The White Vixen (21 page)

The adjutant looked at him with wide eyes. “Sir? Withdraw?”

Schmidt looked away, bringing up his field glasses for another look at the destroyer. “You heard my order, Hauptmann.”

Stone had climbed up the ladder to the bridge, but not without pain from a twisted ankle. Fields was hanging on to the command chair and doing his best to bring order out of near-chaos. “Captain on the bridge!”

“Damage reports, Mr. Fields?”

“Just coming in sir. Two reports of minor flooding in some forward compartments. Chief Bostwick is there now.” The growler phone buzzed, and Fields listened to a brief message. “Lookouts report four men overboard, sir. We’re lowering a boat now.”

“Very good,” Stone said, fighting to stay calm. The men needed him calm now, firmly in command. He turned to the talker. “Helm, come about to course 030. Engine room, all ahead one-quarter.” The young sailor relayed the commands. “Let’s get our starboard side facing the island,” Stone said. “If they come at us again we don’t want another hit on the port bow. Radar, what’s the other Haze doing?”

“He’s over the spot where the second one went down, Captain.” Stone grabbed a pair of binoculars and quickly picked up the Argentine helo, hovering over the ocean some two kilometers distant. There was some wreckage in the water, but he couldn’t see any swimmers. A yellow life raft popped out of the chopper and floated to the surface.

“Looks like someone survived, sir,” Fields said.

“Appears that way, Mr. Fields.” Stone took a deep breath. “Send a message to Masters, order him to withdraw to the beach. When we get our men out of the water here, send the boats ashore to pick up the landing force.”

“Sir?” Fields was wide-eyed. “Are we withdrawing?”

“I’ll not risk further loss of life for that bloody rock,” Stone said. “Not without orders from London. I’m off to the radio room.” He handed the binoculars to his XO. “Let’s not tarry, Mr. Fields.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“What’s the word, sir?”

Ian grimly handed the handset back to his radioman. “We are to withdraw, Sergeant.”

“Is the ship in distress, sir?”

“Not at the moment, but if I know Captain Stone, he’s concerned about another torpedo run.” Surviving one attack had probably used up all the ship’s luck for this particular engagement.

“The ship could bring down that other Haze, sir,” Powers protested.

“The Argie appears to be trying to rescue his comrades,” Ian said. “Shooting him down now would really play bloody hell with the diplomats, and our friends up on the hill would no doubt call in fast-movers from the mainland. Then it would be bollocks for sure, for all of us.” Powers shook his head, but Ian knew the veteran had to agree with him. A squadron of fighter jets could sink the ship and leave Ian and his command at the mercy of the Argentines, on land and from the air, and he had a feeling they wouldn’t be too inclined to show much mercy by then.

Ian clicked on his short-range radio. “Hodge, Arroyo, this is Masters. Prepare to withdraw. I repeat, prepare to withdraw, stagger your retreat back to the landing area.”

Hodge responded with a reluctant aye-aye, but nothing came from the Chileans. “Arroyo, this is Masters, report your situation, over.” Nothing.

“Could be his radio’s out, sir,” Powers offered. His tone was respectful, but his eyes betrayed his cynicism.

“Possible,” Ian said. “Sergeant, you’re in charge here until Mr. Hodge and his men arrive. Stay under cover and wait for the boats. I want to see what’s happening over there with the Chileans.”

“Let me send a man with you, sir,” Powers said. Before his C.O. could object, Powers whistled a rifleman over. “Garrett, you’re going with the major.”

“Right, sergeant,” the young man said, his voice carrying a Welsh accent. “Right with you, sir,” he said to Ian.

“Very well. Carry on, Sergeant. Corporal, let’s move out. Keep to the cover as best as possible.”

“Something’s moving out there,” Winkler said. Like his commander, the young hauptmann was observing through binoculars, his head barely above the level of their defensive position. “Movement by the enemy on the left, Herr Oberstleutnant,” he said. “They appear to be heading back to the landing area.”

