The White Vixen (57 page)

“It is good that you called the base before we left the police station,” Winkler said. “Leutnant Speth will reinforce the guards.”

“I will feel better when the plane is off the ground safely. Then we can all get some sleep.” Schmidt rubbed the bridge of his nose.  Winkler could see his commander was very tired. Even for a man of Schmidt’s iron constitution, there were limits. “Oberstleutnant Steinhorst was recalled to Buenos Aires. He has left the base, is that correct?”

“Yes, Herr Oberst, as you ordered. He departed Ninth Brigade at 1200. You are in command of the strike aircraft.”

“Very good.”

Winkler looked out the window at the passing lights. He wondered briefly about
Steinhorst’s recall, but he had been in the Army long enough to know that the generals moved in mysterious ways. 

***

Ian was beginning to fear that they’d already used up their quota of luck on this mission, and they hadn’t even fired a shot yet. Every marine knew that luck would carry you only so far in the field, and then it would inevitably run out. So far, things had gone well enough, but if he’d had a gauge to keep track of his luck, the needle would surely be bouncing on “E”.

The seven kilometers they’d covered on Highway 25 had been harrowing. As traffic started to pick up, Jo slowed long enough for Ian to transfer to the box of the pickup, hunkering down there with Bickerstaff and Garrett. They had no cover, but Ian considered that to be a plus. This way, he could keep an eye on things and move quickly if events dictated.

Jo assured him she’d do what she could to avoid any roadblocks, and now Ian had trusted her with his life, and those of his men. He was comfortable with that. It took all his years of discipline to keep from shouting with joy when they found her near the farm. She sketched her story to him: the undercover work in Buenos Aires, the struggle with Schröder, her capture by the Bund, the showdown with Bormann, and her flight to the coast. Martin Bormann himself! It was almost too incredible to be true, and Jo had brought him down. This was some kind of woman, all right. If they got through this, he vowed to himself, he would marry her as soon as possible. He would not let this one get away.

Bickerstaff had noticed the Argentines’ lax security. No roadblocks, not even civilian police patrols. Had they really caught the enemy with his knickers down? Don’t bugger it up by talking about it, Ian advised. They should count their blessings. The men kept their eyes peeled, with Garrett covering their rear, the sergeant and Ian scanning to the sides and ahead.

The lights of the Ninth Brigade base passed on their right. Vehicles were coming out the base’s access road toward the highway, some with flashing blue lights. “They’re spinning it up,” Ian said to Bickerstaff. “Good thing we’re coming through now.” The big man grunted in agreement.

Ian took another glance at his men and then shifted his eyes to the road ahead, looking through the windows of the cab. Not for the first time, a random thought of imminent death flitted across his mind. He pushed it aside, but not with any sense of anger or fear. It was merely one more extraneous thought that had to be identified, dealt with and filed away. He was in enemy territory, his force had been divided, but he still had a mission to perform. SBS veterans he talked to over the years told him the fear wasn’t to be feared, so to speak, but respected. “Fear will keep ye alive, laddie,” an old Scot once told him once while relating hair-raising tales of jungle combat against the Japanese in Burma. “When ye dinna have nae fear in combat, that’s when ye get careless.”

He heard Bickerstaff and Garrett exchange one-word sentences. Months of hard training had melded his team into a single organism. The men could transition seamlessly from larger group to smaller, performing their tasks with efficiency and even a bit of élan now and then. Garrett, the young Welshman, had come along rapidly. He seemed to have a natural flair for this work. Bickerstaff, the muscular East Ender who learned to wield his wicked knife by training with Ghurkas in Nepal, had showed his courage more than a few times. Ian was glad they were with him.

Then there was Jo, in the cab, driving the old pickup, perhaps the bravest of them all. If they captured, the men would be POWs, repatriated after the war. Not her. Captured spies were still shot in many places, and something told him this was one of them.

