The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  A few minutes later he sped past the entrance to the USS Arizona Memorial, over the causeway bridge, and was bearing right onto Arizona Road. With the sparkling waters of the harbor in front, Pete stopped at the main gate of the naval base.

  As he fiddled for his military identification card, a US Marine, decked in an enlisted dress blue “Charlie” uniform, stood waiting for him.

  “Afternoon, Commander.”

  “Afternoon, Corporal.” Pete found the card and flashed it at the corporal.

  “Have a nice day, sir.” The Marine waved Pete through the gate.

  Pete checked the clock on the dash. “Five minutes late!” He banged his fist into the dashboard as his phone rang again.

  COMSUBPAC.

  Pete picked up the phone. “Commander Miranda.”

  “The admiral wants to know where you are, sir,” the force master chief said.

  “In the parking lot, Master Chief.”

  “Aye, sir. I’ll tell the admiral.”

  Pete turned the Beamer into the first spot for visitors.

  Without taking time to raise the top, he popped out of the driver’s side, donned his cover, and jogged up the front walkway leading to SUBPAC headquarters. Two petty officers in white jumper uniforms were standing under a blue-and-white sign proclaiming:

  HEADQUARTERS UNITED STATES SUBMARINE FORCE PACIFIC FLEET

  They shot salutes as he raced up the steps to the front door. Pete returned the salutes as a sailor opened the large glass door. Inside the entryway, a model of a Los Angeles–class attack submarine sat on a pedestal, cordoned off by a red-velvet-covered rope.

  “Commander Miranda!” Lieutenant Commander Frank Carber, one of the admiral’s flag aides, greeted Pete in the entryway. “Admiral’s waiting for you, sir.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Follow me, please, sir.”

  “With pleasure, Frank.”

  Pete fell into line behind the flag aide, making a beeline to the admiral’s suite. The aide turned left and stepped through a door past two Marines who came to attention as Pete passed. The large reception area of the admiral’s office featured dark blue carpet that gave off the smell of having been recently cleaned. A half dozen sailors—yeoman clerical types—sat at terminal screens, seemingly oblivious to Pete’s arrival.

  “This way, sir.” The flag aide pivoted right, then opened the door leading to the inner sanctum of the admiral’s office.

  Rear Admiral Chuck D. “Bulldog” Elyea, a pugnacious bulldog of an officer wearing his short-sleeved khaki uniform with two silver stars pinned to each collar, sat back in his chair, his arms folded across his belly. His chief of staff, Captain Lee Teague, stood behind him, mimicking the arms-crossed gesture of his boss. Their silent scowls seemed perfectly synchronized in a symmetry of angry visual lines.

  Pete stepped in front of the admiral’s desk and came to attention. “Commander Miranda reporting as ordered, sir.”

  The stare, scowl, and crossed arms lingered. Classic Elyea. The silent treatment as a psychological weapon.

  Ten seconds passed. Then, finally . . .

  “Pete, I had the master chief call and tell you to report five minutes early, and”—Elyea examined his wristwatch, fixing his stare on it—“and rather than arriving five minutes early, you’re five minutes late from the originally scheduled time.”

  “Sorry, sir. I had a traffic issue.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Didn’t have time to find out. Sorry, sir.”

  “Pete, tell me this. Do you remember Captain Francis S. Low, United States Navy?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  The admiral steepled his fingers together. “Tell me, who was Captain Low?”

  Every sub commander in the Navy knew the name of Captain Francis S. Low. Pete knew this and so did the admiral. But obviously, the admiral wanted to drive home some point.

  “Sir, in January of 1942, Captain Francis S. Low, the sub commander on the staff of Admiral Ernest J. King, devised the plan to attack Tokyo in retaliation for the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor by using Army two-engine medium bombers launched from an aircraft carrier. Lieutenant Colonel James ‘Jimmy’ Doolittle executed the mission. The rest is history, sir.”

  The admiral scratched his chin. “You saw the movie Pearl Harbor, didn’t you?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “You remember that scene when FDR called Admiral King and Captain Low into the Oval Office while looking for a plan to retaliate against Japan?”

