The White Vixen (19 page)

Lazily waving the handkerchief on the end of a meter-long stick, Schmidt picked his way carefully over the rough ground. His heart was racing, but he felt exhilaration, not fear. Whoever this Englishman was, he couldn’t possibly be as rough a customer as the Russians had been, and Schmidt had taken the worst of what they’d thrown at him, at the front and in the camp, and come out alive. That would be the case here, too. He knew that a number of rifles were being trained on him and he was only a fraction of a kilogram’s pressure against a trigger away from entering the next world. Well, that was fine. The Englishman was in the same boat, so to speak.

Ian carefully walked out to meet the Argentine. He could see the man was armed only with a pistol, and that was holstered. Ian kept his own assault rifle dangling at his side by its shoulder strap, where it could easily be brought to bear. The Argentine was fifty meters away now, and didn’t appear Latino at all. Ian realized he had never met an Argentine, and assumed they’d be of Spanish extraction, like Arroyo and his men. This one was definitely of northern European stock.

The Argentine officer stopped when he was twenty-five meters from Ian, who took the hint and came to a halt himself. The man was smiling.

“Good morning,” he said in English, with a distinctive German accent.

“Good morning to you, sir,” Ian replied. “I am Major Ian Masters, 42 Commando, Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. And you, sir?”

The Argentine clicked his heels and offered a slight bow. “Lieutenant Colonel Gerhard Schmidt, 2nd Battalion, 7th Parachute Regiment, of the Argentine Army. Major, I must request that you and your men depart this island immediately.”

“On the contrary, sir, it is I who must request the same of you and your men. You are trespassing on sovereign British territory.”

From behind Schmidt, Ian heard the sound of a helicopter engine, and the second Haze lifted into view. He tensed. “Don’t be alarmed, Major,” Schmidt said. “My helicopter is merely going to take up station to protect us from shelling by your ship. He will not fire unless we are fired upon first.”

Ian fought to maintain his composure. Once Stone saw the second Haze in the air, the rules of the game might very well change. “I must repeat my request, sir, that you recall your helicopters and disembark this island. My government have been informed of your action, and have ordered me to reclaim this territory for Her Majesty.” That was not entirely true. Ian wasn’t sure if Stone had informed London about the Argentine landing, or if London had told the captain what to do about it, if anything. A little bluffing wouldn’t hurt, though. Probably.

Schmidt looked to his left, and then his right. “I see no English settlers here, Major. No buildings, except those old shacks left by the whalers many years ago, and they were Norwegians, if I’m correct. You are very far from home. What would your Queen possibly want with this rock? Is she that fond of penguins?”

“That is for the diplomats to debate, sir,” Ian said. The Argentine was playing with him, stalling to let his helicopters get into position. Very soon now, Stone’s hand might be forced. “I can guarantee your safety if you recall your helicopters now. If they make threatening moves against the ship, all bets are off.”

Schmidt was more serious now. “My government ordered me to seize and hold this island, sir. I intend to follow my orders. If your government disputes our action, they can take it up with mine.” He smiled again, and gestured with his free hand. “There is no need for bloodshed here, Major. Surely you can see that you are out-manned and out-gunned. A battle here would be senseless, would it not? Take your men back to your ship and go home. Your wives and children want you back alive, I am sure.”

“Sir, are you refusing my request to disembark?”

Some three hundred meters away,
Corporeo
Rodrigo Hernandez of the Chilean Navy Infantry was lying prone behind a scruffy tree, trying to stay comfortable. Easier said than done, but he had to keep that Argentine rifleman in view, about a hundred meters in front of him. The enemy soldier was in a foxhole at the far right flank of their position. The twenty-two-year-old corporal shifted himself again, trying to adjust a little bit and still keep his modified M16 assault rifle trained on the Argentine’s position.

