by Don Brown
But if he ever returned to the UK, he would engage in some serious soul-searching.
“Excuse me, Leftenant?”
Rivers looked over at Andrew Bach, a small Welshman from Cardiff. Bach had a look of grave concern.
“Yes, Mister Bach. What is it?”
“Just thinking about Gaylord, Leftenant.”
“We’re all thinking about Gaylord, Mister Bach. But unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do for him.
“Well, with respect, Leftenant, I beg to differ.”
“You have a plan to rescue Gaylord and get him medical assistance?”
Bach looked down and seemed a wee bit embarrassed. “Well, yes, sir. In one sense, I do have such a plan.”
Austin glanced at Captain Dunn. “Very well, Mister Bach. But I must warn you. It might be best to leave military strategy to the professionals, just as we leave the petro and drilling issues to you engineers.”
“Well, Leftenant, I was a-wondering if I might say a prayer for poor Gaylord and his family. He looked bad, and I’m afraid he might not make it otherwise.”
A cold wind swept in. Men held their arms up over their faces to shield their eyes. When the wind died down, Rivers wiped his eyes to regain clear vision. All eyes were again on him, awaiting an answer to Bach’s question.
“Well, Mister Bach, I’ve never been a praying man, but if you wish to lead the group in a few words of supplication to the Almighty on behalf of Gaylord, as long as you might be willing to put in a little additional request on behalf of my little boy back in London, I suppose a little prayer could not harm anything.”
The icy wind whipped up again, and the graying Welshman looked up and smiled. “What is your son’s name, Leftenant?”
“Austin. His mother named him after me. We call him Little Aussie.”
“And what is his mum’s name?”
“Meg. Meg Alexander.”
“Thank you,” Bach said. “Let us bow and petition the Lord on behalf of those in need of prayer.”
Austin bowed, and he felt Bach’s hand rest on his shoulder.
“Almighty Father,” the Welshman began, “maker of heaven and earth, and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, born of a virgin, who died for our sins, rose from the grave, who ascended into heaven, and who is coming again to judge the quick and the dead, we raise our prayers to you on behalf of those of our friends in peril.
“First, for our friend Walter Gaylord, a good friend who loves his family, who is loved by his wife, Mary, and his daughters, Caroline and Elizabeth, and who is fighting for his life, we ask for your help. Be with him. Strengthen and heal him so that he will survive this bullet in his body and bring him back to Britain alive.
“And for our brave friend and leader, Leftenant Austin Rivers”—Bach squeezed Austin’s shoulder—“we pray for his precious wee one, Little Aussie, and for Aussie’s mum, Meg Alexander. Guard over them. Keep them safe, and guard over the leftenant and keep him safe too. Grant him wisdom and divine guidance to protect us, and deliver us all from the hands of our enemies. For it is in the incomparable name of your Son that I pray, the One who was, and who is, and who is to come. Amen.”
The wind died down again just as Bach finished praying. A peaceful silence hovered over the snowy landscape.
British base camp
Camp Churchill
Antarctica
How is he?”
Inside the captured British dome, Lieutenant Javier Ortiz watched two of his medics down on the floor on their knees attending to the wounded British civilian.
“He’s delirious, Lieutenant,” one of the medics said.
“He needs morphine,” the other said.
“That might polish him off,” the first warned. “Plus, we may need that morphine for our own men before this is over.”
“True,” the other medic said.
“If the chopper doesn’t get here soon, he’s done.”
“Agreed.”
“He is losing blood from the entry wound in his chest. Pass that bandage.”
“Here.”
The man’s shirt had been removed, and his rib cage looked bone white. The bullet had hit the middle of his ribs on the right and probably had penetrated his lung.
The man’s face was contorted. His forehead was beaded with sweat.
When the medics applied compresses to the wound, the man responded with a bloodcurdling scream.
More screams. “Caroline! Daddy loves you! Elizabeth! Aaahhhhh! I’ll miss you!” Delirious cries morphed into a sobbing and then heaving.
Javier Ortiz could barely watch. He uttered a silent prayer and made the sign of the cross over the dying man.
British base camp
Camp Churchill
Antarctica
Rivers looked around, searching for a weakness in the enemy lines. If he had his gun, he could take out half of them.
Bach still had his head bowed and appeared to be praying in silence.
Did God answer prayers? Rivers had not seen many answered from firsthand experience. Then again, he hadn’t uttered many from firsthand experience.
Time was his only ally. If he waited long enough, the enemy would make a mistake, and with a bit of luck, he could exploit that mistake.
Of course, given the frigid weather, time could become an enemy.
If he could only hold off until SBS reinforcements arrived.
A distant roar sounded off on the horizon out to the left.
“Choppers!” One of his men pointed to the horizon. There were two of them, inbound straight toward the camp at a thousand feet off the deck.
The Venezuelan guards outside the dome turned and pointed at the sky.
If ever there were a time to strike, the time was now. If only someone besides Dunn could fire a rifle. Of course, if those choppers were British, transporting British special forces, it would prove a long afternoon for the Venezuelans.
Men from inside the dome poured out, including Lieutenant Ortiz.
