I said in an undertone, 'She's square on course for the Falklands.'
'Yeah. I reckon she'll be off Stanley during the night. A Fletcher's best cruising speed is about fifteen knots. I guess that's what she's doing now. She's got no problems with either the sea or the weather.'
'You seem to know a hell of a lot about the Fletcher class, Paul.'
He appeared hardly to hear my comment, he was concentrating so hard on the warship. It was coming quickly into fuller view now. 'Served in 'em.' His jaw was set hard, and his eyes were screwed up against the sea glare. Or against something else.
He swung away from his tight scrutiny of the warship. 'What do you intend to do about it, Peter?' That was the question which had been avalanching through my mind from the moment Paul had confirmed the ship's identity. Until then I had been inclined to take all Grohman had said about the Falklands-Argentina situation as emotional Latin posturing and sabre-rattling. That warship heading determinedly towards the Falk-lands, however, gave a different dimension to the problem. The fact that Grohman knew in advance that the destroyer was on its way added a sinister dimension to him as well.
As if to underscore my suspicions, the pitch of the plane's engines changed.
'We're going low,' muttered Brockton. 'What happens now?'
The F-27 was losing height. All the passengers – about fifteen of them – were at the windows. Grohman's group of Argentinians were laughing. One of them turned and threw a strange look at me.
The F-27 made a low run over the warship from astern. The entire crew seemed to be on deck gesticulating. A signal lamp on the bridge sparked small lightnings as we swept overhead. I counted the armament – four big guns and six smaller ones, and banks of quadruple torpedo-tubes. Even a warship wouldn't fancy being at the receiving end of such hardware; Jetwind had only the wind for armour.
Then the plane banked, and this time came in from over the warship's port bow, the side on which the stay braced the high radar mast just abaft the bridge.
The crude, almost lash-up look of it, acted as a catalyst to my brain. Jetwind's escape plan fell, ready-made, into my mind.
I threw myself across Brockton to get the best sight of the radar mast before the plane passed over. I had to photograph every detail of it in my mind! Jetwind's life -and mine – would depend on it.
Brockton looked astonished at my urgency. I whispered, 'What equipment is mounted on that mast? Quick!' 'Search and tactical radar, fire-control for the guns…' 'Any other back-up radar?' 'No. It's all concentrated there – her entire brain centre.' 'Any other search gear – visual?' I demanded. 'No. Everything's electronic.'
On the plane's next pass I spotted officers grouped on the bridge. The F-27 roared over so low you'd think she had been doing a victory roll. Perhaps she was – in advance.
I drew back from the window, my mind racing -calculating angles, times, distances, the height of Jetwind’s lower yards. She might be able to pull it off – if. I tried to recall exact bearings for the narrow exit from Port Stanley seawards. I could not. I had consulted the chkrt only superficially. The critical element would be wind, lots of it, from the right quarter. A Cape Horn blow would suit me best, whereas today's conditions would be useless. However, I reminded myself that such a day was usually the precursor to bad weather.
The F-27 left the warship and settled on her previous course for Port Stanley. I checked my watch. It was 9.30. We were due at Stanley at 11. That allowed me only half a day of daylight, a long twilight, and some of the night to organize Jetwind's break-out. Any one of half a dozen imponderables could wreck the plan now formulating in my mind. For instance, where was Jetwind moored in relation to the narrow entrance which locks the port of Stanley proper from a larger outer harbour known as Port William? Port William, in turn, led to the high seas. Had I the expertise to manoeuvre such a radically new type of ship as Jetwind if she were, say, moored to a quayside or jetty? That was the biggest gamble of all! The Stanley exit faced north-south, and if the wind were dead in Jetwind's teeth, I could never make it. The wind would have to be either from the northwest or southwest or, best of all, from the west.
