The White Vixen

by David Tindell

  “What type of landing, sir?” Ian asked.

  “You will sail day after tomorrow aboard HMS Cambridge and rendezvous at sea with the submarine Reliant, which will take you close to shore. I’m presuming you will then make an E&RE.” It was what Ian expected. Exiting and Re-Entering was a hazardous procedure in which the entire SBS troop would disembark the submarine underwater. They’d practiced the maneuver a few times in Scottish harbors but had never done it in combat. Still, it made sense, this deep inside enemy waters.

  “And while we’re ashore, sir?” Hodge asked.

  “Our information is that the enemy will launch a squadron of aircraft from this base to attack the fleet. One particular member of the squadron will be your target.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Hodge said, “but surely the fleet will be able to defend itself against air attack. Is there something special about this one aircraft?” It was a question Ian had thought of, but even as it had coalesced in his mind, he sensed the answer. Chandler confirmed his suspicion.

  “This aircraft, Captain Hodge, will be carrying a nuclear weapon. Your mission will be to shoot that aircraft down as it launches from the base. We must do everything we can to ensure that it will never get near the fleet.”

  ***

  Fort Monckton, England

  Hanna, dool, set, net…

  Jo did a dozen knuckle push-ups before realizing she was counting in Korean, as she always did. She switched to German. “Ein, zwei, drei, fier, funf…” She did thirty-eight, giving her an even total of funfzig, and was panting hard when she brought her knees up underneath her and stretched upward. The man leaning against the weight-lifting apparatus a few feet away smiled at her.

  “Hope I didn’t startle you,” he said.

  “No, I knew you were there,” she said. She reached for her nearby towel and wiped the perspiration from her forehead and chest. With a touch of embarrassment she saw that her nipples were thrusting against the thin, sweat-soaked fabric of her tank top. Well, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen such things before. She stood up, feeling the pleasant fatigue a good workout always produced.

  The man extended a hand. “Louis Archer,” he said. He was a bit on the short side, lithe but powerfully built, with dark brown hair and green eyes that regarded her with a look Jo had seen before. He was wearing shorts and an Army tee shirt.

  She took the hand and let him give it a quick, gentlemanly pump. “Lucy Wong,” she said, giving him the cover name she’d been assigned by MI6. “Archer” was probably not the man’s real name, either. At times Jo found the secrecy comical, but she knew it all had a purpose. Many of the men and women training here were learning to employ deception not only to do their jobs but to stay alive.

  “I’d ask what brings you to the Monk, but I’m sure you’d say it’s classified,” Archer said with a rakish grin.

  “That’s right,” Jo said. She had looped the towel around her neck and was holding the ends to conceal her breasts. The last thing she needed now was for a man here to express an interest in her that went beyond the professional. Unfortunately, it looked like that’s exactly what Archer had in mind.

  “I just finished up, and if you have, too, how about sharing a pint? Have you been to the pub just down the road from here?”

  She smiled politely. “Thank you, no,” she said. “I’m really kind of tired. I think I’ll head back to my quarters and curl up with a good book before turning in.”

  He stepped closer to her. “Well, I could bring something around and we could have a nightcap. Perhaps give you something a little more interesting to curl up with than a dry book.”

  She wasn’t sure whether she should be amused or irritated, but it had been a long week, and so irritation took over. “Really, Mr. Archer, I would think your instructors could teach you a better line than that. Or have you been watching a few too many movies?”

  Archer’s eyes narrowed a bit, but his smile stayed put. “That’s not very polite, Miss Wong,” he said. “You’re American, aren’t you? I can tell by the accent. I’m just trying to be hospitable to a guest.” He reached out and touched her towel. “Just trying to be—“

  He never finished the sentence. Without thinking, Jo reached across with her own right hand and grasped Archer’s, peeled it easily away from the towel and twisted it 180 degrees, producing a gasp from the Englishman. She bent forward, forcing him almost all the way to the floor. “If it’s all right with you, Mr. Archer, I’ll go find my book now.” She tossed Archer’s hand away and walked past him, picking up the sweatshirt she’d worn over to the gym.

  “Yank bitch,” he hissed at her. She didn’t look back.

  Jo tied her sweatshirt around her neck, letting it drape over her shoulders, and left the gym, shivering as the evening air hit her. Her quarters were only a quarter-mile away, an easy jog, but a man standing near a parked car waved to her first. “Good evening, Miss Wong.”

  “Sir David,” she said, recognizing him. “What brings you here?”

  Blandford came over and offered his hand. “Well, I thought I might have to prevent my charge from disabling one of MI-5’s most promising operatives. Was it something he said?”

  “Let’s just say it was the wrong thing at the wrong time,” she said.

  “It’s been a stressful week for you, I’m sure.”

  She nodded wearily. “Yes, it has. But I’m making progress with the languages.”

  “So I’m told,” the MI6 man said. “I have another assignment for you, though.”

  She looked at him in surprise. Was she being pulled out of EMINENCE?