The choppers flew in closer, and from this distance, they resembled Royal Navy Sea King MK2 choppers, the type that transported SBS squadrons.
Perhaps an answer to Bach’s prayer!
When the choppers flew closer, he saw that they were Sea Kings! His men waved like ground troops watching a fighter jet doing a flyover before bombing an enemy encampment.
With a loud, almost deafening roar, the first chopper passed low overhead. The light blue flag painted on the side had a white horizontal stripe down the middle. The middle of the white horizontal stripe featured a yellow sun.
“Argentina,” Rivers said. “I should have known! No way could these Bolivarian chaps pull this off on their own.” He cursed under his breath.
The two choppers slowed to a hover over the base camp, two hundred yards apart. One broke off and flew about a hundred yards off to the left. The chopper that broke away began a slow descent, and as it did, its downdraft blew a snow cloud up from the ground. The snow draft hid the chopper from sight even after it touched down.
The second chopper began descending a couple of hundred yards to the right, its rotors also storming up a cyclone of snow.
As the snow began to settle back down to the ground, the passenger bay door slid open. Armed troops, with white winter protective gear, began pouring out of the first chopper. Twenty-five troops moved single file from the helicopter. Small Venezuelan flags were sewn on the shoulders of their jackets. More troops piled out from the other helicopter and converged on the base camp.
Argentinean choppers transporting Bolivarian Special Forces. Obviously a joint operation, Rivers decided.
The first officer to step from the chopper jogged straight toward Lieutenant Ortiz. Ortiz shot the first salute, meaning the officer from the helicopter outranked Ortiz.
Rivers tried a quick head count. Another fifty troops had been added to those already on the ground.
The first wave of enemy reinforcements had arrived.
Despite the roar of
the helicopter engines, Rivers saw that an animated conversation had erupted in Spanish between Ortiz and the officer he had saluted. After a while, the senior officer began giving hand signals. Two of his troops ran over to him. He said something to them, and they sprinted back to the first helicopter.
Ortiz looked over toward the group of British prisoners and pointed straight at Rivers just as the two men who had rushed to the chopper came back out carrying a stretcher. The men jogged over to Ortiz and the senior officer, spoke a few words, and then Ortiz led the entire group into the dome.
“What do you make of it, Leftenant?” Captain Dunn said.
“Hope they’re going in for Gaylord. And it appears they’re serious about digging in here. This will be a bloodbath before it’s over.”
“Looks like you’re right, sir,” Dunn said. “I wish I could be on the first British reinforcement wave to run these rats out of the kitchen.”
“Hmm. You might get your wish. And if you do, I hope I’m in that first wave with you.”
The door of the dome opened. The two soldiers who had run for the stretcher emerged carrying the stretcher with a body on it.
Rivers craned his neck for a better view.
“Leftenant. It’s Gaylord.”
All eyes in the British contingent focused on the stretcher as the Venezuelan soldiers lifted Gaylord toward the second helicopter.
“I think he’s dead, Leftenant,” Dunn said.
“I can’t see. Is he moving?” Rivers said.
“It doesn’t look like it,” Dunn said.
“Don’t give up the faith,” Bach said. “Our God is faithful.”
“God might be faithful, Mister Bach, but he might have to be faithful enough to raise someone from the dead.”
“He can do that too, Leftenant,” Bach countered. “He did it with Lazarus and he did it with his own Son.”
The commandos lifted Gaylord into the chopper as Lieutenant Ortiz and the other officer began walking straight toward Rivers.
“Leftenant, I think I saw Gaylord moving as they put him in the chopper,” Dunn said.
But Rivers had not noticed. His eyes were fixed on the two officers who stepped through the line of armed guards and walked right up to him.
Rivers shot a salute to his captors.
“Lieutenant,” Ortiz said in English, “this is Major Crespo. He is relieving me of command.”
“Major.” Rivers nodded.
The officer nodded back.
“The major does not speak English well,” Ortiz said.
“And I regret that my Spanish isn’t all that extraordinary either,” Rivers said.
“Leftenant,” Ortiz said, “you and your men will soon be evacuated. We expect your cooperation.”
“Where are you taking us, Lieutenant?”
“To an undisclosed location. But rest assured that your men will be treated humanely in accordance with the Geneva Accords.”
“Lieutenant Ortiz, you do understand, do you not, that most of these men are civilians. They are not combatants. As such, I would argue that they cannot be held hostage under international law and should be released to the British Embassy in Caracas or put on a civilian airliner back to London.”
“Leftenant, as I said, your men will be humanely treated. As to when or how they are released, I cannot say. That decision is for someone above both of our pay grades.”
Rivers nodded. Ortiz had given the correct answers. And if it weren’t for the fact that he would gladly put a bullet between the man’s eyes—and between the eyes of every Venezuelan soldier on the ground if he had a chance—he respected Ortiz’s professionalism as a soldier.
Behind Ortiz, Venezuelan soldiers carried the other bodies into the helicopter.
“One last question?”
“One more. But make it quick.”
“Gaylord. The British civilian they shot. How is he?”
