Our Man in Argentina, a Novel of the War of the Falklands

By Lefvarch Christensen

An unexpected report shakes the foundations of British intelligence just hours before the Argentine landing in the Falkland Islands. With no personnel operating in the area and with a short margin of time, MI6 must urgently corroborate the veracity of the information sent from Chile, which will be confirmed by the majority of the allied secret services over time. To carry out this mission, they will turn to an Intelligence Service applicant who lived her childhood in Argentina and with no field experience in the world of intelligence, who will become a key part of this operation Trapped between two worlds, nothing will be easy for her, who will be involved in a game of power and ambition, discovering much more than she was looking for. Diana Fletcher will return to the country where she was born to fulfil this mission and face the ghosts that will begin to emerge from the shadows of her own past

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lefvarch Christensen
• Release date: Jan 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005389666

Book preview

Preface

At what point in life do we begin to die? At what point does one stop doing or begin to do that which will lead to death? What banality will trigger the terrible, but the imperceptible decision that will lead us definitively to our grave?

We don't know, or maybe we do? Everyone knows and knows it very well at the very moment when we come face to face with it.

How much dark folly, how much insignificant action that we repeat over and over again, even when it’s already late; so late that we don't even realize when we leave behind the point of no return. The one where death itself begins to have a deadline, burying us in that sempiternal agony that will claim us to continue dreaming this life, from the very moment when our destiny will begin to become certain. It’s up to each one of us to know or not to know how much of that agony we are willing to bear and for how long.

We can just sit and wait for death to come, not even suspecting all that we have done for it to overtake us.

How often do we set a course for it and some fortuitous event indicates to us that it's not our time? Is it perhaps the ability to escape it? Or is it simply that death wasn't in our way. Perhaps we do it countless times without knowing which of all these actions will lead us definitively to it.

Colin Fletcher knew all this better than anyone. He had fought in World War II and saved his own bacon more than once. When everything around him melted into a thousand pieces and falling apart in a firestorm, and braver and more valiant and valuable men were falling at his side, he would end the war with a few bruises and a burn on his leg that would never fully heal at all.

His beloved and dear friend Andy Blackwell had been the mentor of all this, especially his eventful returns to base after each mission, from the Battle of the Channel to that cold winter of 1944.

Colin always landed his, smoking de Havilland Mosquito, while Andy gallantly descended in his, which usually arrived in a pristine factory fresh condition. And it wasn't that he dodged combat; Andy was an ace, even in those wooden contraptions.

In 1943 he did something almost impossible for a bomber pilot, shooting down two one hundred and nines and putting two others to flight, before returning to base in north Lincolnshire, near the Humber. All this at lunchtime, of course, as that was his favourite time of the day. For some reason that was never quite elucidated, he would magically conjure up oddly cut prime beef, which he used to roast in a special way. Andy was a damn fine cook.

He was not born in England, or anywhere in the Commonwealth, even his mother and grandmother weren't subjects of the crown or anything like that. Yet there he was fighting for the honour and glory of the British Empire.

Andy saved them all on that inclement February morning in '44, when he took the hundred and nine behind him, over the waves, allowing the few survivors of his squadron to hide in the mist.

Somewhere on Norway’s coast, the rumble of anti-aircraft artillery surprised them, as they didn't know where they were being fired upon.

For several minutes, Andy disappeared from the radio, which made his comrades worry about him. They were somehow anxious for him to start the string of quips that amused them on the endless, and sometimes devastating returns to base.

When they heard him with one of his many jokes, they breathed a sigh of relief, but not for long.

—Did anyone see a battleship? A large big one and full of turrets, of course? —he asked.

As if he didn't know him, Major Stroud, the wing leader, said no.

—Well, because I've got her at twelve o'clock and with a dozen of 109s chasing me, I don't think I'm going to be able to sink her.

Don't wait for me for lunch.

