At fifty meters, the nearest Chilean marine spotted them, swinging his rifle around. Ian gave the “friendly” signal, hoping Arroyo had been diligent in showing his men the signals they’d agreed upon while aboard ship. They were virtually the same in every language, and now this Chilean waved them forward. Ian and Garrett scrabbled the last few meters and hunkered down next to the Chileans.
“Where’s Capitan Arroyo?” Ian asked in his limited Spanish.
“About fifty meters that way, mi Mayor,” the private said, gesturing to his left.
“Gracias.”
It took another three tense minutes to reach the center of the Chilean line. Ian recognized Arroyo’s lieutenant, Gomez. “Where’s Capitan Arroyo?”
Gomez pointed to a forward position, about fifty meters away. “Our man out there at the observation post was wounded, mi Mayor. Capitan Arroyo and a corpsman went to retrieve him. I believe they were both hit as well.”
“Is your radio working, Teniente?”
Gomez held up his comm unit. “Damaged by a ricochet during the shooting, mi Mayor. Capitan Arroyo has our other main unit.”
Ian looked through his field glasses. Three bodies were down by some rocks and bushes. One of them moved slightly. “At least one of them’s alive,” he said. “Teniente, you and your men will cover me. Corporal Garrett and I will go out there and see what we can do.”
“Si, mi Mayor.” Gomez began giving orders to his nearby troops in Spanish. Ian radioed a report to Powers, then looked over the ground between them and the wounded Chileans.
“Where are you from, Garrett?”
“Llangollen, sir,” the Welshman replied. Ian could hear the nerves in his voice.
“Up in the Dee Valley, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right. You’ve been there, sir?”
“Once or twice. Ever get out into the fields and clear away the bracken and gorse?”
“That I did, sir. Not much different than what we have around here, I’d say.”
“Well, keep your wits about you now, lad, and you’ll be back there soon enough.” Ian gave him a grin and a wink.
Garrett smiled back, but Ian could see him swallowing back his fear, and perhaps something a bit more bilious from his stomach. “Right, sir. I’m with you, Major.”
“All right, we’re at it, then. I’ll lead the way, follow me position by position.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The Argentines were only a hundred meters, maybe less, beyond the Chileans. Ian took one last look at the enemy through his binoculars. There were four or five men there, and they were looking right at him.
Oberschutz Rudolf Henkel saw the enemy soldier leave his protective cover and scuttle a few meters to some low rocks. “One of them is moving out,” he said to the Stabsgefreiter lying next to him.
“I see him,” the staff lance corporal said, looking through field glasses. “He’s English. Probably an officer.” He radioed a report back to the command post.
Henkel was only nineteen, but had already risen to the rank of Chief Rifleman thanks to his proficiency with long-range weapons. His father, a decorated veteran of the Afrika Korps, taught him how to shoot at the age of seven, plinking at cans and bottles on their farm in Pomerania with a .22-caliber bolt-action rifle. The family emigrated to Argentina a few years later, and on his eighteenth birthday young Rudolf enlisted in the Army. His father’s influence helped him get into the Werewolves. This was his first combat operation, and his heart had just started to calm down from the firefight. His brand-new HK PSG-1 semi-automatic sniper rifle had proven to be just as accurate in the field as it was on the target range. It was a little on the heavy side, but Henkel was a strong young man, and taking out the three Chileans was easier than he’d imagined. Now another enemy soldier was coming out—wait, there’s another one—and they were big as life in his powerful Hensoldt scope. He made sure a round was chambered and then rested his finger outside the trigger guard, waiting for the order.
“Two of them now, Herr Stabsgefreiter,” Henkel said.
“Confirmed,” the young lance corporal said, excitement touching his voice. “Our orders are to fire a warning shot.”
Henkel was disappointed, but he was a proud young German soldier and would do exactly as he was told. “Jawohl, Herr Stabsgefreiter.” He sighted on a patch of scruffy ground two meters in front of the lead Englishman’s position, held his breath, found the spot-weld, where his cheek and the stock of the rifle came into contact, and squeezed the trigger.
