Prince Hunter

by Garrett Russell

  ‘Nothing,’ said Kasatkin. ‘He is of no concern to us. The information you gave him will do us no harm. In fact, we know what it is because his superior Admiral Anaya approached us for it through more orthodox channels. The ambassador would have been happy to give it but was prevented by certain diplomatic complications.’ He chuckled again, ‘Ironic, isn’t it? What you have leaked is approved by the Soviet, yet you will probably die for it. You box-sucking bitch!’

  And he slapped her with the back of his huge hand, so hard she could feel the first trickle of blood running out of her nose.

  The countdown had commenced.

  Grivas and Hawker transferred Olga’s dots and figures to a chart of the South Atlantic and pored over it with the intensity of field commanders. They debated and finally agreed on the most likely pattern for the fleet to sail. Hawker memorised the coordinates. Grivas took the chart to use in the briefing for his part of the operation.

  At 1400 Hawker was ready to call the others together from where they had spread themselves as far apart from each other as possible within the confines of their compound, when Grivas returned with a summons from Anaya.

  They strode together through the tall echoing corridors of the School of Engineering, up the flights of steps and down the carpeted hall to Anaya’s rooms.

  ‘You are prepared to strike at last,’ Anaya greeted them, ‘thanks, I believe, to the initiative of Comodoro Grivas.’

  Hawker sensed the acid in Anaya’s voice, noticed the stiffness of Grivas’ nodded response, and filed the tension between them in his memory.

  ‘All that remains is to embark my three crew and trust that all else happens as I have planned,’ he replied. ‘And that includes your side of the bargain.’

  ‘Just so, just so,’ said Anaya. ‘I am a man of honour, Hawker. Your wife and child will remain safe as long as you deliver that young prince to Major General Menendez in the Malvinas. Now to the business at hand. You have selected your crew?’

  ‘Sullivan, Kreuzer and Kelly.’

  ‘The woman?’ Anaya looked as interested as surprised.

  ‘I had previously planned to leave her out, after I had established to my satisfaction that the three men could be relied on. Not trusted, relied on physically. But circumstances have changed. She has to be in, so O’Hara is out.’

  ‘Change of circumstances? I was not informed,’ Anaya said accusingly.

  ‘Hawker has good reason,’ Grivas came in quickly. ‘Really too complex to go into now. It will suffice to say we have discussed this at length, and I agree wholeheartedly with his decision.’

  ‘So, Hawker,’ Anaya relaxed, patting his uniformed belly comfortably. ‘You are happy with the woman and you would have been happy with this man O’Hara as well.’

  ‘Happy is not the correct word,’ replied Hawker. ‘But yes, I would have been satisfied with him if that’s what you mean. Though I fail to see what difference it makes to you.’

  Anaya reached to his desk and flicked the switch of the intercom.

  ‘Send in Señor Gaffney.’

  A connecting door flew open and Gaffney came through almost instantly. He must have been waiting on the other side, close enough to hear everything that had been said. How much of the Spanish conversation he understood would be a different matter.

  ‘Good afternoon, gents,’ he said in English

  ‘I haven’t had a good afternoon since I met you,’ said Hawker and then a slow suspicion crept into his mind. ‘What the hell are you doing here now?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your damn business, I’m here to conclude my own little bargain with the good admiral, aren’t I? And you should be pleased as punch to see me, I might add. I’ve brought all your passports filled out and stamped and all, personal delivery.’

  ‘That doesn’t explain what you’re doing here, in this room, now.’

  ‘Indeed, it does not.’ Gaffney winked. ‘I always say with a man as direct as you that it’s no good beating around the bush so, I’ll tell it to you straight. You’ll have to change your crew arrangements. Sullivan’s gone.’

  ‘The hell he is!’ Hawker burst out.

  ‘I need him in Uruguay. End of story.’

  ‘And you have said that O’Hara, the woman and Kreuzer are all acceptable,’ Anaya chimed in.

  ‘Kreuzer is at least intelligent,’ Hawker pressed on, already knowing he should save his breath. This was a battle he’d lost before it even began. ‘O’Hara is a goon I was prepared to tolerate with Sullivan to help manage him. Not alone.’