Andy ran into the Task Group of the Bismarck's sister ship, the Tirpitz Battleship, in which they had improved everything that had been the cause of the former's sinking; he didn’t stand a chance against the hedgehog of anti-aircraft batteries mounted on her deck. He was never heard of again.

From then on, Colin would always notice his absence. Moses, as he was nicknamed, Moses Sarlanga, as he called himself, had a gift for sympathy. When he got drunk and his supply of alcohol began to windle, he used to gaze dreamily at the River Hull with an empty whisky bottle in his hand, waiting for the waters to open at the mouth of the Humber, so that he could reach a pub on the opposite bank, whose lights could be seen only when the fog and Nazis allowed it. The joke became a myth when, one morning, the American military police returned him to the base plastered, drunk as a skunk from that bar, but with his clothes dry. He never said how he got there; mostly because he couldn't remember.

His main concern throughout the war was football. He was never absent from the games played at the base during the endless lulls between missions. As he was an excellent player, after dodging everyone before scoring, he would shout as a match reporter: Sarlanga, Sarlanga... and with the delicacy of a gentleman, he would deposit the improvised ball at the even more improvised goal.

Andy Blackwell always talked about his idyllic country. A paradise on earth, where he would return to enjoy the most beautiful women in the world.

—You know what? —he once remarked. In my country, all the girls have healthy teeth.

And it was true. After the war, Colin entered the world of intelligence. And when MI6 assigned him to Argentina, he travelled with very high expectations. His wife Megan did not share his optimism. In that distant country, almost on the edge of the world, their youngest daughter was born and they spent the rest of their lives.

Remembering his old friend, he realised that, for some strange reason, Andy had been right, the girls in Argentina had beautiful teeth.

According to Moses Sarlanga's theory, it was because of the water, that the water of Argentina was rich in things good for the teeth and the water of Europe lacked all of them; that is why European girls tended to have imperfect teeth.

Andy's homeland was far from being a paradise in the 1960s, and Colin bitterly doubted that it ever had been. In those years, it was a fiery seething political inferno. Logan Finch, his boss, was concerned with only one issue: the desperate attempts of every retreating military government to use the Falkland Islands as a lifeline.

President Onganía, according to his reports, had it as an extreme alternative plan. However, he was either wise enough not to use it, or he was never that desperate. There was one plan, however, which was outside the government and which had Colin very worried. A group of politicians and military were proposing General Aramburu, a former coup president, as Onganía's successor, in order to avoid the inevitable: the return of Colonel Perón, the centrepiece of Argentine politics in 1970, to power.

The plan was simple, the III Army Corps would rise up, the Navy would mutiny and then Onganía would resign. To win the support of the people, they would then invade the Falklands and gain the popularity that the Argentine Armed Forces had never been able to achieve.

The ideologues were Colonel Eduardo Mallea Gil and above all Lieutenant Colonel Juan Carlos Allende. To Colin's concern, the operation was very well designed.

But something went wrong, terribly wrong. An urban nationalist guerrilla group kidnapped Aramburu and ruined the whole plan.

For weeks, Colin had been gathering information about this possibility from all the intelligence sources at hand, until by chance he had come across a girl, a member of the guerrilla group that called itself Montoneros, who gave him the necessary information. But it was too late, Aramburu was kidnapped on the same day that Colin reported it to London.

Although he knew he was on the outskirts of the city of La Plata, where he was being held, he was only ordered to remain an observer of the events. MI6 was not to intervene.

Part of army intelligence was desperate for him, but it was the CIA that seemed to be most concerned about the matter. Colin Fletcher stood guard for three days on the tower of a water tank, the same one that fed the neighbourhood where the house where the general was being held was located. What little he could perceive didn’t indicate anything special, or that anything dramatic was about to happen. All this went on until the CIA clumsily showed up.

The British agent, through his binoculars, could see with surprise a man known to him as a member of the Argentine army, giving the orders.

The subversive group's operation, which was called Pyndapoy, was a disaster from an intelligence point of view. The general was at home ease in the house, even playing cards with his captors in that game of rogues so common in those lands.

