Eyes wide, the young man stiffened, saluted and said, “Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
Schmidt hurried away, eager to complete his inspection. Such men as this, how could he be any more proud of them? What a legacy they carried! A proud nation had sent its sons to fight the Bolsheviks, only to be betrayed by the “Golden Pheasants” back in Berlin, those poppycock Party hacks who had dared to wear the uniform. At least they hadn’t been regular Heer officers, but they wore the black and red of the SS and lorded it over everyone, even the Wehrmacht generals and admirals who were real warriors. Why, even the Führer’s valet had been named a colonel in the SS. Such men had brought his nation down.
Well, it would not happen again. Today, he wore the uniform of his adopted country, and once more he faced an enemy who would take from them what was rightfully theirs. Today, they would not fail.
He looked out to sea again. The speck had grown a bit larger. Hauptmann Winkler ran to his side, just as Schmidt heard the sound of a helicopter engine spinning up. “Herr Oberstleutnant, the helicopter is about to take off for recon.”
“Very good,” Schmidt said. “Is the flagpole ready?”
“Yes, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
“It’s time to make our statement.” He glanced at Winkler. “Klaus, there is a young corporal about fifteen meters back there, at a machine gun emplacement. His name is Rehberg. Tell him that I would like him to have the honor of running up the colors.”
Winkler snapped off a salute. “Jawohl!”
Schmidt took out his binoculars and scanned the sea to the east. Yes, it was an English ship, all right, flying their naval ensign with pride. Now Schmidt would see how much pride they really had.
***
“Bloody hell,” Stone said, his binoculars failing to hide his angry scowl. “They’ve launched a helicopter. I believe they’ve also raised the Argentine flag.” He handed the field glasses to Ian. The SBS commando was fully kitted out in his standard Royal Marines uniform with the Number 8 Dress Temperate Disruptive Pattern Material, the distinctively British camouflage print. The only uniform markings distinguishing him from any other Marine officer in the field were his parachute wings on his left breast and Swimmer-Canoeist badge bordered by laurel wreaths on his right shoulder. A British flag patch was on his left upper arm. Underneath his camo jacket he wore a high zip-neck shirt patterned after those worn by the Norwegian Army. A Royal Marines green beret topped his ensemble. Behind them, the marines were being mustered by Hodge, Ian’s second in command.
Ian focused the lenses until he could clearly see the blue-white-blue Argentine banner flapping in the wind. “Indeed they have, sir. What do you intend to do about the chopper?”
“I certainly don’t intend to let it fire a torpedo at me, Major,” Stone said. To the ensign next to him, he said, “Mr. O’Toole, send word immediately to Mr. Fields to launch our Lynx.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the ensign replied, and raced off to the bridge.
“Will you fire on the Argentine?” Ian asked.
“Only if he appears to be readying a torpedo for launch,” Stone said firmly. “I can’t very well take evasive action while I’m lowering your lads’ boats. I may be a sitting duck, but I can also send out a bee to sting him.”
From the aft end of the ship came the roar of the ship’s helicopter’s engine, and Ian turned in time to see the Lynx lift off and head east, toward the Argentine, which was gaining altitude and turning off to the northwest. “Perhaps he means only to get a good look at us, sir,” Ian offered, handing the binoculars back to the skipper.
“Perhaps.” After another long look at the island, then at the enemy helicopter—Ian had to start thinking of it in that way, he knew—Stone said, “Prepare to disembark your troops, Mr. Masters.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Ian said, snapping off a salute.
The orders from London had been fairly straightforward. Reconnaissance in force approved. Chilean participation is approved via Santiago. Do not fire unless fired upon. Captain’s discretion regarding any opposing force on Carpenter’s. The last part was typical politics, Ian thought. Admiralty was giving Stone—and by extension Ian, his man on the island—fairly wide latitude in dealing with any Argentine presence on the British island. If push came to shove, Stone was authorized to shove back. But Ian was sure the orders to Stone had been approved by 10 Downing Street, and the politicians were leaving themselves a loophole. Very nifty, Ian thought; if this went a bollocks, the captain would get the blame, and some would be handed his way, as well.
Well, he would do what had to be done. He thought of Jo, and the mission in Hong Kong. That was hairy enough, but this, now, this was the real deal. He’d never been too concerned about the Chinese firing on them, but now, just a few miles away, men with loaded guns were waiting for him, and might very well try hard to kill him. He hoped he would be up to the challenge. He had to trust his training, and trust his men.
Now, some three hundred meters off shore, riding the choppy waves in one of the two ship’s launches carrying his men to the island, Ian’s binoculars helped him see that the Argentines had done a good job of deploying their forces. The beach, such that it was, stretched barely fifty meters between two outcroppings of rock. A few penguins waddled here and there. Scrubby trees and a scattering of rocks dotted the landscape for about five hundred meters inland, ending at a hardscrabble hill that supported half a dozen ramshackle metal buildings, the remains of a long-ago whaling station. The Argentine troops had fortified the hill, giving his opposite number a commanding field of fire on the beach. There were some machine-gun emplacements, to be sure, and they probably had some light mortars as well. If they opened up on his men as they came ashore, Ian’s mission would be a very short one. He would be going in out-gunned as it was.
Stone had decided to call the Argentines’ bluff and send his men ashore. He assured Ian the ship’s guns would open fire on the enemy position the moment Ian came under attack on the beach, if it happened. Ian could only pray that wouldn’t be necessary. If he could get his men safely ashore, they could find enough cover and engage the Argentines, and perhaps flank them on one or both sides of the hill, provided the terrain allowed it.