He heard the squawk of the penguin and turned his head just in time to see the bird eyeing him from only a foot or so away. It was a big one, a female, he assumed, because he could see a nest partially obscured by some rocks. Hernandez had a thing about birds. As a child, he’d been clipped by a seagull while on his father’s fishing boat, and then he’d seen that American movie,
The Birds
, and it had terrified him.

“Go away!” he hissed at the creature. “
Vamos!
” The bird squawked again, but refused to move. “
Mierda
,” he swore, trying to think of a way to get rid of the damned thing.

It is sometimes the small things upon which history turns. Hernandez found a pebble with his left hand, keeping his right around the trigger guard of his weapon. He meant only to scare the bird, but his left hand wasn’t his better one, and he was cramped and cold besides, and his aim was off. The pebble hit the penguin squarely on the chest, and the bird retaliated. Its beak dug deep into the Chilean’s thigh, grabbing the flesh through the fabric of his camo pants. Hernandez cried out in pain, and his right hand reflexively pulled the trigger of his rifle.

Ian heard the sharp crack of the rifle and his body was moving within an instant of recognizing the sound. He dove to his right, rolled behind a scruffy bush and brought his rifle up. Schmidt was gone—no, there he was, scuttling behind some low rocks. Ian aimed and squeezed off a round, saw it ricochet off one of the rocks, and then a pile of small stones next to the bush exploded, followed within a second by the distinctive whipsaw snap of a high-powered rifle.

Any thoughts of getting Schmidt were banished by the need to find cover and survive. The Argentine marksman wouldn’t need much more time to zero him in. Sure enough, another round tore through the leaves of the bush, not half a meter above his head. Hugging the ground, Ian frantically searched his surroundings for something that might provide better cover.

His radio crackled to life. “Major, this is Powers, we’ve got the sniper targeted.” The sergeant’s voice was loud but calm, almost cheery. “On count of three, break for that boulder ten meters to your right. One, two, three!”

Ian didn’t hesitate. He sprang to his feet and dashed for the boulder as automatic weapons fire erupted from the British positions behind him and on the right flank. The ten meters were the longest he’d ever encountered, and he expected to feel the impact of a sniper round at each step. But none came, and he made it safely, crouching down and breathing heavily. Rounds were now flying overhead as both sides opened up.

He grabbed for his radio. “Hodge! Report!”

“Someone from the left flank fired off a round, sir,” Hodge yelled back, with the sound of gunfire in the background. “Don’t know which side. I’ve got their C.O. targeted. Should we take him out?”

Ian thought fast. Had Schmidt double-crossed him? That seemed unlikely; the Argentine would have known that any shot at Ian would have immediately brought return fire at him. Something was wrong here. “Negative, negative!” he shouted into the radio. “Keep them pinned down but don’t fire on him.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Hodge replied, almost regretfully.

Ian clicked his radio. “Arroyo, this is Masters, report!”

“We are taking fire, mi Mayor. The Argentinos have not moved out of their position.”

“Who fired the first shot?”

“I do not know, mi Mayor. I believe it came from our position. I will try to find out. I did not authorize it, though.”

Is he lying? Although Ian hadn’t known the Chilean that long, he’d sensed he could trust the man. But what if Arroyo had received secret orders to instigate some sort of incident between the British and Argentines? A naval war over the Dependencies could allow Chile to make a move elsewhere, perhaps Tierra del Fuego. Ian’s mind whirled with the possibilities, but he didn’t have time to think them through. “Hold your position, Arroyo,” he ordered.

“Si, mi Mayor.”

Think, man, think, Ian’s mind raged. Find cover. Get back to Powers. Get this under control somehow, before it really gets bollocksed up.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Island of the Penguins, Southwest Atlantic

January 1982

The second Argentine Haze had just taken up its position to the south and east of the English destroyer when an urgent radio call came in. “Oberleutnant Brunner, this is Winkler, we are taking enemy fire. Repeat, we are taking enemy fire. Proceed with your attack on the ship.”

The lieutenant felt a cold ball form in his gut. “Hauptmann Winkler, this is Brunner, where is the Herr Oberstleutnant?”

