“Yes, sir. Presuming a straight course, the flight would probably have originated here, on the mainland.” Using a straight-edge, he drew a line from the Argentine coast directly to Carpenter’s Island. “The nearest landfall would be Carpenter’s, sir.”
Arroyo pointed at the spot on the mainland where Carruthers’ line began. “The Argentinos have a naval base there, at Rio Gallegos,” he said.
“The message said two aircraft, probably helicopters,” Ian said. “Ernesto, what kind of troop-carrying helos do they have?”
Arroyo looked off into the distance as he searched his memory. “They have some French-made helicopters, but I believe these would be from their complement of Soviet-made aircraft. Perhaps the Mi-14. We have some as well.”
Fields already had a reference book in hand and was flipping through the pages. “Here, sir,” he said, showing a page to Stone. “The Mil Mi-14, NATO code name ‘Haze’. Used mainly for coastal submarine patrol, but also for transport.”
Stone took the book from his XO, examined the page with a grunt and handed it to Ian. “Maximum speed 124 knots,” he read aloud. “So they were going close to full bore when San Miguel spotted them. Range, 1135 kilometers.”
“A round-trip would be well within their range,” Fields said.
“If modified for troop transport, they could each carry two dozen men,” Arroyo said. That drew a hard glance from Stone.
“Do you have the time, Mr. Fields?” the captain asked.
The XO checked his watch. “Almost 0500, sir.”
“So we can assume, gentlemen, that these helos were headed for Carpenter’s, and if San Miguel spotted them nearly an hour ago, they’ve already landed and had ample time to off-load any troops.” He glanced out a porthole on the starboard side of the cabin. “Dawn in another half-hour or so, perhaps. Not ideal light for a helo landing on an unmarked island, but evidently enough.”
“If they remain on the island, those helos could be a threat to the ship,” Fields said. “Their ASW birds can be armed with torpedoes as well as depth charges.”
Stone considered that, then turned to Ian. “Major, it appears likely our recent conversation will be pertinent after all.”
Ian took a deep breath. “Request permission to carry out the exercise as planned, Captain.”
Stone had shown himself to be a very capable commander during this voyage, earning the respect of the marines, which was not easily given. But would he sail toward the sound of guns? “I’m not inclined to send your men into harm’s way needlessly, Major.”
“Carpenter’s Island is British territory, sir,” Ian said firmly. “Shall we have another Southern Thule episode? I think not, sir. Not when we’re this close.”
Stone looked at the Chilean. “Captain Arroyo, I’m even more hesitant to involve troops from a third party in what could be the opening rounds of a conflict between two other nations.”
Arroyo came to attention. “Mi capitan, I formally request permission to accompany your men ashore, as planned, even under these circumstances. We will stand with our British comrades, sir.”
Stone nodded. “Noted. But, gentlemen, I must inform Admiralty that circumstances on the island may have drastically changed. I have strict orders not to engage the Argentines unless clearly in defense of the ship.”
“If the Argentines are ashore on Carpenter’s, sir,” Fields said, “one could interpret that as an aggressive act all by itself.”
“Indeed. But as they haven’t fired on this vessel—yet—I must cable London for instructions.” He turned back to Ian and Arroyo. “Gentlemen, have your men ready to disembark as planned. I’m off to the radio room.”
***
Lieutenant Colonel Gerhard Schmidt barked a few more orders at his hard-working men as he walked through their defensive position. His demeanor didn’t indicate it, but he was pleased with their progress so far. Only three hours ago they’d landed here, and they had already turned the old whaling station into a fortified defensive position. He paused and gazed out to sea, toward the west. It was overcast this morning, but he thought he could see a speck on the horizon. The English ship? It had to be.
“Hauptmann Winkler!”
His adjutant, following close behind as always, answered immediately. “Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant!”
