Choosers of the Slain

15

The United States Embassy in Buenos Aires was not a particularly large facility, and out of consideration Harrison Van Lynden had endeavored to put as small a strain on their resources as possible. Accordingly, he had converted the sitting room of his second-floor suite into his ad hoc command post.

A desktop computer terminal and its associate printer had taken over the coffee table. The telephone had been supplemented with a modem and a security-locked fax machine. Most of the room's other usable flat surfaces were gradually disappearing under a growing accumulation of books, files, and hard-copy printout.

Earlier on, Van Lynden, Steven Rosario, and Dr. Towers had released the Embassy Staff personnel assigned to them for the day. Following a brief break for dinner, they returned to the task at hand. Slacks and sport shirts had replaced more formal businesswear.

"Have we gotten the final word on the Bogotá meeting, Steve?" the Secretary of State inquired, settling himself onto the couch.

"Yes, sir, as we suspected, they had the Organization of American States wired. Our proposed vote of censure against Argentina was rejected in favor of a motion calling for the involved parties to act with restraint and seek a diplomatic solution."

"What's the latest from the U.N.?"

"The Argentine ambassador has requested a seventy-two-hour delay before the General Assembly initiates debate on the Antarctic situation. He claims he has to return to Buenos Aires for direct consultation with his government. Do you think he'll be able to pull it off, Mr. Secretary?"

"Cuba, Chile, and Uruguay currently hold temporary seats on the Security Council. I'd call the odds about fifty-fifty."

Van Lynden turned his attention to the USARP Director. "How about you, Doctor? Do you have anything encouraging to report?"

"Not really," she said, sighing. "I've received a transcript of the minutes of yesterday's meeting of the Antarctic Treaty Commission in Brussels. The Argentines presented a six-hour history lesson on Argentina's polar research program. Whenever anyone else tried to get a word in edgewise, Chile tripped them up on points of order. Nothing concrete was accomplished."

"There's been quite a bit of that going around lately," Van Lynden commented sardonically. "The Argentines appear quite willing to talk, just as long as that's all that's being done."

The Secretary of State picked a pencil up off the coffee table. Rotating it slowly between his fingers, he appeared to minutely examine it as if it had suddenly become vitally important. After a few moments, he snapped it back down violently.

"We're being sandbagged! They're stalling. Their entire intent has been to stall from the very start. For what reason, though? What are they waiting for?"

Dr. Towers dropped into the easy chair across from Van Lynden. "At this time of year, the only thing that you wait for south of the line is winter," she replied.

"All right, let's go with that. What exactly does 'winter' mean in the Antarctic? What changes?"

"Well, let me see." Dr. Towers sat back in the chair, instinctively slipping into the tone of a practiced lecturer.

"Winter, or more exactly fall, marks the end of the Antarctic operations season. Environmental conditions that are difficult to cope with during the summer become absolutely unlivable during the remainder of the year. The weather deteriorates. Hurricane-velocity winds become almost a daily occurrence. Temperatures plummet. Up on the plateau you can get still-air surface temperatures in excess of one hundred and eighty degrees below zero.

"Everything shuts down except for absolute top-priority projects. All nonessential personnel, the 'summer people,' we call them, are evacuated. Sea transport becomes impossible as the ice pack freezes solid. Air and surface travel is attempted only in extreme emergency."

"Sweet Christ!" Steve Rosario muttered. "Why would anyone want anything to do with a place like that?"

Dr. Towers gave a little smile. "It's an acquired taste. Some of us old USARPs find wintering over… exhilarating. The point is, during winter down there you don't do much of anything except hunker down in your station and ride it out."

"How long does this state of affairs last?" Van Lynden asked slowly.

"It varies. Generally about seven to eight months, from the end of March or early April into November."

"That's it, then. Sparza, you clever bastard! That's it!" The USARP Director and the Assistant Secretary of State exchanged blank looks.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but what's it?" Rosario inquired.

"The Argentine game plan. They're freezing us out, literally. They intend to stall until winter shuts everything down in the Antarctic and kills any possible action we can take against them."

"That wouldn't have any effect on diplomatic efforts."

"Oh, yes, it would. Sure, we can talk… and talk and talk, and that's all. We can't even effectively threaten diplomatic and economic sanctions. They'll just grin at us and say that it's physically impossible for them to withdraw their garrisons at this time and they'd be telling God's own truth."

"They'll have two-thirds of a year free of outside interference. They can use that two-thirds of a year to stir up dissension within the Antarctic Treaty states and the U.N. Also, our government and that of Great Britain are bound to be distracted by other developing problems within that same time frame. By next November, it will be near as damn all impossible to regain any kind of political and diplomatic momentum on this. The occupation of the Antarctic Peninsula will be accepted as a fait accompli."

"Yes," Dr. Towers added, "and once one nation grabs a piece of the pie, everyone will have to grab for a piece. All of the Treaty nations will be staking out their territories. The United States will have to activate its claims out of sheer self-defense."

