Ritter saw the inbound missile pass through the chaff clouds on his radar screen and instantly made a decision. His aircraft was doomed. If he’d only had another minute, even a bit less, he could have outraced the missile, gotten out of its range. But he had run out of time. He leveled out the aircraft and reached for the ejection handle. Only seconds now. His gloved hand gripped the handle and began to squeeze, but one more thought made him hesitate: the bomb.
Ritter made another decision. His weapons panel included the arming switch for the bomb and the release lever. Ignoring the arming switch, Ritter reached for the release lever with his other hand and pulled. He felt the aircraft shudder and bounce upward as the 500-kilogram bomb dropped away, harmless, falling toward the sea. Then Ritter pulled on the ejection handle. The canopy blew upward and explosive charges destroyed the bolts clamping his seat to the airframe. Rocket engines ignited and propelled the seat and its occupant straight upward into the night sky, so quickly that the G-forces rendered Ritter unconscious. Three seconds later the Stinger missile streaked into the jet, colliding with the hull just to the left and forward of the port side exhaust, and the warhead exploded.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Chubut province, Argentina
Tuesday, April 27th, 1982
Jo couldn’t help but watch the missile chase the Argentine jet. She didn’t know the missile’s range, but the jet couldn’t escape, could it? The Stinger seemed to be closing the gap, but it was hard to tell in the darkness.
Beside her, Ian groaned, snapping her back to the here and now. Garrett had found a bandage in his medikit and slapped it on his forehead, but it was still bleeding a little. Jo would have to help him with that, but Ian was in serious trouble. The right side of his jacket was soaked with blood.
“Help me get to the wound!” Jo yelled at the corporal. Her training and discipline held, allowing her to stay focused. Together, they pulled Ian’s jacket off and Jo pulled up his shirt. In the dim light she could see the wound, dark and ugly, blood seeping out of it. “Got another bandage?” Garrett handed her one and she put it against the wound. It was enough to cover it, and she took a roll of white tape from the corporal and began wrapping it around Ian’s torso to hold the bandage in place.
“Is it bad?” Garrett asked.
“Yes,” she said, lips tight. “We need to get him to a hospital.”
“Fuckin’ Argies’ll let him bleed out,” Garrett said. “There’s a doc on the submarine.”
Jo was about to reply when a booming sound rolled in from the east. They looked off into the night, over the ocean, in time to see the expanding fireball of what had been the Argentine jet. “You got the bastard!” Garrett yelled, pumping his fist in the air. “Bloody hell, you splashed him good, Major!”
The relief Jo should’ve felt was pushed rudely aside by her fear for Ian. “We might not have time to get to the sub,” she said. “Maybe we should—” Her discipline nearly failed her. Surrendering to the enemy was something she never would have contemplated before, but now, things were different, weren’t they? They could get Ian to a hospital, save his life. So what if she never got back home?
“Hey, look, the Argies are running like hell!”
She looked back down toward the airstrip. Past the burning wreckage of the troop truck, she saw men running crazily across the airstrip, diving into ditches. Panicky yells reached her. “They must think the bomb’s going to go off,” she said. “That has to be it.”
Garrett looked at her, eyes wide. “It won’t, will it?”
“Not unless it was armed first,” she said, hoping she was right. She had an idea. “This is our chance, Garrett. Come on, give me a hand with Ian.” She struggled with his weight. “For God’s sake, man, if the damn thing goes off we’re all dead anyhow. We can get to the beach while the bad guys are still figuring it out!”
They had made it about a hundred meters, coming over the last hill with the ocean in front of them, when a large shape came out of the night to their right. “Ahoy there,” came a whispered voice.
“Bickerstaff! Is that you?” Garrett hissed.
“Right-o, mate. What’s this here now?” The huge Londoner came out of a shadow, sheathing his wicked knife.
“Ian took a round in the side,” Jo said, panting from the exertion. “The Argentines thought the bomb was going to go off when the plane blew up. We don’t have much time.”
“I got in a radio call,” Bickerstaff said. “We need to get two klicks north from here. Reliant picked up the other team and she’s on her way.”
“North?” Garrett asked.
