Authors: Patrick Robinson
“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.
“The final two would need to be explosives guys, trained men who know how to set a timed charge and place a tailored charge right into the guts of an aircraft engine. I’d like Stafford’s 2I/C if possible.”
At which point there was a minor interruption. “Admiral, I should
like to volunteer my services, if I may?” said Captain Douglas Jarvis. “I owe my life to you both—and if, God forbid, anything happened to Rick, I don’t think I could face going home without him. I want to come on this mission.”
The words he spoke were a true and faithful summary of his feelings. It surely would have been shocking to turn up at Blue Grass Field, to be met by Diana, whose husband had been lost trying to save him. But there was another drive inside the soldier’s soul of Douglas Jarvis. Like his brother-in-law, he could hear the sound of distant bugles, and, as in the long-ago Sandhurst Cadets Boxing Championships, he was ready to come out fighting.
“Thanks, kid,” said Rick Hunter. “I appreciate that, but you’re not even a trained SEAL.”
“Well, I’m a trained British sea lion. And they’re pretty good in a tight spot.”
“But you’re not in the United States Navy. And I’m damn sure you have to be for this kind of work.”
“Well, maybe Admiral Bergstrom could second me, just for a couple of weeks?”
“Well, I could most certainly make out a case for a decorated British SAS Commander to become a United States Navy SEAL on a short-term commission. But, Douglas, you’d have to take a very searching examination…”
“I would?”
“Sure, you would. We don’t just take anyone.”
“Neither do we, sir.”
Admiral Bergstrom, a man with probably the most flexible command in all of the Navy, grinned. “I know you’ve trained with our personnel before, at Hereford. But I must ask you, how are you at those rare skills just outlined by Commander Hunter? You heard him, setting timers on specially tailored TNT charges?”
“Expert, sir.”
“Excellent, Captain. You’re in. Rank of Lt. Commander, like Dallas. Two-week commission.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m honored.”
“And does he pass your selection board, Commander Hunter?” asked the Admiral.
“He does, sir. Though I’m not completely certain what his sister, my wife, would say if she heard that.”
“Well, I’m afraid the lovely Diana is not going to hear that. As from this moment, gentlemen, you are a part of one of the most highly classified covert Special Forces missions the U.S. Navy has ever mounted. No one leaves here today, not until the helicopter is ready for the flight in tonight. Cell phones are banned. There will be no further communication with the outside world.”
Admiral Bergstrom stood up and walked to the sideboard to collect the coffeepot. And before he turned back to face them, he added, “By the way, gentlemen, failure is unthinkable.”
0900, FRIDAY, APRIL 29
THE WHITE HOUSE
There was no diplomatic communiqué from Buenos Aires the previous evening. And nothing arrived this morning either. Paul Bedford stared hard at his friend, Arnold Morgan, the kingmaker who had effectively made him President of the United States.
“Do we wait longer?” he asked.
“Absolutely not,” replied Admiral Morgan. “When someone’s going to give up a fight, they give it up quick, before something else happens. These guys are rolling the dice, one more time, hoping we’re bluffing.”
“And, of course, we’re not.”
“No, sir. We’re not.” And he picked up the interior telephone and instructed the President’s secretary. “Okay, send that e-mail right away, direct to the Chilean naval base at Punta Arenas, address I gave you. Attention Admiral Bergstrom.”
The e-mail was of course coded. It read:
“Good-bye, French flock. Proceed this day.”
Admiral Bergstrom was still sipping his coffee, talking to his three senior assault commanders, when it arrived. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we have clearance to go tonight.”
Back in the White House, the President looked quizzical. “Arnie,” he said, “what do we do if the Argentinians still don’t react, even after this next attack?”
“We get serious,” replied the Admiral.
“Meaning?”
“We take out the entire Rio Grande air base and everything on it. And if anyone finds out it was us, we come clean and say that Argentina’s armed forces seized the Falkland Islands, including our oil fields, in an act of international piracy.
“After repeated attempts to negotiate a fair settlement, we were driven to remove from this planet their air warfare capability, because it happens to represent a threat to the fair-trading nations of the world.
“And in this, we will be joined by the governments of Great Britain and Chile, and anyone else we decide to press-gang into assisting us with our case.”
“And how, Arnie, do you propose we conduct this mass assault on Rio Grande—nuke it?”
“Oh, I don’t think it will come to that…think about 1976, when Israel’s elite commandoes stormed another nation’s main airport and took it…remember they smashed their way into Entebbe in Uganda, completely overpowered a big force of guards, blew up ten MiG fighters, rescued a hundred Israeli hostages, and took off back to Tel Aviv. Not bad, right?”
“No, not at all bad,” agreed the President.
