Ghost Force am-9

by Patrick Robinson

  And now President Bedford stepped into the conversation. "Clint," he said, "I have decided to take you into our confidence. You just have too big a stake in this to be kept on the outside."

  Clint nodded. Vigorously. "Sure do, Mr. President. Sure do."

  "Well, are you sworn to secrecy? Because there is no one outside this room and the U.S. Navy Special Forces who knows what's going on. You will tell no one, not your wife, your children, your neighbors, your best friends, your fellow directors, or even your dogs. Because this is about as highly classified as it gets. So tell me, are you sworn to lifelong secrecy, so help you God?"

  Arnold thought those last few words, delivered by the most powerful man in the world, had a resonant, damn near holy ring to them. He liked that.

  "As my old granddaddy used to say," replied Clint, "To the grave, guys, I'll take this one to the grave. Swear to God."

  "Okay," replied Paul Bedford. "Just so long as you remember, one word of this ever leaks out, the Secret Service will come looking for you, because you're the only person outside the military who could have leaked it. Right here, I'm talking treason against the United States of America. It's that serious. No one must ever know."

  "Like I said, Mr. President. To the grave."

  "Right, I'll tell you what's going on. In the past few days, our Special Forces have obliterated an entire Argentinian air base at the north end of the Falklands, taken out all fifteen fighter-bombers on the ground, and blown sky-high probably the biggest storehouse of bombs and missiles in South America.

  "A second team of U.S. Special Forces has hit the Argentinian naval base at Mare Harbor on the Atlantic side of East Falkland and wiped out the entire Malvinas defensive fleet, two destroyers and two guided-missile frigates.

  "Basically, Clint, we're gonna go on kicking the shit out of Argentina until they come around to our way of thinking. I probably do not need to inform you this entire strategy was created by Admiral Morgan here."

  "That's good. Now you're talking my kind of language. Takes a Texan, right? Big T, little e—little x-a-n."

  Arnold chuckled. So, for that matter, did President Bedford, who continued, "Our suggestions to the Argentinian President have bordered on blackmail, intimating, somewhat elusively, that we may be in a position to have this wanton destruction of their naval and military capability stopped. Although, we of course have no idea who the culprits may be.

  "But our last communiqué was very…well, arched…though I imagine the Mafia have a more graphic way of expressing it. And I should tell you that if the Argentinians have not come to heel within the next twelve hours, we'll hit 'em again. Until they do."

  "Jeez, this is beautiful," said Clint, beaming. "Really beautiful. And I'd like you both to accept my apologies, for my presumption in assuming nothing was happening."

  "It's happening, all right," said the Admiral. "We're just waiting for a communiqué from Buenos Aires, confirming the Argentinians agree to our solutions. And, as the President explained, one of the critical points of the agreement is the return of all the oil and gas on both islands to ExxonMobil."

  "Gentlemen, you can't say fairer than that," said the oil chief. "And I'm real grateful to you both. And I wanna thank those brave guys down there for all that they're doing on our behalf. By the way, you said Special Forces…did y'all mean those Navy Sea Lions?"

  Paul Bedford smiled. "They're SEALs, Clint. SEALs. And not even I would dare to tell you whether they're involved."

  "Will there be any announcement of the next mission, I mean after it's completed?"

  "Not a word, Clint. Ever. Like you, we go to our graves."

  "Well, gentlemen, this has been a very informative and uplifting discussion. Your confidences are safe with me, and I must wish you both good afternoon."

  He stood up and nodded politely to them both…"Mr. President…Admiral Morgan…it's been my pleasure." And with that the Chief Executive of Exxon left the Oval Office, cheerfully whistling that Lone Star classic, "Get Your Biscuits in the Oven, and Your Buns in the Bed," originally performed by Kinky Friedman's Texas Jewboys.

  "What the hell's that song he was whistling, Arnie?" asked the President.

  "I couldn't tell you that," replied the Admiral. "But that was one happy oil driller when he walked out of here."

  "Probably feels he's won the state lottery after being two billion down," said the President. "Anyway, on behalf of Big Clint, what's our next plan in the South Atlantic?"

