Lion Resurgent Read online

  That was when a movement on the Chipanese submarine caught his eye. Two clamshell doors were opening just aft of the sail and a twin-rail launcher was elevating from the hull. It also had missiles loaded. Beecham recognized them as Keibo anti-aircraft missiles; a new weapon and one that Australian intelligence knew very little about. Beside him, Cardew already had the ship’s camera out and he photographed the missiles as rapidly as he could roll the film and press the shutter.

  “Now that’s a surprise.” Beecham was fascinated by the installation.

  “Signal, Sir, by lamp from I-709 to USS Sacramento. Message reads. ‘Do not worry; we will protect you.’ Message ends.” The signalman had a delighted smirk on his face.

  A chuckle ran around the bridge, one that turned into a full-bellied laugh as the signal broke the tension that had been building up. Cardew wiped his eyes and shook his head. “You know, I really like Captain Sazuko. I bet Captain Karposi is jumping on his hat up there.”

  “No doubt, although I don’t think he’ll be on the bridge.” Beecham knew American doctrine. The Captain would go to the Combat Direction Center when the alert sounded, not the navigating bridge. “Anything word?”

  “Inbound hostiles, Sir. Aircraft from Ohio and North Dakota are intercepting.”

  The minutes seemed to crawl past. Beecham was fascinated to see that the Talos launcher on Sacramento was constantly making tiny movements, presumably to ensure that its missiles were on a perfect intercept course for the inbound Argentine aircraft. One thing he did know; the American cruiser couldn’t be using her radars at full power. If she had, the paint would be peeling off the walls of the dockside houses with the power output. Presumably, she was targeting using information downloaded from one of the carriers airborne command and control aircraft.

  “Intercept, Sir. The Tomcats are claiming nine aircraft shot down. The rest have turned back after jettisoning their bombs. The Argie aircraft were Ciclones, so the ‘cats are claiming.”

  “Makes sense.” The Italian-built swing-wing Ciclone was the standard Argentine strike aircraft. Macchi claimed it was the equal of the Chipanese Nakajima B10N Shuka and it had certainly sold a lot better. Macchi’s reputation for supporting its products helped there. Of course it wouldn’t help the aircraft that had just been shot down. That brought a quick thought into Beecham’s head. “Any radiation traces?”

  “No Sir. Septics used conventional warheads as a warning. Kept the nukes for the next salvo. Anyway, they’re following the Argies home just to make sure the message was received and understood.”

  The wail of the all-clear sirens brought about a quick fall in the tension. Beecham sighed with relief. It seemed like the effort to deter war was beginning to work.

  B-70 Shield Maiden, MacDill Air Force Base, Florida

  “Aircraft pre-flighted, prepped and ready Sir. Check lists for your inspection.” Master Sergeant Hichins-Yates saluted smartly and handed them over to her husband. He returned her salute equally smartly and without a trace of humor at the situation. Here, on this side of the base gates, for all practical purposes, they weren’t married. Each morning, they drove together up to the main gates and he got out of the car. A quick good-bye kiss and Selma would drive inside while he would either walk through the gates or be picked up by another member of the duty shift. Relationships were off-base only. It was a policy that had been instituted when women had started to serve in SAC and it had avoided a lot of problems. Breaking it meant that both partners would be assigned to other bases, ones that were a long, long way apart. In Mike Yates’ case, the fact he was an officer married to an enlisted airwoman was an added complication.

  So, here, now, he was Major Mike Yates speaking to Master Sergeant Selma Yates. The fact they had the same surname was a meaningless coincidence. He ran his eyes down the long lists of data on the clipboard, checking the readings and technical data. “Oil sample readings seem a bit high?”

  “Filters are well within spec Sir. Shield Maiden is due for a major overhaul after this run, we’ll put new filters in then.” Shield Maiden had been doing a large number of relatively short flights over the last few weeks testing out the new guided bomb equipment. That put a greater strain on her systems than the normal missions.

