The White Vixen

by David Tindell

  Her first big break came a few minutes later when she topped a small rise and saw a solitary farmhouse. A woman was going inside, carrying an empty laundry basket. Clothes fluttered from a single line stretching between the house and a small barn. Jo knew she would have to do something about her own clothing, since it was likely a description of her from Bormann’s servants was on the police and military airwaves right now. Popping sounds came to her over the wind from the west. They were at the plane. Willy was buying her that time.

  Keeping the house in sight, she made her way toward the yard, using as much cover as possible. Were there dogs? She prayed there wouldn’t be. A low stone fence divided the grass of the yard and the scrub of the field. The clothesline was only ten yards away. She waited a full five minutes behind the fence, seeing no movement in the yard, barn or house, and then picked her targets, vaulted the fence, and snatched the clothes. She got only two garments, a plain light gray peasant blouse and a black, widely-flared skirt. Leaping back beyond the fence, heart hammering, she waited another five minutes before changing her wardrobe. Her hair had been in a ponytail, but now she let it come free to her shoulders. She balled up her original clothes, along with her socks and sneakers—she doubted peasant girls would be wearing shoes like these—and stuffed the wadded garments behind a loose stone in the fence.

  Transportation. She estimated she was about thirty kilometers from the coast, and getting there on foot—and barefoot, at that—wasn’t an inviting prospect. She was considering what to do about that when a noise drew her attention back to the farmhouse. The back door came open and two children ran out, a boy of about eight a girl a bit younger, followed by the woman. “Carlos, Frida, wait for me!” The children laughed and ran back to her. “Come, now, if you’re good on the ride to town I’ll get you ice cream.” The children screamed with delight.

  Jo watched them walk to the barn, heard an engine starting, and then a battered old Datsun pickup pulled out onto the yard, onto what passed for a driveway and down a dirt road to the main road, then turned left and headed east. Jo checked the map. The town of Comodoro Rivadavia was about forty kilometers to the southeast, with a smaller town up the coast, and then the Ninth Brigade air base. That had to be the launch point of the attack. Another airstrip, smaller, was about ten kilometers north of the base. That’s where the nuke was, had to be. Other than a small civilian airport at Comodoro Rivadavia, there was nothing else within a hundred kilometers, and she doubted they’d bring the weapon that close to a town.

  Just in case someone else had stayed behind in the house, Jo hid behind the fence as she made her way to the barn. Inside she found a bench with tools, sacks of feed, a stall full of hay, and a real find: a pair of horses.

  Jo’s last time on a horse had come two years earlier, during a tour at a base in Texas. A man she dated for a few months owned a stable, and he taught her to ride, something she found very enjoyable. Now, she hoped she remembered enough. She chose the female, who seemed fairly docile, and in fifteen minutes had saddled the animal with what she trusted was at least minimal competence. Looking through the items on the bench, she found a leather bag which could be used as a saddlebag or carried with a shoulder strap. Into the bag went her Luger and the extra clip, plus the radio and map. A dusty hat hung on a nail driven into a post, and although it was a bit too big for her, she took it. One more quick look around brought another break. Near the side door were four sets of well-worn boots. Thank goodness this family was fastidious. The next-to-largest pair, probably the woman’s, was just a bit large, but they’d do. With one last look out the barn door, she led the horse outside, mounted up, and headed east, through the fields, roughly paralleling the road.

  The crackling of gunfire to the west had stopped, then came the sound of an explosion. They’d used a grenade. She looked back and saw no plume of smoke, so the plane must still have been intact. If the soldiers were even halfway efficient they’d find no woman inside and call in helicopters for an aerial search, and they wouldn’t take long to spot a lone woman on horseback. She spurred the animal to greater speed.

  Twice over the next hour she heard helicopters in the distance, and both times she was able to find cover, once under a tree and the next time by walking the animal through a small village. Nobody paid attention to her, and she was able to draw some water for herself and the horse from a community well. Fortunately, nary a policeman or soldier was in sight, and so she mounted up and kept going.