If the insurgents' operation was a strategic disaster, the one mounted by the CIA was similar.

When the snipers took up position in the tank tower, they didn’t notice the presence of the British agent who was forced to submerge himself in the water for several hours. Almost in a state of hypothermia, he witnessed the rescue attempt. Simultaneously, all the snipers opened fire and a group entered the house violently, in the usual American manner. Colin Fletcher could clearly see a shot pierce the head of one of the women on guard duty and go into the back of Aramburu's head. From then on, it was pandemonium.

Still alive, the general was removed from the scene by a group of army personnel in civilian clothes.

Soaking wet, Colin drove all the way across Buenos Aires in an old Italian car to the Central Military Hospital. With caution, a little money and influence, he managed to learn of Aramburu's death a few minutes after it happened.

Although tragic, the situation for Britain was unbeatable. Any attempt to seize the Falkland Islands was ruled out for the time being. Later that night, Colin Fletcher communicated in an unsecured way with people at the British embassy, to acquaint them with the events he had witnessed that day. He reported on the Argentine military man giving orders to American agents, but was careful not to name names; it seemed to him the best way. Many times, he had been overly concerned about his safety, but this time he thought that if he showed up at the embassy, which was under constant surveillance, it would be very suspicious. He didn’t know, however, that by this action he had taken the first step towards his own death.

Chapter 1

Vera Wild had lived in London for over 40 years, yet some people who had lived there for less time than she did still saw her as a Surrey peasant. Vera was not passionate about the countryside. She had not been out of the city for fifteen years, and on that occasion, it had been to share a short holiday with her family on the sunny shores of Spain; a far cry from her damp, nineteenth-century Peper Harow birthplace.

To get to Naval Intelligence, she only had to walk about twenty blocks to Whitehall from his little house in Camden. But since Room 39 had begun its endless merger with the other intelligence services, some second-line departments had moved to the Docklands in Greenwich, so Vera now had to take the tube to get to their work. That day dawned with a faint drizzle and for some emotional reason, she decided to take a bus, that dropped her off at her office door, but it took a long time to cross the whole of Westminster and the City.

She went up to the second flat as was her custom; as the bus passed through Covent Garden, it stopped at The Strand. There she remembered her first day's work. She didn’t remember the place well, but it seemed to be the same corner where, in August 1940, there had been a huge hole. She thought it had been a bomb, but bombs were not so clean; they usually crumbled nearby houses. This hole was a perfect cone. That same day she learned that it was a Luftwaffe aircraft, more precisely a Heinkel that had been shot down by the boys during the night.

She had seen a lot of things since she joined the navy. Vera remembered how she, and some young women during the war, wore those androgynous and disproportionate uniforms that even the crown princess used to wear. Now she saw girls walking carefree by where the crater once stood, which was open only one day; the next it no longer existed: it had simply been covered up. They didn't get the aircraft, out, or the pilot. They shattered, the experts in the office told her.

More than forty years later, very few people knew that the dive-bomber had been shot down just seconds before it was due to drop its bombs on Buckingham Palace, where the King and his family were that night. Intelligence had considered that this information would have affected the morale and shown weakness to the Americans at that time. In her long career, Vera had discovered that took a much longer time for secrets to cease to be secrets: a whole generation at least.

In those fateful days, Vera manned a telephone that communicated with a radar station in Brighton, from where the RAF informed the Royal Navy of Luftwaffe aircraft movements. When the action started, she would write it all down on a cardboard index card and run without delay to where the information was processed, where it was decided whether or not to move a ship in the Channel. In those terrible days, at any moment, the Nazis would pounce on lonely vulnerable Britain. So, they had to be on their guard.

Strangely, Vera arrived at the office a little later than usual. It was an old Victorian house that was being refurbished, so there was dust everywhere.

After hanging her coat on the rack, she greeted her co-worker Sandra, who was sipping tea while going through some papers she had to load into the hated computer. Sandra Moody had joined Naval Intelligence after the war, so she was a real rookie, even in 1982. Before she sat down, she pointed to the main front door.