  “Don’t look so shocked,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s something you need to do. I’m ordering you to take the day off tomorrow. Go back to your quarters, get a good night’s sleep, and enjoy the day. It will be Sunday, after all.”

  She couldn’t conceal her relief. “Thank you,” she said. “But really, Sir David, I’ll just keep studying, if you don’t mind. I’m not much for shopping or the movies.”

  “Perhaps not, but I believe there might be someone nearby you may wish to visit. A certain marine lieutenant colonel at Poole. Not that far away, you know. I’ve arranged for a day pass and a car for you.”

  ***

  Ian and Hodge were going over equipment requisitions the next morning when a corporal knocked on the office door. “Begging your pardon, Colonel, there’s a visitor asking to see you.”

  The two officers exchanged a glance. “A visitor, Corporal?” Ian asked. “For me?”

  “Yes, sir. A lady, sir.”

  “Well, then, we know she’s not waiting for me,” Hodge said with a grin. “Almost lunch time, anyway, isn’t it?”

  Ian checked his watch. They were due to board the ship in some twenty hours and he still had two days’ work to do. Who in the hell would want to see him now? His sister lived in Manchester…no, too far away, unless something had happened to their mum or dad, but wouldn’t she ring him first with that kind of news? “All right, Corporal, where to?”

  “The Officers’ Club, sir.”

  The O-Club was busy with the luncheon crowd. The base was buzzing anyway, with war talk dominating the conversation. An informal betting pool had been established to predict when the enemy would hit the Falklands, another for the date when the fleet would sail. There was no doubt at all that it would indeed sail; the debates that were even now raging through the government offices in London had a far different tenor than the energetic discussions underway at RM Poole.

  Holding his green beret, Ian scanned the crowd. All of the women were uniformed marines or sailors…except one. She was sitting at the bar, a marine on either side, and all Ian could see were a pair of shapely legs, but there was a bit more leg showing than a typical marine bird. The pumps she was wearing were definitely a bit more stylish than regulations would allow. The legs looked awfully familiar.

  “How about a pint, then?” one of the marines was saying to the woman, just as Ian made his appearanc
e in front of her.

  “Are you really here?” Ian asked, flabbergasted.

  “Yes, I am,” Jo said.

  The marine who’d offered her a drink had already had a couple himself, by the look of him. A major, wearing a paratroop badge. “Shove off, mate,” he said to Ian. “Find your own fun.”

  “It’s too early in the day to get snockered, Major,” Ian said. He turned to the marine on the other side of Jo, a captain wearing the same unit insignia as the major. “Better get your mate here a cup of coffee, Captain.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the captain said, thoroughly intimidated.

  Ian offered his arm to Jo. “It’s a beautiful day. How about a stroll?”

  “Love to.”

  When they were outside, Ian pulled her into a secluded doorway and embraced her fiercely. Their kiss burned with a passion that threatened to consume them right there. “God, I could hardly believe my eyes,” he said, when they finally came up for air. “How did you ever get—“

  She touched a finger to his lips. “Hush,” she said. “I’m here. How much time do you have?”

  His pained eyes told her the answer before he spoke. “Not a lot. We—I have a lot of work to do and not a lot of time in which to do it. Damn it all.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Let’s take a walk.”

  The base hummed with activity around them, but for the next hour they might as well have been strolling through a silent park. They talked about what had happened in their lives since Bermuda, but they didn’t talk about what they were doing next. “I’m in England on official business,” she told him. “That’s all I can say.”

  “I assumed as much,” he said.

  Finally, he glanced at his watch. “I hate to say this, but I have to get back to work,” he said. “I’d much rather take you off the base to the nearest bedroom.”

  “I understand,” she said, at the same time feeling a heat deep inside her that longed to have Ian lying next to her. “Ian, I won’t ask you what you’ll be doing, you know that, but in case we meet…somewhere, we should be careful.”

  His eyes widened with understanding. “I agree,” he said. “It might be…a bit dicey. Perhaps a password.”

  She nodded, thinking. “Fonglan Island,” she said.

  “And the response is, ‘Not a good place for swimming.’”

  She looked at him with a smile. “It wasn’t, was it?”

  “In the event you use a radio, use this frequency first,” he said, then rattled off a number. “Memorize it, Major.”

  “Roger, Colonel. But how will you know to listen on that one?”

  He grinned at her. “We have our ways in the SBS.” His eyes suddenly showed great sadness. “Time for you to go,” he said softly.

  They had somehow wound their way back to the Officers’ Club. Marines and sailors were coming and going, more than a few glancing at Jo. “Ian—“

  “Before you say anything, I have to tell you something,” he said. “Oh, Lord…” He looked away, then back at her. “When this is over, I want to see you again, and I’ll want to put a ring on your finger.”

  She felt awash in his eyes, felt his strength through his hands as he gripped hers, and she surrendered her heart to him. “I’ll want to wear it,” she said.

  He embraced her, and she wanted to stay in his arms forever. They kissed, ignoring the whistles and cat-calls around them, and then he said, “I have to go.”

  “I know.” The tears were coming, and she turned away. “God be with you, Ian.”

