The White Vixen

by David Tindell

  The short ride in the car to the compound gave Jo another chance to collect her thoughts. Since her capture the night before, she’d fought hard to keep the fear at bay. It was logical to assume that the odds were against her being able to get out of this alive. She’d been in other threatening situations before, of course; Fonglan Island, most recently. The fear was always been a part of those, too. From the beginning of her special ops training, her instructors told her that fear was to be expected, even welcomed, to a certain extent. The agent without fear, they said, was an agent who was a fool, and foolish agents tended to wind up dead.

  She’d always been able to control her fear, to channel its energy into proper caution, and she always came out alive. How many times, though, could she do that? Was it all just playing the odds, anyway? She’d known other operatives who were fatalistic about that. When your number’s up, that’s it, they’d say. Nothing you can do. She didn’t really believe that. Her parents had taught her to believe in God, and as a teenager she’d become a Christian, so she was secure in her belief that eternal salvation would be hers. Still, she was afraid sometimes, and one of those times was now. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself for whatever was to come.

  ***

  HMS Cambridge, Southwest Atlantic

  Sunday, April 25th, 1982

  “You asked to see me, Captain?”

  “Yes, Colonel, please sit down.” Stone motioned Ian into the only empty chair in his cabin, which doubled as his personal office. The captain was starting to show the strain of the mission. Ian noted the bags under the man’s eyes, and did his hair appear a bit more silver than it was a few months ago? “How are your men holding up?”

  “They’re impatient, of course, but ready to go, sir,” Ian said. “Hodge and I are keeping them busy today.”

  “I wish we could provide better exercise facilities,” the captain said. “In any event, this just came in and I felt you should be informed.” He held up a communications flimsy. “Admiralty have given me permission to deal with the Russian at my discretion. I am not at all comfortable with a potentially hostile nuclear attack submarine being so close to me while I rendezvous with Reliant and transfer you and your men. Therefore, I intend to take action.”

  Ian felt a tightening in his chest. “I understand, sir. For what it’s worth, I totally agree.”

  Stone gave him a nod. “I appreciate that, Colonel. Your mission is vital to the war effort. The Russian could cripple it with one torpedo at the wrong moment. We cannot be sure he will remain neutral. If, somehow, Moscow is aware of our mission, and they decide to intervene to support the Argentine strike against our fleet, this would be their best opportunity to engage us without widening the war. So, we must be proactive.”

  “What do you intend to do, sir?”

  Stone glanced at the clock on his desk. “The scheduled rendezvous with Reliant is set for 2200 hours, with your transfer thirty minutes later. The weather looks good. I am expecting a radio contact from her at 2100. At that time I will inform her skipper of my intentions.”

  “May I ask, sir, do you plan to actively engage the Russian?”

  Stone didn’t answer for a moment, then said, “I will do what I can to convince him to withdraw without firing a shot. If, however, it appears he intends to shoot first, I will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary to defend this ship. I’ll be honest with you, Colonel, it is liable to get very dicey indeed. You should prepare your men.”

  The SBS troops would all be assigned to damage control if the ship went into combat. While they all would’ve preferred to help with the fighting, their weapons wouldn’t be much good against a submarine, so they’d do what they could to help. “I understand, sir. Will Reliant be assisting us?”

  Stone nodded. “I trust that she will. Her skipper is Tom Bentley, an old friend of mine. We participated in an exercise against a French boat a few years ago. It worked then. Let’s hope it works again tonight.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  ***

  Rio Negro Province, Argentina

  Sunday, April 25th, 1982

  There was a knock on the door, bringing Jo quickly out of her meditative calm. She got to her feet, noting by the clock on the night stand that she’d been meditating for nearly a half-hour. As always, the ritual had quieted her nerves, helped clear her mind of distractions, and refreshed her physically.

  This building, the largest of the half-dozen that comprised the compound, seemed to be the main living quarters. She’d been led inside and locked up in what was obviously a guest bedroom. The only window was latched tight, and through it she saw a man armed with a submachine gun walking the grounds only a few yards away. She was sure an escape opportunity would come, but it wasn’t here yet.