  “No metal contamination?”

  “No, Sir. We’d have pulled them if we’d found any. They’re holding up well. I’d say they’ve sixty percent life left.”

  Yates nodded. Normally the oil filters would be pulled and replaced at fifty percent remaining life. “No carbon?” The oil in the B-70s hydraulics operated at the temperature of a deep fat fryer and carbon contamination was a problem.

  “None we could find, Sir.”

  “That’s good.” Yates read the rest of the sheet and signed the bottom before turning to the next. There was nothing exceptionable there so that signature followed quickly. “Right, Sergeant, the aircraft appears in order, I accept her as mission-ready.” The words were formal and were followed by a last signature. Another exchange of salutes and Shield Maiden’s crew took delivery of their aircraft from her ground crew.

  On board, Mike Yates eased into the pilot’s seat and started fastening his harness. This was very close to being an operational mission. Shield Maiden had 2,000 gallon drop tanks on all four underwing hardpoints and her belly was stuffed with real nuclear weapons: missiles for her own defense, gravity bombs for eliminating ground targets. All seven fuselage fuel tanks were filled to capacity, as were her overload wing tanks. Yates checked the weight manifest again, Shield Maiden was right up against the maximum allowable weight limit for MacDill. Soon, she would be heading south, ready to orbit her fail-safe point over the Atlantic, east of the Argentine coast. A point that put her just twenty minutes from her targets.

  “Ready to go, guys. Begin pre-take off checklists.” Each member of the crew started reading through their own station’s checklist. Another strict rule. Checklists were always read, never recited from memory, even though the crews knew them by heart. At last, the formalities were complete. Yates gave the orders to start up the six J-93 engines.

  “Tower gives us clearance to taxi, Mike. The contractors have been told to stop work on the runway extension and clear the work area while the bombers take off.”

  “Very good.” Yates listened to the aircraft and to the sounds from the undercarriage as they taxied out towards the runway. “Entering 71 taxiway now.”

  “Turn on to crossway Tango and hold.” The word from the tower came over the earphones. Yates acknowledged briefly. It was hardly out of his mouth before he got clearance to move on to the main runway. Ahead of him, the long strip of concrete seemed to shimmer in the morning sun.

  “ShieldMaiden ready for take-off. Canard flaps down.”

  “Cleared, Shield Maiden. Good luck and Fly High.”

  Yates advanced the throttles on the Valkyrie’s engines and felt Shield Maiden shudder as the thrust built up. As the needles hit 100 percent, he released the brakes. His bomber rolled down the runway, picking up speed as she did so.

  At the end of the runway, the Canada geese that lived there were annoyed and nervous. They had long before come to an agreement, so they thought, with the great white screaming birds that lived here as well. They would avoid each other and that suited the geese well. But now things had changed. There were nasty, noisy, smelly things that had come into their home and were digging it up. They’d crushed the nests and destroyed the eggs that were carefully laid there. Their home was being destroyed and the geese were very frightened. So, when one of the giant screaming birds started its approach, the geese panicked. They tried to escape the only way they knew how. By flying.

  Yates eased back on the control column Shield Maiden’s nose lifted as her rotation started. She was doing almost 200 knots, beyond the point of lift-off but also getting dangerously close to the red lights that marked the end of the runway. “Sure going to be glad when the extension is finished.” The words were almost drowned out by the sound of
the take-off. The wheels lifted clear and that made the noise and vibration drop sharply.

  “Gear up. Canard flaps up.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Yates heard the thump as the wheels twisted around and retracted into their bays. Then, the whole aircraft was shaken by a terrible crashing noise; one that made the Valkyrie shudder in mid-air. Yates saw the sky rearing and lurching around him as Shield Maiden went out of control. He heard the desperate yell from his copilot. “Flameout! Engines one, two, three and five are gone. Power on four fluctuating.”