Vera looked at it and exclaimed when she saw a glass door replacing the old rickety oak one.

—Oh Gosh, all this light in this pantheon.

Although she was cheerful, Sandra's well-calibrated ear detected the irony in her voice.

—And there's more she continued informing her, I think we have some illustrious visitors.

From her desk, Vera could now see the street and those young executives in expensive suits, working in the modern Chicago-style glass towers, recently built in the old abandoned harbour. Minutes later, she saw her boss, Duggan Munro arrive in his own car, which was something out of the ordinary. As well as being very early, it was even stranger that he didn’t leave his car in the parking space reserved for him at the main gate.

He entered quickly, greeted cordially, but only as a factual compliment, his thoughts were elsewhere.

He disappeared into his office, and Vera's intercom immediately began to blink. When she picked it up, she noticed something even stranger, calling her by her married name:

—Mrs Higgins, I need your help, please. It's urgent, —he remarked.

Duggan Munro was largely unfamiliar with the intelligence world in Latin America. His area had been the Iron Curtain, from Berlin to Istanbul. The only mission he had had on that continent, had been in Belize, investigating a communist infiltration that was nothing more than the work of the CIA, to destabilise the Guatemalan government. He had thwarted the operation and, at the same time, saved the government and British intelligence a major headache. For that action, he was rewarded twenty years later, with the head of that department which included that part of the world.

The office of the director of Southern Section of Room 39, which covered all of Latin America, was in absolute disarray because of the recent move. Vera thought her boss was calling her to help him sort out the mess, but it was far from that.

—Mrs Higgins, I need the files of last year's applicants.

—The ones that were to be destroyed? —asked the secretary.

—Specifically those.

—Sandra separated them to take them to Whitehall because we haven't been allocated any paper shredders yet.

In less than a minute, two piles, about two feet high, were on Munro's desk.

—Don't go away, please help me with this mess—he requested as he discarded the bulky files, some of them with videotapes, one by one. Don't waste time, just look for the women's ones, —he said.

—Anything in particular?

—Five and a half feet tall, maybe a little more. Interesting rather than pretty, hair lighter than dark.

He then emphasised:

—Above all, that she was born or lived in Argentina.

Vera paused a little in shock. For a few seconds, it seemed as if an eternity held her back.

—No, —she said to herself after she came back to reality and made a pout, —of course not".

Remembering her first day at work and Argentina that morning was just a coincidence.

Looking through file after file, it didn't take long for that face that seemed so familiar to her to appear, once again generating in her the same emotions she had just experienced.

—This one, perhaps? —she asked as she showed him the first sheet.

—Yes, thank God, this is it, I thought it had been lost. You know? her picture doesn’t flatter her.

—She has nice facial features, sir.

—That's for sure. All young women in the navy are pretty, —he said with an air of irony —but at some point, she will surprise us Munro reflected.

At what point, Vera wondered, all of those memories that seemed to be from another life, coming all together in that office forty years later. For what reason? After mulling over what her boss had said, she gave her opinion:

—Surely yes, sir, it's bound to surprise us all.

Duggan Munro read the report once, but carefully. On the cover was a huge red stamp that read very clearly: Rejected.

According to the record, in all tests, her effectiveness had been superlative. She had outshone all men in the tactical diver's course in English Channel waters; stable under pressure; decisions made: 99.9 per cent correct; five targets out of five at 1100 yards. The record looked perfect, except for the psychological report, which was categorical, even requesting her discharge from active duty.

Duggan separated the cover and the psychological report and hesitated once again. It was the only thing he had to show, so he definitely buried it in a drawer.

An old Bentley pulled up at the front door. The illustrious visitors had arrived. Vera recognised the car at once, and a person she carried deep in her memories stepped out of it. He did so through the back door without waiting for the chauffeur to open it. With him came two more men; one was Logan Finch, one of the highest members of the MI6 hierarchy; the other, less conspicuous, she used to see him on TV or in some Sunday newspaper.

