by Don Brown
The Union Jack!
Base camp!
Lieutenant Javier Ortiz, second in command, stood still and allowed the goose bumps to crawl down his spine. If only Hugo Rafael Chávez were here for this moment.
For if Chávez was the father of Bolivarianism, Ortiz and his armed comrades were its sons. From the depths of an unimaginable deep freeze, they would launch the Bolivarian Revolution beyond the crystal warm waters of the Caribbean to every crevice on the face of the earth.
“Ready your weapons!” The field commander of the squadron, Major Placido Diaz, broke the silence.
Ortiz reached down, unzipped a side pouch, and extracted a thirty-round aluminum magazine. He popped the magazine into his assault rifle, then worked the slide, bringing the first bullet into the chamber.
It was time.
CHAPTER 4
British base camp
Camp Churchill
Antarctica
Still having connection problems, Leftenant?”
“Must be the storm,” Leftenant Austin Rivers, SBS, Royal Navy, said. He edged the mouse over the Reload icon and clicked again.
Loading . . .
Buffering . . .
“I thought you Special Forces chaps were exempt from computer problems, unlike the rest of us poor commoners.” The Royal Marine, Captain Timothy Dunn, a Scotsman, stood over Rivers’ shoulder. Dunn wore his green Marine pullover sweater and sipped hot tea.
“Unfortunately, the computers they give us don’t work as well as the rifles and rockets and knives. I had a chance last year to cross the pond and train in that exchange program with the Navy SEALs,” Rivers said. “We Brits invented Special Forces, but the Americans get all the equipment that works. If I had known I would wind up in this frozen hellhole . . .” He lost his thought. “At least Skype works across the pond between London and Virginia Beach.”
“Budget cuts,” the Marine said. “Labour’s members of Parliament are wasting money on socialist programs. Where’s Lady Thatcher when you need her?”
“At this point I’d take Meryl Streep playing Lady Thatcher,” Rivers said.
“I hear Miss Streep was a looker in her day,” the captain said. “Word on the street is that SBS officers have a thing for blondes.”
Rivers did not respond. He clicked Reload again.
London was three hours ahead of them. Rivers checked his watch. Soon Meg would put Little Aussie to bed. His time frame for chatting was slipping away unless this blasted computer experienced a quick resurrection from the frozen annals of galactic cyber-obscurity.
“Besides,” the Marine continued, “who knew that British Petroleum would stumble on this top secret discovery?”
“You sure the discovery is still top secret?” Rivers quipped.
“Certainly,” the captain said. “Downing Street needs chaps like you and me, highly trained assassins, to guard the booty on behalf of British multinationals before the cat escapes the bag.”
Rivers snorted. His computer problems worsened, his screen resembling an electronic snowstorm. “Well, you can bet your bottom line, Captain, that if this were an American discovery, the American Navy would send more than two special-ops guys to babysit a bunch of egg-headed engineers.”
“Cheer up, ole boy,” the captain said. “The discovery occurred just last week. More SBS officers and more Royal Marines are on the way. The way I look at it”—another sip of tea—“you and I . . . we’re pioneers on the ground in the tradition of Robert Falcon Scott.”
“The Norwegians beat Scott to the South Pole.”
“True,” Dunn said. “But nobody remembers that part of the story. Besides, the Norwegians are hardly a problem anymore. And besides”—he set the teacup on the table beside the computer screen—“perhaps some of the tax revenue from the discovery will allow the government to purchase a computer that works so you can Skype with your son.”
“Perhaps,” Rivers said. “We shall see.”
CHAPTER 5
Magnolia Flats
Kensington District
West London
7:00 p.m. local time
Meg Alexander had always wanted to live in Kensington. And with her modest salary from her job at the downtown London brokerage house where she worked as a secretary, combined with the child support she received from Austin, she could enjoy a comfortable, though not extravagant, life with her son in a small but cozy London flat.
