by Don Brown
“And when we do, what do we expect them to say?”
The secretary of state said, “That may depend in part, Mister President, on how far this escalates. But looking back at the last British war in that part of the world, Prime Minister Thatcher asked President Reagan to be on standby with naval support. Reagan secretly offered Britain use of the USS Iwo Jima if either one of the UK’s carriers were sunk. My guess is that we might see a similar type of request, coupled with a request for access to our intelligence.”
“But at some point, won’t we need to be proactive?” Surber asked. “No one needs a war in South America. Besides, I can see Venezuela trying to get help from the Russians. Especially if the Brits start beating up on ’em.”
“Sir,” Secretary Mauney said, “we think the Russians may already be involved.”
“What?” Surber whipped off his glasses. “Secretary Lopez? Admiral Jones?”
Admiral Jones nodded. “Mister President, our satellites have intercepted transmissions coming out of the Belgrano II base camp that are Russian in origin.”
“What kind of signals?”
“Sophisticated jamming and eavesdropping transmissions, sir. Stuff that nobody could pick up except for us and the Israelis.”
“Hmm. So there had to be communication between Russia and Argentina for this equipment to wind up at an Argentinean research station on Antarctica.”
“Precisely, Mister President,” Secretary Lopez said. “I think the link is a three-party axis involving Russia, Venezuela, and Argentina. Think about it. Sophisticated Russian spy equipment at an Argentinean research station near a British outpost, and that outpost winds up getting attacked by Venezuelan commandos.”
“I agree with that assessment, Mister President,” Secretary Mauney said.
“Concur,” Admiral Jones said.
“Well then.” The president leaned back and crossed his arms over his middle. “We probably know more at this point than the Brits. And they’re the ones who have been attacked.”
“A fair assessment, Mister President,” Secretary Mauney said.
“What’s our naval strength in the area?” the president asked. “And how can we provide assistance to Britain and Chile, if the time comes, without jumping too far head over heels into this?”
“Admiral?” Secretary Lopez nodded at the chairman of the joint chiefs.
“As you know, Mister President, the southern tip of South America has not been, historically, the hottest of international hotspots. We have the smallest concentration of forces there. In fact, SOUTHCOM, which would command any military conflict in South America, is the only operational command we have that isn’t headquartered on a military base.”
“SOUTHCOM is headquartered in Miami.”
“That’s right, Mister President. And most of our military ops south of the border since the Mexican War in 1848 have been limited to Grenada in 1983 and Panama in 1989. We’ve been involved in some covert operations in Nicaragua and Colombia, but we have no military bases south of Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. So in situations like this, where we’re talking faraway places with no bases, we’re thinking the Navy and the Marines.
“Now keep in mind, sir, that Chile has purchased one of our older Los Angeles–class submarines, and we’ve sent one of our sub skippers down to Chile to train them on how to use it. That submarine, which is now in Valparaiso, could be available to assist. Chile has a small but strategic naval facility at Puerto Williams, not far from Cape Horn at the southern tip of South America. So all these things might be options, sir, depending on how things unfold.”
“Okay,” Surber said. “All this is good to keep in mind. But right now, we don’t have a dog in this fight. Let’s sit for a few hours and see how things unfold.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And where are our carriers?”
“USS Ronald Reagan is conducting ops off Baja California off the northwestern coast of Mexico. Reagan is our closest operational carrier.”
“Turn the Reagan to the south. Let’s get her off the southern coast of Chile just in case.”
“Yes, sir, Mister President.”
“Secretary Lopez, Secretary Mauney, let’s have another update in the next couple of hours.”
“Yes, sir, Mister President.”
CHAPTER 15
Isabel Miranda’s flat
Santiago
All I can tell you, Pete, is that we’ve got intel that’s top secret and we need you to report to the Chilean naval station at Valpo by seven in the morning. I’m sorry to cut your leave short, but we need you to whip that Chilean crew into shape and be prepared to take her to sea in less than a week. Chilean military forces could be engaged in combat soon. If that happens, then that sub, frankly, will instantly become Chile’s most formidable military asset.”
With those words, Captain Joe McKinley, the United States naval attaché at the American Embassy in Santiago, had reneged on the Navy’s promise of a few more days of leave for Pete to explore his father’s native country.
Pete Miranda had been a naval officer for too long to believe that promises of leave could be considered sacrosanct. Duty always loomed. Explosions and flare-ups in international hotspots around the globe paid no respect to the leave schedules of American officers.
From the captain’s somewhat cryptic set of instructions, it sounded like Pete might deploy on a combat mission with a Chilean crew. He hoped not. Training a foreign crew on the intricacies of a sophisticated nuclear attack submarine would provide enough challenges. But to train that crew and then take them into combat on such short notice might be suicidal. At least six months of training would be necessary to get a new crew, especially a foreign crew, combat worthy. The Chilean Navy’s officers were sharp and its enlisted members were reliable. Still, the time frame specified by Captain McKinley in that phone call seemed impossible.
No point in speculating. He would report to Valparaiso and execute whatever duties were required of him. If he had to take a greenhorn Chilean crew into battle against some unknown enemy, so be it. He had stared down death before. He could do so again if he had to.
