The White Vixen

by David Tindell

  A cheer went up from the forward missile battery as their second shot hit the Argentine chopper. Then the sailors saw the deadly white wake of the incoming torpedo, only a hundred meters off the port bow and coming fast. Suddenly the water around the torpedo was churning with something else.

  A kilometer away, Target Alpha was showing no inclination to fight. That was really starting to irritate Cambridge’s Lynx pilot, Lieutenant Harry Carson. The Argie helo driver was a good one, though; Carson hadn’t been able to score more than a couple hits with the Lynx’s machine guns as the Haze danced with him. He was about to order his copilot, Sub-lieutenant Peter McNally, to prepare to fire a Sea Skua missile when his third crewmember, Warrant Officer Robert Fischer, yelled that Baker was commencing a torpedo attack run. Loosing one last machine gun volley at Alpha, Carson pulled the Lynx in the direction of the ship. He knew full well the destroyer had no better than even odds against a torpedo. And there it was, dropping off the hard-charging Haze and into the water, straight and true for Cambridge.

  Could he make it in time? He’d have to; if the ship went down, it would be a devil of a long flight home. Carson coaxed every ounce of speed from the Lynx as he vectored it on an intercept course.

  “Peter, fire on the torpedo!”

  “Too far away, Harry,” McNally said rather calmly. “Get us within two hundred meters.”

  “They might not have that much to spare, damn it to hell,” Carson growled, but he pressed on. The torpedo was closing quickly on the ship. Carson could see the froth of her screws at the stern. The Goalkeeper battery at the bow began firing, its seven-barrel 30mm Gatling gun sending shells into the water at a murderous rate of seventy rounds per second, but the system wasn’t designed to engage targets below the surface. Plus, the angle was all wrong; Carson knew the Goalkeeper would miss. Was the ship going in reverse? Smart move by the skipper, and turning hard aport was swinging the bow away from the path of the torpedo, but from this angle Carson could see it wouldn’t be enough. He did the geometry in his mind, and the result told him the torpedo would hit about ten meters from the bow. He knew that would probably spell doom for the ship.

  “Fire the guns, for Christ’s sake, Peter!”

  McNally squeezed the trigger and the Lynx’s twin machine guns chattered to life. Carson saw the tracers streaking toward the torpedo, too far behind it, and brought the nose up and a bit to the right to compensate.

  Dodging from cover to cover, Schmidt was fifteen meters from his lines when a Chilean bullet creased his shoulder. Staggered by the hit, the Wehrmacht veteran went to one knee, but knew from old experience the wound wasn’t bad. Gritting his teeth, he struggled toward the forward line as bullets flew through the air, searching him out.

  “Herr Oberstleutnant!” a man shouted. Up ahead, someone was directing the Argentines’ fire onto their right, from where the first shot of the engagement had come. Two men scrambled from the relative safety of their trench and grabbed Schmidt under the arms, hustling him back to their comrades. They almost threw him into the trench and dove in next to him. “Medic! Medic!”

  “It’s just a scratch,” Schmidt said, breathing hard. “Get me a radio!”

  A young obergefreiter handed him a transceiver, and Schmidt punched the transmit key angrily. “Winkler, this is Schmidt! Come in!”

  The captain’s voice could hardly be heard above the sound of barking guns and shouting men. “Herr Oberstleutnant! Are you all right?”

  “Never mind that. What’s our situation?”

  “The English have us outflanked, Herr Oberstleutnant, but they are not advancing. The first shot came from our right. We think that’s where the Chileans are.”

  “Spread the word, everyone is to hold their fire unless the enemy tries to advance on us. Are the mortars ready?”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I order them to fire?”

  “No, damn it! They are to fire only if the enemy fires first. We must conserve our ammunition in case of an assault on our position.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

  Schmidt keyed his radio again. “All units, this is Schmidt. Cease fire, hold your positions. Unit feldwebels, watch out for enemy advances, return fire only if they start moving on your position.” The sergeants in charge of the individual squads were all hand-picked men, sons of Wehrmacht veterans, many of them trained in West Germany. They would keep their wits about them. Already the volume of fire from his men was decreasing to a few scattered shots. “Winkler, what is the situation with the helicopters?”