Robert Austin Rivers Jr., affectionately known as “Aussie” or sometimes “Little Aussie,” was the four-year-old love of Meg’s life.
Their journey began five years ago at Boleyn Tavern Pub in central London.
From the moment the lad’s father tapped her on the shoulder and asked to buy her a drink, electricity would sizzle late into the night. She should have declined his offer.
But she could not resist a man in a naval uniform. That weakness, combined with the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to spend an evening with an SBS officer, the Royal Navy’s equivalent to the US Navy SEALs, fulfilled the ultimate romantic fantasy for a woman attracted to Navy men.
The strapping warrior had disappeared from her bedroom before the sun rose the next morning. When she heard nothing from him for five days . . . and then a week . . . which turned into a month, her initial disappointment changed from heartbreak to a raging fury.
She had allowed herself to become a conquest in a long litany of conquests.
Two weeks later, these words from her physician ignited yet another wild swing in her emotional state.
“Congratulations, Miss Alexander. I am pleased to report that you are expecting.”
Whether she kept the baby or not, he would never know. Why should he? The worthless pig undoubtedly had impregnated dozens of attractive young blondes.
“You cannot carry this baby,” her girlfriend told her. “The expenses and the burden will mean you will have no life.”
The Abortion Act in Britain allowed her to terminate the pregnancy within twenty-four weeks.
At three that same afternoon, nearly five years ago, on a rare sun-drenched day in London, Shelley had dropped her off on the sidewalk in front of the abortion clinic. “Wait here while I park the car. But I’ll be with you through the whole procedure. It’ll be a piece of cake. We’ll hop through the pubs by this weekend,” her friend had said with a smile.
In that moment, Meg counted her blessings. What wonderful friends she had.
As Shelley drove off to park the motorcar, a soft voice came from over her shoulder. “God loves you, my sister.” Meg turned around, her back to the street. The elderly nun’s black habit flowed to the sidewalk, almost swallowing her. Her beatific smile accentuated her eyes, which were blue as the noonday sky. Even her wrinkles seemed to glow. “And God loves that wee little one you are carrying too.”
Her accent was more Irish than English. “Would ya mind if I give ya this?”
“Not at all, Sister.” Meg reached down and took the pamphlet from the woman’s veined hands. She opened it.
The color photograph stopped her. Entitled “Baby Samuel Reaching Out of the Womb,” the photograph showed a twenty-one-week-old baby boy reaching his hand out of the womb and grabbing hold of the finger of the surgeon who was operating on him. “For more information, go to http://thornwalker.com/babyhand/babyhand.html.”
“Oh, dear God!” She looked up. But the nun had disappeared, as if she had vanished from the planet.
“Are you ready to go in?” She turned and saw Shelley approaching along the sidewalk sporting a cheery smile and anxious eyes. “What’s wrong, Meg?”
“I cannot go through with this.” Meg’s eyes darted about, searching for the mysterious nun who had vanished in the thin air of the sunny London afternoon.
“What happened to you?” Shelley tried to persuade her to go through with the abortion. But the photograph of the baby and the strange nun who had so mysteriously appeared and then vanished had changed everything.
Eight months later, a
fter Aussie was born, she still had heard not a word from the roaming dog since that one-night stand that followed their encounter at the pub.
Then she experienced another surprising change of heart. Aussie had a father, even if he would never see him. The boy had a right to know. So did the father.
A friend’s husband serving in the Royal Navy helped make the contact with the SBS officer named Austin Rivers, reputedly attached to a NATO unit in the Persian Gulf or the Middle East. No one knew for certain. Two days later, the phone rang. The international operator announced a call from Bahrain.
“I should have called,” he said. He sounded sheepish. What he didn’t say was that he wanted no committed relationship with any woman.
His coolness hurt. Even after all these months. Even after her seething anger at him had faded.
But as their conversation turned to their son, a softness came over his voice. He requested photographs. She scanned half a dozen and sent them by e-mail that night.