  ‘The choice is not yours to make,’ Anaya stood as he spoke in a tone of bored dismissal. ‘I have agreed to allow Señor Gaffney to have his man Sullivan. You will be satisfied with the others.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  Gaffney dropped the smile he had maintained since coming into the room.

  ‘May I?’ he asked Anaya without waiting for a response before he picked up a bulging buff envelope and spilled a pile of photographs out of it onto the admiral’s desk. They were the photographs his men had made in Devon. He picked up a letter opener bearing an enamelled blue, white and gold crest of Argentina and sliced it across the photograph at the top of the pile. The silver blade scored deep into the paper. It tore the surface of the photographic emulsion, leaving a stark white diagonal scar. Gaffney sliced again to make an ugly “X” across a close up of Anne Hawker’s face.

  ‘Am I right, admiral?’

  Anaya nodded.

  By the time Hawker and Grivas had walked back to their quarters, Sullivan was gone. The others were pacing the courtyard, more like caged animals than ever, Kreuzer and O’Hara keeping a wary distance from each other.

  The detached professional side of Hawker’s mind noted with approval the wild desperation in their eyes. Allied with their untidy beard growths, it made them look perfectly like survivors of the wild sea.

  ‘Thanks for letting us know just what is going on around her,’ said Kreuzer. ‘First you disappear for days and nights without explanation. Now Sullivan packs his kit and goes.’

  ‘And there’s not even the civility of a drop to drink,’ O’Hara bellowed from across the courtyard. ‘You better tell this little bastard to give me back the keys to the grog cabinet before I choke him with them.’ He pointed at the duty guard, not much more than a boy, who fingered the trigger guard of his automatic rifle nervously.

  ‘I told you this morning, no booze,’ said Hawker. ‘Your next drink will be in the Argentine officers mess on the Falklands. Tonight, I need you sober. Now get packing!’

  Kreuzer and O’Hara froze for a second while it sank in, then raced towards their rooms. Like dogs off a leash, thought Hawker, thirsting for action. He looked across at Linda, who had been on the verandah, leaning against her room’s door frame the whole time. Her eyes had lost their vulnerable puffiness. Her face was now set with the same dedicated hardness he could remember from their angry parting so many years ago.

  ‘Ready?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been ready for hours.’

  They were the first words she spoke to him since she had slipped out of his bed in the faint light before daybreak that morning, with a simple whispered ‘Thanks.’

  At exactly 1505 they were escorted to the front of the building by the young guard, where they found their usual two Falcon saloons standing by. They drove out together, Grivas with Hawker and Linda in the first car, Kreuzer and O’Hara in the second.

  They drove fast through the empty Sunday streets of the city centre, heading north east to Olivos. Their route would take them around the majestic Plaza de Mayo, along the Diagonal Norte out to the suburbs, and at the rate they were going they would have plenty of time.

  But as they approached the Plaza the traffic thickened and then ground to a stop. They came up to the Plaza in a first gear crawl, amid the blaring horns of hundreds of frustrated Sunday drivers. Only when they finally turned into the Plaza from behind the bulk of the huge pink government buildings that f
lank the south east side could they see what was causing the holdup.

  The park at the centre of Plaza de Mayo was swarming with thousands of people, lost under a waving sea of blue and white banners. The crowd was screaming and chanting incoherently, spilling out on the roadway heedless of cars that were forced to feel their way through the horde, braking and swerving wildly. There were raised fists and faces of anger that came into focus as the Falcons edged into the square. But this was a crowd, not a mob. There were no visible leaders, no cohesion of effort. The only apparent common factor was that everyone in the crowd was looking towards Casa Rosa, the presidential palace.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ asked Linda.

  ‘Anger, frustration,’ replied Grivas. ‘They’re frightened by the British commando raid on Pebble Island yesterday.’

  ‘But they seem to be pointing their anger at their own government.’

