‘On O’Higgins land? He’d find Strobie sheep?’
The mayordomo smirked.
‘There was a gate swinging open in the wind, Don Andrés. Some trespasser must have broken the lock. This would be how it happened that Strobie sheep’ — he pointed at them — ‘these, had strayed through. We saw their ordure — Félix and I — and came to recover them before the snows.’
The sheep would all have Strobie ear-marks, of course… Andy translated Torres’ proposal to Cloudsley, who didn’t much like it.
‘More delay, damn it. Separating by five miles before we can make any progress where we need to go?’
‘We’d only diverge a bit, then turn parallel. Me with one lot, Torres with the other — so each group has a Spanish speaker, everyone else keeps his mouth shut.’
‘How many people are we likely to run into, for God’s sake?’ Cloudsley was looking exasperated, muttering that this wasn’t bloody Oxford Street, while Andy asked Torres whether he thought there was any real risk of them being seen by anyone at all.
Torres pointed upward. ‘Aeroplanes. Many here, these days.’ Gesturing northeastward: ‘They come from and to the new aerédromo.’
Cloudsley had caught the gist of that. He asked, ‘Here? Might overfly us here?’
Tomorrow would be more probable, Torres said. Air activity was mainly in the north, and especially over Diaz territory, and chiefly by the kind of avión they called a Pucará. Cloudsley gave in: ‘OK. We’ll do it his way. Let’s finish eating and get started — soon. Tell him that, will you?’
A minute or two later Tony Beale asked him some question about distances and directions, a point of detail in connection with the likelihood of air patrols coming near them on either the first or second days. The easiest way to answer it was to draw him a map, scratching outlines in the dirt with the end of a mutton bone. The long reach of O’Higgins land from the escarpment east to Tom Strobie’s boundary fence; then Strobie territory, shaped like a lopsided kite, eight miles from west to east at its widest and fourteen from north to south, Tom’s estancia, El Lucero — the name meant ‘Morning Star’ — was slightly below and to the right of centre; and about six miles northeast of it, in the top right corner, was the Sandrini ruin. At that point, the kite’s northeast corner, you had MacEwan land to the east, Diaz land north and northeast. The missile dump and airbase was a lot farther north, northwest of the western Diaz paddocks. A sheep-station there, El Amanecér, had belonged to a family called Coetzee, who must now either have moved out altogether or sold that section to the government.
‘It’s poor land. I’d say they’d have been glad to offload it. ‘Specially now when nobody’s making any money out of sheep.’
‘The Coetzees are not to be trusted, you said?’
‘They’re Afrikaners, by origin. Came around the start of the century from Cape Colony — getting away from us… Quite a lot of Boers did, settled mainly around Sarmiento. They don’t like anyone much, but mostly they hate the British.’
Beale nodded, studying the pavement artistry, refreshing his memory. ‘I didn’t think of it until now, but is Strobie’s place that much smaller than yours or Diaz’s?’
Andy nodded. ‘He has about a hundred square miles. But what matters is how many sheep the land can carry. All the land south of Tom’s estancia is low-lying, you see — with several good waterholes, and also a river of sorts on his southern border. He can keep more animals to the square league than you could anywhere on the Diaz land.’
Cloudsley began talking to Geoff Hosegood about ration packs. Meanwhile Monkey Start and Jake West had fixed up their gear and horses, and they’d come over to the fire for some food. Cloudsley broke off his talk and warned them, ‘Andy was right when he said this sheep-meat would be tough. It’s like chewing old rope.‘
Start had his mouth full of it. A map in one hand, a lump of dripping meat in the other. Chewing, folding the map one-handed then stuffing it away inside his poncho… He mumbled, ‘Not all that bad. For a guy who still has his own teeth.’
‘Which way are you riding now, Monkey?’
Start looked surprised at the question. He looked from Andy to Cloudsley — who seemed not to have heard it. Start said, ‘Doesn’t matter, not all that much.’ He asked West, ‘Which way shall we go, Jake?’
West shook his head. ‘Don’t give a bugger.’
‘You’re right.’ Cloudsley belched. ‘Doesn’t matter at all. Long as you finish up intact and in the right place. Wherever that might be.’ He tossed away a bone. ‘But now, Andy — can you persuade the señors to get off their bums and saddle up?’