“I believe our friends are about to arrive. If you please, tell Kapitänleutnant Speth he may conduct his reconnaissance mission now.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.” Winkler trotted off in the direction of the hidden helicopters. Schmidt was glad he had insisted that the helos remain on the island, rather than returning to base immediately after their landing. Now he could use them to recon the enemy, and if push came to shove, their torpedoes would prove quite useful.
He breathed in deeply, sucking in the salt air. Mein Gott, but it felt good to be in the field again, even on such a Godforsaken rock as this island, with a real enemy out there, trained men who would test his mettle. No more chasing common bandits or fanatical insurrectionists through the mountains and rain forests. Schmidt hadn’t slept more than four hours in the last twenty-four, but he felt refreshed. He checked his wristwatch. It was nearly 0800. Surely the English would be making their attempt to land soon, assuming they still planned to assault the island.
Schmidt’s unit was officially known as Company A, 2nd Battalion, 7th Parachute Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division, of Ejército Argentino, the Argentine Army. Within the regiment, which was probably the smallest in the entire army, were two separate battalions; the regiment, due to its ethnic makeup, was allowed to use German unit names and ranks that harked back to the Wehrmacht days. Each of the Abteilungen had three companies. In the old German Heer, a regiment would’ve included at least two thousand troops; in this modern, Argentine version, the regiment’s numbers were half that. What made the regiment unique was its roster. Every one of the men was of German extraction, and many of the officers, like Schmidt, had served in the Wehrmacht during the last war.
That service had proven fortunate again, when his unit was ordered to Patagonia for training. Even though his orders always came through the official chain of command, Schmidt knew that orders for the Werewolves were cut at the headquarters of the Siegfried Bund. For this particular mission, he had no doubt at all where the mission was initiated. The phone call he’d received last night, upon reporting to the naval base at Rio Gallegos, hadn’t been from just any Argentine, but from Dieter Baumann himself. Schmidt immediately recognized the aged but still vibrant voice of his former commander.
“The English have sent a ship into our waters. We believe they intend to land marines on the Island of the Penguins, along with some Chilean commandos. They call the island Carpenter’s. That island is ours, Gerhard. You must take it and hold it at all costs until relieved.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” Schmidt replied, using Baumann’s old Heer rank.
“We stood together against the Bolsheviks, Gerhard. You fought bravely for me then. I know you will stand with me now.”
Emotionally, Schmidt had answered, “Sieg heil!” Hail victory!
Schmidt had been unable to sleep on the noisy helicopter ride to the island. His thoughts went back to the events that had brought him here. He’d seen much in his fifty-eight years, and more than once he’d thought he’d be lucky to see forty. A seventeen-year-old professor’s son when he left Heidelberg to join the Heer in 1940, he saw a lot of action in the last war as an infantryman who rose to the rank of Hauptfeldwebel, or Chief Sergeant, and was decorated with the Iron Cross 2nd Class for valor in Russia. He’d saved three wounded comrades from being overrun by a Soviet squad backed by a tank, shooting all four infantrymen and disabling the tank with a well-aimed grenade. He was reminded of one of those wounded men now, as he stopped to assist two young troopers in preparing their machine gun position. One of them looked just like Gustav, one of the young soldiers he’d saved back in ’43.
“What is your name, son?” Schmidt asked.
/>
“Obergefreiter Heinrich Rehberg, Herr Oberstleutnant,” the young man said proudly, snapping to attention.
“Did you, by chance, have a relative in the Wehrmacht, during the last war?” Schmidt asked.
“Yes, Herr Oberstleutnant. My uncle, Gustav Fröhlich, was an infantryman on the Russian front.”
Schmidt felt himself choking up. He’d saved Gustav, only to have them both captured a month later. Schmidt watched him die at the hands of the brutal Russian guards in ’46. Impulsively, the lieutenant colonel reached over and patted the young soldier on the shoulder. “I knew your uncle,” he said, trying not to let too much emotion into his voice. “He was a good man. He would be proud of you. Carry on, Corporal.”
