by Don Brown
“Oh, I don’t know.” Maria chuckled. “I respond with a quote from Marx or Allende. Sometimes I quote Obama about redistributing wealth. She laughs at me and we change the subject.”
“I knew there was a reason I love my cousin so much,” Pete said.
That was a nice exchange. But the conversation again receded, as if yielding to the wind and the scenery and the setting sun.
Shake it off, Pete! There’s work to do! No time for a woman.
They rounded another curve. The landscape flattened out and the road straightened. A sign for a roadside exit appeared for Ambrosio O’Higgins/Curacaví.
Another curve brought fields of yellow flowers in the valley around Route 68, sending his mind back to Maria.
That beige sundress. Those legs. That smile. The butterfly tattoo.
The Mercedes sped past the Curacaví, leaving it in the rearview mirror.
“So . . .” She paused.
Good. Maybe she wanted to talk again.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Anything.”
Silence. She turned toward him. “So . . . are you seeing anybody?”
“What the—” Pete swerved left as a silver Jeep sped by on his right.
“Whoa,” she said in a startled voice. “Relationships scare you that much?”
“No. I mean yes.” He glanced at the Jeep that nearly clocked them. “I mean no.” A deep exhale.
“So is that an answer to my first question or my second? Or maybe a mixed answer to both questions?”
“Maybe to all of the above!” He forced a grin.
Did the question show interest? Of course it did. That was good. Wasn’t it? But then again, she had broached the R word. Superman had his kryptonite. Pete Miranda had the topic of relationships. “Aah . . . the answer to the first question is no. To the second question . . . some say I suffer from relationship-a-phobia.”
That brought a velvety-smooth chuckle from a voice that he could listen to all day. “Relationship-a-phobia! That’s funny! What’s the Spanish for that? Anyway, your cousin already warned me. But I had to ask.”
Green Drawing Room
Buckingham Palace
London
10:35 p.m. local time
The cathedral ceiling of the grand room rose thirty feet above the floor. Its walls, covered in a rich greenish wallpaper, served as a backdrop for life-sized oil paintings of past British monarchs all framed with black backgrounds and ornate golden frames. Interspersed on the walls between the paintings were long larger-than-life mirrors with gold frames.
A massive cylindrical crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling on a long chain. Classical music, strains of Rachmaninoff, filled every corner of the room, but at a volume sufficiently subdued to allow for conversation.
The royal red carpet had gold embroidery throughout, and the curtains matched the red of the carpet.
Off to the side in a corner, in front of a white marble fireplace with a great gold-framed mirror, two chairs covered in green velvet with gilt legs sat catty-corner to one another. A small table for tea sat between the chairs.
Buckingham Palace referred to it as the “Green Drawing Room,” and tonight marked Prime Minister Mulvaney’s second visit. For tonight would mark only his second meeting with the new British monarch, King Charles Philip Arthur George of the House of Windsor, known by his subjects as King Charles the Third. David Mulvaney served the king as prime minister and would carry out his duties to the Crown. Although the monarch technically wielded no actual political power over the kingdom anymore, under the British Constitution, the monarch had the right to be apprised of the affairs of state and to give advice on such matters.
Over the years, Queen Elizabeth II had met with more prime ministers than any other monarch in the history of the Crown. Elizabeth established the tradition of meetings with her PMs on Thursdays. Though her sovereignty remained titular, her breadth of experience gave her the viewpoint of a statesman that many of the British PMs had come to value and rely on. Elizabeth understood the importance of showing the face of a united Britain to the world, one in which the government and the Crown remained in lockstep.
But Elizabeth’s death brought new uncertainty over the relationship between the government and the monarchy.
With large sections of the British public clamoring for Charles to abdicate the Crown to the wildly popular Prince William, and with Charles already a senior citizen when he ascended to the throne, some crown watchers speculated that Charles would make a larger splash by asserting himself in public affairs more than his mother, Elizabeth.
Mulvaney checked his pocket watch, mindful that he was waiting for the king and not the other way around.
The piped-in classical music stopped. Regal silence pervaded the room. Two large doors opened, and a tall servant in a black tuxedo stepped in.
“Prime Minister. The king.”
Mulvaney stood. King Charles, dressed in a gray wool suit and red tie, with the suit matching the monarch’s graying hair, walked into the room.
“Good evening, Prime Minister.” The king sported a grin that looked half forced.
“Your Majesty.” Mulvaney bowed in reverent submission and waited for Charles to extend his hand.
“Please be seated, David.” Charles pointed to one of the green velvet chairs.
“Thank you, sire.”
The king sat first. The prime minister followed. “You realize, Prime Minister, that too many of these late-night meetings shall get me in trouble with Queen Camilla.”
“My apologies to Queen Camilla and to Your Majesty for the lateness of the hour, but there is an urgent military situation unfolding, and I need to brief His Majesty before the press grabs hold of it.”
That brought a driving stare from Charles, then an angry contortion on his face. The king crossed his legs and put his hands in his lap. “A military situation, you say?”
