The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

The notion of Montes as a British-hater remained all too real. Decades later, legions of Argentineans still despised the fact that British forces under the bold leadership of Lady Margaret Thatcher had placed an embarrassing butt-whipping on Argentina.

  If Montes was more a hater than a professional officer, then within minutes, streams of British blood would be running in the white snow beneath their boots. But if Montes was more of a professional officer, then maybe they had a fighting chance.

  The British had what Montes wanted—information. Classified information extracted and relayed to Buenos Aires could make Montes a military hero—at least in his own mind.

  SBS training in counterterrorism and POW techniques taught Rivers a valuable and possibly life-saving message. Montes could not extract information from them if they were all dead.

  That did not mean that Montes would not kill some of them to make a point with the others. But the worst thing that any of them could do would be to show weakness. Rule number one of POW survival: Weakness in the face of the enemy was the quickest path to death.

  That didn’t mean that one should engage in stupid bravado, which could also be a recipe for getting shot between the eyes. But one should avoid blinking at the first sign of danger.

  “Firing squad! Atten-hut!” The twelve-member execution squad snapped to rigid attention, bringing their guns down to their sides. “Firing squad! Ready! Take aim!”

  Magnolia Flats

  Kensington District

  West London

  11:35 p.m. local time

  Thank God.” Meg Alexander stared at the computer screen. Her wine-glass sat on the table beside the keyboard, half empty.

  “What is it, Meg?” Shelley, looking exhausted, got up off the sofa and walked over to her.

  “I’m on the British Embassy site in Santiago. According to this, I am not required to get a visa for Chile unless I’m planning to stay ninety days.”

  “That’s wonderful news. That means you only need your passport. Is your passport valid?”

  “Yes, thank God.”

  “Excellent. Then it’s settled. All you have to do is purchase your tickets. I could take you to Heathrow in the morning.”

  “Sometimes you can get a better fare out of Gatwick,” Meg said.

  “Yes, of course,” Shelley said.

  “Either way, I’m sure the price will be exorbitant at the last second like this. Let’s see. What’s the British Airways website?”

  “Try ba.com.”

  “How could I forget?” She typed in the BA website, and as it popped up, her stomach felt suddenly twisted. “Something isn’t right.”

  “Problems with the website?”

  “No. It’s Austin. I can’t explain it. I . . .” She remained lost in her thoughts, sensing the presence of lurking danger. Her anxiety sharpened into a sudden dagger.

  She had not grown up as a Christian. But her unexpected transformation came with the birth of Aussie—and to think that she had nearly killed him by an abortionist’s knife.

  Aussie became the gift of life that brought a transformation of her soul. She loved him as she had never loved anyone. For weeks after his birth, she had nightmares that she had gone through with the abortion.

  She would wake up sweating, thankful that Aussie was safely asleep in the next room, thankful to God for his life. In fact, she convinced herself that the elderly nun with the Irish accent outside the abortion clinic who had given her the photo of the tiny hand reaching out of the womb was no nun at all, but an angel sent from God as a messenger to save her soul from condemnation.

  Oftentimes, as she pondered it all in the first few weeks after Aussie’s birth, she would visit the website thornwalker.com and marvel at the picture of the fetal hand reaching from the womb and grabbing the finger of the doctor operating on him.

  She started reading the New Testament for the first time and found herself strangely drawn to the gospel of John and to an age-old exchange between Jesus and Nicodemus that she at first did not understand. “You must be born again.” The words of the ancient text somehow spoke to her heart!

  Baby Samuel had been born. Little Aussie had been born.

  “Lord, whatever that means, I wish to be born again,” she had said aloud in a manner intended as a prayer, after having read that verse from the great gospel at least a hundred times. After she uttered those words, a strange warmth had come over her. She felt flooded with an inexplicable warmth that felt like love. She could not see him, but she sensed the presence of Christ himself, somehow celestially wrapping his arms around her. She began crying and could not stop.

