by Don Brown
“Well, I think you are, Father. I think you should try your hand at it. Right here and now!”
The short man did not flinch. “I am sorry, sir. I cannot dance.”
“Knock it off!” one of the prisoners shouted. “Under the Geneva Accords, he is only required to give his name and military identification number.”
“Oh?” Montes pulled his revolver from his holster and grabbed it by the long barrel. “Perhaps this will awaken the talent within you!” He swung his arm and smashed the gun in the Brit’s face, knocking him to the floor.
Two other prisoners lunged forward toward Montes, but were restrained by six guards. “You won’t get away with this!” one of them yelled. This was the same Brit who earlier had cited the Geneva Accords.
“You! What is your name, rank, and branch of service?” Montes snapped. “Since you are so familiar with the Geneva Accords, you will know that I am entitled to your name!”
“Austin Rivers. Leftenant. Royal Navy of the United Kingdom.” The prisoner shot a defiant glare at Montes. “That’s all you’re entitled to, and that’s all you are getting.”
“We’ll see about that, Mister Rivers,” Montes said. “I shall deal with you later.”
The man who had been knocked on the floor looked up at Sosa. Blood dripped from his mouth.
Montes sneered at the man, then shoved the revolver back into his holster and looked at Sosa. “An example of the great versatility of a long-barreled revolver. Sometimes you do not even fire a shot! And I have not attempted to extract a confession yet. But then again, I do not wish to overwhelm you in the educational process.”
He laughed and turned to the man on the floor. “On your feet, Father Bach.”
The man stood and then stumbled and fell again.
“Get him up,” Montes ordered.
Two guards rushed over and pulled Bach to his feet.
“When I return,” Montes said to the group, “I will seek men with courage to stand up and condemn Britain for her illegal and imperialistic attempt to ravage the natural resources of Antarctica. And for those brave enough to tell the truth, there will be food and warmth and new accommodations with more privacy. For those foolish enough to resist me”—he looked around with his piercing black eyes—“remember Sir Williams and Father Bach here when you consider the consequences. That is all.”
Montes turned and looked at Sosa. Then he looked back at the British. “The more you cooperate, the better your treatment. If you oppose me, you do so at your own risk.”
He stepped back and headed out the door. “Let’s go, Lieutenant.”
They walked back into the frigid Antarctic air, and as they trudged across the snow from the prisoners’ dome to base headquarters, Montes put his hand on Sosa’s shoulder. “Tell me, Lieutenant Sosa. You are an intelligence officer. But your specialty is electronic intelligence. Mine is human intelligence. This is one of the many reasons I am in command here. Now one of my duties as commander is to train and make better the officers who are subordinate to me in my chain of command. Which of those worthless Brits do you think might become the most challenging impediment to our mission?”
Sosa thought for a second. Why did this seem like a trick or a test? Why did standing in this man’s presence turn his stomach? “Well, sir, it seems that the one who cited the Geneva Accords, the one called Rivers, is their leader.”
“Precisely,” Montes said. “And tell me this, Lieutenant Sosa, if Rivers is so quick to cite the Geneva Accords, what does this tell us about him?”
“It tells me that he is most likely military, sir. Most likely an officer with an elevated knowledge of the law of war. Perhaps a special forces officer dispatched to guard a group of civilian engineers on a highly sensitive mission.”
“Well done, Sosa!” Montes slapped him on the back. “You do have potential, my boy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Step with me into my office.”
They walked across the center area, through blustering wind and blowing snow, and stepped into the geodesic dome serving as command headquarters. Montes removed his thermal jacket. “Hang your coat there,” he commanded, pointing to a portable coat tree.
“Yes, sir.” Sosa complied.
“Sit here, in the chair in front of my desk.”
“Yes, sir.” Sosa complied again.
Montes kicked his booted feet up on the desk. “Let’s let the educational process continue, Lieutenant.” He crossed his arms over his belly. “You wouldn’t object to that, would you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” Montes pulled out a flask and two glasses and started pouring liquor. He took a swig and pushed the other glass across the desk toward Sosa. “Tell me, Lieutenant, what is the most important maxim that a successful intelligence officer must always follow?”
Another trick question? “Successful intelligence means that one must know thy enemy.”
“Very good, Lieutenant!” Montes took a swig of the liquor. “Have a drink, Lieutenant. Tell me if you can identify my libation.”
Fernando hesitated, but he had been given an order. He picked up the glass and took a sip. The flow down his esophagus felt smooth and warm. “A fine selection of brandy, mi capitán.”
“Excellent, Lieutenant. You are two-for-two. Here is a third question, and it is a follow-up to the first question and is somewhat related to the second. Are you ready for the question?”
“I suppose I am ready. But I will not know until the question is asked.”
Montes unleashed a sinister-sounding laugh. “Very well. Here we go. If the answer to your first question is that the most basic maxim of good intelligence is ‘know thy enemy,’ then riddle me this: What is the best way of knowing one’s enemy?”
“Ah, mi capitán.” Sosa set the brandy down. “This goes to the heart of the debate about which intelligence one believes is best. Electronic intelligence versus human intelligence. And as you know, sir, I am an electronic intelligence aficionado.”
