"I suppose you never considered the Diplomatic Service, did you?" asked Jimmy.
"Not this week, kid. Keep me posted." Crash. Down phone.
Three hours later Admiral Morgan drove himself to the White House, where Sir Patrick Jardine, Great Britain's Ambassador to the United States, was already in the Oval Office chatting with the President.
Sir Patrick was a tall, somewhat gaunt figure, wearing an immaculately tailored Savile Row suit. A scion of the great Hong Kong financial empire, he was a career diplomat despite having inherited 4,000 acres of prime farmland in Norfolk.
The fifty-six-year-old diplomat had only one customer, and that was one of the biggest brewers in England. Sir Patrick was what the Brits refer to as a Barley Baron, with his large swath of relatively rare, flinty land that grows malting barley, the prime ingredient for beer. Whichever way the market fluctuated, it kept Sir Patrick very handily in Savile Row suits at $3,000 a pop.
In his youth, he had trained to be a barrister, passed his exams, and then quit. "I simply can't imagine spending the rest of my life defending scruffy, spotty, mostly guilty young thugs who should probably be locked up on sight," he had told his father.
"Yes, I do see that's rather disagreeable," said Jardine Senior. "I think you better go and work in the Foreign Office. Won't make you rich, but you'll have a pleasant enough time, unless you get mixed up in some bloody war."
Anyway, thirty years later, the dread of the late Sir Arthur Jardine had come full circle. His son was not taking cover under the bed while gunfire rained plaster and furniture down on him in some besieged British embassy. But he was right in the thick of it, and, for the moment, he was Great Britain's last frontier in the struggle to persuade the USA to remove the Argentine Army from the Falkland Isles.
Sir Patrick, however, realized there was only one reason he was currently sitting in this chair, facing the President of the United States. And that was the stolen oil and gas that belonged to ExxonMobil.
He stood up to greet Admiral Morgan, who made his usual entry, without knocking, and held out his hand to the Ambassador. "Patrick," he said, "I'm afraid we meet again in rather trying circumstances."
President Bedford was clearly very concerned by the entire issue of the South Atlantic, and its myriad of ramifications.
"Arnie," he said, "I've been talking to the Ambassador for twenty minutes and I must say we have so far clarified nothing. But I think you'll be interested in the position the Brits are taking…Sir Patrick, why don't you outline the situation for Admiral Morgan?"
"Of course, and I'll be as quick as I can," replied the Barley Baron. "I'm sure you know the history. The Falklands have been British since 1833. Argentina has always wanted them, went to war for them in 1982, has been negotiating for them ever since, and a couple of months ago seized them by military force."
"Yup," said Arnold, nodding. "A regular coup d'etat, no bullshit."
"Well, you probably also know we went through the usual channels of protest, and the United Nations practically ordered the Argentinians to vacate the islands. However, a Security Council motion to censure them and even expel them from the United Nations was vetoed by Russia. So it didn't go through.
"Buenos Aires refused to discuss the matter with anyone, save to announce the Malvinas had always been theirs and that was an end to it."
"So Great Britain understandably decided to take matters into their own hands as they did in 1982?" said Arnold. "And drive the Argentinians off with military force."
"Not quite," said Sir Patrick. "Under very firm advice from the Foreign Office, my government made no threat to the Argentinians. We did not announce the formation of a Battle Group, even though Parliament had voted for such an action. We just got ready and set sail.
"Our fleet arrived in the area. In international waters, at least a hundred miles off the east coast of the Falkland Islands. We launched no attack, we opened fire on no one. But at first light, flying from both the mainland and the islands, Argentina launched an unprovoked airborne assault on our ships, and very nearly wiped us out. You might say it was their second great crime of the year 2011."
"I suppose they'll say the presence of the Royal Navy Fleet was in itself a major provocation and indeed a threat to their own troops," suggested Arnold Morgan.
