The White Vixen (48 page)

“And if the strike isn’t to be launched until Wednesday night?” Thatcher asked.

“Then they wait another twenty-four hours. If there is no launch by 0600 hours Zulu Thursday, they are to make their way to the coast and rendezvous with
Reliant
for extraction. I shan’t risk them any longer than that,” the admiral said, anticipating the PM’s next question. Nott asked it anyway.

“So if the Argentines wait until Thursday night, or if the SBS are discovered before then and are killed or captured, where are we?” Nott asked with a touch of sarcasm. He was tempted to ask how Leach could be sure the commandos would even find the right air base, but didn’t.

“We are then left with a much more difficult situation,” Lewin said. He turned to Thatcher. “Ma’am, time is of the essence, as you yourself stated. I recommend we initiate LION’S FURY.”

Silence filled the room, except for the tapping of Thatcher’s pen on the blotter of her desk. She sighed, and turned to Leach. “Admiral, is your vessel in position for this?”

“
Vanguard
will be on station within twelve hours, ma’am.” HMS
Vanguard
was the newest Churchill-class submarine in the Royal Navy, and had been one of the first vessels deployed from Gibraltar after the fall of the Falklands. The boat’s six torpedo tubes were designed to fire Mark 24 modified Tigerfish torpedoes. The forward tubes could also launch SUBROC weapons, which would exit the submerged boat as torpedoes and break the surface as guided missiles. The Royal Navy arsenal included versions of the American UUM-44 short-range weapon, modified to increase their range to 100 miles and to explode the warhead up to 500 feet above ground. Two such missiles were on board
Vanguard
, each armed with a twenty-kiloton nuclear warhead. Thatcher had agreed with Lewin’s recommendation on that one. It was something she had not told President Reagan about, and she wasn’t looking forward to that particular phone call.

The prime minister breathed in deeply. “Gentlemen, I ask for your help here. Is there any alternative to this choice? Any at all?”

Nott spoke first. “We must assume EMINENCE has failed. GALAHAD has a chance, but frankly I do not like the odds. Colonel Masters and his men are first-rate, but they will have to be lucky as well as good. Should they also fail, and should the enemy strike aircraft evade the fleet’s combat air patrols…”

“We cannot take that chance,” Lewin said. “We must strike first, ma’am. To lose the fleet would be a catastrophe of the first order. Then there would be the matter of what might happen in Germany.”

“I’m aware of that, General,” Thatcher shot back.

“And what are we doing about that?” Nott asked, unable to restrain himself.

“What do you suggest, Mr. Nott? That I should ring up Chancellor Schmidt in Bonn and pressure him into rounding up suspected insurrectionists? And just whom would you suggest he round up? We simply do not know enough about these rumors.”

“There have been rumors like this for thirty years,” Leach said dismissively. “The Germans. Always the Germans at the heart of the trouble.” It was no secret that Leach was not fond of that particular NATO ally.

Thatcher pounded a fist on the table, startling the men. “I will
not
be the first person in the history of the world to launch a pre-emptive nuclear attack. It is simply out of the question. If Galtieri launches one, then history will forever blacken his name and that of his nation.”

Leach sighed heavily. History would also record the deaths of thousands of British sailors at Galtieri’s hands, and the crippling of a once-mighty nation. He sat up straighter, thrusting out his chin. “Then, at the very least, ma’am, strike the bastards after they hit us. One of
Vanguard
’s SUBROCs up Galtieri’s arse should teach them a thing or two.”

Thatcher looked at each of the three men. Without a word, she opened a drawer of her desk. Inside was her purse, and she opened with a flick of her wrist. From inside the purse she withdrew a card, inserted into a paper sleeve. On the sleeve was the royal coat of arms.

The Americans called their version of this card “the biscuit”. Thatcher did not know whether the British had ever given their card a nickname. She suspected not. Officially it was the Prime Minister’s Defense Information Card, a rather innocuous name, she thought now, because this card contained the specific codes that would enable her to launch a nuclear weapon from the British arsenal. Outside her office right now sat a Royal Army captain with a small suitcase at his feet. The Americans called their suitcase the “nuclear football”. Inside the British case, like its American cousin, were detailed instructions for launching all manner of terrible weapons. Also inside were evacuation plans, updated for whatever city the prime minister happened to be in at the time. Thatcher had always thought that file might as well contain blank paper. Should the proverbial balloon go up, she doubted whether she would have time to do much more than sit down and give a few hasty orders before the first Soviet warhead exploded overhead.

“Admiral, what is the selected target?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“The enemy naval base at Ushuaia, ma’am.”

She took a deep breath. “You may begin your preparations, Admiral. May God help us all.” Silently, she added a request for special help to Colonel Masters and his men. She had completely forgotten about the missing American agent.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Rio Negro province, Argentina

Sunday, April 25th, 1982

The guard was still outside her bedroom window when Jo Ann was escorted back and locked inside. Once, the man outside glanced in her direction, and their eyes met. She saw no sympathy, no curiosity, just discipline and attention to duty.