He remembered how she’d been in Bermuda, on the beach, in their room…He had to force the memories aside. The
mission, the mission, concentrate on the mission. Lives are riding on it. A great many lives…

More lights up ahead, to the right, not as many but definitely a sign of activity. Ian checked his rifle, glad to see that Garrett and Bickerstaff followed suit without being told. Ian motioned to the glow in the east. Target, he signaled, and the men nodded in understanding.

They passed a two-lane access road, empty of traffic, and Ian rapped twice on the back window of the cab. The truck slowed, and Ian swung around into the passenger seat. “Time for a yomp,” he said. Jo’s face was an eerie, dim green in the light from the dashboard instruments. “That’s a hike, in Yank talk,” he added.

“I gathered that,” she said. “What about the truck? We can’t just leave it along the road.”

“Pull off-road and go in as far as you can. We’ll get out first.”

Five minutes later, Jo killed the engine and doused the headlights. They were a good half-mile from the road, and the coarse grinding sound she’d heard as the truck ran over a series of rocks told her they weren’t taking it further anyway. They left the Ford sitting in the darkness, engine ticking, and Jo was strangely sad. Driving an American-made vehicle had made her think of home, and she wondered if she’d live to see it again.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Chubut province, Argentina

Tuesday, April 27th, 1982

Colonel Schmidt checked his wristwatch again. Only five minutes had elapsed since his last check, five long minutes, but at least the launch time was that much closer. It was 1:15 in the morning. He had been working for twenty straight hours, since beginning his Monday by leading his men on a five-kilometer run. Fatigue was on the edge of his brain, fuzzing his thinking around the edges. He told himself that he was getting too old for this. This was a young man’s game. Yes, and when they found a young man who could do it right, he would retire to his estancia. Until then, he worked.

He paced along the front of the small building that had once served as the airstrip manager’s office and now was his headquarters. A phone rang inside. Seconds later, Winkler appeared from inside, putting on his cap. “Herr Oberst, that was the hangar. The ground crew is about to finish its pre-flight check. They will be ready for your inspection in five minutes.”

“Very well. What is the latest from Speth?”

“His last check-in was fifteen minutes ago, Herr Oberst, as I reported to you. All is quiet on the perimeter.”

Schmidt shook his head to clear the encroaching cobwebs. “Yes, you did. Forgive my forgetfulness, Klaus. It has been a very long day.”

“Indeed, Herr Oberst,” Winkler said, sympathizing with his commander, for he was just as tired as the older man. “But it is almost over, sir.”

Schmidt took a deep breath, sucking in the chilly night air, feeding off its energy. “Yes, it is. Well, let us see what our intrepid Air Force comrades have to show us.”

They strolled the hundred meters to the new hangar that was three times the size of the two old ones that still flanked the office building. It was large enough to hold three modern jet fighters, but only one was inside now, a French-made Super Etendard, the Argentine Air Force’s fighter-bomber. He had to grudgingly admit that the French made a beautiful aircraft. Schmidt was not an aviator, but he had made a point of studying this aircraft’s specs. Maximum speed at low altitude, 650 knots; weapons payload without external fuel tanks, 2100 kilograms; maximum combat range with this particular payload, 900 kilometers. Schmidt knew from the latest intelligence report that the English fleet was 800 kilometers away. The pilot would be cutting it close, but all he had to do was get close, after all.

Technicians in blue fatigues scurried around the hangar and fussed over the aircraft. Schmidt noticed that the Argentine roundel on the side of the jet, concentric blue and white rings with a blue dot in the middle, had been altered. Someone had painted a black German cross over the central blue dot. Schmidt had to smile at that.

A powerfully-built man in a flight suit, helmet under one arm, was circling the aircraft, pointing out things here and there, slapping some of the crewmen on the shoulder. His blonde hair was dazzling in the bright lights of the hangar, and his high cheekbones and flashing smile dominated his face. Schmidt swelled with pride at the sight of the man. “Hauptmann Ritter appears in good spirits,” Winkler said.

