by Don Brown
“Well, hello!” Why did she have to be a socialist-liberal? “You look marvelous.”
“Thank you, Commander.” Her smile had a tinge of shy embarrassment.
Was that a blush? What happened to the in-your-face socialist?
“You look rather handsome yourself in that uniform.”
“Thank you.” An awkward moment. “Here, let me get your chair.” He stepped over and pulled her chair out and guided her into it.
“Such a gentleman.”
One chair sat across from the other, with the flowers in the middle. But in that instant, Pete made a command decision. He moved the chair to a position right beside her, with only the table corner separating them.
“I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“Señor y señorita, something to drink?”
Pete looked at her. “Up to you,” he said.
“Pinot noire, please, Fernando. My usual.”
“And you, sir?” Fernando looked at Pete.
“I’ll have what the lady is having.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So . . . ,” he said.
“So . . .” She broke into a giggle. “I must say, this is the first time I have ever had lunch with a conservative American naval officer.”
“I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
“And I hope you won’t be disappointed having lunch with a socialist liberal activist.”
Pete grinned. “I consider that part a unique challenge.” Before he could finish the thought, the waiter returned with a bottle of red wine and, holding the bottle with a white linen napkin, poured a splash into Pete’s glass.
Pete took a quick sip. “Perfect.”
Fernando filled both glasses quickly. “Would you care to place an order? Perhaps an appetizer?”
Pete looked at her. “Are you hungry?”
“Not particularly. Maybe later.”
“Fernando, if you could keep watching our glasses here, I think we might hold off on ordering. That okay with you?” He looked at Maria.
“Sounds great,” she said.
“Very well, sir.” Fernando nodded. “I shall return a bit later to check on you.”
Maria sipped her wine and smiled. “I believe you were saying something about a unique challenge?”
“Ah, yes. You wondered how I felt about having lunch with—I think you described yourself as a socialist activist or something—and I think I said that I consider it a special challenge.”
“So you think I am a challenge, do you?”
“Maybe.”
She looked at him. “What kind of a challenge, if I might ask.”
“What kind of a challenge do you like to be?”
“You are answering a question with a question without answering the question, Commander.”
“You know, your English is impeccable.” When her leg brushed against his, he lost his concentration.
“You know,” she said, “if you’re not too hungry, maybe we could polish off this bottle, and then I’d be happy to show you around. And maybe we could grab a little dessert later.”
“Sounds good to me,” he said.
“Do you like peach pie?”
“Love it.”
“I make a ravishing peach pie, I’m told. My apartment is a half mile from here and I have one just baked. Are you interested?”
He looked into her eyes. “Is that an invitation?”
She took a large sip. “I can’t eat all that dessert alone.”
The sip that he took warmed his throat. “You don’t look like you eat dessert at all.”
“Thank you, I think, but you didn’t answer my question, Commander. Perhaps you are not interested.” Her leg brushed against his again, causing him to swallow hard.
“Dessert sounds good to me.”
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA Santa Cruz
South Atlantic Ocean
depth 750 feet
12:03 p.m. local time
Twenty minutes had passed since Gomez sent the XO below to check out the leaks, and still the main propulsion system had not reengaged. The Santa Cruz’s life-support systems were functioning on auxiliary battery power, which provided barely enough energy to keep dim lights on throughout the sub, allowing light for the attempted repair, but not enough power to engage the sub’s engines to allow for maneuverability.
The good news? The British had ceased their fire. Gomez silently thanked God because another blow, even nearby, would finish the Santa Cruz.
He realized that the Santa Cruz might not be able to survive. But he could not allow the crew to sense his doubts. A wave of fear and panic would doom the sub and seal their fate.
With the main propulsion out, the sub had sunk another fifty feet. They were still two hundred feet above the sub’s crush depth. But if they kept sinking, even slowly, eventually the sub would implode.
In the dim light provided by the emergency batteries, Gomez picked up the inter-ship telephone. “Engineering. Control Room.”
“Control Room. Engineering,” the XO said.
“XO, what’s going on down there?”
“Sir, the situation is not good. We have not been able to stem the flow of the breach. Still no success with the power plant. The water is obstructing our ability to make repairs. Sir, with respect, you may wish to come down here and have a look.”
“I’ll be right there, XO.” Gomez replaced the microphone. “Mister Ramirez. You have the conn.”
“I have the conn. Aye, sir,” the helmsman said.
Gomez headed over to the steel ladder and climbed down to the deck below, the berthing area.
The engineering spaces were two decks below that, and as he started down the last leg of his descent, he looked down and saw men working frantically in waist-deep water.
The XO spotted him on the ladder and waded over to help guide him down.
Gomez stepped down into the cold seawater, and when his shoes reached the bottom deck, the sloshing water rose to several inches above his waist.
“The water is gushing in faster by the second, Capitán,” the XO said. “The breach is back down toward the stern. It’s like a fire hose back there, sir.”
“Let’s have a look,” Gomez said.
“Make way for the capitán,” the XO said.
Gomez waded back through the frigid water toward the stern section, following the XO, hoping to get a better assessment. A bubbling and gurgling in the water on the right bulkhead pinpointed the source of the leak, with water rushing in through the hull and inner wall of the sub.