  From that point on, she possessed a strange sense about things, and at this moment, a premonition cascaded over her and fear took hold.

  “I’m sorry, Shelley,” Meg said. “I know you don’t believe in this, but I feel the need to pray for Austin.”

  “Whatever floats your boat. It won’t offend me.” She put her hand on Meg’s shoulder.

  Meg bowed her head. “Lord, I don’t know what’s going on other than what we have already seen. But I know that my heart feels troubled. Please protect Austin from harm. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  “Do you feel better?”

  “Not yet,” Meg said.

  “Well, let’s hope this Jesus of yours can answer prayers.”

  “He can,” Meg said. “If only he will.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Belgrano II base camp

  Argentine outpost

  Antarctica

  With his hands clasped behind his back, Montes strolled up and down the line behind the firing squad like a ruffle-feathered peacock. “We shall discover how stupid, or how smart, some of you are.

  “If any of you hope to leave here without having your dirty colonialist blood spilled all over the ice and snow, then what you must first understand is that cooperation with me is not optional.” He stopped at the end of the line and eyed them all.

  “Down on your knees, you British scum!”

  “Nobody move!” Rivers snapped.

  Montes stared at him. “I see! A renegade. And with a military background, I presume. Very well, we can shoot all of you.” He turned to the firing squad. “Firing squad! Ready . . . aim . . .”

  “Wait! Please!” Williams Anderson blurted out. “I want to live. I will get on my knees if you don’t shoot. Please!”

  “Anderson, shut up and remain standing,” Rivers said.

  But Anderson, his voice shaking, dropped to his knees. “I apologize, Leftenant. But”—his voice trembled as he began to weep—“I want to see my family.”

  “Well now.” The ruffle-feathered peacock smiled. “It seems we have one sane Brit in the bunch.” The capitán walked toward Anderson and looked down at him. Anderson remained on his knees, trembling, his face down, looking at the snow. “Look up at me, Brit!” Montes commanded.

  Anderson brought his face up. Tears streamed from his face and dropped into the snow.

  “What’s your name, Brit?”

  “Anderson. Mister Williams Anderson, sir.”

  “Repeat that, please.”

  “Anderson. Mister Williams Anderson, sir.”

  “Did you say Williams—with an s—as opposed to William—without an s?”

  Anderson wiped tears from his eyes. His hands shook as he wiped his gloves across his face. “Yes, sir.”

  “Williams with an s?” Montes asked. “Are there two of you, Mister Williams Anderson?”

  This question brought snickers from the firing squad.

  “Well, Mister Williams with an s Anderson. I assume you are in command of this ragtag mission. No?”

  “No . . . I . . .”

  “Not in charge? Well you know, do you not, that I possess the power to place you in charge of this entire ragtag group of losers.”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Well, clearly, since you are obviously the most intelligent among this bunch, since you are the only one to obey my commands, I hereby declare you
to be in command of this group.”

  Anderson did not respond but stayed on his knees. Weeping. Shaking.

  “This should be reason for celebration. Is this not reason for celebration, Mister Williams Anderson?”

  Still no response.

  “Aah. Well, the first thing we must do is assign a new military position to the new commander of the British. Therefore, I hereby declare you, from here on, to be known as Commander Williams Anderson. So what do you say to that, Commander Williams Anderson?”

  Anderson looked up at him.

  “Nothing to say? I should think that you would wish to express at least a modicum of appreciation before your men. Show some of that unflappable British leadership and resolve, Commander Anderson!”

  “Thank you, sir,” Anderson said sheepishly.

  “This promotion is to commander—notice I did not promote you to capitán. In every navy in the world of which I am aware, while a commander has considerable responsibility, a commander is always outranked by the capitán. And on this base, there can be only one capitán. And that would be me. Do you not agree, Commander Williams Anderson?”

  “Yes, of course, Capitán.”

  “Yes, of course,” Montes mimicked Anderson. “Well then. Now that you have accepted your promotion to commander of the British brigade, I think the celebration should begin. What else can we do to prolong the festivities?”

