The U.S. military was willing to assist Great Britain, willing to run the base at Ascension Island in a way that would make life much, much easier for the Task Force in terms of supplies and fueling, even assistance with missiles. But President Bedford, like President Reagan before him, would not commit American troops, and he would not commit U.S. Navy ships, and he would not commit any U.S. fighter attack aircraft.
After two or three weeks of hard negotiating, he accepted that the Brits needed help, but it would need to be arm's-length help, which did not entail one single death of an American serviceman.
In truth, President Bedford felt somewhat guilty about the whole operation, because ExxonMobil was ultimately the biggest player in the Falklands oil business and would thus be the biggest benefactor of any victory achieved by the forces of Great Britain.
And there was also the question of the massive natural gas strike on the island of South Georgia. President Bedford understood that the Task Force could only attend to that after recapturing the Falklands themselves. And he had a disturbing vision of the Union Flag once more fluttering above Port Stanley, with the battered remnants of the Royal Navy Fleet, with all of its burned and wounded sailors. Then turning southeast to South Georgia in order to save 10,000 British national penguins and to wrest 400 billion cubic feet of ExxonMobil's natural gas holdings from the hands of Argentinian brigands.
It was not at all fair. He knew that. But then nothing was, and the prospect of a couple of hundred body bags arriving back in the United States was more than he could risk. Because in the end it would cost him his Presidency. And, good guy or no, Paul Bedford was a politician, and ensuring his own survival came as natural to him as breathing.
He would do damn near anything to help the Brits, except take his country to war, which would be tantamount to throwing himself on his sword.
Jimmy Ramshawe understood the high stakes. He had read, over and over, the carefully constructed assessments of the forthcoming war by Ambassador Ryan Holland. He knew the heavy strength of the Argentinian fighter aircraft, the Mirage jets, the Skyhawks, and the Super-Etendards stationed at the newly active Rio Grande base.
And he knew that when battle commenced, the Argentinians would launch everything at the Royal Navy Fleet. It would be an overwhelming aerial armada, and yes, the Brits would down several of them. But they would not down them all, and many bombers would get through and probably blast the British Task Force out of the game. Because the Brits had insufficient air power.
And no one understood the real issues here more thoroughly than Admiral Arnold Morgan. Recalled from his winter vacation on the Caribbean island of Antigua he had arrived back in the States, on board
'There's quite enough political assholes briefing you on subjects they do not understand,' he grated, 'without me joining them. Gimme two days and we'll talk.'
That had been Friday, February 18, and since then the President and the former National Security Adviser had been in constant communication. And as ever, Arnold Morgan had brought a clarity to the situation, which the President simply could not ignore.
'I understand you do not want to take the United States to war,' said the Admiral. 'But that is only the simple part of your problem. The difficult issue is that the Brits are plainly going to get beat. There's no ifs, ands, or buts, they cannot win.
'I know they pulled it off last time. But they had infinitely bigger resources then. Many more ships, fifty percent more fighter aircraft, all of them Harriers, which were vastly superior to these no-radar GR9s they're fucking about with. And above all they had replacements. Sandy Woodward lost two of his major Type-42 destroyers, but they brought out more.
'They cannot do so this time. They're too small a fleet, too thinly stretched, and they cannot defend themselves against iron bombs. Quite frankly I'm astounded the Royal Navy agreed to go. As for the Army, God knows what's going to happen to them. If they manage to land on the Falklands, to form an enclave preparing to march on the Argentinian positions, and the weather's bad, they'll get blasted out of sight, because those GR9s can't stop an incoming enemy air assault.
'In my view we're looking at the most shocking military defeat for Great Britain since Dunkirk.'
President Bedford walked across the Oval Office. He said nothing, but his concern was obvious. 'Can we ignore it, if that happens?'
'Christ, no,' replied Arnold. 'Refuse to help our best friends in the international community? A nation that stood shoulder to shoulder with us, twice, in the Gulf? Our one completely trustworthy ally in Europe? Hell, no. We can't just leave them to it. It would be construed as something close to treachery. No one would ever count on us again.
'And, of course, the lion's share of the oil and gas fields in the Falklands and South Georgia is held by ExxonMobil. That's about as American as it gets.
'Mr. President, I obviously appreciate your problems with taking this nation into a war. But it might be a whole lot easier to join the Brits right off the bat, in the hope we may frighten the shit out of the Args and they'll withdraw from the islands in the face of American fury.'
'Something tells me, Arnold, they're not budging from that pile of rocks,' replied the President. 'And I don't think the oil and the wealth under the land is the true issue. I think they're all nuts, and feel they are fighting some kind of a pampas jihad, battling for the birthright of every Argentinian. They've been simmering over their defeat in the Malvinas for nearly thirty years.
'They have said, plainly, they would have fought for the islands even if the oil had never been there. In my view the oil and gas are merely the casus belli. Sooner or later the Argentinians would have attacked the pathetically weak British defenses in the Falklands. And then battled 'til the last drop of blood to hold on to their conquest. I agree with you. The Brits, and in a sense us as well, have our backs to the goddamned wall trying to fight these fucking fanatics.'
Admiral Morgan nodded, in a clearly somber mood. He leaned back in his chair and suggested another pot of hot coffee. The President pressed a bell, then leaned forward to hear what the Admiral was about to say.
When he finally spoke, it was more like a father to a son than an ex — submarine commander to a President. 'Paul,' he said, 'you and I have known each other for a while. We both served in the United States Navy. And I want to ask you one question…'
'Shoot,' said the President.
'What would you do if you were in command of the Argentinian military and wanted to win this forthcoming war in the fastest possible time?'
'I'd take out the Royal Navy carrier, the one with the entire air force embarked on board.'
'Correct. So would I. In fact I'd aim to hit the
'Well, I guess they knew that last time, but they either could not or would not do it.'
'Last time,' replied Arnold, 'they had only five Exocet air-to-surface missiles. And Admiral Woodward kept the
'They probably have two hundred Exocet missiles, because they've been stockpiling for this very day. However, the Brits have improved their antimissile systems and they might actually stop most of the Exocets, but they won't stop the bombs from the A4s. They cannot stop them.
'The Args will take their losses and in the end break through, and smash the carrier. And that, ladies and gentlemen, will be the end of the game.'
'Christ,' said President Bedford. 'Then what?'
'Then what, indeed?' said the Admiral. 'But in my view that's where we're likely to stand four weeks from now. So we better start thinking about it.'
'You staying for lunch?'
'Depends what you're offering. Tuna sandwiches, forget it. Decent steak and salad, count me in. Tell you what, I'll even go for a roast beef on rye, so long as you run to mayonnaise and mustard. But we better start