  “Yes, sir, Admiral, I seem to remember that scene.”

  “Remember what FDR said in that scene?”

  “Well, sir,” Pete said, “I vaguely remember FDR telling Captain Low that he liked sub commanders.”

  “And what else do you remember?”

  “That the president was pleased that Captain Low devised the strategic bombing plan against Tokyo.”

  “No!” Elyea slammed his desk. “What did FDR say after he told Captain Low that he liked sub commanders?”

  Pete shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s been awhile since I saw the movie.”

  Elyea swigged his coffee, then set the mug down on his desk. “Roosevelt looked at Captain Low and said something like, ‘I like sub commanders. They don’t have time for bull. And neither do I.’ Do you remember that, Commander?”

  “I remember something like that.”

  “Good,” Elyea said. “Let me put it this way. I like sub commanders too. But I don’t like sub commanders who are late.”

  “My apologies, sir.”

  “It’s like FDR said in that movie, I don’t have time for bull. Have you got that, Commander?”

  “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

  “Very well. At ease, Pete.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Lucky for you you’re the best LA-class sub commander I’ve got. But don’t think you can get prima donna treatment.”

  “Of course not, sir. But thank you, sir.”

  “Forget it. Listen, Pete. I know you’re considering retirement. But your country needs you. And I’m not trying to sound like a detailer with a juicy assignment, but I do have an offer you can’t refuse.”

  Pete chuckled.

  “Did I say something funny, Commander?”

  “My apologies, sir. But the last time I got an offer I couldn’t refuse, I wound up commanding a sub in the Black Sea and nearly started a war between the US and Russia.”

  The admiral leaned back in his chair. “Have a seat, Pete.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Pete sat in a wingback chair in front of the admiral’s desk.

  “You acquitted yourself splendidly in the Black Sea and deserved the Presidential Commendation that you received.”

  “I am humbled, sir.”

  “But”—Elyea lifted his index finger in the air—“but in fairness, Pete, you volunteered for the Black Sea mission. Every crew member, from the skipper down, and that includes you, was warned of the dangers.”

  Pete nodded. “True, Admiral. We knew we might not return. And we wouldn’t have, but for the grace of God.”

  “Well, with what I’m about to tell you, you’ll think God is about to reward you for your near-death experience in the Black Sea.”

  “You have piqued my curiosity, sir. It’s hard to figure out what might be a more lush assignment than Hawaii.”

  “Suppose I told you we were going to give you a chance to go home.”

  “Go home? To Dallas, sir? With respect, I didn’t know we had any sub bases in Dallas.”

  “You’re correct, Pete.” A look of satisfaction crossed the admiral’s face. “But they sure can get a sub into port in Valparaiso.”

  “Valparaiso?” Pete thought about that for a second. “As in Chile?”

  “You didn’t think I was talking about Indiana, did you?”

  “No, sir. Unless for some reason the president wants an LA-class boat on the Great Lakes.”

  “Well, I do
n’t think the president is interested in the Great Lakes. But he is interested in selling a Los Angeles–class boat to the Chilean Navy.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes. Our relations with Chile have been superb over the years. But Chile’s relationships with both Venezuela and Argentina are rocky. Chile needs to modernize her sub fleet. So when we announced that we were mothballing the USS Corpus Christi, we got a call from the Chilean Navy about purchasing her.”

  “Hmm. I’m starting to get the picture.”

  “Good. The Chileans need someone to teach them how to operate this baby. And not only are you my best sub commander but you happen to be the only sub commander in the Navy with a father born and raised in Santiago.”

  Pete’s father, Marvin Miranda, born to a prominent Chilean family, had come as a freshman to Cal-Berkeley all those years ago and met a gorgeous daughter of Connecticut aristocracy, the talented and magnetic Judith Kriete.

  Judy would steal Marvin’s heart, and his love for the redhead ensured that America would become his new home. His became the classic American success story—an immigrant-turned-American making his name and grasping hold of the American dream.

