Authors: Patrick Robinson
There were several military experts in London, Washington, and Moscow who had long considered the outcome to be inevitable. But to other nations, especially journalists with their mostly superficial knowledge, the news came as a snowstorm might present itself to residents of Tahiti Beach.
Shock. Horror. And Panic. Brits pounded by the Argentinians. The Third World Strikes Back.
Headline writers hauled out their big guns and turned them to face the public. Then, in a hundred different versions, they let fly.
BRITS BLASTED IN BATTLE FOR THE FALKLANDS
—New York Post
PAMPAS PILOTS PULVERIZE BRITS
—Boston Herald
GALLANT GAUCHOS SLAM THE ROYAL NAVY
—Washington Times
MASSACRE IN THE MALVINAS AS BRITS SURRENDER
—Clarin Buenos Aires
VIVA LAS MALVINAS
—
IT
’
S OFFICIAL
!!
—Buenos Aires Herald
In Spain it was
VIVA LAS MALVINAS
. In France it was
FRENCH JETS HELP ARGENTINA WIN THE FALKLANDS
(never mind their European Union partners in London). Russia’s
Izvestya
was subdued,
SHORT NAVAL BATTLE FOR THE FALKLANDS ENDS IN ARGENTINE VICTORY
. In Iran and Syria, the theme was
BRITAIN
’
S LAST COLONY FALLS TO ARGENTINA
. South China’s
Morning News
announced,
THE END OF THE EMPIRE
—
MALVINAS RETURN TO ARGENTINA
.
Great Britain’s Prime Minister instructed the Ministry of Defense to break the news of the calamity in the South Atlantic to a stunned nation—a nation that in the past 230 years had known setbacks in war, had withstood bombs and attack, suffered and retreated in the Crimea, Gallipoli, and Dunkirk; but never decisive, overwhelming defeat and unconditional surrender to a foreign enemy.
Two hours after that news bulletin, the Premier himself broadcast to the people on all television and radio channels. Six spin doctors had worked ceaselessly in a bold but futile attempt to distance their man from the disaster.
He made a rambling speech, referring to “unending courage,” and “gallantry beyond the call,” about meeting “an enemy that had secretly been preparing for several years.”
Let down by his Admirals and Generals, not kept fully informed by the Intelligence services, unaware of the limitations of the fleet
. Blah, blah, blah.
“No Prime Minister can make decisions when the information is not thorough…no one regrets this catastrophe more than I…no one could have foreseen these consequences…I do expect some very major military resignations.”
(Not his own, of course.) And
…“I shall personally be taking charge of the evacuation back to Britain of our wounded, and also of the reparations that I have already insisted will be paid to families who have lost their loved ones.”
Right after that he recalled every Member of Parliament to Westminster to begin an emergency sitting at midnight.
1200 (LOCAL), SAME DAY
CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND
Admiral Morgan was not surprised at the outcome of the war, but he was slightly surprised at the speed with which it had been accomplished. He first heard the news shortly after eleven a.m. on Fox News, but the updated version of the bulletin at noon contained another surprise. According to the best naval sources available, it seemed the aircraft carrier
Ark Royal
had been sunk in less than fifteen minutes.
This was extremely fast for a big ship hit by either bombs or missiles. There were few examples of the time taken for a major warship to sink finally beneath the waves after a hit by an Exocet. But certainly in 1982 it took Britain’s HMS
Sheffield
three days, and in that same war the
Atlantic Conveyor
burned for twenty-four hours before she blew apart and sank. Both ships took an Exocet above the waterline.
The
Ark Royal
, however, appeared to have gone down in a quarter of a hour. And her comms room had time to broadcast to the fleet she had been hit, three explosions reported. However, the flagship went off the air immediately, and another CO positioned within three miles reported fire broke out “at least six minutes after the ship began to list.”
“I’d be surprised,” muttered Arnold, “if she was hit by bombs or missiles. That ship went down too damn quick, like she was holed below the waterline, or somehow had her back broken…or both. I’d guess the fires broke out in the engine room and then spread fast. Those damn carriers are full of fuel.”
He wandered outside, absentmindedly inspecting his daffodil beds. In his hand he carried a recent message from Jimmy Ramshawe informing him that the two Russian submarines,
Gepard
and
Cougar
, had been sighted in the Murmansk area in the past two or three days.
“I wonder,” he murmured, turning back toward the house, “whether our old friend, the elusive Mr. Viper, was in attendance when the Royal Navy carrier was sunk. I’d sure as hell like to ask Vi
taly Rankov, but there’s no point seeking the truth from a lying Soviet bastard, right?”
Thoughtfully he answered his own question, “Right, no point at all,” and continued walking back to the house, his mind once more in the dark cold depths of the South Atlantic, where he guessed
Viper K-157
would now be running slowly north, away from the datum, her work done.
No sooner was he back inside than the telephone rang in his study. He checked the call identity and recognized the private number of Lt. Commander Ramshawe.
“Hi, Jimmy, told you it wouldn’t take long.”
“You sure did. Two hours flat. Game, set, and match. Everyone back in the bloody pavilion.”