“They came in by air. In four darned great Hercules C-130 transports, landed in the dark, taxied right up close to the airport buildings, and the next thing Idi Amin’s men knew, the Israeli commandos were on them, gunning down the terrorists and anyone else who got in the way. Twenty Ugandan soldiers were shot down in their tracks because they were not ready…frankly, I doubt the Argentinians would be much sharper.”
“You mean you actually have a vision of one of our big transporters coming in to land at night in Rio Grande, taxiing over to the main building, where eighty of our guys exit the aircraft, rush out and open fire, blowing up the building, getting rid of the Argentinian guards, and then demolishing the aircraft?”
“Subject to adequate reconnaissance, yes. I think it would work well. Very well.”
“And from where does this mythical U.S. military transporter take off?”
“Oh, I think our very good friends in Chile might help there, eh?”
The aircraft would, naturally, be redecorated, a nice shade of light blue and white.”
“And what do you think are the odds of it coming to that kind of a crunch?” asked the President.
“About one hundred to one against,” replied the Admiral. “If the guys remove all twelve of those brand-new Super-Es tonight, we’ll have the Argentine government on the phone tomorrow morning asking for terms.”
1700, FRIDAY, APRIL 29
PUNTA ARENAS NAVAL BASE, CHILE
Rick Hunter’s team was huddled in the embarkation area, faces already blackened, ready for the insertion into Rio Grande. Each of them carried a personal weapon, the light, compact, and terminally deadly CAR-15 assault rifle, which is close to perfect for work behind enemy lines. The CAR rapid-fires an extremely-high-velocity .223-caliber cartridge, which is sufficiently light for each man to carry six thirty-round magazines.
The SEALs’ rucksacks were carefully packed with standard combat gear, insect repellent, water, purification tablets, power food bars, a little regular food, wire cutters, battle dressings, knife, medical kit. Already stowed into the helicopter was the C-4 explosive with detcord and timers, one M60 E3 machine gun, ammunition, two patrol radios, the PRC319 rescue communicator, which could send encrypted short-burst satellite transmissions, in particular the one from Rick that would probably read, “get us the hell outta
here
!” There were also two handheld GPS systems and a dozen hand grenades.
Standing with Rick were Lt. Commanders Dallas MacPherson and Douglas Jarvis, Chief Petty Officers Mike Hook and Bob Bland, the beefy combat SEAL who would carry the machine gun most of the way. There were the two Petty Officers First Class, Don Smith and Brian Harrison, and the new man, the twenty-six-year-old explosives wizard, Lt. R. K. Banfield, from Clarksdale, Mississippi, or as the young SEAL put it, “from raht down there by that
big
ole river.”
By late afternoon conditions were beginning to deteriorate. There
were reports of claggy conditions over the Argentine coast, but the pilots were confident in the ability of the high-tech instruments in the HH-60H Sikorsky Seahawk, one of two purchased from the United States in the past year.
By 1800 they were ready, and in a rising wind, with rain sweeping across the airfield, the SEAL team jogged out toward the helicopter, ducking instinctively below the great whirring blades, and clambering on board, weighed down by their heavy packs, but ready to carry out the mission.
It was dark now and they took off, clattering straight up to their cruising speed of 120 knots and heading southeast over the Magellan Strait. Rick Hunter sat up in his small private cabin poring over the chart, wishing they had a better map, wondering what the terrain would be like between the airfield and the Chilean border, both west and south of Rio Grande.
Like everyone in the SEAL planning team, he regarded the getaway as infinitely more dangerous than getting in. That should be simple…
but if we should get caught, and have to fight our way out, that’s not going to be so simple
…
I just wish I could tell what this ground is going to be like.
Doug Jarvis, one of the best night navigators who had ever worked at Stirling Lines, had brought up an interesting point…“Let’s say, for argument’s sake, sir, we get caught and we have to take out a few Argies. I know Coronado thinks we should immediately make our way west following the river, making a beeline for the Chilean border, but I’m not too sure about that.”
“Why not? It’s the fastest way to friendly territory,” said Rick.
“Exactly. And if I was an Argentinian officer in charge of the pursuit, that’s the way I’d go, sir. Right along the river with helicopters, looking for the filthy intruders trying to get into Chile the fastest way they could.”
Rick stared at the chart. “What would you do, Dallas?”
“I’m with Dougy, sir. I’d go south, straight for those hills, and the border at the Beagle Channel. No doubt in my mind. That’s the way the Argies won’t go, sir. They’ll try to hunt us down along the short route, along the Rio Grande River.”
Rick allowed his eye to wander down the chart, noting the several rivers that rose from the mountains south of Rio Grande. He stared at
the high peaks all the way down to the Beagle Channel, trying to hold a mental picture of the very last segment of land on this earth before the icy wastes of Antarctica.