The next day, another international call came from Bahrain. The photos, he said, were identical to his baby pictures. He promised immediate support and requested wiring instructions, even before she could broach the subject. The next day, he wired fifteen hundred pounds into her account at Barclay’s.
When he called the following day to confirm her receipt of the wire transfer, he asked her permission to start a relationship with the boy. There would be logistical challenges, he pointed out. His military duties would take him away for long periods of time. But modern technology made the world smaller, and his desire to do right by Aussie began to soften the hatred she felt.
He became a face on the computer screen to their infant son, and by the time Aussie could walk, he looked forward to—sometimes, anyway—the face on the computer screen that would call his name and make silly noises and do anything it took to evoke a coo or a smile.
Meg found it amusing—watching this macho he-man of a warrior morph into a clown, cooing and whistling at Aussie on the Skype screen.
On the few occasions when he was in Britain, when he requested to see Aussie, she consented. The boy needed a father even if the father was far away and never around.
And now he was off to Antarctica. What an odd assignment. Why would a Special Forces commando be dispatched to the desolate ice scape of the South Pole? He never explained why. For that matter, he never explained anything.
Meg checked her watch. Fifteen minutes late. “Aussie, time for bed.”
When she stood up from the small desk holding her laptop computer, she heard the familiar sound of the electronic ringtone of Skype. She checked the screen.
Austin Rivers calling . . . Accept . . . Decline.
She moved the cursor over the Accept button, clicked it, and his ruggedly handsome face with a broad smile appeared on the screen.
“Sorry I’m late. The weather is bloody harsh.”
The screen went blank.
“Austin, can you hear me?”
He reappeared, his image frozen on the screen . . . then another flash.
“Are you there?” The screen unfroze. “I can see you,” she said.
“We’re having horrible blizzard conditions. It’s affecting everything. Computers. Internet. A mess.”
“I see you.” The sight of his face still melted her like that first night in the pub. This infuriated her.
“I see you too. You look fantastic.”
She stared at the grinning dog-of-a-hunk-of-a-man. As bad as she wanted to curse him out, that would do no good. “It’s Aussie’s bedtime. But I can keep him up a bit longer. I wake him up early to drop him at day care on my way to work.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “I won’t be long. Just five minutes.”
“Okay, give me a second.” She got up and turned away. A second later, crackling and exploding sounds erupted from the computer. She turned around. Austin was gone. Only a blank wall on the screen.
“Hit the deck! Hit the deck!” More sounds from the computer. “We’re under attack! Grab your rifles!” She didn’t recognize that voice.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” Voices mixed together.
“I see them! I see them! Take the ones on the left. I’ve got the three on the right!”
“Oh my—”
Smoke filled the image on the screen.
“Austin! Austin!” she screamed. The screen went black. “Austin!”
CHAPTER 6
Bar El Nochebuena
General Salvo 125
Región Providencia
Santiago, Chile
From a wrought-iron chair and table on the outdoor patio of the Bar El Nochebuena, the springtime afternoon sights and sounds and colors of Santiago’s upper-crust Región Providencia, as if enhanced by the effects of the vintage pinot noir, were the perfect tonic for his much-needed respite from the sea.
Whenever he was ashore, Pete was a people watcher. And the vibrant scene along the sidewalk on General Salvo beat the heck out of the sight of 110 guys on a Los Angeles–class submarine.
When he took the first sip of the second glass, the view became outstanding.
Her beige sundress, hemmed a couple of inches above the knee, provided a nice visual contrast against her dark-complexioned tan. Her wavy brunette hair fell just to her shoulders. And when the breeze lit into her hair and blew some strands of it from the back of her neck over the front of her shoulder, he took a hearty second gulp of the wine. Suddenly he had forgotten his irresistible penchant for blondes.
“Peter!” The sound of his name from another female took his eyes from the brunette.
“Isabel!” He pushed up from the table.
Another brunette. A wide grin on her face. She walked up to him, opened her arms, hugged him, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “It has been too long since you have been to Chile, Peter!”
