by Don Brown
“Capitán, in anticipation of the arrival of the prisoners, I ordered two domes set aside for containment of prisoners. We have also requested shipment of barbed wire to be dropped by air to be rigged around the domes for additional security.”
Montes studied his inferior. He seemed subservient enough. But his superiors were correct to order a change in command. Especially under these circumstances.
“Excellent, Colonel. But understand this. Our role can be best facilitated not only by maintaining order among the prisoners but also by the extraction of intelligence. As this initial wave of British prisoners comes in, we must establish order quickly. And then I want to know everything that the British pigs know and when they knew it. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
“You know, my subspecialty is naval intelligence. Specifically, the extraction of intelligence from enemy insurgents.”
“Yes, mi capitán, I know of your background in this area.”
“Good. You have done your homework. My work in advanced interrogation techniques is renowned. It is the principal reason why I have been selected for this important post at this time in our nation’s history. And I am willing to serve as your mentor in this most important area if you are anxious to learn and willing to listen.”
Sanchez nodded. “I am honored to serve as your protégé in this way, sir.”
“Very well. When are the first British POWs due?”
Sanchez glanced at his watch. “In less than one hour, Capitán.”
Montes leaned back and folded his hands across his belly. He relished the idea of leading the interrogation and sinking his teeth into some of these British dogs still trying to hang on to the last vestiges of imperialistic notions that faded two centuries ago. He would personally conduct these interrogations for his uncles, Arturo and Juan, who lost their lives to these scum in the War for the Malvinas.
“You know, Colonel, some say you can judge a man by the kind of woman he is able to acquire. Do you agree with that?”
Sanchez looked perplexed. “Well, mi capitán . . . I—”
“But you know,” Montes said before Sanchez could finish, “I find that to be only partially true.”
“Yes, Capitán.”
“Do you know what I think?”
“I am afraid that I do not, sir.”
“Well, I think the definition of manhood, and the test of an officer, starts with his woman, who should be a good conversationalist and able to move gracefully in social circles and within military, diplomatic, and government circles. Her conversation should be graceful, with an ability to chat about meaningless social pleasantries. But she should avoid excessive talking and should learn to shut up on cue if the officer gives her the signal that it is time to shut up.”
Sanchez nodded. “Of course, sir.”
“Her appearance should be pleasant. Not with supermodel magnetism, but sufficiently attractive that senior officers considering her husband’s promotion will have positive impressions.” He paused, waiting for a response.
“Of course, sir.”
“She should also be lively in her dress, sporting a variety of colors, and should always be seen in public wearing either a dress or a skirt. No shorter than knee length or even slightly below, and her legs are by far one of her most important features. Pants and pantsuits out in public are a social faux pas. She must always remember her place as the wife of an officer. Do you not agree?”
“Completely, sir.”
“My first wife failed in these qualifications. She became an impediment to my career. The problem was her mouth. She would not shut up. She kept shoving her political opinions on the wives of senior officers and would not shut up when I gave her the signal.
“Word came to me that she grated upon the nerves of the admiral’s wife. So do you know what I did?”
“No, sir.”
“I divorced her. Then I petitioned the church for an annulment. And then I replaced her with a younger model.” Montes leaned back and allowed himself a satisfying laugh. “Like stealing candy from a baby. I purchased a few ads on one of those Internet dating sites and they lined up, competing to become the wife of a Navy capitán!”
“Sounds like an efficient means of dealing with the problem, Capitán.”
“Efficient? Hah! That’s one way of putting it. And an officer’s wife is only one way of judging the man. There are more important methods. Do you have any idea what these might be?”
“I must confess, mi capitán, you have piqued my curiosity.”
Montes rocked in the chair a few times, satisfied that he had stumped his newfound subordinate. “Tell me, Colonel. What sidearm do you carry?”
“Nine-millimeter Glock, sir.”
“May I see it?”
Sanchez seemed to hesitate. “Certainly, sir.” He pulled his gun from his holster and slid it across the desk.
Montes picked up the Glock. He held it up to the overhead light. “You know, Colonel, that the final and most important outward gauge of the measure of a man is what kind of firearm he carries. This tells a lot. Take the great American general George S. Patton. Do you know what sidearm he carried?”
“A Colt .45 as I recall.”
“Not bad,” Montes said. “I see you have a grasp of military history.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Throughout his military career, General George S. Patton Jr. fired many different handguns. However, Patton preferred a .45 caliber Colt Model 1873 single-action Army revolver with a four-inch barrel.
“Patton acquired the pistol in 1916 while serving with General Pershing in the Pancho Villa Expedition in Mexico. This was no ordinary Colt. It was silver-plated, and Patton had it fitted with ivory grips carved with the initials GSP.
“One of the greatest generals in history used a single-action revolver. He cocked the hammer each time he fired a shot. Now what does that say about Patton? A double-action revolver or a pistol would have allowed him to shoot faster.”
Sanchez sported a quizzical look. “I suppose with the single-action revolver, a weapon that would not allow him to get off as many shots, he must have been confident that his first shot would find its target.”
