The White Vixen (37 page)

“I understand,” she said. “Let’s take a walk.”

The base hummed with activity around them, but for the next hour they might as well have been strolling through a silent park. They talked about what had happened in their lives since Bermuda, but they didn’t talk about what they were doing next. “I’m in England on official business,” she told him. “That’s all I can say.”

“I assumed as much,” he said.

Finally, he glanced at his watch. “I hate to say this, but I have to get back to work,” he said. “I’d much rather take you off the base to the nearest bedroom.”

“I understand,” she said, at the same time feeling a heat deep inside her that longed to have Ian lying next to her. “Ian, I won’t ask you what you’ll be doing, you know that, but in case we meet…somewhere, we should be careful.”

His eyes widened with understanding. “I agree,” he said. “It might be…a bit dicey. Perhaps a password.”

She nodded, thinking. “Fonglan Island,” she said.

“And the response is, ‘Not a good place for swimming.’”

She looked at him with a smile. “It wasn’t, was it?”

“In the event you use a radio, use this frequency first,” he said, then rattled off a number. “Memorize it, Major.”

“Roger, Colonel. But how will you know to listen on that one?”

He grinned at her. “We have our ways in the SBS.” His eyes suddenly showed great sadness. “Time for you to go,” he said softly.

They had somehow wound their way back to the Officers’ Club. Marines and sailors were coming and going, more than a few glancing at Jo. “Ian—“

“Before you say anything, I have to tell you something,” he said. “Oh, Lord…” He looked away, then back at her. “When this is over, I want to see you again, and I’ll want to put a ring on your finger.”

She felt awash in his eyes, felt his strength through his hands as he gripped hers, and she surrendered her heart to him. “I’ll want to wear it,” she said.

He embraced her, and she wanted to stay in his arms forever. They kissed, ignoring the whistles and cat-calls around them, and then he said, “I have to go.”

“I know.” The tears were coming, and she turned away. “God be with you, Ian.”

“I’ll make it through,” he said. “We both will. We have too much to live for, now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

HMS
Cambridge
, North Atlantic

Monday, March 29th, 1982

Spray whipped across the ship as the bow knifed through the waves.
Cambridge
was making twenty-five knots against a westerly wind, but the weather forecast was promising. England was fifteen hours behind them, Argentina twenty days away. The morning briefing, four hours out to sea, had revealed that they could expect reconnaissance overflights by Argentine aircraft while still a week away from their destination. The Argentine Navy was known to have submarines, diesel boats that didn’t roam too far from home, it was said, but that might change.

Ian held onto the railing and stared into the setting sun. He’d resisted taking a last look at the green hills of Cornwall as
Cambridge
rounded the peninsula and entered the open sea. He didn’t want to think about the odds against him returning to his home county. Hadn’t even had a chance to take Jo Ann there, introduce her to his parents, show her their modest estate.

He sighed. The mission would have to come first, as usual. Before now, he hadn’t really thought about how much his career, his service in SBS, controlled his life. It had been everything he’d known for a dozen years and more. The Royal Marines gave him purpose and direction when he had none, and a physical challenge that forced him to push himself beyond anything he’d ever done. The money wasn’t the greatest, but his needs were few.

That’s what he always told himself, anyway. There were women over the years, as he’d told Jo, but none he allowed to get too close. He didn’t need a wife, he’d always thought, as long as he had the service. Things were different now, though, indeed they were. A woman had come into his life that was unlike anyone he’d ever met, and he found himself head over heels in love with her. Planning marriage, even.

Marriage. The whole idea was rubbish, wasn’t it? An American, a military officer, a career woman. What did he expect, that she’d marry him and move to England, tending his hearth and home and raising his children while he was off serving Queen and country? Was he daft?

But another part of him knew that this woman was different, so special that to lose her was unthinkable. Somehow, he had to make her part of his life, had to make it all work out. If it meant leaving the service, well, he would be doing that eventually anyway, wouldn’t he?

“Beautiful sunset, Colonel,” a voice beside him said, slicing into his reverie.

“Captain, good evening,” Ian said, straightening.

“As you were,” Stone said. “Pardon me for interrupting your thoughts. You appeared quite at sea, so to speak.”

“Well, sir…there’s a woman, sir,” Ian said, suddenly anxious to tell someone, anyone besides Hodge, who already suspected more than he actually knew. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking about her, lately.”

“I quite understand,” Stone said. He raised a lighter to his pipe and cupped the bowl against the wind with a hand as he puffed it to life. “I heard she’s American.”

Ian laughed in spite of himself. “Word gets around, evidently.”

“It does,” the captain agreed. He fished into a pocket of his jacket and brought out a flimsy. “This was for my eyes only, and that of my exec, but I have some discretion in who I share it with.” He handed the message to Ian, who read it and handed it back. Stone crumpled the paper and tossed it to the waves below.

“So the Argentines are at sea,” Ian said.

“Indeed,” Stone said. The message relayed the news that American spy satellites had confirmed British intelligence reports: the Argentine fleet had set sail the previous day, heading east. The governor at Stanley was told to prepare defenses. “We estimate they should arrive in another three days.”

“Not much we can do about that, is there, sir?”

Stone sighed. “Not at the moment, Colonel. We’ve been caught with our knickers down this time. The fleet is assembling, however, and some elements are already at sea. Besides ourselves, I understand that
Fort Austin
sailed today from Gibraltar. She’s a frigate; I know her captain. A good man, and a good ship.”

Ian was quiet for a moment, and then asked, “What of the enemy submarine force, sir? Is it a threat?”

