The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  CHAPTER 20

  10 Downing Street

  London

  1:25 p.m. local time

  Prime Minister David Mulvaney, finishing a luncheon speech to the alumni of the London School of Economics, abruptly cut short his remarks, waved good-bye, and rushed off the podium without shaking hands. His chief of staff, Edward Willingham, had handed him a note at the lectern that an emergency meeting of the national security staff was commencing at Number 10 on a possible threat to the British flotilla and the HMS Queen Elizabeth.

  They rushed him to his waiting Jaguar and by 1:25 p.m., with Willingham at his side, he stepped quickly into the historic Cabinet Room. A grim-faced quartet consisting of Foreign Secretary Gosling, Defence Chief McCutchenson, McCutchenson’s aide Captain Morton, and First Sea Lord Admiral Ellington greeted him, all standing around the conference table.

  “Be seated, gentlemen,” Mulvaney said. “Let’s get down to business, Sir Edmond.” He looked at his senior defence chief. “What’s this about a possible threat to our flotilla and to our carrier?”

  Sir Edmond adjusted his glasses. “Sir, less than thirty minutes ago, as the task force passed to the east of the Falkland Islands on a course due south to the staging area, passive sonar on two of the four surface ships picked up what sounded like a submarine. Acoustics computers on board Queen Elizabeth have confirmed a diesel-electric submarine in the area, probably either Argentinean or Russian. We cannot say with greater certainty because the recording was neither long enough nor of sufficient quality for a better match.”

  Mulvaney slid on his reading glasses. “So we basically have a coin toss about whether we’re dealing with Russia or Argentina.”

  “True, Prime Minister,” Sir Edmond said. “Surely the Russians will have an interest in keeping an eye on our new supercarrier. But our proximity to the Falklands makes me believe that Argentina may be the culprit. At any rate, sir, the commander of the Queen Elizabeth, Captain Edwin Jones-Landry, has requested instructions on setting the rules of engagement for this situation.”

  The prime minister leaned back and crossed his arms. “So what are you gentlemen suggesting?”

  The men looked at one another, then Foreign Secretary John Gosling spoke up.

  “As His Majesty’s principal diplomat, serving at your pleasure, Prime Minister, it is my duty to address the potential diplomatic problems of attacking the submarine. Obviously, if she is Russian, we run the risk of a wider diplomatic and military confrontation than if she belongs to Argentina. Bear in mind, Prime Minister, that there is freedom of navigation on the high seas. If the sub is Russian, she has every right to be submerged on the high seas. The issue is whether her presence is a threat to our flotilla. If we attack the sub, and if she’s Russian, we could find ourselves facing a spectrum of responses ranging from condemnation to all-out war. And obviously, sir, a war with Russia, or even an international confrontation with the Russians short of war, would mean graver consequences than a blowup with Argentina.”

  Mulvaney uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “And what would be the position of the Foreign Office should I order an attack and the submarine happens to be Argentinean?”

  “Naturally, Prime Minister, the Foreign Office is interested in solving all conflicts through diplomacy. But in this case, if it can be proven that the submarine is Argentinean in origin, then we could claim legal justification for attacking it, based on the intelligence we have received linking Argentina to the attack on our Camp Churchill.”

  “So if I can summarize your position, Foreign Minister, the Foreign Office would oppose an attack on a Russian submarine, but could legally defend an attack on an Argentinean submarine?”

  “Prime Minister, we hope that diplomacy prevails. But recognizing that British forces will engage in military action to recapture Camp Churchill, our role will be to present a legal defence and justification for those actions before the United Nations and in other international forums. It will be up to you, sir, but we will have a greater challenge both diplomatically and from a public-relations standpoint if we attack a Russian submarine.”

  The prime minister nodded. “Sir Edmond? Admiral Ellington? What do my military commanders say?”

  “Admiral?” Sir Edmond said. “Why don’t you take this one?”

