by Don Brown
“Military assignment?” The flirtatious look on Maria’s face became a contorted twist.
“You don’t like the military?” Pete asked.
Isabel spoke up. “What is the old saying in English? Opposites attract?”
“Oh really?” Pete said. “She’s not one of those Allende-Bachalet disciples, is she?”
“What’s your problem with Allende and Bachalet?” Maria asked.
“Other than the fact that they’re socialists who stole private property, and other than the fact that Allende stole land from my great-grandfather, I have no problem with them at all. So what’s your problem with the military?”
A fiery glare from Maria. “Other than the fact that the governments of the earth waste trillions on guns and weapons and airplanes and ships rather than spend money to eradicate poverty, I have no problem with the international military-industrial complex.”
“You know,” Pete said, “I met a violinist back at the hotel. He’s available for hire if that would help.”
“Children, children,” Isabel said. “Why don’t we enjoy our wine and change the subject.”
Pete didn’t respond.
Neither did Maria, at least at first. Then she said, “So, Pete, Isabel tells me your mom is a fabulous landscape artist.”
“Yes, she’s wonderful. She paints Chilean landscapes. My favorite is an oil painting of Cape Horn that she gave me.” His cell phone rang.
US Embassy Santiago.
“Pardon me, ladies.” He stepped away from the table, moving out of earshot. “This is Commander Miranda.”
“Commander, this is Captain McKinley, the naval attaché at our embassy here in Santiago.”
“Good afternoon, Captain. How may I serve you, sir?”
“Commander, sorry to cut your leave short, but something’s come up. The Chileans have asked that you report to Valparaiso tomorrow at 0700 to begin working with the crew of the Miro. Report to the embassy ASAP and I’ll brief you.”
“How soon do you need me, Captain?”
“Within the hour.”
Pete checked his watch. “Aye, Captain. Just gotta close out my tab and get moving.”
“Very well. Get here as soon as you can, Pete.”
“Aye, sir.”
Pocketing his phone, Pete returned to the table. “Ladies, my apologies. I am very much enjoying your company. But duty calls. They’ve ordered me to report before I’d anticipated.” He locked eyes with Maria. Had he seen disappointment on her face? Probably his imagination.
“Where are they going to have you working while you’re in Chile?” Maria asked. “Or is this a closely guarded state secret?”
“I can’t say what I’ll be doing. But I can say I’ll be home ported in Valparaiso.”
“Valparaiso?”
“Yes. Chile’s largest naval base. I start tomorrow morning.”
“I live in Valparaiso. You will love it. But be forewarned. You know that Allende grew up in Valparaiso?”
“So did Pinochet, if I recall.”
“Hmm.” She allowed a soft smile. “You haven’t forgotten your father’s homeland, have you?”
“Despite my deceiving accent, my father taught me well.” His heart-beat accelerated. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? “Well then. Since you’re going to be in Valparaiso, and since I’ll be there when I’m not at sea, maybe we should continue this discussion there.”
Cousin Isabel looked down and smiled.
Maria batted those big brown eyes. “Are you asking me out, Commander Miranda?”
“Maybe.” He smiled. “Or maybe I’m looking for an opportunity to deprogram a hopeless idealistic damsel in distress who’s been brainwashed by the socialists.”
“Oh? Maybe it’s the right-wing Yankee military guy who needs deprogramming.”
“Texans aren’t Yankees,” he shot back. “But if I’m going to save you from socialism and, on top of that, teach you about the Mason-Dixon Line in the United States, I’m gonna need your number. What do you say?”
“What do you think, Isabel?” Maria said. “Should I trust your cousin with my number?” A suppressed grin. “Is he dangerous?”
Isabel laughed. “Let me put it this way. If I catch wind that he is ungentlemanly in the slightest bit, I’ll tell his mother. He’ll have Aunt Judy to deal with, and you and I won’t have to worry about killing him.”
