Ghost Force am-9

by Patrick Robinson

  "Yes, I suppose so. And where does that put us?" The CO had quickly grown to respect the SAS Captain, as had everyone on board.

  "Essentially we have to appreciate the logic of their position. An Argentine stronghold on top of that headland closes the north end of the Sound to us. It means we have to go right around the back of West Falkland or swing way south down the Atlantic and come at them from the southeast. If we want to make a landing, that is.

  "For very little time, trouble, and cost, they can establish a powerful position on Fanning Head, which would plague us throughout this conflict. Simon, we have to land at the base of that cliff and take the bastard out, not exactly by storm, but somehow to blow the fucker up."

  "Christ, who's going to do that?"

  "I am," said Captain Jarvis. "With seven of my best troopers."

  "You're going to climb that rock face?"

  "In the absence of a chairlift, I suppose so. Where do you think we are, Courcheval!"

  They returned to the chart. And Captain Compton began talking the SAS boss through their route into Falklands waters…

  "We come in from the northwest, dived in about two hundred feet of water, all the way to this light blue area where the ocean starts to shelve up…see these numbers here in meters…the ocean floor rises up to only a hundred twenty feet, then stays at around a hundred all the way in to Fanning Head…

  "This narrow seaway into the Sound is only seventy feet deep, so we can stay underwater only until we're about a mile offshore…so long as we watch out for this fucking great rock marked here…only fifty feet below the surface with no warning light or even a buoy.

  "Right here we're in the shadow of the cliff. And at 0200, it'll be as black as your hat. I'd prefer to launch the boats in here, just behind Race Point…you'll have a mile longer to walk, but that's probably better than having your bollocks blown off by a radar-guided Argentine missile."

  Douglas Jarvis grinned. "I assure you, Captain Simon, if anyone's going to have their bollocks blown off, it will not be me. You think I could call my sister in Kentucky and tell her the Args have gelded me? That'd be a family disgrace where I come from."

  "Well, I suppose you would have to be scratched from the Derby," laughed the CO. "No geldings, right?"

  "Simon, could we change the subject from my bollocks to this load of cobblers you're giving me about ocean depths."

  "Certainly, Douglas. This submarine is seventy feet high, keel to mast. We need a hundred feet minimum depth. If it's less than that, we surface, since I do not wish to see either you or your bollocks scraping along the seabed, 'specially if it's rocky."

  Both officers laughed, and even Lt. Commander Bannister, who'd been trying not to, joined in the nervous merriment.

  "Let's get some coffee," said Captain Compton finally. "And then you can tell me where you want the second half of your troops to be landed."

  The Lt. Commander vanished in search of coffee, and Captain Jarvis continued looking at the chart of the jagged coastline. "Simon," he said, "the second part of the SAS recce entails a thorough look at the Argentine defenses around Mount Pleasant Airfield.

  "I've eight men detailed to carry it out, and I cannot see any other way to get there except to walk. From this landing beach it's about forty-five miles through the mountains, and they'll need three days in these conditions.

  "They'll be hauling a lot of weight on their backs and they can only move at night. So I think we may as well land on Fanning Head more or less together, separated by just a couple of miles. I want to avoid having all our eggs in one basket, right? If one group gets caught the other's still on the loose.

  "We'll take the Zodiacs in together, so you can make the fastest possible getaway. My guys are priceless, but I think the Navy values a five-hundred-million-dollar nuclear submarine even higher."

  "We don't have many," said Captain Compton, but just then they were interrupted by a seaman handing over a satellite signal from the comms room, hard copy.

  311300MAR11. Argentine warships heading for battle stations around the Falkland Islands. Two destroyers and three frigates cleared Puerto Belgrano 0500 today. Satellite intercept confirms destination East Falkland. All warships carry modern missile radar systems. Anticipate wide Falklands surveillance by Args, surface and air. Holbrook.

  "Very timely," said Captain Compton sharply. "We stay deep, all the way in."

