The Incredible Sparrow

By Frank K. Myers Jr.

After college, Martin Sommerville joined the Royal Marines; Great Britains premier naval force. During the Falkland Islands War with Argentina, he was a lieutenant, assigned to naval intelligence. When the War was over he returned to England to start a career as a ship designer.

Some time later, at the urging of his mentor, he packed up and left for greener pastures. First he journeyed to the United States. While there he worked as a designer, and met his fi ance, Betsy Kilmer. Sadly, Betsy was killed in an auto accident 3 weeks before their wedding. Grief stricken, he left the States for employment in the shipyards of China and Russia. Several years later he returned to England.

Once back in the U.K. he meets a new love, Dr. Cybil Simpson, M.D. She and her Father thrust him into an unexpected career as a university teacher, and an agent for the secretive MI 5.

In his newly found occupation he is assigned to a terrorism investigative unit, and given the code name The Sparrow. In this capacity, he and his new paramour, The Wren, fi t well together, always seeming to know what the other is thinking. Using this unusual gift, they soon become an indispensable force within MI 5.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491708040

Frank K. Myers Jr.

Frank Myers was born in Muncie, Indiana. He now lives with his wife on a lake near Tampa, Florida, where he tries to write something each day. When he lost his Mother at an early age, and his Father remarried, he entered the United States Maritime Service. After graduation, he shipped out in the Merchant Marine as a seaman. Soon thereafter, he transferred to the black gang as an assistant engineer. Over time, he worked his way up to chief engineer; later adding a masters license. After the War he returned home, married his high school sweetheart, and went back to school. In time he gained an engineering degree, a masters degree in management, and ultimately, a doctorate in marine science. ‘The Incredible Sparrow’ is his 6th book. Former books were; The Flight of the Sparrow, SBPRA, The Socotra Sparrow, Xlibris. The Big Book of Marine Surveys, Surveying for Small Craft Damage, The Commercial Fisherman’s Safety Manual, Marine Career Institute Press. He is not unlike the hero in his books. In fact, many of the episodes are taken from his personal experiences.

Book preview

Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Book 1

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Book 2

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Book 3

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Book 4

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Epilogue

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife Lea (my Cybil), who has always been an inspiration and given constant support.

Additionally I want to thank:

My many friends and colleagues, and my 4 children who provided thoughts and encouragement.

Prologue

20(30) hours May 14, 1982

In the darkness of the South Atlantic’s fall night, the British submarine, HMS ‘Stark’ sailed close to the coast of East Falkland. Since there were no pings on the Sonar, the captain signaled periscope depth and ‘All Stop.’

After the scope and antenna’s broke the surface, he glanced at the Loran screen. This showed him to be at the launch point on his orders. He directed the navigator to enter 51°44'S-57°46'W in the boats log. The Captain, scanning 360°, could see the distant sea buoy showing the entrance to Port Stanley, but no other lights. He quickly lowered the device and gave the order to launch the reconnaissance team, consisting of three hand picked Royal Marines.

The Senior Hookey Jeremiah Cox slapped the leader, a young Lieutenant named Martin Sommerville on the shoulder and said, Time to go mates, into the chamber with the lot of ye!

The small group’s mission; gather intelligence about Argentine troop placements, and the location of the deposed Governor, his staff, and a missing contingent of embassy guards. All of whom had been taken captive in Argentina’s April 2nd Falkland Islands invasion.

Cox, a Cockney Sea Dog, held little respect for rank, especially the reserves straight out of OCS. He was rebuked many times by superiors with little results. This disdain had met with; Ya don like it, survey me out. Of course, no one ever did because; a 25 year veteran of the submarine service likely knew the boat better than the commander. A fact Cox boasted of at the non-com club, back in Clyde.

Marty said, Righto Hookey, come on guys, you heard the old fart, let’s go.

They all squeezed into the lockout chamber. In their British navy-patented dry suites and waterproof rucksacks; they nearly filled the one and a half by two-meter cylinder. Cox swung the watertight door shut as each man donned his mask and mouthpiece. Cox dogged the hatch and looked through the porthole for a signal. Marty gave him a big smile and his middle finger. Cox shook his head in disgust and opened the valve. In less than two minutes the compartment filled with 4° Celsius seawater. Marty pushed the large red button on the outboard side of the chamber. An opening appeared to the South Atlantic’s depths. Each man in turn swam into the open sea. Marty, being last to emerge, pulled the Apollo-One towing vehicle with him. He pressed a reciprocal switch on the outside of the hull, and the opening disappeared. They checked their regulators again and adjusted the buoyancy compensators to 3 meters.

