The White Vixen by David Tindell Page A

telephone to Pilcaniyeu and selected other important locations. While he doubted Galtieri had the nerve to move against them this early in the game, one could never be sure, and so precautions had to be taken. By six o’clock, he’d managed to convince himself that Condition Yellow was being implemented as quickly and efficiently as possible. He and Heinz had dinner at a nearby restaurant favored by the city’s large German population, finishing around seven-thirty, early by Argentine standards. Then the two old friends had parted, driving their own cars, Willy to his estancia, Heinz to another location in the city, to take care of one other matter.
    Willy was surprised to find his father still up. He’d called Dieter, of course, to report on the meeting with the president. Now he found the old man sitting in the library, nursing a glass of schnapps and accompanied by another older man, whom Willy instantly recognized, and a younger man whom he did not. The two men rose as Willy entered the room.
    “Ah, son, welcome back,” Dieter said. “We have some overnight guests, old friends of mine who arrived this afternoon.”
    “Good evening, Herr Baumann,” the older man said, extending a hand.
    Without thinking, Willy came to attention, clicked his heels, and bowed. “Herr Oberst, it is a great honor to meet you.” Almost reverently, he offered his hand. The man, who was in his mid-sixties, smiled self-consciously, but his handshake was firm.
    “I am pleased you recognize me, Herr Baumann.”
    All his fatigue and tension forgotten, Willy was almost giddy. It was an effort to remain dignified. “What young German boy has not read of your exploits, Herr Oberst? Hans-Ulrich Rudel, the greatest fighter pilot who ever lived!” That last just came out, but it was true. Rudel flew Luftwaffe fighters, always the Junkers-87 Panzerjäger , against the Russians in the last war, and no pilot in any air force had flown more courageously, or more effectively. The statistics flashed through Willy’s mind: nine enemy aircraft shot down, over 150 antiaircraft and artillery positions destroyed, more than 500 tanks, more than 700 trucks, four armored trains. Rudel had even sunk two Soviet warships single-handedly, the battleship October Revolution and the cruiser Marat. Shot down himself thirty-two times, he had once escaped on foot from more than forty kilometers behind enemy lines, swimming a frozen river along the way, chased by Russian soldiers anxious to claim the 100,000-ruble reward Stalin had placed on the German’s head. Rudel was the only German soldier ever awarded the Knight’s Cross with Golden Oakleaves, Swords and Diamonds.
    “You are too kind, Herr Baumann,” Rudel said with a shy grin, but Willy could tell he enjoyed being recognized. The old ace stepped somewhat awkwardly back to his chair and sat down; Willy recalled that he had once been wounded in the right leg, and now had a partial prosthesis.
    Dieter coughed. “Wilhelm, allow me to also introduce Herr Johann Biederbeck, from Munich.”
    The younger man stood, clicked his heels and bowed slightly, then offered his hand. “A pleasure, Herr Baumann,” he said with a smile.
    “The pleasure is mine, Herr Biederbeck,” Willy replied. “What brings you to Argentina?”
    “Some business, some pleasure,” Biederbeck replied casually. The Bavarian accent was noticeable.
    Dieter coughed. “Willy, it’s getting late, and we’ll all be retiring soon, but there are a few trifling matters I need to discuss yet with our guests.”
    As always, his father’s suggestion was elegantly phrased, but the meaning was clear: time for you to leave us. “Of course, Father,” he said. He bowed slightly to the guests. “Gentlemen, I will see you at breakfast.”
    Dieter waited until the door was shut before speaking. “He’s a good boy.”
    “I see much of his father in him,” Rudel said with a smile. “He reminds me of a certain young officer I knew on the Russian