Lion Resurgent (9 page)

Puerto Belgrano Naval Base, Argentina

“Captain Astrid. How goes our operations?”

“Very well Admiral. We have made a number of our service families very happy by providing them with babies for adoption. I have given Major Mazza and his lady their new child. That was a little difficult for they are both fair-haired and blue-eyed. We were lucky we had that Swedish girl in custody.”

“That may be a problem. The Swedish Embassy is asking after her again.”

“There is no problem. She is no longer in our custody.” Admiral Ruben Chamorro nodded quietly, understanding the euphemism that had been used. “And the Mazza’s do not know?”

“They do not. They believe that the baby was born to a young woman who got pregnant by one of our sailors and was unable to care for the child.” Viewed objectively, that statement was true enough. She had been made pregnant by one of the men in Astrid’s command and a bullet in the head made the Swedish girl unable to care for anything.

“Very good. Now, Alberto, we have a different mission for you. One that will take much care and precision on your part.”

“Another group of dissidents?”

“Not this time; well, perhaps, in a manner of speaking. You know of Operation Soberania?”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Well, there is a second phase to that operation that few outside the Navy know about. Even the government and the Army know little of it. It is called Operation Rosario and it involves an amphibious assault that will seize the Malvinas Islands, South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands.”

“That will mean war with the British.” Astrid did not look upset by the suggestion.

“Indeed it will. That is the whole point. We have had our dispute with the British for more than one hundred and fifty years and they have treated us with nothing but contempt. We had to swallow our pride because they were strong and we were weak. But now the boot is on the other foot. The British are of no account now. They have never recovered from their defeat in 1940 and they will do anything to avoid another war. When we seize the islands, we will not only be recovering our territory, we will be establishing ourselves as the major power in the South Atlantic. First with Chile and its mineral wealth in our hands, then with the British possessions returned to our control, we will dominate the South American continent. The British still have the aura of a great power. By defeating them so easily, we will assume that mantle of power.”

“And how do I fit into this?”

“You will take your unit of commandos to South Georgia. The island has no civilian population. The only people who live there are the British Government Officer, Deputy Postmaster, some scientists, and support staff from the British Antarctic Survey who maintain scientific bases at Bird Island, the capital, King Edward Point, and at Grytviken. You will find these people and you will kill them. There may be some women on the island. If there are, it will be up to your discretion whether they are killed there or brought back here for our adoption program. After you have secured the island, you will establish our own military base there and you will then secure the rest of the islands in the area.”

Astrid nodded approvingly. It was a nice, neat and simple operation, well defined in scope and objectives. That was the sort of plan that he liked, not the endless chasing of dissidents in the darkness. “Very good, Sir. I will commence operational planning immediately.”

“Good, Alberto. Very good.”

Pan-American Sonic Clipper
Clipper Fleetwing,
Final Approach, Washington International

From her window, Branwen could see the forward canard flaps drop into the landing position and could sense the Sonic Clipper level out. From the films she had seen, she could imagine the nose visor dropping down to expose a conventional cockpit canopy. Barely more than two hours ago, the aircraft had taken off from Stockholm. Now it was heading in over Delaware to make its landing at Washington International.

“Are you comfortable Mrs. Sunderstrom?” Branwen turned to look at the woman who was sitting beside her. They had the only two seats this side of the central isle. The Sonic Clippers carried a maximum of 96 passengers, all first class. Despite the luxury of the flight, the woman’s eyes were filled with pain. That was nothing to do with the experience of a triple-sonic airline flight. Her eyes were always like that.

“Yes, yes thank you. You’ve all been so very kind. There was no need for Mr. Loki to have gone to this expense.. . “

“I hope you don’t expect me to fly on a people-hauler.” Branwen put mock indignation into her voice. “Seven and a half hours with only a cheese sandwich to eat! And we’d have to
pay
for it. At least our fiskbullar i hummersas came with our tickets.”

“It was very good. As good as we would find in a fine restaurant.” Mrs Sunderstrom didn’t notice, but one of the stewardesses was in earshot and smiled happily at that.

