The White Vixen (58 page)

After scouting the perimeter and noting the position of the enemy sentries, Ian and his men had quickly sketched out a plan. The runway ran east-west, and with the wind blowing steadily in from the ocean, it was safe to assume the aircraft would taxi to the west end of the strip and take off to the east, into the wind. Bickerstaff set four timed charges near sentry positions around the western end of the airstrip toward the south, covering perhaps a quarter of the perimeter. Once the charges went off, the big sergeant would begin firing on the Argentines from the south, moving quickly to the west. Hopefully the enemy guards would think it was a massed assault and react accordingly.

Ian and Garrett, along with Jo, worked their way around the northern perimeter and managed to find a spot near near the eastern end of the runway, a low hill with a decent view of the airstrip. As Ian expected, Argentine troops were in evidence here, but there were too many of them to deal with directly. Bickerstaff’s diversion would hopefully draw them away. If not, he and Garrett would have to do some dirty work themselves.

They’d been able to observe the hill from atop another one about fifty meters away, enough to conclude it was a good launch point for the attack on the bomber, but Ian would’ve preferred getting into position well in advance. Not possible this time. They’d have to hustle down the little gully that separated the hills, make the short climb, eliminate any resistance, and launch the Stinger. Garrett’s look in the moonlight was as good as spoken words: Can we make this any more difficult?

Garrett had been carrying the missile launcher, already loaded with one missile, while Bickerstaff carried the backup missile, passing that on to Ian when they separated. The loaded launcher weighed thirty-five pounds, which was enough of a load by itself, but its bulkiness and five-foot length made it all the more difficult. Still, they’d trained with these weapons enough times to get somewhat comfortable with them. It wouldn’t take Garrett long to unlimber the launcher, sight on the bomber and fire. All he needed was a few seconds to enable the missile’s infrared sensors to lock onto the jet’s exhaust. Ian estimated they would be about 200 meters from the end of the airstrip when they were in position. The plan was to fire the first missile when the jet was coming down the runway. If by chance they missed, they could load the backup and fire after the plane lifted off. The Stinger had a speed of Mach 2 and range of five miles, so Ian wasn’t worried about the bomber getting away. All Garrett needed was a clear shot. The missile would do the rest.

Bickerstaff would wait till the missile launch, then break off his attack and run like hell for the beach. Ian knew they’d have no chance to make it to the original extraction point, several kilometers to the south; they would have to contact the sub by radio and hope
Reliant
could successfully pick up Hodge and his team, then steam north and send a boat ashore to get them. Ian knew the odds of pulling that off would be slim indeed. He tried not to think about that. Downing the plane was the important thing. If they didn’t, a lot of good lads would die.

They’d assumed the Ninth Brigade squadron would launch several minutes ahead of the strike aircraft, so Hodge and his men were probably in action right now. That would give them a head start to the beach and perhaps increase
Reliant
’s chances of getting north soon enough to pick up Ian’s team. On the other side of the coin, news of Hodge’s attack could very well be sent to this airstrip, and any security officer worth his salt would become very cautious. Ian looked at the strip through his field glasses one more time.

Jo Ann hunkered down in the chilly, damp grass next to Ian. He had a good plan, and she thought their chances of pulling it off were decent. Getting safely to the submarine was another question. One thing at a time. She had the Luger she’d brought from the plane; the Luger P08, she remembered, had an eight-round magazine and fired a 9mm bullet. She’d used two rounds on Bormann, and had Willy’s full clip in her pocket. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use it.

In the moonlight and the light from the strip, she could see movement on the hill they needed to use to launch the Stinger. One man at least, probably two. Jo hoped they would be looking away, toward the explosions, when the time came to take the hill. There was very little cover between the hilltops and alert guards could easily cut them down well before they got within handgun range. Ian and Garrett each had MP-5 submachine guns, but using them might alert the rest of the base.

