Exocet

When Montera got out of the cockpit of the Skyhawk at the Gallegos base, Sergeant Santerra, the technical crew chief, was already examining the plane and shaking his head.

'Look at the tail, for Christ's sake, colonel. Cannon shell, at least four. Holes all over the place.'

'I know. We had a couple of Harriers on our tails on the way out of San Carlos. They got Santini. Young Ortega almost made it and ditched about fifty miles out.'

'Your luck is good, colonel. Amazing. I can't understand it. You should have been dead days ago.'

'I put it all down to the love of a good woman myself.' Raul Montera reached up and touched the legend Gabrielle which was painted on the side of the cockpit. 'Thank you, my love.'

* * *

When he went into the Intelligence Room in the Operations building, it was empty except for Major Pedro Munro, an Argentinian of Scots extraction, the senior intelligence officer.

'Ah, there are you, Raul. One of these days you won't walk through that door,' he said cheerfuly.

'Thanks very much,' Montera answered. 'Any word on Ortega?'

'Not yet. What have you got to tell me?'

Montera helped himself to a cigarette from the pack on the desk. 'That it was hell out there, just like an old war movie on television, only this was real. Men died.'

Munro said, 'Very funny. Now, could I possibly have something concrete? Did you sink anything?'

'I don't think so,' Montera told him, 'for the excellent reason that my bombs didn't explode again. Could you possibly arrange for ordnance to get the blasted timing right on those fuses?'

Munro stopped trying to be amusing. 'I'm damn sorry, Raul. Truly.'

'So am I.' Montera told him, and went out.

He walked towards the officers' mess wearily, his flying boots drumming on the tarmac. He felt depressed, stale, at the end of things. He was too old to be doing this sort of thing, and that was a fact; then he remembered what Gabrielle had said to him about age being a state of mind and smiled.

He thought a lot about her these days. In fact, all the time. She filled his heart and head, flew with him, slept with him. He spoke aloud to her last thing each night.

He walked into the ante-room. The first person he saw was Lami Dozo, standing by the fire, a circle of young officers about him.

The General excused himself and came to meet Montera, genuine pleasure on his face. He gave him the abrazo, the formal hug.

'I saw your mother yesterday at a charity affair. Fundraising for the army. She looked splendid.'

'Was Linda with her?'

'No, she was at school. As I say, your mother looked splendid. You, on the other hand, look dreadful. It must stop, this foolishness, Raul. Eleven missions in a week.'

'Twelve,' Montera said. 'You forget today. And could you kindly get them to do something about the bombs? They will persist in not going off a lot of the time. Very annoying, when one has gone to such a great deal of trouble to deliver them.'

'Have a drink,' Lami Dozo said.

'An excellent idea.' Montera called a mess waiter over. 'Tea. My usual.' He turned to the General. 'Will you join me?'

'Tea?' Lami Dozo said. 'Good God, what's got into you?'

Montera nodded to the waiter who departed. 'Nothing. It's just that a friend of mine when I was in London persuaded me that coffee wasn't good for me.'

'Who is this Gabrielle whose name they tell me is painted on the nose of your Skyhawk?'

'The woman I love,' Raul Montera said simply.

'Have I had the pleasure of meeting her?'

'No. When she isn't living in London, she lives in Paris. Next question.'

'Paris? How interesting. If you had time, you could look her up.'

'I don't understand?'

'You're flying to Paris tomorrow. I'm taking you back to Buenos Aires with me now. Oh, and Galtieri would like a word before you leave.'

'I think perhaps you'd better explain,' Montera said.

Which Lami Dozo did as briefly as possible. When he was finished he said, 'Well, what do you think?'

'I think the world has gone mad,' Raul Montera told him. 'But who am I to argue.'

'It could win us the war, Raul.'

'Win us the war?' Montera laughed harshly. 'We're back with old movies on television, General. We've lost this war already. It should never have started. But by all means send me off to Paris to play games while these boys here continue to die.'

The waiter returned with the tray at that moment and Montera poured himself a cup of tea with hands that shook slightly.

He raised the cup to his lips and drank. 'Much better for you than coffee,' he said and smiled, remembering that morning in Kensington, a thousand years ago, in the bath with Gabrielle.

Lami Dozo looked concerned. 'You've done too much, old friend. You need a rest. Come on, let's go.'

'You think I'm going over the edge.' Montera swallowed the rest of his tea. 'You're quite wrong. I'm already there.'

As they stood up, Major Munro came in. He glanced about the mess, saw Montera and smiled. 'Good news, Raul. Young Ortega — they've picked him up. Badly shot up, but he'll survive. They say it was the coldness of the sea that saved him. Stopped him bleeding to death.'

He recognised the General in the same moment and saluted.

'His luck is good,' Lami Dozo commented.

'Let's hope mine is,' said Raul Montera.

* * *

A little under four hours later, he was following Lami Dozo into Galtieri's private study at the Residencia del Presidente.

Galtieri came round the desk to greet him warmly, hand outstretched. 'My dear Montera, a great pleasure. Your efforts on behalf of the cause have been heroic.'

'I've done no more than any other pilot in my command, General.'

'Very commendable, but not quite true. However, General Dozo has briefed you, I'm sure, on the importance of this new mission. We're all counting on you.'

'I'll do my best, General. May I have permission to visit my mother before I leave?'

'But of course. Give Donna Elena my humble duty. And now, I'll detain you no longer.'

He shook hands again and Montera and Lami Dozo departed. When they had gone, Galtieri flicked the intercom and told Martinez to come in.

The young captain presented himself and Galtieri passed across the report from Garcia in Paris. 'This one is highly sensitive, Martinez. Get your book and I'll dictate a brief account of the affair so far, my discussion with General Dozo and the action we have taken.'

'Copies for General Dozo and Admiral Anaya, General, as usual?'

Galtieri shook his head. 'General Dozo knows already and the Admiral doesn't deserve to know. One copy for my personal file.'

'Very well, General.'

* * *

Carmela Balbuena was a formidable lady in her fifties. Her husband, an army captain, had been killed seven years previously during the so-called dirty war waged between the government and the back-country guerrillas. She had been on the staff at the Presidential Palace ever since and was now senior secretary.

The report on the Exocet affair was handed over to her by Martinez personally. 'I think you'd better do this one yourself, then straight into his personal file, no copy,' he said.

She took a pride in her work, typing it out meticulously on three sheets of paper, making one carbon copy in spite of what Martinez had said. She took the report and showed it to him.

'Excellent, senora, you've excelled yourself. You can file it later when he's out.'

'I'll put it into the office safe until morning,' she said. 'May I go now? I don't think there's anything else.'

'Of course. See you tomorrow.'

She went back into the other room, tidied her desk, took the copies of the three sheets she had made, folded them neatly and put them into her handbag. Then she left, closing the door behind her.