A Ravel of Waters

by Geoffery Jenkins

  'There's enough about it written over every wall in town,' I observed.

  'Las Malvinas son nuestras!' he echoed heatedly. 'Who first sighted the Falklands a century before the British ever came near - a Spaniard, Americo Vespucci, in 1502 ...'

  Brockton said over his glass, 'Vespucci wasn't a Spaniard. He was a Florentine.'

  The derision in my snort was like throwing petrol on a fire to Grohman. Now and then he stumbled to find an English word as his speech free-wheeled angrily.

  'Maybe, maybe, but he sailed for Spain, Vespucci did. It was also he who discovered the Tierra San Martin long before the British or Americans, nearly three centuries later...'

  'Tierra San Martin?' I asked. 'Where now would that be?'

  'He means what the rest of the world calls the Antarctic Peninsula,' Brockton filled in ironically. 'All nations agreed to standardize the name in the sixties. Except Argentina.'

  I was glad to have Paul to support me in this verbal duel. He seemed to be particularly well informed for a newspaper-man.

  'For a hundred and fifty years we have been wronged,' Grohman went on, knocking over the wine bottle with a vehement gesture of his left hand. 'The Malvinas originally belonged to Spain. They were stolen by the British! After the Spanish colonies in the New World had revolted against Spain, the Malvinas passed legally to the new United Provinces of La Plata and we tried to occupy them - legally...'

  Brockton again came to my assistance. 'You are over-simplifying, friend. The whole story is much more complicated than that and although I don't hold with British colonial methods, in this case they were right.'

  Brockton's cool assessment seemed merely to provoke Grohman further. 'It is not only the Falklands that the British stole! All the groups of islands on the southern flank of what you call the Drake Passage were stolen from Argentina by Britain. Who rightly owns what you Americans call Graham Land, or the South Shetlands, or the South Orkneys? We registered our claims in the properly recognized international way during World War II when we left a formal document buried in a metal cylinder asserting our rights to the whole sector between twenty-five and sixty-eight degrees west and southwards of latitude sixty south...'

  Brockton said roughly, 'Argentina waited until they thought they could catch Britain with her pants down because of the war. If I remember right, however, the British had sense enough to send a warship and remove all signs of Argentinian occupancy and the emblems they planted.'

  'It was typical of British aggression...' Grohman began.

  'Listen,' I interrupted. 'I didn't come here to hear a lot of historical crap about who owns what. All I know is that the Falklands are British, that my ship is held up there, and that I mean to get her out. Falklands, Malvinas -whatever.'

  'You must understand, that is why Jetwind is detained!Grohman retorted. 'In 1966 a group of Argentinian patriots staged a token invasion by air of the Falklands to reaffirm our claims to the islands. Argentina does not recognize British sovereignty - the Malvinas are ours! That is why I went to the mainland! I reported to the proper authorities the death of Captain Mortensen. Jetwind must remain in Port Stanley pending clarification of the circumstances of Captain Mortensen's death. That is why, when he was killed, I made for Port Stanley. It is an Argentinian matter.'

  'Go and tell that to the Royal Navy,' I retorted.

  My attitude towards Jetwind's first officer was clear: he had committed a severe dereliction of duty towards his ship's owner, and I had yet to discover what lay behind his smoke-screen of politico-historical claptrap. I was not prepared to accept his explanation at face value. Yet Brockton surprised me. He was deadly serious towards Grohman and seemed to weigh judicially every word he said, despite the fact that he himself seemed better armed with fact than the Argentinian.

  Grohman turned contemptuous. 'The Royal Navy! Do you remember 1976? Do you remember your so-called research ship, the Shackleton, snooping about in our waters with depth-charges and electronic gear aboard? The Argentinian destroyer Almirante Storni opened fire on it for illegal activities. The Shackleton turned and ran for Port Stanley . . .'

  'That appears to be a common occurrence in these parts’ I remarked.

  'The British warship was probing our naval secrets!' rapped out Grohman. 'We opened fire legitimately when it refused to surrender . .