So many things to think about, problems to deal with, options to consider. Jo marveled at Ian’s calmness. Garrett appeared a bit more wired, but still in charge of himself. He’d do well. Jo had been in dicey spots before, but not with so much at stake. Fonglan Island seemed very far away right now.

Ian looked once more at his watch. “Any second now,” he whispered to Jo, on his right, and he motioned to Garrett on his left. The men brought their weapons up.

There was a small flash from the southwest, and a thumping crack echoed across the flat airstrip. Then another, and another. “Go!” Ian hissed, and they were up and running down the hill.

Ritter had nearly completed his slow turn at the west end of the runway when the cockpit lit up and the aircraft shuddered. The pilot looked over his right shoulder in time to see another explosion, out in the tree line less than 200 meters from him. Enemy attack! A quick glance above revealed no sign of aircraft. Commandos, then. The SBS and their British Army cousins, SAS, were much feared among the Argentine soldiers. Ritter forced himself to concentrate on his takeoff procedure, expecting any second to feel bullets striking the canopy. The nose was properly aligned on the center line of the strip. He needed only another minute to power up his engines. If he released his brakes too soon, the Etendard would never clear the end of the runway. It was almost too short for a normal takeoff. Fortunately he’d practiced several takeoffs earlier in the day, before the weapon was loaded. He’d been able to take off easily, but now he had to allow for the extra weight of the weapon, so that meant extra time to build up thrust. Normally that wouldn’t have been a problem, but under enemy fire, it was a big problem. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead. He prayed the Oberst and his men could give him another forty-five seconds.

Schmidt and Winkler were in front of the headquarters building, watching Ritter’s jet in its graceful but slow turn at the far end of the runway, when the first explosion came. Instinctively, the men dove for cover behind their staff car. Schmidt drew his Luger. Winkler’s radio erupted with excited voices in German and Spanish.

“Leutnant Speth reports the perimeter is under attack in the southwest!” Winkler shouted. “He is moving his men to that location.”

Schmidt’s mind was racing. Going for the aircraft when it was nearly stopped, on the ground, made sense. But if he were assaulting the base, he would not rely on just one attack. “Winkler!”

Two more explosions ripped through the night air, then a fourth. “Yes, Herr Oberst?”

“Order Leutnant Resch and his squad to reinforce the eastern perimeter. Immediately!”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.” Winkler yelled instructions into the radio. Within seconds, there was movement in the old hangar to their right, which the security detail was using as its barracks. Resch and his men had come off duty a few hours before, but Schmidt had ordered them to remain awake and ready to move until the plane was safely away. Now he was gratified to see a dozen men hustling out of the barracks toward a waiting troop truck.

Gunfire erupted from the southwest. Schmidt peered over the hood of the Mercedes, expecting to see rockets screaming toward Ritter’s aircraft, but he saw none. What, did the English hope to bring the jet down with small-arms fire? Ludicrous!

The fighter-bomber was moving now, much too slowly to please Schmidt. It would be another minute before Ritter could get it in the air. Schmidt had watched the practice runs earlier in the day—the previous day, now. The Super Etendard was a big, heavy aircraft, fast and graceful in the sky, its natural element, but not on the ground. They had to buy Ritter enough time.

Still no rocket fire on the jet. Schmidt thought that most odd indeed. Could the English have been stupid enough to rely only on small arms? Of course not.

Resch’s truck roared past them, down the gravel road flanking the airstrip. In a few seconds they would be at the perimeter. Schmidt looked past the truck, and saw the hill on the northeast edge, overlooking the airstrip. There was movement on the hill. Schmidt leaped to his feet and yanked open the driver’s door of the Mercedes. “Get in!” he screamed at Winkler. The adjutant barely had time to scramble around to the passenger side and climb in when Schmidt gunned the engine and jammed the accelerator, turning down the road toward the bouncing troop truck. The rear of the heavy car fishtailed and sprayed gravel, but Schmidt kept it under control.

Inside the command building, the young lieutenant acting as the flight controller lost his nerve. He heard the explosions and chattering machine guns, looked out the window and saw a troop truck racing past to the east, and yelled into his microphone at Ritter. “We are under attack! Take off now! Now!”