Marty looked at the yellow RAM dive watch and compass on his wrist. It read 02(00). He bent his knees slightly and motioned his companions to each grab a thigh. He energized the electric motor on their transporter, and the formation of divers headed west on a course of 270° at three knots. He figured a half hour would get them on dry land.

After 20 minutes, which seemed more like two hours, the nose of their power source touched rock and sand. They each adjusted their compensators to one meter and Marty resumed their course. He followed the sandy bottom, occasionally ducking a large protruding piece of rock. After another five minutes, they nosed up on the beach. Marty cut the power and they scrambled ashore.

In a crouched position, they carried the conveyance across the rock strewn beach. Their destination was a highway skirting a promontory that extended thirty meters into the sea. They quickly doffed their insulated suites. Even in their Long Johns, they shivered from the numbing cold. They changed into their dark colored street clothes and loose fitting jackets. Once clothed, they dug a trench near an identifiable penguin shaped rock. They each pulled out a Browning Hi-Power L9A1 semi-automatic pistol, a portable radio, and a sheathed Kabar knife from their packs. Marty produced a large black plastic tarp and nested it in the opening with enough left to cover everything. He placed this over the remaining gear, and Andy and Henry started covering the hole. Just before closing, they folded the two combat shovels and laid them in the trench, kicking the left over diggings over them. Henry cut a bush with the serrated blade of his knife and covered their tracks.

The three, still crouching, moved slowly up to the roadway made from packed sand and broken rocks, with Henry, still dragging the bush behind to obliterate any footprints. Before reaching the edge of the road, Marty tied an olive colored scarf to a scrub bush to mark the location. The wind, in this harsh Arctic climate, chilled them to the bone.

They hiked about half an hour. Only once, were they forced to hide in the brush while a dessert tan 4 by 4, loaded with Argentine soldiers passed by. After another thirty minutes, they came into the edge of Port Stanley, a city of 11,000 citizens, mostly British. Marty’s watch read 05(20).

Lights glowed through the window of a diner displaying a red flashing neon sign reading ‘OPEN.’ A small bell jingled as they entered. They walked over to the white Formica counter, each selecting a vinyl covered aluminum stool. A comely blonde came out of the kitchen and said, with a Cockney accent Wha’ll it be Gents.

Andy said, blimey Mates, This Dolly is one of us."

You be from St Mary’s? She asked excitedly.

A stones throw from them ringin’ bells of Le Bow, Lass.

"Well, blow me down; it does me body good to talk to someone from ’ome. How long ya ’ere?

Longs it takes, Luv. Longs it takes.

"Name’s Carol. Wha’ll you men ’ave.

I be Andy and these two Blokes is Marty and ’enry. ’Ows bout some tea and a plum puddin’?

I can do that, back in a minute, she replied.

Shortly, Carol returned with three steaming cups of Earl Gray. She reached into the frig and produced bowls containing large portions of pudding.

Just like back ’ome, Andy commented.

They devoured the dessert and Carol replaced their tea several times before they stopped shivering. Marty laid down a £20 note as he headed to the end of the diner and a sign saying loo.

Carol said, You guys must ’ave a boodle, I ain’t seen a ’orn of plenty’ in a coon’s age. Can I do anything else for ya?

Andy, smiling impishly, started to wise off as Marty, emerging from the loo, answering for him. Yeah Carol, we could use a four banger, you got one?

An ole Nissan I’d rent ya, Carol replied.

Marty peeled off a £40 note, For two days?"

Ya think I’m mug, I be needin’ a deposit, Matey.

He laid down a £100 note and waving another under her nose said. If anybody asks, it’s in the garage for repairs."

With a smile from ear to ear, Carol said, Gottcha mate, as she tossed him the keys.

Andy, threw another £5 note on the counter as he shoved a hand full of crumpets in a bag. Carol beamed.

Be lookin’ at’cha soon Luv, he called, as he turned to leave.

The trio went out of the door and walked to the car parked next to the diner. Marty climbed under the wheel as Andy fished in the pocket of his jacket for a map of Port Stanley. Intelligence had told them; the Governor and his staff were imprisoned in a building near the Government House. Their mission, confirm their location and ascertain their safety, while determining the invading forces locations and strength.

With Andy giving directions, Marty drove them into town. He followed the waterfront, working his way north to Ross Drive. Once there he took a turn west to a place Carol had recommended. It was ‘Kay McCallum’s Bed and Breakfast.’ Kay looked a lot like Carol, attractive in a matronly sort of way, talkative and knowledgeable about the city. Just what Marty and his guys needed. He turned Kay over to Andy, with instructions to extract as much local information as possible. He and Henry went out to reconnoiter.

