The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  “I don’t know. Just a number. What should I do?”

  “Answer it. Find out!”

  She punched the Accept button.

  “Hello.”

  “Maria?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pete Miranda.”

  “Oh, hi, Pete.” Please don’t let him suspect I’m about to faint.

  “I told you if you gave me your number, I just might use it.”

  She fanned her face. “Well . . . uh . . . I’m glad you did.”

  “Anyway, I enjoyed meeting you.”

  “It was nice meeting you too.”

  “I know this is short notice, but you said you’re from Valparaiso, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Uh . . . I’ve got to drive down there, and I hoped you might like to ride with me. I could use the company, and I’ll take you straight to your apartment and promise to be good.”

  “Aah . . .” What to say, what to say. “Today?”

  “If you can’t, I understand.”

  “Aah. What time?”

  “Could you be ready in an hour?”

  Maria looked at her watch. This was beyond crazy. But delightfully exciting. “Aah . . . sure. Pick me up at Isabel’s in an hour.”

  Isabel’s eyes widened.

  “Great. We’ll have fun. See you then.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  The line cut.

  “What?” Isabel put down her drink.

  “He wants me to ride down to Valparaiso with him.”

  “Really? When?”

  “Now.”

  Isabel squealed with delight. “My cousin. The swashbuckling naval officer! I knew it!”

  This was all a blur. What to do?

  “Juan-Carlos.” Isabel raised her hand to summon the waiter.

  “Si, senorita?”

  “The check, please. My friend has a hot date in an hour, and we must hurry.”

  “Si, senorita. With pleasure.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Magnolia Flats

  Kensington District

  West London

  Her stomach felt like a cold, wet towel twisting into a tight knot. Her legs were limp as spaghetti, her forehead clammy cool. A perspiration line beaded under her hairline. Meg wanted to vomit.

  Four times she tried to reestablish communication with Austin through Skype.

  Nothing.

  The calls self-terminated after two rings.

  What should she do? Who should she call?

  Shelley.

  She punched Shelley’s number.

  Three rings. Voice mail.

  “Shelley. It’s Meg. Call me. Something’s wrong. I was on Skype with Austin and someone attacked his duty station. Maybe terrorists. I don’t know. Please call.” She hung up.

  Who to call? Who could help? The constable. She conducted a quick Google search and checked the results: Kensington Police Station: 72 Earls Court Rd, Kensington, London W8 6EQ T: 03001231212.

  As she dialed the number, another call came through.

  Shelley.

  Thank God. “Shelley! Did you get my message?”

  “Yes. You sound awful. What happened, Meg?”

  “Austin and I were on Skype. He called like he does before Aussie’s bedtime. I was going to get Aussie, and all of a sudden I hear what sounds like gunshots and there’s smoke and . . . hang on”—she reached over for a tissue to dab her eyes—“and he was gone.”

  “Okay, listen. Get hold of yourself, Meg. There must be an explanation. Perhaps a drill or something. You know these military types. Always practicing with their guns.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” Meg said. “I heard them say they were under attack before the transmission dropped. I heard Austin giving firing instructions, maybe to the Royal Marine who is down there with him. This could not have been a drill. There aren’t soldiers or sailors down there. Austin and the Marine are on some sort of guard duty. That’s all I know.”

  “Oh. Let’s think.” A pause. “We should report this to the authorities.”

  “I was dialing the constable’s office when you called,” Meg said.

  “I don’t think the constable could help. This is a military matter. Although I suppose it couldn’t hurt to alert the constable.”

  “Maybe. But who in the military? The Royal Navy?”

  “I think the Defence Ministry. They’re over the Royal Navy and the Royal Army. They should know what to do. Why don’t you Google their number and call them, and I’ll call the Kensington police. Then I’m coming over.”

  “You are so good. I love you.”

  She sat down at the computer and typed in a search for the Royal Defence Ministry. She punched in the number and held the iPhone to her ear.