Sir Henry Leach, even though almost retired, was one of the most important men in Mrs Thatcher's government. Strangely enough, he was wearing his Admiral's uniform, and not just any uniform: the outdated and somewhat old-fashioned for the times, uniform of First Sea Lord.

—How many apologies I owe you, my dear Mrs Higgins, —he said as he entered.

—I know you have been very busy all these years.

—Not like that dusty cellar in Pall Mall.

—You see, Sir Henry, the dust follows me everywhere.

The man laughed moderately and continued his flattery.

—Though I am getting older every day, —he remarked, —you are as charming as ever.

—Your lies are always a compliment to me.

The companions weren’t so effusive in their greetings and entered Munro's office without delay.

—This is my co-worker: Sandra Moody... Sir Henry Leach —she introduced them solemnly.

Sandra improvised an overly formal greeting, which Sir Henry stopped before she proceeded with an affectionate handshake.

—If my wife finds out about all the beautiful women here, she'll have me out of the service prematurely.

In that dusty cellar in East Pall Mall, sometimes the target of air raids, Vera had met Sir Henry. She had first seen him during the Battle of Britain and three years later at Bletchley Park with Andy Blackwell and Logan Finch, who were two young men in those years, as they prepared that attack that saved the lives of so many.

—Problems with Argentina? —Vera asked before he entered the office behind the other two men.

A feeling that had deserted her many years ago came over her, as her eyes slowly flooded little by little.

—That's right, my dear.

—I hope it's nothing serious—, she longed as she opened her eyelids wide to let the air from the still-open door dry them, though a tear managed to spill over at the last moment and roll down her cheek. Then she looked up at her old friend, hoping he wouldn’t notice this awkwardness, attentive to his response.

—We all hope so, my dear, we all hope so.

—Duggan, man, we're in a big mess, and you've got to get us out of this quagmire. Do you know Logan? don't you? and Graham Cameron?

—Not personally, —he replied, shaking the latter's hand.

—Well, this man is a bloody scaremonger, and, as you know, I am usually very considerate of alarmists; for if the information he claims to have is true, we shall need not only your help but God's help indeed...

Sir Henry walked over to the sideboard on the wall and then he asked:

—¿Where d’you keep that awful Kentucky Bourbon you like so much?

Duggan stood up and walked over to some wooden crates that the movers had left behind; from one of them, he took four glasses and, from another, the bottle.

—I don't think I can get ice –, he clarified.

I'm a sailor; ice was often a luxury we didn't use to have.

Only Sir Henry took a glass, the other two men took their distance.

Graham Cameron was cautious, as he was a man of humble Tory stock who had come a long way since he had begun his career in politics; so, he was more than terse in his appreciations.

—Let’s go to the point—he said. According to the information gathered by different intelligence agencies are reported La Junta is developing a complete and advanced tactical missile system.

The neck of the head of Room 39's South Section seemed to swell inside his shirt, and as the sweat stained it a little, he picked up the intercom to ask one of his assistants for something.

—Obviously, that information doesn’t come from Argentina, so you are in no position to know it. It was gathered by our agents in the East –Sir Henry, clarified, to Munro's relief, as he looked out of the window at the huge glass building blocking the view of the river, while slyly loosening his tie.

—There's a good chance it's a hoax so that we won't intervene in an invasion of the Falklands by la Junta. The Russians provided the information too quickly.

Cameron grabbed his oversized briefcase and began pulling out several satellite photos.

—Here we can see up close, at a facility in Argentina's military-industrial centre, what appears to be a fighter jet, a Super Etendard, I presume.

—A courtesy from our French friends—Sir Henry added. But that wouldn’t be a problem, I just wonder: what is a naval aircraft doing more than 500 miles off the coast and painted green?