  “Herr Oberstleutnant, I have Leutnant Brunner’s aircraft in sight now. He has fired a torpedo on the Englishman and is taking evasive action. I believe there’s been a missile launch from the ship.” There was some shouting from the higher positions. “Oh, no!”

  “What happened?” Schmidt struggled to the top of the trench, just in time to see something crashing into the sea, well off shore.

  “Brunner was struck by at least one missile, Herr Oberstleutnant,” Winkler said grimly.

  Damn! “What about Speth?” A medic was fussing with Schmidt’s shoulder, but the colonel let the man continue despite the irritating burn of the antiseptic.

  “Leutnant Speth has attempted to engage the English helicopter but his guns are jammed. He requests permission to return to the island.”

  “Tell him—“ There was a roar from far off shore. Schmidt squinted, trying to focus his weary eyes. Was that some sort of explosion on the destroyer? The front of the ship was obscured by rising water and smoke.

  Schmidt knew he had little choice about the other helicopter. If Speth’s helo was shot down, and the English ship survived Brunner’s attack, the Argentines would be at the mercy of the enemy’s offshore guns. At least with one helo, he could make another run at the ship, or at least some of his men could be evacuated should he be forced to give up the island. “Order Speth to return immediately,” Schmidt said, trying to keep the resignation out of his voice. “What of the destroyer?”

  “We’re observing it, Herr Oberstleutnant. It appears to be in trouble.”

  Sailors near the bow of the ship dove for cover as the torpedo closed in. Stone watched them from the bridge. The bow was swinging to the right, but not quickly enough. Someone shouted, “The Lynx!” Then the morning was sundered by a terrific explosion, throwing the captain and nearly everyone not strapped into a chair onto the deck.

  Two rounds from the Lynx’s machine guns found their mark, detonating the torpedo’s quarter-ton warhead barely ten meters from the ship’s port side. The concussion of the explosion slammed into the ship, lifting its bow almost completely out of the water. Three sailors near the starboard rail were pitched overboard. The bow settled back into the ocean and surged a huge wave outward as the ship listed hard to starboard. Sirens began to sound, alerting damage control parties. Men screamed as they were flung against bulkheads. A few suffered broken bones and separated shoulders, their agonized shouts adding to the chaos. The list peaked at nearly fifteen degrees, dangerously close to the vessel’s limits, but Cambridge valiantly recovered, and the ship tipped back to port, throwing more men in that direction.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” a young Scottish corporal breathed as he watched the torpedo blast rock the destroyer. Even from three kilometers away, it was an awesome sight, one they had never seen outside of a cinema. The lad crossed himself.

  “Easy, O’Toole, easy now,” Sergeant Powers said. He had alternated his view from watching the Argentines over the top of his covering boulder, and looking back out to sea. So had Ian, after making it safely back to British lines. They’d seen the torpedo launch, then the missile hit on the Argentine helicopter, and now this.

  “It appears the enemy has ceased fire, sir,” Powers said.

  Ian looked back at the Argentines, dug in on the hill. “I believe you’re right, Sergeant.” He keyed his radio. “All units, all units, this is Masters, you are ordered to hold your fire, I repeat, hold your fire. Hodge, Arroyo,
acknowledge.” His captains radioed “aye, ayes” back within seconds, and an eerie silence took hold over the island, broken only by the sounds of distant helicopter rotors and the sirens from the destroyer.

  It took Ian a moment to adjust his field glasses, but then he got Cambridge in clear sight. “She’s taken a hit, but she’s still afloat,” he said finally.

  “Thank God,” Powers muttered.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  10 Downing Street, London

  January 1982

  “Beg pardon, ma’am, you have an urgent phone call from the Defense Ministry. Secretary Nott.”

  Margaret Thatcher put down her reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. What now? John Nott wasn’t prone to surprise phone calls. “Very well, put him on,” she said into the phone.