They learned hat the bulk of the Argentine land forces, about 3,000 men from Argentina’s Fifth Army Corps, were concentrated around Darwin and Goose Green. General Osvald Garcia, the commander, had squads of soldiers making sporadic foot patrols into and around Port Stanley.

The captured Royal Marines and the Governor had been flown in a Lockheed C-130 Hercules to Montevideo in Uruguay. A strategic move to keep them from being available to resist the incoming forces. The Governor’s staff was situated in a beach house at Logger Duck, about 3 kilometers West of town. They were safe for the moment, but under heavy guard.

In her willingness to help, Kay had called a hooker acquaintance who knew an Argentine Commander. After several glasses of Petit Verdot, the Commander disclosed the invasion forces size, amount, and type of armament. The hooker, believing Andy was a potential client, willingly shared what she knew.

Upon Marty and Henry’, return to Kay’s, they found Andy had done his job of interrogating well. Most of what he found out jibed with what they picked up at the local pubs and restaurants they visited. What the trio gathered would be dispatched to the ‘Ministry of Defense’ in London, from the ‘Stark,’ later tonight.

Other than an occasional bomb falling, and two or three naval scurmishes; the Island people were not too concerned about the invasion. Oh sure, there had been some interruption of supply ships by the Argentine Navy, but the Argie soldier’s hearts were not really into the fight. The attack was a diversionary tactic in which neither side had declared war. The occupation was meant to take attention away from General Leoppoldo Galtieri political strife.

When they finished their interrogation the sun was sittin. They tipped the hooker and bought Kay’s silence with a £100 note. Marty headed Carol’s old Nissan back down Ross Avenue to the turnoff for the diner. They arrived back just in time to have a Gyro, potato salad and tea, before Carol closed for the day. She agreed to take them to their origination point for their return to the ‘Stark’.

The plan; recover their cache of gear and the Apollo, don their insulated diving suites, and after building a small bonfire on the beach, head on a reciprocal course to the sub. The ‘Stark’ would find and retrieve them; but… like Robert Burns’ epitome, the best laid schemes o’ mice and men oft go awry, was an understatement. Just as they rounded the last curve before the olive scarf, the dessert tan 4x4, they had seen the night before, sat on the roadside, with no one in attendance. That could mean either of two things. It had broken down and the occupants had been retrieved by another truck, or the soldiers were on patrol nearby. Marty said to Carol, matter of factly, Just keep on driving and don’t slow down. When they drove by the area, he saw no tire tracks from a second vehicle. They went another mile and after going around another bend in the road, Marty said abruptly, Stop here!

Geez—thanks for the warnin, Mate. Carol chided.

Sorry Luv, he said laughingly, Alright Guys out.

He reached into his bocket and gave Carol another £100 note, saying, Drive 2 or 3 kilometers, stop and turn around. Wait 15 minutes and drive like Hell back to Kay’s Bed and Breakfast, and don’t stop for anything, not even the loo, you got it?

Carol tried to object. But… but…

No buts and no stops, it’s our best chance. If they stop you, we and perhaps you are dead, or even worse; now go… and thanks again, you’ve done the Queen a great favor. Have a good life dear, cheerio, he said, as he leaned over Andy and kissed her on the cheek.

Marty, Henry and Andy were on their own now. Alone on the coast of a barren island with only brush for cover, and at least eight soldiers armed with automatic rifles on patrol nearby. The water between them and the submarine was 4 degrees Celsius. To survive the cold, they had to recover the Apollo, don their insulated diving suites, and cross the beach to the Ocean. An act from which; in the dim moonlight, would surely be detected by those on patrol. He said to himself, "You’re the Commander Marty, develop a strategy, and be quick about it!"

In the shadows of the low scrub bushes and behind an occasional sand dune, they hurriedly moved up the road toward the 4x4. Just as they got in sight of the truck, car lights came up from behind. As they headed for the brush cover, Marty, glancing at his watch said quietly, It’s been 20 minutes, it’s probably Carol, stay down!

The headlamps from Carol’s fast moving Nissan played on the truck. From his vantage point, Marty saw two soldiers standing by its tailgate. When Carol approached, the soldiers moved into the middle of the road with guns at the ready. They motioned for her to stop. She started to slow…

No Carol, no-no-dammit! He said in a loud whisper.

As though she had heard him, Carol floored the old Nissan. The soldiers, in surprise, responded with weapons fire which went wild. Carol, at 80 kilometers, clipped both of them. Sending them flying on a deadly trajectory.

Two down and six to go, Marty said aloud.