“Indeed he does.” One of the ground crew spotted the colonel and his aide and shouted for the men to come to attention. All of them stood erect, heels clicking. The officer in charge of the ground crew hustled forward and snapped off a crisp salute.

“Herr Oberst, we are ready for your inspection.”

“Excellent, Leutnant Berger. The aircraft looks magnificent.”

“She is a beauty, Herr Oberst, ready to strike a mighty blow for the Fatherland.”

The pilot strode over to them and saluted. “Good evening, Herr Oberst,” he said. “Or should I say, good morning?”

Schmidt returned the salute. “Either way will do, Hauptmann Ritter.” He extended his hand. The pilot’s grip was firm, and his blue eyes were dazzling. Schmidt thought it was due to the light, but the pilot’s pride was clearly evident. “Are you satisfied with the aircraft?”

“Yes, Herr Oberst. I would be honored to accompany you on your inspection.”

“By all means,” Schmidt said. He nodded at Berger. “You may proceed.”

It took fifteen minutes for the crew chief to show Schmidt every pertinent detail of the Super Etendard. Their last stop was to inspect the weapon, slung underneath the belly of the aircraft. Schmidt knew it well by now, but seeing it clamped to a jet fighter was different than seeing it sitting on the floor of an assembly room or unloaded from a crate. Now, it seemed…real. Not for the first time, Schmidt thought of how close they all were to being instantly vaporized.

“Ritter, please explain to me again how you will deliver this device,” Schmidt asked.

“Of course, Herr Oberst. I will approach the English fleet from the northwest, at only 200 meters of altitude. Thirty seconds from the launch point, I arm the weapon. I then will begin a climb to the launch altitude of one thousand meters. I must maintain a proper angle of ascent. When I am within one kilometer of the target, I shall release the weapon. It will continue climbing due to momentum to an altitude of 1500 meters. At that point it will be at the zenith of its arc and begin its descent. When it reaches 400 meters of altitude, it will detonate. It will then be about a kilometer from the launch point.”

“You, of course, will be much further away by then.”

Ritter smiled. “After releasing the weapon I will change course and accelerate to maximum speed and climb to about two thousand meters. I must risk exposure to enemy radar because I cannot be too close to the surface of the ocean when the weapon detonates. The shock wave will be much more intense at low altitude.”

“I would imagine enemy radar would be the least of your concerns at that point,” Schmidt said wryly.

“That is true, Herr Oberst. I do not expect any resistance. Our diversionary attack from the southwest should draw off whatever fighters the enemy can launch from his carriers.”

“Very good.
Hauptmann, I need a private word with you.” Schmidt steered the pilot a few paces away from the rest of the men. “In the last twenty-four hours, have you had any communication with Oberstleutnant Steinhorst?”

Ritter looked puzzled. “No, Herr Oberst. I understand that he was recalled to Buenos Aires. He was to
give me one final briefing at 2200 hours. I presume there are no changes to the mission?”

“You are correct, Hauptmann,” Schmidt said with steel in his voice. “The strike is to be carried out exactly as planned, do you understand?”

“Perfectly, Herr Oberst.”

Schmidt allowed himself a brief sigh of relief, then looked again at the young man. “I knew your father,” he said, his voice suddenly husky. “We attended
Gymnasium
together in Heidelberg. He was a brave man.” Schmidt had gone into the infantry, but Hans Ritter flew for the Luftwaffe and shot down six RAF Spitfires before being downed himself and captured in Scotland. Fortunately, he had survived to immigrate to Argentina after the war and sire this fine son.

“Thank you, sir,” young Ritter said. “I have always done my best to make him proud.”

“You will make him proud this night,” Schmidt said. If only the senior Ritter could have lived to see his son now, but cancer had claimed him ten years before. Schmidt extended his hand again. “Good luck, son.”

Security at the airstrip was good, but so far anyway, Ian and his men were better. His watch glowed 01:45. Fifteen minutes till the scheduled launch. Two minutes before that and Bickerstaff would begin his diversion.