6
The weather yesterday had been as prayed for; Saddler had recorded in his diary: ‘TEZ transit. Weather northerly force 6, low cloud base, poor visibility, ideal.’ But now in the early hours of ‘D—Day’ the sky was clear, stars like the sort on a Christmas card. There was a hope in one forecast of the ‘clag’ closing in again, but his own weather sense made him doubt it. Since nightfall there’d been a number of air-attack warnings, mysterious and anonymous radio voice warnings. Four Mirages taken off from Rio Gallegos — time, course, speed… Or Six A45 closing you now… Saddler visualised SAS teams hidden in the mainland hills, camouflaged men in camouflaged holes, using high-powered binoculars and maybe with headphones linking them to electronic watchdogs of some kind; and nukes off the coast, out in the deep water between here and there, their periscopes and radar and radio antennae slicing the black surface — while here, now, holding its collective breath and with taut nerves, the assault force drove in towards its target, having linked up with the heavier troop-carrying units. Astern of Shropshire, now that the forces had joined up you could see (all too easily) the ‘great white whale’, Canberra, frighteningly easy to pick out through the darkness because of her size and the white paint which there hadn’t been time to do anything about. But the whole force ploughing south, entering North Falkland Sound.
David Vigne murmured, ‘Should come round to two-four-zero, sir.’
He was navigating visually, by shore bearings. Saddler agreed, ‘Bring her round.’
‘Starboard fifteen…’
At eleven knots, the ships were pitching to the sea running up astern, Shropshire swinging away to starboard, turning her beam to it, and the ‘great white whale’ swimming on past, massive as an iceberg swimming grandly on into the Sound.
‘Midships. Steer two-four-zero… May I come up to fifteen knots, sir?’
Exactly as they’d planned it, as was now laid-off on the chart, in the chartroom at the back of this bridge. He heard Vigne order ‘Revolutions one-two-eight’ and the quarter-master’s report of the course as now two-four-zero; it was the course for an attack on Pebble Island, a bombardment which would be timed to coincide with landing-craft ramps splashing down in San Carlos. Saddler heard distant gunfire from the east, and Jay Kingsmill’s murmur of ‘Glamorgan’s at it again’. Their sister ship would be bombarding the north shore of Berkeley Sound, on the other side of East Falkland and not far from Stanley, where the Argies might well be expecting a landing to be made. Other diversions would be starting soon: there’d be a joint SBS and SAS raid on Fanning Head, which commanded the San Carlos approach, the attackers landing by helo from Antrim who’d then provide gunnery support, and an attack by SAS on the garrison at Darwin. During this period Shropshire would be lobbing shells onto the Pebble lsland airstrip, where the SAS had done a fine job a week ago but which might well have more Pucarás on it by now. One way or another these sideshows should guarantee General Menendez getting enough conflicting reports to confuse him thoroughly while the beachhead was being secured.
Saddler told Jardine over the Open Line, ‘I’ll stay on the bridge for this shoot. Is the White system ready?‘
‘Closed up and cleared away, sir.’
The gunnery lot were very self-confident, following their success in destroying the blockade-runner. There’d been mention of it in a BBC news bulletin, which had de
lighted everyone.
By now the assault ships would be in the entrance to San Carlos Water, flooding their docks to float out the landing craft which would be waiting packed with heavily armed men. The beaches and their immediate surroundings would be secured before the big ships — Fearless and Intrepid, and Norland and Canberra with supporting vessels — entered the narrow gulf and anchored.
Shropshire was rolling a bit, on this course. The sea noisy, engines’ thrum an accompanying and familiar background sound as she closed the dark land.
Five Mirages taken off from Gallegos on course zero-nine-five…
The fact that none of the reported take-offs had yet materialised as raids didn’t mean they wouldn’t be coming. Come daylight, you could count on it.
‘Five minutes to go, sir.’
Landing craft would be moving in towards the beaches, which during recent nights had been checked out by SBS teams. The SBS men, who’d been living in holes on the hillsides around the landing areas for most of the last week, would be at the tide-line to meet the first commandos when they splashed ashore. 2 Para and 40 Commando… 2 Para would be heading for Sussex Mountain which they’d hold against any interference from the direction of Goose Green, while light tanks of the Blues and Royals spearheaded a move inland through the settlement. 45 Commando would be going in at Ajax Bay, 3 Para landing at Port San Carlos.
