Monday, April 26th, 1982
They’d been in the air a full hour when Jo’s worry level edged into the red zone. She had no complaints about the aircraft; the Blitz was a dream to fly. It even had radar that showed a sky mercifully clear of any potential threats, just the occasional civilian airliner above them or small plane well below. She kept the radio tuned to the commercial frequencies and heard nothing alarming. It seemed to be just another day in the skies of Argentina, and that in itself was enough to worry about. This was a nation at war, with an enemy fleet a few hundred miles off its coast, and by now someone should have figured out there was one potentially hostile aircraft up here.
Adding to her concern was Baumann’s condition. She’d been able to look at the wound while the jet was on autopilot, and while his bleeding had stopped, he was losing strength and she knew he might not last more than another few hours without hospital care. He’d slept part of the way, his breathing a bit ragged but steady, and she made sure when he awoke that he had something to eat and drink.
She checked the map she found in the cockpit with landmarks below and determined they were about halfway between Bariloche and the Atlantic coast. The main body of the fleet, she figured, was about 300 miles north of the Falklands, which would put them about the same distance due east of the plane once she reached the coast. She would start broadcasting on a special Royal Navy frequency when she was a half-hour from the ocean, hopefully make contact and relay her message, then divert to the city of Rawson, where she could land and get Baumann to a hospital. She would certainly be arrested, but there didn’t seem to be too many alternatives. Without Baumann, she would’ve been able to reverse course and make a run for Chile. He wouldn’t last that long, though.
Baumann groaned and struggled to sit up straight. “Where are we?”
“About 300 kilometers from the coast,” she said. “I’m going to get you to a hospital. We’ll land in Rawson. Is that a good-sized city?”
“About thirty thousand, I think,” Willy said. “What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “We crossed a river a few minutes ago. That would be the Chubut, wouldn’t it?” She pointed to the river on the map.
“Probably,” he said. He groaned again. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“I am a burden to you. Without me you could make your report and escape to Chile.”
She smiled at him. “Perhaps,” she said. “But I might not have made it this far without you.”
“That is likely true,” he said, forcing a chuckle, which only brought another wince of pain. “You are a good pilot. You are good at very many things, in fact.”
“Thank you.” She decided the subject needed to be changed. “I’m curious about you, though. You’re committing treason, Willy. Why?”
He looked out the window, and for a long moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he said, “You see the land down below? That is Argentina. It is my country.”
She said nothing, and he continued. “My whole life, I have wondered: am I Argentine, or German? Can a man be both?” He looked at her. “You are both American and Korean, are you not? You must feel conflicted about that, as well.”
“Not really,” she said. “In America, just about everybody’s from somewhere else, maybe several generations back, or maybe they just arrived, but we become Americans pretty quickly. There are many things about my mother’s culture that I admire, but my loyalty is with America.”
“That is it, exactly,” Willy said. “There is much I admire about my father’s country, but I have decided that my loyalty must be with Argentina.” He gazed out the window again. “When my father told me about CAPRICORN and placed me in charge, I was proud. We would finally get the Malvinas back and establish ourselves as a world power. It would give our people self-respect, give them something to work for. Then I found out about VALKYRIE. That changed everything.”
“I’ve heard of that, but what is it designed to do, exactly?”
“My father’s compatriots here and their colleagues in Germany will use the confusion touched off by the nuclear strike to forcibly reunite Germany. They will seize the NATO and Soviet nuclear arsenals and overthrow the governments in Bonn and East Berlin. Then they will demand that all foreign troops leave the country.”
She looked at him keenly. “You realized that would touch off a wider war.”
“Yes,” he said. “My friend Heinz put it together first. He knew the Kameraden—Bormann and his men—were just using us. Using all of Argentina. They meant to restore the Nazi Party in Germany. It would be a catastrophe.”
“I think you’re right about that,” she said, quickly putting it together in her own mind. The Russians would go out of their minds. NATO would have to respond. Things could spin out of control very quickly. “This ‘code red’ alternate launch site. Where is it?”
“There is a small airstrip about ten kilometers north of the Ninth Brigade base. Used mostly for training flights if it’s used at all. The plan calls for the strike aircraft to launch from there. Once it is well out to sea, it will divert to the north and circle around to approach the target from the northwest. The rest of the squadron will launch from Ninth Brigade and head due east toward the fleet as a diversion.”
“To draw the fleet’s combat air patrol,” Jo said.
“Yes,” Willy said, wincing again in pain. “There are to be six aircraft in the diversionary strike. It was assumed the British would have suspected a nuclear attack and would throw everything they could against the squadron.”
“Leaving the real bomber to come in clean,” she said. A good plan, and it could very well work. “All right. In a few minutes, I’ll try to raise the fleet on the radio. If I can get through and warn them, they can deal with the strike force. If the bomb doesn’t go off, VALKYRIE doesn’t happen.”
“The wing commander is one of our people,” Willy said. “He will order the pilot to launch the weapon early. It will go off, but not over the fleet.”
“What do you mean?”
“The English will survive, but they will have to withdraw, and we will keep the Malvinas. The Kamaraden—Bormann’s men, my father’s men—would be arrested by the government. But…” Willy winced in pain again. “I fear Bormann has uncovered our plot somehow. If he has removed that officer, the pilot will carry out the attack as planned.” He unbuckled his harness. “I must use the lavatory. Please excuse me.” He got up and staggered back into the cabin. A minute later, Jo heard a shout. She flipped on the autopilot and rushed aft.
Willy was standing at the door to the lavatory. A body had been propped up inside and slumped to the floor of the cabin. Willy knelt down, his wounded leg barely bending, and touched the cold forehead. “It is Heinz,” he said, his voice catching. “They shot him.”