  Two rings.

  “Ministry of Defence. Commander Haith speaking.”

  “Yes. This is Meg Alexander in Kensington. I’d like to report what I think is a terrorist attack against British forces.”

  “Did I understand you to say a terrorist attack against His Majesty’s military forces?”

  “Yes, Commander. That is what I said.”

  “And where did this attack take place?”

  “Antarctica. The attack took place in Antarctica.”

  CHAPTER 10

  British base camp

  Camp Churchill

  Antarctica

  Everybody stay down!” Rivers said.

  Staying low to avoid the direct line of fire from outside, he edged close to the shot-out window of the geodesic dome, which served as base camp headquarters for the British contingency.

  On the floor of the dome, eight British petro-engineers lay facedown, their hands covering the backs of their heads.

  Four enemy commandos were sprawled out on the floor, each with at least one bullet in the head. The four had blown open the front door with a grenade and charged into the dome.

  But once inside, their fate had turned unlucky. Rivers picked off three of them, and his Royal Marine colleague, Captain Dunn, shot the fourth.

  The unexpected lick of fire that he and Dunn had poured on the four chaps had deterred the other invaders, at least for a while. But Rivers suspected they were surrounded and greatly outnumbered.

  “Captain Dunn, stay low. See if you can check their identification.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rivers peeked out the corner of the window, then ducked back down. Riflemen were taking their positions outside the dome. It looked to be an Alamo-type situation unfolding out on the tundra. Not even Davey Crockett and Jim Bowie could hold up being outgunned ten to one. Rivers figured whoever these chaps were, they spoke the same language that Santa Anna had spoken all those years ago.

  “Spanish ID cards, Leftenant,” Dunn said. “Trying to make out their origin.”

  “Attention! You! Inside the dome!” The voice boomed over a megaphone in a rich Spanish accent.

  “Stay back,” Rivers said. “Be ready to fire, Captain Dunn.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are surrounded by special forces of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela. You are outnumbered. Come out and surrender. Lay down your weapons and you will be granted clemency.”

  “Venezuela,” Rivers said. “I should have known.”

  “Your situation is hopeless. There are more than fifty of us. You are surrounded.”

  Cold blasts of air blew in through the shot-out windows. Rivers crouched with his rifle low and just to the right of the bay window. Dunn crouched on the opposite side.

  “Dunn. Slip around to the back and have a look. Let’s make sure this chap is not blowing smoke.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rivers took account of his situation. Could they hold out until reinforcements arrived? He had weapons in the dome, but only two Special Forces commandos, including himself. The ten petro-engineers still lying facedown could potentially handle a rifle. But giving a rifle to untrained civilians, especially British civilians having grown up where firearms
are banned, could prove disastrous. One was a Royal Army veteran. But the rest? Small, scrawny men. Engineers. Eggheads.

  Two looked up at him, fear in their eyes. Macho he-men they were not. Arming them could prove disastrous. A wild shot. They could get hurt.

  “Leftenant,” Dunn said, “the chap is not exaggerating. We’re surrounded. Armed men all around the back.”

  “I suspected that,” Rivers said.

  “Attention! You! Inside the dome! You have five minutes to surrender! If you do not, you will be killed!”

  Westminster Bridge

  crossing the River Thames

  London

  The black Jaguar XJ X308 rolled over the Westminster Bridge going north. The waters of the River Thames sported a grayish hue. Raindrops pelted the surface of the river. Off to the left, the gothic tower of Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster with the Houses of Parliament loomed as dual watchmen over the great river and the great city.

  The sleek motorcar rolled from the green archway bridge onto the north shore, passing Big Ben, and turned right onto Whitehall, heading east, the street paralleling the river.

  The Jaguar slowed, then stopped on Whitehall. The passenger sitting in the backseat waved at the few gawkers standing on the sidewalk under umbrellas.