‘Ready to open bombardment fire, sir.’
He said informally, ‘Go ahead.’
The island was part of a dark visual confusion to port. Saddler took off his headset, went out into the port wing of the bridge and focused his glasses on the area where the airstrip had to be. Vigne had brought her round to 270 degrees, due west: the target would be engaged for five minutes on this run, then the ship would be brought-about and there’d be another five minutes’ shelling while she steamed back eastward.
Before he’d left the bridge he’d heard all the preliminaries, war cries, over the Open Line, but they still hadn’t opened fire.
Distantly, Glamorgan still banging away… The wing door flew open, crashed shut, and Kingsmill told him, ‘Some fault in the firing circuits…’
Saddler thrust past him; then he was in the bridge, pulling on his headset: ‘Are you going into independent?’ Meaning local control, from the turret… Vaughan, Commander (WE), came on the line: ‘Vaughan here, sir. Guns won’t fire. Some fault between the TS and—’
‘How long?‘
‘Can’t say, sir, until we’ve—’
‘Wait.’ Three seconds for thought, and no time to waste: this bombardment was as important as any other action on the periphery of the landings, there had to be some loud noises in this sector, now. He said over the Open Line, ‘Stand down the White system. Load Seaslug launchers for CUSTARD shots. One missile every thirty seconds for ten minutes.’ The bombardment was to have lasted ten minutes; over the same period there’d be fewer bangs, but bigger ones, and the Seaslug missiles could be expected to create large disturbances on the surface of the airstrip. CUSTARD was an acronym for constant angle of sight with terminal dive; he’d never used Seaslug in this role before.
‘Should we come round, sir?’ Vigne was sighting over the gyro repeater. ‘To zero-three-zero?’
So that the launchers would be pointing towards the target area. Saddler concurred, and Vigne ordered starboard helm.
‘Range one-eight-zero!’
‘Fifteen of starboard wheel on, sir…’
Seaslug was a beam-riding missile with a range of twenty-four miles. Within that distance you could put it down wherever you wanted it, although it was primarily a surface-to-air weapon. All the control data the Seaslug director needed now would be in the computer already, fed into it for the aborted gun action.
‘Seaslug launchers are loaded, sir.’
‘Course zero-three-zero.’
‘Engage.’
Only yesterday, he remembered, Fleet Chief Petty Officer Carter had queried whether they’d ever fire one of his cherished missiles. He’d be losing twenty of them now. Saddler heard the first one leave; then the report, ‘One Seaslug away…’ It wouldn’t be a popular move, in some quarters. Seaslugs were in short supply, weren’t being manufactured now that the system had been declared obsolete. But he’d had to do something, and by now there’d be commandos ashore at San Carlos.
*
At noon Shropshire was patrolling on a figure-of-eight track in the northern approaches to San Carlos Water. She would have been with Antrim, available for NGS on call from shore, if the gun circuits hadn’t still been u/s. She was here now for AA defence, a fielder out in the middle where she might well become a target herself, Saddler guessed, when the Argie air force finally showed up.
Four thousand men had been put ashore unscratched. You could see some of them on the hillsides digging trenches, and the Union Flag was flying over the settlement. Sea King helicopters were ferrying Rapier missile-defence batteries ashore — personnel, launchers, missiles, generators and ancillary equipment — the helos depositing their loads at pre-selected hilltop sites and racketing back to the ships for more. Guns, stores, vehicles and men were flowing in over the beaches, but the Rapier system was a priority because this peace wasn’t likely to last much longer. The sky was clear, visibility excellent; the weather, hitherto pro-British, had changed sides.
He walked into the Ops Room; pausing, looking around, tasting the atmosphere, hearing (or maybe imagining) the edges of alarm in some voices, seeing awareness of the imminence of action in some young faces. And that was OK: it would have been unnatural if there had not been some signs of tension.
‘Delta Eight Charlie reports hostiles two-eight-four, forty miles!’
