The Falklands Intercept Read online

  The governor’s signature black taxi was waiting. The chauffeur grabbed his bags and they set off cheerily for Port Stanley thirty miles away by a slow cinder road. Sitting in the back, Jacot marvelled at the scenery. The rolling and sometimes jagged hills set against the stormy blue-black South Atlantic reminded him of the Western Isles but on a grander scale as if built by a Hollywood studio. He got out at Government House where he was to stay. It was an odd looking building, similar to a rather grand boarding house in a windy part of Devon. The lawn was well tended and the glass panels in its large conservatory highly polished. Jacot was ushered to a small ante-room outside the Governor’s office and a matronly and most welcoming housekeeper spirited his suitcases away upstairs. It might be a small colony and the governor to most was more like a headmaster than an imperial representative, but the proper ceremonies were still observed, just as they had been all over the grander parts of the British Empire years before. The door opened and Jacot went in standing stiffly to attention in front of the governor’s desk and calling him ‘sir’. He handed over a sealed envelope.

  ‘Ah, yes Colonel. I understood you had something for me.’ The governor slit open the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper which he read.

  ‘Good God.’ He looked at Jacot. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Yes, as far as we can tell, sir. We should remember that the Argentine army and navy may not have been up to much but their intelligence people put up a good show.’

  ‘And their air force come to that’, said the governor looking at Jacot’s black silk gloves.

  ‘Quite so. I have only two copies, one for you and one for the Commander British Forces who I am seeing shortly. Lady Nevinson would like both copies destroyed. I think the intelligence is from a particularly exposed source.’

  ‘And does this refer to something about to happen or what?’

  ‘Not today or tomorrow but sometime during the 30th anniversary year. All the necessary action has been taken upstream. What you and your military commander have to do is make sure that nothing can happen once the stuff is on or near the islands.’

  ‘I assume you will be discussing it in detail with the military. Let me know the outcome.’

  Charming and understated in the way of foreign office officials, his Excellency the Governor gave Jacot coffee and pointed out some of the historic features of his office. Behind the desk was the large three part bookcase, famous to admiring Argentine schoolchildren as the backdrop in numerous photographs to “Mario B Menendez, General de Brigada and Gobernador Militar” of the Islas Malvinas. It’s always there in the frame whatever the caption and activity of the photograph – Menendez working, Menendez planning, Menendez in conference with General Galtieri, Menendez talking to the grateful people of the liberated Malvinas. To its left in the photographs was invariably a chalk drawing of Ernest Shackleton which Menendez curiously kept on the wall. It was still there. Restored to its rightful place in the room was a print of Annigoni’s portrait of the Queen which the Argentines had taken down after the British surrender and left in the corridor. Perhaps they always suspected theirs would be a temporary occupation. The governor wished Jacot luck on his tour of inspection and looked forward to seeing a little of him over the next couple of days. And then Jacot departed, once again in the taxi, for his first appointment at the headquarters of British Forces South Atlantic Islands.

  In view of the tensions over the Falklands, stoked by the re-elected president Christina Kirchner in late 2011 and early 2012, Lady Nevinson had had a mini episode of the vapours. These were thankfully rare but usually reflected a genuine inner worry bordering on panic. The usual signs were there – irritability with underlings, including Jacot. Drinking too many cups of coffee through the day and early evening appearances in Jacot’s office where she knew his tiny fridge was stocked with salads and reasonable white Burgundy. Her deep worries about the islands had surfaced in the train on their way back from Paris and from then on the clock had been ticking on Jacot’s mission. He had rather been looking forward to a trip to see the Defence Attaché and the SIS Station in Buenos Aires and had dropped a number of hints to Lady Nevinson about the importance of “getting on the ground” in Argentina, as well as the islands themselves. But, to his abiding disappointment, it would appear he could chat to them when they were in London.

