Exocet

'An interesting question, sir. What would we do if we had trouble with our own Exocet missiles? Expect the French to render technical assistance?'

'We don't wish to know that, Harry. Get back to work.'

Rain dashed against the window pane. He went and peered out and shivered, thinking of the fleet down there in the South Atlantic and winter rolling in.

'God help sailors at sea on a night like this,' he said softly.

* * *

It was very quiet in the small study in the Residencia del Presidente at Olivos outside Buenos Aires. The President himself, General Leopoldo Fortunato Galtieri, was in uniform, but had taken off his tunic as he sat at the desk working his way through a mass of papers.

He was a bull of a man, plain spoken, a soldier's soldier, and had frequently been compared to that most colourful of all American generals of the Second World War, George S. Patton.

There was a knock at the door and a young army captain in dress uniform looked in.

The President glanced up. 'What is it, Martinez?'

'General Dozo is here, sir.'

'Good, show him in. See that we are not disturbed. No phone calls for half-an-hour.' He smiled, suddenly looking relaxed and charming. 'Of course, if news comes in that either the Hermes or Invincible has been sunk, disturb me all you like.'

'At your orders, my President.'

Martinez withdrew, and a moment later Brigadier General Basilio Lami Dozo, commander of the Argentine Air Force, entered. He was an elegant, handsome man, whose uniform fitted him to perfection, a natural aristocrat in total contrast to Galtieri who had been born into a working class family and had come up the hard way. Which was perhaps as well for they were compelled to work together, like it or not, together with the commander of the navy, Admiral Jorge Anaya as members of the three man junta that ruled the country.

Lami Dozo took off his hat and lit a cigarette. 'Isn't Anaya coming?'

Galtieri was pouring Cognac into two glasses at the drinks cabinet. 'What for? We might as well not have a navy for all the good it does. Thank God for the air force. True heroes, all those lads of yours.' He handed Lami Dozo a glass. 'Here's to them.'

'What's left of them,' Lami Dozo said bitterly and drank a little Cognac. 'Things are so bad down there at Gallegos that everyone who can fly is going up. Raul Montera, for God's sake! Forty-six next birthday and he's flying Skyhawks to San Carlos Water.' He shook his head. 'I sometimes think I should be back in a cockpit myself.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Galtieri said. 'Raul Montera is a romantic fool, always was.'

'And a true hero.'

'Oh, I'll give you that. Magnificent. I have every admiration for him.'

'That's what the boys call him. El Magnifico. He can't last, of course. He's flown eleven operations during the past week to my knowledge.' He shook his head. 'God knows what I'll find to say to his mother when he goes.'

'Donna Elena?' Galtieri shuddered. 'Keep her away from me, whatever you do. That woman always makes me feel I should be herding cows, bare-footed. How was it today?'

'We hit a frigate, HMS Antelope. When I last heard, there had been some sort of explosion and it was on fire. We think we also damaged a destroyer, the Glasgow, but we can't be sure. Six Mirages and two Skyhawks were shot down. Some made it back to base damaged.' He shook his head in wonder. 'And in spite of that, the spirit of those boys is fantastic. But it can't go on. We'll run out of pilots.'

'Exactly,' Galtieri said. 'Which is why we need more Exocets and according to this report just in from our Embassy in Paris, we could have exactly what we need in a matter of days. Read it.'

He went to the window and looked out at the gardens, bright in the sunshine as he finished his Cognac. Behind him, Lami Dozo said, 'You could be right. But Garcia doesn't seem to have any information as to how or where this man Donner intends to obtain Exocets.'

'True, but he is convinced that Donner can supply and it's worth a try. You notice, of course, that they ask for a top air force officer to liaise on this one, preferably a pilot.'

'Yes.'

'Does anyone spring to mind as being particularly suitable for the job?'

He turned enquiringly. Lami Dozo smiled. 'It would keep him alive, wouldn't it, and as a matter of coincidence, he does speak excellent French.'

'No time to lose. He should be on his way to Paris tomorrow.'

Lami Dozo picked up his cap. 'No problem. I'll fly down to Gallegos myself in the Lear Jet. Bring him back with me.'

'Good, I'd like a word with him before he goes.' As Lami Dozo moved towards the door, Galtieri called, 'You know what the day after tomorrow is?'

'Of course.' It was Tuesday, 25th May and Argentina's national day.

'You've something special planned, I trust?'

'We'll do our best.'

Lami Dozo went out, the President sighed, sat down at his desk and resumed work.

* * *

In London, Gabrielle Legrand, shopping in Harrods, found herself walking through the television department. A small crowd had gathered before a television set and the ITV news was on. The screen was showing a series of pictures of San Carlos Water, ships scattered at anchor in a cloud of smoke. Television film, as yet, was not available. An anonymous commentator was describing a raid as it took place, presumably that morning, Argentinian Skyhawks racing in to drop their bombs.

His voice lifted in excitement as he followed the track of a Rapier missile, there was the sound of a violent explosion as a Skyhawk was destroyed.

Several people in the crowd applauded and one man said, 'Got the bastard!' It was understandable. This was the enemy they were looking at. Planes dedicated to destroying their own boys. One of those boys was her half-brother, Richard. She knew he was on the aircraft carriers two hundred miles to the west of San Carlos Water but that was not safety. Helicopter pilots like Richard flew towards danger every day and their carriers were the constant targets of the Argentine missiles. Gabrielle prayed that God would protect twenty-two-year-olds.

She turned away, physically sick, Raul in her mind.

Thank God he's too old to fly those things, she thought, and hurried out.

* * *

Raul Montera, at that moment, was fifty miles off the southern tip of Argentina, five hundred feet above the sea, trying to nurse home a Skyhawk to port that had most of its tail missing, a plume of smoke drifting gently behind it.

The boy in the cockpit was badly wounded; Montera knew that and had long since abandoned any attempt at proper procedure.

'Hang on, Jose, not long now.'

'No use, colonel.' The boy's voice was very tired. 'She's going down. I can't hold her any longer.'

As the Skyhawk's nose dipped, Montera said, 'Eject boy.'

'And freeze to death?' The boy laughed faintly. 'Why bother.'

'Lieutenant Ortega,' Montera cried. 'Eject now. That's an order.'

A second later the canopy flew into space, the boy was catapulted out. Montera followed him down, already giving base the position, watching the parachutes drift, hoping that the air sea rescue launch would be in time.

He made a quick pass as Ortega hit the water, saw him break free of the chute. The small yellow dinghy inflated and, as he watched, the boy tried to climb in.

There was a sudden warning buzz from the instrument panel that told him how low he was on fuel. He made one more pass, waggled his wings and curled away towards the coast.

* * *