  “I’ll make it through,” he said. “We both will. We have too much to live for, now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  HMS Cambridge, North Atlantic

  Monday, March 29th, 1982

  Spray whipped across the ship as the bow knifed through the waves. Cambridge was making twenty-five knots against a westerly wind, but the weather forecast was promising. England was fifteen hours behind them, Argentina twenty days away. The morning briefing, four hours out to sea, had revealed that they could expect reconnaissance overflights by Argentine aircraft while still a week away from their destination. The Argentine Navy was known to have submarines, diesel boats that didn’t roam too far from home, it was said, but that might change.

  Ian held onto the railing and stared into the setting sun. He’d resisted taking a last look at the green hills of Cornwall as Cambridge rounded the peninsula and entered the open sea. He didn’t want to think about the odds against him returning to his home county. Hadn’t even had a chance to take Jo Ann there, introduce her to his parents, show her their modest estate.

  He sighed. The mission would have to come first, as usual. Before now, he hadn’t really thought about how much his career, his service in SBS, controlled his life. It had been everything he’d known for a dozen years and more. The Royal Marines gave him purpose and direction when he had none, and a physical challenge that forced him to push himself beyond anything he’d ever done. The money wasn’t the greatest, but his needs were few.

  That’s what he always told himself, anyway. There were women over the years, as he’d told Jo, but none he allowed to get too close. He didn’t need a wife, he’d always thought, as long as he had the service. Things were different now, though, indeed they were. A woman had come into his life that was unlike anyone he’d ever met, and he found himself head over heels in love with her. Planning marriage, even.

  Marriage. The whole idea was rubbish, wasn’t it? An American, a military officer, a career woman. What did he expect, that she’d marry him and move to England, tending his hearth and home and raising his children while he was off serving Queen and country? Was he daft?

  But another part of him knew that this woman was different, so special that to lose her was unthinkable. Somehow, he had to make her part of his life, had to make it all work out. If it meant leaving the service, well, he would be doing that eventually anyway, wouldn’t he?

  “Beautiful sunset, Colonel,” a voice beside him said, slicing into his reverie.

  “Captain, good evening,” Ian said, straightening.

  “As you were,” Stone said. “Pardon me for interrupting your thoughts. You appeared quite at sea, so to speak.”

  “Well, sir…there’s a woman, sir,” Ian said, suddenly anxious to tell someone, anyone besides Hodge, who already suspected more than he actually knew. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking about her, lately.”

  “I quite understand,” Stone said. He raised a lighter to his pipe and cupped the bowl against the wind with a hand as he puffed it to life. “I heard she’s American.”

  Ian laughed in spite of himself. “Word gets around, evidently.”

  “It does,” the captain agreed. He fished into a pocket of his jacket and brought out a flimsy. “This was for my eyes only, and that of my exec, but I have some discretion in who I share it with.” He handed the message to Ian, who read it and handed it back. Stone crumpled the paper and tossed it to the waves below.

  “So the Argentines are at sea,” Ian said.

  “Indeed,” Stone said. The message relayed the news that American spy satellites had confirmed British intelligence reports: the Argentine fleet had set sail the previous day, heading east. The governor at Stanley was told to prepare defenses. “We estimate they should arrive in another three days.”

  “Not much we can do about that, is there, sir?”

  Stone sighed. “Not at the moment, Colonel. We’ve been caught with our knickers down this time. The fleet is assembling, however, and some elements are already at sea. Besides ourselves, I understand that Fort Austin sailed today from Gibraltar. She’s a frigate; I know her captain. A good man, and a good ship.”

  Ian was quiet for a moment, and then asked, “What of the enemy submarine force, sir? Is it a threat?”

  “The Argentines? Perhaps,” Stone said. “We shan’t have to worry about them for several days. In the meantime, we have another problem.”

  “Sir?”

  Sto
ne looked at him, eyes hard. “One hour ago, our sonar picked up a submerged contact some two miles back, pacing us. My sonarman, Sanders, swears it is the same contact that was with us near Carpenter’s. He’s one of the best sonarmen in the fleet and I trust his judgment.”

  “A Soviet sub, sir?”

  Stone nodded grimly. “Undoubtedly, Colonel. Ivan is very interested in our mission. I notified Admiralty, of course, and was told to take no offensive action against the Russian for the time being. Once we’re close to enemy waters, though, all bets are off.”

  “What do you think he wants, sir?”

  Stone stared out to sea, turning his gaze aft. “With Ivan, one never really knows,” he said. “I rather doubt he’s out there just for something to do, though.”

  ***

  Stanley, East Falkland

  Thursday, April 1st, 1982

  Rex Hunt was nervous. The Governor of the Falkland Islands paced his small office in Government House, fretting over the cable he had just received from London. He had earlier been warned that the Argentines had sent a submarine to his waters, purpose unknown, although it didn’t take an Oxford graduate to figure it out. Now, the news was even worse: a large Argentine fleet had sailed from the mainland and presumably was destined for his islands. He should prepare defenses immediately to repel an invasion.