorry Robbie, but in the end that angered her more than borrowing you did, especially since she can’t prove I did it. “I’m leaving tomorrow evening, after the memorial service for the Prince of Wales. I’ll be on the Sonic Clipper back to Washington. Make your peace with Heather, Robbie. This time at least. Who’s next in line for the throne now by the way?
Prince Andrew?”

  “Aye. Although it will be many years before he gets to sit on it. The Windsors are a hardy bunch.” Byrnes sliced into his Ayreshire ham and dipped the portion in its sauce. “I hope he is a patient man. Now, vashi nush.”

  “Slainte Mhor.”

  The Seer’s Office, NSC Building, Washington D. C.

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Sunderstrom. A few months ago I promised I would hang our ears out in the wind and if we heard any word of your daughter, we would inform you of what we knew. Today, I very much regret to inform you that we have received confirmation that Karyn is indeed dead. She died in the custody of the Argentine secret police. Her body was cremated and the ashes scattered. I am sorry, but the records unearthed during the present disturbances in Argentina are quite conclusive on this point.”

  Maja Sunderstrom started to sob. Behind her, Lillith quietly slipped out into the small executive kitchen and made an Irish Coffee. Nell had brought the recipe back from Shannon and the drink had become an office staple. The NSA made its own rules, after all. Mrs. Sunderstrom sipped the black coffee through the thick cream and coughed at the generous dose of whiskey it contained. Eventually she calmed down. “There is nothing left of my daughter?”

  “There is one thing. What you choose to make of it is up to you. We know your daughter gave birth to a son while she was in Argentina. That child has been adopted by an Argentine family. They are, according to the British, an honorable family who will do what is right.”

  HMS Argus, Helicopter Support Ship, South Atlantic

  The last Argentine prisoners had been transferred to Uruguay for repatriation and their place taken by released British prisoners on their way back home. Standing on the bridge of Argus Commander Michael Blaise still mourned his lost Mermaid and those of her crew who wouldn’t make it home. He still faced the ordeal of the traditional court martial for the loss of his ship although nobody believed he would receive anything other than a commendation for his last fight against overwhelming odds. His thoughts were interrupted by the bridge intercom.