  As the Jaguar slowly moved forward again, London constables and His Majesty’s security officers rolled back the black iron double gates, affording access to the street beyond. Armed riflemen of the Royal Marines flanked the constables, stepping between the Jaguar and the members of the public who were braving the rain—in the right place at the right time to catch a glimpse of the VIP.

  The Jaguar turned left off of Whitehall onto another small street that resembled a concrete alleyway sandwiched between two large stone buildings.

  On the building to the left, at the corner of Whitehall and the alley, a small inconspicuous sign identified the alleyway:

  Downing Street SW1 City of Westminster

  As the motorcar moved onto Downing Street, the passenger glanced back. The constables were securing the iron gates. The pedestrians gathered outside, shielded by umbrellas, were looking in and pointing. Word spread quickly along the street about activity at the gate, but most caught only a glimpse of the Jaguar’s taillights.

  Half a block down the alley, the Jaguar pulled over to the right and stopped in front of a large three-story brick building.

  The building was unimpressive. The bricks on the facade were painted a dull chimney black. A tall-hatted constable stood guard next to the black door in the middle of the building. On the door, painted in white, was the number “10.” There was no doorknob.

  This incredibly plain-looking building resembled an upper-grade warehouse. Yet this brick monstrosity in the middle of a two-block gated alleyway was the second most famous residence in all of Britain, surpassed only by Buckingham Palace.

  For 10 Downing Street, referred to by the British simply as “Number 10,” served as headquarters of His Majesty’s government and as the official residence and office of the First Lord of the Treasury, an office held by the prime minister.

  A constable holding an umbrella opened the back door of the Jaguar. “Good afternoon, Prime Minister.”

  “Good afternoon, Charles,” Prime Minister David Mulvaney said.

  “Umbrella, sir?”

  “No, thank you, Charles. It’s not raining that bad.”

  “Very well, sir,” the constable said as the newly elected British prime minister stepped out of the sleek armored vehicle and onto the cobblestone street into the light drizzle.

  The prime minister walked swiftly to the famous black door as flashes of camera and strobe lights erupted outside the iron gates at both ends of Downing from tourists and members of the press with telephoto lenses trying to capture a photographic glimpse for the morning’s papers and the many blog sites.

  Mulvaney threw a smiling wave in both directions and stepped onto the single white stone step leading to the modest brick front.

  “Welcome home, sir,” the constable guarding the famous door said. Another constable opened the door from the inside.

  “Good to be home, gentlemen,” Mulvaney said as he walked in. He removed his jacket and handed it to a cloakman. Another “Welcome home, Prime Minister” from a voice he recognized all too well, the voice of his chief of staff. The right honourable Edward Willingham had served as lord mayor of Cardiff before Mulvaney tapped him for the prestigious position of principal adviser to the prime minister.

  “How was Brussels and the EU summit, sir?” Willingham, in his classic white button-down shirt and red bowtie, approached in a quick-step across the black-and-white checkered marble floor in the entryway.

  “Too bloody long, Edward,” Mulvaney quipped. “These EU types are bound and determined to drag Britain into their little German-run kingdom. I look forward to my brandy after putting up with two full days of Chancellor Schmidt.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sorry to bother you on your return, but we’ve got a hot item on the front burner, Prime Minister.”

  “A hot item?” The two men walked in lockstep past the base of the grand staircase. “What is so urgent?”

  “Sir, we’ve gotten an urgent message from Camp Churchill.”

  “Camp Churchill? In the Antarctic?”

  They turned left, passed two Corinthian columns, and walked into the cabinet room.

  A steward in a tuxedo said, “Brandy, sir?”

  “Yes,” Mulvaney said. “And bring one for Mister Willingham as well.”

  “Yes, sir.” The steward nodded and left the room.

  “Don’t tell me, Edward, that the Black Ice project has leaked out beyond us and the Chileans.”