He had declined McKinley’s offer of a helicopter ride from Santiago to Valparaiso and instead rented a Mercedes convertible. He pulled up in front of his first cousin’s home, a modest Santiago flat, and parked the Mercedes. He opened the top and cut the engine.
This was crazy. His heart pounded like when he was preparing for combat. In fact, not even combat affected him like this. Combat produced an adrenaline rush. This involved accelerated heart palpitations.
Isabel’s front door opened. His cousin walked outside.
Maria followed her sporting fashionable designer sunglasses and dressed in designer blue jeans, a loosely fitted white top, and fashionable black boots. She slung her chic-looking purse over her shoulder and, with an eyebrow-raising bounce in her step, balanced a garment bag in one hand and a dress bag in the other.
Wow.
“Here, let me help you!” Pete opened the door and walked quickly toward her. “I’ll take those.” He relieved Maria of the two bags and caught a whiff of her intoxicating perfume.
“Nice car.”
“Well, if you’re going to keep me awake all the way to Valparaiso, the least I could do is give you a ride in style. Bags in the trunk or in the back?”
“The back is fine.”
“You got it.” He laid the dress bag on the backseat and put the canvas bag on the floor. “Here, let me get the door.” He opened her door, catching another whiff of her perfume as she slid onto the seat. What is that? Whatever it was, it was intoxicating.
“Pete!”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned. Isabel stood there, playfully wagging her finger at him.
“Remember. If you don’t take care of my friend, I will personally report you to Aunt Judy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave Isabel a playful salute, kissed her on the cheek, then hopped behind the wheel and cranked the car.
&nbs
p; “Ready?” He looked at Maria.
“I’m ready.”
“Let’s do this.” He pressed down on the accelerator, and the Mercedes rolled forward.
What had he gotten himself into?
Dock F
Mar Del Plata naval base
Argentina
5:30 p.m. local time
Mar Del Plata, a city of 600,000 some 250 miles south of Buenos Aires on the Atlantic coast, is Argentina’s seventh-largest city and the country’s largest beach resort.
The city gained international recognition by hosting the 2008 Davis Cup finals, to the extent that professional tennis still held much international popularity in the early twenty-first century.
A lesser-known fact is Mar Del Plata’s status as home port to the small submarine force of the Argentine Navy. The Navy’s three submarines, all built in Germany, include one older Type 209 diesel-electric boat built in the 1970s and two highly modernized TR-1700 Santa Cruz–class boats, which were the largest submarines built in Germany after World War II and are among the fastest diesel-electric boats in the world.
Selection for command of a Santa Cruz–class boat marked the ultimate achievement for a submarine officer in Argentina’s Navy.
Two weeks ago, after Commander Carlos Almeyda received a call from fleet headquarters announcing his dismissal as executive officer of the ARA Santa Cruz, he had prepared for his assignment to a desk job at fleet headquarters at Puerto Belgrano. A Puerto Belgrano shore assignment represented the final stepping-stone before command at sea.
But things change.
The telephone call at 7:00 p.m. the night before his departure to Puerto Belgrano caught him off guard. Capitán de Navió Claudio Simeone, the commander of the Submarine Service Branch of the Argentine Navy, was on the line.
“Commander Almeyda, we have a change in your orders.”
“Yes, Capitán?”
“I know we promised to send you to headquarters, but we are sending you back to sea.”
The call had stunned Almeyda. “A naval officer is born for the sea, mi capitán. I am honored to return to the Santa Cruz as second in command to Commander Gomez for as long as my country needs me there, sir.”
“Commander Gomez is a good man and a great officer. And he speaks highly of you,” the capitán had said. “In fact, we are taking this action based on his recommendation.”
“I do not understand, sir,” Almeyda had said.
“We are not sending you back to the Santa Cruz. There has been an unexpected change in personnel assignments. The commander slated to take over as commanding officer of the Santa Cruz’s sister sub, the ARA San Juan, has suffered a stroke. The admiral has ordered you to report to the ARA San Juan tomorrow morning as the new commanding officer.”
At first, the capitán’s words failed to register.
“Commander? Are you up to this task?” the capitán had asked after Carlos’ extended silence.
Then it hit him. He would be in command of one of the Navy’s newest submarines. “I am ready, mi capitán. Please express my appreciation to the admiral for his confidence in me. Tell him that I accept this assignment with a solemn devotion to duty, and that he will not be disappointed.”
“Very well, Commander. I am sure the admiral will be pleased by your reaction.”
The harbor tug had pushed the San Juan away from Pier F. Standing at the top of the conning tower, under the bright Argentine sun, Commander Almeyda reflected on the incredible events that had placed him here, so quickly, in command of the ARA San Juan. With his XO and chief of the boat joining him, the time had come to take the San Juan to sea. The San Juan was not going to sea alone. Her sister sub, the ARA Santa Cruz, had just launched from Pier F and had a five-minute head start on the San Juan.
“All ahead one-quarter.”
“All ahead one-quarter. Aye, sir.”
The San Juan glided forward, slicing the calm waters as it headed toward the Atlantic. Off to starboard, dozens of well-wishers, friends, and family members gathered on Pier F waved at the departing sub.