For a moment, Mrs Sunderstrom almost smiled. Watching her out of the corner of her eye, Branwen hoped that she might break through the loneliness that engulfed her. But the veil of sadness dropped down again. “You’d better fasten your seatbelt. We’ll be landing very soon now.”

Branwen expected the airliner to hit the ground hard and come to a halt on the runway amid a squeal of brakes and a cloud of dust and smoke, but the actual landing was smoother and gentler than the big people-haulers ever managed. The only unpleasant bit was the way the aircraft porpoised on the runway. That was a characteristic it had inherited from its B-70 ancestor. Loki had taken the trouble to get them seats that were in the middle of the cabin so the motion wasn’t too pronounced. The aircraft even porpoised a couple of times at the unloading ramps before it finally came to a halt.

To Branwen’s complete lack of surprise, it felt as if it took almost as long to get through immigration, baggage claim and out into the airport arrivals lounge as it had to fly over from Stockholm. It didn’t, of course; the big hold up was immigration. She felt bitterly envious of Lillith, Naamah and the rest. When they travelled outside the United States, they did so on diplomatic passports and immigration was a barely noticed formality. But she was a commodities trader’s secretary and Mrs. Sunderstrom was a housewife. They had to queue up like everybody else. Finally, though, her passport was stamped and the two of them could pass through the sliding doors that meant they had finally entered America.

As she did so, her face lit up. A youngish-looking man was waiting for them with their baggage already loaded on to a trolly. “Gusoyn! It’s good to see you. Thank you for coming.”

“It is a pleasure Branwen.” The two exchanged hugs, then Gusoyn touched his hat to Mrs. Sunderstrom. “You too, ma’am. I have a limousine waiting outside, I guess you want to go to your hotel first and rest up. The Boss is expecting you tomorrow morning.”

“The Boss?” Mrs Sunderstrom looked confused. “Loki said there was somebody here who might be able to help but...”

“The Seer.” Gusoyn grinned at her. “Also known as the National Security Advisor. Your appointment is for 09:30 and you will have an hour. Take a word of advice and spend the evening rehearsing exactly what you want to say and do. He does not take kindly to people who waste his time dithering.”

Branwen laughed. That was an understatement if ever she’d heard one. Gusoyn led his party out and loaded their luggage into the trunk of a stretch limousine that was parked in a restricted area. Branwen checked discretely; the car had US Federal Government plates. She also noted the bulge under Gusoyn’s left arm where his gun nestled against his ribs. This was the American circle’s ground and they played to different rules here.

“Which hotel are you staying at?”

“The Park Hyatt. Dupont Circle.”

“Very good choice. I am surprised Loki knows the city that well.”

“He doesn’t.” Branwen grinned again. She knew Loki looked on Washington as the sink of iniquity, not least because it was The Seer’s home base. “Lillith booked it for us.”

“I see.” Gusoyn nodded. “I sense a conspiracy. It is an easy run this time of day; not least because the police will wave us through. I will have you there in 45 minutes. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”

HMS
Glowworm,
Bay of Biscay, Western Approaches

The Bay of Biscay was always an uneasy stretch of water. The rollers coming in from the vastness of the Atlantic collided with the short chop of the coastal waters and the directed currents from the Channel. They produced a confusing maze of weather and water patterns. Even on a good day, when the sun was warm and the winds gentle, a ship could be hit by a sudden, complex wave formation that would have her dipping and rolling in a dangerously erratic manner. No seaman worthy of his salt took the Bay of Biscay lightly.

“Weather, Number One?”

“Just in Captain.” Lieutenant Commander Simon Baxter turned his pad over and read the second sheet down. “Complex low Iceland 973 slow moving, deepening 969 by midday tomorrow. Warnings of gales, eight, in Viking, North Utsire, South Utsire, Forties, Cromarty, Shannon, Rockall, Malin, Hebrides, Bailey, Fair Isle, Faeroes and Southeast Iceland. Increasing to severe gales nine in Viking, North Utsire and Fair Isle. Our area forecasts for the next 24 hours, northerly 5 or 6 backing westerly 4 or 5. Very rough becoming rough. Drizzle. Visibility moderate or good. Fitzroy Sole, Westerly 4 or 5 backing southwesterly 5 to 7, veering north westerly later. Rough. Occasional rain. Visibility moderate or good.”