  "Well, we got twenty Special Forces on their way into Punta Arenas, and Bergstrom is in favor of an attack on Rio Grande, Argentina's most southerly air base. In the past eighteen months they've taken delivery of a squadron of brand-new Dassault-Breguet Super-Etendard F5 fighter-bombers from France.

  "According to the National Security Agency surveillance pictures, they're all parked at Rio Grande, twelve of them. These things can deliver an air-to-surface laser-guided missile with a nuclear warhead. They're lethal and could be launched from that new carrier they just ordered from France. Well, according to Ryan Holland they just ordered it. I'd say those Super-Es would be the Argentine military's pride and joy."

  "You want to send the guys in again?"

  "Only if I can be absolutely sure no one's likely to be caught — and so long as Chile remains onside to help us."

  "Okay, Arnie, you're calling the shots on this one. Even if those shots are ultimately in my name…"

  2200, SAME DAY, THURSDAY, APRIL 28

  SOUTH ATLANTIC 52.19S 67.35W

  USS Toledo came smoothly out of the deep to make her rendezvous with the 3,000-ton Chilean Navy transport auxiliary Aquiles. They were sixty miles north of Rio Grande, twenty-five miles east of the Atlantic entrance to the Magellan Strait.

  All twenty-eight of the embarked Special forces — SEALs and SAS — gathered up their kit and left the submarine on board two Chilean Naval launches, which transported them fifty yards to the light-gray, almost empty troopship, sent especially to bring them in by the President of Chile himself.

  Before them was a 130-mile journey, firstly into the 20-mile-wide entrance to the channel, and then on down the long left-hand sweep of the strait to Punta Arenas, the great Chilean seaport that sits at the foot of the Andes.

  Once the Aquiles passed the headland of Point Dungeness, three miles off their starboard beam, the rest of the shoreline, on either side of the seaway, was Chilean. They expected to dock in Punta Arenas at 0700 on Friday morning, April 29.

  It was a relaxed, uneventful journey, conducted almost entirely in the dark, the Chilean CO following the buoyed ten-fathom channel for a hundred miles. The SEALs and the SAS team had dined the previous evening on board Toledo, bowls of excellent minestrone soup and steaks.

  But the spread laid out before them in the dining room of the Aquiles brought joy to their hearts — the CO had laid on a banquet for the Americanos—it was called curanto, a hearty stew of fish, shellfish, chicken, pork, beef and potato, accompanied by both chapalele and milcao, delicious Chilean potato breads. Douglas Jarvis and the sheep stealers had found their heaven on a twenty-three-year-old former hospital ship with German diesel engines.

  They all slept for six hours and prepared to leave shortly after 0630. They were showered and shaved, with freshly laundered clothes, and carried further clean stuff in their bergans. In fact most of the SAS shirts, trousers, vests, and undershorts were incinerated, and Captain Fraser had instantly come up with a new supply, the way Americans do.

  It was a long time since Captain Jarvis and his men had felt quite so good. And when they finally docked in the Chilean Navy's Punta Arenas, about an hour later, on a cold crisp morning, there was a spring in the step of the SAS men for the first time for two weeks.

  Commander Hunter's men felt very good too. And so did their leader, until he saw with some dread a hideously familiar figure standing at the bottom of the gangway to greet him. He was standing in front of a long black Chilean Navy staff car, the unmistakable figure of the h
ead of SPECWARCOM, Admiral John Bergstrom.

  Good grief! thought Rick. There's only one goddamned reason on this earth he could be here. Where the hell does he want us to go now?

  A voice right behind him muttered, "Holy shit, that's Bergstrom. What in the name of Christ does he want now? Blood?" Dallas MacPherson was thinking precisely the same thoughts as his leader.

  "Morning, Rick, and very well done," said the Admiral, holding out his right hand. "Everything went according to plan?"

  "Most of it," smiled the SEAL leader. "You'll have received the signal that Captain Jarvis is safe…he had a few difficult moments, but he's right behind me, if you would like to meet him…"

  "I'd like to meet him very much."

  "But I can tell you did not come all the way down here just for that."

  "No. I guess not. And perhaps you and Captain Jarvis, and your deputy, Lt. Commander MacPherson, would like to have breakfast with me for a very highly classified chat."