Ian was thirty meters from the three downed Chileans when the ground in front of him erupted, followed immediately by the crack of a rifle. Sniper, he knew immediately. Had to be a warning shot, or he’d have been dead. Ian waved at Garrett, motioning him to get down under cover, and the Welsh corporal hunkered behind the rocks Ian had left seconds before.
Two of the Chileans were still alive, that was clear now. He had to get to them. He considered trying to raise the Argentine commander on the radio, maybe ask for a truce to retrieve the wounded men. He reached around to the radio clipped to his web belt.
Ten meters behind him, Corporal Garrett saw the major moving. Is he hurt? Is he reaching for his sidearm? The young Welshman shifted his eyes toward the Argentine position. The shot had come from that bunch of rocks, and now he saw the barrel of a weapon moving slightly. He’s getting ready to fire again! Garrett raised his M16A1 to his shoulder, sighted on the enemy position, and fired a three-round burst.
Behind him, Teniente Gomez saw the SBS corporal firing. He’d already passed the word that all the Chileans were to hold their fire until further orders, except for the three men he’d selected to support the Englishmen. “Selected fire! Pin them down!” Gomez yelled, and his three marksmen began shooting. Gomez aimed his own rifle but held fire, waiting to see what the Englishmen would do.
Henkel saw the flashes from the muzzle of the second Englishman’s rifle and ducked, just in time. Bullets snapped overhead and slammed into the rocks guarding his position. The Stabsgefreiter cried out, then slumped to the ground, unconscious. An enemy round had creased his Kevlar helmet, not enough to penetrate but enough to knock him out from the impact. The corporal’s radio chattered angrily.
Ian reacted instinctively to the sound of the covering fire from behind. His radio forgotten, he leaped over the covering rocks and sprinted for the Chileans, zigzagging and snapping off two quick bursts with his own M16. A part of his brain noted that no Argentine fire seemed to be coming his way, but he couldn’t take time to contemplate the thought. In seconds he had reached the wounded men and dropped heavily onto the ground beside them.
“Feldwebel Koch reports he is taking fire from the Chileans,” Hauptmann Winkler reported.
“Let’s get over there,” Schmidt said. “Are they advancing on his position?”
“Two men coming out, Herr Oberstleutnant,” Winkler said, running beside his commander, his radio to one ear. They heard the sounds of gunfire. A few of the Argentine troops were looking in that direction, but Schmidt noted with pleasure that most were still keeping eyes forward, watching the enemy’s center.
“Two men? Only two?” What was going on here? A recon? That would be madness. Not even Chileans were that stupid.
“Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant. Koch is returning fire now.”
One of the Chileans, a young corporal, was dead, shot in the throat. The corpsman had been hit in the left leg and had managed to field-dress his own wound after helping Arroyo, who had taken two rounds, one in the left shoulder, the other a grazing shot along his right ribcage. The corpsman was conscious, but Arroyo had gone into shock. Ian had to get him back to the ship as soon as possible, or the Chilean captain might not make it.
“Can you run?” Ian yelled at the corpsman above the chatter of gunfire.
“Si, mi Mayor,” the Chilean gasped. “My wound, it is not too bad.”
“Right, then, I’ll take Arroyo. We’ll make a break for that pile of rocks
over there.” Ian pointed at the jumble some twenty meters away. “Follow my lead.”
“We must take the body of Corporeo Hernandez,” the corpsman said. “We cannot leave him here!”
Garrett dived to the ground next to them. “You all right, Major?”
“So far.” Ian quickly sketched the plan to the Welshman. “Can you bring this body back with you?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll get him home.”
“All right, then. Corpsman, you’re with me. Garrett, we’ll cover you when we get to the first spot of cover.” As best he could, Ian struggled to get Arroyo into position, looping the Chilean’s left arm over his shoulders. Ian grabbed Arroyo’s left forearm with his left hand, snugged the arm around his neck, and reached around Arroyo’s back with his right arm, hugging him tightly. Arroyo groaned in pain. “Go!”
