Ghost Force

on the high seas. It would be fair to say the Royal Navy High Command is almost heartbroken at what has befallen it.

'A series of incompetent politicians has progressively castrated the military in Great Britain. And we watch them very carefully. They do not have one single operational interceptor in their fleet, or their Air Force. They are unable to put a survivable Carrier Battle Group together, not even to face a Third World Air Force.

'When we heard — perhaps wrongly — that there was talk here of a new offensive against the Malvinas, we were absolutely certain about one thing…if the Argentinians attempt it, they will achieve it. But perhaps I have, as they say, jumped the gun.'

'You study these matters,' said General Kampf. 'You think our military, our Navy, and our Air Force have the capability to capture the Falkland Islands?'

'Yes, we do, with one or two gaps.'

'Such as?' asked Admiral Moreno.

'We think your Achilles' heel may be the lack of a top-class attack submarine that could range in close to the Royal Navy's carrier, running deep and quiet, perhaps revealing her position to your very fine fighter pilots.'

'You may be right about that,' replied Oscar Moreno. 'But remember, our Achilles' heel last time was the range of our aircraft. We could not refuel them sufficiently to get them round the back, to the east of Woodward's Battle Group. Therefore he could concentrate his defenses to the west. I think this time we may have the range… but I cannot be absolutely certain. Failing to hit the Royal Navy carrier could still cost us a new war.'

'Not if you had just a modicum of underwater assistance from Mother Russia.' Gregor smiled. 'That would seal your overwhelming victory. Very probably on the first day of the war.'

And with that, Gregor Komoyedov stood up and wished them all good-bye, in classic Russian, 'Da svidaniya.' Adding, quietly, 'Just a few things to ponder, gentlemen. If you would like to talk further I suggest Moscow. Perhaps your C-in-C would like to arrange something with our Ambassador here in Buenos Aires.

'Just mention the code word…Viper K-157.' He stepped toward the cafe door and added, flamboyantly, his arms spread wide apart, 'Viva Las Malvinas!!'

And the instant, rousing cheers of his fellow cafe patrons echoed unmistakably in the ears of the wily Gregor Komoyedov as he stepped outside, summoned his waiting taxi, and rode twenty-four miles to Ezeiza Airport and an Aeroflot flight. Big European Airbus. Private. Not one other passenger. Direct to Sheremetyevo-2, the sprawling international airport that lies twenty miles to the northwest of Moscow.

CHAPTER THREE

0900, MONDAY, OCTOBER 18

THE KREMLIN

MOSCOW

General Eduardo Kampf and Admiral Oscar Moreno had spent a comfortable night in the sumptuous private apartment of the President of Russia, right here in the Senate Building.

Their journey from Buenos Aires had been conducted with such precision — private aircraft, government cars, darkened windows, no uniforms — it would be reasonable to surmise that absolutely no one knew the two top Argentinian commanders were in Moscow, save for those who were supposed to know.

General Kampf was commander of Argentina's Five Corps, headquartered at Bahia Blanca, close to the naval base at Puerto Belgrano, 280 miles southwest of Buenos Aires. General Moreno was Commander in Chief Fleet, a position once held by the hawkish Argentinian patriot Admiral Jorge Anaya, the man who had taken his nation to war in the Falkland Islands twenty-eight years ago.

For the past week, both men had been cloistered in the Casa Rosada, the Presidential Palace on the Plaza de Mayo in Buenos Aires. Each morning in company with the President of Argentina, plus the most trusted Ministers, the officers had taken coffee out on the great columned balcony, before which a one-million-strong crowd had once stood and roared, M-a-a-l-v-i-n-a-s!! M-a-a-l-v-i-n-a-s!! when news of the Argentinian troops landing on the Falklands had finally broken in the spring of 1982.

Today, once more consumed with the thrill of potential conquest, General Kampf and Admiral Moreno sat in front of the President of Russia and his ever-faithful Navy Chief, Admiral Vitaly Rankov, in the grandeur of the enormous rotunda.

Both Argentinians had served in the 1982 war against the British: Kampf as a young Lieutenant hopelessly trying to defend the garrison at Goose Green in the face of the rampaging, slightly desperate Second Battalion Parachute Regiment; Moreno as a Lieutenant on board one of the old ex-U.S. destroyers trying to protect the doomed General Belgrano. Both men had wept at the Argentina surrender on June 14, just ten weeks after the war had begun.

But now, cradled here in the immense stronghold of Russian military power, things were looking sweetly different. And the huge wintry sun struggling into the gray skies high above the onion domes of St. Basil's Cathedral cast a sense of righteousness upon them all.

Of course the Malvinas are yours…what rights do the British have to them…? Who do they think they are? And the oil? That huge field probably begins under mainland Argentina.

And here was the towering figure of this confident veteran Russian Admiral, laughing loudly at what he called the wreckage of the Royal Navy…'Destroyed, willfully, by its own government! Ha ha ha! Gentlemen, there is no way you can lose this battle.

'Firstly, I doubt the British could raise a battle fleet. Secondly, they hardly have an air strike force to put in an aircraft carrier. And thirdly, if they can find a few tired old Harrier jet fighters, with a little help from us, you'll sink the carrier. And the Harriers will all run out of fuel and fall into the sea. Checkmate. Ha ha ha! Poor bastards.'

Even the President laughed, and he was taking this entire conversation very seriously. 'Vitaly,' he said, 'I want you to explain to our guests exactly why we can make such a difference to the Argentinian strategy if, and only if, the British elect to sail once more for the South Atlantic and fight to recapture their islands.'

'Las Malvinas are not,' interjected Admiral Moreno, 'their islands. They are ours.'

'Of course,' replied the President, smiling. 'Thoughtless of me. I meant, should they wish to try once more to capture Las Malvinas.'

'General Kampf,' said Vitaly, 'as a senior military commander of land troops, you of course understand better than any of us, no one would dream of putting ashore an army several thousand strong on a fortified island, as the Malvinas will most certainly be, without proper air cover. Correct?'

'Absolutely not, Admiral,' replied General Kampf. 'That would be suicide. The troops would be strafed to pieces with no reasonable prospect of hitting back. Every man on the beach would be at the mercy of enemy air attack, and there'd be no British supply lines. The men would be cut off from their ammunition, food, shelter, and hospitals. For them to fight on would be impossible. I doubt any land force commander would attempt anything so crazy.'

'And would the British High Command be aware of this?'

'Of course. They'd never do it. Neither would anyone.'

'So,' exclaimed Vitaly, 'you have a short sharp war, with only one single objective. Take out the Royal Navy carrier. Then they have no air defense for the men they intend to land on the beaches.'

'Correct. No carrier. No landing. The Malvinas are ours.'

Admiral Rankov stood up, walked around the table, and shook the hand of the Commander of the Argentine land forces. 'General…how the Americans say? We sing from the same hymn sheet!'

'But, I think these facts finally dawned on the Argentinians last time and they were unable to hit the carrier.' The President had covered this conversation before, and he knew the answers. He was just feeding Admiral Rankov the lines he wanted repeated.

'Oh, this time it will be very different,' replied the Russian Admiral. 'You see, sir,' he said, turning to his ultimate boss, 'fighter aircraft are like motorbikes with wings. They go very fast and run out of fuel in less than ninety minutes. We do have extra tanker refueling now, but a run of way more than one thousand miles from the air base at Rio Grande is still very, very difficult. Not much time to waste searching vast, empty seas for a wandering aircraft carrier.

'Only just time for a fast one-shot strike on a known target, turn around and try to make it home on what's left in the tank. Last time, the Argentine Air Force pilots were often unaware of the damn carrier's location, and