The White Vixen (47 page)

She was one of five passengers. Nagel was just as efficient as he’d been the night before, and perhaps a bit more apprehensive. Something was wrong here. He didn’t like where they were going, or maybe it was who they were going to see. Two of his men were also along, the same pair who had helped him with her capture. Willy Baumann was the fourth, clearly the one in command. While the other men wore business suits, Baumann was more casually dressed, wearing a pair of riding boots, gray slacks, an open-necked white shirt and navy blue sport jacket. Completing the ensemble was a dark red silk cravat known as a
foulard
, an accessory favored by young Argentine men of means. That Baumann would deliberately choose to avoid an austere business suit told her something, confirming a feeling she sensed the night before at the consulate: this was a conflicted man, one part German, one part Argentine, and something inside him went back and forth between the two.

Jo had spent the night locked in a sparsely-furnished room in the Bund office building, sleeping on a cot, and in the morning was led to a bathroom where she was allowed to take a shower, all the while under the gaze of the Luger-toting Nagel. He displayed no emotion whatsoever as he watched her disrobe and bathe. Swallowing her pride, she went about her business quickly and dressed in the same clothes she’d worn from the hotel.

Ten minutes after flying over Bariloche, the jet touched down on an airstrip surrounded by the pampas, dotted here and there with clumps of trees. One of the guards, the one she’d heard called Hans, unfastened her handcuffs from the chain, then slapped the empty cuff around her right wrist. Luger at the ready, Nagel motioned her to the cabin door, preceded by Baumann and Hans. Two Mercedes sedans were waiting for them. Jo saw a cluster of buildings about a half-mile away, surrounded on three sides by trees, the mountains rising behind them in the distance.

The short ride in the car to the compound gave Jo another chance to collect her thoughts. Since her capture the night before, she’d fought hard to keep the fear at bay. It was logical to assume that the odds were against her being able to get out of this alive. She’d been in other threatening situations before, of course; Fonglan Island, most recently. The fear was always been a part of those, too. From the beginning of her special ops training, her instructors told her that fear was to be expected, even welcomed, to a certain extent. The agent without fear, they said, was an agent who was a fool, and foolish agents tended to wind up dead.

She’d always been able to control her fear, to channel its energy into proper caution, and she always came out alive. How many times, though, could she do that? Was it all just playing the odds, anyway? She’d known other operatives who were fatalistic about that. When your number’s up, that’s it, they’d say. Nothing you can do. She didn’t really believe that. Her parents had taught her to believe in God, and as a teenager she’d become a Christian, so she was secure in her belief that eternal salvation would be hers. Still, she was afraid sometimes, and one of those times was now. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself for whatever was to come.

***

HMS
Cambridge
, Southwest Atlantic

Sunday, April 25th, 1982

“You asked to see me, Captain?”

“Yes, Colonel, please sit down.” Stone motioned Ian into the only empty chair in his cabin, which doubled as his personal office. The captain was starting to show the strain of the mission. Ian noted the bags under the man’s eyes, and did his hair appear a bit more silver than it was a few months ago? “How are your men holding up?”

“They’re impatient, of course, but ready to go, sir,” Ian said. “Hodge and I are keeping them busy today.”

“I wish we could provide better exercise facilities,” the captain said. “In any event, this just came in and I felt you should be informed.” He held up a communications flimsy. “Admiralty have given me permission to deal with the Russian at my discretion. I am not at all comfortable with a potentially hostile nuclear attack submarine being so close to me while I rendezvous with
Reliant
and transfer you and your men. Therefore, I intend to take action.”

Ian felt a tightening in his chest. “I understand, sir. For what it’s worth, I totally agree.”

Stone gave him a nod. “I appreciate that, Colonel. Your mission is vital to the war effort. The Russian could cripple it with one torpedo at the wrong moment. We cannot be sure he will remain neutral. If, somehow, Moscow is aware of our mission, and they decide to intervene to support the Argentine strike against our fleet, this would be their best opportunity to engage us without widening the war. So, we must be proactive.”

“What do you intend to do, sir?”

Stone glanced at the clock on his desk. “The scheduled rendezvous with
Reliant
is set for 2200 hours, with your transfer thirty minutes later. The weather looks good. I am expecting a radio contact from her at 2100. At that time I will inform her skipper of my intentions.”

“May I ask, sir, do you plan to actively engage the Russian?”

Stone didn’t answer for a moment, then said, “I will do what I can to convince him to withdraw without firing a shot. If, however, it appears he intends to shoot first, I will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary to defend this ship. I’ll be honest with you, Colonel, it is liable to get very dicey indeed. You should prepare your men.”

The SBS troops would all be assigned to damage control if the ship went into combat. While they all would’ve preferred to help with the fighting, their weapons wouldn’t be much good against a submarine, so they’d do what they could to help. “I understand, sir. Will
Reliant
be assisting us?”

Stone nodded. “I trust that she will. Her skipper is Tom Bentley, an old friend of mine. We participated in an exercise against a French boat a few years ago. It worked then. Let’s hope it works again tonight.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

***

Rio Negro Province, Argentina

Sunday, April 25th, 1982

There was a knock on the door, bringing Jo quickly out of her meditative calm. She got to her feet, noting by the clock on the night stand that she’d been meditating for nearly a half-hour. As always, the ritual had quieted her nerves, helped clear her mind of distractions, and refreshed her physically.

This building, the largest of the half-dozen that comprised the compound, seemed to be the main living quarters. She’d been led inside and locked up in what was obviously a guest bedroom. The only window was latched tight, and through it she saw a man armed with a submachine gun walking the grounds only a few yards away. She was sure an escape opportunity would come, but it wasn’t here yet.