  “Certainly, sir,” the first sea lord said. “Prime Minister, our recommendation is rooted in part on comments made by the foreign minister. Our naval task force is headed for a military showdown in the next day or so in Antarctica. With the attack against Camp Churchill, military action on the part of our forces is imminent.

  “Even though we did not get the best recording for a definite identification of the sub, there is a 5 percent higher chance that this is an Argentinean sub as opposed to a Russian sub. The sonar picked up the sub off the coast of the Falkland Islands, which in our opinion elevates the chances that it is Argentinean. So if we mistakenly attack a Russian submarine, we have a good-faith defence based on the data that we have.

  “But more importantly, Prime Minister, and this is crucial”—the first sea lord wagged his finger—“with a submarine in that close, even within twenty-five miles, our brand-new flagship could be in danger. If it is Argentinean, given the fact that Argentinean forces may have attacked our facility at Camp Churchill, we fear that they could take the first shot. Even a point-blank shot.” Admiral Ellington stopped and looked straight at the prime minister. “A single well-placed torpedo, fired from close range, could sink our carrier. And that, sir, could be a monumental disaster for Britain.”

  The prime minister allowed that warning to set in. Then Mulvaney spoke up. “So are you recommending, Admiral Ellington, Sir Edmond, that I should issue an order to sink this submarine?”

  The defence chief responded, “Yes, Prime Minister, this is exactly what we are recommending. Helicopters from the Queen Elizabeth are already dropping sonobuoys in the water in a two-hundred-square-mile radius around the carrier.

  “If we discover that submarine anywhere within that sector, then we recommend that you formulate the rules of engagement to allow us to attack it and sink it. Under the circumstances, we cannot afford the risk of allowing the submarine to get off a first shot.”

  Mulvaney leaned back and scratched his chin. “Very well, Sir Edmond. Set the rules of engagement. If we discover that submarine anywhere within that two-hundred-square-mile sector, then our forces are to attack it and sink it.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  Bridge

  HMS Queen Elizabeth

  South Atlantic Ocean

  50 miles east of the Falkland Islands

  course 180 degrees

  9:30 a.m. local time

  Bridge! Radio!”

  “Radio. Go ahead,” Captain Edwin Jones-Landry said.

  “Captain. We’ve received a FLASH message from London with rules-of-engagement orders.”

  “Let’s hear it, Leftenant.”

  “Sir, our orders are to track and locate the unidentified submarine. If that submarine is located within a two-hundred-mile radius of HMS Queen Elizabeth, our orders are to attack it and sink it.”

  “Who signed the order, Leftenant?”

  “Captain, Prime Minister Mulvaney signed the order.”

  Jones-Landry and Parrott exchanged glances.

  “Very well,” Jones-Landry said. “Transmit the order to all aircraft and to HMS Ocean. Prepare to attack and sink enemy submarine if located within two-hundred-mile radius of HMS Queen Elizabeth.

  Pier 3

  Armada de Chile

  Valparaiso naval facility

  Valparaiso, Chile

  10:00 a.m. local time

  Under the morning Pacific sunshine and cool western breezes, they stepped through the black iron gate onto the concrete pier.

  Their arrival garnered immediate attention from the young sailors, officers, and Chilean Marines, who snapped to attention at the flag officer’s surprise appearance.

  The admi
ral spoke fluent English, with his Spanish accent barely detectable. Most Chilean naval officers had a strong multilingual capacity, often with English, German, or Russian as the second language. This trait Pete admired and wished that the US Navy required the same multilingual discipline among its officer corps.

  Admiral Carlos Delapaz of the Chilean Navy returned the salutes of the gawking young sailors and continued his tour. “The Chilean Navy, or the Armada de Chile, as we call it in Spanish, consists of twenty-five thousand sailors and officers, along with five thousand Marines. We currently operate sixty-six surface ships, and twenty-one of those are based right here in Valparaiso.”