The loud voice in his helmet angered Ritter. “Calm down, you fool!” The idiot, didn’t he understand, the Super Etendard was not a Porsche, you could not merely stomp on the accelerator and go. He took a few critical seconds to glare out of the cockpit toward the command center. That’s when he saw the troop truck speeding away, next to the runway, followed by a staff car. That could only mean one thing: enemy troops were near the end of the runway. Ritter swallowed, forcing himself to return to the task at hand. Only a few seconds more….there. He released the brake.

Ian was leading the way up the other hill when he saw a form in the moonlight, moving past a tree, suddenly silhouetted in the light from the airstrip. A man with a gun, looking away from them, toward the airstrip and the action beyond it. In the distance Ian heard a jet engine spooling up, and another sound, a truck engine, much closer. No subtlety now. Ian raised his MP-5 and squeezed off a burst at the guard. The man’s body jerked as three of the rounds found their target.

On his left, Garrett was firing as well. Jo had her Luger up and sweeping in an arc, looking for targets. None appeared, and they were at the top of the hill, moving quickly through a thin stand of trees, and suddenly the airstrip was in front of them, surrounded in blue marking lights.

At the far end she saw the jet, its running lights blinking, a fiery glow coming from its exhaust ports. It was starting to move toward them, toward the ocean and freedom.

Jo looked to her left and saw Garrett calmly unlimbering the Stinger launcher, his MP-5 on the ground beside him. There was movement in the trees beyond him. “Ian!” Jo sighted with the Luger and squeezed off three quick shots. Ian rose to a semi-crouch and brought his MP-5 to bear, firing over Garrett’s head with a three-second burst. Men screamed in the darkness.

Something whizzed past Jo’s head, and an instant later she heard the crack of small arms fire from the direction of the airstrip. The troop truck was pulling to a stop not fifty meters away, and two men were already standing up in the back and firing at them. The jet was still far down the runway, too far away for a clear shot. The troops—

Ian recognized the situation instantly. “Garrett! Fire on the truck!” Without hesitating, the Welsh corporal swung the launcher toward the Argentines and pulled the trigger. The Stinger’s launch rocket belched fire from the rear of the tube and the missile streaked away, almost too fast for the eye to follow. The warhead’s sensors locked on the hot engine of the truck. Three seconds after Garrett squeezed the trigger the missile hit the truck and exploded.

A tremendous fireball billowed into the night sky as the truck’s fuel tanks ignited, a split second after the explosion of the warhead tore through the engine and obliterated the two soldiers in the cab. Bodies flew into the air, those still alive screaming in pain. The shock wave rippled up the hill and washed over Jo and the marines, and she felt the heat on the top of her head as she hugged the earth. Red-hot pieces of metal and smoking bits of human flesh rained down on them.

Garrett yelled in pain. Jo saw him drop the launcher and bring his hands to his face. A dark liquid seeped through his fingertips, and it took Jo a moment to realize it had to be blood, Garrett’s blood. He’d been hit, shrapnel for sure. “Ian, Garrett’s been hit!”

The jet was halfway down the runway now and accelerating. In another few seconds, it would be past them, and in the air.

Jo was at Garrett’s side, pulling his hands away. A shard of metal was barely hanging from a flap of skin on his forehead. Jo knew that forehead wounds were bleeders but rarely serious unless the skull had been pierced or cracked. She flicked the shard with a fingernail and it fell easily away. Garrett would be fine, but his eyes were awash with his own blood. He was in no shape to handle the launcher.

Ian had the launcher and was loading the second missile into the tube. More shots rang out from near the remains of the truck, and Jo saw with horror that a car had pulled to a stop and two men were advancing from it, firing as they came. Bullets snapped past them and a few struck the ground. The soldiers were fifty meters away and closing.

The jet was nearly past them now, picking up speed. Jo saw the nose begin to rise.