The White Vixen (20 page)

The hard turn to port, combined with the reverse thrust of the engines, was slowly swinging the bow of the ship to starboard. Stone could see the wake of the torpedo now, heading toward the front of the ship. He wiped sweat off his brow and grabbed the armrests of his chair. “Brace for impact!”

“Missile in the air! Two missiles!” Friedrich screamed.

Brunner juked the Haze violently. He had no defensive weapons against SAMs, no chaff, nothing. It was just his skill and luck now. He fought the cyclic and pushed the chopper for all it was worth.

The Sea Wolfs were coming so very fast now, and he barely had time to see them on the cabin’s small radar screen. The lead missile was almost on him, but he pulled the cyclic back with all his strength. The helicopter clawed into the air, standing almost vertical, and the stall alarms buzzed as the missile rushed past them, nearly clipping their rotor. Brunner didn’t have time to congratulate himself because the second Sea Wolf slammed into the Haze’s tail rotor and exploded.

A cheer went up from the forward missile battery as their second shot hit the Argentine chopper. Then the sailors saw the deadly white wake of the incoming torpedo, only a hundred meters off the port bow and coming fast. Suddenly the water around the torpedo was churning with something else.

A kilometer away, Target Alpha was showing no inclination to fight. That was really starting to irritate
Cambridge
’s Lynx pilot, Lieutenant Harry Carson. The Argie helo driver was a good one, though; Carson hadn’t been able to score more than a couple hits with the Lynx’s machine guns as the Haze danced with him. He was about to order his copilot, Sub-lieutenant Peter McNally, to prepare to fire a Sea Skua missile when his third crewmember, Warrant Officer Robert Fischer, yelled that Baker was commencing a torpedo attack run. Loosing one last machine gun volley at Alpha, Carson pulled the Lynx in the direction of the ship. He knew full well the destroyer had no better than even odds against a torpedo. And there it was, dropping off the hard-charging Haze and into the water, straight and true for
Cambridge.

Could he make it in time? He’d have to; if the ship went down, it would be a devil of a long flight home. Carson coaxed every ounce of speed from the Lynx as he vectored it on an intercept course.

“Peter, fire on the torpedo!”

“Too far away, Harry,” McNally said rather calmly. “Get us within two hundred meters.”

“They might not have that much to spare, damn it to hell,” Carson growled, but he pressed on. The torpedo was closing quickly on the ship. Carson could see the froth of her screws at the stern. The Goalkeeper battery at the bow began firing, its seven-barrel 30mm Gatling gun sending shells into the water at a murderous rate of seventy rounds per second, but the system wasn’t designed to engage targets below the surface. Plus, the angle was all wrong; Carson knew the Goalkeeper would miss. Was the ship going in reverse? Smart move by the skipper, and turning hard aport was swinging the bow away from the path of the torpedo, but from this angle Carson could see it wouldn’t be enough. He did the geometry in his mind, and the result told him the torpedo would hit about ten meters from the bow. He knew that would probably spell doom for the ship.

“Fire the guns, for Christ’s sake, Peter!”

McNally squeezed the trigger and the Lynx’s twin machine guns chattered to life. Carson saw the tracers streaking toward the torpedo, too far behind it, and brought the nose up and a bit to the right to compensate.

              Dodging from cover to cover, Schmidt was fifteen meters from his lines when a Chilean bullet creased his shoulder. Staggered by the hit, the Wehrmacht veteran went to one knee, but knew from old experience the wound wasn’t bad. Gritting his teeth, he struggled toward the forward line as bullets flew through the air, searching him out.

“Herr Oberstleutnant!” a man shouted. Up ahead, someone was directing the Argentines’ fire onto their right, from where the first shot of the engagement had come. Two men scrambled from the relative safety of their trench and grabbed Schmidt under the arms, hustling him back to their comrades. They almost threw him into the trench and dove in next to him. “Medic! Medic!”

“It’s just a scratch,” Schmidt said, breathing hard. “Get me a radio!”

A young obergefreiter handed him a transceiver, and Schmidt punched the transmit key angrily. “Winkler, this is Schmidt! Come in!”

The captain’s voice could hardly be heard above the sound of barking guns and shouting men. “Herr Oberstleutnant! Are you all right?”

“Never mind that. What’s our situation?”

“The English have us outflanked, Herr Oberstleutnant, but they are not advancing. The first shot came from our right. We think that’s where the Chileans are.”

“Spread the word, everyone is to hold their fire unless the enemy tries to advance on us. Are the mortars ready?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I order them to fire?”

“No, damn it! They are to fire only if the enemy fires first. We must conserve our ammunition in case of an assault on our position.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

Schmidt keyed his radio again. “All units, this is Schmidt. Cease fire, hold your positions. Unit feldwebels, watch out for enemy advances, return fire only if they start moving on your position.” The sergeants in charge of the individual squads were all hand-picked men, sons of Wehrmacht veterans, many of them trained in West Germany. They would keep their wits about them. Already the volume of fire from his men was decreasing to a few scattered shots. “Winkler, what is the situation with the helicopters?”

“Herr Oberstleutnant, I have Leutnant Brunner’s aircraft in sight now. He has fired a torpedo on the Englishman and is taking evasive action. I believe there’s been a missile launch from the ship.” There was some shouting from the higher positions. “Oh, no!”

“What happened?” Schmidt struggled to the top of the trench, just in time to see something crashing into the sea, well off shore.

“Brunner was struck by at least one missile, Herr Oberstleutnant,” Winkler said grimly.

Damn! “What about Speth?” A medic was fussing with Schmidt’s shoulder, but the colonel let the man continue despite the irritating burn of the antiseptic.

“Leutnant Speth has attempted to engage the English helicopter but his guns are jammed. He requests permission to return to the island.”