  "Admiral, I would very much like to do that. But first I need to know what's happening to my guys."

  "Rick, everyone's flying out of here this afternoon…Chilean Navy aircraft to Santiago. It's about thirteen hundred miles from here, 'bout three and a half hours. A United States Navy aircraft is already waiting there, and everyone flies directly back to San Diego North Island."

  "Everyone?"

  "Nearly everyone."

  "Jesus," said Commander Hunter. And just then Douglas Jarvis, dressed now as a submariner in his new clothes, walked down the gangway and joined the two Americans.

  "Dougy, this is Admiral Bergstrom, the man who masterminded your escape…Admiral, this is Captain Douglas Jarvis, Diana's kid brother, my brother-in-law, and a very, very fine Special Forces officer. Got his guys out alive, all of 'em."

  Admiral Bergstrom offered his hand. "I'm very privileged to meet you, Captain," he said.

  They shook hands, and Douglas Jarvis replied, "I want to thank you. I didn't do much. The U.S. Special Forces got us out, and if they hadn't arrived when they did, we might not have made it."

  "Very British," smiled the Admiral. "But right now I'm talking to the guy who went into the Falkland Islands, operated undercover and took out an entire Argentine garrison with all of its weapons, including guided missiles…then kept his guys alive for almost two weeks more, behind enemy lines, on an occupied island, in very bad weather, with half the armed forces of Argentina conducting a manhunt by air and land. Correct me if I'm wrong."

  Captain Jarvis grinned. "Well, you're on the right lines, sir. But I'm not much of a hero, just stumbling around, doing my best."

  "Very British," replied John Bergstrom.

  By now the underwater SEAL boss, Lt. Commander Chuck Stafford, was leading all twenty-five of the assembled Special Forces, in company with a Chilean Navy Captain, to a long low building two hundred yards from the jetty, where breakfast had been organized in an accommodation block where they could sleep and relax before the flight.

  Commander Hunter, with Doug and Dallas, climbed into the staff car with the Admiral and were driven to the officers' mess, about a half mile away. Inside, they were escorted to a private room, somewhere between a U.S. situation room and an ops room.

  It was without windows, painted bright white, with a large computer display screen on the wall, plus a line of consoles and keyboards. More important, for the moment at least, there was a group of silver-covered dishes on the long central table, which contained bacon, fried and scrambled eggs, sausages, mushrooms, and toast. Two navy orderlies were already placing large glasses of orange juice at the four set places, and filling the coffee cups.

  The Special Forces commanders helped themselves to breakfast and sat down at the four places. Before Dallas had time to attack even one of the three sausages on his plate, Admiral Bergstrom said, "Gentlemen, we have little time, and I would like you to know what precisely we have been doing…in the broadest terms the U.S. government has decided to conduct a series of highly destructive raids on Argentina's most expensive military hardware — that's warships and fighter aircraft.

  "Simultaneously, the President is demanding that Argentina sit down and negotiate a peace settlement with Great Britain, which will include the restoration of two billion dollars' worth of oil and gas to ExxonMobil and BP.

  "Failure to comply with this represents a deal breaker. And it may cause the United States to take military action against Argentina. However, no one thinks that's going to happen. Indeed, the President's close friend Admiral Arnold Morgan is suggesting the attacks on Pebble Island and Mare Harbor may already have brought them into line.

  "However, if that has not been enough, we intend to launch a further assault on their most prized military possessions. And that, according to Admiral Morgan, will surely do it, because Buenos Aires does not wish to end up in combat against the USA."

  Finally, he came to the point. "Gentlemen," he said, "I have been asked to discuss with you the possibility of your undertaking this operation…the good news is that it should be swift, requiring only a very small team of eight men, operating in great secret, direct action."

  "And the bad news?" asked Lt. Commander MacPherson, an edge of resignation to his voice.

  "Er…it's going to take place on the Argentinian mainland," replied John Bergstrom.

  "Oh," said Commander Hunter. "Interesting. Do they know we're coming?"

  "Of course not."

  "Just checking."