Commander James Foster looked through the spinning discs embedded in the front of his bridge windows and out at the green water piling up over
Glowworm’s
bows. Something about the wave pattern caught his eye. He picked up the telephone to the pilot house below. “Starboard wheel, 30 degrees.”

Through the windows let into the curved face of the bridge, he could see his ship bring her bows around. Without warning there was a slam and a lurch. A freakishly large wave surged over the long bow that stretched out before him. The water rolled back along the forecastle until it piled up against the bridge. For a brief second, the world went green as the windows went underwater. Then the wave was clear and past.

“Nicely done Sir. One more like that and we’d qualify for our dolphins.” Baxter’s voice was filled with genuine admiration; one that was echoed by the rest of the bridge watch. The marvelous informality and companionship of a destroyer was one of the glories of serving at sea. It made those whose careers took them to larger ships yearn for their days on the Navy’s smaller combatants. It also gave them a chance to learn seamanship and to read weather patterns that no mere classroom could ever begin to equal.

That last course change had been a classic example. If that wave had taken them on the beam, the ship would have rolled through a frightening arc. There were whispers of great waves. Waves so huge that they swallowed unwary ships whole; waves that arrived from nowhere with little warning. This hadn’t been one of those legendary swells, but it had been big enough and Foster’s last-minute turn had been finely calculated to catch it on
Glowworm’s
bows.

“Slacken off to ten.” Foster gave the helm order without outward sign of having heard the compliments passed by the watch crew. He did, however, appreciate the favorable comments of his peers. The Royal Navy had designed their post-war destroyers to remain operational in seas like this. They had enlarged hulls but vestigial superstructure. His bridge was one deck above the main deck and everything possible was moved inside the hull. There were no deckhouses; even the ship’s boats were carried in hangars inside the hull and the missile launchers were buried vertical tubes amidships where the ship’s motion was minimized. It had taken a long time to get the vertical launch system working properly but now it was a technology in which Britain led the world. Even the mighty American cruisers still used the more vulnerable and less flexible rail launchers. It was Foster’s conceit that his 5,000 ton
Glowworm
could fire off her missiles in weather that had American cruisers five times her size rolling helplessly.

There was another reason for the design principles that lay behind
Glowworm;
the changing nature of war at sea. Back in the 1950s, the Royal Navy had taken a look at the way things were going and had decided that the days of formations of ships battering each other, with gunfire or with massed air strikes, were over. Naval battles would be decided by small numbers of nuclear weapons delivered by high-flying aircraft. If a ship took a direct hit, it was gone. There was no way it could survive. But, a near miss, that was different. The killing mechanism against ships would be blast and radiation. The better a ship could ride out those, the more likely she was to survive at all. So
Glowworm’s
unusual design was intended to ensure that everything vital was protected from blast inside the hull. The ship herself was as low in the water as possible, so that blast had the smallest possible area to act upon. The clean design meant that her outsides could be washed down as quickly and as completely as possible before the fallout from a near miss could start its evil work. The Royal Navy had prided itself that its new generation of warships, designed after the humiliation of the 1940s had started to fade, were the first real atomic age ships built anywhere.

“Bad seas, Sir.” Baxter watched the waves and saw how the runs were interlocking and anticipated a sudden turn to port.

“Port twenty.” Foster gave the order almost as Baxter thought of it.
Glowworm
swung again to take the wave on her bows. That was another good thing about these ships. Resistance to blast also meant resistance to sea damage. Most other destroyers would have wrecked railings and topside damage from the battering of the storm.
Glowworm
didn’t; there was nothing topsides to damage. There was a price to pay for that, of course, she ran without any of her crew outside the hull except on the most benign of weather conditions. Even the lookouts were inside, scanning the world through electro-optical periscopes built into the bridge. One of them showed the forward 4 inch 62-caliber Mark 24 gun, a weapon positioned above and behind the bridge in an arrangement that defied tradition and, apparently, common sense. The scanner showed the fallacy of ‘common sense’ though. Up where it was, the mount remained dry and clear of the waves and spray. “We’ll be out of this in a day or so, Number One. Then a straight run to Bermuda and down to Jamaica.