“Tell him—“ There was a roar from far off shore. Schmidt squinted, trying to focus his weary eyes. Was that some sort of explosion on the destroyer? The front of the ship was obscured by rising water and smoke.

Schmidt knew he had little choice about the other helicopter. If Speth’s helo was shot down, and the English ship survived Brunner’s attack, the Argentines would be at the mercy of the enemy’s offshore guns. At least with one helo, he could make another run at the ship, or at least some of his men could be evacuated should he be forced to give up the island. “Order Speth to return immediately,” Schmidt said, trying to keep the resignation out of his voice. “What of the destroyer?”

“We’re observing it, Herr Oberstleutnant. It appears to be in trouble.”

Sailors near the bow of the ship dove for cover as the torpedo closed in. Stone watched them from the bridge. The bow was swinging to the right, but not quickly enough. Someone shouted, “The Lynx!” Then the morning was sundered by a terrific explosion, throwing the captain and nearly everyone not strapped into a chair onto the deck.

Two rounds from the Lynx’s machine guns found their mark, detonating the torpedo’s quarter-ton warhead barely ten meters from the ship’s port side. The concussion of the explosion slammed into the ship, lifting its bow almost completely out of the water. Three sailors near the starboard rail were pitched overboard. The bow settled back into the ocean and surged a huge wave outward as the ship listed hard to starboard. Sirens began to sound, alerting damage control parties. Men screamed as they were flung against bulkheads. A few suffered broken bones and separated shoulders, their agonized shouts adding to the chaos. The list peaked at nearly fifteen degrees, dangerously close to the vessel’s limits, but
Cambridge
valiantly recovered, and the ship tipped back to port, throwing more men in that direction.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” a young Scottish corporal breathed as he watched the torpedo blast rock the destroyer. Even from three kilometers away, it was an awesome sight, one they had never seen outside of a cinema. The lad crossed himself.

“Easy, O’Toole, easy now,” Sergeant Powers said. He had alternated his view from watching the Argentines over the top of his covering boulder, and looking back out to sea. So had Ian, after making it safely back to British lines. They’d seen the torpedo launch, then the missile hit on the Argentine helicopter, and now this.

“It appears the enemy has ceased fire, sir,” Powers said.

Ian looked back at the Argentines, dug in on the hill. “I believe you’re right, Sergeant.” He keyed his radio. “All units, all units, this is Masters, you are ordered to hold your fire, I repeat, hold your fire. Hodge, Arroyo, acknowledge.” His captains radioed “aye, ayes” back within seconds, and an eerie silence took hold over the island, broken only by the sounds of distant helicopter rotors and the sirens from the destroyer.

It took Ian a moment to adjust his field glasses, but then he got
Cambridge
in clear sight. “She’s taken a hit, but she’s still afloat,” he said finally.

“Thank God,” Powers muttered.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

10 Downing Street, London

January 1982

“Beg pardon, ma’am, you have an
urgent phone call from the Defense Ministry. Secretary Nott.”

Margaret Thatcher put down her reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. What now? John Nott wasn’t prone to surprise phone calls. “Very well, put him on,” she said into the phone.

“Good afternoon, Madame Prime Minister, this is Secretary Nott.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Secretary?” Thatcher’s tone was frosty; she did not get along with Nott, although he was competent enough.

“We have a situation off the coast of Argentina.” Nott rapidly sketched out the developments on Carpenter’s Island.

Thatcher sat back in her chair. “Are there casualties?”

“No reports as of yet, ma’am, but likely so, on both sides.”

“I must call the Foreign Secretary immediately. Order the ship to cease all offensive actions against the Argentines.”

“Shall we leave the Argentines in possession of a British island, ma’am?” Nott’s tone was almost disrespectful.

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Secretary. We will find a diplomatic solution to this situation, but first we must get the shooting stopped. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly, ma’am.”

***

Island of the Penguins, Southwest Atlantic

              “Order Speth to search for survivors from Brunner’s helicopter,” Schmidt told his adjutant. “He can make himself useful that way, at least.” The oberstleutnant knew he shouldn’t be too angry at Speth. Guns jammed, after all, but it was frustrating nonetheless.

“Herr Oberstleutnant, Leutnant Speth requests permission to launch his torpedoes on the English destroyer.”

Schmidt glared at Winkler. “
Nein!
If he is shot down we are completely at the mercy of the destroyer! Order him to search for Brunner and his crew.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

Schmidt was making a quick inspection of his position. Including himself, four men had been slightly wounded in the exchange of fire with the English and Chilean marines. His forward observers saw no indication that the enemy troops were preparing to attack. They hadn’t moved out of their initial positions. Schmidt had his mortar teams ready to fire at a moment’s notice, but he felt sure the English commander on the ground would ask for fire support from the destroyer before making any kind of assault on the Argentine breastworks. Schmidt vividly recalled what Russian artillery had been able to do and did not look forward to taking incoming fire from the English ship. None of his men had been subjected to that kind of bombardment in real combat; none could possibly be prepared for the sheer terror. Would their discipline hold?

Schmidt considered his options. They could always retreat to the interior of the island, such that it was. A delaying tactic at best, it would allow the enemy to take the high ground Schmidt’s men now occupied. He’d already lost one helicopter and his other aircraft might well be useless as a combat asset. Air support from the mainland was at least a half-hour away, and that was assuming the Air Force would react quickly to such a request.

If the ship started shelling, he would have to withdraw or he and his men would be decimated. A well-placed barrage from the ship would take half his men, Schmidt estimated, and the rest would be routed by the enemy troops. He could not allow that to happen. “Winkler, pass the word, prepare to withdraw to Hill 206 on my order.”