  “Good afternoon, Madame Prime Minister, this is Secretary Nott.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Secretary?” Thatcher’s tone was frosty; she did not get along with Nott, although he was competent enough.

  “We have a situation off the coast of Argentina.” Nott rapidly sketched out the developments on Carpenter’s Island.

  Thatcher sat back in her chair. “Are there casualties?”

  “No reports as of yet, ma’am, but likely so, on both sides.”

  “I must call the Foreign Secretary immediately. Order the ship to cease all offensive actions against the Argentines.”

  “Shall we leave the Argentines in possession of a British island, ma’am?” Nott’s tone was almost disrespectful.

  “I didn’t say that, Mr. Secretary. We will find a diplomatic solution to this situation, but first we must get the shooting stopped. Is that understood?”

  “Perfectly, ma’am.”

  ***

  Island of the Penguins, Southwest Atlantic

  “Order Speth to search for survivors from Brunner’s helicopter,” Schmidt told his adjutant. “He can make himself useful that way, at least.” The oberstleutnant knew he shouldn’t be too angry at Speth. Guns jammed, after all, but it was frustrating nonetheless.

  “Herr Oberstleutnant, Leutnant Speth requests permission to launch his torpedoes on the English destroyer.”

  Schmidt glared at Winkler. “Nein! If he is shot down we are completely at the mercy of the destroyer! Order him to search for Brunner and his crew.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

  Schmidt was making a quick inspection of his position. Including himself, four men had been slightly wounded in the exchange of fire with the English and Chilean marines. His forward observers saw no indication that the enemy troops were preparing to attack. They hadn’t moved out of their initial positions. Schmidt had his mortar teams ready to fire at a moment’s notice, but he felt sure the English commander on the ground would ask for fire support from the destroyer before making any kind of assault on the Argentine breastworks. Schmidt vividly recalled what Russian artillery had been able to do and did not look forward to taking incoming fire from the English ship. None of his men had been subjected to that kind of bombardment in real combat; none could possibly be prepared for the sheer terror. Would their discipline hold?

  Schmidt considered his options. They could always retreat to the interior of the island, such that it was. A delaying tactic at best, it would allow the enemy to take the high ground Schmidt’s men now occupied. He’d already lost one helicopter and his other aircraft might well be useless as a combat asset. Air support from the mainland was at least a half-hour away, and that was assuming the Air Force would react quickly to such a request.

  If the ship started shelling, he would have to withdraw or he and his men would be decimated. A well-placed barrage from the ship would take half his men, Schmidt estimated, and the rest would be routed by the enemy troops. He could not allow that to happen. “Winkler, pass the word, prepare to withdraw to Hill 206 on my order.”

  The adjutant looked at him with wide eyes. “Sir? Withdraw?”

  Schmidt looked away, bringing up his field glasses for another look at the destroyer. “You heard my order, Hauptmann.”

  Stone had climbed up the ladder to the bridge, but not without pain from a twisted ankle. Fields was hanging on to the command chair and doing his best to bring order out of near-chaos. “Captain on the bridge!”

  “Damage reports, Mr. Fields?”

  “Just coming in sir. Two reports of minor flooding in some forward compartments. Chief Bostwick is there now.” The growler phone buzzed, and Fields listened to a brief message. “Lookouts report four men overboard, sir. We’re lowering a boat now.”

  “Very good,” Stone said, fighting to stay calm. The men needed him calm now, firmly in command. He turned to the talker. “Helm, come about to course 030. Engine room, all ahead one-quarter.” The young sailor relayed the commands. “Let’s get our starboard side facing the island,” Stone said. “If they come at us again we don’t want another hit on the port bow. Radar, what’s the other Haze doing?”

  “He’s over the spot where the second one went down, Captain.” Stone grabbed a pair of binoculars and quickly picked up the Argentine helo, hovering over the ocean some two kilometers distant. There was some wreckage in the water, but he couldn’t see any swimmers. A yellow life raft popped out of the chopper and floated to the surface.

  “Looks like someone survived, sir,” Fields said.