Down below, twenty-six crew members were already at their duty stations, responding to whatever commands Almeyda issued.
The surrealistic feeling of power surged through his body. Many wise philosophers had written on the subject of power. Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Dressed in his summer white captain’s uniform and feeling a sudden sharp dose of patriotic fervor for Argentina, Almeyda turned and shot a salute to the waving crowd across the water. The Argentinean Navy band, its silver trumpets and trombones glistening in the late-afternoon sunshine, broke into “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.”
Orange rays of sunlight caught the light blue flag of Argentina flapping in the breeze over the waving crowd.
The navigation tug fired a loud horn blast, a final salute as the sub headed to sea.
Almeyda felt overwhelmed with a sudden sense of emotion. He could not let his men see their capitán with tears in his eyes.
He dropped his salute, tried to wipe his eyes, and then brought up his binoculars. Out ahead a quarter mile, the Santa Cruz, under the command of his mentor and good friend Commander Alberto Gomez, cut a course to the south, toward the open ocean.
If duty called, they would be prepared to deliver the most lethal one-two punch the Argentinean Navy had to offer. What a privilege to command the San Juan on a joint mission with the Santa Cruz. Gomez had not only been Almeyda’s commanding officer aboard the Santa Cruz but, more than that, he had become like a brother. Gomez had personally trained and prepared him for this day.
Their destination—the waters around the Malvinas Islands, the islands claimed by the Brits, who called them the Falklands.
Argentina expected British ships to pass through these waters on their way to reinforce and resupply the Anglo-Chilean effort to drill for Antarctic oil.
Almeyda glanced at the navigation charts that he had brought up to the conning tower.
NAVIGATION CHART MAR DEL PLATA TO WATERS OFF MALVINAS MALVINAS ISLANDS
British ships steaming to Antarctica would pass by the Malvinas and, most likely, stop in the Malvinas for replenishment. The British still claimed to own the Malvinas and in 1982 sent twenty-eight thousand men in a naval task force against Argentina to preserve Britain’s last vestige of colonialism off the Argentine coast.
Now a new generation of warriors manned the Navy of Argentina. Argentina would again fight Britain, but this time it would be supported by Venezuela and perhaps even Russia.
Any British ship passing near the Malvinas would do so at its own risk.
Almeyda looked up from the charts. ARA Santa Cruz had vanished, submerged in the waters of the Atlantic.
ARA San Juan’s moment had come.
Almeyda gave the command. “Chief of the boat! Batten down the hatches. Seal all compartments. Prepare to dive!”
“Prepare to dive! Aye, sir! All hands, prepare to dive!”
Chilean Ruta 68
Curacaví Valley
between Santiago and Valparaiso
6:00 p.m. local time
The hilly and sometimes mountainous drive westward out of Santiago along Chilean Highway Ruta 68 descended into the Curacaví Valley and bypassed the small city of Curacaví.
The late-afternoon sun cresting between the hills warmed his face. And this time of year, in October, as the days grew longer and warmer, the great Chilean climate in the Curacaví Valley reminded Pete of the weather in Sicily and Malta and other Mediterranean ports that he had visited often during his tour as a naval officer.
Yes, this two-hour drive through the countryside from the capital to the coast was what the doctor ordered . . . well, almost anyway.
Perhaps his car guest was what the doctor ordered.
Why couldn’t he shake her from his mind? The hot little beige sundress? Now the extraordinary jeans and boots?
On the first leg of the drive, she had b
een less chatty than she was back at the bar. Maybe the cat held her tongue. Perhaps the alligator had clamped hold of his. Perhaps an odd case of mutual nervousness had gripped them. Maybe he should have brought Isabel along to facilitate conversation.
He glanced over at her hair blowing in the wind.
Have mercy! Eyes on the road, Pete!
“Having fun?” he asked.
“Lots of fun.” She tilted her head and pushed her hair back. “This is nice and relaxing. Thanks for inviting me.”
“My pleasure.”
As he rounded another curve, the warm afternoon breeze whipping into the convertible, he felt angry in a way at the bubbly champagne-like feeling in his chest brought on by thoughts of this beautiful, but somewhat mysterious, Maria Vasquez.
“So what’s with you and my cousin?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re so different. At least politically. But you’re best buds.”
Maria paused. “To be honest, our friendship has survived because of Isabel.”
“Really?” At least she was talking. “How so?”
“I stopped attending church years ago. Isabel remained faithful. She kept telling me that Christ loves me and wants me back in the fold, and I should be honored to be named for the mother of Christ.”
“I agree with my cousin.” Pete smiled. “What else? I want to hear more.”
“Hah! Isabel challenges my socialist views and even makes me wonder sometimes why I espouse socialism.” She pushed her hair back again. It drove him crazy every time she did that. “She says with my love for designer skirts and blouses and spiffy heels and purses I dress and live like a capitalist, and I claim to be a socialist not only because I think it’s chic but because the dim-witted stars in Hollywood are that way.”
Pete laughed. This girl had a nice self-deprecating sense of humor. “Well? Any progress?”