Bickerstaff took Ian from them and hefted the wounded man over his shoulder like he was a sack of grain. “Right,” he grunted. “A bit out of the way but further from the Argie base. Once the buggers are done shittin’ themselves, they’ll get organized and be after us for sure. Come on, then, we got a yomp ahead of us.”
The beach, such that it was, offered plenty of hazards in the dim light of the moon. Jo took the lead, scouting a few meters ahead to warn of holes, tangling brush or other obstacles. Nimble as she might otherwise be, she stumbled more than once, painfully barking both shins. Bickerstaff huffed along behind her, carrying Ian, with Garrett providing cover from the rear. Jo had Ian’s MP-5, with the Luger tucked into the waistband of her borrowed trousers.
“Hold up,” Bickerstaff said, panting. “Gotta rest. Check the colonel.”
Jo came back to him as the sergeant laid Ian gently on the gravelly sand, propping him up against a fallen log. Jo felt for a pulse, and it was still there, thank God. Ian groaned. “Jo…Jo…“
“Hush,” she said, her voice quaking. “Save your strength. We’re almost to the sub.”
“Let’s have a look at that wound,” Bickerstaff said, pulling up his colonel’s shirt. “Bleedin’s stopped, looks like,” he said.
Garrett came up from the rear. “Got movement about two klicks back,” he said. “Dogs and lights.”
Jo stood up and looked south, back toward the airstrip, and saw the waving flashlights in the far distance. Over the rush of the surf she could hear a faint yelping. “Infantry,” she said. “Maybe they think we went south.”
“If Argie has any brains at all he’ll split his force and cover both directions,” Bickerstaff said. “Probably call in choppers from that air base. We’ll be in the soup then. No more Stingers, Garrett?”
“No, Sergeant. I took out a troop truck with me first, the major here brought down the jet with t’other.”
“Right, then. Well, let’s hope help arrives quick.” Bickerstaff crouched down and picked up Ian again. “Major, if you please…”
Jo squeezed Ian’s dangling hand, brought her MP-5 up and turned toward the north.
***
Aboard HMS Reliant, southwest Atlantic
Tuesday, April 27th, 1982
“How much further, Captain?”
Bentley looked sharply at the SBS officer. It was an effort to keep his voice calm. “About half a kilometer farther than we were last time you asked, Mr. Hodge.”
“Sorry, sir,” Hodge said. They were all under incredible strain. “Shall I ready the lads, sir?”
“That would be fine.” The captain turned back to the navigational table, huddling with his officers. He checked the map, then his watch. “Hodge, we’ll turn west in about ten minutes. After that, it’s another ten till we surface.”
“Aye aye, Captain. We’ll be ready.” Hodge hustled aft, where the exhausted SBS troopers waited anxiously in the mess hall. They’d been aboard only about twenty minutes, and had to wait another twenty until they could go after the colonel. It would seem like an eternity, unless he got them busy.
For a man used to traveling in helicopters and speedboats, the submarine seemed terribly slow to Hodge. Doubtless the rest of the lads felt the same way, but the skipper was being cautions. The waters where he picked them up were too shallow to allow much maneuvering, so he moved the boat a kilometer to the east bef
ore turning to the north. It all took time. Hodge was frustrated, but he knew the swabbies were doing the best they could. It wouldn’t do to run on the surface and expose the boat to enemy ASW fire.
At least there was one less Argie bomber to worry about now. Hodge and his men had taken down the Super Etendard with one Stinger, saving the backup missile. There was a nasty little firefight after the missile launch, but he brought his men back to the beach and their waiting boat with only two light casualties. Besides the poor bloke in the jet, they probably took a dozen or so Argies down in the action. Not a bad night’s work, but it was far from over. Thank God he’d gotten Bickerstaff’s radio call just as he was boarding the sub; another minute and they probably would’ve missed it. He would’ve had to talk Bentley into staying at periscope depth to keep the radio mast up, and the sub captain wouldn’t have liked that at all.
The men looked up at him expectantly as he entered the mess. “All right, lads, let’s get ready. We disembark in about twenty minutes. Weapons check first.”
“What’s the play to be, Cap’n?” Kent asked. He’d done well ashore, gaining a measure of badly-needed confidence after his narrow escape from disaster during the E&RE.
