by Don Brown
“Anderson. My good man. Everything will be all right.” Rivers took an uncomfortable stab at the psychologist-comforter role. “These Bolivarian chaps have been true to their word. You’re the last civilian out. Captain Dunn and I have our rifles trained on that Venezuelan leftenant. And he knows we will shoot his brains out if anyone tries to harm you.”
“You. Inside the dome! What is the delay? Either come out or we open fire.”
More sobbing. “I want my family! Please. I just want to go home.”
Austin glanced at Dunn, who again shook his head.
“Anderson! Either you get up and move or I will shoot you myself.”
Anderson removed his hands from his head and started pushing up off the deck. “I apologize, Leftenant,” he said through sobs.
“Don’t worry, Mister Anderson,” Rivers said. “Just do as the others did. Hands high over your head. Walk forward and make no jerking gestures.”
“Our patience is running out! You appear to have reneged on your promise for an orderly surrender.”
“We have not reneged on our promise!” Rivers called out. “One of our men suffers health issues. He’s coming out.” He looked at Anderson. “Ready, Mister Anderson?”
“I think so, Leftenant.”
“All right. Go ahead. Hands up.”
“Yes, sir.” Anderson shuffled to the door. The image of his body with hands up formed a silhouette against the bright white of the snow and ice outside. Finally, Anderson stepped out into the snow.
Austin watched him from the window, his hands up, trembling with fear, shuffling forward, step after step after step.
“Dunn. Cover Anderson. I need to try something.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rivers propped his rifle against the window and started crawling, low, across the deck. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s halfway across, sir. Still shaking and taking his sweet time.”
Austin pushed aside the leg of one of the dead Venezuelan commandos sprawled on the floor.
He checked the base radio. As he suspected, it had been riddled with bullets in the initial cross fire.
He reached the base of the computer and pulled up just enough to see that the Skype call had been disconnected.
“Hurry up, gentlemen! This is taking too long!” The command came from outside.
In the upper left of the Skype screen, a photograph of Meg, smiling magnetically. Just to her right on the screen, an oblong green button with the words Video Call.
Austin reached up, moved the cursor over the Video Call button, and clicked.
A second later, he heard the distinctive elongated electronic beep . . . beep . . . sound, signifying an active Skype call.
“Are you making a Skype call, Leftenant?”
“Giving it a shot, Dunn.”
Magnolia Flats
Kensington District
West London
8:30 p.m. local time
Meg Alexander sat on the sofa stroking Little Aussie’s hair, trying to calm him down.
She had wrapped him in a blanket and watched as he closed his eyes. Finally.
The rap-rap-rap on the door knocker brought Aussie up off the pillow.
“I’ll be back, sweetness. Lie back down.” She tucked the pillow under his head and walked to the door.
“Shelley!”
The friends hugged as tears streaked down Meg’s cheeks. “Thank God you’re here.”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
“Aussie is dozing in and out, but all the excitement has kept him on edge. Come in. I have tea and scones.”
Shelley stepped into the small entryway of the flat, and Meg closed the door.
“Let me fetch you something to drink,” Meg said.
“I suppose I might take a spot of something. Anything stronger than tea?”
“I have a French chardonnay.” She wiped her eyes. “An expensive brand, wonderfully delicious.”
“Perfect,” Shelley said.
Meg stepped into the kitchen and reached up to the small wine rack above the coolbox. The rack held three bottles, and she pulled out the one in the middle.
As she set the bottle on the counter, the electronic ringtone of Skype poured in from the living room.
“Mommy! Daddy!” Aussie shouted.
Meg rushed into the living room. A message blinked on the computer screen:
Austin Rivers calling . . . Accept . . . Decline.
“Thank God!” She rushed over and tried to move the cursor over the Accept button, but her hands were shaking so much that she couldn’t position the curser.
Little Aussie pointed at the blinking picture of Austin on the screen and shouted, “Daddy! Daddy!”