"I suppose they may," replied Sir Patrick. "However, we were not in Argentinian waters, and despite their act of banditry in February, those islands belong to the Crown. They are packed with British institutions and people.
"Argentina had no right to have an army occupying the territory. No right at all. Under any law, local, national, or international, their occupation was illegal. And the fact that the Royal Navy attempted to defend itself against a very sustained attack is highly irrelevant. This was not a formal war. It was one country whose possessions had been ravaged by another, contrary to every known international charter and treaty of the last hundred years."
"Yes, I see that," replied Admiral Morgan. "But I suppose there was also the issue of the twenty-seven hundred troops that landed on Lafonia."
"Well, that ought not to be an issue. We are surely entitled to land anyone we wish on our own islands."
Arnold grinned. "Yes, I suppose you are."
And the President interjected, "Yes, but the Args are so damned convinced of the righteousness of their claim, it makes things very difficult. And of course the pure damned geography of the place is kinda on their side. Almost like China owned Nantucket."
Sir Patrick smiled. "Mr. President, I sometimes think people do not understand how very British the Falklands are, aside from the fact the natives are to a man British citizens, mostly living in harmony around a damned great Church of England cathedral in Stanley.
"There's Departments of Mineral Resources, Fisheries, Treasury. There's an Attorney General, an immigration officer, a Chief Executive, a Customs office, government offices. There's a Chamber of Commerce, a Development Corporation, a Met Office. There's even a Falkland Islands Company with offices in Stanley and Hertfordshire, England. It's all connected to London."
"But not, on this occasion, protected by London," said Arnold wryly.
The President ordered tea, Lapsang Souchong from China, which was both his own and the Ambassador's favorite. Paul Bedford made a habit of checking out all visiting Ambassadors' preferences, just in case Colombian coffee or something sparked an unexpected suicide attempt by an appalled Ecuadorian diplomat.
Sir Patrick informed the Americans that Great Britain would return to the United Nations and once more request some strong, decisive action, which Arnold Morgan remarked had never been their strong suit.
But what Sir Patrick really wanted was for the USA to make a stand, to growl that the actions of Argentina had been nothing short of international piracy, and if Buenos Aires did not come to heel forthwith, Uncle Sam would surely make life very, very difficult for them. The Rule of Law must surely, in the end, in a civilized world, take precedence.
Just before the Ambassador left, Admiral Morgan reminded him that it was sometimes necessary to take draconian measures to uphold that Rule of Law. And that he for one was not averse to implementing them if required.
Sir Patrick, as he walked from the Oval Office, said he took great comfort in that closing statement from the Admiral. And he hoped to hear favorably from them in the next few days. Admiral Morgan decided, in this instance at least, not to raise the possibility of the Ark Royal having been sunk by the Russians.
But when Sir Patrick left, the President and his most trusted friend had much to discuss. Because deep in their hearts both men realized that regardless of Argentinian passion, the South Americans had nonetheless committed acts of international mayhem.
"Ask yourself, Paul," said Arnold. "How would it be if everyone rampaged around like that? If France suddenly turned its power on Morocco and told Marrakesh, we've always owned your country. What if the Brits did it to Jamaica? If we did it to Japan? If Portugal did it to the eastern
part of Brazil? There's no difference. What Argentina did was wrong. And all their pious territorial claims are still wrong, and still unlawful.
"For us, this is one giant pain in the ass. But it's still wrong. And we still have to face the goddamned oil corporation. And, of course, there's still the Russian connection…another vicious act of international barbarism that may have killed more than a thousand people."
President Bedford frowned. "Can we take this step by step? I'll ask the questions, you give the answers, okay?"
"Fine."
"Right. Are you proposing we come straight out and say publicly we do not approve of this in any way? And Argentina must retreat behind her lawful borders?"
"I think we come straight out and say it. But not publicly. I think we send a private communique to the President of Argentina. It must be signed by your good self, saying exactly that, and citing it as the formal opinion of the Pentagon chiefs. Because that's gonna wake 'em up for sure."