"Exactly. Given the poor geographic definition and the overlapping nature of these claims, this could trigger repercussions with the European Community, Russia, Japan… Hell, this could open the biggest geopolitical can of worms since the Yalta Conference. By this time next year, we could see military garrisons springing up all across Antarctica."

"With drilling rigs and mining operations following shortly afterwards as the occupying states try to financially justify their presence," Dr. Towers said bitterly. "The Argentines and their allies will be left holding the richest and most readily accessible claim. They'll reap the profits while the rest of the continent is torn apart. There must be something that can be done about this!"

"Offhand, I can't see what. Even if the United States or Great Britain opted for a counterinvasion, we could never equip, train, and deploy a polar warfare force before winter closed in. It looks like a done deal. Sparza is holding four aces."

The Secretary of State pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and tiredly massaged his eyes with the heels of his hands. "God, I'm going to hate briefing the Boss on this one."

A defeated silence filled the room, the kind of silence that makes those submerged in it ache for something to do to fill the void. Steve Rosario began to self-consciously organize one of the accumulated stacks of hard copy. Van Lynden sat back on the couch with his eyes closed. Dr. Towers flipped aimlessly through a folder of satellite reconnaissance photographs.

Then she paused, looking intently at one of the photos.

"Steve, when were these pictures of San Martin Base taken?"

"I don't know. Let me see the folder."

She held up the file for his examination.

"Oh, that's the latest set. We just got them in this afternoon."

"Do we have some of the other Argentine bases that are this current?"

"I think so. They're around here somewhere."

In moments she was riffling through the other photo files like a busy pack rat.

"The British stations. I need the ones for the British station too."

"Uh, I suppose they're down in the military attache's office."

"Get them for me, please," she requested crisply.

Rosario exchanged puzzled glances with his superior and went about the task.

When he returned, he found the Director of the United States Antarctic Research Program on her hands and knees, spreading photography out across the sitting-room carpet while the Secretary of State looked on in total mystification.

"Pass those down to me, Steve," she said confidently. "I think I may be onto something."

A quarter of an hour later, she sat cross-legged in the midst of a carefully selected accumulation of photographic blowups.

"I was right."

"About what, Doctor?" Van Lynden demanded.

"The Argys don't have a pat hand, Mr. Secretary. They're bluffing like crazy while they try to fill out a bobtail flush."

"What in the world are you talking about?"

She gestured around her. "Less than a month ago, I visited every one of these installations as part of the standard yearly tour of inspection made by the Antarctic Treaty Commission. At that time, the Argentines had just completed their resupply operation for the coming winter. I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. As usual, they had fully stocked for one full year's operation plus a six-month emergency reserve, the Antarctic standard.

"That, however, was for a total staff of maybe five hundred personnel. Now they have over two thousand additional troops down there and, according to these photographs, their supply dumps are no larger than when I visited.

"It's even worse at the captured British stations. The Argentines have brought practically nothing with them. They have garrisons of forty or fifty people drawing on supply bases meant to sustain six or seven."

"Are you sure about this, Doctor?"

"I'm positive. You don't become involved in Antarctic operations without becoming something of a fanatic about logistics. Antarctica is the only terrestrial environment where the human species cannot live off the land. You have to bring everything in with you, every gallon of fuel, every mouthful of food, every square foot of shelter. Even your drinking water if you factor in the extra fuel needed to melt ice. Some of my colleagues at NASA have said that it's simpler to maintain Space Station Alpha than it is Scott-Amundsen Base at the South Pole."

Van Lynden leaned forward intently. "What amount of supplies would be necessary to cover their shortfall?"

"Oh, a ballpark figure would be between eight and twelve tons per man."

"Let's round that out at ten tons per man. For a two-thousand-man garrison, you'd be looking at twenty thousand tons of supplies."

"Mm-hmm, and they're going to be needing more hard-sided housing down there as well. A lot of those new troops seem to be living in tent bivouacs at the moment. On the ice, you just don't winter over under canvas and come out of it in any kind of decent shape."

"I'm wondering why our intelligence analysts missed this huge shortfall," Rosario said.

"Probably overcompartmentalization," Van Lynden replied. "I gather that polar logistics is a rather specialized business, and I suspect someone forgot to invite in the appropriate specialist at the appropriate time. If it wasn't for Dr. Towers here, it might have slipped right past us."

The Secretary of State leaned back into the couch. "Twenty thousand tons," he said thoughtfully. "The Argentines don't have the airlift capacity to move that amount of materiel. It'll have to come in by sea."

"And soon," Towers added. "I'd say they have only two or three more weeks at most before the ice pack becomes impassable."

"What will happen if those supplies don't arrive?"

"The Argentines would have no choice. They'd have to withdraw their garrisons, or watch them freeze and starve in the dark during the polar night."

Van Lynden considered for a few moments more, then reached for the telephone and keyed for the Embassy communications center.

"This is the Secretary of State. I'm going to need a direct line to the President, please."