  Montes went silent. Anderson had stuck himself in the middle of this by opening his mouth and cooperating against specific instructions from Rivers.

  “Aah, yes.” Montes wagged a finger. “I’ve another idea. Since you British seem so obsessed with the fairy-tale idea of knights and princes and dukes and duchesses, I think we should have a knighting ceremony. Ha-ha!” He looked at the Argentinean troops surrounding him. “Does anyone have a sword by any chance?”

  The Argentineans shook their heads.

  “No swords? Well, we shall make do by improvising. You! Sergeant Ginoble!”

  “Yes, Capitán.”

  “Bring me your rifle!”

  “Yes, Capitán.” The solider stepped over and handed Montes his rifle.

  “Since Commander Williams—with an s—Anderson, the commander of the British in Antarctica, is already on his knees, where all good knights begin their knighthoods before their lords and masters, and where all British citizens should be in the presence of their Argentinean masters, this ceremony should be simple.”

  Montes took the rifle and laid the barrel on Anderson’s shoulder and declared, “As senior military commander of all Argentinean forces stationed on the continent of Antarctica, and as most high lord and master over all British forces and civilians subjugated to the great power of the Argentine Republic in Antarctica, it is my honor and great personal privilege to hereby declare you, Commander Sir Williams—with an s—Anderson, Knight of the Royal Order of the Argentine and local commander of all British forces in the Argentine, yet loyally obedient to all lawful orders directed at you by officers of the Argentine Republic!”

  Montes stood back and snapped, “Sergeant, take the rifle.”

  “Si, Capitán.”

  Montes crossed his arms. “What is this? Tears streaming from the eyes of the Knight of the Royal Order of the Argentine? How could this be, Sir Williams with an s?”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Say no more, Sir Williams,” Montes sneered. “I understand these tears of yours. Why, to realize a lifetime dream of assuming command of men—why, I could see that could become emotional. But more than that, to be bestowed the highest order, the Knight of the Royal Order of the Argentine, to become allied in a sense with the greatest nation on the face of the earth, why, it’s enough to bring even the strongest of men to an emotional abyss of gratitude.”

  “I . . . please . . .”

  “Do you know what we need, Sir Williams, to lighten up the mood around here?” He crossed his arms and looked at Anderson.

  No answer.

  “I’m waiting for an answer, Sir Williams.”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “What we need is a celebration. Don’t you think so, Commander Sir Williams?”

  Anderson nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, of course you agree. Now we are getting somewhere. How could we celebrate the promotion of Sir Williams to commander and his ascension to knighthood? Anyone have any suggestions? Firing squad? Any suggestions?”

  No answer.

  “What about you British pond scum? Any suggestions on how you wish to celebrate the promotion of your hero? Perhaps there is some British celebratory custom of which I am unaware.”

  Rivers could offer to trade places with Anderson. But that would make matters worse and put the others in mortal danger. Anderson made the mistake of showing weakness in the face of a captor.

  “No suggestions? Well then, I have an idea or two. Sir Williams!”

  “Yes, sir.” Anderson’s voice quaked like a Geiger counter.

  “Tell me, Sir Williams, do you like to dance?”

  “I’ve never been one to dance, sir.”

  “Then I think it’s time that you learned. A knight must be schooled in all the proper social graces. Why, what if you were invited to a black-tie affair at Buckingham Palace? You would wish to be skilled in the fine art of ballroom dancing. And what better place to learn than the frozen tundra of the Antarctic. This will be in keeping with the longstanding British tradition of experimenting with exciting endeavors in foreign places. Prince Harry in Las Vegas. Now Sir Williams dancing on the Antarctic tundra. I suppose it’s a British thing. Ha-ha-ha!”

  Montes pulled out his pistol and unleashed another belly laugh as he fired into the snow inches from Anderson.

  Anderson jumped up, and Montes fired another shot at his feet. “Dance, Sir Williams, dance!” He laughed, and the air cracked with two more shots.