"Okay, Arnie. So they either don't answer or they tell us to mind our own business. What then?"
"Well, I guess we have to be prepared to give them an ultimatum…"
"Like what? Nuke Buenos Aires? Because I got a feeling that's what it's likely to take to get 'em to change their minds."
"So have I. And no, not that. No nukes."
"Well, what?"
"I know this is not traditionally my instinct, but how about we do something subtle, something that will leave them scared and uncertain."
"You mean like some Mafia don, some sinister threat…the kind of thing gangsters pull?"
"Yes."
"You mean tell 'em we'll knock down the Presidential Palace if they don't give us back our oil and gas?"
"Not quite. But how about we tell them we are proposing to make it our business to have them vacate the Falkland Islands. And if they have not begun to evacuate by next week, they will surely feel the hot breath of Uncle Sam breathing down their necks. But we will tell them nothing."
"Okay. Then what?"
"We do nothing publicly. We say nothing to anyone. But we very quietly move our Special Forces into the area. And we have the Navy SEALs link up with the British SAS, and we begin to exact a very serious revenge."
"Like what?"
"Well, the Argentinians have a reasonable Navy, don't they? How about we sink a few warships, and maybe knock out a few aircraft. The Special Forces could do that without any trouble. And we admit to nothing. The Argentines may guess we're at the bottom of it, but they'll never know for sure. And they'll never find a way to prove anything."
"Arnie, you think we could inflict so much damage on their military they'd throw up their hands?"
"They might. But in any event, they'd never admit to their people what was happening to them. And we could certainly make it impossible for them to retain their army of occupation in the Falkland Islands. We could make it possible for the remnants of the Royal Navy to retake the territory, and in return to hand over the oil and gas to ExxonMobil and BP. And we sure as hell could throw the Argentinians out of South Georgia."
"I do see the merit of it all, Arnie. But do you think we could really keep the whole thing secret?"
"We'd need two things to help us. We'd want the total cooperation and support of Admiral John Bergstrom, who's in the final six months of his command as head of SPECWARCOM. And we'd need some silent support from Chile, as the Brits had in 1982. That would make a huge difference. Give us a forward base, way down there in South America."
"Do you see a lot of people dying?"
"Not really, Mr. President. I see a lot of very expensive equipment getting trashed. And I see a very angry Argentina demanding to know what's going on. And I see us saying we know nothing about it. It must be the Brits, and that's just their tough luck. Shouldn't have taken their islands in the first place."
"And how, great genius of my life, do you see it all ending?"
"Mr. President, we make the Brits hand over the Falkland Islands to Argentina, peacefully over a period of two years. With cooperation and a certain amount of chivalry.
"We make Argentina thrilled to get the hell out of this highly destructive row they're having with us, or at least with someone. And we make the Brits delighted to get out of the goddamned islands, and somehow save face. That way everyone's happy, or at least happier.
"Of course, part of our price is the restoration of the oil and gas to their rightful owners, ExxonMobil and BP. But we make the Argentinians signatories on the contract for fifty years, and then cut them in for a decent royalty, which begins twenty-four months from restoration. That way we've got the oil companies off your back, Argentina has a piece of the pie, and everyone can go back to work."
"The weakest part of the equation, Arnie, is the Brits, who basically get little from it."
"True. But they get oil money for two years. And compared to the very obvious mess they're in right now, that will be fine. And they will quietly claim ultimate victory, in what the press will call the Secret War. Which will suit us very well.
"And British Petroleum will have its oil and gas back. We'll probably throw in a few further sweeteners that Argentina will have to agree to. But they'll agree to anything, just so long as they can see the time two years from now when the Islas Malvinas formally become a sovereign territory of Argentina…without endless grief from us and the United Nations."
"Very neat, but I'm going to throw one final monkey wrench into the works before we send for John Bergstrom. What about Russia? What about that damned submarine that you think whacked the Ark Royal?"