“Hah!” Montes slapped his hand hard on the desk. “I knew you could not keep up with me. You’ve missed the point!”
“I . . . I . . .”
“Lieutenant. The answer to the riddle is right before you. It isn’t about human versus electronic intelligence.” Another shot of brandy. “The best way to know thy enemy is to drink what thy enemy drinks!” He put down the glass and unleashed more laughter at his own brilliance. “Now then, Lieutenant. Who was the greatest British leader of them all?”
“In my opinion, Churchill.”
“Yes! Churchill! And what was Churchill’s drink of choice?”
“Brandy, as I recall. Cognac.”
“Yes! Correct again! Which is exactly what we’re drinking.” Montes poured more brandy into Sosa’s glass, bringing it to the rim. “You see, Lieutenant, when we drink like them, we begin to think like them! Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when we think like them, we learn to outmaneuver them. You see, this was our problem in the Malvinas War. Too much swilling red wine. Not enough spots of brandy.” Montes held high his glass, as if calling for a toast.
Fernando Sosa clanked his glass with the capitán’s, placating the strange sense of exhilaration oozing from Montes.
“Lieutenant, riddle me this. What is the best way to kill a snake?”
“Cut off its head.”
“Precisely! There is hope for you, my dear Sosa!”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“Sir?”
“We are going to cut off the snake’s head.”
“I do not understand, sir.”
“Again? Just when I thought we were on the same page.” More brandy. “Who would you say is the head of the snake in the British camp?”
“You are referring to Austin Rivers, sir?” Sosa asked.
“Precisely. And tomorrow at high noon, we’re going to publicly execute Rivers, o
utside, with the other British pigs watching, which will cause them to melt like butter in a microwave. They will then sing like a chorus of frightened canaries, telling us anything we wish to know.” A smile of self-satisfaction. “And would you like even more exciting news?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“You are chosen to do the honors.”
“Sir?”
“I have decided that you, Sosa, will personally carry out the execution.”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes. You. You may use my revolver, a big gun for a big man. A single shot to the head will do. But if you wish to waste another shot into the corpse for the dramatic effect of underscoring our seriousness to the British pigs about their cooperation, feel free. Every intelligence officer must develop an insatiable taste for blood. Once you taste it, you will thirst for more and more. You must cut off the head of the snake,” Montes said. “Shoot him.”
“Cut off the head of the snake.”
“Shoot him.”
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA Santa Cruz
South Atlantic Ocean
depth 850 feet
12:17 p.m. local time
Deathly silence took over the control room of the Santa Cruz. The auxiliary battery barely provided enough dim light to illuminate monitors and faces. The silence, in the mind of the commanding officer, permeated the somber atmosphere in what felt like a death watch.
Seawater continued pouring into the lower decks. Santa Cruz was sinking. They could not stop it.
Gomez eyed the depth meter, now approaching 850 feet. Men stared at one another. Looks of helplessness were frozen on their faces.
“We will be approaching crush depth soon, Capitán,” the executive officer said.
“Another hundred and fifty feet.” Gomez felt powerless. He could offer no solutions. “Two hundred if we’re lucky.”
A pause.
“It’s been a pleasure serving with you, sir.”
“It’s been a pleasure serving with you too, XO.” Gomez turned and looked at his second in command. “But before we say our final good-byes, we still have a bit more work to do.”
“How may I be of service, sir?”
“XO, it is time to launch an emergency rescue buoy. While there is no realistic chance of us being saved at this depth and under these circumstances, we need to record for the high command in Buenos Aires what has happened here. Prepare to launch rescue buoy containing this message.”
“Aye, sir.” The XO extracted a pen from his pocket and picked up a legal pad. “Preparing to transcribe message at your direction, Capitán.”
“Very well. Take this down. From commanding officer, ARA Santa Cruz. To National Command Authority, Republic of Argentina; Commanding Admiral of the Navy of the Republic of Argentina; all ships and aircraft in the area. Please be advised that the submarine ARA Santa Cruz has been attacked by enemy forces believed to be British utilizing depth charges and torpedoes and has suffered irreparable damage. Santa Cruz is taking on water rapidly. We have been unable to restore power. Salvage pumps inoperative. Soon approaching crush depth. Estimated time to crush depth, T-minus thirty minutes. Respectfully, A. Gomez, Commanding Officer.”
“Got it, sir.”
“Okay, get it transcribed and launch emergency rescue buoy immediately. As you know, XO, we don’t have much time.”
“Aye, sir.”
Gomez watched as the XO stepped over to the message transcription station on the starboard side of the control room. The message, once transcribed, would be logged into the memory banks of the computer of the emergency transmission buoy. The buoy would be launched from the sub and would float 850 feet to the surface.
Once the buoy reached the surface, it would transmit the encrypted message, announcing the fate of the Santa Cruz.
In shallow waters—less than one thousand feet in depth—if a sub could come to rest on the bottom without imploding at crush depth, and if water could be kept out of the sub to prevent the crew from drowning, then the buoy could serve as a real chance for a rescue attempt if anyone heard the broadcast beacon in time.