  “Worse than that, Prime Minister. Our contingent at Camp Churchill has been attacked.”

  After knocking on the door, the steward returned with a full bottle of cognac and two crystal glasses three-quarters full.

  “Thank you,” Mulvaney said. “Set the tray on the table. That will be all, George.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mulvaney waited until the steward left the cabinet room and closed the door. “Are you telling me our base camp has been attacked? A military attack?”

  “Yes, sir,” Willingham said. “That appears to be the case.”

  The prime minister sat on the edge of the conference table. “What happened? Who? Casualties?”

  “It’s not clear at this point, Prime Minister. Our military attaché at our Santiago embassy received a FLASH message from base camp. They appeared to be under attack by ground forces. Then they lost all transmissions. That’s all we know.”

  “That’s it?” Mulvaney said. “Someone attacked the station by ground, and we’ve lost communication? And we don’t know who?”

  “That’s all we have, sir, except for one other piece of information.”

  “Let’s hear it, Edward.”

  “A woman here in London, a young secretary named Meg Alexander, called the Defence Ministry earlier today. She said she was having a Skype conversation with an SBS officer assigned to Camp Churchill. Then he disappeared. Must have ducked down. She heard gunshots, heard them say they were under attack. Saw smoke in the room. Then they lost connection.”

  Mulvaney took a swig of cognac. “This Miss . . . Abernathy—”

  “Alexander, sir.”

  “Alexander . . . is here in London, Skyping one of our SBS officers, and he’s in Antarctica, and they are talking live at the time of the attack?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister. That is our understanding.”

  “And how credible is this Miss Alexander?”

  “Good question, Prime Minister. Her story corroborates the broken message that our embassy in Santiago received from Camp Churchill. And the Royal Navy confirms that the SBS officer, a Leftenant Austin Rivers, pays child support to the lady for their son.”

  “And this Miss Alexander gave us no clue about who these attackers were?”

  “No, Prime Ministe
r. She said she heard gunshots. Someone yelled they were under attack. Someone then yelled, ‘Fire!’ She heard Rivers giving instructions for the Royal Marine to take the one on the left, and that he . . . the SBS officer . . . would take the ones on the right. After that, she said smoke appeared on the screen and then it all went black.”

  “Any indication whether Miss Alexander knew the purpose of her boyfriend’s mission?”

  The chief of staff took a swig of cognac. “No, we don’t believe so. Miss Alexander knew only his location. She was distraught that her son’s father was in danger.”

  “Hmm. That’s understandable.” Mulvaney had been in office less than a month when he received a top secret report on the discovery of oil reserves—massive reserves—in the Antarctic by British Petroleum petro-engineers. Not even the king knew. Yet. “We must identify the attackers, ensure that our people are safe, and retake Camp Churchill.”

  “Agreed, sir.”

  “Don’t we have two flotillas of Royal Marines and a contingent of SBS forces en route?”

  “Correct, Prime Minister,” Willingham said. “Both the chief of the defence staff and the defence minister are on their way to Number 10 to brief you on the military situation and discuss our options.”

  Mulvaney crossed his arms, turned, and gazed up at a full-length oil painting of Lady Margaret Thatcher that hung on the wall of the cabinet room. How would the Iron Lady respond to this? What would Sir Winston do? He turned around. “You know, Edward, it’s far too early in this administration to be confronted by an international crisis of this magnitude.”

  “I suppose that’s true, sir. On the other hand, Sir Winston not only faced an international crisis early in his ministry but he inherited one.”

  Mulvaney nodded. “Yes, of course, Edward. You always have a way of putting things in perspective. That’s why I appointed you to this position.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I must inform His Majesty. It would be a disaster for him to learn of this from the press.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Edward, notify Buckingham Palace to be on standby. Please have them inform His Majesty that his prime minister wishes to pay him a courtesy call later this evening, after our briefing from the defence minister and the chief of the defence staff.”