“Shelley, please help!”
Shelley took the cursor from her hand and moved the arrow over the Accept button and clicked it.
A second later, an image of an empty room appeared. No sign of the handsome face with the cleft chin that had captured Meg’s heart.
“Meggie? Are you there?”
“Austin!” His voice sent her heart racing. “Where are you?”
“Meggie, listen carefully. We are under attack by Venezuelan commandos. I don’t have long. Do you have your iPhone?”
“Yes . . . yes . . . Oh! I can’t find it!”
“Daddy! Daddy!”
“Aussie! Please!”
“Here, take my phone!”
“Who was that?” Austin asked.
“Shelley. She just gave me her iPhone.”
“Okay. Does your iPhone have a video record feature?”
“Yes,” Shelley said. “Meg, go take care of Aussie.”
“Okay,” Meg said.
“Now turn on the video. I want to record a message for the Ministry of Defence.”
“Yes.” Shelley fidgeted with her phone as Meg sat with her arms around Aussie. “Okay! Okay! It’s recording. I’m aiming it at the screen.”
“I want Daddy!”
“Aussie! Shhhhhh!”
“This is Leftenant Austin Rivers, SBS, Royal Navy. I am senior military officer at Camp Churchill in Antarctica. We are under attack by Venezuelan Special Forces commandos. We are surrounded by fifty to sixty riflemen. Gunfire has been exchanged—”
“Leftenant, they have Anderson, sir. It’s me and you. What shall we do?”
“Evacuate, Dunn. Same drill. Leave your rifle here. Hands over your head. But move slowly. Buy all the time you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
Austin continued, “We’re surrounded by fifty to sixty Venezuelan commandos . . . versus two British military officers and ten British civilians, all petro-engineers. One civilian, Mister Walter Gaylord, has been shot. His abdominal wound appears serious. He is in the custody of the enemy. Five known enemy casualties. All shot dead by me and Captain Timothy Dunn, Royal Marines.
“Although it goes against every fiber of my being, for the sake of the civilians with whose safety I have been charged, I have ordered the surrender of all personnel at Camp Churchill. Continued resistance, given the overwhelming numbers of the enemy, would mean certain death to British civilians. As I speak to you, I am the remaining Briton still inside the geodesic dome here at Camp Churchill.”
“Austin!” Meg said.
“Cognizant of my duty to protect British civilians, I have concluded that my duty is best served to also surrender myself, to attempt to give those civilians the best protection to the best of my abilities under the circumstances of captivity.”
“It is time to complete the surrender process!” This voice, in what sounded like a Spanish accent, could be heard off in the distance.
“I must go. Keep us in your prayers, and God save the King!”
London
10:15 p.m. local time
The black bulletproof Jaguar carrying the prime minister of the United Kingdom turned right out of the back entrance to Downing Street and drove along the east side of historic St. James’s Park, then made a left tur
n onto The Mall for the straight shot up to Buckingham Palace, all less than a mile from the prime minister’s residence.
London police had closed both Horse Guards Road and The Mall to all traffic for the passage of the prime minister’s Jaguar and the eight armed police motorcycles accompanying it for the short drive.
The broad boulevard, colored a reddish tint to resemble a royal red carpet leading up to the palace, was flanked on both sides with dozens of spotlighted Union Jacks.
The prime minister never tired of this sight. For unlike many of the nations of Western Europe, content to abandon their national currencies for a singular Eurodollar, Britain, for the most part, wanted no part of being a mere state in a United States of Europe.
The nation of Churchill, Thatcher, Elizabeth the First, Cromwell, and Lord Nelson remained nationalistic, determined that the Union Jack would never fly subservient to the globalist flag of the European Union or the even more globalist banner of the United Nations. At least the Conservative Party embraced British nationalism.