“It’s been way too long, my sweet cousin.” He gazed down at her face. “Thanks for speaking English. My Spanish has gotten rusty.”
“¡No hay problema, mi primo!” She gave him an affectionate pinch on the cheek.
“Very cute,” he said. “How’s Uncle Alberto?”
“Alberto’s fine.” She kept smiling. “He can’t wait to see his favorite nephew. And how is Uncle Marvin?”
“Still in Dallas with your Aunt Judy. He’s piddling around the house putting up all sorts of electronic gadgets and doing consulting work, although he’s supposed to be retired. He works and travels a lot for a retired guy. Does a great job of carving Aunt Judy’s Angus beef on the holidays.”
That brought a twinkle to Isabel’s eye. “I saw him last year when he came to Santiago for a visit. Uncle Marvin will never retire. Oh, pardon me,” she said. “Maria, this is my cousin. Commander Pete Miranda, United States Navy.” Isabel nodded to her left. As she said this, suddenly the leggy brunette in the beige sundress cropped above the knees was standing by his table.
The brunette spoke, accelerating his pulse. “Navy, huh?” She raised an eyebrow and extended her hand. “Hi. I’m Maria Vasquez.”
“Pete Miranda.” He took her hand. Instant electricity. “A pleasure, ma’am.”
“Maria is my best friend,” Isabel said. “She’s visiting from Valparaiso. I invited her to have a drink with us if that’s okay.”
“Any friend of my favorite cousin is a friend of mine,” Pete said. “Please. Sit down.” He turned and saw the waiter lingering near another table. “Manuel. Más vino, por favor.”
“Si, señor. Enseguida,” the waiter said.
“Your Spanish isn’t so rusty.” The hot-looking brunette waited for Pete to get a chair for her and then sat next to him at the round table.
“I wouldn’t have to say much more to embarrass myself,” Pete said.
“My cousin is too modest,” Isabel said. “When Uncle Marvin went to school in the US at Cal-Berkeley all those years ago, he got distracted by this hot redhead, who turned out to be my Aunt Judy. They were the perfect international couple. A red-blooded Chilean
macho-man, with a penchant for business and engineering, who spoke little English when he got to America, and a beautiful New England prep girl with an uncanny God-given ability for art. My favorite cousins, Pete and John, grew up in North Carolina and Texas, so we got to visit the US, but not enough. Only on special occasions.”
“Special occasions?” Maria nodded and said “gracias” as the waiter brought her wine. “And what special occasion brings you to Santiago, Peter?”
“Pete.” That’s when he saw it. On her calf. The small butterfly tattoo was green, yellow, and orange.
“Excuse me?”
“You can call me anything you want,” Pete said. “But my friends call me Pete.”
“Suppose I throw a little Spanglish at you?” The brunette winked at him, then took a first sip. “I could call you Pedro and order my wine in English.”
“She’s funny, Cousin Isabel.” Pete glanced at Maria. “Where did you find her?”
“I thought you two might hit it off.” Isabel smiled. “Anyway, the lady asked you a question.”
Pete smiled and looked back at Maria. “First, you can speak to me in Spanish or any other language you choose to use, just as long as you speak to me. Second, you can call me Pedro or anything else you want to call me, just as long as you call.”
“He’s even smoother than you said, Isabel. But he still did not answer my question.”
“You have him so mesmerized, he’s forgotten the question.” Isabel chuckled.
“I am insulted, my cousin. A sub commander is trained to keep track of multiple targets at once.”
“Targets!” Maria laughed. “That’s how you view women?”
“Let me backtrack,” Pete said. “My cousin is not a target.”
“Peter Charles Miranda,” Isabel scoffed.
“Pedro Carlos Miranda!” Maria said.
“Okay. Okay. Just a little fun-filled play on words.” A sip of red wine. “The lady asked why I am in Chile.” He looked at Maria. “To answer your question, I am here on a military assignment.”