—In the same place is a C130 Hercules, and our analysts say that small white figures hanging from its wings—, he said pointing to them—, are cruise missiles, which would be a real innovation. But our biggest concern is this. Do you see these trucks? —continued Cameron. We need to know almost urgently what they are carrying, they appear to be very heavy cylinders, similar to the ones we use in the United Kingdom to transport highly dangerous substances. We don't have very precise information, but before arriving in Argentina, the ship that transported them stopped in the port of Tripoli.

At that moment, Sandra Moody entered with a scrawled piece of paper on which was written tersely: Broadsword, manoeuvres, North Sea.

Munro read it and then made it into a small roll and stuffed it into one of his suit pockets. He then dispensed to his secretary, as Logan Finch stood up and explained:

—These photos were passed to us in strict confidence by a CIA agent, which I find very suspicious. The reality is that our agent on the ground has no idea what's going on, what's more, he's on holiday in the Brazilian Caribbean and we've had no contact with him for two days, and we need urgent field verification. That's where you come in, Duggan; as you told me in our early morning conversation, you have a man on the ground.

Munro took the last sip of bourbon, hesitated for a moment, then spoke:

—Not exactly a man.

A moment of silence allowed the sounds of the street to penetrate the room.

—A woman! Mrs. Thatcher will be more than pleased, —he remarked sardonically.

Munro left the file on his desk, stood up, and walked to the window to decompress the tension in his neck one more time.

Finch took it in his hands, and read it briefly before giving his opinion.

—She was born in Argentina and in the area of operations, that's good enough for me.

Cameron was more cautious and devoured the file without losing detail. Finally, he raised his objections:

—Really outstanding, but if she's so effective, why isn't it in service.

—Budgetary reasons, —Munro lied.

—The main obstacle I see, however, and a pertinent one at that, is her inexperience—, Cameron continued.

There's no problem with that, interrupted Admiral Leach. In recent years, British intelligence has been run by inexperienced people, —he added, looking questioningly at Logan Finch.

He immediately defended himself:

—We're at a dead-end anyway. This is the most serious prospect we have been presented with all morning and we have no time to lose; we should already be operating in the area.

—¿By now. Where is our man in Argentina? —asked Admiral Leach sarcastically.

—She’s not in Argentina.

A new silence fell over the room.

—Where the hell is she? For God's sake! —asked Finch this time.

—Onboard the Broadsword, on manoeuvres in the North Sea.

Chapter 2

The bow of HMS Broadsword disappeared beneath the waves crashing through the huge wall of water that stood in her way. Sailing into a storm was not a demanding test for this vessel, but since she had sailed from Sunderland harbour two days ago, the storm into which she had entered, had barely lost its verve.

In the CIC¹, the crew were tired of all the jolting, and even though these manoeuvres were specific to stormy seas, they couldn't wait to get back to port.

First Officer Ian Baldwin, though barely over 30 years old, was a stalwart of the old navy and didn’t take kindly to the changes he was witnessing. True to form, he tried to adapt to the rules before the rules adapted to him. Since the invasion had taken place on his ship, he had merely placed the invaders, the only two women on board, at opposite ends of the control room. The secret purpose for this was to keep them from talking to each other, as Lynn Brody, the radar operator, in the short time she had been on board, had proved to be an impossible chatterbox.

This decision was foolish, partly, because Diana Fletcher, the other female crew member, barely spoke. This was no reason for Lynn to back down; she never gave up.

According to Captain Earnshaw, she was an infiltrator for the Soviets and, if she put her mind to it, she could make even a mute speak. On the latter point, he was not wrong, for within a short time she had the silent and always aloof Diana Fletcher, making a breakthrough in her sociability.

The rest of the crew, a group of young men in the prime of their lives and at the height of their reproductive capacity, did not take care of the Navy's attempt to probe their behaviour by introducing two women into the crew. Without further ado, they soon set their sights on one of them. And the chosen one was Diana. Diana was prettier than Lynn; however, she took great care not to create conflict or misunderstanding. The distance she kept between herself and the male staff led them to make a bet about her: the usual one.

