The discussion lasted another hour. Sarmiento told what he knew of the junta’s military plan. It was simple enough, Willy concluded. Sail the fleet, land the troops, seize the islands, and wait for the English to arrive. If diplomatic efforts failed to resolve the situation—in Argentina’s favor, of course—the Royal Navy would be crushed by the intrepid pilots of the Argentine Air Force and the sailors of her Navy. The troops ashore would have a month to dig in and would easily repel any English marines that might survive the battles at sea. “That is the overall plan,” Sarmiento said. “Of course, President Galtieri and Capitan Anaya do not know of CAPRICORN. I believe that your plan’s success will change the equation somewhat.”
“In what way, mi General?” Muller asked.
The Army general looked seriously at the Bund Foreign Minister. “A successful attack upon the English with the scale you envision, my friend, will cause panic among the more cautious of my colleagues,” he said. “Indeed, many would be terrified of an English response in kind.”
“That will not happen,” Müller said confidently.
“How can you be sure?” Sarmiento asked, his voice taking on a tinge of anger. “The English have the capability of striking any target in Argentina. They could launch missiles from their submarines. Their bombers could destroy our cities. They could even launch ICBMs from their home island!”
Dieter looked at the elder Nagel. “Günther, do you have any information which might help alleviate the general’s concerns?”
“The English have no ballistic missile submarines,” the SD chief said with confidence. “They are at least ten years away from putting one of those to sea. The Americans and Russians have many of them, of course—the Americans call them ‘boomers’—and the Chinese also have some in development. The English do have nuclear-powered submersibles, but none that carry missiles. The SALT Two treaty between the United States and Soviet Union forbids the deployment of nuclear weapons aboard what are termed ‘fast-attack’ submarines, which the English do have.”
“The English did not sign SALT Two,” Sarmiento pointed out.
“True,” Nagel said, “but they abide by its general principles. It is a political issue, mi General. Should the Americans let the English arm their fast-attack submarines in such a way that would circumvent the treaty, the Russians might start putting similar weapons aboard Polish submarines.”
“The Poles have submarines?” Schacht asked.
Dieter waved a dismissal at the question. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, mi General, we do not need to worry about an English nuclear response against us.”
“Their bombers—“
“Their Vulcan strategic bombers have a limited range,” Nagel said. “They are not like the American B-52s. They will have to fly from their base on Ascension Island. Just to reach the Malvinas, they will require mid-air refueling. To strike our mainland, even with conventional weapons, they would have to stage from a much closer location. There are no such facilities in the English possessions in the Caribbean. To stage out of an American base in Panama would cause too many political problems for them. Even more so if they were to approach any of our neighbors. As to their land-based missiles, they do not have the range to come anywhere near us. They are designed to attack the Soviet Union.”
“The point is,” Dieter said, “the English will not attack our mainland, even if CAPRICORN succeeds. Such an attack would fall outside the purview of Article 51 of the United Nations Charter, which allows a member state to use military force in self-defense. That is what the English will use to justify their attempt to re-take the Malvinas. Any kind of attack against the Argentine mainland, especially one which would target civilians, would be an escalation that would be unacceptable to the U.N.”
“Remember, mi General,” Müller said, “CAPRICORN will strike at a strictly military target. No English civilians will be harmed, other than those unfortunate enough to be on board any of those ships. Even the English civilians in the Malvinas will not be harmed. Our troops will be very careful about that, won’t they?”
“But of course,” Sarmiento said, somewhat mollified. “Those that wish to stay will be allowed to stay. Those that wish to leave for England will be allowed to leave. There are many Argentines who wish to settle there once the islands are firmly in our hands again.”
Willy had a hard time stifling a laugh. Who would want to go live there? To banish the thought, he said, “Mi General, these possibilities have all been carefully considered. While anything is possible, if you would examine each contingency, you would see that our position really is quite strong.”
“Precisely,” Dieter said with a grateful nod to his son. “Mi General, when these questions come before the junta, you will be able to argue persuasively against the fear of an English counterattack to CAPRICORN. The political considerations Thatcher must take into account are enormous, much greater than ours. She will be prepared to move against us, but only to a point. She will not cross the nuclear line, even after we have crossed it. Rest assured on that.”
Sarmiento took a deep breath, brow furrowed in thought. “Very well, my friends. I know these questions will come up when my colleagues learn about CAPRICORN. I hope I will be able to allay their fears.”
“If not,” Dieter said, “there is a contingency plan.”
“And that is?”
Dieter glanced at Schacht. “Mi General,” the Bundesführer said, “in the event the junta leadership disregards your calm advice and begins to panic, cooler heads must be prepared to seize the moment and save the nation from catastrophe.”
Sarmiento was no fool. “Are you suggesting a…change of leadership might then be called for?”
Schacht shrugged. “We must be prepared for all contingencies.”
Dieter jumped in at just the right moment. “If President Galtieri loses his grip, you must be ready to assume command. We will give you our full support. We will have the proper assets in place at the time, just in case.” Willy was aware of that plan, and hoped it wouldn’t have to be implemented. Any kind of
coup d’etat
was perilous, even in Argentina, where they sometimes seemed as common as the change of seasons. There would be no guarantee that commanders friendly to the Bund would be able to keep their units together and successfully disarm those led by loyalist officers. If a coup failed, it would mean the end of the Bund, and its leaders would find themselves facing firing squads.
Sarmiento blinked, and then he smiled. “I understand,” he said.