After passing St. James’s Palace off to the right, the Jaguar rolled along Queen Victoria Memorial Gardens near the entrance to the palace grounds, then slowed as it approached the brightly lit Queen Victoria Gate. Guards jumped to attention with snappy salutes as the prime minister’s motorcar drove onto the palace grounds.
The prime minister’s personal phone rang. Mulvaney looked at the screen: Chief of Defence Staff.
He punched the answer button. “Prime Minister here.”
“My apologies, sir. But there is late-breaking information that you need to know before your briefing with His Majesty.”
“Well, you caught me in the nick of time. What is it, Sir Edmond?”
“Sir, the girl . . . the secretary who dated the SBS officer assigned to Camp Churchill . . . got another Skype message from the leftenant. Rivers said the attackers are Venezuelan.”
“Venezuelan? What about our theory that Argentina is behind this?”
“We cannot rule them out. But Leftenant Rivers, the SBS officer, reports that the attackers are Venezuelan commandos.”
“Venezuela. I find that shocking. That they would attack us.”
“Yes, sir, Prime Minister.”
“It’s all about the oil. And Chile.”
“Yes, the oil. An OPEC member hostile to Western interests. Venezuela does not want Chile to become an oil-exporting superpower. This would undermine Venezuela’s economic and political slice of the pie in South America.”
“They don’t like us and they don’t like the US. Even before Chávez . . . How many attackers? Any idea?”
“Leftenant Rivers estimated fifty to sixty in the initial wave against a handful of civilians and only two military officers. Gunfire has been exchanged. Five attackers are dead. One British civilian has been shot. His condition appears to be critical. For the protection of the remaining civilians, Leftenant Rivers is surrendering to the Venezuelans, hoping they comply with the Geneva Accords and treat them humanely.”
“If our officer has reported that they were attacked by Venezuelan commandos, I’m sure the king will want to know why we still suspect Argentina.”
“Argentina and Venezuela formed a strong alliance, going back to 2005 when Hugo Chávez used Venezuelan oil money to bail out Argentina’s national debt. And Argentina maintains a stronger presence in Antarctica than Venezuela. Remember, sir, Argentina’s General Belgrano II base camp is only a few miles from Camp Churchill, on the Churchill Reservoir. There is now little doubt that Argentina intercepted electronic transmissions and shared that information with the Venezuelans.”
The prime minister said, “Very well. Let me recap. We now know that Venezuelan ground forces attacked our encampment on the Churchill Reservoir, and our intelligence leads us to believe that Argentina is in cahoots with them. Is that right?”
“Yes, Prime Minister. That’s an accurate assessment.”
“Thank you, Sir Edmond.”
“Good luck with the king.”
Oval Office
the White House
Washington, DC
5:18 p.m. local time
At this time of day, in the later part of the afternoon, with tinges of a gorgeous autumn in the air in North America, the president of the United States, between appointments and telephone calls, found solitude in whirling his chair around, away from his desk, and gazing from the Oval Office out onto the South Lawn.
In some ways, President Douglas Surber missed the simpler times when he could venture into the crisp autumn afternoon, inhale the cool, intoxicating air, and revel in the orange and yellow and red leaves. Even as Mack Williams’ vice president, he could walk out into the backyard at the Naval Observatory, the official residence of the vice president of the United States, and enjoy a few minutes of the changing seasons without anybody noticing. In the fall, he could even pull off an occasional drive down the George Washington Parkway, from Spout Run to Mount Vernon, along the Potomac.
All that changed when Surber replaced his former boss, President Mack Williams, as commander in chief. He marveled at the stark difference between the presidency and the vice presidency, like the difference between night and day.
The presidency’s high visibility kept him imprisoned in the Oval Office. In moments such as this, the closest he could get to the crispness of the autumn air came when he could steal time for a gaze out the window.
The sudden shrill of the intercom buzz brought Surber around to face the interior of the Oval Office. He punched the intercom on his large mahogany desk.
“Yes, Gayle.”