They were all like that here, even the man and woman who served their food during the meal. Jo was pretty sure they were native Argentines, but they didn’t speak unless spoken to and were as efficient as well-oiled machines. As for the Germans…

Among her history classes at the Academy, Jo had taken a course on the history of Germany between the world wars. Just how could a rag tag, extremist political party led by a lunatic take control of a civilized nation? She found some answers in class, particularly when they had a guest lecturer who served as a major in the Waffen-SS. The man was in his seventies but still a commanding presence, and he mesmerized the class. The Q&A session got heated as the cadets questioned their guest about Nazi policies. To her surprise, the man actually defended many aspects of the detestable regime, to the point where some of the young cadets nearly lost control of themselves. Others, however, spoke later about how persuasive the old
sturmbannführer
had been. Yes, the Germans got carried away with the concentration camps and all that, but they were well-organized, highly disciplined and had a hell of an air force. They were proud of their country and what’s wrong with that? Plus they had cool uniforms. Some of the men nearly came to blows over it. As they found out later, this was exactly what their instructor wanted them to experience. “Now you have an idea of how seductive it was,” he told them. “You gentlemen and ladies are well-educated, clear-thinking individuals, raised in a free and prosperous nation, and yet some of you were ready to start goose-stepping. Imagine how it was back then for the common, ordinary German, defeated in a war and then struggling to get through an economic depression, looking for anything that offered hope for the future.”

Jo hadn’t fallen under the spell of the old SS officer back then, but after spending just an hour in the company of Martin Bormann, she understood a lot better.

Bormann was a charming host, carrying the conversation and drawing in Baumann and Nagel, and eventually Jo Ann. They discussed literature, music, South American and European politics, and their respective estancias. To her surprise, Bormann spoke fluent English, something he said he’d learned since coming to Argentina, along with Spanish. He insisted they converse in English, for the benefit of their guest. It was all she could do to keep herself from coming under his spell, and now, she wondered whether she had truly succeeded in that.

They’d finished their meal and Jo was taken back to her room, without any word about what would happen next. She knew it was part of the game, trying to keep her off-balance. She wondered if they would’ve treated her differently if she were a man. Probably. More than once she’d caught Bormann looking at her with eyes that seemed to be undressing her. She remembered from her briefings that he had been considered quite a ladies’ man, taking mistresses even with his wife’s approval, so powerful was his influence.

Forcing herself to concentrate on her mission, she examined every inch of her room and its adjoining small bathroom, looking for anything that might help her escape. There wasn’t much. Her bed was queen-sized, with a mattress and box spring and a wooden head board that had seen better days. A chest of drawers contained fresh clothing, nondescript white blouses and dark slacks, plain white cotton panties and even some brassieres. One glance told her the bras were too big, but they had underwiring. That fact might prove useful, and she filed it away. The bathroom cabinet contained towels and washcloths, extra toilet paper and soap. The medicine cabinet held a tube of toothpaste, but no toothbrush; she’d been told to request one when needed, and she would have to return it immediately afterward. No tweezers, no shaving materials, and of course no razor blades. She was used to shaving her legs every evening when she bathed, and she was irritated for a moment when she realized she’d have to forego that for a time. Then she angrily shoved that venal thought away. There were more important things to worry about.

What could she possibly use as a weapon? Well, she could stuff a wet washcloth down someone’s throat, or squirt toothpaste in his eyes, but she doubted those tactics would take her very far. On her second sweep through the bathroom, though, she found something she’d missed the first time: a small paper box containing half a dozen Q-tips. An idea started to
tickle the back of her mind. She took three of the Q-tips into the bedroom and slid them between the mattress and box spring of the bed.

It was four p.m. when the next knock came. Baumann unlocked the door and peeked inside carefully. “Major Geary? Am I disturbing you?”

Jo had been reading through one of the three German-language novels she’d found on the nightstand. “No.”

The door opened wider and Baumann stepped into the room. “The Reichsleiter requests your presence in his library.”

Jo’s senses were on full alert as she was escorted to another part of the house. She thought this might be her only chance, yet something told her it was still too early. She decided to hear him out. She’d know when it was time to move.

With Nagel in the rear, Baumann led her to a set of double doors, knocked, and opened them. “Herr Reichsleiter, we have brought Major Geary.”

“Please, show her in.”

The library was lined on three walls by bookshelves overloaded with old volumes. On the far wall was a large fireplace, with flames dancing in the hearth. A statuette of a bull dominated the mantle. Bormann was sitting in a stuffed chair, a newspaper in his lap, wearing bifocals, which he quickly took off as he set the paper aside and stood. Jo knew she had to observe him, discern his strengths, his weaknesses. He was stocky and probably a powerful man in his day, but he was nearly eighty-two now and certainly couldn’t move very quickly. All she would need was a split-second. And then what? A Luger bullet in her back, probably, but at least the mission would be accomplished.

Baumann discreetly took a position midway between the Reichsleiter and Jo. Taurus pushed himself out of the chair, knees cracking like gunshots. “Ach,” he said, and gave Jo a sheepish grin. “It is truly hell to get old.” He motioned to an empty chair about ten feet from his. “Please, Major Geary, sit down.”

Jo could smell the rich leather of the chair, which seemed to mold itself to her as she settled in. A glance told her Nagel was just inside the doorway, Luger still pointed at her.

“Gentlemen, I would like a few minutes alone with our guest,” Bormann said.

“Herr Reichsleiter—“

“It’s all right, Herr Baumann,” Bormann said as he sat back down. Another Luger appeared in his right hand. Jo had been watching him carefully, but didn’t see the move. Wait, he’d had the newspaper in his lap. The gun must’ve been underneath. Still, quite good. He was not a man to be underestimated. “You may wait just outside the doorway. Don’t close them all the way, if it makes you feel better.” Baumann clicked his heels and left the room. Nagel followed, but left the doors about a foot open.

Bormann switched to English. “Now, Major Geary, I am told you are quite the expert in hand-to-hand combat. I would hate to shoot such a lovely woman, but rest assured I will if you make a threatening move.” He waved the Luger in emphasis. “I’m sure you are quite fast, but you must know my bullet will be faster.”

“What do you want?”

“On Wednesday morning, you will be flown back to Buenos Aires. My men will escort you to the American Embassy, and you will be allowed to go inside and make a report to your CIA
superiors. I trust they will quickly forward my message to Washington.”