“It’d be a walk of almost eighty miles, south to the Beagle Channel. And it would be over a range of mountains, some of ’em ten thousand feet.”
“I know,” replied Douglas. “But where would you rather be, sir—fighting your way through the mountains to safety, with a chance of rescue at any moment, or dead on the banks of the Rio Grande.”
“I’ll take the mountains.”
“Good thinking, Ricky baby. Let’s hope we don’t have to do it, though.”
The one-hour flight passed swiftly as they flew down the Magellan Strait, and then turned east up Inutil Bay, crossing their first land fifteen miles south of Lake Emma, still in Chile. Less than a half hour later, they crossed the border into Argentinian airspace, thirty-four miles east-northeast of Rio Grande.
Twenty minutes later they saw their first fog bank, drifting in off the Atlantic Ocean. They flew right through it, as they began to lose altitude, and almost immediately ran into another, and then another.
“These conditions are a damned nuisance,” the pilot called back. “We keep flying in and out of the fog, and I can only just make out the coastline…those lights up there are San Sebastian.”
The pilot’s observer was following his chart, and right behind them Rick and Doug were following theirs.
“Here we go, sir…here. We’re looking for the river…”
“Gottit,” said Rick. “Then we go over another couple of small rivers…then this lake…then land here…53.48S 67.50W…eight miles due west of the air base.”
“Fifteen minutes, sir…”
And now the team began to muscle up, zipping up their padded, weatherproof Gore-Tex jackets, checking waterproof boots, pulling on gloves, as the helicopter slowed down to eighty knots, the pilot trying to cut out the noise as they flew in over the cold deserted landscape below. All of them wore thick, heavy-duty woolen hats, and all of them could feel the helicopter swaying in the gusting breeze as they came on down toward the Rio Grande River. This made it slightly
awkward for their final gulps of hot cocoa from the specially provided flasks, but somehow they managed.
“GPS showing 53.47S, longitude correct.”
“Two minutes.”
“There it is, sir. Dead ahead. Break left…not too close in case it’s marshy…longitude correct, 53.48 right now, sir.”
“Coming in.”
The chopper swayed to a halt, hovered and then touched down softly, the rotors now beating quietly, but the engine still making an unbelievable racket in the night air.
The observer climbed out first, and Rick Hunter jumped down, setting foot on Argentinian soil for the first time. Dallas and Doug were right behind him. Then Mike Hook, Smith, Harrison, Lt. Banfield, and Chief Bland, who had manhandled the machine gun and the communications system into the hands of the SEALs.
Then the observer jumped back on board, slammed the door tight, and all eight of Rick Hunter’s team watched as the helicopter took off, keeping low as it edged its way west toward the border. From there it would head out over the strait back toward Punta Arenas.
The wind that was backing south gusted hard over the rough damp ground, and it whipped away the sounds of the retreating helicopter, leaving Rick’s men alone in the silence of the South American wilderness. The dark was all-consuming, as more cloud, drifting in from the Atlantic, brought down a wet night mist, blotting out the stars.
Rick and Doug took a long careful look at their compasses, confirmed their route was due east, and set off on course zero-nine-zero. In the absence of a path or track of any kind, the rest just stayed on bearing and followed the firm marching of their leader out in front, going with the gradient, sometimes clambering over ridges, sometimes moving easily down thick grassy hills, but always moving forward.
Every fifteen minutes they all paused and strained their ears for any sound, perhaps a car, maybe even an aircraft, but there was nothing. Only the wind, which was now southeasterly.
Mike Hook heard it first, a dull rumble in the clouds to the north.
“Sir! I think it’s an aircraft
…
coming in
…
can’t see it yet
…
”
“Great,” snapped Rick. “It’ll give us a fix. Right now, everyone hit the deck…”
The eight men went down, secure in their heavy camouflaged jackets, trousers, and hats, facing due east, peeping up over the grass, watching for the aircraft. They could hear it way behind them, and then, suddenly, it was on them, howling down the flat plain, right above, possibly only a couple of hundred feet, its landing wheels outstretched for home.
They watched its lights all the way, even catching the slight bounce as it touched down bang in front of them, less than a mile away.
“Okay, guys,” said Rick. “A few decisions have been made for us right here…the first one being we don’t wanna be stuck directly under the flight path of every incoming jet. I just don’t wanna get caught here—that’s all. Because then we’d have to fight and kill, and if they did subsequently catch us…well, don’t wanna think about that, right?”
Without further talk, they made their way left, to a point about a mile and a half off the outer perimeter of the airfield. They had some cover, and a fair view, between two huge rocks, of the takeoffs and landings. They would also have a chance to observe the guard patrols. So far as they could see, there were no guard posts out here in this most remote part of the field, which, according to Dallas, was assessed as “good to totally fucking excellent.”