“Yes,” Schmidt said, also observing through binoculars. He swung his back to the center of the English formation and picked up two figures scampering to the right. Going further in that direction, he saw the enemy troops dug in. The closest one was only 150 meters from the Argentines’ right flank. Crouched behind a spray of rocks, Schmidt caught a flash of color from the marine’s shoulder. A patch of some sort…There it was again. A flag, but not the Union Jack.

“The Chileans are on the right,” he said confidently. Unlike the English on the left, the Chileans weren’t pulling back. Was the enemy commander considering a mass assault on his right flank? That would be madness. He could focus his fire, cut them to pieces even before the destroyer could open up on them. Perhaps they were consolidating their position to give the ship a wider field of fire.

“Be on the alert,” Schmidt said. “They may be preparing an artillery barrage.”

“Should we begin our withdrawal, sir?” Winkler asked.

“Not yet. If they see us reveal our position, that may prompt them to open fire. Let’s see what they’re really up to. Pass the word to the forward positions on the right. Any movement forward by the enemy brings a warning shot from our best marksman. Just a warning shot.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.” Winkler grabbed his radio.

The nearest troops on the right flank of the Chilean position were now about a hundred meters away. The ground was rough here, and Ian had to push uncooperative penguins out of the way more than once. The corporal had been nipped on the arm, prompting a colorful Welsh profanity. Ian had tried to raise Arroyo twice more, to no avail. The Chileans had a backup radio, didn’t they?

At fifty meters, the nearest Chilean marine spotted them, swinging his rifle around. Ian gave the “friendly” signal, hoping Arroyo had been diligent in showing his men the signals they’d agreed upon while aboard ship. They were virtually the same in every language, and now this Chilean waved them forward. Ian and Garrett scrabbled the last few meters and hunkered down next to the Chileans.

“Where’s Capitan Arroyo?” Ian asked in his limited Spanish.

“About fifty meters that way, mi Mayor,” the private said, gesturing to his left.

“Gracias.” 

It took another three tense minutes to reach the center of the Chilean line. Ian recognized Arroyo’s lieutenant, Gomez. “Where’s Capitan Arroyo?”

Gomez pointed to a forward position, about fifty meters away. “Our man out there at the observation post was wounded, mi Mayor. Capitan Arroyo and a corpsman went to retrieve him. I believe they were both hit as well.”

“Is your radio working,
Teniente
?”

Gomez held up his comm unit. “Damaged by a ricochet during the shooting, mi Mayor. Capitan Arroyo has our other main unit.”

Ian looked through his field glasses. Three bodies were down by some rocks and bushes. One of them moved slightly. “At least one of them’s alive,” he said. “Teniente, you and your men will cover me. Corporal Garrett and I will go out there and see what we can do.”

“Si, mi Mayor.” Gomez began giving orders to his nearby troops in Spanish. Ian radioed a report to Powers, then looked over the ground between them and the wounded Chileans.

“Where are you from, Garrett?”

“Llangollen, sir,” the Welshman replied. Ian could hear the nerves in his voice.

“Up in the Dee Valley, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, that’s right. You’ve been there, sir?”

“Once or twice. Ever get out into the fields and clear away the bracken and gorse?”

“That I did, sir. Not much different than what we have around here, I’d say.”

“Well, keep your wits about you now, lad, and you’ll be back there soon enough.” Ian gave him a grin and a wink.

Garrett smiled back, but Ian could see him swallowing back his fear, and perhaps something a bit more bilious from his stomach. “Right, sir. I’m with you, Major.”

“All right, we’re at it, then. I’ll lead the way, follow me position by position.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The Argentines were only a hundred meters, maybe less, beyond the Chileans. Ian took one last look at the enemy through his binoculars. There were four or five men there, and they were looking right at him.

Oberschutz
Rudolf Henkel saw the enemy soldier leave his protective cover and scuttle a few meters to some low rocks. “One of them is moving out,” he said to the
Stabsgefreiter
lying next to him.

“I see him,” the staff lance corporal said, looking through field glasses. “He’s English. Probably an officer.” He radioed a report back to the command post.