“Tomorrow, my son and young Nagel will be going to Pilcaniyeu for one final inspection,” Dieter said. “Assuming their report to us is positive, we will initiate the next phase of the operation. In the meantime, the Army and Navy will proceed with the successful seizure of the Malvinas.” He raised his glass. “Gentlemen, to success!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Langley, Virginia
March 22nd, 1982
Jo Ann straightened her blue Class-A uniform jacket as she stepped out of the car. The young man in business suit and sunglasses who’d driven her here from the airport was holding the door open for her. “You can leave your luggage in the trunk, Major,” he said politely.
“Thank you,” she said. “So this is CIA Headquarters. It looks like an ordinary parking garage to me.” The man gave her a thin smile. So much for humor.
Another man in a suit was waiting for them at an unmarked door. “Major Geary,” he said, “welcome to Langley. Please attach this to your uniform.” He handed her a laminated card with a clip attached to the back. She gave it a look, saw that it was an official guest card, but also had her name, rank and photo prominently displayed. “Right this way,” he said.
The door led to an elevator, and the man pressed the button for the fourth floor. Nobody else was aboard and the car didn’t stop at any other floors, reinforcing Jo’s first impression that this was the way special guests entered the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency outside Langley, Virginia.
At one time, her father’s call yesterday would have been a surprise. Before her visit back in December, Joseph had rarely called her, preferring an occasional brief letter. Jo had more regular contact with her mother, usually a weekly letter in Korean and a phone call twice a month. Since the visit, he’d started calling her more often. This was the first time that her father had ever called her on official business, though. “I need you to come to Langley tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve already spoken to your C.O. His office is arranging your flight.”
“What’s this all about, Daddy?” she asked, knowing the answer in advance.
“I’ll tell you when you get here,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
Jo’s father had always been an imperious presence to her, from the days when she was a little girl all the way through adolescence, college and now into her Air Force career. When she visited her parents, her father always made time to talk to her, but his affection only went so far: a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a warm smile. Behind his eyes, though, Jo could sense a barrier around his innermost feelings. Things had started to change, though. Even with all her accomplishments in the Air Force, Jo sometimes wondered if Joseph was really proud of her. That was nonsense; of course he was proud of her, he’d said so more than once. But her role in helping plug that Pentagon leak was different. For the first time, she had taken part in something her father was involved in, something in his world, and she had proven herself in it.
They exited the elevator into a well-lit hallway, with smartly dressed people walking with papers or files or briefcases, all in civilian clothes, all intent on where they were going. Her guide led her down the hall to an office suite that appeared to be in a corner of the building.
A fortyish woman behind a desk looked up and smiled as Jo and her escort entered the suite. “Major Geary, welcome to Langley,” she said, rising and offering her hand. “I’m Phyllis McGreevy, Director Geary’s executive assistant. I’m glad I can finally meet you.”
“Thank you,” Jo said. It struck her that this woman had probably worked for her father for some time. When was the last time Jo visited this office? With a shock, she realized that she never had. Joseph Geary had been named DDO in 1979. Before that, he served in various overseas postings, interspersed with one or two tours at Langley. Jo couldn’t remember the last time she’d come to see her father at work, but it hadn’t been here. Her cheeks colored a bit with shame.
McGreevy led the way to an inside door. Jo couldn’t help noticing that she was tall and attractive, her suit conservative but stylish. She felt a pang of jealousy, almost as if she were her mother. Did Umma ever come here? What did she think of the tall and shapely Ms. McGreevy? Jo shoved that thought out of her mind. She had never known a man more honorable than her father.
The executive assistant knocked on the door and opened it. “Director, your guest is here,” she said. McGreevy stepped aside and bathed Jo with a warm smile. “Enjoy your visit.” Jo nodded to her politely and entered her father’s realm.
Joseph Geary came around his dark oak desk with a smile that was loving and happy but still somewhat reserved. The bags under his eyes seemed a bit more severe. But he was still her father, he most certainly was, and she came forward gladly to be enveloped in his embrace. “JoJo, it’s so good to see you,” he said. He unwrapped his long arms and held her at their length. “Well, I should be saluting you instead of hugging you. Congratulations on your promotion.” He looked at the ribbon bars on her uniform, peering at the newest. “And a Bronze Star. Well done, young lady. Very well done indeed.”
“Thank you, Daddy. It’s good to see you again.” She offered her cheek, and he bent to kiss it.
“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a couch in the small sitting area. She took a quick glance around the office, noticing some familiar photos and mementos, including her Stanford graduation portrait, and another of her and her parents next to a T-33 jet trainer on the day Jo was awarded her pilot’s wings. Otherwise, the office was surprisingly subdued. Wood paneling, a nice credenza, the desk, leather furniture, light brown carpeting. On one wall hung a portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, one of her father’s idols. On the credenza was a picture of her father and President Reagan. It was a man’s office, definitely, but Jo suspected that her father didn’t spend a lot of time here. He’d always been a man on the move, and there were probably several other places here at CIA where Joseph Geary spent considerable amounts of time.
“Well, I have to say that your name keeps popping up around here,” he said. “It appears that little business with the congresswoman’s chief of staff—I should say, former chief of staff, sent more than a few ripples through the Pentagon.”
“I’ve heard a few rumors,” she said. Several officers had been cashiered or transferred as a result of the investigation, but the brass had managed to keep most of it out of the press.
“That, and your commendation for the Fonglan Island mission,” he said. “So, when we became aware of some very important things our British friends are involved in, your name came up.”
That made her hesitate a little. She hadn’t yet told her parents about Ian. “A military operation?”
“No,” he said. “This is a field op, but not strictly Agency work.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s head down the hall,” he said. “There are a couple people I want you to meet, and then we’ll talk about what’s going on.”