Their next port of call was Valparaiso, Chile, where Ian and his best friend, Lieutenant Steven Hodge, sampled the local pubs and the colorful plaza of the seaport. A platoon of Chilean Naval Infantry came aboard, led by a swarthy veteran,
Capitan
Ernesto Arroyo, and the officers of the two Marine contingents began planning their next mission, a joint exercise to seize the uninhabited, British-claimed Carpenter’s Island on the Atlantic side of Tierra del Fuego, the archipelago at the southern tip of the continent. For the SBS men, it would be the last in a series of training exercises on this long voyage; they’d already worked with their counterparts in Sri Lanka, Malaysia and Australia. The mission in Hong Kong, which most definitely had not been a mere exercise, had been a welcome addition to their schedule.
With her crew of 409 swelled not just by the SBS platoon but now by the Chileans,
Cambridge
transited the Strait of Magellan, beheld its scenic wonders, and was joined by the Chilean frigate
San Miguel
, from their Punta Arenas base. All the talk in Valparaiso had been about the Falklands, and whether Argentina’s new president, Galtieri, would move on them. Ian was pretty sure they were talking about that back in London as well, which was why
Cambridge
was way down here, rather than taking the much shorter route for home via the Panama Canal and the Caribbean.
A meeting with
Cambridge’
s skipper, Alec Stone, just after leaving Valparaiso confirmed it. The ship was being sent to Argentine waters to show the flag, provide any assistance HMS
Endurance
might require, and demonstrate British capabilities with the Carpenter’s Island exercise. Adding the Chileans was a ploy to increase political pressure on the Argentines, Stone suspected; the two nations had never been on very friendly terms, and their dispute over the Patagonia region went back to the early days of the century. If the Argentines decided to challenge Britain over the Falklands, they had to be kept guessing about their western flank.
“Admiralty is concerned,” Stone told Ian. “I am to have the ship on war-time footing as we enter Argentine waters.
San Miguel
will be several hours ahead of us. I doubt very much if the Argentines would attack her, but I’m not so sure about their intentions toward us. Your landing on Carpenter’s might prove to be more exciting than anticipated, Major.”
“We’ll be ready, sir.”
***
The first sign of trouble came in a radio call from
San Miguel
. Ian was up at 0400, still feeling sluggish from the dinner he’d shared with several Chilean Marine officers ashore in Punta Arenas the night before. At 0430, freshly showered and shaved, his intercom barked with a message: “Major Masters, report to the bridge.”
It took him five minutes to finish dressing and get topside, where Captain Stone was waiting with a flimsy in hand and a furrowed brow. “A message from
San Miguel
,” he said, handing the flimsy to Ian. It was a typed English translation of the radio call:
0810 ZULU
STONE, COMMANDING, HMS CAMBRIDGE
MESSAGE FOLLOWS:
BE ADVISED, WE HAVE RADAR INTERCEPT OF TWO UNIDENTIFIED AIRCRAFT, BELIEVED HELO, PASSING
5 KM SOUTH OF OUR POSITION, COURSE 093, SPEED 110 KT,
ALTITUDE 3000 M.
MARTINEZ, COMMANDING, SAN MIGUEL
Ian handed the message to Captain Arroyo, who had just arrived, looking more swarthy than usual in his freshly-applied camo paint. “Let’s take a look at the chart, shall we, gentlemen?” Stone suggested, and led the way to the nearby navigation area. Stone’s navigator, Lieutenant Carruthers, was on duty, and had the proper charts displayed on his table. The executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Fields, was with him. Stone had evidently spoken to them already. “Lieutenant, what was
San Miguel’
s position a half-hour ago?”
The navigator looked at a flimsy, then used his pencil to mark a spot on the map. “She would be right about here, sir, on station as called for in the outline for the exercise, I believe.” The point of the pencil was about forty kilometers east-northeast of Carpenter’s.
“And you’ve plotted the path of those bogeys they spotted?” Stone asked.