  She heard the tumbling of the lock, and the door swung open. Willy Baumann stepped inside. “It is lunchtime,” he said, using the traditional German word, mittagessen. “Our host requests us to join him.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Come now, Major, we’ll have none of this nonsense.” A Luger appeared in his hand. “Shall we?”

  The dining room was large, with walls of dark burnished wood. A heavy oak table dominated the room, with seating for ten. Places were set for four diners, one at the head of the table with its back to a large fireplace, one at the opposite end, and one on each side. A set of double doors were in the side wall across from Jo, who had followed Baumann into the room through this wall’s single door. In one corner was a suit of armor, one hand gripping a double-bladed, long-handled axe. The wall opposite the fireplace held a portrait of a stern-looking man with a curled, white eighteenth-century wig, tri-cornered hat, and riveting eyes.

  Jo knew that Heinz Nagel, Luger at the ready, was right behind her, close enough for a killing shot, far enough away to avoid any sudden attack from her hands or feet. Baumann had likewise kept his distance to her front. He saw Jo looking at the painting. “Recognize him, Major?”

  “Friedrich der Grosse,” Jo said. Frederick the Great. “King of Germany during the 1700s.”

  “Sehr gut, Fräulein Major,” a deep voice said, and Jo turned to the double doors. A silver-haired, barrel-chested man stood in the open doorway. He was wearing a plain brown jacket, an open-collared white shirt, and charcoal slacks. “Actually, he was king of Prussia, from 1740 to 1786. A very cultured man, preferred to speak French, composed music. A great military leader. Many consider him the founder of the modern German state.”

  Baumann snapped to attention, heels clicking, and Jo heard Nagel’s click behind her. Baumann bowed. “Herr Reichsleiter.”

  “Welcome to my estancia, Herr Baumann, Herr Nagel.” The stocky man walked around the table and faced Jo. He wasn’t much taller than her, but she immediately sensed an aura about him. The man radiated power and strength, almost a kind of sexuality. Jo steeled herself. “And this is Major Jo Ann Geary, United States Air Force. You have caused us no small amount of trouble, Major. Herr Schröder was an important part of our operation in the Fatherland. He will be difficult to replace on such short notice.”

  “That’s too bad,” Jo said.

  “Please, sit down,” Martin Bormann said, gesturing to the place at the end of the table. “We have much to discuss.”

  ***

  10 Downing Street, London

  Sunday, April 25th, 1982

  Margaret Thatcher considered the choices the men sitting before her had just outlined. “I do not care for any of these alternatives, gentlemen,” she said. “Not at all.”

  The man in the army uniform was General Sir Terence Lewin, Chief of the Defense Staff. “In war, there are rarely pleasant alternatives, ma’am.”

  “I realize that, Sir Terence,” she snapped. “Our best choice is for an Argentine withdrawal from the Falklands, but I don’t suppose that is likely to happen.”

  “Not without a fight, I’m afraid.” This was from the man to Lewin’s right. Defense Secretary John Nott was trying hard not to enjoy Th
atcher’s predicament. His country was, after all, at war, and she was its leader.

  “There is the good news from South Georgia,” said the third man, Admiral Sir Henry Leach, First Sea Lord. He had opened this meeting a half-hour ago with word that the Argentines had surrendered to his Royal Marines, hours after an enemy submarine, Santa Fe, was caught on the surface by a British helicopter and forced aground.

  “Not enough, I fear,” the prime minister said. “Galtieri will not take this defeat lightly. If he gives up the Falklands now, his government will fall.” The men looked a bit nervous at that; everyone knew that if the British failed to retake the islands, Thatcher’s own government might not survive. The difference was, if Thatcher were forced out, she wouldn’t wind up facing a firing squad.

  Lewin looked at Nott. “What of the MI6 effort?”

  Nott cleared his throat. “C” was being his usual cagey self with this one, even though Nott was, strictly speaking, the man’s superior. “I am told that Operation EMINENCE has hit a snag. The operative we sent to Buenos Aires was found dead in his hotel room this morning. The American agent who accompanied him as his wife is missing.”