“Mister President.” The voice of longtime presidential secretary Gayle Staff. “The secretary of defense and the chairman of the joint chiefs are here.”
“Send them in, Gayle.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Charlie.” The president nodded at a member of his security detail, the Secret Service officer guarding the main interior door of the Oval Office. The officer turned and opened the door.
Surber stood as the two men walked into the Oval Office—one in a gray suit and with the almond-complexioned skin of a Latino and the other a middle-aged Caucasian wearing the blue service dress uniform of a four-star admiral.
“Mister Secretary. Admiral Jones. Please be seated.”
“Thank you, Mister President,” Secretary of Defense Irwin Lopez said.
“So why this visit by the top brain trust of the United States military on such short notice?”
The two men settled into the chairs in front of the presidential desk.
“Mister President,” the secretary of defense said, “we’ve intercepted some information about a brewing military situation involving two of our allies and a couple of our adversaries that does not yet involve United States military forces. It wouldn’t surprise me, sir, if you got a call from the British prime minister within the next few hours.”
“From Prime Minister Mulvaney? Tell me what’s cooking, gentlemen.”
“With permission, I’ll defer to Admiral Jones for the details.”
“By all means.” Surber nodded. “Admiral?”
“Thank you, Mister President,” Admiral Roscoe Jones, the chairman of the joint chiefs, said. “Sir, within the last few months, our ground radar positions on the Antarctic Peninsula began noticing an increase in air traffic out of Tierra del Fuego, the southernmost land mass in Argentina that borders Drake Passage to the Antarctic Peninsula.
“Based on these reports, which appeared to identify military flights doing round trips from Tierra del Fuego to one of Argentina’s bases down there, a base called General Belgrano II, we became curious about these flights.
“So we repositioned our Air Force SIGINT—our signals intelligence satellites—to orbit overhead, and we began intercepting transmissions between the Brits and the Chileans on one side, and the Argentineans and Venezuelans on the other side. Here’s the bottom line, sir. The Brits have discovered massive oil reserves in Antarctica. And b
ecause Chile is so close, and Britain needs a close land base, Britain and Chile came up with a secret plan to drill for the oil and share it.”
“Where? In Antarctica?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can just imagine what some of these global-warming, carbon-taxing, eco-Nazis are gonna do with this news when it gets out. The environmental wackos won’t like it. They’ll go ballistic. They’ll try occupying the British Embassy. Do some kind of candlelight vigil.”
“Yes, sir,” Secretary Lopez said.
“I didn’t mean to cut you off, Admiral Jones,” Surber said. “What military situation is brewing there?”
“Sir, it appears Argentina shared this information with Venezuela, and Venezuela launched an attack against one British position in Antarctica. We believe Argentina is in on it.”
“Son of a—” Surber caught himself. “What kind of attack?”
“Small commando raid. Fifty to sixty Special Forces infantry types. Looks like the Brits are surrendering, but my guess is they’ll strike back.”
“So to make sure I’ve got this straight, you’re saying Venezuela attacked Britain. Not the other way around.”
The intercom on the president’s desk buzzed. “Yes, Gayle.”
“Sir, the secretary of state has arrived.”
“Send him in.”
Once again, the Secret Service agent opened the door.
“Mister Secretary. Glad you could join us,” the president said.
“My apologies,” Secretary of State Bobby Mauney said. “Bad traffic coming over from Foggy Bottom.”
“Have a seat, Bobby.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You are aware, I take it, of the situation that Secretary Lopez and Admiral Jones are briefing me on?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“So I take it the Brits don’t know that we know about it, and nobody else in the world knows.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“So here’s my question,” Surber said. “Secretary Mauney, should we contact the Brits and offer our assistance?”
“I recommend against that, sir. It would be embarrassing to admit to our closest allies that we’ve been conducting electronic monitoring of them without their knowledge. My guess, Mister President, is that we will hear from the Brits soon enough.”