If the bottom was shallow enough, a rescue line would be connected from the submarine to the buoy at the surface on the theory that the line could lead rescuers down to the sub.
But in this sector of the sea, with water depths between one and a half and two miles, the Santa Cruz would either flood or implode on her way down long before she ever reached the seabed.
Gomez hoped the auxiliary battery had enough juice to facilitate the launch of the buoy.
“Sir. Transcription complete. Ready to launch buoy.”
“Very well. Launch rescue buoy.”
“Launching rescue buoy.”
A gentle puff sound, not nearly as pronounced as launching a torpedo.
“Rescue buoy away, sir.”
“Very well.”
“Depth approaching nine hundred feet, sir,” the helmsman said.
“Very well.” Gomez wiped sweat from his forehead and watched the depth meter.
Depth 892 feet . . .
Depth 894 feet . . .
Depth 896 feet . . .
The high-pitched shrieking sound from the bow of the boat turned the heads of every crew member in the control room.
“What was that?” someone said.
The shrieking yielded to a grinding sound. The sound of metal on metal, as water pressure from the increasing depth pushed mightily against the hull of the sub. A thousand times as a boy and as a teenager, Gomez had crushed an empty soda can in his hands. Now the cold water of the Atlantic began crushing the Santa Cruz.
Depth 900 feet . . .
Depth 914 feet . . .
More shrieking
More grinding.
“Capitán!” the chief of the boat shouted. “We’ve got water flooding the berthing spaces below. Those men will drown unless we get them up here in the control room.”
“Very well,” Gomez said. “Order all hands to the control room. Now!”
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA San Juan
South Atlantic Ocean
7 miles SSE of last known position of ARA Santa Cruz
depth 200 feet
12:25 p.m. local time
With lights flashing and sonar screens sweeping inside the control room of the ARA San Juan, Commander Carlos Almeyda, the rookie commanding officer, could not grasp the queasy feeling that had settled in the bottom of his stomach. As an executive officer aboard the ARA Santa Cruz, he had never felt his stomach go queasy.
Not like this.
Could it be the strain of command?
Perhaps a case of the butterflies to mark his first solo combat voyage?
Capitán Gomez had never gotten nervous like this. In two years of serving as Gomez’s executive officer aboard the Santa Cruz, if Gomez had felt a tinge of nervousness, Almeyda had never witnessed it.
“Sonar Officer. Anything out there?”
“Nothing, Capitán. Passive sonar still revealing the sounds of the sea, sir. Would you like to light it up with an active ping?”
“That’s a negative,” Almeyda said. “Maintain passive sonar.”
“Maintain passive sonar. Aye, sir.”
“Radio. Prepare to launch communications buoy. Launch on my command.”
“Prepare to launch communications buoy. Aye, sir.”
Almeyda hoped that launching the communications buoy might allow him to pick up updated instructions transmitted from Buenos Aires.
“Communications buoy is ready for launch, sir.”
“Very well. Launch communications buoy.”
“Launch communications buoy. Aye, sir.”
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA Santa Cruz
South Atlantic Ocean
depth 950 feet
12:27 p.m. local time
This way! Hurry up!” the chief of the boat yelled.
Men from belowdecks scurri
ed up the black steel ladder into the control room one by one. Their boots and uniform pants were soaked with seawater. For some, the water line had reached their waists. For others, it was all the way to their chests.
“Get a move on. That water’s rising fast!”
The long grinding sound of metal on metal took on an eerie sound. Almost like a humpback whale.
“Approaching one thousand feet, sir,” the executive officer said.
Gomez eyed the depth meter.
Depth 960 feet . . .
Depth 972 feet . . .
More shrieking.
More grinding.
Their rate of descent had increased. Almost five feet per second. “All hands present and accounted for in the control room, Capitán!”
“Very well, Chief.”
Across the control room . . . from a voice full of fear . . . “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”
Someone else, “Blessed art thou amongst women.”
The voice of the helmsman, “Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus . . .”
“Here comes the water!” The chief of the boat pointed down into the ladder shaft.
Raging water bubbled up into the control room. Sheets of seawater quickly blanketed the deck.
Men packed together like sardines, shoulder to shoulder, waiting. Some prayed. Their voices blended together.
“Help us! God, help us!”
Icy water filled their boots. Then, quickly, up their pant legs.
Depth 1,000 feet . . .
Depth 1,015 feet . . .
“Hang on!”
The water rose above their waists.
Gomez looked over at his executive officer. “Thank you for everything, Pedro,” he said. “I wish we could have served longer together.”
The XO raised his hands out of the water, and the two men grasped hands as bubbling water rose up to their necks.
“Oh, dear God, no!”
Gomez stood on his tiptoes as the water reached his chin, trying to gasp for the diminishing layer of air over their heads.
“Good-bye, Capitán!” The XO raised his pistol out of the water, put it to his head, and pulled the trigger. Blood gushed into the water, and the XO’s body floated beside the capitán.
Only ten inches of air remained between the rising waterline and the ceiling.