Arnie chuckled. “I got a few thoughts for you to work on. First, thanks for the information on the
Gepard
and the
Cougar
. That leaves
Viper K-157
, right? The
only
nuclear submarine that could possibly have been in the South Atlantic, right? And twice picked up on her way there—once by our guys in Ireland, and again by the Royal Navy CO east of the Falkland Islands coupla days ago, correct?”
“That’s what we have, Arnie. You hear anything more?”
“Only from my own highly suspicious mind, kid. That aircraft carrier went down awful quick. Fifteen minutes. And eyewitnesses are saying the fires started about six minutes after she began to list.
“The fires didn’t sink her. What sank her was a damned big hole below the waterline. Nothing else puts a warship on the bottom that fast. And it must have been a very big hole…sounds to me like something broke her back. And there’s only one thing coulda done that…a wire-guided torpedo from a submarine. And I’d guess she was hit by more than one.”
“We got a report of huge fires,” said Jimmy. “Spread fast. Started below the island.”
“Fires don’t sink warships,” said Arnold. “They burn ’em. And if they burn ’em for long enough they’ll probably reach the bomb and missile areas, which will blow the ship in half. But that usually takes hours and hours. This baby was on the bottom in fifteen minutes. That’s not a fire, that’s a hole.”
“So who fired the torpedo, Sherlock?”
“I’d guess Comrade Moriartovich, sneaky little sonofabitchovich. Straight out of the tubes of the Akula-class hunter-killer
Viper
, which had been watching, for several days, waiting for that fog to clear…just lurking, silent and villainous. That’s who.”
“I didn’t realize you spoke fluent Russian,” said Jimmy. “But I’m with you. That bastard just slammed a couple of big ones straight into the Royal Navy’s
Ark Royal
.”
“Well, the Argentinians could not have done it, kid. They don’t have a good enough submarine for that. But someone did, and someone did it for them. And if you want to know who, just watch to see who gets the biggest oil contract in the world in the next few months. The one less than a dozen miles from the airport on East Falkland.”
“Excuse me, sir. A matter of protocol. I believe they just became the Islas Malvinas.”
“But perhaps, young James, only temporarily.”
“How do you mean? The Brits have turned it up, right?”
“Yes. But we are still left with a very clear situation. Those islands have been British since 1833, everyone who lives on them is British. They have been a legal protectorate of Great Britain for darn near two hundred years. Argentina has been griping and moaning about it for a long time, but Argentina has
never
owned the islands. Spain did, and the Brits threw ’em out a long time ago.
“So what happens? Argentina suddenly decides to grab ’em, lands a military force, blows up the British defenses, kills a hundred troops and takes over. They kick out the legal oil companies, two of the biggest, most respected corporations on earth, both of whom have paid fortunes to be there, and then marches them out at gunpoint.
“Then they effectively say,
you want us out, come try it.
At which point they blast and kill another thousand or more troops and accept a surrender. That worked fine in the nineteenth century. Doesn’t work now. There’s the UN and Christ knows whom else to answer to.
“It would be as if Paul Bedford and I decided we’d very much like to own Monaco, went over there in a couple of warships, kicked Prince Whatsisname in the ass, and took his fucking principality. Accepting the surrender of that poncey Palace Guard that prances around in fancy dress. It’d probably take us about an hour and a half. And no one could do a thing about it.
“But, Jimmy, you just can’t pull that pre-nineteenth-century shit anymore. Not in the modern world. And I gotta talk to the President later this afternoon. And ExxonMobil are fucking furious. They want their goddamned oil and gas back, and I don’t blame them. And they wanna know whether the God Almighty United States is going to just stand around while some fucking lunatic in a poncho rampages around all over their goddamned possessions.
“And the President is not going to like it. And a thousand fucking disaffected sonsobitches are going to be asking him what he plans to do about it. And he’s not going to know, and frankly neither do I. That’s why I’m going to talk to him later. But someone’s sure as hell going to need to do something. We simply cannot condone it.”
Jimmy Ramshawe was very thoughtful, and there was a momentary silence between the senior world Intelligence maestro and one of the sharpest young minds in the National Security Agency.
Eventually, it was Jimmy who spoke. “Arnie,” he said, “I forgot to tell you why I called. You scanned through the Business Section in the
Times
today?”
“Not yet.”
“There was an item there I thought was significant. One of the biggest international agricultural deals in recent years…”
“If you tell me it’s Argentina and Russia I’ll probably stand on my head…”
“Upside down, sir. You got it first time. Beef cattle. Millions of ’em.”
“You know what that is, Jimmy? That’s the start of a new cooperation between those two countries. And it’s going to end with oil and gas in the Falklands and South Georgia…if, that is, the Argentinians are permitted to get away with what they have done.”
“You decided what to advise the President yet?”
“No. Because I want to hear what the British Ambassador has to say this afternoon. I’ve met him a couple of times, and he’s coming in to the White House. Just the three of us. A lot will depend on what he says.
“And then of course we’ve got the complication of the goddamned United Nations. They’ve got a meeting of the Security Council tonight. I think the Chairman’s from someplace west of the Blue
Nile…probably dressed in a bedspread…Mgumboo Nkurruption or someone…so that’s gotta be real significant.”
Jimmy burst out laughing. Arnold Morgan’s opinion of African dictators who lived liked pashas in impoverished countries, which collected millions of dollars of foreign aid every year—well, that opinion was on the withering side of discourteous.
“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.