  Ultimately, the safety of the islands was her call and she had only been partly reassured by the chiefs of staff that the islands were indeed secure, for the moment at least. She seemed to agonise more over the Falklands than the other military and intelligence problems she faced every day. ‘It’s British territory lived in by British people loyal to Queen and country’, was her refrain. She wasn’t particularly interested whether the islands could be retaken after being lost, again. Her view was that if we were negligent enough to lose them again then they might as well become Argentine. But she was very committed to making sure that everything was in place to give Her Majesty’s Government the best possible warning of any hostile intent in the South Atlantic and she wanted Jacot to check up on and audit the intelligence assets involved. That an emissary of the National security Adviser should travel South to poke his nose into intelligence matters was one thing. She also wanted Jacot to have a good look at the military arrangements for defending the island.

  The Governor’s taxi arrived at the headquarters of British Forces South Atlantic Islands where he was met by the commander, a naval commodore of the old school, who had been a junior officer on the nuclear powered hunter-killer submarine, HMS Conqueror, that had sunk the Belgrano.

  ‘Good morning Colonel.’ Jacot saluted and then shook his hand. ‘Commodore Simon Mayne, Royal Navy. At her ladyship’s service I suppose.’ Mayne had a cheery grin coupled with a distinctly Nelsonian air. Like many submariners he appeared to have no interest at all in the regulations governing naval uniforms. He looked like a character from a Pinewood Studios film about Second World War submarines – big leather jacket and big leather boots with his naval forage cap set at a jaunty angle. But he clearly knew what he was doing and Jacot noticed immediately and approvingly, that his subordinates seemed slightly nervous in his presence – definitely a good sign. In small faraway garrisons it was too easy for the military formalities to be dispensed with and a familiar and ultimately inefficient atmosphere to take hold.

  Jacot handed over the envelope to him.

  After reading it he seemed unperturbed. ‘Sneaky bunch, the Argies. Have to hand it to them, it’s a clever wheeze. I will give the necessary instructions and thank the good Lady Nevinson for her concern. I will modify the exercise we are due to show you the day after tomorrow to take into account this intelligence. We had intended to practise what we would do if the Argentine Special Forces, the Buzo Tactico, managed in some way to blow up our four Typhoons; instead we will assume that they have pulled off the little scheme your signals intercept suggests and that our aircraft are immobilised through deliberately contaminated aviation fuel. In the meantime I will summon the head RAF ground wallah and tell him to tighten the checks on fuel purity. I am pretty sure they do quite a lot of checks anyway. These Typhoon fighters are amazing and the RAF certainly know how to fly them, but the maintenance is a bit of a nightmare I gather. I think we will also tighten physical security on our fuel supplies. I am going to enjoy bullying the RAF.’

  ‘I am sure that will be a good idea Commodore.’

  ‘Oh and Jacot I’m under no illusions who you work for and I know she is worried. I will put down the new measures on paper so you can show her.’

  He had an enjoyable, if tiring, couple of days in discussions with the military and was taken through various “event scenarios” and the plans to meet them. It was clear that the J2, Joint Intelligence, staff were seriously on the ball in this part of the world. Jacot was mentally drafting his report for Lady Nevinson throughout the process and those he met clearly understood this. He hoped they didn’t find him awkward, but he knew the kind of awkward and
difficult questions Lady Nevinson would ask him and the kind of awkward and difficult questions the prime minister would ask her. It would be political, reputational and historical suicide for any British Prime Minister to lose the Falklands – again.

  It had been a number of years since Jacot had carried a rifle and he was struck by just how much more potent certain weapons systems had become in recent years. The huge interactive radar map in the underground operations room at Mount Pleasant showed precisely the locations of our submarines in the South Atlantic. Most people thought of submarines as platforms on which to carry mechanical torpedoes, but they were much more than that these days. Their electronic intelligence gathering capabilities were state of the art. Their improved torpedoes couldn’t miss and would send Argentine ships to the bottom of the sea without warning, just as the Belgrano was tragically and reluctantly despatched all those years ago. And if push really came to shove they could launch cruise missiles at bases on the Argentine mainland – even the defence ministry or the Casa Rosada itself, the pink and very kitsch presidential palace in the heart of Buenos Aires, would not be safe.

