The e-mail was of course coded. It read:
Back in the White House, the President looked quizzical. 'Arnie,' he said, 'what do we do if the Argentinians still don't react, even after this next attack?'
'We get serious,' replied the Admiral.
'Meaning?'
'We take out the entire Rio Grande air base and everything on it. And if anyone finds out it was us, we come clean and say that Argentina's armed forces seized the Falkland Islands, including our oil fields, in an act of international piracy.
'After repeated attempts to negotiate a fair settlement, we were driven to remove from this planet their air warfare capability, because it happens to represent a threat to the fair-trading nations of the world.
'And in this, we will be joined by the governments of Great Britain and Chile, and anyone else we decide to press-gang into assisting us with our case.'
'And how, Arnie, do you propose we conduct this mass assault on Rio Grande — nuke it?'
'Oh, I don't think it will come to that…think about 1976, when Israel's elite commandoes stormed another nation's main airport and took it…remember they smashed their way into Entebbe in Uganda, completely overpowered a big force of guards, blew up ten MiG fighters, rescued a hundred Israeli hostages, and took off back to Tel Aviv. Not bad, right?'
'No, not at all bad,' agreed the President.
'They came in by air. In four darned great Hercules C-130 transports, landed in the dark, taxied right up close to the airport buildings, and the next thing Idi Amin's men knew, the Israeli commandos were on them, gunning down the terrorists and anyone else who got in the way. Twenty Ugandan soldiers were shot down in their tracks because they were not ready…frankly, I doubt the Argentinians would be much sharper.'
'You mean you actually have a vision of one of our big transporters coming in to land at night in Rio Grande, taxiing over to the main building, where eighty of our guys exit the aircraft, rush out and open fire, blowing up the building, getting rid of the Argentinian guards, and then demolishing the aircraft?'
'Subject to adequate reconnaissance, yes. I think it would work well. Very well.'
'And from where does this mythical U.S. military transporter take off?'
'Oh, I think our very good friends in Chile might help there, eh?' The aircraft would, naturally, be redecorated, a nice shade of light blue and white.'
'And what do you think are the odds of it coming to that kind of a crunch?' asked the President.
'About one hundred to one against,' replied the Admiral. 'If the guys remove all twelve of those brand-new Super-Es tonight, we'll have the Argentine government on the phone tomorrow morning asking for terms.'
Rick Hunter's team was huddled in the embarkation area, faces already blackened, ready for the insertion into Rio Grande. Each of them carried a personal weapon, the light, compact, and terminally deadly CAR-15 assault rifle, which is close to perfect for work behind enemy lines. The CAR rapid-fires an extremely-high-velocity.223- caliber cartridge, which is sufficiently light for each man to carry six thirty-round magazines.
The SEALs' rucksacks were carefully packed with standard combat gear, insect repellent, water, purification tablets, power food bars, a little regular food, wire cutters, battle dressings, knife, medical kit. Already stowed into the helicopter was the C-4 explosive with detcord and timers, one M60 E3 machine gun, ammunition, two patrol radios, the PRC319 rescue communicator, which could send encrypted short-burst satellite transmissions, in particular the one from Rick that would probably read, 'get us the hell outta
Standing with Rick were Lt. Commanders Dallas MacPherson and Douglas Jarvis, Chief Petty Officers Mike Hook and Bob Bland, the beefy combat SEAL who would carry the machine gun most of the way. There were the two Petty Officers First Class, Don Smith and Brian Harrison, and the new man, the twenty-six-year-old explosives wizard, Lt. R. K. Banfield, from Clarksdale, Mississippi, or as the young SEAL put it, 'from raht down there by that
By late afternoon conditions were beginning to deteriorate. There were reports of claggy conditions over the Argentine coast, but the pilots were confident in the ability of the high-tech instruments in the HH-60H Sikorsky Seahawk, one of two purchased from the United States in the past year.
By 1800 they were ready, and in a rising wind, with rain sweeping across the airfield, the SEAL team jogged out toward the helicopter, ducking instinctively below the great whirring blades, and clambering on board, weighed down by their heavy packs, but ready to carry out the mission.
It was dark now and they took off, clattering straight up to their cruising speed of 120 knots and heading southeast over the Magellan Strait. Rick Hunter sat up in his small private cabin poring over the chart, wishing they had a better map, wondering what the terrain would be like between the airfield and the Chilean border, both west and south of Rio Grande.
Like everyone in the SEAL planning team, he regarded the getaway as infinitely more dangerous than getting in. That should be simple…
Doug Jarvis, one of the best night navigators who had ever worked at Stirling Lines, had brought up an interesting point…'Let's say, for argument's sake, sir, we get caught and we have to take out a few Argies. I know Coronado thinks we should immediately make our way west following the river, making a beeline for the Chilean border, but I'm not too sure about that.'
'Why not? It's the fastest way to friendly territory,' said Rick.
'Exactly. And if I was an Argentinian officer in charge of the pursuit, that's the way I'd go, sir. Right along the river with helicopters, looking for the filthy intruders trying to get into Chile the fastest way they could.'
Rick stared at the chart. 'What would you do, Dallas?'
'I'm with Dougy, sir. I'd go south, straight for those hills, and the border at the Beagle Channel. No doubt in my mind. That's the way the Argies won't go, sir. They'll try to hunt us down along the short route, along the Rio Grande River.'
Rick allowed his eye to wander down the chart, noting the several rivers that rose from the mountains south of Rio Grande. He stared at the high peaks all the way down to the Beagle Channel, trying to hold a mental picture of the very last segment of land on this earth before the icy wastes of Antarctica.
'It'd be a walk of almost eighty miles, south to the Beagle Channel. And it would be over a range of mountains, some of 'em ten thousand feet.'
'I know,' replied Douglas. 'But where would you rather be, sir — fighting your way through the mountains to safety, with a chance of rescue at any moment, or dead on the banks of the Rio Grande.'
'I'll take the mountains.'
'Good thinking, Ricky baby. Let's hope we don't have to do it, though.'
The one-hour flight passed swiftly as they flew down the Magellan Strait, and then turned east up Inutil Bay, crossing their first land fifteen miles south of Lake Emma, still in Chile. Less than a half hour later, they crossed the border into Argentinian airspace, thirty-four miles east-northeast of Rio Grande.
Twenty minutes later they saw their first fog bank, drifting in off the Atlantic Ocean. They flew right through it, as they began to lose altitude, and almost immediately ran into another, and then another.
'These conditions are a damned nuisance,' the pilot called back. 'We keep flying in and out of the fog, and I can only just make out the coastline…those lights up there are San Sebastian.'
The pilot's observer was following his chart, and right behind them Rick and Doug were following theirs.
'Here we go, sir…here. We're looking for the river…'
'Gottit,' said Rick. 'Then we go over another couple of small rivers…then this lake…then land here…53.48S 67.50W…eight miles due west of the air base.'
And now the team began to muscle up, zipping up their padded, weatherproof Gore-Tex jackets, checking waterproof boots, pulling on gloves, as the helicopter slowed down to eighty knots, the pilot trying to cut out the