“We’ll surface and break out the extra Zodiac boat. The skipper’s bringing us as close to shore as he dares, about two kilometers. I’ll take the boat ashore with Henderson, Wayne and Kent. Sergeant Powers, I want you topside in the sail with the last Stinger, just in case the Argies put up a bird after us.”
“Right, sir,” Powers said. “Would be helpful to have another missile or two, but there’s none on board. I checked.”
“Well, can’t blame the Navy for that. They don’t design submarines to fight it out on the surface with aircraft. We’ll go ashore, locate the colonel and his party and be back as quick as we can. We’ll stay in radio contact so if you have to pull back and dive, we’ll follow as far as we can and hope for the best.” If it was absolutely necessary, they could still get back on board the submarine even if it was submerged at periscope depth, but that would be very dicey indeed, especially if there were wounded to bring aboard. Hodge tried not to think about that possibility.
***
Chubut province, Argentina
Monday, April 27th, 1982
Jo knew the yelping and flashlights had gotten a bit closer. She also thought she heard helicopters, but didn’t see running lights in any direction. To the east, the sky was beginning to lighten a bit. They’d taken another brief rest stop, and Bickerstaff told her it was nearly three a.m. local time. False dawn; sunrise wouldn’t be till a bit after five.
Ian was still with them, but barely. Bickerstaff was beginning to tire; the man was strong as an ox, but even an ox had its limits. Garrett’s head wound had stopped bleeding and he seemed none the worse for wear, but they were all exhausted. “How much further?” Jo asked.
“I’d have to say we’re pretty close,” Bickerstaff said after taking a swig from his canteen. He passed it to Jo, who took a healthy drink. “Let’s see if we can raise the boat.” He pulled a radio transceiver out of his ruck. “Henhouse, this is Rooster Two. Do you copy? Over.” Nothing but static in response. The sergeant and Jo exchanged worried looks. Behind them, facing toward the south with his rifle at the ready, Garrett had cocked an expectant ear.
“Try again,” Jo said.
Bickerstaff licked his lips, then raised the radio to them. “Henhouse, this is Rooster Two. Do you copy? Over.”
More static. Then, a clear British voice. “Rooster Two, this is Henhouse. Calibrating your position now. What’s your situation?”
Bickerstaff let out a huge sigh of relief. “I have three other souls with me. One is serious and needs urgent medevac. Natives are approx two klicks to our south. Possible aircraft, approx two klicks south. North and west appear clear.”
“Roger that, Rooster Two. Have your location now. Rooster One is on his way. Vectoring him to you. Watch for his signal. He’ll raise you when he sees your return signal.”
“Aye aye, Henhouse. Rooster Two out.” Bickerstaff unclipped a flashlight from his web belt. “Major, do you know Morse code?”
“Yes,” Jo said. She’d been holding Ian’s hand, wiping his sweating face with her shirt. His breathing was steady, and he was in and out of consciousness. He’d recognized her, though, and smiled at her. It was all she could do to hold back her tears.
Bickerstaff handed her the flashlight. “When you see their light, they’ll be flashing ‘R-1’. You return with ‘R-2’. Pretty clever, what?’
Jo managed a weak smile. “Right out of a James Bond movie.”
“Right, then.” Bickerstaff hauled himself to his feet and brought his rifle around. “I’ll take perimeter watch with Garrett. I’m heading up on that bit of a rise about fifty meters that way,” he said, pointing to the east. “Garrett, you get down the beach there about twenty meters and keep your eyes peeled.”
“Aye aye, Sergeant.” The Welshman got to his feet and hustled away.
Bickerstaff knelt and put a ham-sized hand on Ian’s chest. “You sit tight, Colonel,” he said with surprising tenderness. “The lads are on the way. You’ll be downing a pint in the wardroom right quick.”
Ian’s eyes fluttered open and he looked up at the big sergeant. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Leave…me…”
“No!” Jo said, nearly breaking down. “We’re not leaving you!”
Was he trying to laugh? “No…leave me a weapon…” Bickerstaff grunted and handed over his sidearm, then gave his radio to Jo.