The water continued to rise and now reached Gomez’s chest. No need to proceed farther. “XO, order all hands to abandon the lower decks.”
The XO looked at him. Their eyes locked, and the clear and unmistakable understanding arose between them.
The XO, in nearly a whisper to keep the men from hearing, said, “We are going to lose the sub, sir.”
Gomez nodded. “Let’s get these men up to higher ground so they can live a little longer.”
“Aye, Capitán.” The XO turned around. “But, sir, I suggest that you first get back up to the control room. We are going to need you at the conn for as long as possible, even up to the end.”
Gomez nodded. “Very well, XO. Get back up top as soon as you can get these men moved. I’m going to need you at my side.”
“Aye, Capitán.” The XO shot Gomez a salute, and Gomez at that moment knew that it might be the last salute he would ever receive. With frigid water nearly up to his neck, he returned the salute and then scampered up the ladder, headed up to issue his last orders from the control room.
Down below, the XO executed Gomez’s orders. “All hands up the ladder! Up to the berthing decks. Move. Move.”
Belgrano II base camp
Antarctica
12:07 p.m. local time
Lieutenant Fernando Sosa sat alone at the communications desk inside the geodesic dome. Since the succe
ssful Axis attack on the British facilities at the Churchill base camp, shutting down the British facilities, communications interceptions had gone dark. Only static blared over the loudspeakers.
With Sosa’s objective accomplished, there was talk of decorating him when he returned to Buenos Aires for his work in uncovering the British discovery of oil.
The new base commander, Capitán José Montes, had stopped by and announced that he would recommend Sosa for the Order of Military Merit and recommend him for early promotion.
Frankly, the Order of Military Merit sounded overblown for his accomplishments. But if Montes recommended it, how could he argue?
Still, despite the promise of military decoration, the twisted feeling in his stomach had magnified.
It was the British prisoner.
Frankly, Sosa could not shake the image of the British prisoner gunned down in cold blood. A military prison camp required a stern disciplinarian in command. But to shoot a prisoner in cold blood? A civilian prisoner at that? Who, by all accounts, had the noodle spine of a fearful wimp?
Sosa witnessed the whole thing. Montes had clearly gotten the prisoners’ attention with the shooting, but Sosa had serious reservations. What if all this came out after the war? What if the United Nations or the United States convened a war crimes tribunal? Surely Montes might be held responsible.
But what if they indicted all the officers who had witnessed the event as coconspirators? Sosa had nothing to do with it.
And even if he, Sosa, were not implicated in a worst-case scenario, how could he live with his conscience, having seen what he had seen? How would he face Father Joseph at confessional?
What did Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez think about Montes? Sanchez was a good man. Sosa respected him as base commander.
“Atten-chun!” the duty sergeant yelled.
Sosa stood and turned as Capitán Montes strutted into the dome.
“Lieutenant Sosa!” Montes snapped.
“Yes, mi capitán,” Sosa said.
Montes stood there with an almost angry glare. “Put on your jacket and come with me. I will show you the finer points of witness interrogation.”
“Yes, sir.” Sosa grabbed his winter jacket, put it on, and zipped it up.
“This way.” Montes opened the door, and they stepped out onto the frozen snowscape, where two armed soldiers stood with loaded AK-47s. “I have seen your talent, Sosa. You excel at electronic surveillance, but you are one-dimensional. A good intelligence man is multidimensional. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, I believe so, Capitán.” Sosa did not understand the direction of Montes’ question. But admitting that lack of understanding might ignite the temper of the officer bearing the nickname of “The One.”
As a good intelligence officer, Sosa had run his own private background check on Montes and learned that the nickname “The One” came from Montes’ reputation as “The One” ego-temper combination unmatched by any man in Argentina. The informal intelligence dossier—prepared by a friend and colleague at intelligence headquarters in Buenos Aires for Sosa’s eyes only—had warned, “While the nickname ‘The One’ is widely used by his subordinates when not in his presence, it remains unclear whether Montes is aware of his moniker. Therefore prudence dictates never using the moniker anywhere within earshot of this officer.”
Montes stared at him for a second, as if waiting for Sosa to elaborate. Sosa bit his tongue, for he had recently heard a sermon from Father Joseph from Proverbs on the importance of remaining silent.
“In case you have any questions, Mister Sosa, let me explain,” Montes said. “The most crucial elements for any military intelligence operation are (a) interception, which you clearly are a master at, and (b) extraction, and that verdict is out on you.
“Now then”—Montes tramped across the deep snow, joined by four more soldiers—“intercepted intelligence can be from electronic or other means. But the common denominator in the interception of intelligence is this: The enemy does not know the intelligence has been intercepted.” Montes stopped in the middle of the base camp, in the circle of eight white geodesic domes. “But in stark contrast, when we are discussing intelligence gathered by extraction, the enemy knows exactly and precisely that the intelligence is being turned over because he is spewing the information out to the interrogator directly. Do you understand?”
“Si, mi capitán,” Sosa replied.
