Well, it was not quite winter yet, and the sheltered waters of Seal Cove looked inviting to the men of the Special Boat Service. The submarine came to the surface south of the headland, and the two Zodiacs proceeded to make a two-mile run around the shoreline and dropped the men off on the north shore of the cove. This avoided the problem of crossing the river.
It was very dark on the beach, and raining, and there was a large amount of equipment to unload. In addition, three inflatable dinghies had been towed behind, and a pile of heavy wooden paddles. Lt. Perry, who led the group, had determined back in England they would almost certainly have to cross Choiseul Sound alone, since it would be madness to land on the 'Argentinian side' in the dead of night, possibly running into an armed patrol.
'We need light rowing boats to cross that channel in the dark,' he had said. 'Because if we land blind, and run into a patrol, we may as well have not bothered.'
Thus they arrived in Seal Cove in the dead of night, certain in their minds they were safe here, and that recces to the far shore two and a half miles away should be carried out in light rowing boats. Just so long as the weather remained merely awful instead of highly dangerous.
They hauled the dinghies up on to the beach and dragged their equipment with them. The boats were light but made heavier by their firm wooden decking. However, they had no engines, and four canvas handles. Teams of four each carried one boat across the hard rocky ground, searching for a sheltered spot for their hide, which must be established by dawn.
Twice during the first twenty minutes of their short journey they saw military aircraft coming in low over Lafonia heading northeast, which gave everyone a precise idea of the location of the airfield. Maps and charts are good. The real thing is always, somehow, better.
The land was flat here and there was little vegetation, but there were various outcrops of rocks at the landward end of the beach. One of these was not quite a cave, but there were four huge boulders that formed only a very narrow opening to the sky, eight feet above the ground.
It was not perfect because it was not big enough for the men and the boats, but it was a lot better than open ground. So they moved in with a couple of shovels, hauled out various scattered rocks and pebbles, unloaded waterproof ground sheets and sleeping bags, stacking the boats at the entrance with the third one turned upside down on top of the other two.
The dinghy's gray underside blended in with the boulders. At least in Lt. Perry's narrow-beam torchlight it did. And the young Team Leader decided they would risk lighting the Primus, brew some tea and soup, and conduct a patrol at 0100, to ensure their first ops area was deserted.
Their biggest problem was they had to operate in both directions, because they had to establish the first landing beach on the southern side of the five-mile-wide Lafonia Peninsula, somewhere in Low Bay, remote from Argentine defenses. And then establish a second beachhead across Choiseul Sound, much closer to the action, from where the British troops could launch their main attack on the airfield, Argentine garrison, and the harbor.
The launching point for this principal assault could not be the landing place for the amphibians, which had to arrive in secrecy, on an obscure stretch of coastline. But Lt. Perry and his men knew what was required, and they knew the dimensions of the various terrains they were looking for.
As Admiral Arnold Morgan had thoughtfully forecast in faraway Washington the previous week, Britain's Special Forces were in. And not one member of the now-massive Argentinian invading force had the slightest idea they were there.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The three British Special Forces recce teams were not merely surprised by the level of Argentina's naval and military buildup on the Falkland Islands. They were uniquely stunned. None of them had ever seen anything quite like this.
Veterans of two wars, in the Persian Gulf and Iraq, they thought they'd seen it all. But this was incredible. Clinging to the cold, wet rock face of Fanning Head, Captain Jarvis's men had watched the Argentinians airlift not only multiple-launch missile systems but heavy 155mm howitzers.
All of them were ferried from the supply ships coming in at night to Mare Harbor, and then transported by helicopter across the mountains to the summit of the towering headland where Douglas Jarvis and his men lay hidden.
Any ships trying to make passage through the narrows into Falkland Sound were on a suicide mission once this lot was in place at the top of the cliff.
Sergeant Clifton and his boys arrived in the southern foothills of Wickham Heights shortly after midnight on Sunday night. They completed their forty-five-mile trek in a total of twenty-five walking hours. Below them, Mount Pleasant Airfield was well lit and extremely busy. All through the night they had both seen and heard military aircraft arriving and taking off.
Of course, no one knew yet what was actually incoming, nor indeed outgoing, but whatever it was, it was big. This was one of the busiest airports Jack Clifton had ever seen, and through the night glasses he could make out several parked military helicopters and a line of fighter aircraft, as well as several Army and Air Force trucks parked near the terminals. There seemed to be people everywhere.
Down on the south shore of Choiseul Sound, Jim Perry's team had crossed the channel for the second time, rowing the little boats hard across the tide, hardly daring to take a rest in case they were swept off course.
It was a tough pull, but they had discovered a lonely, uninhabited little island right on their route, and it made a useful stopping point just after the first mile, a place to get their breath back after pulling hard for twenty minutes.
The final stretch lasted for around a half hour; they could of course have made it in one shot, but everyone agreed the stop-off, for just ten minutes, made an enormous difference. In fact, Jim Perry calculated it probably made no difference in terms of time spent rowing. The first half mile after the break was always the fastest.
On the far shore they had a carefully selected landing point, a thousand-yard spit of rock and sand jutting out to the east, about four miles west of Mare Harbor, and 150 yards from the actual mainland. They made this their forward base, mostly because it seemed to have plant life, some high bracken and a few scattered gorse bushes. A cluster of thick tussock grass grew over some hefty boulders, and inside the thicket there was a place to hide the boats.
Lt. Perry had personally hacked out a pathway into this unlikely undergrowth, and last night, Saturday, they had left four men out there with sleeping bags and ground sheets, to continue through the day monitoring Argentinian aircraft, both coming into and leaving Mount Pleasant Airfield. They had taken it in turns, two on duty, two off. And there was hardly a moment for twenty-four hours when they were not writing and recording. The verdict of trooper Fred Morton:
As an assessment, that was a tad wild. But it revealed one thing of critical importance. The Argentinians really did have a formidable air attack capability, and they were most definitely planning to launch opening strikes against the Royal Navy from this stronghold on East Falkland.
Worse yet, at first light Lt. Perry's spotters had made positive identification of three incoming Argentinian Skyhawk A4s, which can deliver thousand-pound bombs at very high speed. Once launched, nothing could stop the bombs, but everyone in the Navy and Royal Marines knew the now discontinued Harrier FA2
The SBS men were Marines, and in the back of their minds, every one of them knew they had somehow been let down by their government. Lt. Perry knew precisely why, but he never, of course, discussed it. Not in a theater of war. Especially when they were so isolated from the main force.