Ortiz grimaced as the second helicopter, the chopper that would transport Gaylord, began revving its engines. The deafening chop-chop-chop of the rotors drowned out speech. The helicopter lifted off, blowing another snow cloud as it did. It climbed a couple of hundred feet, hovered for a second in a stationary position, then turned in a path right over the Brits and headed out in the direction of the sun.
“Your man is alive, but barely. We will get him medical care. But it would not surprise me if he does not survive the flight.”
The news felt like a punch in the gut. “Thank you for the information.”
“Certainly,” Ortiz said. “Now please get your men into single file and lead them over to the other helicopter. Immediately.”
Rivers turned to Dunn. “Captain Dunn. Round up the gentlemen. It looks like we’re going out for a nice little flight.”
“Yes, sir.”
Belgrano II base camp
Argentine outpost
Antarctica
Welcome to Belgrano II, Capitán.” The lieutenant colonel stood at attention by his desk in the geodesic dome that served as headquarters of the base camp and snapped the sharpest of salutes, which, in and of itself, sent a chill down the spine of Navy Capitán José Montes, Commando de Aviación Naval Argentina. “We know of your confident and effective leadership at Ushuaia Naval Air Station, and we are honored to have you take command here at Belgrano II. I will consider it an honor to serve as your executive officer.”
Pleased at his initial reception, Montes returned the salute, allowing the lieutenant colonel to drop his. “Stand at ease, Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez.”
“Gracias, mi capitán.”
When taking command of a new duty station, especially when removing an officer like Sanchez who had been in command of that duty station, no doubt could remain about who would be in charge.
“I hear that you have served the Republic well as base camp commander in the months leading up to this day, Colonel,” Montes said.
“Gracias, mi capitán. It is my life’s desire to serve Argentina.”
“Excellent. And you will continue to serve Argentina, mi colonel. But to do that effectively, I have found that it is always an excellent idea for a commander and his assistant to have a chat to ensure that a mutual understanding is reached from the beginning. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course, mi capitán.”
“The first issue always is establishment of a command headquarters.” Montes looked around the makeshift office. “I take it that this dome has served as headquarters for the entire base camp?”
“Yes, this is headquarters, sir.”
“Hmph.” Montes grunted. “I suppose it is adequate. No reason to make a military headquarters ornate.”
“No, sir.”
“Adequate. Utilitarian. Efficient.”
“Thank you, sir. This was our goal from the beginning.”
“Yes, I see.”
Montes glanced around once more. “And this is your desk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The desk of the base commander?”
“Yes, Capitán. As you said, it is non-spectacular, but functional and efficient.”
A brief pause.
“Then here is my first order. As the new base commander, I am ordering you to come out from behind that desk and to stand in front of the desk facing it, standing at attention until a further order from me.”
“Sir?”
“I sense hesitancy on your part, Colonel. Do you not understand my order?”
“No, sir. I understand, sir.”
“Then execute my order.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sanchez walked out from behind the desk, pivoted to the left, and then turned back toward the desk and stopped. He came to attention, facing the desk.
Montes crossed his arms and stared at Sanchez. Then he walked behind the desk to the chair that Sanchez had been sitting in and sat down.
He steepled his fingers under his chin and stared up at his second in command for a few more moments. “At ease, Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez.”
>
Sanchez transitioned from his posture of strict attention to a more relaxed “at ease” position.
“Now, do not think that I will become an unreasonable leader. I will not always issue such picayune orders. However, as when God once ordered Abraham to sacrifice his own son to test his loyalty, I wanted to judge your reaction to an order which you might not personally care for.”
“I understand, sir.”
“You are now my second in command, and from this point on, there is but one base commander. This is not a command by committee. Do you understand?”
“I understand, mi capitán.”
“Excellent. I am delighted that we have an understanding.” Montes eyed the colonel. Perhaps he could be trusted. Perhaps not. “Tell you what, Sanchez. Now that we’ve gotten the preliminaries out of the way, pull up a chair and have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sanchez stepped across the room to fetch a chair and, as he sat down, Montes plopped his boots up on the desk, aiming the soles of his boots at Sanchez.
Montes reached into his shirt pocket for a hand-rolled Cuban cigar. “You wouldn’t have a light, would you, Colonel?”
“Yes, sir.” Sanchez pulled out a lighter and struck it.
Montes leaned over the desk and met Sanchez halfway, drawing a satisfying drag of smoke into his mouth. He sat down and exhaled in the direction of his second in command. “Thank you, Colonel. By the way, I have another. Reserved for this very occasion. I would be honored if you would share it with me.” He handed the cigar across the desk to Sanchez.
“Thank you, Capitán.” Sanchez lit the cigar.
Montes said, “Because of these recent international events, with Britain and Chile working together in a sinister plot to revive British imperialism and steal oil from Antarctica, Argentina must stop this aggressive power play.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I realize you were selected for command of this post because of your background as a scientist. But now our mission shifts from research to military. As you know, our first military mission will be to establish a military prison. So tell me”—another drag on the cigar—“what initial steps have been made for receipt of the British prisoners?”