  “We must assume the worst, then,” Lewin said, turning back to Thatcher. “The enemy will launch the attack against our fleet, unless we strike him first.”

  “Mr. Nott, have you any indication of when they plan to attack?” Thatcher asked.

  “Our source at their assembly facility reported today that the weapon has been moved out. Unfortunately, we don’t know its destination, or their exact timetable.”

  “Probably an air base on the coast, or close to it,” Lewin said. “I would estimate a launch within three or four days. By then our fleet will be at the exclusion zone, will it not, Sir Henry?”

  “That is correct,” the First Sea Lord said. He was clearly uncomfortable with the thought that his ships and sailors were so close to being atomized. “The enemy shall want to strike when the target is well away from the islands. I would say Thursday at the latest, probably sooner by a day or so.”

  “And what of your backup plan, GALAHAD?” Thatcher asked the admiral.

  Leach looked at his watch. “The SBS platoon should be ready to transfer to Reliant in about six hours. They go ashore twenty-four hours later.”

  “That’s cutting it quite close,” Nott said.

  “These things take time,” Leach shot back. He decided not to say anything about the complication involving the Soviet submarine. Thatcher already knew, and had authorized Admiralty’s cable to Cambridge, giving Stone a free hand to deal with the threat.

  “Time is one commodity we do not possess in abundance,” Thatcher said. “I should feel somewhat better, Sir Henry, if the SBS men were to be in position sooner.”

  “Our best intelligence indicates the strike won’t be launched earlier than Tuesday night,” the admiral said. “The men will need time to reconnoiter the area and select their positions. They obviously cannot move openly during the daylight. Going ashore Monday night gives them about eight hours of darkness to locate the target and evaluate the situation. Assuming they are successful in avoiding detection during the day Tuesday, they’ll be ready to intercept the strike aircraft that night.”

  “And if the strike isn’t to be launched until Wednesday night?” Thatcher asked.

  “Then they wait another twenty-four hours. If there is no launch by 0600 hours Zulu Thursday, they are to make their way to the coast and rendezvous with Reliant for extraction. I shan’t risk them any longer than that,” the admiral said, anticipating the PM’s next question. Nott asked it anyway.

  “So if the Argentines wait until Thursday night, or if the SBS are discovered before then and are killed or captured, where are we?” Nott asked with a touch of sarcasm. He was tempted to ask how Leach could be sure the commandos would even find the right air base, but didn’t.

  “We are then left with a much more difficult situation,” Lewin said. He turned to Thatcher. “Ma’am, time is of the essence, as you yourself stated. I recommend we initiate LION’S FURY.”

  Silence filled the room, except for the tapping of Thatcher’s pen on the blotter of her desk. She sighed, and turned to Leach. “Admiral, is your vessel in position for this?”

  “Vanguard will be on station within twelve hours, ma’am.” HMS Vanguard was the newest Churchill-class submarine in the Royal Navy, and had been one of the first vessels deployed from Gibraltar after the fall of the Falklands. The boat’s six torpedo tubes were designed to fire Mark 24 modified Tigerfish torpedoes. The forward tubes could also launch SUBROC weapons, which would exit the submerged boat as torpedoes and break the surface as guided missiles. The Royal Navy arsenal included versions of the American UUM-44 short-range weapon, modified to increase their range to 100 miles and to explode the warhead up to 500 feet above ground. Two such missiles were on board Vanguard, each armed with a twenty-kiloton nuclear warhead. Thatcher had agreed with Lewin’s recommendation on that one. It was something she had not told President Reagan about, and she wasn’t looking forward to that particular phone call.

  The prime minister breathed in deeply. “Gentlemen, I ask for your help here. Is there any alternative to this choice? Any at all?”

  Nott spoke first. “We must assume EMINENCE has failed. GALAHAD has a chance, but frankly I do not like the odds. Colonel Masters and his men are first-rate, but they will have to be lucky as well as good. Should they also fail, and should the enemy strike aircraft evade the fleet’s combat air patrols…”

  “We cannot take that chance,” Lewin said. “We must strike first, ma’am. To lose the fleet would be a catastrophe of the first order. Then there would be the matter of what might happen in Germany.”

