Choosers of the Slain

18

President Sparza maintained two offices within the Casa Rosada. One was the large and impressive reception office where foreign dignitaries, the press, and other such transients were greeted. The other, much smaller, and set well back within the residence, was where the real work of state was done and the decisions made.

Its furnishings were solid and comfortable and not excessively expensive. The bookcases that lined its walls were filled with a varied assortment of titles covering history, geography, current affairs, and the military sciences. There was also a scattering of personal mementos, a few family photographs, a sports trophy or two, and a delicate antique case clock, an heirloom of Sparza's grandmother.

At the moment, the presence of the President, the Minister of State, and the Chiefs of Staff of the three Argentine armed forces crowded it, overheating the little room. In the face of the warmth, however, the thoughts of the five men were on the cold.

"All of the reports from our Peninsula Met stations confirm that we have an early freeze coming in," General of the Army Juan Orchal stated. "The average daily wind velocities are increasing. We are seeing a steady drop of temperatures and the rapid development of sea ice off all coastal installations. The demand on our supply reserves is growing, and those field units that have only tent shelter are starting to have problems."

Sparza nodded and slipped a cigarette from the flat twenty-pack of Players resting on his desk blotter. Kindling it with an old-fashioned silver pocket lighter, he turned his attention to Air Force General Marcello Arco. "What is the status of the airlift?"

"As good as could be hoped for. As described in the deployment plan, all available Air Force, Navy, and civil heavy-lift transports are standing by to sortie as the opportunity presents itself. Our problem is that the weather at San Martin Base is starting to close in. We are operational maybe twenty-four hours out of every forty-eight. We are also limited as to the number of aircraft we can handle on the ground at San Martin at any one time. Also our aviation fuel reserves on the ice are dwindling. I am sorry, sir. We are getting stores through, but we are not working miracles."

Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Luis Fouga cut in irritably, "If we had built our supply depots up to an adequate level prior to launching this operation, we wouldn't be confronted with this crisis."

"You were involved in the planning sessions for Conquistador South, Admiral," Arco replied, an edge coming to his voice. "A logistical buildup of the size necessary might well have aroused the suspicion of the other Antarctic Treaty powers. At the time we deemed it an unnecessary risk, all of us!"

"Stand easy, gentlemen," Sparza said quietly. "We are not here to find fault with each other. There is no fault to find. All of the services have performed admirably during this operation."

Sparza made no mention of the overreaction of one of Fouga's officers that had led to the unnecessary sinking of the British research ship and the death of its captain. He had to keep these men functioning together as a team, and damaging Fouga's excessive pride would not help matters. When this crisis was past, however…

"The problem with which we are confronted stems from an unfortunate coincidence, the presence of a North American warship in our waters when none was expected, not from a failing on anyone's part. Admiral Fouga, what is the status of the supply convoy?"

"The ice-operations vessel Alferez Mackinlay, the fleet oiler Luis A. Huergo, and the tank landing ship Piedrabuena are all fully loaded and standing by to sortie from Rio Gallegos. The First and Third Destroyer Squadrons and elements of the First Escort Group and the fast coastal attack force are standing by to provide convoy cover."

"General Arco, status of the opposition?"

"No major changes, sir. The British defensive buildup in the Malvinas continues. Elements of two additional fighter-bomber squadrons and the Paratroop Regiment have been positively identified. A small British task group consisting of the Port Stanley guard frigate, the ice-patrol ship Polar Circle, and a small fleet auxiliary are currently covering the offshore petroleum facilities.

"The United States naval vessel is apparently holding on station in Drake Passage, three hundred and fifty kilometers south-southwest of Islas de Los Estados. Their nearest reinforcements are still more than a week's steaming time away."

"Thank you. Admiral Fouga, what are the chances of slipping the convoy past this single-ship blockade?"

"We don't need to slip past anyone. The fleet is fully capable of driving off this Norteno pest, or of sinking it, if necessary."

Sparza drew on his cigarette and sighed. "Admiral, I did not ask if you could sink this ship. I asked if you could get past it undetected."

The heavyset naval officer wilted. "No, sir. Given the Americans' extensive spy satellite network and their advanced seaborne sensor systems, it is unlikely we could reach the San Martin Peninsula without being observed and intercepted. As I have stated, however, if we sortie now, we could provide an escort of such overwhelming force that we could blast the Americans out of the water in seconds if they dare to interfere."

"I am not so certain," General Arco said flatly. "This vessel, the USS Cunningham, is the most sophisticated warship of what is still the most potent naval power in the world. Its systems are at least a full generation in advance of the best that we have. We should not take its potential capabilities too lightly."

"For God's sake, General. The damned thing is commanded by a woman!"

"A gun does not care who pulls its trigger."

"Gentlemen, let us leave the question of this ship's capabilities open for the moment," Sparza said, rotating his chair slightly to face his Minister of State. "Aldo, what is your opinion? Will the United States maintain the blockade? Will they open fire if we attempt to run a convoy through to our Antarctic bases?"

Aldo Salhazar marshaled his thoughts before replying. He sensed that his next words might be critical, if not apocalyptic.

