The White Vixen (60 page)

At least there was one less Argie bomber to worry about now. Hodge and his men had taken down the Super Etendard with one Stinger, saving the backup missile. There was a nasty little firefight after the missile launch, but he brought his men back to the beach and their waiting boat with only two light casualties. Besides the poor bloke in the jet, they probably took a dozen or so Argies down in the action. Not a bad night’s work, but it was far from over. Thank God he’d gotten Bickerstaff’s radio call just as he was boarding the sub; another minute and they probably would’ve missed it. He would’ve had to talk Bentley into staying at periscope depth to keep the radio mast up, and the sub captain wouldn’t have liked that at all.

The men looked up at him expectantly as he entered the mess. “All right, lads, let’s get ready. We disembark in about twenty minutes. Weapons check first.”

“What’s the play to be, Cap’n?” Kent asked. He’d done well ashore, gaining a measure of badly-needed confidence after his narrow escape from disaster during the E&RE.

“We’ll surface and break out the extra Zodiac boat. The skipper’s bringing us as close to shore as he dares, about two kilometers. I’ll take the boat ashore with Henderson, Wayne and Kent. Sergeant Powers, I want you topside in the sail with the last Stinger, just in case the Argies put up a bird after us.”

“Right, sir,” Powers said. “Would be helpful to have another missile or two, but there’s none on board. I checked.”

“Well, can’t blame the Navy for that. They don’t design submarines to fight it out on the surface with aircraft. We’ll go ashore, locate the colonel and his party and be back as quick as we can. We’ll stay in radio contact so if you have to pull back and dive, we’ll follow as far as we can and hope for the best.” If it was absolutely necessary, they could still get back on board the submarine even if it was submerged at periscope depth, but that would be very dicey indeed, especially if there were wounded to bring aboard. Hodge tried not to think about that possibility.

***

Chubut province, Argentina

Monday, April 27th, 1982

Jo knew the yelping and flashlights had gotten a bit closer. She also thought she heard helicopters, but didn’t see running lights in any direction. To the east, the sky was beginning to lighten a bit. They’d taken another brief rest stop, and Bickerstaff told her it was nearly three a.m. local time. False dawn; sunrise wouldn’t be till a bit after five.

Ian was still with them, but barely. Bickerstaff was beginning to tire; the man was strong as an ox, but even an ox had its limits. Garrett’s head wound had stopped bleeding and he seemed none the worse for wear, but they were all exhausted. “How much further?” Jo asked.

“I’d have to say we’re pretty close,” Bickerstaff said after taking a swig from his canteen. He passed it to Jo, who took a healthy drink. “Let’s see if we can raise the boat.” He pulled a radio transceiver out of his ruck. “Henhouse, this is Rooster Two. Do you copy? Over.” Nothing but static in response. The sergeant and Jo exchanged worried looks. Behind them, facing toward the south with his rifle at the ready, Garrett had cocked an expectant ear.

“Try again,” Jo said.

Bickerstaff licked his lips, then raised the radio to them. “Henhouse, this is Rooster Two. Do you copy? Over.”

More static. Then, a clear British voice.
“Rooster Two, this is Henhouse. Calibrating your position now. What’s your situation?”

Bickerstaff let out a huge sigh of relief. “I have three other souls with me. One is serious and needs urgent medevac. Natives are approx two klicks to our south. Possible aircraft, approx two klicks south. North and west appear clear.”

“Roger that, Rooster Two. Have your location now. Rooster One is on his way. Vectoring him to you. Watch for his signal. He’ll raise you when he sees your return signal.”

“Aye aye, Henhouse. Rooster Two out.” Bickerstaff unclipped a flashlight from his web belt. “Major, do you know Morse code?”

“Yes,” Jo said. She’d been holding Ian’s hand, wiping his sweating face with her shirt. His breathing was steady, and he was in and out of consciousness. He’d recognized her, though, and smiled at her. It was all she could do to hold back her tears.

Bickerstaff handed her the flashlight. “When you see their light, they’ll be flashing ‘R-1’. You return with ‘R-2’. Pretty clever, what?’

Jo managed a weak smile. “Right out of a James Bond movie.”