  He was impressed too by the young soldiers from a traditional English county regiment who formed the garrison. Most had served in Afghanistan, some more than once, and had the easy grace and calm unhurried efficiency of men who knew what they were doing.

  But still Jacot was uneasy, as Lady Nevinson was in London. Our defence and early warning arrangements were well planned and well run but they were still designed to meet the kind of threat we expected the Argentines to pose. A seaborne attack would be suicidal, like jumping into a pond at the bottom of which lurked a Great White Shark in the shape of our latest submarine. Jacot noticed from the ops room that the submarine on station was the appropriately named HMS Ambush. An airborne attack likewise. A commando raid to disable the four RAF Typhoon fighters permanently based on the islands might have a chance but Mount Pleasant was ten miles from the coast – it seemed unlikely that commandos could land undetected. They might try a landing on remote West Falkland but with no air or sea superiority any Argentine troops who got ashore could be easily rounded up at leisure.

  All this was obvious enough and within the capabilities of the British to handle. But what if the Argentines tried something different – carried out a raid that they knew would fail or started a war that they knew they would lose? It was the intelligence analyst’s ultimate nightmare. It was exactly what the Egyptians had done in the Yom Kippur War of 1973 – as a result they came within a few hours of pulling it off. Even a lost war forced the Israelis to the negotiating table.

  As part of the training programme and as a courtesy to Lady Nevinson, during Jacot’s visit the garrison would practise one of its defence plans for the RAF base at Mount Pleasant to counter a particular Argentine attack scenario. It was one that Lady Nevinson had expressed an interest in personally – in other words it was keeping both her and the prime minister awake at night.

  On the third day of his visit very early in the morning Commodore Mayne arrived to pick Jacot up in a white Land Rover Discovery. He was clearly in a good mood and keen to show Jacot what the garrison could do in a crisis. He smiled a lot and gave the odd chuckle as he outlined the exercise scenario.

  ‘Basically the whole thing has been going on for some hours. We’ve seen the Buzo Tactico off. I really wanted you to see the climax. Our aircraft are out of action but we have established that even if the Argies manage to get a few special forces types onto the airfield, they can’t do it in strength. And we doubt they would be able to bring with them the stores required to deny the runway to British reinforcements. They would have to bring in additional aircraft. HMS Dauntless the new destroyer which is steaming to our east just within territorial waters can track and destroy forty-eight air or surface targets at any one time. Its Sea Viper missile travels at Mach Four. One enemy aircraft might get through but not much more and the airfield has its own protection with the latest Rapier Missiles and anti-aircraft guns.’ Jacot was impressed. Mayne chuckled ‘Haven’t had so much fun since I was down here for real. But just to set Lady Nevinson’s mind at rest we have for the purposes of the exercise cut the length of the runway by two thirds.’

  They were waved through the front gate by a heavily armed detachment of RAF Police. Commodore Mayne, driving at breakneck speed, drew up to one of the fortified hangars where the RAF Typhoons were stored supposedly out of harm’s way. A number of disgruntled looking fast jet pilots were in attendance. Scrambled in the early hours of the morning they had rushed to their aircraft only to be told that all four Typhoons were out of action because of contaminated fuel. It was a fighter pilot’s deep instinct to take to the air and they were unimpressed to be left out of the exercise. After all, the entire defence of the islands was supposed to revolve around them and their extraordinarily capable machines.

  A military Land Rover pulled up. A tall, tough looking man leapt from the driver’s seat. Jacot could see from his badges of rank that he was the Sergeant Major of the infantry detachment. He couldn’t have been anything else. He saluted, smiled conspiratorially at the Commodore and started unloading SA 80 rifles, GPMG machine guns and boxes of blank ammunition from the back of the vehicle.

  ‘Don’t just stand around’, the Commodore bawled at the group of RAF personnel, ‘go and help the infantry.’

  Once the pilots and their ground crews had been deployed at the double into what passed for a defensive position around the hangars, the still grinning Sergeant-Major disappeared off at high speed to rejoin his men on the other side of the airfield.