Eyes wide, the young man stiffened, saluted and said, “Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
Schmidt hurried away, eager to complete his inspection. Such men as this, how could he be any more proud of them? What a legacy they carried! A proud nation had sent its sons to fight the Bolsheviks, only to be betrayed by the “Golden Pheasants” back in Berlin, those poppycock Party hacks who had dared to wear the uniform. At least they hadn’t been regular Heer officers, but they wore the black and red of the SS and lorded it over everyone, even the Wehrmacht generals and admirals who were real warriors. Why, even the Führer’s valet had been named a colonel in the SS. Such men had brought his nation down.
Well, it would not happen again. Today, he wore the uniform of his adopted country, and once more he faced an enemy who would take from them what was rightfully theirs. Today, they would not fail.
He looked out to sea again. The speck had grown a bit larger. Hauptmann Winkler ran to his side, just as Schmidt heard the sound of a helicopter engine spinning up. “Herr Oberstleutnant, the helicopter is about to take off for recon.”
“Very good,” Schmidt said. “Is the flagpole ready?”
“Yes, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
“It’s time to make our statement.” He glanced at Winkler. “Klaus, there is a young corporal about fifteen meters back there, at a machine gun emplacement. His name is Rehberg. Tell him that I would like him to have the honor of running up the colors.”
Winkler snapped off a salute. “Jawohl!”
Schmidt took out his binoculars and scanned the sea to the east. Yes, it was an English ship, all right, flying their naval ensign with pride. Now Schmidt would see how much pride they really had.
***
“Bloody hell,” Stone said, his binoculars failing to hide his angry scowl. “They’ve launched a helicopter. I believe they’ve also raised the Argentine flag.” He handed the field glasses to Ian. The SBS commando was fully kitted out in his standard Royal Marines uniform with the Number 8 Dress Temperate Disruptive Pattern Material, the distinctively British camouflage print. The only uniform markings distinguishing him from any other Marine officer in the field were his parachute wings on his left breast and Swimmer-Canoeist badge bordered by laurel wreaths on his right shoulder. A British flag patch was on his left upper arm. Underneath his camo jacket he wore a high zip-neck shirt patterned after those worn by the Norwegian Army. A Royal Marines green beret topped his ensemble. Behind them, the marines were being mustered by Hodge, Ian’s second in command.
Ian focused the lenses until he could clearly see the blue-white-blue Argentine banner flapping in the wind. “Indeed they have, sir. What do you intend to do about the chopper?”
“I certainly don’t intend to let it fire a torpedo at me, Major,” Stone said. To the ensign next to him, he said, “Mr. O’Toole, send word immediately to Mr. Fields to launch our Lynx.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the ensign replied, and raced off to the bridge.
“Will you fire on the Argentine?” Ian asked.
“Only if he appears to be readying a torpedo for launch,” Stone said firmly. “I can’t very well take evasive action while I’m lowering your lads’ boats. I may be a sitting duck, but I can also send out a bee to sting him.”
From the aft end of the ship came the roar of the ship’s helicopter’s engine, and Ian turned in time to see the Lynx lift off and head east, toward the Argentine, which was gaining altitude and turning off to the northwest. “Perhaps he means only to get a good look at us, sir,” Ian offered, handing the binoculars back to the skipper.
“Perhaps.” After another long look at the island, then at the enemy helicopter—Ian had to start thinking of it in that way, he knew—Stone said, “Prepare to disembark your troops, Mr. Masters.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Ian said, snapping off a salute.
The orders from London had been fairly straightforward. Reconnaissance in force approved. Chilean participation is approved via Santiago. Do not fire unless fired upon. Captain’s discretion regarding any opposing force on Carpenter’s. The last part was typical politics, Ian thought. Admiralty was giving Stone—and by extension Ian, his man on the island—fairly wide latitude in dealing with any Argentine presence on the British island. If push came to shove, Stone was authorized to shove back. But Ian was sure the orders to Stone had been approved by 10 Downing Street, and the politicians were leaving themselves a loophole. Very nifty, Ian thought; if this went a bollocks, the captain would get the blame, and some would be handed his way, as well.