"Russia will slink quietly away if Argentina does not end up owning the oil free and clear. You can trust me on that. It's what they came for."
"And the goddamned nuclear submarine?"
"Well, Mr. President. Since no one ever announces the loss of a nuclear ship that has hit the bottom of a vast, open ocean two miles deep…I actually thought we might sink that."
The President came about as close as he had ever done to shooting a hot jet of Lapsang Souchong down his nose. He groped for his handkerchief, and looked up with a conspiratorial grin.
"Why, yes, Arnie. What a remarkably good idea. That was a very wicked thing it did, killing a thousand men. I think there should be a price for that. Do we tell the Brits?"
"Absolutely not. We tell no one. Ever. And if anyone inquires, we deny it. Just so long as the comrades suspect we know and disapprove of their goddamned antics. 'Specially that lying sonofabitch who runs their Navy."
MIDNIGHT (LOCAL), SAME DAY
LONDON
Like most of the Western world's newspapers, the British press has few, if any, morals. As in the USA, all of their newspapers and almost all of their television channels are thoroughly commercial operations, unconcerned with the public or national good, only with the sale of their product. And, generally speaking, the best way to take care of that is to frighten the living daylights out of the population whenever possible. Fear sells, right?
The only operation in the British media that is not, formally, a profit-seeking corporation is the BBC. But that is a fat, government-funded monolith stuffed with executives and journalists earning absurd salaries for what they really are, and running up mighty annual expense accounts.
Between them they represent an even more self-interested commercially minded block than those outside the Corporation, and like all government employees they don't have the problem of their parent operation losing money.
When a big story breaks, the BBC often leads the way and cheerfully wades into the fray, embarrassing the government, humiliating the nation, or the military, as it thinks fit.
The day the Falkland Islands fell, Britain's media collectively went bananas. Headlines unknown for decades leapt into the minds of the editors. Words like Defeat, Humiliation, Catastrophe, and Disaster crowded onto front pages and newscasts, all mixed in with Royal Navy, warships, and surrender.
And through it all, the press smelled an even bigge
r story — had the fleet put to sea inadequately armed, because of government cuts to the armed services?
The top brass of the Ministry of Defense and indeed the Army and Navy were of course sworn to silence. But an issue as topical as this could scarcely be held in check. It seemed that all through that early evening in England, every retired officer in either service was quite prepared to bring up the matter of the retired Harrier FA2 fighter jets.
The BBC's first words in their 10:00 p.m. newscast were: "Was this the war that should never have been fought?"
The early editions of the Sunday newspapers, traditionally on sale in London's Leicester Square at 10:30 p.m., were absolutely lethal to the Prime Minister and his Cabinet.
The Sunday Times splashed over eight columns on its front page:
ROYAL NAVY BLAMES THE GOVERNMENT FOR DISASTER IN THE SOUTH ATLANTIC
Falkland Islands fall to Argentina — British warships "defenseless"
The source, or sources, for this scything statement of fact was in truth a succession of off-the-record conversations with a half dozen retired Admirals and Captains, three of whom had commanded ships in the first Falklands conflict.
Like everyone in a senior position in the Navy, they knew of the reductions in the Senior Service, the cuts to the fleet, the closures of dockyards, the lateness in the arrival of the new aircraft carriers, and above all the four-year gap in the production of a top-class guided-missile fighter jet to fly from the carrier's decks.
And every last one of those sources had instantly said the same thing…You can't fight a state-of-the-art war at sea facing any threat against aircraft or missiles without fixed-wing air defense aircraft armed with a state-of-the-art medium-range air-to-air missiles system. Hit the archer, not the arrow.
Great Britain had gone to war 8,000 miles from home without the proper kit — and the British media sensed blood, and they were going to ride this "story" to the bitter end.
ROYAL NAVY SURRENDERS FALKLANDS
Can't shoot, can't fight, Government Cuts Blamed
Ghost Force am-9 Page 29