  “Appears that way, Mr. Fields.” Stone took a deep breath. “Send a message to Masters, order him to withdraw to the beach. When we get our men out of the water here, send the boats ashore to pick up the landing force.”

  “Sir?” Fields was wide-eyed. “Are we withdrawing?”

  “I’ll not risk further loss of life for that bloody rock,” Stone said. “Not without orders from London. I’m off to the radio room.” He handed the binoculars to his XO. “Let’s not tarry, Mr. Fields.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “What’s the word, sir?”

  Ian grimly handed the handset back to his radioman. “We are to withdraw, Sergeant.”

  “Is the ship in distress, sir?”

  “Not at the moment, but if I know Captain Stone, he’s concerned about another torpedo run.” Surviving one attack had probably used up all the ship’s luck for this particular engagement.

  “The ship could bring down that other Haze, sir,” Powers protested.

  “The Argie appears to be trying to rescue his comrades,” Ian said. “Shooting him down now would really play bloody hell with the diplomats, and our friends up on the hill would no doubt call in fast-movers from the mainland. Then it would be bollocks for sure, for all of us.” Powers shook his head, but Ian knew the veteran had to agree with him. A squadron of fighter jets could sink the ship and leave Ian and his command at the mercy of the Argentines, on land and from the air, and he had a feeling they wouldn’t be too inclined to show much mercy by then.

  Ian clicked on his short-range radio. “Hodge, Arroyo, this is Masters. Prepare to withdraw. I repeat, prepare to withdraw, stagger your retreat back to the landing area.”

  Hodge responded with a reluctant aye-aye, but nothing came from the Chileans. “Arroyo, this is Masters, report your situation, over.” Nothing.

  “Could be his radio’s out, sir,” Powers offered. His tone was respectful, but his eyes betrayed his cynicism.

  “Possible,” Ian said. “Sergeant, you’re in charge here until Mr. Hodge and his men arrive. Stay under cover and wait for the boats. I want to see what’s happening over there with the Chileans.”

  “Let me send a man with you, sir,” Powers said. Before his C.O. could object, Powers whistled a rifleman over. “Garrett, you’re going with the major.”

  “Right, sergeant,” the young man said, his voice carrying a Welsh accent. “Right with you, sir,” he said to Ian.

  “Very well. Carry on, Sergeant. Corporal, let’s move out. Keep to the cover as best as possible.”

  “Something’s moving out there,” Winkler said. Like his commander, the young ha
uptmann was observing through binoculars, his head barely above the level of their defensive position. “Movement by the enemy on the left, Herr Oberstleutnant,” he said. “They appear to be heading back to the landing area.”

  “Yes,” Schmidt said, also observing through binoculars. He swung his back to the center of the English formation and picked up two figures scampering to the right. Going further in that direction, he saw the enemy troops dug in. The closest one was only 150 meters from the Argentines’ right flank. Crouched behind a spray of rocks, Schmidt caught a flash of color from the marine’s shoulder. A patch of some sort…There it was again. A flag, but not the Union Jack.

  “The Chileans are on the right,” he said confidently. Unlike the English on the left, the Chileans weren’t pulling back. Was the enemy commander considering a mass assault on his right flank? That would be madness. He could focus his fire, cut them to pieces even before the destroyer could open up on them. Perhaps they were consolidating their position to give the ship a wider field of fire.

  “Be on the alert,” Schmidt said. “They may be preparing an artillery barrage.”

  “Should we begin our withdrawal, sir?” Winkler asked.

  “Not yet. If they see us reveal our position, that may prompt them to open fire. Let’s see what they’re really up to. Pass the word to the forward positions on the right. Any movement forward by the enemy brings a warning shot from our best marksman. Just a warning shot.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.” Winkler grabbed his radio.

  The nearest troops on the right flank of the Chilean position were now about a hundred meters away. The ground was rough here, and Ian had to push uncooperative penguins out of the way more than once. The corporal had been nipped on the arm, prompting a colorful Welsh profanity. Ian had tried to raise Arroyo twice more, to no avail. The Chileans had a backup radio, didn’t they?