Delta Eight Charlie was Boreas. She was down to the south: she and her Lynx helos had been searching the coves down there for patrol boats or other lurking dangers. So far they’d drawn blank. But from that report, the action might be starting soon. The most recent warning before that had been a cryptic call of ‘Eyes open, west!’ and minutes before that, ‘Six Mirages taken off from Rio Gallegos…’ There’d also been chat on a different circuit — from Harrier pilots in the CAP — combat air patrol — which was operating a long way out, outside the circumference of the missile defence zone. But there’d been no actual sighting or radar contact until that shout from Boreas.
‘EWD — anything around bearing two-seven-zero?’
Two-seven-zero would be roughly the bearing from here of Boreas’ contact. EWD being the electronic warfare director — a PO at that console monitoring a radar system which auto-analysed and identified hostile radar transmissions.
‘Only Blue Fox in that sector, sir.’
Blue Fox was the weapons radar in a Sea Harrier’s nose. And the more of them, the better.
Warning voice again: four Skyhawks had now left Gallegos eastbound. Then news that two more Harriers had taken off from Hermes to reinforce the CAP… A shout now — the fighter controller’s voice: ‘Blue Leader has two A45 visual, going buster!’
A ripple of excitement, a hand raised with fingers crossed… Saddler checking radar monitors, then the big plot where radarmen with chinograph pencils were marking-up the picture as it thickened and the ranges closed. ‘Blue Leader’ was a Harrier pilot at this moment going in for a kill. Saddler considered returning to the bridge: the attackers would be here soon, and down here there wasn’t a lot he could do except listen, preside – which he could do just as well up top, but also see it…
‘Blue Leader has splashed one Skyhawk, other’s legged it!’
Cheers.
‘Four Mirages taken off from Rio Gallegos!’
Another foursome. Take-off intervals seemed fairly regular. Arrivals would be similarly regular — once the first lot arrived.
‘Delta Eight Charlie, birds away!‘
Boreas had launched missiles. She was a Type 22 and therefore had Sea Wolf, which was a weapon for close defence with either TV or radar tracking and one launcher for’ard, one
aft, each of them six-barrelled. Saddler would have given a lot to have Sea Wolf right now, instead of Sea Cat.
‘I’ll be on the bridge, Ian.’
Prince, AAWO, nodded as he switched his radar monitor from one set to another. ‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Delta Eight Charlie, one Mirage splashed!’
Delight in that tone; clapping greeted it. Not a bad start, two splashed in the same minute; if you could keep that up, the Argies might run out of aircraft before long… Joe Nicholson looked across at Saddler and suggested, ‘Threat warning red, sir?’
Instinct, more than any evidence of an immediate threat here in the Sound, told him Yes…
‘PWO.’ Jardine looked round. He told him, ‘Air warning red.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Into the broadcast: ‘Air Threat Warning Red. On anti-flash. Oerlikons and Seacat Red and Green, on your toes!’
Saddler paused at the GOP — general operations plot — where Adamson, the navigator’s yeoman, was rubbing out old position lines on chart 558. Those were the pencilled tracks and fixes from Shropshire’s transit of the TEZ with the Special Boat men on board. It felt now as if that might have been a month ago; and there was a question-mark lingering in his mind, about that Sea King… He asked Adamson, ‘In the right place, are we?’
Pointless remark, of course: although the GOP was a navigational plot, he’d only said it for the sake of saying something to this quiet, rather introspective lad. But Adamson smiled, and answered, ‘I’d sooner be in the Dog and Duck, sir.’
Saddler’s chuckle was drowned by the broadcast: ‘Aircraft in the Sound!’
He ran for the lift. In, slamming the gate shut, whooshing up. Out — and round the corner; then into the bridge, hearing the crash of gunfire then a louder, impacting torrent of sound as the first attacker hurtled over at mast-head height. Two bombs away. He saw another Delta-shaped aircraft screaming in over Fanning Head. Sea spouting where those bombs smacked into it — closer to Argonaut than to Shropshire. Shropshire’s rudder hauling her around… Oerlikons in action, and lighter machine-guns, Blowpipe missiles from launchers hand-held by soldiers on Canberra’s and Norland’s decks, the air a futuristic tracery of missile trails; a Skyhawk swooped up from the sea-skimming height and a Seacat missile rose with it, exploded under its tail — debris starring, pock-marking the water around the central splash.
Special Deliverance Page 9