Ian heard a crunching sound from underneath the boat’s keel, and the coxswain in the bow of the launch waved for his helmsman to come about. “You’ve got about three feet of water, Mr. Masters!”
“All right, lads, out we go!” Ian ordered, and he levered himself overboard.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Island of the Penguins, Southwest Atlantic
January 1982
Schmidt watched the English and Chilean commandos scramble out of their boats and head for the beach on the double. Visibility was excellent, and he could easily have decimated the enemy’s ranks with a mortar barrage. But his orders had been specific: he was not to engage the English unless they fired first. He suspected the enemy commander had received the same orders from his superiors.
That would make for an interesting situation. He couldn’t fire on the Englishmen to stop their landing on what was now an Argentine island, yet he couldn’t very well allow them to walk up to his breastworks and ask to join him for lunch.
“Spread the word,” he said to Winkler, “everyone is to hold their fire.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant,” Winkler replied, and repeated the order to the nearest positions, adding that they should spread it through the ranks.
He raised his binoculars to the sea again. The English helicopter was engaged in a playful dance with the Haze, which was under strict orders not to fire on the destroyer unless given a direct command by Schmidt. “We have a tactical challenge, Klaus,” Schmidt said to his adjutant. “We have been ordered to hold this island, yet we must hold our fire, and so, it appears, must the enemy. What do you make of it?”
“One of us will have to leave the island in the other’s hands, eventually,” Winkler said.
“Very true,” Schmidt said. “I would say that they have roughly the same number of men ashore now as we have in our position. We have two helicopters, they have one. But they have a ship that is capable of bringing down our choppers and shelling us into submission. Yes, an interesting tactical problem, wouldn’t you say?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Winkler answered hesitantly. Schmidt glanced at him. The young man was clearly nervous. Well, he should be; he had not yet seen the elephant, as the saying goes. Schmidt had seen his many years ago, in Belgium and France and then on the steppes of Russia, in situations far more desperate than this, against a very tough enemy that surely was far more savage than these English dandies and Chilean fishermen would ever be.
He trained his glasses on the scrambling enemy troops. One of them clearly appeared to be in charge. How would he react?
Ian was grateful the Argentine commander hadn’t chosen to open fire on his men the moment they left the boats, when they were the most vulnerable. But the enemy would know that an attack like that would surely bring a response from
Cambridge
, and the destroyer’s 4.5-inch gun could fire a shell every two or three seconds, more than enough to decimate the Argentine position.
He deployed his men as quickly as possible, sending Arroyo and his Chileans to the left, holding the center himself and tasking Hodge with half the SBS commandos to the right flank, which looked to be a bit rougher ground than the left. If the Argentines opened up on him, Ian hoped he could quickly flank the enemy position on both sides and employ a withering crossfire. He could always call for supporting fire from the ship, but he knew Stone would have to deal with the enemy helicopter first to avoid a torpedo attack from the air.
Colour Sergeant Powers huddled behind a rock next to Ian’s. “Well, we’re here, sir,” Powers said with a wry grin. “When does the welcoming committee come down to greet us?”
Ian peered over his rock at the Argentine position. “I don’t know, Sergeant. We may very well have to crash the party ourselves.” He grabbed his walkie-talkie. “Hodge, are you in position?”
The speaker crackled with Hodge’s tinny voice. “Just about, sir. Another hundred meters or so. No response from the enemy yet, but I’d say they’ve spotted us, sir.”
“Make sure you have plenty of cover in case of mortar attack.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Ian clicked the send/receive button, then said, “Arroyo, this is Masters, report.”
“We are in position, mi Mayor,” the Chilean marine announced with a confident voice. “The Argentinos are dug in, about 250 meters from us. We have good cover for an assault.”
“Understood. Hold where you are, report any movement and stand by.”
“Si, mi Mayor.”
Schmidt made a decision. “Klaus, is
Oberleutnant zur See
Brunner ready with the second helo?”
“On your command, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
“Very well.” He checked his wristwatch. “Hand me the radio, please.” He took the German-made two-way device from his adjutant, clicked a button, and said, “Oberleutnant Brunner, this is Schmidt.”
Brunner replied immediately. “Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
“Alois, I am going down to meet with the English commander. In exactly five minutes, I want you to lift off and get into position to the south of the destroyer. Speth is to the north. The English have their helicopter shadowing him. Should we come under fire here, I want you to put a torpedo into that ship.”
There was a brief hesitation, then Brunner said, “Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
“A question, Alois?”
Another brief moment. These younger officers, they didn’t quite have the discipline of Wehrmacht veterans. Not yet. “Herr Oberstleutnant, I could attack the Englishman’s gun mount to prevent him from firing on the island.”
“Negative, Herr Oberleutnant,” Schmidt said firmly. “His missiles would bring you down before you could do any damage. You will follow your orders. Am I clear?”
This time there was no hesitation. “Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant! I am spooling up my engines now.”
“Very good. Once you are airborne, you will tell Kapitänleutnant Speth that he is to engage the English helicopter if we are fired upon here. That will give you a clear line of fire on the destroyer.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberstleutnant!”
“Five minutes from right now, Alois. Schmidt out.” He put the radio back into its pouch on his web belt, then reached into a back pocket for his handkerchief.
“Blimey, the bugger’s coming out with a white flag,” Powers said incredulously, just as Ian’s radio crackled to life with reports from Hodge and Arroyo, reporting movement from the center of the Argentine position.
“All units, hold your fire!” Ian nearly shouted into the radio. He looked at Powers. “Sergeant, I’m going out there to see what he has to say. You’re in command of the center if it goes bollocks on me.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Powers said. “Good luck, Major.”