Pete laughed. “My cousin knows my mother still has my best interests at heart, which means I must always behave myself.”
Maria smiled. “Okay. As long as we know Aunt Judy will be there to keep your cousin Pedro in line”—she pulled out a business card—“although I may be placing my life in his hands.” She began writing on the card. “Perhaps I could make an exception against my better instincts in this case, since your cousin seems to need to be indoctrinated some more.” She handed the card to Pete. “Here you are, Commander Miranda. Use this wisely.”
“I look forward to my indoctrination.”
CHAPTER 7
Operations center
British Embassy
Avda. El Bosque Norte 0125
Las Condes
Santiago, Chile
The British Embassy in Santiago, located at the corner of Avenue El Bosque Norte and Don Carlos Avenue in the Las Condes commune of Santiago province, sat draped in the shadows of the breathtaking snowcapped Andes mountain range. Las Condes became home to many elite political leaders of Chile, including former presidents Michelle Bachalet, Salvador Allende, and Augusto Pinochet, and remained an upscale residential section to high-income families and the country’s economic elite.
Long before the establishment of the embassy, the warm ties between Britain and Chile dated all the way back to the Chilean War of Independence that ended in 1826. Their common enemy—Spain.
The British hated the Spanish.
So did the Chileans.
Spain wanted to maintain her colonial dominance over Chile. The Chileans wanted independence.
Spain also wanted to be the dominant colonial power in the world. So did Britain.
The British fleet defeated the Spanish and French fleets in the decisive Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, and the bad blood between the countries festered.
Argentina, a former Spanish colony, emerged as a common enemy of both Britain and Chile because of her ties to Spain. When Argentina attacked the Falkland Islands, 156 years after the Chilean revolution, the common anti-Spanish heritage of the two nations led to Chilean support of the British in the Falklands War.
In keeping with the British-Chilean military alliance, Royal Navy Commander John Gordon, of the prestigious and elite SBS, had arrived at his new station as a military and political officer at the British Embassy in Santiago.
Yet Chile, despite her ties with Britain, was not a typical destination assignment for Special Forces commandos like Commander Gordon.
But these were not ordinary times.
The discovery by British petro-engineers of vast reservoirs of crude below the icy surfaces in Antarctica sent Downing Street scrambling to shore up military security to protect the British Antarctic stations. Most members of the Royal Navy’s elite SBS forces were being deployed to various parts of the world in the war on terror—to places like Pakistan, Afghanistan, Israel, Egypt, and on ships cruising the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf.
The massive discovery had British petro-engineers believing that the nation first staking claim to it could become the richest in the world. For Britain, that meant not only a return to international relevance not known since before World War I but a return to economic and military superpower status.
And so the secret military objective, code named “Black Ice,” would shore up defenses in a desolate spot of ice not far from the South Pole on an isolated and oft-forgotten continent.
Commander Gordon, operating from the British Embassy in Santiago, would monitor and command the military buildup surrounding “Camp Churchill,” which remained in its infancy stage.
Fifteen hundred miles to the south of Santiago, at the southernmost tip of South America, Chile had allowed Britain to use its Puerto Williams naval base as a staging area to move forces into Antarctica to reinforce Camp Churchill.
Gordon glanced up at the map of Chile and wished he had more time.
Puerto Williams was a few miles north of Cape Horn. And from Cape Horn, five hundred miles of the raging waters of Drake Passage separated the tip of South America from the South Shetland Islands along the coast of Antarctica.
Gordon looked up at the map of the bottom of the world.
The map reinforced the importance of Chile as a British ally. Just 500 miles separated Chile from Antarctica, in contrast with the 3,800 miles separating Antarctica from Cape Agulhas, the southernmost point in Africa, and the 4,000 miles from Antarctica to Wilson’s Promontory, the southernmost tip of Australia.
This short distance gave Britain and Chile a strategic advantage in reaching Antarctica over the other powers of the world with the exception of Argentina, whose southern tip was nearly as close to Antarctica as Chile’s.