“Precisely, Colonel!” Montes said. “You are a quick study! What do you suppose your nine-millimeter says about you?”
“I never thought about it,” Sanchez said.
Montes worked the slide on the pistol, chambering a bullet into firing position. “There’s nothing wrong with the Glock. It’s a fine pistol. It fires fifteen shots in short order. But you know my criticism of it?”
“No, sir.”
“Not imaginative. Nothing distinctive. Everybody has one. As your woman should be the subject of conversation, so should your firearm. As for me, like General Patton, I prefer a revolver”—pause—“.357 Magnum.” He laid the Glock on his desk and extracted his revolver. “This baby comes with a seven-inch barrel and is manufactured by Taurus in neighboring Brazil. I love a long-barreled revolver, Colonel. So authoritative.” He brought the barrel to his lips and kissed it. “And do you know what is most distinctive about this baby, Colonel?”
“I apologize, Capitán.”
Montes popped the swing-out cylinder and spun it, then passed it to Sanchez. “Count the rounds.”
Sanchez counted. “Seven rounds instead of six.”
“Precisely. And seven is the number of perfection, which gives it a level of distinction.”
“Absolutely, Capitán.”
“Now tell me, Colonel.” Montes held up both weapons—the Glock in his left hand and the long-barreled Taurus revolver in his right, pointing both weapons toward the ceiling. “Which of these would be more intimidating pointed at the skull of an uncooperative British prisoner?”
Sanchez looked from one weapon to the other. “In sheer appearance, the revolver appears more intimidating. Partly, I suppose, because the barrel is so long.”
“Good observation!” Montes kissed the revo
lver again and slid the Glock back across the desk to the colonel.
“Soon we shall see what these Brits are made of. I predict they will wet their pants. And if we must waste a bullet or two to underscore a point, then so be it.”
CHAPTER 17
Magnolia Flats
Kensington District
West London
11:15 p.m. local time
Meg Alexander stood in her kitchen and sipped a French merlot. Her hands shook and her wine sloshed in her glass. Her stomach felt like a twisted wet rag.
Shelley had gone into the bedroom to check on Aussie. The evening’s events had riled the boy so much that, for a while, Meg thought he would not sleep at all. For a solid hour he kept crying, “I want Daddy,” until he simply cried himself into exhaustion.
Another sip of wine.
Shelley stepped out of Aussie’s bedroom, closing the door behind her. “He’s asleep. Finally.”
“Thank God,” Meg said. “Care for a glass?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Michelle, we need to talk.” She poured a splash of wine in Shelley’s glass.
“It’s not often that you call me Michelle.”
“I know.” She pushed the glass across the counter. “Shelley’s an affectionate nickname. I use Michelle when I want to get your attention on something serious.”
“I know. And I like it. Bob would call me that before . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Meg ignored the comment. Shelley’s breakup with Bob had sent her into a depression that required counseling and even medication.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m beyond that. Please, I rather like that nickname. It reminds me of the good times with him.”
Meg smiled. “May I ask a favor?”
“Anything.” Shelley sipped her wine.
“I need to go to Chile. I want to be as close to Austin as possible. You probably think I’m crazy. There’s no commitment between us and no real hope. But there is Aussie. I need to be there for him, just in case . . . I don’t even know. I have some holiday time coming. Listen to me. I don’t even know if Chile requires a visa.”
Shelley took her hand. “If you’re asking me to keep Aussie while you go to Chile, or wherever, I’d be delighted. But on one condition.”
“And what might that be?”
“Two conditions.”
“I’m listening.”
“First, promise to be careful and stay out of harm’s way. Aussie needs you to be safe, and I do too.”
“I promise.” She smiled. “What else?”
“Promise to call or Skype every day. Otherwise I shall be nervous beyond my ability to function.”
Meg held her arms out and they hugged. “I promise.”
“You’d better. I love you, and Aussie needs you. And one day”—she pulled her face back as tears streamed down her cheeks—“one day I have this feeling that Austin will need you too.” She wiped her eyes. “You’ll see.”
Belgrano II base camp
Argentine outpost
Antarctica
Capitán Montes, standing with his arms crossed, his new second in command, Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez, at his side, watched as the helicopter from the British base camp feathered down for a landing.
“Company! Surround that chopper!” A company of Argentine soldiers swarmed the helicopter that contained the British prisoners.
The roar of helicopter engines gave way to the sound of whirling blades, and then whirling blades gave way to the haunting sound of the wind howling over the snowscape. Montes waited for the snow cloud to settle back down to the icy surface.
“Sergeant” the Capitán yelled. “Bring the limey pigs out here and put them in a group in front of me.”
“Yes, Capitán!” The sergeant hustled over to the helicopter as crew members rushed to open the back cargo door of the chopper. “Out! Hands up! Single file!”
Montes watched as the first British pig stepped from the helicopter. Followed by another. And then another. They were a pathetic-looking bunch, like a bunch of pale ghosts lining up in front of the gray chopper.