  Pete looked out over the harbor’s blue waters and inhaled the salty Pacific air. Nothing like returning to the hustle and bustle of a navy base, even a foreign naval base, for reinvigorating the soul. “Your facilities are impressive, Admiral Delapaz. This base is active and vibrant. As I drove down into the city yesterday and looked down on the harbor, I realized that this reminds me of our naval facilities in San Diego.”

  “Interesting that you would say that, Commander,” Delapaz said. “On my visits to your facilities in San Diego, which I have visited on official military business, I have always observed the remarkable similarity between San Diego and Valparaiso. Similar climate. Similar mild ocean breezes. A beautiful natural harbor, graceful palm trees, and teeming with activity.”

  Pete smiled. Valparaiso would be a nice final duty station to relax in while training the Chilean Navy. “I couldn’t have described it better myself, Admiral.”

  “Of course, our fleet is smaller than the US Navy’s fleet at San Diego. Here we have no carriers, and our four older diesel-electric subs are home ported at Talcahuano, which is 365 miles to the south.”

  “And as I recall,” Pete said, “you are currently operating two French-built Scorpène-class boats and two German Type 209s?”

  “I see you have done your homework, Commander.” Delapaz smiled.

  “I’m a sub commander, Admiral. I take pride in knowing the fleets of other navies.”

  “Which is why you are perfect for this assignment, Peter,” Delapaz said. “With our purchase of the USS Corpus Christi, soon to be the CS Miro, the fleet of your father’s homeland will possess the most powerful naval weapon in all of South America.”

  “It is my honor to participate in this historic transition, Admiral.”

  Delapaz smiled like a proud grandfather. “Let’s walk down the pier and take a look at her. Shall we?”

  “With pleasure, sir,” Pete said. They walked down the long pier, past two amphibious assault ships, CS Acquiles and CS Rancagua. Sailors scampered up and down catwalks to the ships. As Pete and Delapaz cleared the Rancagua’s fantail, down on the left, at the end of the pier, the sleek, familiar black design of the Los Angeles–class submarine came into view.

  Typically in port, a US warship flies two primary flags, one on the bow mast and one on the stern mast. The one on the bow is known as the Jack, while the flag on the stern is known as the Ensign and is the warship’s national flag. The Jack on a US warship is comprised of the blue field of fifty stars typically seen on the US national flag.

  In this case, the United States Jack fluttered in the breeze atop the bow mast of the nuclear submarine formerly known as USS Corpus Christi in her life and service to the United States Navy. But from the stern, two national flags flew—the Stars and Stripes of the United States flew alongside the Lone Star flag of Chile, which closely resembles the Lone Star flag of Texas. The sub, for the time being, still had painted in white on her black conning tower the Los Angeles–class designator number 705.

  Above the designator number, painted in white on a long red stripe resembling a red yardstick, was the official US Navy name for the sub: USS City of Corpus Christi.

  Four armed Chilean Marines who were guarding the sub snapped to attention and shot salutes as Delapaz came into view.

  “At ease, gentlemen.” Delapaz turned to Pete as the guards returned to parade rest. “Obviously, we still have some work to do to complete the transition. We will repaint her today with her new hull number—SSN 30—and then tomorrow we officially rechristen her as CS Miro. The American ambassador will be on hand for the transition ceremony, and I would consider it a personal honor, Commander, if you would accompany me as my guest. Service dress blues, of course.”

  “It would be my honor, Admiral.”

  “Good,” Delapaz said. “After the christening ceremony, you will get the first opportunity to meet our replacement crew at 1300 hours tomorrow afternoon.” The admiral checked his watch. “I had hoped that Commander Romero, the new commander of the Miro, would be here today so that you could brief him on procedures. Commander Romero has skippered our diesel-electric boats and is a nuclear engineer. He is the ideal candidate to command our first nuclear boat. Unfortunately, he’s detained at Puerto Williams, our naval base down at the tip of the continent near Cape Horn.”

  Pete had heard that things were heating up in the Antarctic region but resisted any temptation to comment so as not to signal what he had learned through secret American intelligence channels. “I’ll look forward to meeting Commander Romero and working with him, and I’m going to make sure that the inaugural Chilean crew of CS Miro will be the most professionally trained submarine crew in the world, sir.”