“Right, then.” Bickerstaff hauled himself to his feet and brought his rifle around. “I’ll take perimeter watch with Garrett. I’m heading up on that bit of a rise about fifty meters that way,” he said, pointing to the east. “Garrett, you get down the beach there about twenty meters and keep your eyes peeled.”

“Aye aye, Sergeant.” The Welshman got to his feet and hustled away.

Bickerstaff knelt and put a ham-sized hand on Ian’s chest. “You sit tight, Colonel,” he said with surprising tenderness. “The lads are on the way. You’ll be downing a pint in the wardroom right quick.”

Ian’s eyes fluttered open and he looked up at the big sergeant. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Leave…me…”

“No!” Jo said, nearly breaking down. “We’re not leaving you!”

Was he trying to laugh? “No…leave me a weapon…” Bickerstaff grunted and handed over his sidearm, then gave his radio to Jo.

The big Londoner picked his way through the rocks and gnarled trees inland. Jo watched him as long as she could, then lost him in the shadows. Jo dropped Ian’s hand and tore herself away from him, forcing herself to face toward the ocean. The surf was rolling in about thirty feet from them. She peered toward the horizon. Nothing. To the south, she heard the sounds of the pursuing Argentines, getting closer. And then she saw the helicopter’s running lights, about a kilometer to their south, zigzagging over the beach, a searchlight sweeping downward. It made the helo a big target, but she supposed that was meant to flush them out into the open by drawing their fire. A gamble, but the Argentines were apparently willing to risk a helicopter.

They didn’t have much time. She turned back to the east…a light! Blinking at her, yes, it was “R-1”. She raised the flashlight, switched it on, and sent the recognition signal. The return signal was “R-1 OK”. She flashed “R-2 OK”, then paused and sent “HELO”. She assumed the men in the incoming boat could see the helicopter, but she wanted to be sure. She’d also forgotten entirely about the radio.

Rifle fire erupted from Bickerstaff’s hill. Jo couldn’t see anything over there, too dark yet, but she flashed “R-2 ENGAGED” at the boat, then she brought her MP-5 around and crouched next to Ian. More shots from the hill, and then she heard a thumping sound heading her way. Heart racing, she trained the weapon on the source of the sound, ready to fire, but then she recognized the shape as Bickerstaff, running for all he was worth, leaping over rocks and trees.

“Squad of infantry, about 300 meters and coming in,” he said, panting. “Must’ve spotted me in the moonlight, damn it all. Got off a couple shots my way. I think I got one of them.”

“How many?”

“Hard to say. At least five or six, I’d guess.”

“The boat’s inbound,” she said. “Any minute now. They know we’ve taken fire.”

“All right, then,” he said. “We make our stand here. The lads coming in will help even the odds.” He rose and whistled toward the south. “Garrett! Fall back here!”

Jo could hear the helicopter, but was that the faint buzzing of a marine outboard? She looked out to sea, but couldn’t make out anything. They could be close, or they could be miles away. Jo and the marines would have to hold out.

The helicopter had spotted the exchange of fire on the hill, and was heading their way now, whining like an angry hornet. The searchlight swept up the beach. Garrett was running their way, then he abruptly stopped and crouched into a firing position, facing the helo, and squeezed off a burst. Jo thought she saw a few sparks fly off the fuselage, and the helo banked slightly to its right. Gunfire erupted from its weapons pylon, and tracers stitched their way up the beach toward Garrett, who dove behind covering rocks at the last second. He returned fire, aiming for the searchlight.

From far out on the horizon, something was coming. Jo saw a streak through the sky, ripping the very fabric of the air, heading for the helicopter, which was still firing on Garrett’s position. The Welshman was cringing down behind the rocks as heavy-caliber rounds tore into the stone and the dirt around him.

Without a sound, having passed Mach 1 seconds earlier, the Stinger slammed into the Argentine helicopter. There was an enormous roar and a fireball bloomed in mid-air where the helicopter had been a moment earlier. Jo flattened herself over Ian, hearing the death throes of the chopper as it plunged into the surf, not more than a hundred meters away. A few pieces of wreckage whined over them and chunked into the ground.