“Yes, sire. A military situation unfolding at the bottom of the world. I regret to inform you that British civilians, mostly petro-engineers who were defenseless except for two Special Forces officers who were on-site to offer protection in advance of the arrival of additional Special Forces personnel, have been attacked by Venezuelan commandos and been taken as prisoners. We believe that the Argentine is complicit in the operation.”
“The Argentine,” Charles mumbled.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Why am I not surprised?” the king said. “You know my brother, Prince Andrew, flew helicopters in the British naval task force sent to the South Atlantic in 1982 when the Argentine invaded the Falklands.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I am familiar with Prince Andrew’s distinguished record of military service.”
“What details do I need to know, and what will we do about it?”
Mulvaney explained the situation, and when he finished, Charles just stared at him, deploying the royal silent treatment as a rather effective weapon.
“Prime Minister, in the future, if the government concocts grandiose plans for lofty alliances with other nations, either economic or military, please inform the Crown on a timelier basis, not waiting until the last second when the nation is engaged in a military standoff that could send us into war.”
The prime minister nodded. He had not told the king sooner because of the top secret nature of the operation. How could he explain that omission? Be truthful? That the government did not trust even Buckingham Palace to maintain secrecy?
“My apologies, Your Majesty. The Crown should have been informed. Rest assured that this will not happen again.”
“Apology accepted,” Charles said. “Know this, Prime Minister. As was the case with my mother, Queen Elizabeth, and my grandfather, King George, even if we express private disagreement with governmental policy, the Crown shall remain in public lockstep with the government for the sake of British unity to the world.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“But as you know,” Charles
continued, “our Constitution grants the Crown the absolute right to advise the government, and there is one bit of advice that I shall dispense, which you may accept or reject.”
“Yes, sire?”
“Since the beginning of the twentieth century, Britain has had one great, dependable, and steady ally. The United States. And I would advise you to make President Surber aware of this situation, request the assistance of the Americans, and accept whatever help they may provide.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I can assure you that the government plans to do that.”
Charles forced another contrived smile. “I believe we are adjourned.” The king stood and the prime minister followed suit.
“Thank you for your time this evening, sire.” The prime minister bowed.
“Good-bye, Prime Minster.”
“Good-bye, Your Majesty.”
Approaching Maria Vasquez’s flat
337 Avenue de Tomás Ramos
Valparaiso, Chile
The sun set in Valparaiso, the colorful Chilean seaport, just as the Mercedes reached the outer limits of the city. Maria had turned her head toward him, resting against the bucket seat, and closed her eyes. She had napped for the last fifteen minutes, and he had stolen more than a few glances, especially at the red light at the last intersection.
Perhaps she’d fallen asleep because she had too much red wine.
Perhaps she found him boring.
Maybe it was good that she felt comfortable enough to take a nap on their first trip together.
Then again, maybe she considered this their final trip together.
Who knew?
At least he’d avoided more talk of the dreaded R word. Why did they all want to talk about that? Then again, she really didn’t ask him about wanting to have a relationship—only if he was seeing anyone. But her second question had in fact incorporated the R word when she asked if relationships scared him. What scared him most was that her use of the R word did not scare him as much as when others had used the R word.
If only she had stuck to the first question.
“Approaching 337 Avenue de Tomás Ramos, on right,” the voice on the GPS announced.
He pulled the Mercedes to the curb.
What now?
He nudged her on the shoulder. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”
She looked up and brushed a strand of hair off her face. “This place looks familiar. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be.” He shut off the engine. “I set the GPS to speak English.”
That brought an irresistible giggle.
“Anyway, let me get your bags and walk you to the door.”
She smiled. “That would be nice.”
He got out and opened her door, helped her step out, and then got her bags. She looked even more gorgeous with moonlight caressing her face.
Now what? “Shall we?”
“Sure,” she said. “Right this way.”
They walked up the sidewalk to the front stoop of her apartment, a quaint-looking place from what little he could see of it. Not that his attention was on the apartment. He watched her turn the key and crack open the front door. Then she turned and looked at him. “Thank you for the ride.”
“Thank you for riding with me.”
Awkward silence. “I hope I didn’t take you away from my cousin too soon.”
“I think she was ready to kick me out.”
“Well . . .”
They stood awkwardly looking at each other, not knowing what to say.
He wanted to kiss her. How would she react? Not now.
“Can I ask you a question, Maria?”
“Sure.”
Should he ask? Or not?
“Aah . . . are you seeing anybody?”
Her smile beamed. “No. But if you call me again, I’d love to show you the city.”
He nodded. “Great idea.”
She reached up, kissed him on the cheek, stepped in the apartment, and closed the door.
CHAPTER 16
British base camp
Camp Churchill
Antarctica
On a broad snowy patch, corralled in a human circle like an American football team gathered to call their next play, they stood and stared at one another.
And if they had been an American football team, Austin Rivers was their quarterback and Timothy Dunn was their star receiver. The rest made up a ragtag group of third-string walk-ons, thrust prematurely into prime time. Their eyes displayed fear.