The discovery of oil, which had occurred on Antarctic tundra claimed by both nations, gave Chile and Britain a chance to cooperate in a win-win that could again make Britain the most dominant nation in Europe and Chile a South American superpower.
But one problem remained.
Argentina.
For if Antarctica geographically resembled a pie, then Chile, Britain, and Argentina claimed overlapping slices of that pie. But that piece of the pie was not large enough to be sliced three ways.
For practical purposes, His Majesty’s government had seen fit to bring its allies in Santiago in on the discovery.
The first officer on the ground, Leftenant Austin Rivers, under Gordon’s direct immediate command and one of the finest SBS officers in the Royal Navy, was a warrior’s warrior. But he was one man.
Commander Gordon needed more ground forces—and fast. So far, the darkness in Antarctica had been Britain’s ally. But with darkness peeling back each day and giving way to more sunlight, soon the discovery would be visible to observation planes and satellites.
Commander Gordon, as he sipped his afternoon tea while battling knots in the pit of his stomach, perused communiqués from SBS commanders in Afghanistan and Kuwait.
Special Forces Command would not pull the SBS squadron from Afghanistan until reinforcements arrived in full strength in Kabul. That could take up to a week or even more. A few commandos might fly down early. But with the spring season coming on and the rapid pace at which the days were getting longer, this was a race against the clock.
Gordon needed to get enough Special Forces on-site to avoid sabotage by Argentina, Venezuela, or anyone else who might become greedy enough to set sights on the booty.
Now he could only wait. Perhaps he would venture out for some grub. Gordon checked his watch. “Captain Jefferies, you’ve got the con. I’m going to step out for some fresh air.”
“Aye, sir,” the Royal Marine officer said.
“I should be back around seventeen hundred.”
“Enjoy your break, sir. We’ll keep things chugging along until you return.”
Gordon stepped out of the basement, where military operations had temporarily been established, and climbed the staircase leading to the main floor of the embassy.
Scattered nearby were a number of restaurants and bars along El Bosque Norte. Gordon stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the embassy when his cell phone rang. Caller ID revealed the caller: British Embassy Santiago. “Commander Gordon speaking.”
“Sir, Captain Jefferies here. I apologize for interrupting your dinner hour, but we have an urgent matter.”
“What is it, Jefferies?”
“Sir, we’ve received a FLASH message from Camp Churchill.” A pause. “They are under attack.”
“Under attack? By who?”
“Unable to determine at this time, sir. Their message broke up, incomplete.”
“Open a channel to London, Captain. I’ll be right there.”
CHAPTER 8
Bar El Nochebuena
General Salvo 125
Región Providencia
Santiago, Chile
The sun dipped lower in the afternoon sky but was not yet ready to surrender to the western horizon.
Maria loved this time of day at this time of year. For now, in the middle of October, the sun set close to eight in Santiago, casting orangish horizontal sun rays with an idyllic glow on the outdoor balcony. A few patrons lingered still. The sun and the light breeze rolling down from the Andes created an atmosphere of late-day relaxation.
Maria stirred her margarita with her straw and let her heart and mind swish with the drink. She brought the drink to her lips for a refreshing swallow. Aaah. The swig down her throat left a warm trail. A refreshing gust cascading down from the snowcapped Andes gave her a burst of inner confidence.
Isabel had not returned from the ladies’ room. And so far, the conversation had remained focused on shopping and the Santiago nightlife. She had avoided any hint that she had felt an instant chemistry or electricity with Isabel’s conservative and boneheaded but charming and good-looking cousin.
Should she broach the subject? Surely a casual reference disguised as an offhanded remark might seem natural without Isabel getting too suspicious. Plus, it might elicit some additional information to satisfy what had become a growing curiosity for the last hour or so.
“Juan-Carlos?”
“Yes, señorita?”
“One more, please.”