“The Argentines? Perhaps,” Stone said. “We shan’t have to worry about them for several days. In the meantime, we have another problem.”

“Sir?”

Stone looked at him, eyes hard. “One hour ago, our sonar picked up a submerged contact some two miles back, pacing us. My sonarman, Sanders, swears it is the same contact that was with us near Carpenter’s. He’s one of the best sonarmen in the fleet and I trust his judgment.”

“A Soviet sub, sir?”

Stone nodded grimly. “Undoubtedly, Colonel. Ivan is very interested in our mission. I notified Admiralty, of course, and was told to take no offensive action against the Russian for the time being. Once we’re close to enemy waters, though, all bets are off.”

“What do you think he wants, sir?”

Stone stared out to sea, turning his gaze aft. “With Ivan, one never really knows,” he said. “I rather doubt he’s out there just for something to do, though.”

***

Stanley, East Falkland

Thursday, April 1st, 1982

    Rex Hunt was nervous. The Governor of the Falkland Islands paced his small office in Government House, fretting over the cable he had just received from London. He had earlier been warned that the Argentines had sent a submarine to his waters, purpose unknown, although it didn’t take an Oxford graduate to figure it out. Now, the news was even worse: a large Argentine fleet had sailed from the mainland and presumably was destined for his islands. He should prepare defenses immediately to repel an invasion.
      Hunt had to laugh at the mere thought. Repel invaders? He had about a hundred Royal Marines to defend over two hundred islands covering more than twelve thousand square kilometers. Nearly thirteen hundred kilometers of coastline. Almost all of his two-thousand-odd subjects were on the two main islands, East and West Falkland. The territorial defense force, supposed to number about 120 islanders who had drilled a few times and allegedly knew how to handle a rifle, was a joke. How many would actually show up if called to muster? He had no aircraft, and his only warship,
Endurance
, had just been ordered to reverse course and head back to South Georgia, where the Argentine flag flew over Leith and a handful of British marines and civilians huddled in Grytviken, waiting for the enemy to show up.

“Governor, the officers are here,” his secretary announced at the door.

“Show them in, please,” Hunt said.

The two Royal Marines entered the office and saluted the governor. They were young, serious, attired in full battle kit, but had kindly left their weapons outside. Hunt returned their salute. Major Gary Noott was in command of Naval Party 8901, the remaining original troops of the garrison, and Major Mike Norman led the relief platoon that had just arrived. Together they had about one hundred marines. “Majors Noott and Norman, reporting as ordered, sir,” Noott said.

Hunt shook their hands grimly. “Gentlemen, our situation is grave and not about to get better.” He outlined what little he knew from the recent cables. “It looks as if the buggers mean it,” he said.

“We should begin preparing defenses,” Noott said. “Time is of the essence, sir.”

“Indeed,” Hunt said. For the next fifteen minutes, the three men pored over maps and discussed what could be done. The final consensus was that nothing could prevent the Argentines from coming ashore if that’s what they decided to do. Norman, who had assumed overall command of the marine force, would send men to guard the airfield, the single road into town and Government House. It was agreed that the level of resistance offered by the British would depend largely on the enemy’s tactics. While none of them mentioned surrender, they all knew it was only a matter of time.

“I shall order the defense force to muster, which I will then turn over to your command,” Hunt said. “Gentlemen, deploy your men as you suggested. This evening, I will go on the radio to announce the imminent invasion to the population. We must strive to avoid panic. My overriding concern is to prevent loss of life if at all possible, civilian as well as military.”

“If the Argentines shell the town, sir, there could be many casualties,” Noott said. “Might I suggest an evacuation?”

“I regret to say, gentlemen, that our civil defense procedures are rather incomplete,” Hunt said. “I fear that ordering an evacuation would produce the very panic that we seek to avoid. I should hardly think, though, that the Argentines would want to destroy the town and kill civilians. That would strike me as a very poor way to begin their administration of these islands.”

The marine officers shared a quick glance. “Very well, sir,” Norman said. “Should the enemy sail his ships into the harbor and open fire, we have very little with which to counter. We have no artillery, as you know, and no combat aircraft.”

“I realize that, Major,” Hunt said defensively. “It has never been London’s desire, nor mine, to turn these islands into a fortress. Such a thing would surely have been viewed by the Argentines as a provocation.”

“Well, with all due respect, sir,” Norman said, “it appears they’ve been provoked anyway. I suggest we get about our business.”

***

HMS
Cambridge
, mid-Atlantic

Saturday, April 3rd, 1982

Ian opened the door to the ship’s briefing room and entered, followed by Hodge. They had been finishing their breakfast in the mess when word came to report to the captain. The marines found Stone and his exec, Fields, examining a map on the table. Ian saw it was a map of the southwest Atlantic, showing the Argentine mainland and the Falklands. That could only mean one thing.

“You asked to see us, Captain?”

“Yes, gentlemen, good morning.” Stone’s expression was grim. “I’m afraid there is bad news. Admiralty has cabled that the Falklands have fallen to the Argentines. It is also reported that the enemy is engaging our marines on South Georgia. It is expected that they shall soon surrender as well.”

“It’s war, then,” Hodge said.

“Indeed, Mr. Hodge,” Stone said. “Other than
Endurance
, we are the closest British warship to the Falklands. However, as there would be little good we could do there until the rest of the fleet arrive, we are ordered to proceed with our mission. The only good news is that there evidently were no casualties among our troops or the civilians. Governor Hunt has surrendered the islands to the Argentine commander.”