Well, he would do what had to be done. He thought of Jo, and the mission in Hong Kong. That was hairy enough, but this, now, this was the real deal. He’d never been too concerned about the Chinese firing on them, but now, just a few miles away, men with loaded guns were waiting for him, and might very well try hard to kill him. He hoped he would be up to the challenge. He had to trust his training, and trust his men.
Now, some three hundred meters off shore, riding the choppy waves in one of the two ship’s launches carrying his men to the island, Ian’s binoculars helped him see that the Argentines had done a good job of deploying their forces. The beach, such that it was, stretched barely fifty meters between two outcroppings of rock. A few penguins waddled here and there. Scrubby trees and a scattering of rocks dotted the landscape for about five hundred meters inland, ending at a hardscrabble hill that supported half a dozen ramshackle metal buildings, the remains of a long-ago whaling station. The Argentine troops had fortified the hill, giving his opposite number a commanding field of fire on the beach. There were some machine-gun emplacements, to be sure, and they probably had some light mortars as well. If they opened up on his men as they came ashore, Ian’s mission would be a very short one. He would be going in out-gunned as it was.
Stone had decided to call the Argentines’ bluff and send his men ashore. He assured Ian the ship’s guns would open fire on the enemy position the moment Ian came under attack on the beach, if it happened. Ian could only pray that wouldn’t be necessary. If he could get his men safely ashore, they could find enough cover and engage the Argentines, and perhaps flank them on one or both sides of the hill, provided the terrain allowed it.
Ian heard a crunching sound from underneath the boat’s keel, and the coxswain in the bow of the launch waved for his helmsman to come about. “You’ve got about three feet of water, Mr. Masters!”
“All right, lads, out we go!” Ian ordered, and he levered himself overboard.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Island of the Penguins, Southwest Atlantic
January 1982
Schmidt watched the English and Chilean commandos scramble out of their boats and head for the beach on the double. Visibility was excellent, and he could easily have decimated the enemy’s ranks with a mortar barrage. But his orders had been specific: he was not to engage the English unless they fired first. He suspected the enemy commander had received the same orders from his superiors.
That would make for an interesting situation. He couldn’t fire on the Englishmen to stop their landing on what was now an Argentine island, yet he couldn’t very well allow them to walk up to his breastworks and ask to join him for lunch.
“Spread the word,” he said to Winkler, “everyone is to hol
d their fire.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant,” Winkler replied, and repeated the order to the nearest positions, adding that they should spread it through the ranks.
He raised his binoculars to the sea again. The English helicopter was engaged in a playful dance with the Haze, which was under strict orders not to fire on the destroyer unless given a direct command by Schmidt. “We have a tactical challenge, Klaus,” Schmidt said to his adjutant. “We have been ordered to hold this island, yet we must hold our fire, and so, it appears, must the enemy. What do you make of it?”
“One of us will have to leave the island in the other’s hands, eventually,” Winkler said.
“Very true,” Schmidt said. “I would say that they have roughly the same number of men ashore now as we have in our position. We have two helicopters, they have one. But they have a ship that is capable of bringing down our choppers and shelling us into submission. Yes, an interesting tactical problem, wouldn’t you say?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Winkler answered hesitantly. Schmidt glanced at him. The young man was clearly nervous. Well, he should be; he had not yet seen the elephant, as the saying goes. Schmidt had seen his many years ago, in Belgium and France and then on the steppes of Russia, in situations far more desperate than this, against a very tough enemy that surely was far more savage than these English dandies and Chilean fishermen would ever be.
He trained his glasses on the scrambling enemy troops. One of them clearly appeared to be in charge. How would he react?
Ian was grateful the Argentine commander hadn’t chosen to open fire on his men the moment they left the boats, when they were the most vulnerable. But the enemy would know that an attack like that would surely bring a response from Cambridge, and the destroyer’s 4.5-inch gun could fire a shell every two or three seconds, more than enough to decimate the Argentine position.
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