  Once again Brockton came to my rescue. 'The Shackleton was simply an oceanographic research ship measuring the extent of continental drift off the Horn,' he said briskly. 'Your so-called depth-charges were seismic charges for use in sonic underwater observations. The Almirante Storni demanded that she submit to arrest - on the high seas. The British captain quite rightly sought shelter in the nearest British port - Port Stanley. His ship holed up there until the storm blew over. It was all part of Argentina's continuing campaign of harassment over the Falklands.'

  Grohman looked as if he could have knifed Brockton. 'We have proclaimed a two-hundred-mile territorial limit round the Malvinas,' he said. 'Therefore the British warship was inside Argentinian territorial waters.'

  I drained my drink and got up. 'I am not prepared to listen to any more of this nonsense,' I said. 'Tomorrow I fly to Port Stanley. Are you accompanying me, Grohman, or are you staying here?'

  'I am coming.'

  'Good. We'll be on the same plane. I intend taking Jetwind to sea as soon as possible.'

  Grohman gave an unamused smile. 'You call my reasons nonsense. You will see tomorrow they are not.'

  'Say what you mean, man!'

  Brockton had also risen to his feet, apparently more concerned than I was at Grohman's air of truculent triumph.

  'An Argentinian warship - the same Almirante Storni -is at this moment on her way to Port Stanley to detain Jetwind.’

  Chapter 8

  I disbelieved him - until next day.

  Our plane was over the ocean, about an hour out from Comodoro Rivadavia, heading for the Falklands. The scheduled flight time was about two and a half hours. The obsolescent F-27 Argentina Air Force plane was grinding its way southeastwards; the mainland was out of sight behind. The day was clear and bright but the far horizon was a purplish line - the menace of Southern Ocean weather, the unsleeping threat of Cape Horn. It looked a good day down on the surface. Only occasionally did I spot a white crest. It was a rare in-between day when the wind was making up its mind from which quarter to rip in next -northwest or west.

  I had just been handed a thin, stale sandwich and a cardboard cup of synthetic fruit juice by a cabin dogsbody who sported an Air Force uniform and a rash of acne. He, like the rest of the four-man crew, treated Brockton and myself like patients with a highly infectious disease. Brockton had the window-seat next to me. Suddenly his stocky frame stiffened and his square jaw went rigid like a bull mastiff confronting the bull.

  He dropped his voice below the level of the other passengers' hearing. 'Grohman wasn't conning you, Peter. Look out there.'

  I was slow to pick up the ship's profile against the mirror of water.

  'That's her - the Almirante Storni.’ Brockton's voice was full of concern.

  I craned forward to see; out of the corner of my eye I noted one of the flying crew slide back the curtain into the cabin and beckon Grohman into the cockpit. Grohman was sitting with a group of four fellow-countrymen. At take-off I had wondered what their business might be in Stanley.

  'How can you tell at this distance?' I asked Brockton in surprise.

  He scraped at his jaw with his knuckles, as if the quality of his shave worried him.

  'Ex-United States Fletcher class’ he replied. 'You can identify 'em anywhere by that high mast for'ard with the heavy stay on the port side. It supports the radar gear.'

  When the destroyer rose on a wave, I made out her distinguishing feature.

  'Gives the ship a lopsided appearance,' I said. 'How do you know though that she's the Almirante Storni?’

  'The U.S. turned over some Fletchers to Argentina in the fifties,' he said. 'They were
a pretty successful class. They did a great job during the war, odd mast or not.'

  'Y'ou're sure she's the Almirante Storni?’ 'Sure.'

  The previous evening I had dismissed Grohman's statement about the warship's mission to detain Jetwind as patriotic claptrap; now the evidence on the sea below was irrefutable.

  I said in an undertone, 'She's square on course for the Falklands.'

  'Yeah. I reckon she'll be off Stanley during the night. A Fletcher's best cruising speed is about fifteen knots. I guess that's what she's doing now. She's got no problems with either the sea or the weather.'

  'You seem to know a hell of a lot about the Fletcher class, Paul.'