  The same signal was also received by Captain Robert Hacking on the Ambush. And, curiously, he was in conference with the SBS Team Leader, Lt. Jim Perry, dealing with exactly the same subject: where to land the sixteen Special Forces in Team Three, the guys who would hit the beach on the rough coast of Lafonia, and work under cover of darkness for the next couple of weeks.

  As on the Astute, the Ambush team was in the navigation area, poring over the chart, wondering where the nearest Argentinian defenses would be situated along this truly desolate part of the island, south of the airfield.

  The deep inlet of Choiseul Sound was seventeen miles long and in places three miles wide. And it was this inlet that separated the "business part" of East Falkland, where the oil fields and the airport and the military garrison were located. Indeed, Choiseul Sound very nearly bisected East Falkland altogether. Only the narrow causeway at Goose Green prevented this freezing east-west seaway from cutting the big eastern island clean in half.

  Much more pertinent, however, was the fact that it was so damned shallow. There was a kind of navigation channel along the northern edge passing the entrance to Mare Harbor, to which at least one Argentine warship was plainly headed.

  But even in this channel there was never as much as a hundred feet of depth, and the rest of the seaway was nearer thirty feet, in some places only ten. It was strewn with uninhabited small islands, submerged rocks, kelp beds, and God knows what. It was a submariner's nightmare. No go. No even think about.

  And somewhere in these treacherous waters Lt. Jim Perry had to find a place to drive the Zodiacs up the beach. He preferred to prevent his team getting wet, since there was nowhere for them to dry out. And the weather, according to local forecasters, was already rain, with squalls out of the south, despite late March being only the equivalent of late September in the Northern Hemisphere.

  Lt. Perry's team had a formidable task. After the landing they had to establish a hide about a quarter mile behind the beach, from where they could move out and watch, log, and record all Argentinian activity…the times and strength of shore patrols, if any; the proximity of the nearest Argentine military garrison; the regularity of sea patrols moving along the shore, if any; the times and depths of high and low tide for the incoming British landing craft; sites for missile batteries; helicopter landing areas; sites for shore radar systems that would scan across the flatlands to the north.

  And all of this without being caught. When Lt. Perry's Zodiacs came in for the landing, one of them would be dragged up the beach and hidden, just in case a fast getaway was required. These big rubberized boats would hold twelve comfortably, but one of them would have to take sixteen if they were required to evacuate.

  Privately, Lt. Perry thought there would be no need for an evacuation, and in the end he might not bother with the getaway Zodiac, which was very heavy, cumbersome, and an all-around nuisance for mobile troops. For now it was on the probable list. But if the men of the SBS were caught, they would expect to eliminate their enemy and carry on with their tasks. Running away was not in their training manual.

  Both Royal Navy submarines continued their run south for seven more days. At noon on Friday, April 8, they were one hundred miles northwest of the islands. Captain Vanislav's Viper was still three days behind, and the Task Force, which had cleared Ascension on April 3, five.

  New intelligence from the U.S. Navy in Ascension confirmed an Argentinian destroyer, an old Type-42, was moored on the jetties in Mare Harbor, while two guided missile frigates now patrolled two miles off Mengeary Point and Cape Pembroke, the two headlands that guard the en
trance to the harbor and main town of Port Stanley.

  The newest Argentine destroyer was currently making passage north, about three miles offshore. At the time the signal was sent, she was moving quickly, around twenty knots right off McBride Head, thirty miles east of the entrance to Teal Inlet. At the north end of Falkland Sound, another Argentinian guided-missile frigate appeared to be almost stationary.

  According to the satellite signal, this ship had come in from the northwest and had entered the Sound through the narrows below Fanning Head. When Simon Compton showed the signal to Douglas Jarvis, they agreed it suggested the Argentinians planned to guard the Sound by sea, without building a missile launcher at the top of the cliff.