“He is trying to get back to our position. I have taken temporary command of the situation. Follow your orders, Herr Oberleutnant!”

“Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann!” Brunner looked at his copilot, Leutnant zur See Karl Friedrich. They had grown up together in central Argentina outside Cordoba, went through school and basic training together, and had been reunited in this helicopter squadron just a few months ago. Now they were going to war together. “Karl, prepare the torpedoes,” Brunner said, more calmly than he felt.

“Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.” Friedrich’s hands trembled just a bit as he began setting the controls for the weapons. The helo carried two Set-40 Soviet-made torpedoes. Brunner swung the helicopter around and began to set up his attack run. He would have to come in from the east, setting up a broadside shot on the Englishman, and he’d have to make it a good shot, because these older torpedoes would hit only what they were aimed at. Once they were launched, they’d go straight and true, but that was it.

Cambridge
’s radar operator had to shout to make himself heard over the growler, above the increasing volume of voices on the bridge. “Captain! Target Baker is turning away!”

Captain Stone’s instinct told him what was happening. “Sound general quarters!” he ordered, and immediately swung his field glasses toward the second Haze. As klaxons blared, he watched the Argentine helo swing around to the south, then east, but he was continuing his turn, now starting to come back in a westerly heading. “Mr. Fields, you have the conn, I’m going to CIC,” Stone announced.

He was down the ladder in record time, soon enough to hear the radarman shout, “Target Baker is turning again, altitude decreasing! Range, two kilometers!”

“Mr. Fields, order the Lynx to engage Target Able,” Stone ordered. “Gunnery officer, target the Sea Wolf battery and the Goalkeeper on Baker, and be quick about it, please.”

“Captain, message from the beach,” the radio officer said, “Major Masters reports he is taking fire.”

“Acknowledge and tell him to hold his position,” Stone ordered. He kept his eye on the radar screen. The blip representing Baker was making its move. “The bastard’s coming in for a run,” he said. “Helmsman, prepare for evasive action! Engine room, I want flank speed at my command!” A talker immediately relayed the captain’s commands over the growler.

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Alois, their missile battery is coming to bear!” Friedrich shouted.

“I see it,” Brunner said, trying to keep his voice calm. The intercom carried their voices easily despite the roar of the helicopter’s engine. “Prepare number one torpedo.” He would launch his first weapon at the Englishman and then break off to evade what would surely be a missile launch. The second torpedo could be saved for a second run, if they survived.

“Torpedo ready! Five seconds to launch point!”

“Easy now, Karl,” Brunner told his friend. “Remember our training.” He was only twenty meters above sea level now. Hopefully that would make it difficult for the English missiles to lock on. But it also meant he would have less maneuvering room.

The destroyer was steering straight south and hardly moving, the better to stay aligned with the landing beach. Brunner guessed that the English captain would order flank speed and steer to port when the torpedo was in the water, coming about to offer as slight a target profile as possible. So, he was aiming for a spot forward of amidships. He wanted to launch the weapon at about five hundred meters. Another second or two…

“Launch point!” Friedrich shouted.

“Fire one!”

Friedrich mashed a button on his panel. The helicopter lurched upward. “Torpedo away!”

“Hang on!” Brunner pulled the cyclic to port and increased his speed, hoping he could show his tail to the English missiles, giving them a smaller target. If they were heat-seekers, though, that might not be enough.

“Torpedo in the water!” several voices yelled.

“Gunnery officer, fire on Baker!” Stone shouted. “Evasive action! Flank speed, full reverse! Helm, left full rudder!” A missile leaped from the Sea Wolf battery, trailing flame and smoke, followed quickly by another. Men stumbled and struggled to find handholds as the ship lurched to its right and surged backward, and Stone could feel the throbbing of the engines through the deck plates. Going full reverse was a desperate gamble, but from a standing start he knew he couldn’t outrun the torpedo. He would have to outsmart the Argentine pilot somehow.