Jo saw the tears forming in Baumann’s eyes, saw him try to hold them back, saw him fail. She reached down to touch him, give him some comfort. She was trying to think of something to say when the radio in the cockpit crackled to life.
“Flight SB435, come in. This is Ninth Brigade Air Force Command, calling on civil aviation frequency. You are ordered to respond.”
Willy fought to get a grip on himself. “That is our call sign,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Ninth Brigade is headquartered near Comodoro Rivadavia, on the coast.”
They made their way back to the cockpit. The voice, speaking in Spanish, came from the speaker again.
“Flight SB435, you are ordered to respond.”
“If we respond, can they get a fix on our position?” Willy asked.
“No, if they’re looking for us they’ve already found us with radar,” Jo said, her heart sinking. She checked their position again. Probably another hundred klicks to the coast.
“I will talk to them,” he said. “Perhaps I can stall them.” He picked up the microphone. “This is Flight SB435. Over.”
“Identify yourself, SB435.”
“This is Wilhelm Baumann. We are a private flight on commercial business.”
“
Stand by, SB435.”
There was a series of clicks, then a different voice, speaking German.
“Willy, this is your father. What are you doing?”
Willy looked at Jo. She saw confusion in his eyes, and tried to give him strength through hers. She nodded. He nodded back, then stared straight ahead as he thumbed the mic. “Father. It is good to hear your voice. Are you well?”
“None of this nonsense, Willy. I order you to change course and land at Rawson, immediately.”
“That is our destination, Father. We should be there shortly.”
“Is the American agent with you? Please tell me you are not helping her escape.”
“She is here, Father. So is Heinz,” he said, his voice hard. “I would let him speak with you, but he will not speak with anyone ever again. Your beloved Reichsleiter made sure of that.”
“Willy, I don’t know anything about that. You must believe me. Please, land the aircraft and we will straighten everything out.”
“I’m sorry, Father. We will land shortly, but I do not want the American taken into custody. She is under my personal protection.”
“Wilhelm, if you do not divert to Rawson immediately, I cannot protect you.”
There was a pause.
“Please, my son. I ask you one last time to divert and land. You will not be harmed. Our people there will also guarantee the safety of the American.”
“As they guaranteed Heinz’s safety?” Willy shouted, with as much strength as he could muster. “No more will die for your damned Party, Father! No more! The Party is dead. Argentina must live!”
Jo was watching the radar, and saw two bogeys appear on the edge of the screen, coming in fast. She flipped off the autopilot and took the stick. “Wrap it up,” she told Willy. “We have company coming.”
“Willy, I beg of—“
There was a click, then a new voice, more menacing, in Spanish again.
“Baumann, this is General Mendoza of Ninth Brigade. If you do not divert immediately to Rawson, you will be shot down. Change course to—“
Jo reached over and switched the radio to a new frequency. “That’s it,” she said. “They’re coming after us. I have to get word to the fleet and then we’re going for the deck.” She dialed in a frequency she’d memorized from her training, praying that it would find a listening ear out there in the South Atlantic. “Den Mother, this is White Vixen. Den Mother, this is White Vixen. Please respond.”
A harrowing minute of silence went by. She tried again. This time she got a response.
“White Vixen, this is Picket Fence. Stand by for Den Mother.”
Jo heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Den Mother” was the fleet back-up for her land-based contacts in Buenos Aires. The Royal Navy was on the ball.
“White Vixen, this is Den Mother,”
another voice said.
“What is your position?”
“I am in the air over Chubut province,” she said. “Urgent information follows. Enemy has advanced CAPRICORN. Repeat, enemy has advanced CAPRICORN. Launch time set for 0200 hours Zulu tomorrow. Repeat, launch time set for 0200 hours Zulu 27 April.”
“Copy that, White Vixen. The dogs are on the trail. Anything further?”
“Yes. Main strike—“ The aircraft shuddered and alarms began to chime. Jo dropped the microphone and grabbed the stick, fighting to maintain trim. In front of them, a jet fighter screamed across their nose, barely a hundred meters away, banking to the right. She recognized it as a Mirage III. His wingman was probably right behind them. She thumbed the mic just as tracer shells proved it, crossing over the nose of the plane right to left. “I am under air attack,” she said. “Repeat, under air attack. CAPRICORN main strike is—“ A thudding sound cut her off and the jet suddenly started to lose power. The radio went silent. “Damn! We’re hit. They must’ve gotten the antenna and some of our avionics.”
“Can you get us down?”
“Not much choice, is there?” She fought the stick and managed to regain some control, but the instruments were going crazy and they were losing altitude. “Strap in,” she said. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”
The instruments were in an uproar. Their starboard engine was out, and the fire indicator flared red briefly before the fire suppressor kicked in. She tried to restart the engine, but it was a lost cause. Altitude was dropping fast, but on the plus side she still had one engine and some control over the aircraft. “We have to land,” she said. “I might limp her to Rawson with one engine but they’ll have soldiers waiting for us.”
“If you don’t land there, they will shoot us down!”
“They could’ve done that easily if they wanted to,” she said. “That pilot out there is a good shot. They want us alive.”
Willy was pale, but Jo sensed he had found some sort of inner peace. Maybe the exchange with his father had exorcised some long-hidden demon. “Do your best, then,” he said. He reached over and touched her arm. Surprised at the gesture, she flashed him a grin, trying to hide her own fear. Looking past him, she saw one of the Mirages pull up alongside, about thirty meters from their right wingtip. The pilot looked over, oxygen mask and goggles covering most of his face, and tapped his helmet. Willy had seen him, too. “What does he want?”
“He wants to talk to us,” she said. The Blitz was starting to tremble now. Jo kept the nose down and started to look ahead for something to land on. A field, maybe a road.