The big Londoner picked his way through the rocks and gnarled trees inland. Jo watched him as long as she could, then lost him in the shadows. Jo dropped Ian’s hand and tore herself away from him, forcing herself to face toward the ocean. The surf was rolling in about thirty feet from them. She peered toward the horizon. Nothing. To the south, she heard the sounds of the pursuing Argentines, getting closer. And then she saw the helicopter’s running lights, about a kilometer to their south, zigzagging over the beach, a searchlight sweeping downward. It made the helo a big target, but she supposed that was meant to flush them out into the open by drawing their fire. A gamble, but the Argentines were apparently willing to risk a helicopter.
They didn’t have much time. She turned back to the east…a light! Blinking at her, yes, it was “R-1”. She raised the flashlight, switched it on, and sent the recognition signal. The return signal was “R-1 OK”. She flashed “R-2 OK”, then paused and sent “HELO”. She assumed the men in the incoming boat could see the helicopter, but she wanted to be sure. She’d also forgotten entirely about the radio.
Rifle fire erupted from Bickerstaff’s hill. Jo couldn’t see anything over there, too dark yet, but she flashed “R-2 ENGAGED” at the boat, then she brought her MP-5 around and crouched next to Ian. More shots from the hill, and then she heard a thumping sound heading her way. Heart racing, she trained the weapon on the source of the sound, ready to fire, but then she recognized the shape as Bickerstaff, running for all he was worth, leaping over rocks and trees.
“Squad of infantry, about 300 meters and coming in,” he said, panting. “Must’ve spotted me in the moonlight, damn it all. Got off a couple shots my way. I think I got one of them.”
“How many?”
“Hard to say. At least five or six, I’d guess.”
“The boat’s inbound,” she said. “Any minute now. They know we’ve taken fire.”
“All right, then,” he said. “We make our stand here. The lads coming in will help even the odds.” He rose and whistled toward the south. “Garrett! Fall back here!”
Jo could hear the helicopter, but was that the faint buzzing of a marine outboard? She looked out to sea, but couldn’t make out anything. They could be close, or they could be miles away. Jo and the marines would have to hold out.
The helicopter had spotted the exchange of fire on the hill, and was heading their way now, whining like an angry hornet. The searchlight swept up the beach. Garr
ett was running their way, then he abruptly stopped and crouched into a firing position, facing the helo, and squeezed off a burst. Jo thought she saw a few sparks fly off the fuselage, and the helo banked slightly to its right. Gunfire erupted from its weapons pylon, and tracers stitched their way up the beach toward Garrett, who dove behind covering rocks at the last second. He returned fire, aiming for the searchlight.
From far out on the horizon, something was coming. Jo saw a streak through the sky, ripping the very fabric of the air, heading for the helicopter, which was still firing on Garrett’s position. The Welshman was cringing down behind the rocks as heavy-caliber rounds tore into the stone and the dirt around him.
Without a sound, having passed Mach 1 seconds earlier, the Stinger slammed into the Argentine helicopter. There was an enormous roar and a fireball bloomed in mid-air where the helicopter had been a moment earlier. Jo flattened herself over Ian, hearing the death throes of the chopper as it plunged into the surf, not more than a hundred meters away. A few pieces of wreckage whined over them and chunked into the ground.
Jo raised her head carefully. The remains of the helicopter churned on the water, throwing a glow over the beach. Now there was enough light, and she could see moving shapes further down the beach, heading their way, maybe half a klick away. To her right, she saw more shapes heading down the hill Bickerstaff had occupied only moments before. The sergeant was in a firing position behind a pair of downed trees, aiming his MP-5 carefully. He squeezed off three single shots and two of the shapes went down.
There was a definite buzzing to her left, and she turned in time to see a Zodiac boat appear out of the darkness, riding the light surf. She raised the flashlight and waved it at them wildly. The boat slid up onto the beach fifty feet to her north and men began leaping out and running toward her.
Things happened quickly then, but to Jo it seemed as if it was almost in slow motion. The crackling of the helicopter fire, the chattering of machine guns, the yelling of angry and wounded men, all that became just background noise. She could hear herself breathing, and she brought herself easily into a state of mushin.
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