'Kinda hard to replace a top man,' grinned Rick.
Rick Hunter was not tired, which was surprising since he had hardly slept all night. Twice he had been up and out to the covering shed, where a young stallion was not only playing hell but, much worse, was refusing to cover a mare, for which the farm was charging $150,000.
A couple of the more youthful stallion men were about to give up when the boss arrived. 'I know he's difficult,' Rick had told them, 'but unlike any of you, that stallion often earns three hundred thousand dollars a night…I don't care if he demands a candlelit dinner, a string quartet, and a bottle of Chateau Latour for him and the mare…
Somehow they persuaded the stallion it was not that bad an idea, and twenty minutes later he agreed. Rick went back to bed, and spent the remainder of the night thinking about his life as a U.S. Navy SEAL — the training, the stealth, the terrible danger, the attacks, the supreme fitness, the camaraderie.
And now he could see the Lockheed Aries coming in to land. The airport was quiet, and he watched the U.S. Navy aircraft come screaming out of the west, over some of the most famous thoroughbred racehorse pastures on earth. He watched it flare out when it reached the runway, and touch down gracefully. The pilot had, after all, probably spent a lot of his working life landing on aircraft carriers. Blue Grass Field was a lot more steady.
Five minutes later he was shaking hands with his old boss, Rear Admiral John Bergstrom, the unrecognized head of SPECWARCOM, walking without uniform through the airport, like just a visiting horse breeder.
They exchanged the warmest greetings, and a thousand memories surged over them both. And by the time they had driven back to Hunter Valley, it was clear in Rick's mind the Admiral wanted him to be a part of the mission to bail out the Falklands for the Brits and the oil companies.
He also had the distinct impression the temporary loss of Douglas Jarvis was precisely the impetus the Admiral needed to try and persuade him to join the mission. By the time they pulled through the big stone gates of the farm, Rick only understood John Bergstrom wanted him to be involved, but whether as a mere planner or instructor he was uncertain.
He decided to ask the big question before they entered the house. 'Sir,' he said, 'are you going to ask me to join you in the back room and help plan the assault?'
The Admiral hesitated. 'Not quite.'
'You mean you want me to join the guys on the mission, and do whatever we need to get those Argentinians into line, and the SAS out of there?'
'Rick, I want you to command it.'
'Who, me?' he replied, stunned at the dimension of the request. 'But I'm not even in the Navy.'
'As an ex — SEAL Commander, you could be back in by this evening. Guys like you have special rules in Coronado. I am perfectly empowered, any time I wish, to re-recruit one of my best men for a specific mission. Particularly someone with a record like yours.'
'Sir, you realize I would have to decline this out of hand were it not for the…er…complication of Diana's brother?'
They were still sitting in the car, the Admiral enjoying this rather optimistic chat, Rick Hunter frozen to the spot with apprehension and God knows what else. Every instinct told him this was nuts, that he could not leave the farm at this time of the year, he could not just pack up and go on some diabolically dangerous mission with the SEALs, and perhaps get himself killed.
And yet…and yet…the thrill of combat, the overpowering sensation of working with top guys against an almost certainly inferior enemy. Oh, boy, how often had he dreamed it, tasted it, remembered the desperation, the fear and the triumph, and the friendship and the laughter.
He thought of his Trident, his own personal badge of courage, tucked in his shirt drawer, the little badge he still polished when the mood took him. He thought of the work underwater, the rush of adrenaline when he and his boys blew up two warships in Burma. And what about that power station they'd knocked down, and the getaway, under Chinese fire? Jesus Christ, he'd remember that day 'til he died.
John Bergstrom was smiling, as if he knew what his finest ever SEAL was thinking. 'Nothing like it, old buddy, is there? Nothing quite like it.'
'Nossir. There's not. How long?'
'A few days' training. Then two weeks max, in and out.'
'How do we get in?'
'Submarine, then inflatables to the beach, a totally deserted beach.'
'Sir, it's gonna take a submarine two weeks to get down there. How come you're saying two weeks start to finish?'
'You'll fly down, and join the submarine.'
'Where?'
'In the middle of the ocean. We're planning a drop zone in the Atlantic a hundred miles north of the Falklands.'
'Jesus, sir. I've never gone in by parachute.'
'I know. That's what the three days' training are for. You know the rest better than I do.'
At that point, Diana came out of the house walking toward the dark green four-wheel-drive, off-road vehicle that bore the logo of Hunter Valley Thoroughbreds.
'I'm sure it's very private,' she said and smiled. 'But you might be more comfortable inside. I've made you some coffee and there's some lunch when you're ready.'
She walked toward the passenger's side, looking extraordinarily beautiful in tight jodhpurs and boots, with a white shirt and light blue cashmere sweater.
She held out her hand to Admiral Bergstrom, and cast him one of those half-smiles that had bewitched some of the wealthiest men in England. 'Afternoon, Admiral,' she said confidently. 'I've heard much about you. All good.'
'Diana,' he replied, 'so far, I'd say you make a perfect wife for the best commander I ever served with.'
'I'm trying my best,' she said, 'as a foreigner.'
'People from New York are regarded as foreigners around here,' Rick chimed in. 'Folk from Newmarket, like Diana, are more or less regarded as natives.'
'Where's Newmarket?' asked the Admiral.
'England,' he said. 'Racehorse capital of Europe. Diana's family has been raising and training thoroughbreds there since before America was invented.'
'Then I'm doubly impressed,' said the Admiral, smiling. 'Beauty and background, the unstoppable combination.'
The three of them walked back to the house together, and it was the Admiral who brought up the subject of the missing Douglas Jarvis. 'I'm really very sorry to hear about this, Diana,' he said. 'But at least Hereford has a much clearer picture now.
'It seems Douglas and his team carried out the demolition part of their mission a short while before the Royal Navy and the British landing force surrendered to the Argentinians. He was apparently operating in a remote part of East Falkland and was out of touch with his command center in the aircraft carrier, which was, of course, sunk.
'So while the free world shuddered at this British setback, Douglas and his men were stuck up the side of some mountain, with no idea what just happened. In Hereford's opinion, they are keeping their heads well down, since they were apparently the only group that did inflict serious damage on the enemy. Under those circumstances, no Special Forces Commander wants to surrender.'
'So the SAS are more or less certain they're not dead?' asked Diana, her face clouded with worry.
'Oh, no one thinks they're dead. It's just a matter of getting them out.'