  Marvin and Judy had two boys. Their second son, Peter, had earned an NROTC scholarship at the University of Texas, where he first developed an interest in submarines.

  If Pete’s life were a painting, that painting would be a satisfying tapestry of blur and motion. Still, that tapestry lacked one meaningful scene. Pete had missed out on his father’s Chilean heritage. Yes, they had visited Santiago when the children were young, but as his memories faded, his longing to reconnect—to family, to cousins, to the other half of his heritage—had grown stronger.

  “Pete. Still with me?”

  “Sorry, sir. Just thinking.”

  “Well? How does this proposition strike you?”

  “I’m interested, sir. How would this work? Would I be on loan to the Chilean Navy?”

  “Yes. We would fly you to Santiago, along with a skeleton crew of US Navy LA-class submariners. You would meet the crew of the Corpus Christi in Valparaiso. The Chileans are renaming the Corpus Christi the CS Miro, by the way. The Corpus Christi’s crew would disembark and you would then train the new Chilean crew on the nuances of submarine warfare, American style.”

  The notion of an all-expenses-paid trip to Chile, doing what he loved, with a chance to explore a side of his family separated from him by time and distance, sounded intriguing. The Navy had already rewarded him with a final shore tour in Hawaii as payback for his heroism in the Black Sea affair. After Hawaii, he had planned on putting in his retirement papers and returning to Dallas, where he had already bought a swanky retirement condo.

  But maybe the call of Dallas and his dream of taking over the family sign business—a multimillion-dollar enterprise started by his brother, John, in a garage—and then running for Congress . . . maybe all that could wait for a while.

  “Out of curiosity, Admiral, how long would this assignment last?”

  “Six months to a year, Pete. After that, if you want to retire and return to Texas, fine. But if you stay in, you’d be up for captain in the middle of your tour, and I’ll personally make a call to the head of the review board and do everything in my power to see that you’re picked up.”

  “Captain Miranda.” Pete felt himself grin. “That has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does,” the admiral said. “Which is why you should delay this sign-business idea of yours for another few years. Pete, you’d look good with a silver eagle pinned on that collar of yours. And if you could learn to leave the women alone and make it to meetings on time, maybe even a star one day.” The admiral chuckled.

  “Okay.” Pete laughed. “You’ve persuaded me, sir. A short-term extension sounds good.”

  “Great! There’s a C-5 leaving out of Hickam tomorrow at 1300, headed to Santiago. We’ve already booked that C-5 for you, Pete.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Cerro Castillo

  president’s summer palace

  Viña del Mar

  sixty miles northwest of Santiago, Chile

  The black Rolls-Royce slowed, approaching the swooping circular driveway fronting the stucco-and-tile mansion overlooking the Pacific. At ten-foot intervals along the broad curve, soldiers of the Republic of Chile stood guard, resplendent in dress uniforms, chest medals glistening in the late-afternoon sun, popping to attention and saluting as the limousine rolled to a stop.

  A few dignitaries and military officers were gathered at the front of the mansion, waiting in a light Pacific breeze.

  A Chilean naval officer stepped forward and opened the back door, and an announcement boomed over a loudspeaker, first in English, then in Spanish. The announcement echoed across the palace grounds: “The foreign secretary of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the Right Honourable John Gosling.”

  Foreign Secretary Gosling stepped from the motorcar with a smile and wave and received enthusiastic applause. As the applause continued, he extended his hand to the gray-haired gentleman who approached him.

  “Welcome to Cerro Castillo, Mister Secretary,” the smiling Chilean said, his perfect English spiced with a slight Spanish accent.

  “A pleasure to be here, Chancellor Rivera,” Gosling responded in Spanish. “What a picturesque setting. This palace is lovelier than the photographs can show.”

  The Chilean grinned. “I see that your Spanish is better than my English, Mister Secretary.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Gosling put his hand on Rivera’s back. “I’m glad that our nations share a mutual respect for the other’s history, culture, and language.”