“Now sometimes it is intelligence we are after, and sometimes it is a confession we are after. Are you familiar with case studies involving extraction confessions?”
Sosa knew of extraction confessions. But beating someone to a pulp until the victim confessed to satisfy the captor’s objectives frankly turned his stomach. He hesitated to answer, then decided to. “Yes, I am familiar, for example, with the Vietnamese extracting confessions from American POWs in Vietnam.”
Montes’ eyes lit up. “An excellent answer! And do you know the value of those American POWs denouncing the war?”
“I suppose that it demoralized other American troops and undermined the war effort,” Sosa said.
“Excellent answer!” Montes exclaimed. “You have studied well, Sosa! Extraction confessions do that. They demoralize the enemy while at the same time boost the morale of the home forces. So when the North Vietnamese forced American POWs to denounce America and denounce the war, it served as a valuable gut punch to those hawks supporting the war and as a boost to the antiwar protestors in America. Do you not agree?”
Sosa bit his lip. “An extraction confession serves certain propaganda purposes.”
“Yes, of course! Now, while we await more prisoners, we will maximize our time. We will practice our confession interrogation techniques on the foolish British prisoners currently under our command.”
Sosa did not respond.
Montes pulled out his long-barreled revolver, holding its silver barrel out under the low-hanging sun. “Care to hold it?” He thrust it over toward Sosa.
“An impressive revolver, sir.” Sosa feigned his interest in the weapon. He held it up against the sun, examining it. “Taurus makes a good weapon, sir. South American manufacturer.”
Montes reached to take the revolver back. “And what sidearm do you carry, Lieutenant?”
“Standard Glock nine-millimeter, sir.”
“What a shame.” Montes reholstered the revolver. “You know that a man’s sidearm is a direct statement about masculinity?”
Sosa wasn’t sure how to respond.
“And did you also know, Lieutenant,” Montes said, even before Sosa could answer the previous question, “that a pistol can be used in numerous ways in an extraction interrogation?”
“I was not aware, mi capitán.”
“In this case, Lieutenant, pay close attention. You will be amazed at the things you can learn.
“Sergeant!” Montes snapped at a soldier accompanying them as they walked to the entrance of the dome housing the prisoners.
“Si, Capitán.”
“Round up eight more armed guards. Then send them into the dome to surround the prisoners. Lieutenant Sosa and I will be there shortly. Immediately!”
“Si, Capitán.” The guard yelled out orders, and ten armed soldiers quickly entered the dome.
“Follow me.” Montes stepped through the entrance to the dome.
“Atten-chun!” the sergeant screamed. “On your feet! Stand at attention for el capitán.”
The Brits came to their feet, bunched together in the middle of the dome, surrounded by a circle of armed Argentinean soldiers.
Montes folded his arms and began walking in a circle around the prisoners. “As I recall, when we brought you British pigs in on the helicopter, and as you were all standing around out in the courtyard area, I had an interesting conversation with one of the more talented members of this despicable bunch.” He pivoted. “Of course, as I recall, that talented fellow had a special propensity as a dancer. What was his name?” A feigned curious pause. “
Ah, yes.” Index finger held up. A look of contemplation. “Sir Williams, as I recall. Yes. Sir Williams, the dancing Brit!”
Montes bent over, appearing to wheeze, and then broke into a belly laugh. “Sir Williams, Sir Williams, the dancing Brit! Dancing on the snow! A little bitty Brit!” Montes stood, still reveling in his laughing monologue. “But for the stupid British knight, there wasn’t much wit! So an Argentine bullet sent him to a snowy, bloody pit!”
He laughed, looking at the prisoners. What wasted talent! he thought. He could have won Dancing with the Stars! More laughing. “As I recall, at the time that the late dancing Sir Williams lay bleeding in the snow, a priest appeared among us. Hmm?”
The prisoners looked at one another.
“Oh, come! Come! Come! Which of you is the local priest? You know, the one who said, ‘The Lord is my shepherd,’ or something like that?”
Again, no response.
“What is this? Do we have a priest who is ashamed of the priesthood?”
“I am not ashamed of my Lord.” A gaunt-looking runt of a man with a British accent spoke up. “And I am not ashamed of the gospel.”
“Yes, I remember you!” Montes bellowed. “You were standing beside Sir Williams Anderson, commander of the subjugated British forces on the continent of Antarctica. Were you not?”
“Aye, sir. That would be me.”
“Well then, tell me, Father . . .” Montes hesitated. “You are a priest, are you not?”
“I am no priest,” the man said. “Not in the sense you mean.”
“What is your name?”
“Bach, sir. My name is Andrew Bach.”
“Step forward, Father Andrew Bach! Out in front.”
“Aye, sir.”
The man stepped out in front of the other prisoners and came to attention.
“Now, Father Bach, do you have an ability to dance like your late colleague, Sir Williams, the tippy-toed tulip?”
“No, sir. I am not much on dancing, sir.”
“Well, you should give it a try for us. What do you think, Father Bach?”
“I’m sorry. But I’m not much on dancing, sir.”
“What did you say, Father Bach?”
“I said, I am not much on dancing, sir.”