Garrett fired a long burst at the Argentines as Ian hefted Arroyo and ran for all he was worth, knowing every meter was bringing him closer to safety, but was also exposing him to the Argentine sharpshooters.
Schmidt jumped down into the foxhole next to Koch. The sergeant was calmly directing his squad to fire on the Chilean position, covering the forward Argentine sniper’s post. Schmidt could see that the sniper was still in action, but the man next to him was down.
“What’s your situation, Feldwebel?”
“The enemy sent two men forward, Herr Oberstleutnant, possibly to retrieve their wounded. My sniper fired a warning shot, as you ordered. The enemy returned fire a moment later.”
Schmidt brought his grimy field glasses up. Three figures in enemy fatigues had just gotten behind some covering rocks, several meters behind the forward position. Now, there was the flash of rifle fire from the rocks. Schmidt saw another man, carrying someone, leave the forward position and run for the second.
“Hold your fire!” Schmidt yelled. “They’re retrieving their wounded! Cease fire!”
Koch repeated the order to make sure everyone in the squad understood. “Get some men down to that sniper post!”
Henkel crouched down as another volley of enemy fire ripped into his rocks. Thank God they were sturdy ones. If there was one thing this island had aplenty, it was rocks, plus the infernal penguins. Peering out between two of them, over the barrel of his weapon, Henkel saw some figures rise up from their cover. Were they going to open up on him? No matter, he was a sniper, and he would bring them down. He sighted on the middle of the three. They were moving, but away from him—
“Henkel! Hold your—“
The voice from behind startled him, and he jerked the trigger. The gun erupted, but Henkel knew it had not been a perfect shot; he’d moved just a centimeter or so when he’d heard his comrade’s voice from behind. But maybe it was good enough.
The sound and the pain registered on Ian’s brain as one. The sound was like the buzz of an angry bumblebee, Dopplering in with a high pitched whine and then passing him with a low burr. The pain was like nothing he’d ever felt, a hammer blow to the back of his left shoulder. It was like someone had rammed a hot poker into his flesh and through his body. He didn’t even hear the scream that escaped his lips, and his vision was already turning fuzzy when he saw the ground rushing up to his face.
***
Five kilometers out to sea, a periscope turned slowly, then vanished beneath the surface. Inside the submarine, the scope hissed its way downward. “Dive master, make your depth one hundred meters,” the captain said. “Helmsman, bring us about to course 045 degrees. Increase speed to one-third.”
The executive officer made sure that the orders were followed, then approached his captain. “What is happening, sir?”
“The English destroyer took a torpedo hit, but she is still afloat,” said Mikhail Ivanovich Govanskiy, Captain of K-251, attached to the Red Banner Black Sea Fleet. “Did we intercept any signals?”
“Da, Comrade Captain,” the XO replied proudly. “There has been some significant radio traffic between the ship and its headquarters, ship to shore, and from the Argentines ashore to their headquarters on the mainland. As well as short-range transmissions between the troops themselves.”
“Very good. When the transcripts are ready, send them to my cabin. Ask Lieutenant Commander Nevsky to bring them, in fact. I’m sure he will have some insights to offer.” Nevsky was the ship’s political officer, most certainly a KGB agent, but otherwise a likable fellow. He would look over the transcripts with the captain and might actually have something interesting to say about them, before they would be sent on to Moscow.
Well, something was happening down here indeed, Govanskiy thought as he walked through the narrow passageway to his quarters. This might not be a wasted cruise after all. He tried not to think of the long voyage back to the Black Sea and their home port of Sevastopol. It was a pity they could not make a stop first in Cuba to visit their fraternal socialist allies. In Cuba, the sun was warm, and so, as Govanskiy and his crew well knew, was the comradeship.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ascension Island, Central Atlantic
February 1982
The Air Force C-135 touched down with a mild thump, jolting several passengers out of their naps. Captain Jo Ann Geary was awake and alert well before the jet started its descent. She’d seen the volcanic peaks of Ascension Island from the small window next to her seat, and the sight of the island actually brought a lump to her throat. Ian was down there. Until that moment, she hadn’t really believed she would see him again. But he was down there, and she was coming to him.