  Shield Maiden was losing power and speed at the one point where she couldn’t afford it. Yates was still struggling with the controls, trying to get the aircraft under control but her nose was already rearing up past the critical point that ended any hope of saving her. There was only one priority left at that point. Yates took it, activating the system that dumped the nuclear weapons so they would be as far from the crash site as possible. Helplessly, Yates felt the great aircraft stall. The voice recorder in the cockpit caught the last words from the flight deck as she dropped from the sky. “Oh SHIT!!”

  Selma Hitchins had stepped out of the hangar just as Shield Maiden made her take-off ran down the runway. She heard the Valkyrie lifting off the runway. She was watching the undercarriage retract when she saw the great gouts of flame exploding from the six-pack of engines. She, and everybody on the base was already starting to ran towards the end of the runway when Shield Maiden plowed into the ground. Her belly slammed down hard, the impact causing the structure to fragment. Even at that distance, she felt the heat on her face from the fireball. More than a quarter of a million pounds of exploding JP-6 created a roaring inferno to mark where Shield Maiden had just died.

  Casa Rosada Presidential Palace, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  “They did what?” President Jorge Videla was stunned by the news.

  “They broke off the attacks, Sir. They had no choice. They were under fire from American carrier fighters. They had to jettison their bombs in order to evade the missiles. If they hadn’t, they would have been wiped out. And with their bombs gone, there was no point in continuing with the mission.”

  And no real desire to, Videla thought to himself. A good officer knew when his men’s hearts weren’t in their work. Ever since planning for Operation Soberania had started, he’d had a feeling that enthusiasm for the plan didn’t extend far beyond those who had planned it. On the other hand, the bomber pilots hadn’t really had a choice. If they had been under fire from American fighters, they were lucky not to have been incinerated in mid-air by nuclear bursts.

  “What about their fighter escort? They did have one, I suppose?”

  “They did, but the Americans fired from far outside their range. There was nothing anybody could have done.”

  No plan survives contact with the enemy. “So the attacks on the military airfields around Santiago and the naval base at Valparaiso failed. What of the rest?”

  “They did better, Sir, although not as well as we hoped. The naval bases at Punta Arenas and Porto Williams was hit as we planned, We struck at Chabunco as well.” There was something in the aide’s voice that seized Videla’s attention.

  “What went wrong?”

  “They were waiting for us, Sir. Our pilots think it was the Americans again. They saw the aircraft taking off on their radar and alerted the Chilean Air Force. There was fighting: our pilots held their own at least but the airfields were empty. They cratered the runways, but you know how quickly they can be fixed. The naval bases were empty as well.”

  Videla felt the same way a boxer feels when he delivers a perfect punch only to have it connect with nothing but air. “How many aircraft did we lose?”

  “Around thirty Sir, and we scored about forty kills. No Americans, of course.”

  That meant around a dozen Chilean planes had gone down, Videla thought grimly. The losses weren’t actually as heavy as projected but they had been calculated on the basis of catching the Chilean aircraft on the ground. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, Sir. The La Argentina amphibious group has spotted a Chilean force closing on it. They’re staying behind a weather front, but they’ll be intercepting our ships this afternoon.”

  Videla was about to say something but he was interrupted by an aide entering his office in a state of great urgency. “Sir, the television news; you must see this.” He flicked the television set in the corner on in time to catch the tail end of the news bulletin.

  “And so, back to the main item on the news tonight. A Valkyrie bomber of Strategic Air Command has crashed on take-off from its airbase in Florida, killing its crew of four. A Strategic Air Command spokesman has confirmed that the aircraft was carrying nuclear weapons and was on an operational mission.” The newsreader’s voice had dropped on the last two words and their significance was ricocheting around the world. “It is reported there is significant radioactive contamination at the site of the crash and decontamination crews are already at work clearing up the wreckage. Asked if the aircraft’s mission had anything to do with the scattered fighting reported between Argentina and Chile, the spokesman declined to answer. However, our correspondent in Cuba has reported that large numbers of Valkyrie bombers have been seen heading south. And now, over to our weather office for the 24-hour forecast. George?”