The sound of the shots brought the others running. Not finding the two at the 4x4, they split up; three searching each side of the road. First, they went North away from Marty and his team, giving them time to move closer. After only a few minutes, the soldiers found their companions where they had been thrown from the impact of Carol’s car. There was one on each side of the road, about ten meters from the berm. From the excitement in their voices and Marty’s spotty translation, it seemed they were both alive but badly injured. Calling on his college Spanish, Marty translated some of their words, like Medico, Hospital de campana and pero herido de gravedad for; alive but badly injured. The soldiers carried their companions back to the truck and gently loaded them in the bed. At which point a cacophony of Spanish was heard, most of which Marty could not understand, but he got the gist of the conversation. Finally, one of the soldiers, seemingly in authority, overruled the others. Three would take the injured to the Port Stanley hospital and the others would continue their patrol.

Henry commented. Wow, the poor bastards could die while their buddies make a decision.

That does help our odds," Marty replied.

Yeah, Andy said sarcastically, Be glad we’re trained to take orders from our leaders.

"Okay, smart ass, here’s an order, you take the short fat one, Henry, you get the skinny one, and I’ll do the big guy.

The three Argentine soldiers moved through the bushes toward the beach. They stopped near the Penguin shaped rock. One pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered them around.

The Marines, keeping in the shadows, made no sound as they crept up with their Kabars in hand. Just as the third man accepted a light from his compadre, they struck. Marty could not help but remember a rule his Grandfather had related to him from World War I. He had said. "Never light three on a match."

Andy and Henry immediately uncovered their gear. They stripped down to their Long Johns and slid into dry suites. They rolled the dead soldiers and their FARA 83 assault rifles into the trench, and pulled the plastic over them. They started shoveling. Once the opening was filled and smoothed over, they picked up their rucksacks, slung them over their heads, and cinched the straps. Prepared for a cold water swim they donned their tanks and masks, and headed for the surf. Marty and Andy carried the Apollo 1, as Henry dragged a pile of brush behind him. Just before they departed, Henry doused the dry bushes with a can of lighter fluid, and with a flip of his BIC, the fire blazed. Thus signaling the submarine. Marty looked at his watch, it was 2110. The total mission had taken less than sixteen hours.

Three days later, Harrier VSTOL Jump Jets from the ‘HMS Illustrious’ directed their efforts toward the invaders at Darwin and Goose Green, inflicting heavy casualties. The following day a division of Royal Marines landed and routed the remaining forces. The Argentine’ took heavy casualties while the Royal Marine losses were minor.

Chapter 1

1130 March, 2009

On a cold, damp day in March, Martin Sommerville stepped out of his rented Yaris automobile at South Shield’s, on England’s ‘North Sea’ coast. He stretched to get the kinks out. It had not been easy cramming his 6'4" frame into the only car available at Edinburgh International. After living in the States for so many years, he forgot about the size of the vehicles in the England.

He spent the weekend at his sister’s house in Livingston, near Glasgow. Leaving early, he drove the 240 kilometers to his old home town, arriving around noon. A room awaited him at the General Havelock Inn and Pub, where he bussed tables and washed dishes while in college. It was good to see the old place. He checked in, took his bag to a second floor room, and freshening up. After resting a few minutes, he went down to the bar for a snack.

He munched on a roast beef sandwich and sipped beer for nearly an hour. He was wondering if going to the old shipyard, where he served many years as an apprentice draftsman, would help him decide his future. Finally, he drank the last of his Stout, got up from the dimly lit booth, and after paying the check, went through the massive oak door to the Street.

The cold wind off of the sea caused him to zip his London Fog against the chill. He hesitated a moment, while deciding whether to take Metro 5 to the shipyard, or the ferry from the ‘Market Place.’ He took a whiff of the odors of Diesel fuel, fish, and food cooking in ‘The General’s’ kitchen. The familiar aromas made the decision an easy one. He would go by water.

He walked the short distance down Chapter Row to the terminal, arriving just in time to buy a ticket on the ‘Spirit of Tyne.’

The ship took him on a short excursion upriver, passing the Customs House, Royal Quays and the Tyne’s many other nondescript ship and boat yard’s. It disembarked at the Newcastle quayside.

The short trip brought back memories from Marty’ youth, remembering the many fishing trips with his father Isaac, on the family’s 20-meter trawler, the ‘Empress II.’ The fishing boat, a heavily built North Sea cod fisher, formerly belonged to Marty’s grandfather, William Sommerville. He built her to his own specifications 30 years before. After age caught up with William, his son fished her for several more years. Marty helped during summer vacations and on weekends. They done well, bringing in more cod than any other fishing boat in the fleet. Then one day; Isaac became ill at the wheel. Marty made him comfortable on the wheelhouse berth, and set about getting the vessel back to the South Shield’s fish house. Due to his radio distress call, an ambulance waited at the dock.