  ‘You miss the subtlety of Argentine politics,’ Hawker said to Linda. ‘This crowd is angry with Galtieri for not being stronger against the British. They gave him the people’s endorsement to fight and lost sight of the real problems facing the country.’

  ‘What if he can’t defeat the British?’

  ‘He is dead. And Dozo and Anaya along with him,’ said Grivas. ‘It is something we do not think about because we will have the British by the balls. Royal balls,’ he turned from the front seat to look straight at Hawker. ‘The future for all of us depends on it.’

  The crowd outside finally found its voice, or a leader, or both. The chanting came together with a force that exploded around the plaza and rang as clearly as cathedral bells through the closed windows of the car.

  ‘Ar-gen-tina!’ they chanted. ‘Ar-gen-tina! Ar-gen-tina!’

  It rang in Hawker’s ears for a long way past the Plaza de Mayo.

  The holdup cost them more than half an hour. Darkness was fast approaching by the time the two Falcons passed through the gates of the marina at Olivos. Luis ambled up from the dock as they pulled up on the concrete apron.

  ‘Buenos tardes, padrone,’ he beamed, touching the crumpled peak of his dark blue salt stained cap. ‘The work goes as you wished.’

  Luis motioned towards the slipway where the rough yacht cradle he and O’Hara had welded together was loaded onto a heavy trailer. It was the type used to transport heavy earthmoving machinery, slung low on gangs of rugged wheels and hooked up to a massively powerful prime mover. A small knot of men in greasy blue and grey overalls stood on the concrete beside the rig, chatting and smoking thick cigarettes. Beyond the men and the truck was the crane they had used to lift the cradle. It was a mobile crane on caterpillar tracks, the type used to clear demolition sites. The body and driver’s cab had once been brilliant yellow. Now the paint was chipped and smudged under layers of diesel grime. The crane had a long black jib arm with a large steel hook hanging from steel wire as thick as a man’s forearm.

  Parked beside the crane was a matching dirty yellow utility truck squatting low on its rear suspension. The reason was a massive wrecker’s ball, sitting ponderously in the middle of its tray back.

  ‘Where’s the boat?’ Hawker asked.

  Luis pointed to the fuelling dock.

  ‘Over there, padrone. We have tried the crane. There is room for it to work and the tide will be perfect in an hour.’

  Hawker could see only Sleipnir’s mast poking above the dock. An hour’s more tide and her cabin top would be almost level with the dock. Perfect for what he wanted.

  ‘You have done very well, old friend,’ he gave Luis a hearty pat on the shoulder. Very well indeed, without so much as a questioning glance in response to the extraordinary orders Hawker had given in the past week. Luis knew that whatever was going on was important to his young boss, the son of his old boss, and that was enough for him.

  Hawker sauntered across to the big truck and heaved himself up on the trailer, stepping into the maze of angle iron that was the yacht cradle. He stood straddling the keel support in the hollow centre where the hull would fit and looked critically at the timber members held with counter sunk bolts to every point of contact with the hull. They were covered with strips of carpet, tightly bound to the frame. Hawker ran his hand along a section of carpet and felt where the pile had been compressed when they had floated Sleipnir into it for a trial fit on a falling tide shortly after the frame was completed.

  ‘She’s a good fit alright. Fine workmanship, given the time, if I do say so myself,’ said O’Hara. He and Kreuzer had followed Hawker to the trailer.

  ‘You’re still playing secrets, aren’t you, Capitán.’ Kreuzer challenged. ‘Why is this sitting here empty? And the boat back in the water?’

  ‘You’ll see soon enough,’ said Hawker. He jumped down and switched to Spanish to call the workmen into a huddle around him.

  Just after dark they started the crane up. The driver swung his jib arm around to the back of the utility truck where two men guided the heavy hook down. Against a background of the crane’s throaty diesel exhaust and working only in the light of its spot lamps because Hawker did not want the overhead floodlights on, they unshackled the hook and let it drop with a thud onto the tray. They heaved the wire up to the thick ring of the wrecker’s ball and shackled it on.