“Yes, sir. Presuming a straight course, the flight would probably have originated here, on the mainland.” Using a straight-edge, he drew a line from the Argentine coast directly to Carpenter’s Island. “The nearest landfall would be Carpenter’s, sir.”
Arroyo pointed at the spot on the mainland where Carruthers’ line began. “The
Argentinos
have a naval base there, at Rio Gallegos,” he said.
“The message said two aircraft, probably helicopters,” Ian said. “Ernesto, what kind of troop-carrying helos do they have?”
Arroyo looked off into the distance as he searched his memory. “They have some French-made helicopters, but I believe these would be from their complement of Soviet-made aircraft. Perhaps the Mi-14. We have some as well.”
Fields already had a reference book in hand and was flipping through the pages. “Here, sir,” he said, showing a page to Stone. “The Mil Mi-14, NATO code name ‘Haze’. Used mainly for coastal submarine patrol, but also for transport.”
Stone took the book from his XO, examined the page with a grunt and handed it to Ian. “Maximum speed 124 knots,” he read aloud. “So they were going close to full bore when
San
Miguel
spotted them. Range, 1135 kilometers.”
“A round-trip would be well within their range,” Fields said.
“If modified for troop transport, they could each carry two dozen men,” Arroyo said. That drew a hard glance from Stone.
“Do you have the time, Mr. Fields?” the captain asked.
The XO checked his watch. “Almost 0500, sir.”
“So we can assume, gentlemen, that these helos were headed for Carpenter’s, and if
San Miguel
spotted them nearly an hour ago, they’ve already landed and had ample time to off-load any troops.” He glanced out a porthole on the starboard side of the cabin. “Dawn in another half-hour or so, perhaps. Not ideal light for a helo landing on an unmarked island, but evidently enough.”
“If they remain on the island, those helos could be a threat to the ship,” Fields said. “Their ASW birds can be armed with torpedoes as well as depth charges.”
Stone considered that, then turned to Ian. “Major, it appears likely our recent conversation will be pertinent after all.”
Ian took a deep breath. “Request permission to carry out the exercise as planned, Captain.”
Stone had shown himself to be a very capable commander during this voyage, earning the respect of the marines, which was not easily given. But would he sail toward the sound of guns? “I’m not inclined to send your men into harm’s way needlessly, Major.”
“Carpenter’s Island is British territory, sir,” Ian said firmly. “Shall we have another Southern Thule episode? I think not, sir. Not when we’re this close.”
Stone looked at the Chilean. “Captain Arroyo, I’m even more hesitant to involve troops from a third party in what could be the opening rounds of a conflict between two other nations.”
Arroyo came to attention. “Mi capitan, I formally request permission to accompany your men ashore, as planned, even under these circumstances. We will stand with our British comrades, sir.”
Stone nodded. “Noted. But, gentlemen, I must inform Admiralty that circumstances on the island may have drastically changed. I have strict orders not to engage the Argentines unless clearly in defense of the ship.”
“If the Argentines are ashore on Carpenter’s, sir,” Fields said, “one could interpret that as an aggressive act all by itself.”
“Indeed. But as they haven’t fired on this vessel—yet—I must cable London for instructions.” He turned back to Ian and Arroyo. “Gentlemen, have your men ready to disembark as planned. I’m off to the radio room.”
***
Lieutenant Colonel Gerhard Schmidt barked a few more orders at his hard-working men as he walked through their defensive position. His demeanor didn’t indicate it, but he was pleased with their progress so far. Only three hours ago they’d landed here, and they had already turned the old whaling station into a fortified defensive position. He paused and gazed out to sea, toward the west. It was overcast this morning, but he thought he could see a speck on the horizon. The English ship? It had to be.
“
Hauptmann
Winkler!”
His adjutant, following close behind as always, answered immediately. “
Jawohl
, Herr
Oberstleutnant
!”