  But the SAS leader could not take that chance. And his plan remained unaltered during the final miles of their long journey to the South Atlantic. Perhaps the more disturbing aspect of the signal from Ascension was news of the departure of three more Argentine warships from Puerto Belgrano, all making direct course for the Falkland Islands.

  Any chance the Royal Navy once had of the Task Force making a covert entry into these waters was plainly shot. The Argentines seemed to be aware of every move the Royal Navy made on the voyage from Ascension. And they assumed, of course, the imminent arrival of probably two Royal Navy nuclear submarines. However, neither Astute nor Ambush knew of the existence of Viper K-157. Yet.

  In the normal course of a Royal Navy commanding officer's duties, he would have received the information about the enemy destroyer off McBride Head and the frigate at the north end of the Sound, then moved in and put both of them on the floor of the South Atlantic.

  However, this was different. The submarines were obliged to do anything rather than get caught. The one massive secret that could not be revealed was the insertion of the Special Forces.

  The slightest indication of a British attacking presence was likely to double and treble Argentinian awareness, and defensive positions. Right now the less they knew the better. And Captains Compton and Hacking moved stealthily, cutting their speed, reducing their engine lines on any probing sonar that might be transmitting on the north side of East Falkland.

  The course of the two submarines diverted thirty miles north of Fanning Head, where the fifty-ninth line of longitude bisects the fifty-first degree line of latitude. Astute steamed on south making only five knots, and Ambush made course 120, for her longer hundred-mile journey around the east side of the island to Choiseul Sound.

  The water was still almost four hundred feet deep and would remain so for Ambush almost all the way. However, the Atlantic began to shelve up here for Astute, and for most of her journey inshore the depth would be around two hundred feet, growing shallower every mile.

  For the final run across Foul Bay, Astute would come to periscope depth in a hundred feet of water, protected on three sides by huge cliffs, and protected from the Argentine frigate by Fanning Head itself.

  Captain Compton ordered the ship to PD at 1826, by which time the SAS team was preparing to exit the submarine. Each man was dressed in full combat gear, including the windproof, rainproof Gore-Tex light smock that covered their regular thermal clothes. SAS combat teams always wear the best waterproof boots money can buy, and they carry in their bergans light thermal weatherproof sleeping bags, plus a quilted combat jacket in case the weather turns especially bad.

  Each man carried his own automatic rifle and ammunition, with a couple of hand grenades clipped to his belt. There was "sticky" explosive for the possible attack on an Arg garrison at the top of Fanning Head. And there was plenty of concentrated processed food, water, and medical supplies. The transmitter, laptop computers, cameras, and radios were shared among the troops. Strangely, for the SAS, they would not bring a heavy machine gun, since their mission was supremely clandestine, and the object was not to get caught, rather than mow down the enemy.

  Upon their efforts of observation, assessment, and transmission of facts, the success or failure of the entire British operation might depend. Every member of the submarine's crew knew the critical nature of the SAS operation, and every member of Captain Jarvis's team knew how high the stakes were.

  At 1930, Captain Compton ordered the submarine to the surface, about one mile east of Race Point, tucked right behind the granite fortress of Fanning Head. They were still in a hundred feet of calm water, and the moonless night was already pitch-black. But this remained the most dangerous part of the operation.

  Astute's deck crews were instantly into action, hauling the half-inflated Zodiacs out of the entrance at the base of the fin. A jury-rigged davit was raised above the companionway to haul up the four 250-horsepower outboard motors. The engineers were already out on the casing, ready to fit the engines onto the sterns of the two boats.

  No SAS operation of this importance ever takes to enemy waters with only a single engine, just in case one of them cuts out. However, these particular engines had been given the best servicing any Royal Navy engine has ever had. Nothing was going to cut out.

  Deck crews were loading the boats even as the electric pumps drove the final pressure pounds of air into the hull. A thick boarding net and two rope ladders were rolled down the submarine's starboard-side casing for Captain Jarvis and his men to embark.