Jo raised her head carefully. The remains of the helicopter churned on the water, throwing a glow over the beach. Now there was enough light, and she could see moving shapes further down the beach, heading their way, maybe half a klick away. To her right, she saw more shapes heading down the hill Bickerstaff had occupied only moments before. The sergeant was in a firing position behind a pair of downed trees, aiming his MP-5 carefully. He squeezed off three single shots and two of the shapes went down.

There was a definite buzzing to her left, and she turned in time to see a Zodiac boat appear out of the darkness, riding the light surf. She raised the flashlight and waved it at them wildly. The boat slid up onto the beach fifty feet to her north and men began leaping out and running toward her.

Things happened quickly then, but to Jo it seemed as if it was almost in slow motion. The crackling of the helicopter fire, the chattering of machine guns, the yelling of angry and wounded men, all that became just background noise. She could hear herself breathing, and she brought herself easily into a state of mushin.

She saw four men closing on Bickerstaff. He brought one down with his rifle, then he drew his long knife and it flashed in the firelight. There were screams, and Jo saw what seemed to be a head flying away, its helmet still strapped on. Bickerstaff’s kukhari flashed again, bringing more screams.

The men from the boat fanned out and their rifles began chattering. One rushed toward Jo and Ian, but then went down, hit in the arm, spinning him around and to the ground. Jo saw Garrett mow down three onrushing Argentines and then fall back toward the boat, keeping to cover.

Two men got past Bickerstaff and charged Jo’s position. She brought the MP-5 up and aimed carefully, taking down the first one with two rounds in the chest, but then nothing. The clip was empty. She tossed the useless rifle aside and dove to her right, rolling on the hard sand, coming up quickly. She saw the Argentine jump up onto the low rocks that had been shielding Ian. Firelight flashed off the bayonet on the end of his rifle.

Jo launched herself toward him, her flying kick knocking the weapon away and sending both of them to the ground. She was on her feet quickly but the Argentine was right with her, and she thought he yelled something in German at her. He drew a knife and swiped at her, but she aimed a side kick at his wrist and he shrieked as she connected, dropping the knife. Jo tried to follow through with a backspin kick, but the Argentine was ready for it, ducking just in time. She sensed rather than saw the haymaker coming toward her and raised her arms in a V-block, but the man was strong and the impact jolted her backward.

The Argentine came at her again with a left this time and Jo ducked under it, coming back with a quick one-two combination to the man’s floating ribs. He yelled in pain, and she loosed a side kick at his exposed left knee, feeling the joint shatter with the impact, bringing another scream from the Argentine. He staggered backward, and Jo meant to follow and finish him off but she slipped on a loose rock and went down, hitting her head on the hard ground. Dazed, she saw the Argentine reach down and pick something off the ground. The knife. He staggered toward her, one leg wobbling, and Jo tried to roll away, but her fuzzy brain wouldn’t send the signals quickly enough. The Argentine came down on her, propping himself on his good knee, and he swung his crippled right hand, catching her flush on the cheek, snapping her head to the side. Pain bolted through her, ripping away the fog, and as he brought the knife down with his left hand, she was able to bring her own hands up and catch him by the wrist. The tip of the knife wavered six inches above her face.

“
Weibsstück! Jetzt Sie würfel!”
She felt his hot breath on her bruised cheek, smelling of sausage. He was much bigger than her, and stronger, and her strength was waning. She had enough left to do something, hoping it would be enough.

She reached deep into her central being, her haragei, deeper than she ever had. A kihap roiled up from inside her and rushed through her mouth and outward, a brutal, primal scream, and as the Argentine’s eyes went wide she brought her right leg up with her last ergs of strength and slammed her booted foot into the side of his head. Blood spurted from his mouth. She planted the boot on his chest and shoved as hard as she could, but she was entirely spent now, and he was heavy, and she was able to move him only about foot or so backward, and he was recovering quickly and bringing the knife down again, and she had nothing left.

Three shots rang out from behind her, and the Argentine shuddered, hit in the chest and shoulder. Jo screamed in pain as a round clipped her foot. Then another round tore into his throat. Held up by Joe’s boot, he toppled slowly to his right, the knife falling away, and he slumped to the ground, blood pumping from his tattered throat. Jo struggled to a sitting position and looked behind her. Ian had crawled onto the rocks, and she saw the smoking pistol fall away from his outstretched hand.