Henkel was only nineteen, but had already risen to the rank of Chief Rifleman thanks to his proficiency with long-range weapons. His father, a decorated veteran of the
Afrika Korps
, taught him how to shoot at the age of seven, plinking at cans and bottles on their farm in Pomerania with a .22-caliber bolt-action rifle. The family emigrated to Argentina a few years later, and on his eighteenth birthday young Rudolf enlisted in the Army. His father’s influence helped him get into the Werewolves. This was his first combat operation, and his heart had just started to calm down from the firefight. His brand-new HK PSG-1 semi-automatic sniper rifle had proven to be just as accurate in the field as it was on the target range. It was a little on the heavy side, but Henkel was a strong young man, and taking out the three Chileans was easier than he’d imagined. Now another enemy soldier was coming out—wait, there’s another one—and they were big as life in his powerful Hensoldt scope. He made sure a round was chambered and then rested his finger outside the trigger guard, waiting for the order.

“Two of them now, Herr Stabsgefreiter,” Henkel said.

“Confirmed,” the young lance corporal said, excitement touching his voice. “Our orders are to fire a warning shot.”

Henkel was disappointed, but he was a proud young German soldier and would do exactly as he was told. “Jawohl, Herr Stabsgefreiter.” He sighted on a patch of scruffy ground two meters in front of the lead Englishman’s position, held his breath, found the spot-weld, where his cheek and the stock of the rifle came into contact, and squeezed the trigger.

Ian was thirty meters from the three downed Chileans when the ground in front of him erupted, followed immediately by the crack of a rifle. Sniper, he knew immediately. Had to be a warning shot, or he’d have been dead. Ian waved at Garrett, motioning him to get down under cover, and the Welsh corporal hunkered behind the rocks Ian had left seconds before.

Two of the Chileans were still alive, that was clear now. He had to get to them. He considered trying to raise the Argentine commander on the radio, maybe ask for a truce to retrieve the wounded men. He reached around to the radio clipped to his web belt.

Ten meters behind him, Corporal Garrett saw the major moving. Is he hurt? Is he reaching for his sidearm? The young Welshman shifted his eyes toward the Argentine position. The shot had come from that bunch of rocks, and now he saw the barrel of a weapon moving slightly. He’s getting ready to fire again! Garrett raised his M16A1 to his shoulder, sighted on the enemy position, and fired a three-round burst.

Behind him, Teniente Gomez saw the SBS corporal firing. He’d already passed the word that all the Chileans were to hold their fire until further orders, except for the three men he’d selected to support the Englishmen. “Selected fire! Pin them down!” Gomez yelled, and his three marksmen began shooting. Gomez aimed his own rifle but held fire, waiting to see what the Englishmen would do.

Henkel saw the flashes from the muzzle of the second Englishman’s rifle and ducked, just in time. Bullets snapped overhead and slammed into the rocks guarding his position. The Stabsgefreiter cried out, then slumped to the ground, unconscious. An enemy round had creased his Kevlar helmet, not enough to penetrate but enough to knock him out from the impact. The corporal’s radio chattered angrily.

Ian reacted instinctively to the sound of the covering fire from behind. His radio forgotten, he leaped over the covering rocks and sprinted for the Chileans, zigzagging and snapping off two quick bursts with his own M16. A part of his brain noted that no Argentine fire seemed to be coming his way, but he couldn’t take time to contemplate the thought. In seconds he had reached the wounded men and dropped heavily onto the ground beside them.

“Feldwebel Koch reports he is taking fire from the Chileans,” Hauptmann Winkler reported.

“Let’s get over there,” Schmidt said. “Are they advancing on his position?”

“Two men coming out, Herr Oberstleutnant,” Winkler said, running beside his commander, his radio to one ear. They heard the sounds of gunfire. A few of the Argentine troops were looking in that direction, but Schmidt noted with pleasure that most were still keeping eyes forward, watching the enemy’s center.

“Two men? Only two?” What was going on here? A recon? That would be madness. Not even Chileans were that stupid.