Chapter Two Thousand Thirty-Two
3rd December 1970
Beagle Channel, Disputed waters, Argentine-Chilian border
In the final days of November, a tiny uninhabitable island which was home to thousands of seabirds seemed like an unlikely location to be a flashpoint. The trouble was that the island was something of a navigation hazard and the Argentine Government had decided that an automated lighthouse, just a steel tower with navigational lights and a radio beacon was something that was seen as desperately needed years earlier before the tensions had ratcheted up. The project had proceeded at the speed of bureaucracy so that when the task of actually building the tower began, the surrounding waters were patrolled by armed boats from opposing Navies. The heated missives that were flying back and forth between Santiago and Buenos Aires meant little to the local men hired to do the construction. They had a job to do, and they had lived in this region for generations. The understanding arguments between the old men who lived in the distant National Capitals were like the seasons. Things that came and went with little consequence.
That changed when the first shots were fired. No one ever found out just who was responsible, just that in a particularly tense moment someone probably panicked. The result was a sharp, inconclusive battle with both sides retreating. As they had withdrawn, boats from the Chilian Navy had shelled the island, destroying the island.
That might have been the end of the matter, except word leaked through British Military Intelligence to Santiago that two weeks earlier the tanks of German 5th Panzer Brigade, a key component of the 4th Panzer Division, had been seen being loaded onto freighters in Kiel. With the Dragoon Element of that Division was already present in Rio Gallegos. The imminent arrival of a highly mobile and potentially destructive force along what the Chilian Army considered one likely axis of advance was considered intolerable. Planned operations in Southern Patagonia had already included bottling up whatever forces were in Rio Gallegos and Tierra de Fuego, mining the harbors and approaches. This was all the casus belli that was needed.
Unlike other times in the past, the prospect of Argentina becoming a hegemonic power on the South American Continent had driven a series of unlikely events. The secret military alliance between Chile and Brazil had formed as a direct result, there were assurances that the covert pipeline of weapons and material from the North would proceed uninterrupted. That opened a window of opportunity to settle matters that had festered for more than a century. On the 1st of December, the Chilian Army attacked through the passes of the Andes Mountains, in the far South the open landscape proved just as indefensible as had been suspected.
Santa Cruz Province, Argentina
Cruising at transonic speeds while keeping an eye on the search radar, Reinaldo Contreras was understandably cautious. While the Argentine Army had melted away in the face of the initial onslaught their Airforce was a different matter. Intelligence had gotten that detail wrong. The Franco-Argentine designed Bloch Mirage III fighters that had been locally produced were not the obsolescent garbage that the CIA had assumed they would be and that had come as a rude surprise. They were more than a match for Reinaldo’s Super Tiger and engaging them in the wrong sort of fight with them got you killed in a hurry. The Super Tiger’s speed advantage had saved his life on the first encounter and that had been informative. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of them this far south.
Today, his orders were simple enough. Keep the FAA from interfering with the ground operations as the Chilian Army tightened the noose around Rio Gallegos and to dispose in any targets of opportunity as he saw fit. He understood that the idea was not to necessarily kill the Krauts dug in around that port city, but to keep them contained. Whether or not they were crazy enough to glass Santiago as an act of retaliation was an open question that no one wanted answered. Still, nothing was going to be allowed in or out until there were a lot of discussions with the German Government.
Flying on a racetrack course and keeping half an eye on the fuel gauge, knowing that there would be Hell to pay if he had to ditch on his way back to Aérea Chabunco if he ran out of fuel. Reinaldo scanned the sky. The FAA wasn’t inclined to come out and play this afternoon, which was a disappointment. The landscape below was even less interesting than the farm country of Missouri where he had grown up, something that almost defied belief.
That was when he noticed a plume of dust on the road below. Diving for the deck, Reinaldo saw that it was the local equivalent of a jeep. Whoever they were they seemed to be in a rush to get somewhere, something that struck him as being rather stupid. Where was there to go in a place like this? Lining up on the road, he flicked his finger on the trigger and watched as four streams of red tracers leaped out from the Colt autocannons tearing up the dirt road. The jeep was hit and overturned in a cloud of dust.
They weren’t going anywhere now, Reinaldo thought to himself as he climbed back up to a proper altitude. The last thing he needed was to get jumped by the FAA after finishing an attack run. The good thing about the General Electric turbojet was that it gave the Super Tiger a whole lot of thrust making rapid changes in altitude a snap.
“Good one Jefe” Reinaldo heard Pancho say over the radio.
He had gotten used to his Chilian Wingman over the last few months. Telling him about the present state of the US Navy had resulted in Pancho looking at Reinaldo in disbelief. The Super Tigers they flew were somewhat infamous in the United States for an incident where one of them managed to shoot itself down with its own guns. While Grumman had been unable to manufacture the F-11C and D models fast enough for the export market, the US Navy had turned up their nose at the plane. They wanted a “Point-Defense Interceptor” that was about as large, and maneuverable, as a city bus. Reinaldo and Pancho were doing real flying while their counterparts back in the States could only watch with envy.
“Whatever” Reinaldo replied, “That means you owe me a beer when we get back to base.”
“Ground vehicles don’t count” Pancho said.
“Says who?”
“Me.”
“You’re only saying that because you haven’t gotten anything today” Reinaldo said, “Who wrote the rules for this anyway?”
“Fuck off” Pancho said as they turned south.