  The driver gingerly took up the strain on the wire and lifted the ball clear of the tray. The whole body of the small truck seemed to follow it up as if by magnetism for the first few centimetres, as its rear springs sighed back to their normal positions. When the ball was well clear of the cab, the driver started the crane lumbering towards the fuel dock.

  Hawker was on the dock calling orders to Kreuzer and O’Hara, who were padding a double thickness of fenders between the yacht’s hull and the pilings. Luis was at the bow, adjusting the strongest mooring line he had been able to find to the height of the tide. Linda was doing the same at the stern.

  ‘I still don’t follow what you’re doing,’ she called to Hawker over her shoulder.

  ‘Simple,’ he called back. ‘You’re about to see a yacht dismasting.’

  Kreuzer turned to look at Hawker from where he crouched at his work. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the rising noise of the crane making its cumbersome way with the wrecking ball across the dock towards them.

  ‘Ach, so, I see now,’ he said with a nod of appreciation. ‘In that case you had better loosen off your mooring lines.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Hawker looked puzzled.

  ‘The turning moment. If your lines are too tight you run the risk of pulling the keel back into the dock structure on impact.’ Kreuzer made diagrams in the air with his hands. Hawker followed what he said.

  ‘You’re right.’

  He shouted an instruction in Spanish to Luis, who immediately eased the bow line out. He turned to give Linda the same instruction, but she had understood everything that had been said and was already acting accordingly. They made fast on the big dock bollards and backed away from the lines.

  Everyone moved back even further as the crane trundled to the dockside. The driver carefully placed his jib in line with the slender target of Sleipnir’s aluminium mast, the big wrecking ball swinging with its own lethal momentum.

  ‘I compliment you, Herr Hawker,’ said Kreuzer over the noise of the crane engine and workmen shouting directions to help the driver get lined up. ‘A dismasting is a good touch of realism.’

  ‘There’s another reason for it. You’ll soon see.’ He cast an enquiring glance towards the crane driver, perched in his now stationary control cabin a metre above their heads. The driver nodded and gave a thumbs up. Hawker double checked that all personnel were clear of the danger zone and waved the signal to go.

  The big diesel engine wound up to a roar that filled the boatyard and echoed off the building walls. Linda and Grivas stepped further away into the darkness behind the crane’s lights, cupping their hands tight to their ears. Kreuzer shouted something at Hawker, but his voice was drowned. Hawker concen
trated on the section of mast where he expected the ball to hit.

  The jib arm moved, and the ball started to swing in a ponderous arc. From a distance it had appeared smooth and black, like a giant ten pin bowling ball. Closer up its surface was revealed to be a lunar surface of ugly scars, rough and pitted from hundreds of impacts on unyielding reinforced concrete structures.

  The driver adjusted a lever and the ball swung back in a wider arc. He let it swing forward and it almost brushed the mast’s starboard shrouds, their stainless steel wires gleaming in the stark beam of the spotlights. A little more power on the back swing, a little more movement of the lever and the ball began its swing to a larger arc. Hawker held his breath as he saw it disappear into the blackness behind the lights. He waited for it to reach the unseen end of its swing then plummet back, hurtling into the edge of the light, past him and up towards the mast. And his heart stopped.

  ‘Too high!’ he yelled uselessly, to no one who could hear him above the din. The ball would hit the mast about three metres above the deck, not far below the cross trees. If it broke there the stump would be far too high. He had to have the mast broken close to its base, as close as they could manage to the cabin top.

  He watched helplessly as the ball arced towards the mast, then swung as quickly back, now spinning and yawing wildly on the end of the thick wire in a series of erratic sideway swings. Beyond it the mast still stood, swaying wildly as the boat rolled and lurched away from the blow as if weathering a heavy beam sea.

  He waved frantically for the driver to stop. The man understood and throttled back to the relative quiet of idle, letting the ball swing itself out at the end of the jib.

  Kreuzer called out again, but the noise of the engine still drowned him out.

  ‘Too high!’ Hawker called as he approached the driver’s cab, taking his own arced track around the swinging ball to get there. ‘You must hit it lower, as close to the cabin top as you dare without smashing the boat.’