  They trooped out of the fin, carrying their bergans and weapons, which were loaded into the boats at the last minute before they were lowered gently into the water. Unrecognizable now, because of the camouflage cream that coated their faces, they waited in the cold still of the night until Captain Compton gave the order to embark the Zodiacs. And then they moved swiftly down into the boats, just as they had practiced so many times during their week's training at Faslane.

  No one spoke during the deafening silence of the night exit, and the boats would run without lights, guided only by the big, softly lit Navy compass on the small dashboard around the wheel. The course was 185, almost due south, and the water would not be much deeper than ten feet all the way in, but the Zodiacs, at any speed, drew no more than eighteen inches.

  The first two away were those of Captain Jarvis's group, heading in toward Fanning Head. The second two, which would leave four minutes later, were for the group that had to walk forty-five miles across the mountains to the airfield. Sergeant Jack Clifton, twenty-nine, who was about eight months off promotion to Staff Sergeant, would lead the mission. Tonight, he hoped to be ashore by 2030 and knock off the first fifteen miles before dawn.

  The navy helmsman ran the Zodiac slowly toward shore at around five knots. The big Yamaha outboard, which would cheerfully have shoved her along at forty knots, was barely idling at this slow speed, and the noise was negligible. Essentially you needed to trip over the Zodiacs in order to locate them.

  The journey took less than fifteen minutes, but gradually as they approached the shore they made a slight increase in speed, hauled up the engines on the automatic lift, and came scudding into the shallows and up the shingle beach.

  The Navy seaman on the pointed bow thus jumped onto dry land, holding the thick painter and hauling against the very slight waves that lapped the stern of the boat. One by one the SAS men leapt ashore, with their big bergans now strapped onto their backs and holding their automatic rifles.

  It was an awkward maneuver in the pitch dark, but they all hit the beach at a full run. And, more important, they all had dry feet for the two-week-long operation that lay before them.

  The seaman holding the painter now shoved his full weight against the bow of the boat and, assisted by a rising tide, heaved the Zodiac until she floated. Then he clambered back onto the bow, his sea boots still dry on the inside, and cleared the small windshield to land back inboard.

  "Good job, Charlie," said the helmsman, increasing the revs. "Now let's get the hell out of here."

  Douglas Jarvis heard them go, just a faint engine beat on the wind, but then he was trained to hear engine beats on the wind. A normal person would never have noticed.

  He counted his seven companions, ma
de sure everyone was ashore and ready to go, then checked his compass and began to move west, leading his team over the rocky, already rising ground in the foothills of the eastern side of Fanning Head, which jutted skyward some two and a half miles away.

  Captain Jarvis considered it possible that an Argentine battery was already in place on the top of the mountain, and that the area was being patrolled from a small base established on the peak. The guns of HMS Antrim, commanded by Brian Young in 1982, had made the new Argentine operation easier, since the shells of 1982 had blasted a hollow on the summit that formed a natural area of cover.

  Douglas planned to climb five hundred feet up the east face tonight and establish a hide around a hundred yards from the top, mostly downward, on ground that was nearly impossible for the Argentinians to patrol.

  From there they could observe all troop and artillery movements, and, far below, any patrolling warships. The trick was to not get caught, and when the British fleet arrived, Douglas Jarvis and his men would eliminate the entire Argentinian operation at the top of the mountain. When the island finally fell, as they were assured it must, the SAS team would wait to be airlifted off by helicopter back to one of the ships.

  And so they half walked and half climbed up through the darkness that enveloped the silent mountain. And as they walked the terrain grew steeper, and even with their new night sight, established after thirty minutes in the pitch black, it was still difficult to see between the rocks, boulders, and crags that formed these lower reaches of the escarpment.

  A huge cloud bank hung over the Falkland Islands. There was not a sliver of moon, and the stars were invisible. Also it was raining lightly, with a chill southerly wind. But they kept going, climbing steadily, until, just before 2230, they reached an unmistakable rock face, not quite sheer, but close.