  ‘Let’s get back in my vehicle Colonel. I need to listen to the radio.’ The Commodore drove rapidly to the side of the runway, lit a cigarette and listened intently to the air-traffic control net. There was only static. ‘We might have a couple of minutes to wait. Let me explain one thing quickly. I said we had shortened the runway by two thirds as if the Argies had managed to block it off in some way. See that red and white marker post – that marks the end of the usable runway – for the exercise anyway. We haven’t put any barriers up – too dangerous.’

  The radio burst into life. ‘Mount Pleasant Control this is Blackbuck leader, over.’

  ‘Mount Pleasant, send over’, the control tower replied.

  ‘Blackbuck leader, entering Falkland Islands airspace in figures five. Are we clear for low-level pass, over?’

  ‘Mount Pleasant, yes, over.’

  ‘Blackbuck leader, roger. Blackbuck Three is a few minutes behind us and looking good. Out.’

  The Commodore smiled. ‘Here we go’.

  They waited for a few minutes. The Commodore’s binoculars were fixed on the Eastern approach to the airfield.

  Jacot caught a glimpse of sun glancing off something metallic in the distance and then heard that strange tearing noise made by fighter jets just before you can hear the roar of their engines. A pair of RAF Typhoons, perfectly aligned, screamed in from the East and flew the length of the airfield. They banked and disappeared over Wickham Heights, the hills to the north of the air base and into the distance. It was suddenly quiet again and along with the moaning of the wind Jacot could hear cheering from the troops taking part in the exercise.

  ‘I didn’t tell them what was going to happen’, said the delighted Commodore before chattering into the radio for a few minutes.

  Again Jacot heard that slight tearing noise. This time the Typhoons came in from the West, even lower. As they came into view plumes of red, white and blue smoke billowed from their exhausts. They flew the length of the runway and then soared almost vertically into the sky.

  ‘Marvellous, bloody marvellous’, said Jacot. The cheering continued in the background.

  ‘Mount Pleasant, this is Blackbuck leader. We’d love to do it again but we don’t want to run out of fuel. Heading for our first tanker rendezvous. Should be back at Ascension in time for tea.’

  ‘Blackbuck leader, thank you and good luck. The weather looks
good at Ascension.’

  Jacot turned to the Commodore, ‘Great stuff. Lady Nevinson will be most re-assured.’

  The Commodore replied, ‘Those aircraft were not armed. Obviously, if they were bombed up it would take more re-fuelling tankers to get them down here from Ascension Island but it should be no problem for the RAF. They got very good at it once again last year flying direct from their bases in East Anglia to Tripoli, and we did it in ‘82.’

  ‘Mount Pleasant, this is Blackbuck Three.’

  ‘Hang on, this is the climax’, said the Commodore fixing his eyes to his binoculars once more.

  A single C130 Hercules transport aircraft hove into view on the horizon, the pilot adjusting his approach with the aid of air traffic control. He was coming into land.

  ‘It will be tight for a Herc on the shortened runway’, said Jacot.

  ‘Don’t worry these guys have had years of practice in Helmand. If the pilot knows what he is doing he’ll be fine. The Yanks once landed an early variant on one of their carriers, without arrestor gear.’ Just as the plane reached the start of the runway it was hit by a fierce side wind. The pilot corrected … ‘Jeez, he’s too high to make it.’ The Commodore looked a little concerned.

  All they could hear on the radio was the stressed heavy breathing of the pilot. At the last minute he applied full power and with a roar of engines overshot the runway. As the plane climbed slowly they could hear the co-pilot anxiously calling out the airspeed. For just a couple of seconds the high-pitched stall alarm kicked in shrieking its warning. The Commodore went pale. Once he had enough speed the pilot banked, went around, and started his approach again.

  A worried looking Commodore grabbed the radio ‘Hallo Blackbuck Three this is Commodore Mayne, Commander British Forces South Atlantic Islands. Look, just land normally. Maybe the wind is too strong.’