  He appeared hardly to hear my comment, he was concentrating so hard on the warship. It was coming quickly into fuller view now. 'Served in 'em.' His jaw was set hard, and his eyes were screwed up against the sea glare. Or against something else.

  He swung away from his tight scrutiny of the warship. 'What do you intend to do about it, Peter?'

  That was the question which had been avalanching through my mind from the moment Paul had confirmed the ship's identity. Until then I had been inclined to take all Grohman had said about the Falklands-Argentina situation as emotional Latin posturing and sabre-rattling. That warship heading determinedly towards the Falk-lands, however, gave a different dimension to the problem. The fact that Grohman knew in advance that the destroyer was on its way added a sinister dimension to him as well.

  As if to underscore my suspicions, the pitch of the plane's engines changed.

  'We're going low,' muttered Brockton. 'What happens now?'

  The F-27 was losing height. All the passengers - about fifteen of them - were at the windows. Grohman's group of Argentinians were laughing. One of them turned and threw a strange look at me.

  The F-27 made a low run over the warship from astern. The entire crew seemed to be on deck gesticulating. A signal lamp on the bridge sparked small lightnings as we swept overhead. I counted the armament - four big guns and six smaller ones, and banks of quadruple torpedo-tubes. Even a warship wouldn't fancy being at the receiving end of such hardware; Jetwind had only the wind for armour.

  Then the plane banked, and this time came in from over the warship's port bow, the side on which the stay braced the high radar mast just abaft the bridge.

  The crude, almost lash-up look of it, acted as a catalyst to my brain.

  Jetwind's escape plan fell, ready-made, into my mind.

  I threw myself across Brockton to get the best sight of the radar mast before the plane passed over. I had to photograph every detail of it in my mind! Jetwind's life -and mine - would depend on it.

  Brockton looked astonished at my urgency. I whispered, 'What equipment is mounted on that mast? Quick!'

  'Search and tactical radar, fire-control for the guns ...'

  'Any other back-up radar?'

  'No. It's all concentrated there - her entire brain centre.'

  'Any other search gear - visual?' I demanded. 'No. Everything's electronic.'

  On the plane's next pass I spotted officers grouped on the bridge. The F-27 roared over so low you'd think she had been doing a victory roll. Perhaps she was - in advance.

  I drew back from the window, my mind racing -calculating angles, times, distances, the height of Jetwind’s lower yards. She might be able to pull it off - if. I tried to recall exact bearings for the narrow exit from Port Stanley seawards. I could not. I had consulted the chkrt only superficially. The critical element would be wind, lots of it, from the right quarter. A Cape Horn blow would suit me best, whereas today's conditions would be useless. However, I reminded myself that such a day was usually the precursor to bad weather.

  The F-27 left the warship and settled on her previous course for Port Stanley. I checked my watch. It was 9.30. We were due at Stanley at 11. That allowed me only half a day of daylight, a long twilight, and some of the night to organize Jetwind's break-out. Any one of half a dozen imponderables could wreck the plan now formulating in my mind. For instance, where was Jetwind moored in relation to the narrow entrance which locks the port of Stanley proper from a larger outer harbour known as Port William? Port William, in turn, led to the high seas. Had I the expertise to manoeuvre such a radically new type of ship as Jetwind if she were, say, moored to a quayside or jetty? That was the biggest gamble of all! The Stanley exit faced north-south, and if the wind were dead in Jetwind's teeth, I could never make it. The wind would have to be either from the northwest or southwest or, best of all, from the west.

  These thoughts scraped along my nerve edges. I wanted to hurry, hurry, see what the situation was in Stanley! I felt as if I wanted to get out and push the lumbering F-27 along. And in our wake was the Almirante Storni- steadily lessening the distance to Port Stanley.

  That raised another critical question for my plan. 'Paul’

  I asked, 'are you sure that the warship will reach the approaches to Stanley during the night?'

  He gave me a searching look at the abrupt tone of my question. 'That's as I read it, Peter.'

  'What's to stop her making port and tying up?'