Surrounding them in a larger circle, Venezuelan commandos aimed rifles at them, keeping watch over this makeshift stockade of prisoners.
All of them, including Dunn, looked to Rivers, their eyes pleading for answers. But Leftenant Austin Rivers, SBS, Royal Navy, had no answers. At least they were all in the circle, except for the wounded Gaylord.
The commandos had dragged Gaylord, along with the body of the Venezuelan major whom Austin had shot, inside the geodesic dome, turning it into a makeshift hospital and morgue.
Four Venezuelans, including Lieutenant Ortiz, were inside the dome. This concerned Rivers, as Ortiz appeared calm and coolheaded in command. Ortiz’s orchestration of the surrender, by making himself vulnerable as a target, proved gutsy. Rivers could have killed Ortiz. But Ortiz kept his word as an officer, and so had Rivers.
Rivers had seen enough of Ortiz to believe he could trust him to the degree that one could trust an enemy in combat. He could not say the same for the ragtag group of trigger-happy hoodlums with loaded rifles surrounding his men.
Rivers had never felt fear. In fact, he always relished the excitement of his daring lifestyle—staring death in the face—dodging bullets, disarming explosives, being forced to kill an opponent before that opponent killed him. He had gunned down the Venezuelan major in retaliation for shooting Gaylord, an unarmed civilian holding his arms up in surrender.
But with the assault on Camp Churchill, a strange fear had crept up on him. Not of dying. But now Rivers could not shake his thoughts of Little Aussie. The boy needed a strong father figure. What if he did not survive?
This question he had never considered until today. Until today, his self-defined model of fatherhood involved sending money to Meg, occasionally showing up in London for sporadic playtime, then whooshing off to some other bloody adventure, leaving Meg behind to do all the dirty work and to perform the heavy-lifting role of parent.
He intended to one day take time to play cricket with Aussie, perhaps teach him the intricacies of soccer or coach his rugby team. And one day he would teach Little Aussie horsemanship, inspire him to attend the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst. Or better yet, even the Britannia Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, following the educational pedigree of the king himself, alongside the king’s father, Prince Philip, and the king’s brother, Prince Andrew.
All these dreams could be best achieved by the boy under the guidance and firm hand of a strong father.
Watching Gaylord take a bullet reminded Rivers that he too remained one bullet away from all his hopes for Aussie vanishing forever.
Meg was a good lady. Attractive. Smart. She gave birth to Aussie and raised him well. She deserved better. Still, a boy needs a father.
His own father had commanded a corvette in the Royal Navy. Although Captain Rivers remained at sea for most of Austin’s youth, at least he found time for the boy during his times ashore.
Austin hoped for more time together after his father’s retirement. They had planned on making up for lost time by doing many things together as a grown-up father-and-son tandem. They would fish the Thames. Maybe hunt quail in Scotland. But almost as soon as Captain Rivers retired, Austin entered the Britannia Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, on the banks of the River Dart. There Austin’s own military duties intensified with his selection into the prestigious Special Boat Service. The old man strutted about, proud as a peacock, when he learned of Austin’s selection into the Special Forces.
But that’s where the relationship ended.
Only two short months after Austin began his academy service—two months and two days to be exact—came the diagnosis. Pancreatic cancer. Had they caught it earlier, there would have been hope. But with delays in Britain’s disastrous socialized medicine system, three months passed before Captain Rivers saw a doctor. By then, the cancer had spread. Nothing could be done.
Standing in full-dress uniform on a drizzly, chilly Tuesday afternoon in a small cemetery near Wimbledon, Austin watched in sadness and anger as an honor guard from the Royal Navy removed the Union Jack from his father’s coffin, then folded it and presented it to his mother.
All these years later, reflecting on the event, Austin never understood if the source of his anger was at his father for not being there, or at Britain’s socialized medical system for not treating his father in time to save him, or at God for not allowing him enough time with his dad. All Austin knew was that he felt cheated. Cheated of the time lost with his dad, both as a boy and as an adult.
So when he found out that he had a son, he began supporting Aussie beyond the minimal standards required by law.
But after watching Gaylord be mowed down by a bullet—Gaylord the family man who, moments before being shot, had talked of his wife and children—Austin pondered anew the responsibilities of fatherhood, and yes, even his responsibilities to Meg, his boy’s mother.
Should he marry her? Like his mother, who had been a splendid officer’s wife, Meg would make remarkable arm-candy at social events of the Royal Navy’s officer corps. His father often advocated the importance of a polished and beautiful woman as a key to advancement up the ranks of the British military. Meg, with her flowing blond hair and shapely legs and magnetic eyes, met the attractive-officer-wife test—and more. She could be an asset to him. Yet he felt guilty for thinking of her as some trophy.
And would it not be better for Aussie if his parents were married? But that thought scared him more than the idea of taking a bullet.
Perhaps she would not have him. He met her for a one-night stand, shamefully took advantage of her and impregnated her, then dumped her. And he was bloody lucky that she was the only woman he had gotten pregnant . . . at least the only one of whom he was aware.