“Si, señorita. And your friend?”
“I don’t know. She’s in the baño. You can ask her when she returns.”
“Certainly, señorita.”
The bartender stepped over to the bar.
Maria let her mind wander. What would it be like to be part of the Miranda family? To be related, even by marriage, to her best friend? Even after all these years, it amazed her that she and Isabel had not only remained friends but remained so close. They could not have been more different.
Yes, they both enjoyed the finer things of life. Shopping. Movies. Travel. Vacations. Books. But they remained political opposites. A socialist and a conservative. Some called them the political odd couple.
She decided that yes, she would broach the subject of Isabel’s rugged half-Texan, half-Chilean good-looking stud of a cousin. She looked up and saw Isabel strolling across the patio, bearing a wide smile. “I thought you got lost in the powder room.”
“I’m sorry,” Isabel said. “I bumped into this cute guy I met at work.” She pulled up a chair and sat. “You know how that can be.”
“Oh yes, do I ever,” Maria confessed.
“Welcome back, señorita.” Juan-Carlos walked up with the margarita.
“You ordered another one?” Isabel asked.
“Trying to muster my courage.”
“Would you care for another, señorita?” Juan-Carlos directed his question to Isabel.
“Oh, go ahead, Isabel,” Maria said. “I’m paying.”
“Are you paying for the cab too?”
“Absolutely,” Maria said. “Bring her another one, Juan-Carlos.”
“Si, señorita.”
“Drink up, Sister Isabel. Maybe you’ll get the courage to go back over there and ask the cute guy from work to join us.”
Isabel laughed. “And speaking of cute guys, I note that you’ve been suspiciously silent on the topic since my cousin had to leave.”
Maria gulped.
“What’s this?” Isabel pressed. “Do I detect blushing from my socialist-liberal friend? Perhaps a tinge of speechlessness?”
“Your margarita, señorita.”
“How did you do that so fast, Juan-Carlos?”
“I cannot take credit,” he said. “I took the liberty of ordering yours when Señorita Maria ordered hers.”
“You’re amazing, Juan-Carlos,” Isabel said.
“M
y pleasure, señorita.”
“And you!” Isabel took a sip and directed her brown eyes at Maria. “You are still blushing.”
“Well”—Maria pulled herself to her fullest height—“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Lying communist scumbag!” Isabel declared.
“Aah! Promoted from socialist to communist?”
“I’ve promoted you to scumbag!”
They stared at each other, and then Maria burst out laughing, and Isabel joined her.
“You do know me, don’t you?” Maria chuckled.
“Yes, I know you. Now tell the truth. I touched a nerve, didn’t I?”
They sat back and giggled.
“Okay, okay,” Maria said. “I confess. I didn’t want to come out and say I think your cousin is hot! I mean, a girl has to keep some things to herself. Doesn’t she?”
“Not from her best friend!”
“Ordinarily I’d agree,” Maria said, “but when the dirty little secret is that the best friend’s first cousin makes a girl’s heart flutter . . . I mean, even you’ve got to admit that could make for an awkward conversation.”
“Why do you think I brought you here? I had a sneaky feeling, knowing the two of you, that a little sparked political discussion might ignite a few other sparks. You know. The magnetic-type sparks.”
Maria smiled and held up her glass. “To magnetic sparks.”
Isabel clanged her glass against Maria’s. “To wildly magnetic and mutual sparks!”
“I’ll drink to that. So, what do you think? You know your cousin better than I do. Do you think any of those sparks might have been mutual?”
“Well, put it this way, Peter plays a cool hand and shows a good poker face—as I suppose a good sub commander should. But in this case, I have a feeling that maybe—”
Beeping came from inside Maria’s purse.
“Saved by the bell.” Isabel smiled and concentrated on her margarita.
“Hang on a second.” Maria uncovered her phone. “Oh . . . that’s odd . . .” Her heart thumped.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Isabel grinned.