  "Well…again, to come to the point…the objective of the attack is on the air base at Rio Grande…close quarters, if you understand me."

  "Rio Grande?" exclaimed Rick. "That's the place down on the island of Tierra del Fuego, I believe. A full-sized military air base…home of the Mirage jets, and the Skyhawks and the Super-Etendards?"

  "Yes. That's the spot."

  "Well, Admiral, for the moment let me assume you have a way of getting men in there? But rather more important, have you thought of a way out?"

  "Not really. We'll bring them in by helicopter overland from Punta Arenas. And we had rather assumed, after they had done their business of course, they would walk out to a safe point and we'd pick them up somewhere. Probably with another helicopter."

  "I see," said Rick. But he did not look as if he saw. Not even one little glimpse. He sipped his coffee, and rubbed his chin, before saying quietly, "And what would happen, Admiral, if the men should have to fight their way out, and found themselves on the run, pursued, as it were, by very irritated Argentinians. How then would they fare?"

  The Admiral looked uncomfortable. "Ricky," he said, "I know this is difficult. But this is just an exploratory talk. Let's go over and have a look at the chart and see what you think after that…I'm not asking the chaps to blow the fucking airfield up, merely to take out a dozen aircraft — delayed bombs of course — then vanish…our great specialty, correct?"

  "Well, yes, sir. It is. But this is a big air base and it's pretty tricky to walk into the lions' den when there are too many lions on the loose."

  "I was rather hoping most of the lions would be asleep when the guys arrived."

  "Yes. But if they woke up, and the guys were caught, they'd be tortured."

  "We know that. That's why we're giving it a lot of thought."

  They finished their breakfast thoughtfully, and then walked to the chart table and stared at the great triangular island, dissected by the wide desolate waters of the Magellan Strait right at the foot of South America. Almost through the center on the eastern side of the terrain ran the dead straight north-south line of the Chile-Argentina border. "Hostile to the right, friendly to the left, correct?" said Commander Hunter.

  "Correct," replied the Admiral. "Now, up here…right on the coast, is the port of Rio Grande…situated at the mouth of the river, forty-two miles southeast of the Bay of San Sebastian. That's this big inlet, twenty miles across."

  Then he pointed to a cross he had made eight miles inland from the airfield, and thirty-five miles
from the Chilean border. That's the drop-off point, and from there it'd be a pretty straight, easy walk in at night."

  "And what do you want the guys to do? Once they're in?"

  "We essentially want them to take out these twelve Super-Etendard strike fighters, and then get out."

  "How?"

  "Initially it's a walk, through very lonely country. But the guys will carry a satellite communication system. As soon as we receive the signal, right here in Punta Arenas, a Chilean helicopter will fly in and pick them up."

  "And what if the guys come under attack — or they are pursued in a serious way by Argentinian forces?"

  "I must admit, we have not quite considered that."

  The Admiral smiled briefly, and then his face clouded, as the SEAL leader asked: "What's your timing on this?"

  The hesitation was obvious. John Bergstrom stood up, turned away, and said quietly, "Tonight."

  "Tonight!" Rick Hunter nearly jumped out of his chair. "Tonight? A team of eight, ready to go, into almost uncharted land in the teeth of the Argentine enemy, on a mission that could get everyone killed? Christ. Are you serious?"

  "I am, Rick," replied the Admiral. "Because right here on this base, right now, I have some of the best covert Special Forces in the world, experienced veterans, experts in the black arts of SPECWARCOM, men who have done it before. And I'm not liable to have this much expertise, not this close to our objective, ever again."

  Well," said Commander Hunter, "I guess we may as well give it some thought…by the way, any idea who might lead the mission, as if I didn't know?"

  "I was rather hoping you would."

  Rick gulped, not for the first time in this war. And then he said, without emotion, "Yessir. Do I get to pick my own team?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, I'd like to take Dallas MacPherson as my number two, and I would select Chief Petty Officers Mike Hook and Bob Bland, because one's an expert with a machine gun and a radio, and one's an expert at breaking and entering. I guess I'm looking for volunteers for the final four spots. And I'd be happy with the two Petty Officers First Class who came with me to Pebble Island, that's Don Smith and Brian Harrison.