the job?'
He turned enquiringly. Lami Dozo smiled. 'It would keep him alive, wouldn't it, and as a matter of coincidence, he does speak excellent French.'
'No time to lose. He should be on his way to Paris tomorrow.'
Lami Dozo picked up his cap. 'No problem. I'll fly down to Gallegos myself in the Lear Jet. Bring him back with me.'
'Good, I'd like a word with him before he goes.' As Lami Dozo moved towards the door, Galtieri called, 'You know what the day after tomorrow is?'
'Of course.' It was Tuesday, 25th May and Argentina's national day.
'You've something special planned, I trust?'
'We'll do our best.'
Lami Dozo went out, the President sighed, sat down at his desk and resumed work.
* * *
In London, Gabrielle Legrand, shopping in Harrods, found herself walking through the television department. A small crowd had gathered before a television set and the ITV news was on. The screen was showing a series of pictures of San Carlos Water, ships scattered at anchor in a cloud of smoke. Television film, as yet, was not available. An anonymous commentator was describing a raid as it took place, presumably that morning, Argentinian Skyhawks racing in to drop their bombs.
His voice lifted in excitement as he followed the track of a Rapier missile, there was the sound of a violent explosion as a Skyhawk was destroyed.
Several people in the crowd applauded and one man said, 'Got the bastard!' It was understandable. This was the enemy they were looking at. Planes dedicated to destroying their own boys. One of those boys was her half-brother, Richard. She knew he was on the aircraft carriers two hundred miles to the west of San Carlos Water but that was not safety. Helicopter pilots like Richard flew towards danger every day and their carriers were the constant targets of the Argentine missiles. Gabrielle prayed that God would protect twenty-two-year-olds.
She turned away, physically sick, Raul in her mind.
Thank God he's too old to fly those things, she thought, and hurried out.
* * *
Raul Montera, at that moment, was fifty miles off the southern tip of Argentina, five hundred feet above the sea, trying to nurse home a Skyhawk to port that had most of its tail missing, a plume of smoke drifting gently behind it.
The boy in the cockpit was badly wounded; Montera knew that and had long since abandoned any attempt at proper procedure.
'Hang on, Jose, not long now.'
'No use, colonel.' The boy's voice was very tired. 'She's going down. I can't hold her any longer.'
As the Skyhawk's nose dipped, Montera said, 'Eject boy.'
'And freeze to death?' The boy laughed faintly. 'Why bother.'
'Lieutenant Ortega,' Montera cried. 'Eject now. That's an order.'
A second later the canopy flew into space, the boy was catapulted out. Montera followed him down, already giving base the position, watching the parachutes drift, hoping that the air sea rescue launch would be in time.
He made a quick pass as Ortega hit the water, saw him break free of the chute. The small yellow dinghy inflated and, as he watched, the boy tried to climb in.
There was a sudden warning buzz from the instrument panel that told him how low he was on fuel. He made one more pass, waggled his wings and curled away towards the coast.
* * *
When Montera got out of the cockpit of the Skyhawk at the Gallegos base, Sergeant Santerra, the technical crew chief, was already examining the plane and shaking his head.
'Look at the tail, for Christ's sake, colonel. Cannon shell, at least four. Holes all over the place.'
'I know. We had a couple of Harriers on our tails on the way out of San Carlos. They got Santini. Young Ortega almost made it and ditched about fifty miles out.'
'Your luck is good, colonel. Amazing. I can't understand it. You should have been dead days ago.'
'I put it all down to the love of a good woman myself.' Raul Montera reached up and touched the legend Gabrielle which was painted on the side of the cockpit. 'Thank you, my love.'
* * *
When he
He turned enquiringly. Lami Dozo smiled. 'It would keep him alive, wouldn't it, and as a matter of coincidence, he does speak excellent French.'
'No time to lose. He should be on his way to Paris tomorrow.'
Lami Dozo picked up his cap. 'No problem. I'll fly down to Gallegos myself in the Lear Jet. Bring him back with me.'
'Good, I'd like a word with him before he goes.' As Lami Dozo moved towards the door, Galtieri called, 'You know what the day after tomorrow is?'
'Of course.' It was Tuesday, 25th May and Argentina's national day.
'You've something special planned, I trust?'
'We'll do our best.'
Lami Dozo went out, the President sighed, sat down at his desk and resumed work.
* * *
In London, Gabrielle Legrand, shopping in Harrods, found herself walking through the television department. A small crowd had gathered before a television set and the ITV news was on. The screen was showing a series of pictures of San Carlos Water, ships scattered at anchor in a cloud of smoke. Television film, as yet, was not available. An anonymous commentator was describing a raid as it took place, presumably that morning, Argentinian Skyhawks racing in to drop their bombs.
His voice lifted in excitement as he followed the track of a Rapier missile, there was the sound of a violent explosion as a Skyhawk was destroyed.
Several people in the crowd applauded and one man said, 'Got the bastard!' It was understandable. This was the enemy they were looking at. Planes dedicated to destroying their own boys. One of those boys was her half-brother, Richard. She knew he was on the aircraft carriers two hundred miles to the west of San Carlos Water but that was not safety. Helicopter pilots like Richard flew towards danger every day and their carriers were the constant targets of the Argentine missiles. Gabrielle prayed that God would protect twenty-two-year-olds.
She turned away, physically sick, Raul in her mind.
Thank God he's too old to fly those things, she thought, and hurried out.
* * *
Raul Montera, at that moment, was fifty miles off the southern tip of Argentina, five hundred feet above the sea, trying to nurse home a Skyhawk to port that had most of its tail missing, a plume of smoke drifting gently behind it.
The boy in the cockpit was badly wounded; Montera knew that and had long since abandoned any attempt at proper procedure.
'Hang on, Jose, not long now.'
'No use, colonel.' The boy's voice was very tired. 'She's going down. I can't hold her any longer.'
As the Skyhawk's nose dipped, Montera said, 'Eject boy.'
'And freeze to death?' The boy laughed faintly. 'Why bother.'
'Lieutenant Ortega,' Montera cried. 'Eject now. That's an order.'
A second later the canopy flew into space, the boy was catapulted out. Montera followed him down, already giving base the position, watching the parachutes drift, hoping that the air sea rescue launch would be in time.
He made a quick pass as Ortega hit the water, saw him break free of the chute. The small yellow dinghy inflated and, as he watched, the boy tried to climb in.
There was a sudden warning buzz from the instrument panel that told him how low he was on fuel. He made one more pass, waggled his wings and curled away towards the coast.
* * *
When Montera got out of the cockpit of the Skyhawk at the Gallegos base, Sergeant Santerra, the technical crew chief, was already examining the plane and shaking his head.
'Look at the tail, for Christ's sake, colonel. Cannon shell, at least four. Holes all over the place.'
'I know. We had a couple of Harriers on our tails on the way out of San Carlos. They got Santini. Young Ortega almost made it and ditched about fifty miles out.'
'Your luck is good, colonel. Amazing. I can't understand it. You should have been dead days ago.'
'I put it all down to the love of a good woman myself.' Raul Montera reached up and touched the legend Gabrielle which was painted on the side of the cockpit. 'Thank you, my love.'
* * *
When he
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