  “And we shall forge an even stronger and more powerful future,” Rivera said, again in English.

  The Chilean Navy band began a slow, melodic strain of “God Save the King.” Gosling placed his hand over his heart and turned toward the music with a swelling sense of pride as the Chilean honor guard hoisted the Union Jack into the pleasant afternoon breeze beside the flag of Chile.

  Then, in stark contrast to the melodic strains of “God Save the King,” a brassy, snappy trumpet fanfare introduced the national anthem of the Republic of Chile. The fanfare itself sounded almost like a German military march. But when the people began to sing, hands over their hearts and, for many, tears of pride moistening their eyes, the anthem reminded Secretary Gosling of France’s march-like “La Marseillaise.” As the Chilean anthem played on, Gosling’s mind drifted to the day’s agenda—hammering out details of the new treaty between the two countries for signatures at the summit between Prime Minister David Mulvaney and the president of Chile, Óscar Mendoza, at this very location tomorrow morning.

  Today’s meeting remained a closely guarded secret, with tomorrow’s meeting between the prime minister and the president even more clandestine.

  The code name for the project, “Black Ice,” was known only by those in the highest echelons of power in London and Santiago. The treaty sanctioning it would provide a renewed economic lifeline for Britain, regenerating her relevance as a world power for years to come.

  The band finished playing the last strains of the Chilean national anthem. Foreign Minister Rivera dropped his hand and turned to Gosling. “Are you ready to get to work, my friend?”

  “I am most anxious to start, my dear chancellor.”

  “Come with me,” the Chilean said. “The draft documents are on the balcony. There, overlooking the Pacific, we can soak in a Chilean sunset, the two of us, and hammer out the details outside the presence of the young bureaucrats. And after that we shall celebrate with the finest Chilean champagne from the valley.”

  “What a wonderful suggestion.”

  “Very well,” Rivera said. He turned toward the main entrance of the mansion, his hand on Gosling’s back to direct him through the large double doors. Chilean officers, adorned in the colorful regalia of the dress uniform of the
Chilean Army, snapped to attention and shot salutes as the foreign ministers walked into an open receiving area with white marble floors and gold statues and busts.

  Large swirling staircases rose majestically. They stepped down onto the gray-and-white marble floor of the great room, with leather sofas, wingback chairs, mahogany furniture, and marble sculptures, the apparent handiwork of Chilean sculptors and artists.

  The back wall of the great room, made of pure glass, stretched a hundred feet wide and twenty-five feet high, providing a spectacular view of the sparkling blue waters of the Pacific. The two men stood there, looking out at the colorful panorama.

  “General Pinochet loved this place.” Rivera spoke with a tinge of reverence in his voice. “He loved this view.”

  “That is understandable. This sight is beyond marvelous.”

  “We shall always be grateful for what your government did for General Pinochet during the last years of his life. Allowing his return to Chile, rather than extradition to Spain.”

  Gosling wasn’t sure how to answer. General Augusto Pinochet remained a highly controversial figure in Chile, even years after his death. Either he was revered or despised. Conservatives loved him for eradicating communism from Chile. Socialists hated him because he had used force when he attacked the presidential palace in Santiago to remove the Marxist government of Salvador Allende.

  When former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and former US president George H. W. Bush later intervened on Pinochet’s behalf after Spain tried arresting him on an international arrest warrant, the British government returned him to Chile, refusing to hand him over to Spain.

  Thus, the Spanish-British-Chilean feud lived on, even beyond the end of the twentieth century.

  “Prime Minister Thatcher held a debt of gratitude to the general for his cooperation and assistance in our war with Argentina over the Falklands,” Gosling said.

  Rivera smiled. “Let us then continue the spirit of cooperation begun by Lady Thatcher and General Pinochet and get down to business.”

  “Yes, let’s,” Gosling said.

  “Step out on the veranda with me, my friend.”

  A Chilean steward, wearing a white jacket and black dress pants, opened two doors leading outside to the veranda. Gosling looked out at the Pacific.