  The angle of the sun told her it was about three p.m. when she came to another village, hardly more than a few ramshackle buildings that had seen their better days long ago. A heavy-set man sat on a bench in front of what appeared to be a tavern. He was fanning himself with a rolled-up newspaper. Jo tied her horse to a post supporting the veranda. “Excuse me, señor,” she asked in Spanish, with a dazzling smile, “could you tell me how far it is to the coast from here?”

  The man peered up at her, scratched a chin covered with bristly white whiskers, then looked to the east. “Oh, about fifteen kilometers, I would say.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You are a stranger here,” the man said. “Where are you from?”

  An alarm bell started ringing for her. “I am visiting my cousin’s estancia,” she said, “and I thought I would go for a ride. It is such a nice day.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. He looked at her again. “Are you Esteban’s niece, from Buenos Aires?”

  She laughed. “I was told that the men in town were all handsome, but I didn’t know they would be so curious, too,” she said. “Adios, amigo!”

  Jo headed down the dirt road running east out of the village, praying that nobody there had a telephone. Half an hour later, she could smell the tang of the sea and was starting to think she just might make the coast unscathed when the road turned northeasterly, and a couple miles ahead, at an intersection, she spotted a police car. Without hesitating, she turned off the road and headed across the fields to the southeast.

  Another quarter-mile brought her to within sight of the main road, running southeast-northwest, which had intersected with the village road. She’d kept an eye on the police car, and now it was heading down the road toward her. Resisting the urge to go faster, she kept the horse at a canter. The squad car, an older French Citröen, speeded up. It pulled to a stop in the middle of the road, directly in front of Jo. She pulled the reins back and slowed to a walk. Two men emerged from the car. From inside, Jo could hear a radio chattering.

  “Hola, mi amiga,” the driver said. He was short, thin, and his brown uniform shirt had sweat stains under the armpits. The other officer seemed to be younger by about ten years, and he kept his right hand near his holstered sidearm.

  “Good afternoon, officers,” she said in flawless Spanish. “Isn’t it a beautiful day for a ride in the country?”

  “Please dismount, señorita,” the driver said. “We must ask you for your identity papers.”

  “Oh? Is there a problem, officer?” She got off the horse with a dainty jump, her skirt billowing. She caught the younger man’s eyes widening.

  “Just routine, señorita. Your papers, please.”

  “Well, all right,” she said. She rummaged in the saddlebag she’d taken from the barn. “Now, where are they? Oh, here.” She pulled out the Luger and pointed it at the men. The driver, quicker and more experienced, reached for his sidearm, while the younger man froze in fear. “Don’t try it,” she warned. “Now, gentlemen, very carefully, I want you to take your sidearms out of your holsters and put them on the hood of the car.”

  The older man glared at her, but did as he was told. “You too, Junior,” she said, aiming the Luger at the young cop. He was literally shaking, but he was able to retrieve his weapon and place it on the car.

  So much for making it to the coast undetected. Well, it had been a long shot at best. Now, Jo’s challenge was how to deal with them. She remembered the rough road she’d crossed a minute before, hardly more than a
tractor-trail across the wide field, but it did pass near a copse of trees that was a good mile from the road.

  Within three minutes she had tied both men’s hands behind their backs with their belts and shoved them onto the floor in back, then disabled the radio. Tying the horse to a nearby tree, she drove the police car back down the road till she found the tractor path and started following it. Ten very bumpy minutes later, she parked behind the trees, then removed the engine’s distributor cap. Leaving the windows slightly open, she left the men in the car and began jogging across the field, toward her horse. The policemen would eventually work their way free, but it would take them awhile. By the time they made their way back to the road and found their way to the nearest telephone, she’d be miles away.

