Ghost Force

That was really great. Especially typeset over a double-page spread with photographs of the great Jarvis trainers and breeders of the past. And by that time, she was glad to board the aircraft to the USA.

Six weeks later she became Mrs. Rick Hunter of Hunter Valley Farms, at a mutually agreed upon small ceremony in the Lexington registry office, and a reception for thirty or forty friends and neighbors. Douglas was unable to attend, and it took Diana five more months to realize her new husband, like her brother, had also been a member of his country's Special Forces.

The towering, superbly fit Rick had willingly told her he had been a Commander in the United States Navy, but only reluctantly admitted he had served a short tour in the Navy SEALs…just a small Special Forces group, kinda like your brother's SAS guys.

The enormity of that particular sin of omission was of course lost on the new Diana Hunter. But from time to time she picked up a few wry references to bygone conflicts, particularly when Rick's Vice President of Thoroughbred Operations, Dan Headley, came to dinner. Apparently, he also had once been in the U.S. Navy.

Anyway, that was the modern pedigree of Captain Douglas Jarvis, who right now was five hundred feet underwater, speeding south down the Atlantic, 1,500 miles off the coast of Brazil, locked in conversation with the Astute's commanding officer, Captain Simon Compton.

They were in the ops area of the Navigation Officer, Lt. Commander Bill Bannister. Spread before them was a large Navy chart of the waters around East Falkland, and they were all looking at the northernmost points along the giant headland that guards the entrance to Falkland Sound.

This is a great craggy coastline, with high cliffs forming a seaward crescent facing to the northwest. The outermost top end of the crescent is Cape Dolphin, which sits on the end of a barren peninsula some two miles long. 'Militarily worthless,' in the judgment of Douglas Jarvis.

The other end of the crescent is formed by Fanning Head, which really does guard the entrance to the Sound. It used to be 800 feet high with sensational views over the water. Today it still had sensational views, but stood only 787 feet high, its summit having been blown away by the guns of the Royal Navy frigate HMS Antrim during the first Falklands conflict.

'You think the Args might be up there again?' asked Captain Compton.

'They might,' said Captain Jarvis. 'But only if they think we might do precisely what Admiral Woodward did last time — send the fleet straight under their Fanning Head garrison at the dead of night. All lights out.'

'Hell, they can't believe we're that bloody dreary, can they?' said the CO. 'They must think we'd try something new.'

'You would think so,' replied Jarvis. 'But all of our satellite interceptions suggest they know a lot about us. They don't have much satellite observation themselves, if any, and we know the Americans are not helping them. But someone is, God knows who. And it would not be surprising if they closed Falkland Sound to us completely. They may have mined it, of course, but they did not do so last time, and all they need now is a powerful missile and gun position up on Fanning Head with modern radar.'

'Yes, I suppose so. And where does that put us?' The CO had quickly grown to respect the SAS Captain, as had everyone on board.

'Essentially we have to appreciate the logic of their position. An Argentine stronghold on top of that headland closes the north end of the Sound to us. It means we have to go right around the back of West Falkland or swing way south down the Atlantic and come at them from the southeast. If we want to make a landing, that is.

'For very little time, trouble, and cost, they can establish a powerful position on Fanning Head, which would plague us throughout this conflict. Simon, we have to land at the base of that cliff and take the bastard out, not exactly by storm, but somehow to blow the fucker up.'

'Christ, who's going to do that?'

'I am,' said Captain Jarvis. 'With seven of my best troopers.'

'You're going to climb that rock face?'

'In the absence of a chairlift, I suppose so. Where do you think we are, Courcheval!'

They returned to the chart. And Captain Compton began talking the SAS boss through their route into Falklands waters…

'We come in from the northwest, dived in about two hundred feet of water, all the way to this light blue area where the ocean starts to shelve up…see these numbers here in meters…the ocean floor rises up to only a hundred twenty feet, then stays at around a hundred all the way in to Fanning Head…

'This narrow seaway into the Sound is only seventy feet deep, so we can stay underwater only until we're about a mile offshore…so long as we watch out for this fucking great rock marked here…only fifty feet below the surface with no warning light or even a buoy.

'Right here we're in the shadow of the cliff. And at 0200, it'll be as black as your hat. I'd prefer to launch the boats in here, just behind Race Point…you'll have a mile longer to walk, but that's probably better than having your bollocks blown off by a radar-guided Argentine missile.'

Douglas Jarvis grinned. 'I assure you, Captain Simon, if anyone's going to have their bollocks blown off, it will not be me. You think I could call my sister in Kentucky and tell her the Args have gelded me? That'd be a family disgrace where I come from.'

'Well, I suppose you would have to be scratched from the Derby,' laughed the CO. 'No geldings, right?'

'Simon, could we change the subject from my bollocks to this load of cobblers you're giving me about ocean depths.'

'Certainly, Douglas. This submarine is seventy feet high, keel to mast. We need a hundred feet minimum depth. If it's less than that, we surface, since I do not wish to see either you or your bollocks scraping along the seabed, 'specially if it's rocky.'

Both officers laughed, and even Lt. Commander Bannister, who'd been trying not to, joined in the nervous merriment.

'Let's get some coffee,' said Captain Compton finally. 'And then you can tell me where you want the second half of your troops to be landed.'

The Lt. Commander vanished in search of coffee, and Captain Jarvis continued looking at the chart of the jagged coastline. 'Simon,' he said, 'the second part of the SAS recce entails a thorough look at the Argentine defenses around Mount Pleasant Airfield.

'I've eight men detailed to carry it out, and I cannot see any other way to get there except to walk. From this landing beach it's about forty-five miles through the mountains, and they'll need three days in these conditions.

'They'll be hauling a lot of weight on their backs and they can only move at night. So I think we may as well land on Fanning Head more or less together, separated by just a couple of miles. I want to avoid having all our eggs in one basket, right? If one group gets caught the other's still on the loose.

'We'll take the Zodiacs in together, so you can make the fastest possible getaway. My guys are priceless, but I think the Navy values a five-hundred-million-dollar nuclear submarine even higher.'

'We don't have many,' said Captain Compton, but just then they were interrupted by a seaman handing over a satellite signal from the comms room, hard copy.

311300MAR11. Argentine warships heading for battle stations around the Falkland Islands. Two destroyers and three frigates cleared Puerto Belgrano 0500 today. Satellite intercept confirms destination East Falkland. All warships carry modern missile radar systems. Anticipate wide Falklands surveillance by Args, surface and air. Holbrook.

'Very timely,' said Captain Compton sharply. 'We stay deep, all the way in.'

The same signal was also received by Captain Robert Hacking on the Ambush. And, curiously, he was in conference with the SBS Team Leader, Lt. Jim Perry, dealing with exactly the same subject: where to land the sixteen Special Forces in Team Three, the guys who would hit the beach on the rough coast of Lafonia, and work under cover of darkness for the next couple of weeks.

As on the Astute, the Ambush team was in the navigation area, poring over the chart, wondering where the nearest Argentinian defenses would be situated along this truly desolate part of the island, south of the airfield.

The deep inlet of Choiseul Sound was seventeen miles long and in places three miles wide. And it was this