She heard the tumbling of the lock, and the door swung open. Willy Baumann stepped inside. “It is lunchtime,” he said, using the traditional German word,
mittagessen
. “Our host requests us to join him.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Come now, Major, we’ll have none of this nonsense.” A Luger appeared in his hand. “Shall we?”

The dining room was large, with walls of dark burnished wood. A heavy oak table dominated the room, with seating for ten. Places were set for four diners, one at the head of the table with its back to a large fireplace, one at the opposite end, and one on each side. A set of double doors were in the side wall across from Jo, who had followed Baumann into the room through this wall’s single door. In one corner was a suit of armor, one hand gripping a double-bladed, long-handled axe. The wall opposite the fireplace held a portrait of a stern-looking man with a curled, white eighteenth-century wig, tri-cornered hat, and riveting eyes.

Jo knew that Heinz Nagel, Luger at the ready, was right behind her, close enough for a killing shot, far enough away to avoid any sudden attack from her hands or feet. Baumann had likewise kept his distance to her front. He saw Jo looking at the painting. “Recognize him, Major?”

“Friedrich
der Grosse
,” Jo said. Frederick the Great. “King of Germany during the 1700s.”

“
Sehr gut
, Fräulein Major,” a deep voice said, and Jo turned to the double doors. A silver-haired, barrel-chested man stood in the open doorway. He was wearing a plain brown jacket, an open-collared white shirt, and charcoal slacks. “Actually, he was king of Prussia, from 1740 to 1786. A very cultured man, preferred to speak French, composed music. A great military leader. Many consider him the founder of the modern German state.”

Baumann snapped to attention, heels clicking, and Jo heard Nagel’s click behind her. Baumann bowed. “Herr Reichsleiter.”

“Welcome to my estancia, Herr Baumann, Herr Nagel.” The stocky man walked around the table and faced Jo. He wasn’t much taller than her, but she immediately sensed an aura about him. The man radiated power and strength, almost a kind of sexuality. Jo steeled herself. “And this is Major Jo Ann Geary, United States Air Force. You have caused us no small amount of trouble, Major. Herr Schröder was an important part of our operation in the Fatherland. He will be difficult to replace on such short notice.”

“That’s too bad,” Jo said.

“Please, sit down,” Martin Bormann said, gesturing to the place at the end of the table. “We have much to discuss.”

***

10 Downing Street, London

Sunday, April 25th, 1982

Margaret Thatcher considered the choices the men sitting before her had just outlined. “I do not care for any of these alternatives, gentlemen,” she said. “Not at all.”

The man in the army uniform was General Sir Terence Lewin, Chief of the Defense Staff. “In war, there are rarely pleasant alternatives, ma’am.”

“I realize that, Sir Terence,” she snapped. “Our best choice is for an Argentine withdrawal from the Falklands, but I don’t suppose that is likely to happen.”

“Not without a fight, I’m afraid.” This was from the man to Lewin’s right. Defense Secretary John Nott was trying hard not to enjoy Thatcher’s predicament. His country was, after all, at war, and she was its leader.

“There is the good news from South Georgia,” said the third man, Admiral Sir Henry Leach, First Sea Lord. He had opened this meeting a half-hour ago with word that the Argentines had surrendered to his Royal Marines, hours after an enemy submarine,
Santa Fe
, was caught on the surface by a British helicopter and forced aground.

“Not enough, I fear,” the prime minister said. “Galtieri will not take this defeat lightly. If he gives up the Falklands now, his government will fall.” The men looked a bit nervous at that; everyone knew that if the British failed to retake the islands, Thatcher’s own government might not survive. The difference was, if Thatcher were forced out, she wouldn’t wind up facing a firing squad.

Lewin looked at Nott. “What of the MI6 effort?”

Nott cleared his throat. “C” was being his usual cagey self with this one, even though Nott was, strictly speaking, the man’s superior. “I am told that Operation EMINENCE has hit a snag. The operative we sent to Buenos Aires was found dead in his hotel room this morning. The American agent who accompanied him as his wife is missing.”

“We must assume the worst, then,” Lewin said, turning back to Thatcher. “The enemy will launch the attack against our fleet, unless we strike him first.”

“Mr. Nott, have you any indication of when they plan to attack?” Thatcher asked.

“Our source at their assembly facility reported today that the weapon has been moved out. Unfortunately, we don’t know its destination, or their exact timetable.”

“Probably an air base on the coast, or close to it,” Lewin said. “I would estimate a launch within three or four days. By then our fleet will be at the exclusion zone, will it not, Sir Henry?”

“That is correct,” the First Sea Lord said. He was clearly uncomfortable with the thought that his ships and sailors were so close to being atomized. “The enemy shall want to strike when the target is well away from the islands. I would say Thursday at the latest, probably sooner by a day or so.”

“And what of your backup plan, GALAHAD?” Thatcher asked the admiral.

Leach looked at his watch. “The SBS platoon should be ready to transfer to
Reliant
in about six hours. They go ashore twenty-four hours later.”

“That’s cutting it quite close,” Nott said.

“These things take time,” Leach shot back. He decided not to say anything about the complication involving the Soviet submarine. Thatcher already knew, and had authorized Admiralty’s cable to
Cambridge
, giving Stone a free hand to deal with the threat.

“Time is one commodity we do not possess in abundance,” Thatcher said. “I should feel somewhat better, Sir Henry, if the SBS men were to be in position sooner.”

“Our best intelligence indicates the strike won’t be launched earlier than Tuesday night,” the admiral said. “The men will need time to reconnoiter the area and select their positions. They obviously cannot move openly during the daylight. Going ashore Monday night gives them about eight hours of darkness to locate the target and evaluate the situation. Assuming they are successful in avoiding detection during the day Tuesday, they’ll be ready to intercept the strike aircraft that night.”