  Shooting them would buy a lot more time. The thought crossed her mind as she gave them one last look, but she quickly pushed it away. These men hadn’t done anything wrong. They were just a couple of country cops, doing their duty. Besides, if she were captured, she didn’t want a double-murder added to her list of charges. She left them alive, grunting and cursing in the back of the car. A few minutes later, she was on her horse and cantering toward the coast.

  She’d seen this farmhouse in the distance as dusk was enveloping the land, and she decided to use it as the rendezvous point. In the darkness, something substantial would have to serve as a landmark. Ian’s voice coming through the night into her radio had thrilled her, driving away the fatigue and cold, if only for a moment.

  Her SIS briefing on Argentina came back to her. This part of the country had been settled by immigrants from Wales, and so some pro-British sentiment might be expected here. It was too risky to simply walk up to the door and knock, though, as hungry and thirsty as she was. She hoped the commandos would get here soon.

  In the distance she heard the sounds of horses. Jo had unburdened her own horse of its saddle and set the animal free, trusting it would seek out its own kind and join them. She was thinking of the mare, and how sturdy and reliable she had been, when another sound reached her, a rustling of grass. Could’ve been an animal, could’ve been something else. She hunkered back against the tree, drawing her pistol.

  There, off to her right, about forty meters. In the dim moonlight she saw a shape moving stealthily through the knee-high grass. If she hadn’t heard the sound of its passage through the field, just barely above the clutter of night sounds, she would’ve never spotted the shape. Twenty meters further on, she saw another one, just a flicker of movement. These guys were good, all ri—

  The sound was faint, but distinctive. One who has trained with knives never forgets it, and now it came suddenly from her left, and just in time she brought the Luger up and caught the blade on the short barrel of the gun, sending a chink through the night air. The moonlight glinted off a very large blade, and she grabbed for the wrist she knew had to be holding it, lifting the blade up with her gun hand while her left found the man’s wrist and pulled and twisted it, but this hand was powerful and wouldn’t release the knife. She pulled harder, swinging her body around, driving a right side kick into the man’s armpit, a blow strong enough to dislocate the shoulder of almost any man, but not this one. All she got was a grunt, and then another hand grabbed her ankle and twisted. Jo had to roll with it or risk having the ankle break, so she released the man’s wrist and went with the movement, yanking the ankle free as she fell to the ground hard, right side taking the impact, and despite the pain she continued rolling and was back on her feet. Three shapes were around her now, and she heard the clicking of firearms, saw the glint of moonlight on the knife again, and knew that if these were Argentine troops she was as good as dead.

  “For God’s sake, Bickerstaff,” a distinctly British voice said, “put that pig-sticker away. You damn near cut her head off.”

  A deep voice rumbled from behind the knife, “Warn’t close to that, Sarge. Only meant to get her attention.” She heard the sound of a long knife going back into its sheath. “Where’s the colonel?”

  “Right here,” a very familiar voice behind her said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Chubut province, Argentina

  Monday, April 26th, 1982

  Out of sight of the farmhouse, they hunkered down in the midst of a copse of scruffy trees. Jo could hardly believe it was really Ian, and even when she got a look at him in the moonlight, she would have doubted it if not for his voice. In his field uniform, face disguised with camo paint, topped with a green beret and carrying his MP-5, he looked every inch the lethal warrior he was. His men, if anything, looked even more formidable, especially that fellow Bickerstaff.

  Ian was all business. When they got into the trees, he sent four men out to guard the perimeter, and then made sure Jo got some food and water. She wolfed down two energy bars and took a long swig from Ian’s canteen. “Thank you,” she said, handing it back to him.

  “Now tell me how you got here,” Ian said. She quickly sketched out the events of the past two days near Bariloche, the desperate flight east, the crash landing, and her escape on horseback to the coast. He said nothing, merely nodding now and then, but another man, one she barely recognized as Colour Sergeant Powers, uttered an appreciative oath or two.