These thoughts scraped along my nerve edges. I wanted to hurry, hurry, see what the situation was in Stanley! I felt as if I wanted to get out and push the lumbering F-27 along. And in our wake was the Almirante Storni- steadily lessening the distance to Port Stanley. That raised another critical question for my plan. 'Paul’ I asked, 'are you sure that the warship will reach the approaches to Stanley during the night?'
He gave me a searching look at the abrupt tone of my question. 'That's as I read it, Peter.' 'What's to stop her making port and tying up?'
'Nothing – except the crew is Argentinian. I believe the entrance is tricky in darkness. Otherwise, she's got all the technical equipment to cope.' 'Do you know Stanley yourself?' 'No. You're the big enchilada in these waters.'
Probably the biggest question shadowing my plan was – would the Argentinian warship choose to negotiate Stanley's narrow, dangerous entrance on her arrival or hold back until daylight? 'What's your guess?'
For an answer, Brockton nodded towards the group of Argentinians whom Grohman had just rejoined from the cockpit.
He said softly, 'Don't look so damn worried – they're not.'
There seemed to be a holiday air about the party. Again, I speculated who they could be. They all looked tough and sunburned.
It was as much frustration at not having to hand the data I needed to work out my break-out plan as the colossal uncertainties surrounding it which ate like acid into me for the remainder of the flight. Its interminable slowness was relieved later only by the sight of the Jason Islands below; beyond, southeastwards, loomed the mass of the two main islands of the Falklands group itself and their scatter of several hundred satellite isles. There was no indication westward – the gale quarter – of my wind of salvation.
Paul and I had not spoken again; now, as if sensing my need to scrutinize and assess, he silently swapped seats with me. Suddenly we were over Stanley.
I was taken aback by the beauty of two things. First, the harbour itself, snugged between low hills, about seven and a half kilometres long and one and a half kilometres at its widest point: beyond, through a small gap between two low headlands – not more than 300 metres wide – a broad waterway opened up between serrated coves leading to the high seas. The rare sunny day painted the inner harbour bright cobalt; the low hills on every side were exquisite pastel shades of grey, green and purple, pocked frequently with scrubby brown patches of a low-growing plant.
I had no eyes for nature's beauty. It was the loveliness of the man-made thing riding at anchor offshore which commanded all my attention. Jetwind! I fell in love with her at first sight.
Her long, lean hull was dark green against the cobalt water; her six masts were taller than the spire of the cathedral standing at the head of the main jetty and dominating the brightly coloured iron roofs – blue, red, lime- green, yellow – which sloped down to the waterfront. The sheen on Jetwind's steel and light alloy masts and yards gave her a purposeful, up-and-go look.
The pilot circled over the harbour, no doubt thinking he was treating his passengers. My mind, until now seething with frustration at want of information, clicked like an activated electronic calculator. Unwittingly, within a few minutes, I was supplied with vital tactical information. Jetwind was moored about one and a half kilometres from the entrance gap, rightly named The Narrows. The two high points flanking the entrance were high enough to block Jetwind from the warship's sight as she approached from seaward.
From my vantage-point I could plot the entire break-out – Jetwind and the Almirante Stomi out of one another's sight on either side of The Narrows by virtue of the intervening range of hills, except for the very tip of Jetwind's masts. This was too small a target for the destroyer's radar to constitute a major danger. It meant, however, that from the mast-head the destroyer would be visible to Jetwind while she remained invisible herself until she entered The Narrows proper. Keeping Jetwind out of view until the last possible moment would require split-second timing and manoeuvring.
The plane then circled the outer harbour – Port William – before turning to approach the airfield on the western side of the town near the water's edge.
It banked for the landing. It was from this direction that the wind must come; I was relieved to note that there were no high hills to blanket its passage towards Jetwind. We made a bouncy touch-down and taxied to the airport building whose new yellow paint was beginning to peel from the onslaught of innumerable gales. The plane's arrival seemed to be the event of the week – a bevy of Land Rovers lined the fence with adults and children gaping as the passengers filed into the terminal.
