The lack of liking seemed to be mutual. ‘Cecil,’ Lubanski replied, with more familiarity but rather less enthusiasm. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m sorry to take up your time at the weekend,’ Matheson said with as much sincerity as he could muster at short notice. ‘It’s just a matter-of-clarification.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘The President’s speech on Friday…’
‘The “ice cold bunch of land down there” speech?’ Lubanski asked, a twist of malicious humour in his voice.
That was how Ronald Reagan had described the Falklands, and Matheson winced at the memory. ‘Yes, that one,’ he confirmed. ‘Of course, we don’t share the President’s opinion in that respect, but we are…’ He wanted to say ‘glad that the US Government has at last realized its responsibilities to a NATO ally’, but that would hardly be diplomatic.
‘Pleased that we’ve finally fallen off the fence on your side?’ Lubanski offered.
‘That’s certainly one way of putting it,’ Matheson agreed, ‘though I’d prefer to think you’d stepped down. In any case,’ he continued hurriedly, ‘we’re obviously gratified by the sanctions announced by your Government, and by the President’s promise of matériel aid. As regards the latter…’
‘You’d like to know what’s on offer.’
‘Of course, but I’m sure that question can be handled through the normal channels. I have something more specific in mind.’
‘Which is?’ For the first time, Lubanski sounded vaguely interested.
Time to bite the bullet, Matheson told himself. ‘AWACS,’ he said. ‘Airborne warning and control systems.’
‘I know what AWACS are,’ Lubanski said drily. ‘And without putting too fine a point on it, I think I can safely say the answer will be sorry, but no.’
Like hell he was sorry, Matheson thought. ‘Her Majesty’s Government would like to formally request the loan of just two AWACS,’ he pressed on.
‘Like I…’
‘If I could just continue,’ Matheson said, rather more harshly than he intended, ‘large British naval losses will hardly serve the interests of the United States. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the Royal Navy’s primary raison d’être is to safeguard the passage of American troops and armaments to Europe in the event of a major war…’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Then I fail to see the justification for a refusal of this request.’
‘Bullshit, Cecil. You know damn well why we’re refusing it. Put our own military into this little exercise of yours and twenty years of Latin-American policy goes down the tubes. You’ve already dragged us off the fence for the sake of 1800 sheep farmers, and now you want us to send AWACS planes? Are you sure you wouldn’t like us to nuke Buenos Aires for you?’
Matheson took a deep breath, and swallowed the temptation to tell Lubanski the best thing the State Department could do with its Latin-American policy was to tear it all up and start again. ‘If we can’t defend our ships against attacks from the mainland,’ he said carefully, ‘we may be forced to move against the source of the problem ourselves.’
‘You mean bomb their bases? What with?’
‘Vulcans from Ascension.’
For a few moments there was a silence at the other end. Then Lubanski, sounding more formal, replied: ‘I think the British Government would be wise to examine the United Nations resolutions so far invoked, and particularly Article 51’s definition of self-defence. I’m not at all sure that the United States would regard military action against mainland Argentina as falling within the scope of that definition. And, regardless of such legal niceties, I am completely certain that continued US support is contingent on a certain level of self-restraint in the British prosecution of the war.’
Another short silence ensued.
‘You do realize how this looks from the British Government’s point of view,’ Matheson said eventually. ‘You won’t help us to protect our ships, and you won’t allow us to protect them ourselves in the only way open to us. We’ve got young boys out there,’ he went on, wondering whether sentiment would help, ‘with next to no cover. And they’re not fighting for sheep farmers – they’re fighting against aggression, and for self-determination. I seem to remember,’ he could not resist adding, ‘that one of your presidents almost invented the phrase.’
‘Before my time,’ Lubanski said wearily. ‘Look, Cecil, let me be as frank as I can about this. I personally think your war is a crock of shit, and I wouldn’t have risked alienating a single Hispanic voter or a single Latin-American government to support it. I have colleagues who disagree with me, and who’d love to support the old country, you know, all that Ivy League shit. But even they wouldn’t loan you a single airplane. It’s just too much to ask. This is not our war – it’s yours. You fight the damn thing with what you’ve got.’
‘We intend to,’ Matheson said, struggling to keep his voice level. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said coldly, and hung up. He could almost hear Lubanski 3000 miles away, smirking about some Brit in a snit.
He shook his head to clear it, and poured out a more generous shot of whisky. He had, after all, got exactly what he had expected from the call. Nothing. And it would do no harm to make the Americans aware, privately, of how angry the British were with them. A measure of guilt might increase their generosity in other matters.
The real problem lay not 3000 miles away, but less than one. Matheson was almost afraid to imagine what alternatives to the AWACS were brewing in the Prime Minister’s restless mind.
The flight took slightly less than a hour, most of it over the sea. Darkness had fallen, but despite the lack of a moon the Wessex crew had no trouble identifying the northern coast of Pebble Island on such a clear night. The Passive Night Goggles, or PNGs, which they had recently received from American sources, only came into their own when they were contour-chasing across the north-central part of West Falkland proper.
They set the Wessex down in a wide stretch of desolate grassland. The ground looked hard enough, but for an instant seemed to give alarmingly. It was, Brookes thought, as he leapt down onto it, like landing on a springy pine-forest floor.
The other three followed him out, and the door closed on the grinning, waving members of the other patrol, bound for a similar mission further down the island. As arranged, Hedge moved off ahead to take up a defensive position on the slight ridge 100 yards to the east. The words ‘So where’s the fucking hotel?’ floated back across the din of the helicopter taking off.
The others grinned, and Brookes examined the map and illuminated compass as the silhouette of the Wessex faded with the sound of its rotors. An almost eerie silence descended. I’m a long way from home, Mozza thought suddenly. At least there’s no fucking wind, Stanley was consoling himself.
Hedge inched his eyes over the ridge line and suddenly came face to face with a dark and menacing shape. ‘Baa-aaa,’ it said. ‘Kebabs!’ Hedge whispered viciously.
They had been deposited just over 14 miles, as the crow flew, from their chosen site for an OP, or observation point, overlooking the small Argentinian base at Port Howard. Of course, there were no crows in the Falklands, and it was, as one of the SAS planners on Resource had observed, a bloody sight further as the penguin flew. The same terrain in, say, Wales, would not have been considered particularly difficult, but here the general dampness and usual high winds made everything twice as difficult.
The spongy ground often seemed as sapping as the Wembley turf in extra time, but occasionally it would either turn hard enough to jar every bone in the