Ghost Force

Britain's HMS Sheffield three days, and in that same war the Atlantic Conveyor burned for twenty-four hours before she blew apart and sank. Both ships took an Exocet above the waterline.

The Ark Royal, however, appeared to have gone down in a quarter of a hour. And her comms room had time to broadcast to the fleet she had been hit, three explosions reported. However, the flagship went off the air immediately, and another CO positioned within three miles reported fire broke out 'at least six minutes after the ship began to list.'

'I'd be surprised,' muttered Arnold, 'if she was hit by bombs or missiles. That ship went down too damn quick, like she was holed below the waterline, or somehow had her back broken…or both. I'd guess the fires broke out in the engine room and then spread fast. Those damn carriers are full of fuel.'

He wandered outside, absentmindedly inspecting his daffodil beds. In his hand he carried a recent message from Jimmy Ramshawe informing him that the two Russian submarines, Gepard and Cougar, had been sighted in the Murmansk area in the past two or three days.

'I wonder,' he murmured, turning back toward the house, 'whether our old friend, the elusive Mr. Viper, was in attendance when the Royal Navy carrier was sunk. I'd sure as hell like to ask Vitaly Rankov, but there's no point seeking the truth from a lying Soviet bastard, right?'

Thoughtfully he answered his own question, 'Right, no point at all,' and continued walking back to the house, his mind once more in the dark cold depths of the South Atlantic, where he guessed Viper K- 157 would now be running slowly north, away from the datum, her work done.

No sooner was he back inside than the telephone rang in his study. He checked the call identity and recognized the private number of Lt. Commander Ramshawe.

'Hi, Jimmy, told you it wouldn't take long.'

'You sure did. Two hours flat. Game, set, and match. Everyone back in the bloody pavilion.'

Arnie chuckled. 'I got a few thoughts for you to work on. First, thanks for the information on the Gepard and the Cougar. That leaves Viper K- 157, right? The only nuclear submarine that could possibly have been in the South Atlantic, right? And twice picked up on her way there — once by our guys in Ireland, and again by the Royal Navy CO east of the Falkland Islands coupla days ago, correct?'

'That's what we have, Arnie. You hear anything more?'

'Only from my own highly suspicious mind, kid. That aircraft carrier went down awful quick. Fifteen minutes. And eyewitnesses are saying the fires started about six minutes after she began to list.

'The fires didn't sink her. What sank her was a damned big hole below the waterline. Nothing else puts a warship on the bottom that fast. And it must have been a very big hole…sounds to me like something broke her back. And there's only one thing coulda done that…a wire-guided torpedo from a submarine. And I'd guess she was hit by more than one.'

'We got a report of huge fires,' said Jimmy. 'Spread fast. Started below the island.'

'Fires don't sink warships,' said Arnold. 'They burn 'em. And if they burn 'em for long enough they'll probably reach the bomb and missile areas, which will blow the ship in half. But that usually takes hours and hours. This baby was on the bottom in fifteen minutes. That's not a fire, that's a hole.'

'So who fired the torpedo, Sherlock?'

'I'd guess Comrade Moriartovich, sneaky little sonofabitchovich. Straight out of the tubes of the Akula-class hunter-killer Viper, which had been watching, for several days, waiting for that fog to clear…just lurking, silent and villainous. That's who.'

'I didn't realize you spoke fluent Russian,' said Jimmy. 'But I'm with you. That bastard just slammed a couple of big ones straight into the Royal Navy's Ark Royal.'

'Well, the Argentinians could not have done it, kid. They don't have a good enough submarine for that. But someone did, and someone did it for them. And if you want to know who, just watch to see who gets the biggest oil contract in the world in the next few months. The one less than a dozen miles from the airport on East Falkland.'

'Excuse me, sir. A matter of protocol. I believe they just became the Islas Malvinas.'

'But perhaps, young James, only temporarily.'

'How do you mean? The Brits have turned it up, right?'

'Yes. But we are still left with a very clear situation. Those islands have been British since 1833, everyone who lives on them is British. They have been a legal protectorate of Great Britain for darn near two hundred years. Argentina has been griping and moaning about it for a long time, but Argentina has never owned the islands. Spain did, and the Brits threw 'em out a long time ago.

'So what happens? Argentina suddenly decides to grab 'em, lands a military force, blows up the British defenses, kills a hundred troops and takes over. They kick out the legal oil companies, two of the biggest, most respected corporations on earth, both of whom have paid fortunes to be there, and then marches them out at gunpoint.

'Then they effectively say, you want us out, come try it. At which point they blast and kill another thousand or more troops and accept a surrender. That worked fine in the nineteenth century. Doesn't work now. There's the UN and Christ knows whom else to answer to.

'It would be as if Paul Bedford and I decided we'd very much like to own Monaco, went over there in a couple of warships, kicked Prince Whatsisname in the ass, and took his fucking principality. Accepting the surrender of that poncey Palace Guard that prances around in fancy dress. It'd probably take us about an hour and a half. And no one could do a thing about it.

'But, Jimmy, you just can't pull that pre-nineteenth-century shit anymore. Not in the modern world. And I gotta talk to the President later this afternoon. And ExxonMobil are fucking furious. They want their goddamned oil and gas back, and I don't blame them. And they wanna know whether the God Almighty United States is going to just stand around while some fucking lunatic in a poncho rampages around all over their goddamned possessions.

'And the President is not going to like it. And a thousand fucking disaffected sonsobitches are going to be asking him what he plans to do about it. And he's not going to know, and frankly neither do I. That's why I'm going to talk to him later. But someone's sure as hell going to need to do something. We simply cannot condone it.'

Jimmy Ramshawe was very thoughtful, and there was a momentary silence between the senior world Intelligence maestro and one of the sharpest young minds in the National Security Agency.

Eventually, it was Jimmy who spoke. 'Arnie,' he said, 'I forgot to tell you why I called. You scanned through the Business Section in the Times today?'

'Not yet.'

'There was an item there I thought was significant. One of the biggest international agricultural deals in recent years…'

'If you tell me it's Argentina and Russia I'll probably stand on my head…'

'Upside down, sir. You got it first time. Beef cattle. Millions of 'em.'

'You know what that is, Jimmy? That's the start of a new cooperation between those two countries. And it's going to end with oil and gas in the Falklands and South Georgia…if, that is, the Argentinians are permitted to get away with what they have done.'

'You decided what to advise the President yet?'

'No. Because I want to hear what the British Ambassador has to say this afternoon. I've met him a couple of times, and he's coming in to the White House. Just the three of us. A lot will depend on what he says.

'And then of course we've got the complication of the goddamned United Nations. They've got a meeting of the Security Council tonight. I think the Chairman's from someplace west of the Blue Nile…probably dressed in a bedspread…Mgumboo Nkurruption or someone…so that's gotta be real significant.'

Jimmy burst out laughing. Arnold Morgan's opinion of African dictators who lived liked pashas in impoverished countries, which collected millions of dollars of foreign aid every year — well, that opinion was on the withering side of discourteous.

'I suppose you never considered the Diplomatic Service, did you?' asked Jimmy.

'Not this week, kid. Keep me posted.' Crash. Down phone.

Three hours later Admiral Morgan drove himself to the White House, where Sir Patrick Jardine, Great Britain's