It had taken some doing to hustle a seat aboard this bird, but she’d managed. Colonel Reese pulled a string or two; he’d been glad to do it, since he’d gotten some very favorable comments from the Pentagon about Jo’s work in the capital a few weeks ago. A particularly troublesome member of Congress had quieted down considerably, and hearings that might’ve embarrassed the military had in fact turned quite favorable. So it was that Reese arranged for Jo to get a seat on this particular flight, which was stopping at Ascension only long enough to off-load two officers for the local Air Force base, then continuing on to Turkey.
Rain was falling on Wideawake Field as the plane landed. Jo hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella and her jog across the tarmac left her close to drenched by the time she reached the small terminal building. At least it was warm; she recalled that Ascension’s sub-tropical climate kept temperatures around seventy virtually year-round. It took her a few minutes before she found a way to get from the base to the island’s hospital, in the so-called capital of Georgetown. Half an hour after landing, she climbed aboard a converted school bus for the twenty-minute ride.
Three months ago she’d left Hong Kong thinking that her relationship with Ian, such that it was, might have run its course. By the time she’d arrived back in Florida, she was starting to think it was just a fling, a very pleasurable one to be sure, but a fling nonetheless. Then his first letter had arrived, and she’d written back, and their correspondence, uneven as it was because of Ian being at sea so much, kept Hong Kong alive for her. Much to her surprise, she found her feelings for him growing.
Then a friend in the base signals office alerted her of a battle in the far South Atlantic involving Ian’s ship, and even got hold of a message from the destroyer’s captain detailing the list of wounded men. Ian’s latest letter said it wasn’t serious, but of course she knew it could’ve been much worse. He’d been in combat. The thought of Ian being killed nearly brought her to tears. Was she really in love with him? She’d left Hong Kong knowing that she might be, but had worked hard to suppress that frightening emotion. Really, though, how hard had she worked? She’d answered Ian’s letters, she’d dated no other men—in fact, she’d refused a couple of quite tempting offers. “You’re hooked,” Kate Simmons told her. “Give it up, girl. Ol’ Cupid done shot you straight through.”
Jo had tried to get in touch with the ship, but the Royal Air Force liaison officer at Eglin who tried to help her ran into a brick wall. “The ship’s vir
tually blacked out,” he told her. “Only official communications with Admiralty are allowed until she reaches port. Something serious happened down there, to be sure.” He had, however, been able to find out when Cambridge would arrive at Ascension.
The small, two-story hospital came into view around a bend in the road. Jo tried to keep her heart from racing, but it was a losing battle. The rain had stopped and the sun was out. She really should have checked into her guest billet at the base and changed into a fresh uniform, but that would have meant another hour or two, and she just couldn’t wait any longer.
***
The pain was never far away, and after three days on medication he’d told them no more, he’d have an occasional aspirin and that was it. The nurses clucked at him but let him be, exchanging knowing glances that told him all he needed to know about what they thought. Another balls-to-the-wall officer, wants to tough it out. Well, he’ll see.
His meds finally wore off in the middle of the night, the third night after the surgery, his fourth on the island. It was like someone had stuck a combat knife into his shoulder and twisted it, slowly but surely, and his screams brought the nurse and then a doctor, who knocked him out with a shot of something. The next morning, the pain was back, but a bit duller now, and every few hours he’d pop a couple aspirin to keep it somewhat under control.
There was a patio of sorts here, and he came out after the rain shower and sat down wearily, his robe and gown sopping up the water. He didn’t care, not about the wetness or even the pain. He cared about his men, and his career, and Jo Ann, not necessarily in that order. The week on board Cambridge en route to Ascension had passed in a fog of pain only occasionally thinned by the drugs, but he’d been lucid enough to learn that his unit had sustained three casualties, including his, which was the most serious. The Chileans lost two men; Hernandez, the corporal, and Capitan Arroyo, who’d gone into cardiac arrest on the beach. The night he heard that news, Major Ian Masters, Special Boat Squadron, Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, waited until the ship’s sick bay was dark and quiet, and then he wept for his Chilean comrade.
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