“I believe our friends are about to arrive. If you please, tell
Kapitänleutnant
Speth he may conduct his reconnaissance mission now.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.” Winkler trotted off in the direction of the hidden helicopters. Schmidt was glad he had insisted that the helos remain on the island, rather than returning to base immediately after their landing. Now he could use them to recon the enemy, and if push came to shove, their torpedoes would prove quite useful.
He breathed in deeply, sucking in the salt air.
Mein Gott,
but it felt good to be in the field again, even on such a Godforsaken rock as this island, with a real enemy out there, trained men who would test his mettle. No more chasing common bandits or fanatical insurrectionists through the mountains and rain forests. Schmidt hadn’t slept more than four hours in the last twenty-four, but he felt refreshed. He checked his wristwatch. It was nearly 0800. Surely the English would be making their attempt to land soon, assuming they still planned to assault the island.
Schmidt’s unit was officially known as Company A, 2nd Battalion, 7th Parachute Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division, of
Ejército Argentino
, the Argentine Army. Within the regiment, which was probably the smallest in the entire army, were two separate battalions; the regiment, due to its ethnic makeup, was allowed to use German unit names and ranks that harked back to the Wehrmacht days. Each of the
Abteilungen
had three companies. In the old German
Heer
, a regiment would’ve included at least two thousand troops; in this modern, Argentine version, the regiment’s numbers were half that. What made the regiment unique was its roster. Every one of the men was of German extraction, and many of the officers, like Schmidt, had served in the Wehrmacht during the last war.
That service had proven fortunate again, when his unit was ordered to Patagonia for training. Even though his orders always came through the official chain of command, Schmidt knew that orders for the Werewolves were cut at the headquarters of the Siegfried Bund. For this particular mission, he had no doubt at all where the mission was initiated. The phone call he’d received last night, upon reporting to the naval base at Rio Gallegos, hadn’t been from just any Argentine, but from Dieter Baumann himself. Schmidt immediately recognized the aged but still vibrant voice of his former commander.
“The English have sent a ship into our waters. We believe they intend to land marines on the Island of the Penguins, along with some Chilean commandos. They call the island Carpenter’s. That island is ours, Gerhard. You must take it and hold it at all costs until relieved.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” Schmidt replied, using Baumann’s old Heer rank.
“We stood together against the Bolsheviks, Gerhard. You fought bravely for me then. I know you will stand with me now.”
Emotionally, Schmidt had answered, “
Sieg heil!”
Hail victory!
Schmidt had been unable to sleep on the noisy helicopter ride to the island. His thoughts went back to the events that had brought him here. He’d seen much in his fifty-eight years, and more than once he’d thought he’d be lucky to see forty. A seventeen-year-old professor’s son when he left Heidelberg to join the Heer in 1940, he saw a lot of action in the last war as an infantryman who rose to the rank of
Hauptfeldwebel
, or Chief Sergeant, and was decorated with the Iron Cross 2nd Class for valor in Russia. He’d saved three wounded comrades from being overrun by a Soviet squad backed by a tank, shooting all four infantrymen and disabling the tank with a well-aimed grenade. He was reminded of one of those wounded men now, as he stopped to assist two young troopers in preparing their machine gun position. One of them looked just like Gustav, one of the young soldiers he’d saved back in ’43.
“What is your name, son?” Schmidt asked.
“
Obergefreiter
Heinrich Rehberg, Herr Oberstleutnant,” the young man said proudly, snapping to attention.
“Did you, by chance, have a relative in the Wehrmacht, during the last war?” Schmidt asked.
“Yes, Herr Oberstleutnant. My uncle, Gustav Fröhlich, was an infantryman on the Russian front.”
Schmidt felt himself choking up. He’d saved Gustav, only to have them both captured a month later. Schmidt watched him die at the hands of the brutal Russian guards in ’46. Impulsively, the lieutenant colonel reached over and patted the young soldier on the shoulder. “I knew your uncle,” he said, trying not to let too much emotion into his voice. “He was a good man. He would be proud of you. Carry on, Corporal.”