  Anderson jumped and hopped, trying to avoid a shot to the foot.

  “Somebody get a cell phone and film this so we can put this on the Internet!” Montes shouted. “Colonel Sanchez, you film it.”

  “Si, Capitán.” The colonel pulled out a cell phone as Montes fired two more shots at Anderson’s feet and then bent over laughing.

  “That’s enough! Stop it!” Rivers could no longer contain himself.

  “What is this?” Montes stared at Rivers. “A party pooper in our midst?” He reloaded the revolver. “Perhaps you wish to dance with Sir Williams?” He pointed his gun and fired three shots at Rivers’ feet.

  The shots hit the snow inches from where Rivers stood. But Rivers stood like a rock and did not flinch. Instead, he bore a steely glare at Montes.

  “I see you are not as much fun as Sir Williams,” Montes snapped, then turned and shot two more bullets in the ground at Anderson’s feet.

  Anderson jumped and danced around again. “Please! Please!” he cried.

  Montes doubled over laughing. “Okay. Okay. Enough dancing, Sir Williams!” He stood and reholstered his pistol. “Anderson, you can take a break from the dancing.” He turned to the lieutenant colonel standing beside him. “Did you get a video of that, Colonel Sanchez?”

  “Si, mi capitán.”

  “Let me see it!”

  The colonel held up his cell phone, showing the video, and Montes responded with delight, laughing and guffawing as Anderson got up off his knees.

  “There is good news, Sir Williams,” Montes announced. “My second in command has captured riveting footage of your command performance for all posterity! Soon you will be an international star!”

  Anderson did not respond. More tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Now, now. Do not cry, Sir Williams! There is one other thing that I need you to do before you and your men go to your cell.”

  Anderson stood there, unresponsive.

  “Do you not wish to know of your assignment, Sir Williams?”

  Anderson looked up and then down, and then looked over at Rivers, making eye contact with eye
s full of fear. He looked back at Montes. “Yes, sir. I suppose, sir.”

  “Excellent,” Montes said. “Here is your first command.” He held out his revolver, which looked like a long-barreled .357 Magnum.

  The revolver glistened in the dim sun as Montes reloaded it, then holstered it. This time he spoke in a lower, sterner voice, a dark and stark contrast to the strident mocking tone that he had used when making Anderson dance around the bullets fired at his feet. “Order your men to their knees.”

  Magnolia Flats

  Kensington District

  West London

  11:55 p.m. local time

  Still fighting nervousness, Meg ran down the list she had thrown together. “Toiletries. Check. Pantyhose. Check. Razors. Check. Toothpaste. Oh, darn it.” She stepped into the WC, grabbed the last tube of toothpaste, and placed it in her travel bag.

  She folded a pair of designer jeans and placed them on the top of her suitcase and proceeded through her checklist. Passport—check. One-way ticket from Heathrow to Santiago via São Paulo/Guarulhos International Airport in Brazil—after a hit of nearly five thousand pounds to her Visa card—check.

  With Shelley’s help, she had rushed to plan this trip, and in four hours she would be on a British Airways jet for the first leg of the twenty-hour flight to Santiago.

  Her mind flooded with thoughts, her heart swirled with emotion—flying off to find a man she loved and yet hated who did not love her, and even if she found him, how could she help? Why go?

  The answers eluded her. Yet with tears streaming down her cheeks, she would obey an overwhelming compulsion within her soul and she would go. Somehow, some way, when she got to Chile, she would trust the One who saved Little Aussie’s life on what to do and where to go and what to say.

  A knock on her bedroom door. “Meg, the taxicab is here.”

  Those words ignited another emotional wave.

  Aussie had finally fallen asleep. She had resolved to slip out and let him sleep.

  Shelley would take him to school tomorrow and explain to him that his mommy would be back in a few days. “Aunt Shelley,” as he called her, would take him to the zoo, take him to Horseguards Park, and even take him for a cruise down the Thames on the London Showboat.