  “I had to contact you,” Jo said as she finished. “That’s why I made for the coast instead of Chile. The Argentines have changed their plan. They intend to launch the nuclear strike from an alternate air base, not too far from the original base.”

  “Damn!” Ian said. He pulled a map from a thigh pocket and a flashlight from his web belt. The red lens of the flash cast an eerie beam onto the map as he spread it out on the ground. “We should be about here,” he said, pointing at a spot about two kilometers in from the coast and three south of the Ninth Brigade base. “There are no other air bases within a hundred kilometers.”

  “Baumann said they’re using a small strip about ten klicks north of Ninth Brigade,” Jo said.

  In the dim red light, Ian’s eyes glared at her. “Do you trust his word?”

  She took a deep breath. Was it possible that Willy would have deceived her? Was it possible, even, that this was all part of Bormann’s plan? She dismissed it. Something about Baumann had told her he was telling her the truth. “Yes,” she said. “What he said about the alternate site made sense.” She quickly described the diversionary attack.

  “All right,” Ian said. He looked at the man squatting next to him. “Captain Hodge. I’ll take two men with me and Major Geary here to check out this alternate base. You take the rest of the men to the primary target.”

  “Right, sir. Who do you want?”

  “Garrett’s trained on the Stinger, so I’ll take him, along with Bickerstaff. That leaves you with Powers and his Stinger, plus the rest of the squad.” He checked his watch. “Nearly 1130 local. We’d best get moving. When you’ve finished your attack, get to the extraction point and get on the sub. We’ll radio for pickup from our spot on the beach north of you. We won’t have time to get to you on foot.”

  Hodge never flinched. “Aye aye, sir. Can you make this other base in time?”

  Ian shook his head. “We’ll have to get some transport somehow. The farm should have a lorry or a car of some sort.”

  “Contact with the locals, Colonel?”

  “Can’t be helped. If it’s another thirteen klicks to this launch site, we’ll never make it in time on foot, especially since we have to go around the main base. We’ll have to risk it.” He looked at Jo. “You need a change of clothes, I think. I have a camo undershirt you can put over that one you have on. I’ll see if anyone else brought a spare pair of trousers.”

  A few minutes later, Jo was cinching a baggy set of trousers with a length of rope. The other marines had melted into the darkness. “Here,” Ian’s voice said, and in the dimness she saw him holding out a garment. She took it, and as she brought it up to her head to slip it on, the odor of his perspiration struck her, so familiar from their time in Bermuda…She flung herself int
o his waiting arms, and stifled a sob.

  “It’s all right, Jo. I’m here,” he said, holding her tightly.

  “My God, Ian.” Everything seemed to be smashing down on her now. Her capture in Buenos Aires, the encounter with Bormann, their escape, the flight, the crash…She willed herself to move beyond it, summoning up every ounce of her ki. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she murmured into his chest.

  He kissed the top of her head. “Jo, we have to get moving. Time is short.”

  “I know,” she said, pulling herself away. She slipped the shirt over her head and pulled it down. It had taken a mighty effort, but her discipline came through. “The farm likely has a dog,” she said.

  “We’ll deal with that.”

  There was indeed a dog, and it started yelping when they were still fifty meters from the barn. Ian waved at Bickerstaff, who drew his long knife and vanished around the back of the barn. Sheep were bleating, but suddenly the dog was silent. Jo tried not to think about what the big sergeant had done with his knife. “Garrett, phone lines,” Ian whispered. The Welsh corporal nodded and headed toward the house, hugging the shadows.

  Ian and Jo made it to the pickup. No lights had come on in the house. Unlike farms Jo had seen in the States, this one didn’t have a yard light, thankfully. Ian took a quick look inside the cab with his flashlight. “Caught a break,” he whispered. “Keys are in it.”

  Bickerstaff appeared out of the darkness, then Garrett. “Lines are cut, Colonel,” the corporal said.