Montes’ hatred boiled as they piled out one by one. “This is for you, my uncles, and for you, my mother,” he whispered under his breath as the sergeant got the Brits in line at gunpoint.
“The prisoners are in line, Capitán!” the sergeant yelled from over near the chopper.
“Very well, Sergeant! March them in this direction and stop them when I order you to do so!”
“Si, Capitán!” The sergeant pivoted around. “You heard the capitán! Move! Eyes ahead! Do not look to the left or right. Move! Move!”
Five armed soldiers surrounded the British prisoners as they began shuffling slowly in the snow, walking toward Montes and Sanchez. Their heads hung low, except for two, whose heads remained high in an apparent air of defiance.
“A pathetic-looking bunch, isn’t it, Colonel?”
“Pathetic indeed, Capitán,” Sanchez said.
“Looks like a couple of bantam roosters will need to be taught a quick lesson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s far enough, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. “Halt!” he yelled in accented English and held his hands up in the international halt gesture, and his men trained their rifles on the prisoners.
The Brits came to a stop in the snow and stood silently, lined one behind the other. Montes conducted a head count. There were twelve. “Follow me, Colonel,” Montes said.
“Si, Capitán.”
Montes and Sanchez walked along the line, then stopped. They stood there in their white protective snow gear, breath steaming from their mouths in the cold, not saying a word.
“Turn them this way, Sergeant!”
“Si, Capitán.”
“Right face!” The sergeant snapped the command in English.
Two of the Brits, the ones with defiant looks on their faces, pivoted to the right on cue. The others shuffled about, seemingly confused by the order.
“It appears we have two military men among this ragtag bunch,” Montes said.
“Move!” The sergeant walked along the line, manually turning shoulders the right way. Soon the scruffy bunch was all turned and facing Montes and Sanchez.
Montes had hoped for more than twelve prisoners. But the number was not as important as the information he would extract.
These prisoners were at ground zero of the British operation. Their knowledge and access to top secret materials would prove valuable to the war effort and would grab the attention of the top command in Buenos Aires.
He eyed them contemptuously. The information extracted from these British pigs would guarantee his promotion to admiral!
“Welcome to Belgrano II Base. From this day forward, if you hope to leave here alive, you are no longer a subject of the king of England. From now on, you are the property of the Republic of Argentina!”
He looked up and down the line of men. Judging their faces. Waiting for some response. Any response. Nothing but twelve stone faces.
He slowly walked down the line, determined to get into every one of their faces.
“I am Capitán Montes of the Navy of the Argentine Republic. Your country’s meddling in this part of the world is not appreciated and has not been forgotten. Britain’s despicable colonialism is despised by the world. And your imperialist actions in the Malvinas have been neither forgotten nor forgiven.
“While the Argentinean people are among the most peace loving in the world, when our interests are threatened, we become the most vicious warriors on the planet!
“If you think we’re still living in 1982, when Britain claimed to have won the battle of the Malvinas, think again. Today Argentina is superior, and we shall, along with our allies, display our might for the world to see. You men have two choices. Either cooperate or die! Am I making myself clear?”
No response.
“Not going to answer? Then we sha
ll begin with some obedience lessons. Down on your knees!”
“Don’t move, men!” one of the prisoners said.
Montes and Sanchez exchanged glances. “Oh, I see!” Montes shouted. “Going to play this way, are we? Well then. It’s time you had a dose of who you are dealing with! Sergeant!”
“Si, Capitán.”
“Mobilize the firing squad! Get me twelve riflemen. One for each of these white-skinned fogheads!”
“Si, Capitán.”
“We will see how stiff-upper-lipped you imperialists are with a FARA 83 assault rifle aimed down your lousy throat!”
Belgrano II base camp
Argentine outpost
Antarctica
Rivers stood, biting his lip, staring into the barrel of the Argentinean assault rifle. Two more riflemen scurried across the snow, headed to the last two positions so that the firing squad would have one rifleman per target.
The only other military man in the group, Captain Tim Dunn, stood unflappable in the Antarctic breeze.
Williams Anderson, the one who shook so much in fear that Rivers worried his furtive movements might get him shot, had started shaking again.
“Calm down, Anderson,” Rivers whispered. “Have a stiff upper lip, man. You’re British.”
“I’m trying, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir, Anderson. I’m military. You’re civilian. You’re not in the chain of command.”
“Yes, sir.” Anderson’s voice kept shaking.
Rivers watched as the last two riflemen moved into place. As the principal protector of his civilian countrymen, he realized the situation placed him in an awkward predicament. He could not act on his instincts. The issue of life or death for his countrymen might depend on whether he could read the mind-set of this large he-man of a warden, this Capitán Montes.
If Montes was an out-of-control British-hating ideologue, this could become a bloody massacre. With that thought, his mind switched to Aussie and Meg. He even considered blurting out a private prayer, except that he did not pray, didn’t really know how, and did not have time to pray. Not now. He had to be aware. No distractions.