  “I’m aware of that, General,” Thatcher shot back.

  “And what are we doing about that?” Nott asked, unable to restrain himself.

  “What do you suggest, Mr. Nott? That I should ring up Chancellor Schmidt in Bonn and pressure him into rounding up suspected insurrectionists? And just whom would you suggest he round up? We simply do not know enough about these rumors.”

  “There have been rumors like this for thirty years,” Leach said dismissively. “The Germans. Always the Germans at the heart of the trouble.” It was no secret that Leach was not fond of that particular NATO ally.

  Thatcher pounded a fist on the table, startling the men. “I will not be the first person in the history of the world to launch a pre-emptive nuclear attack. It is simply out of the question. If Galtieri launches one, then history will forever blacken his name and that of his nation.”

  Leach sighed heavily. History would also record the deaths of thousands of British sailors at Galtieri’s hands, and the crippling of a once-mighty nation. He sat up straighter, thrusting out his chin. “Then, at the very least, ma’am, strike the bastards after they hit us. One of Vanguard’s SUBROCs up Galtieri’s arse should teach them a thing or two.”

  Thatcher looked at each of the three men. Without a word, she opened a drawer of her desk. Inside was her purse, and she opened with a flick of her wrist. From inside the purse she withdrew a card, inserted into a paper sleeve. On the sleeve was the royal coat of arms.

  The Americans called their version of this card “the biscuit”. Thatcher did not know whether the British had ever given their card a nickname. She suspected not. Officially it was the Prime Minister’s Defense Information Card, a rather innocuous name, she thought now, because this card contained the specific codes that would enable her to launch a nuclear weapon from the British arsenal. Outside her office right now sat a Royal Army captain with a small suitcase at his feet. The Americans called their suitcase the “nuclear football”. Inside the British case, like its American cousin, were detailed instructions for launching all manner of terrible weapons. Also inside were evacuation plans, updated for whatever city the prime minister happened to be in at the time. Thatcher had always thought that file might as well contain blank paper. Should the proverbial ballo
on go up, she doubted whether she would have time to do much more than sit down and give a few hasty orders before the first Soviet warhead exploded overhead.

  “Admiral, what is the selected target?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

  “The enemy naval base at Ushuaia, ma’am.”

  She took a deep breath. “You may begin your preparations, Admiral. May God help us all.” Silently, she added a request for special help to Colonel Masters and his men. She had completely forgotten about the missing American agent.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Rio Negro province, Argentina

  Sunday, April 25th, 1982

  The guard was still outside her bedroom window when Jo Ann was escorted back and locked inside. Once, the man outside glanced in her direction, and their eyes met. She saw no sympathy, no curiosity, just discipline and attention to duty.

  They were all like that here, even the man and woman who served their food during the meal. Jo was pretty sure they were native Argentines, but they didn’t speak unless spoken to and were as efficient as well-oiled machines. As for the Germans…

  Among her history classes at the Academy, Jo had taken a course on the history of Germany between the world wars. Just how could a rag tag, extremist political party led by a lunatic take control of a civilized nation? She found some answers in class, particularly when they had a guest lecturer who served as a major in the Waffen-SS. The man was in his seventies but still a commanding presence, and he mesmerized the class. The Q&A session got heated as the cadets questioned their guest about Nazi policies. To her surprise, the man actually defended many aspects of the detestable regime, to the point where some of the young cadets nearly lost control of themselves. Others, however, spoke later about how persuasive the old sturmbannführer had been. Yes, the Germans got carried away with the concentration camps and all that, but they were well-organized, highly disciplined and had a hell of an air force. They were proud of their country and what’s wrong with that? Plus they had cool uniforms. Some of the men nearly came to blows over it. As they found out later, this was exactly what their instructor wanted them to experience. “Now you have an idea of how seductive it was,” he told them. “You gentlemen and ladies are well-educated, clear-thinking individuals, raised in a free and prosperous nation, and yet some of you were ready to start goose-stepping. Imagine how it was back then for the common, ordinary German, defeated in a war and then struggling to get through an economic depression, looking for anything that offered hope for the future.”