The 100-kilometer return from the ‘North Sea’ was heralded as a feat of some renown for a 16 year old. His accomplishment even made the ‘Shield’s Gazette,’ along with a picture of him. He posed, standing at the wheel of the little ship, with the radio’s microphone in his hand. The thrill subsided soon thereafter, when Isaac passed away from the stroke that had felled him. According to the Gazette article, his father taught his son well in things that would serve him for the rest of his life.

* * *

Before Marty returned from the States, he had considered himself a pretty good ship designer. After leaving Swan-Hunter, he freelanced for several years. He spent time working on hull design at Aker in Philadelphia, on superstructure design at Bollinger in Lockport, Louisiana,. and Ingalls in Gulfport, Mississippi. It was here that he received his US citizenship, and got a U.S. Coast Guard OUPV license, to operate vessels on sea trials. Afterward, he worked on Azipod designs for Polar icebreakers at the Admiralty yard in St. Petersburg, Russian Federation. For a few months he even worked on container ship construction at Yangzijiang, China, where he learned about the idiosyncrasies of Chinese steel. Even though he had an offer, he had refused to join Belfast’s Harland & Wolff, builders of the ‘Titanic.’.

After Dr. Robert Ballard, in the submersible ‘Alvin,’ located the ship in 1985 laying upright at a depth of 12,600 feet; all those who fancied themselves a marine salvor, came out of the woodwork. Many books and reports were written. Marty read one salvage report about a 6.5 x 4-meter bow section raised in 1998. In this report, scientists discovered that parts of the section were put together with poor fastenings. He mused, The use of better quality rivets would have kept the liner afloat longer, allowing time to evacuate more of the 1523 souls who perished.

In examining steel samples with intact fasteners, from a 1996 expedition, scientists also found that many rivets had too much slag, which resulted in these weak fastenings. In fact, the samples studied revealed wide variation in their quality.

On top of that, a search of Harland & Wolff’s archives also supported the fact that from 1908 to 1912, while under construction, rivets and riveters were hard to find in Ireland. In the recently published book, ‘What Really Sunk the Titanic’ by Jennifer H. McCartney & Tim Foeck, they uncovered even more forensic evidence to support the scientist’s findings.

All of this aside, Marty came here to gain a new perspective on his time at the Swan Hunter shipyard, where he worked with his friend and mentor, Colin Tipping.

Colin, a dapper old gentleman, sported a different bow tie each day, one in which he took great pride in hand tying each morning. Some thought Colin came from Nobility, fallen on hard times in the UK’s depression of the 20s. Never the less, he achieved much notoriety as a ship designer, claiming title to the design of the legendary ‘RMS Mauretania,’ a Blue Riband award winner, as well as the ‘Carpathia,’ the first and only ship to rescue survivors from the tragic sinking.

Fifteen years earlier Marty absorbed all he could from one mentor and at Colin’s urging, tendered his resignation from the shipyard, and embarked upon a career taking him to the far reaches of the world.

He came back to Tynside hoping to gain some insight into what the rest of his life would hold in store. Over time, he had lost track of his former mentor, and try as he might, he never did locate him. He did however gain, from a distant relative, a paper written by Colin. It provided a vision into what fate held in store for ship designers, and it was not good. In his writings, Tipping predicted the draftsman would be replaced by computers. A fact that had not occurred to him. This paper, among other things, caused Marty to have doubts about owning his own international ship design firm. Perhaps, this was not the time; or it might not even be the right venture for him

Had Marty been able to access Colin’s paper earlier, he might not be facing his present dilemma. Certainly, he was not convinced to pursue starting a design firm yet. He seemed to want more than what ship design offered. He thought to himself, Well after all, that was the reason for my trip, I need to think about this some more.

He retraced his route back to the Inn, arriving in time for a late supper. A little libation, and a good meal at the General’s, along with a good night’s sleep, might make things a little more clear.

The next morning, after checking out, he drove the 160 kilometers back to Edinburgh International airport to catch his return flight to London. The previous week, he had rented a flat at 45 Amway Street, in Lewisham. The area had a pub, ‘McNasty’s, on the corner at number 68, a bakery at 62, and a market on Deptford, one block over. It seemed like a good place to start his new life.

More confused about his future than ever, Marty arrived back in London at about three in the afternoon. The trip had not been long, but dropping off his rental car and catching a tram