"The United States is taking these events very seriously, very seriously indeed. Perhaps more so than we expected. Their deployment of a massive naval force, their attempts to mobilize world opinion against us, the presence of their Secretary of State in our capital, all indicate the depth of their concern. No doubt they perceive the political dislocation caused by our actions in the Antarctic contrary to American global interests.

"The current U.S. Administration has shown itself willing to use armed force if required to defend those interests, as it has recently demonstrated in Peru and in Central Africa. I believe that the captain of that United States naval vessel has, or will have, authorization to stop our convoy using whatever means necessary."

Sparza nodded. "General Orchal, a final question. Is it at all possible that we could carry through Conquistador South with the supplies available to us on the ice, plus what we can bring in by air?"

"I would say that it is not feasible," the Army officer replied. "At best, our personnel would undergo extreme hardship. At worst, there could be a catastrophe of monumental proportions. Given a late spring, we could have dead and dying at every one of our outposts.

"You do not play games with polar logistics, Mr. President. If we do not receive adequate supply, we must abandon the operation and recall our garrisons. There are no other options."

Sparza found that he had about three good draws left on his cigarette. He decided to give himself that long to make the final decision. Deeply inhaling the rich smoke of the first of those draws, he considered the future of his nation and himself.

Antonio Sparza was a fighting man. Throughout his life he had fought against poverty, against the prejudice triggered by the touch of Indian blood in his veins, and against the corrupt and deeply entrenched political machines that did not wish to make a place for the hard-driving outsider from the northwestern gaucho country.

He had learned the secret of victory in the boxing ring of the amateur athletics club of the small parochial school he had attended as a teen. Always go on the offensive. Explode out of your corner and drive into your enemy, no matter what his size, no matter what blows you might receive in return. The defender is the loser. Only the attacker can win.

That principle had stood him in good stead over the years. It had won him this seat in the Casa Rosada. He would not change his ways now. Deliberately, he snubbed out the butt of his cigarette.

"General Arco, have an air strike readied. Sink the American warship."

Shock rippled through the circle of men. Minister of State Salhazar half rose out of his chair. "Antonio, are you mad? That would be tantamount to a declaration of war on the United States!"

"No, not necessarily. The United States is quick to anger, but slow to take action over a single incident. Consider the historical precedents: the Pueblo, the Liberty, the Stark.

"I have no doubt that this will deepen the crisis, but we shall be able to perform damage control. We can claim it was an accident of some nature, a communications breakdown. Possibly we can shift some of the blame onto the American vessel itself.

"Afterwards, we can issue a formal apology and an offer to make reparations. The important thing is that we will be able to get those supplies through to our garrisons and the Americans will be unable to stop us."

"And what if they do not accept this apology, Mr. President? What if reparations are not enough!"

"Even if this is the case, Aldo, the San Martin Peninsula will belong to us and the Antarctic winter will have locked and barred the gate. Even a superpower such as the United States will be unable to contest that."

"The winter will not protect Argentina itself, sir," Arco said quietly.

"No, General, but world opinion will. During our attempt to reclaim the Malvinas, Great Britain did not strike at our military installations on the mainland, even when it was to their military advantage to do so. They knew that such an escalation would turn the diplomatic tide against them.

"The North Americans know this as well. Those actions they can take, the trade and economic embargoes, possibly a blockade of our coasts, we have expected these things and we have already made preparations to deal with them."

Sparza looked around his circle of advisers. "Gentlemen, when we were forced to conceive of this venture, we knew that we would be taking grave risks. However, we also knew that if we did not, everything our nation has worked for and dreamed of in the Antarctic for sixty-five years would be lost. This situation has not changed. If any one of you has some new option to present, I will listen."

His advisers could offer only silence.

The Argentine President nodded. "Very well, then. We simply must dare a little more. Admiral Fouga, you will order the supply convoy and its escort to sail upon verification of the sinking of the American destroyer. General Arco, you will plan and execute the attack on this warship, the Cunningham, as soon as possible."

The conference concluded and its attendees dispersed. As the Chiefs of Staff of the Army and Air Force descended the main stairs of the Casa Rosada, Juan Orchal glanced across at his compatriot.

"You do not look happy, Marcello."

"I'm not. It's happening again, Juan. Just like in '82, we are doing it to ourselves again. First, we assume that everything will go just as we have planned, and it does not. Then we assume that we will not have a fight on our hands and we do."

"Yes, but it's still not quite the same. We have learned a few things since Port Stanley, my friend."

"Maybe. But there we were only tweaking the tail of the lion. Here, I suspect we may be biting an elephant in the ass."

"I know that you were never as ardent about Conquistador South as some of the rest of us, Marcello. But you agreed to the strike commit at the last planning session. What else can be done now?"

"Nothing, I suppose. Nothing but to live with it." As they reached the foot of the stairway, General Arco felt a sharp stab of pain across his lower back. He recognized the spasm as the flare-up of a spinal injury he had received many years ago, ejecting from a Rapier-blasted Skyhawk over San Carlos Bay. The Air Force officer grimly found himself wondering if its return might be an omen.