  “Well Anna, I guess our forecast for Buenos Aires is going to have to include extreme heat and strong winds. Now, for the London Area… “

  The aide shut the television off. The other occupants of the room stared at it with the same fascination they’d have for a poisonous snake. The mood was broken by the telephone on Videla’s desk ringing. Another aide answered it. “Sir, the American Ambassador is here. He wants to see you. Now.”

  “Send him in.”

  The American Ambassador must have been just outside the door. The words were barely out of Videla’s mouth when the Ambassador pushed the door open and sprawled out in a chair in front of Videla’s desk.

  “Mister President, you are so screwed.”

  “Ambassador Jordan?” Videla was very much on his dignity when faced with this undiplomatic invasion of his office.

  “Look, President, if you’re going to start a war, don’t screw it up this bad. I guess you’ve heard the Valks are on their way down. That gives you one hour to stop this mess. They won’t be here for four but I want at least three hours to get clear of the target zones. Once I leave Buenos Aires, the bombers won’t be turning back. If you move fast, I can get word to the Chileans and they can call Washington and then, the Valks will hold at their fail-safe points. The Chile government has agreed to write this morning’s fun and games off as a regrettable misunderstanding and say no more about it. Provided you publically give up your territorial claims in the Beagle Channel of course. You’ll pull your troops and ships back and drop this crazy Operation Soberania nonsense. Be good, peaceful little international citizens.”

  “Or what? There is always an ‘or else’.” Videla was furious at what he was hearing but in his stomach there was a cold pit of dread. In reply, Ambassador Jordan got up and walked over to the window. He stuck his index finger in his mouth to wet it and held it up in the air. “Just what are you doing?”

  “Checking wind direction. We don’t want fallout landing on our friends.”

  The cold pit in Videla’s stomach suddenly jumped up a notch in size. The Americans were committed. They couldn’t change their minds now, not after losing one of their bombers so publicly. If this war went ahead, Argentina would cease to exist. Already, the war hadn’t gone well and it would only get worse. How many more bombers were heading south with the names of Argentine targets written into their navigation systems?

  “One hundred.” Ambassador Jordan’s voice was dead neutral, dead level, devoid of intonation. The menace in it was chilling. “You were wondering how many bombers were heading this way weren’t you? The aircraft that crashed has already been replaced by a back-up. To do the maths for you,
that means there are 1,400 more ready to come down if you continue annoying us.”

  Videla made his mind up. Operation Soberania had been checkmated, any attempt to proceed with it would result in a national catastrophe. “Very well, Mister Ambassador, America gets its way, again. One day, one day, you will pay for the things you have done in this world.” He turned to his aides. “Get the words out to the Army; stand down. Discontinue air operations. Order the fleet back to base.” He looked at the clock on his wall. It was just six hours until the assault cruisers and other amphibious ships had been scheduled to start their assault.

  Ambassador Jordan nodded and started to leave. As he did so, he heard Videla repeat his words. “One day, you Americans will stand where we do now.”

  “Not if SAC has anything to do with it.”

  Maintenance Operations Center, MacDill Air Force Base, Florida

  “I have the records for Shield Maiden here sir.” Selma Hitchens-Yates voice was dead flat and eerily cold. Almost robotic. “The ground crew who prepped her for the mission have been isolated and are awaiting debriefing.”

  General Bennett took the pile of documents from her hands, noting their cold, clammy feel and lack of response. Outside, at the end of the runway, a great pyre of black smoke still marked the spot where Shield Maiden and her crew had died. Even though her wreckage was still burning, the investigation had started. Everything was being done by the book. The maintenance records had been sequestered and would be put under lock and key until technical experts could go over them. All the people who had worked on the Valkyrie had been separated and kept in isolation until they could be debriefed. There would be no opportunity for them to get their stories straight and agree what was to be said and what was not. Bennett was distracted by the telephone ringing. He picked it up and listened to the report from the commander of the decontamination crews.