  The admiral smiled. “I like your enthusiasm, Pete. If you wish to take some more personal time today to get yourself moved in, or to deal with correspondence or whatever, please do so. I’m headed back to my office. I have some work to do in preparing for the transition ceremony. Enjoy your day, Pete.”

  “Thank you, Admiral. If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll stay here and do a quick check of the sub to make sure she’s ready to go tomorrow.”

  “As you wish, Commander. Be at my office at 0800 hours tomorrow in service dress blue uniform. You can accompany me and my party to the transition ceremony.”

  “Yes, sir, Admiral.” Pete stepped back and rendered a sharp salute.

  Admiral Delapaz returned the salute, then pivoted and headed back down the pier.

  Pete walked in the opposite direction, inspecting the submarine tethered to the pier by eight large ropes tied down to steel cleats.

  He waited for the admiral to walk farther down the pier and then pulled out his smartphone and headed toward the end of the pier, away from the Marines guarding the submarine.

  He had faced death in combat, been attacked by Russian naval forces in an international incident in the Black Sea, and faced an international criminal trial in which a conviction could have meant life in prison or possibly even execution. But Pete Miranda had never felt such chest-pounding anxiety at the mere thought of making a telephone call.

  She’d just spent two hours in his car last night. He found her number in his phone contacts. She suggested that he call. Why not? “Let’s do this.” He punched the call option for Maria Vasquez.

  The first ring.

  The second ring.

  His heart beat even faster.

  The third ring.

  Sweat beaded on his palms.

  Voice mail.

  “¡Hola. Habla María. Por favor deje su nombre y su número de teléfono, y le devolveré su llamada. Por favor hable despacio. Tengo ganas de hablar con usted.”

  She had changed the message on her voice mail. Interesting. Should he leave a message? Pete had never cared for leaving messages. He hung up, stuck his phone in his pocket, and waited for his pulse to decelerate. Even on her voice mail, her velvety voice was as electrifying in Spanish as it was in English.

  He tried.

  Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

  Oh well.

  Anyway, he was about to begin a major military assignment that would occupy the next few days.

  Maybe this wasn’t the right time.

  Time to inspect the sub to make sure she was shipshape.

  Pete walked back toward the sub, and as he stepped over to the
catwalk that separated the pier from the deck, there was a buzzing in his pocket.

  He returned the Chilean Marine’s salute and retrieved his phone.

  Maria Vasquez calling . . .

  He pivoted around and headed back onto the pier to answer the call. “Hey, you! What’s up?” He walked quickly back away from the Marine guards.

  “This is Maria. How are you?”

  “I’m doing fine.” In reality, Pete felt exceptionally fine. Giddy in fact. “What are you up to this morning?”

  “Running errands. I’m getting ready to paint my sunroom. How about you? I enjoyed my ride down last night. What are you doing?”

  “I’ve been down at the Navy base. The view is beautiful. It’s like San Diego.”

  “Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  No response.

  Awkward silence.

  “Anyway, I thought I would be occupied all day. But I’ve just learned that I have the rest of the day off and . . .”

  “You were going to ask me out?”

  He smiled. “Well . . . yes. That’s exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Great! I would love that! When and where?”

  “When? As soon as possible. Maybe we could meet for lunch and hang out a bit this afternoon?”

  “I’d love that. Where did you have in mind?”

  “Well . . . do you know any good places near the waterfront?”

  “As a matter of fact, my favorite place is a quaint café called La Concepción. It’s got a great view of the ships. It’s on the south waterfront away from the naval station.”

  “Sounds perfect,” he said. “What time did you have in mind?”

  “Oh, gosh, I need to go change into something suitable. How about two hours?”

  “Sounds great,” he said, battling a runaway imagination triggered by her comment that she would change into something suitable. “Okay, I’ll see you in two hours.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Control room

  Argentinean submarine ARA Santa Cruz