Of all the crew members, Desmond Jones, the helicopter pilot, had managed to get very close and seemed to be the most likely to bag the prize. The reason for this mysterious success was that Diana wanted to become a helicopter pilot and had, therefore authorised the close proximity.

But there weren't many places in 1982 for a woman in the Royal Navy, let alone a female helicopter pilot; nor was there one for the SBS, or Naval Intelligence. Women belonged to a separate branch of the armed forces, and as much as Diana was among the group making her way in that traditional man's world, she was still frustrated by the career she had chosen because of the idyllic affection she still felt for her late father. Her dream was to join the RAF as he had done during the war, but in her present time, it was something impossible. This became her first frustration. Thanks to family contacts, she managed to get into the WRNS, almost through the back door. From the very day she joined, Diana was a nuisance to her superiors. She applied at every single opening that was open to her. The first was applying to be a computer systems operator so she could get on board a ship. When she finally made it, she tried to join the SBS, but as far as she got further than any woman had ever gone before, she could not meet the physical requirements, which were beyond Diana's real capabilities. Moreover, in those years, the Service was an all-male affair. But Naval Intelligence often needed women for various tasks; in peacetime, there were usually very few of them, but Diana didn't give up. The Naval Reconnaissance Service sporadically requested staff, so she undertook a quite demanding training course, which she passed with flying colours; and although she had become eligible to apply for any position in British intelligence, all her applications were inevitably rejected. Before long she came to believe that Wrens, as they were colloquially known, would be the name for a group of women hikers visiting churches of the Stuart period, rather than the female branch of the Royal Navy.

Oliver Earnshaw, Captain of the Broadsword, was not very popular among his comrades, especially because of some unyielding positions that made him a very stubborn person. However, this would not have been an obstacle, in peacetime, to his promotion within the structure. Perhaps it was because of this unpopularity that he was chosen to carry out one of the first experiences with women on board warships. For some extra-curricular reason, he couldn't stand Diana and wasted no opportunity to have her reprimanded so that he could somehow get an excuse to get her off his ship. The latest dispute had been over hair length, something that was not entirely clear when a woman stayed on board a ship when she was at sea. The mission of the ship she was experimentally serving on during those manoeuvres was to provide anti-aircraft cover for HMS Coventry, which she was on that day when everything suddenly came crashing into Diana's life: half a mile to starboard.

Amid the storm, holding the position was already a challenge, so the Broadsword's abrupt, unannounced manoeuvre surprised everyone in the operations room at the heart of the ship. The Type 22 frigate turned 90 degrees across the bow of the Coventry without warning. From the latter, came a terse report: don't do that again, please.

There was no response from the Broadsword, which began to pull away from the fleet.

In the CIC, they had no information about what was going on, even after Baldwin himself showed up.

In absolute silence, and under everyone's gaze, he trudged along behind the positions until he finally stopped at one of them.

—Diana, he addressed her colloquially, —the Captain wishes to see you on the bridge urgently.

Baldwin had never addressed her by her Christian name, which surprised her greatly. She took off her headphones and left her post behind him. As she walked up the stairs in some humiliation and full view of everyone, she thought what had she done wrong. At last, Earnshaw was going to get his way and she was going to be sent to some land base, perhaps St Helena, to look after Napoleon's toilet.

—I don't know the reasons, Miss Fletcher, but you are requested in London—the Captain announced, without any preliminaries, as was his custom.

Somewhat perplexed, she asked formally:

—I’d like to know the reasons.

Diana's voice was prominent. It began with a very low tone that tended to take up all the space, while a bright, clear, absolutely feminine colour of voice was left echoing after her voice had been silenced. She never needed to raise it so that she could be heard.

—Damn it, I don't know—, the captain replied in annoyance, we're sailing in radio silence out of this storm, and, since ours can't take off, Sheffield's helicopter is on its way.

—I don't understand.

—I don't either. A Sea Harrier is standing by on the Illustrious, which is already. —he said as he looked at his pocket watch—, coming out of the storm for you to board. Earnshaw turned in his chair and continued to look out to sea, turning his back