  'Nothing - except the crew is Argentinian. I believe the entrance is tricky in darkness. Otherwise, she's got all the technical equipment to cope.'

  'Do you know Stanley yourself?'

  'No. You're the big enchilada in these waters.'

  Probably the biggest question shadowing my plan was - would the Argentinian warship choose to negotiate Stanley's narrow, dangerous entrance on her arrival or hold back until daylight?

  'What's your guess?'

  For an answer, Brockton nodded towards the group of Argentinians whom Grohman had just rejoined from the cockpit.

  He said softly, 'Don't look so damn worried - they're not.'

  There seemed to be a holiday air about the party. Again, I speculated who they could be. They all looked tough and sunburned.

  It was as much frustration at not having to hand the data I needed to work out my break-out plan as the colossal uncertainties surrounding it which ate like acid into me for the remainder of the flight. Its interminable slowness was relieved later only by the sight of the Jason Islands below; beyond, southeastwards, loomed the mass of the two main islands of the Falklands group itself and their scatter of several hundred satellite isles. There was no indication westward - the gale quarter - of my wind of salvation.

  Paul and I had not spoken again; now, as if sensing my need to scrutinize and assess, he silently swapped seats with me.

  Suddenly we were over Stanley.

  I was taken aback by the beauty of two things. First, the harbour itself, snugged between low hills, about seven and a half kilometres long and one and a half kilometres at its widest point: beyond, through a small gap between two low headlands - not more than 300 metres wide - a broad waterway opened up between serrated coves leading to the high seas. The rare sunny day painted the inner harbour bright cobalt; the low hills on every side were exquisite pastel shades of grey, green and purple, pocked frequently with scrubby brown patches of a low-growing plant.

  I had no eyes for nature's beauty. It was the loveliness of the man-made thing riding at anchor offshore which commanded all my attention.

  Jetwind! I fell in love with her at first sight.

  Her long, lean hull was dark green against the cobalt water; her six masts were taller than the spire of the cathedral standing at the head of the main jetty and dominating the brightly coloured iron roofs - blue, red, lime-green, yellow - which sloped down to the waterfront. The sheen on Jetwind's steel and light alloy masts and yards gave her a purposeful, up-and-go look.

  The pilot circled over the harbour, no doubt thinking he was treating his passengers. My mind, until now seething with frustration at want of information, clicked like an activated electronic calculator. Unwittingly, within a few minutes, I was supplied with vital tactical information. Jetwind was moored about one and a half kilometres from the entrance gap, rightly named The Narro
ws. The two high points flanking the entrance were high enough to block Jetwind from the warship's sight as she approached from seaward.

  From my vantage-point I could plot the entire break-out - Jetwind and the Almirante Stomi out of one another's sight on either side of The Narrows by virtue of the intervening range of hills, except for the very tip of Jetwind's masts. This was too small a target for the destroyer's radar to constitute a major danger. It meant, however, that from the mast-head the destroyer would be visible to Jetwind while she remained invisible herself until she entered The Narrows proper. Keeping Jetwind out of view until the last possible moment would require split-second timing and manoeuvring.

  The plane then circled the outer harbour - Port William - before turning to approach the airfield on the western side of the town near the water's edge.

  It banked for the landing. It was from this direction that the wind must come; I was relieved to note that there were no high hills to blanket its passage towards Jetwind. We made a bouncy touch-down and taxied to the airport building whose new yellow paint was beginning to peel from the onslaught of innumerable gales. The plane's arrival seemed to be the event of the week - a bevy of Land Rovers lined the fence with adults and children gaping as the passengers filed into the terminal.

  My first urgent task was to get aboard Jetwind, take a quick look around, and then talk to the authorities. I chafed at the delay when a lackadaisical but amiable customs officer wanted to know the background of Robbie Lund's bell. The Spaniards, someone had mentioned, had first named the Falklands after Our Lady of Solitude - that was how it appeared to me, unhurried, utterly remote. The bell seemed to interest the official far more than Brockton's hard-fabric, business-man's black brief-case which he had kept at his feet during the flight; the official cursorily checked it without examining the contents.