The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  Some American liberals had even advocated prosecuting former president George W. Bush and former vice president Dick Cheney for “war crimes.” The Bush Administration defended the techniques as having prevented further acts of terror in the US for the next seven years and, later, as the basis for allowing the Obama Administration to hunt down and finally kill Osama bin Laden. And no GTMO detainees were executed short of a trial.

  Sosa believed that Montes might face a war crimes tribunal because he shot the poor British civilian, the one they called Williams.

  Now Montes had ordered him to carry out the next execution, specifically to kill Austin Rivers. Sosa realized this put him in an unenviable position.

  Execute Rivers and risk possible prosecution at a war crimes tribunal, possibly facing the same fate as such notorious characters as Saddam Hussein and Slobodan Milošević or . . .

  Refuse the order and risk a criminal court martial by the Argentine military and possible imprisonment. Surely he would be stripped of rank—ending his career.

  If he carried out the order and later was prosecuted for crimes against humanity, the fact that the order came from a superior officer would be no defense. Yet Rivers was military, not a civilian. Maybe executing Rivers wouldn’t be a war crime.

  Sosa wiped his hand across his forehead. Something seemed instinctively wrong about killing a defenseless man in cold blood. But Sosa had to admit that Montes did have a point. Eliminating Rivers would simplify the extraction of intelligence from the others.

  Fernando looked at the wall clock. 11:59 p.m.

  Twelve hours before the execution. Twelve hours to decide. What could he do? It would be a long night.

  What to do . . . better to be safe . . . Sosa got up and put on his thermal jacket. It would be better to do this now, before there were any witnesses.

  He felt for the pistol in his holster, then took the pistol out and chambered a bullet. Ready to fire. Montes could ridicule the Glock and boast about his seven-round .357 all he wanted. But at point-blank range, the Glock chambered twice as many rounds as Montes’ revolver.

  He reholstered the Glock and walked over to the small-arms locker. The safety key inserted easily. He turned it counterclockwise. Three more nine-millimeter Glock pistols were positioned side by side in the arms locker. Also in the arms locker were three EXO FailZero suppressors.

  The suppressors, or “silencers,” were more expensive than the guns themselves, costing about two thousand American dollars. But for killings and assassinations that needed to be accomplished without drawing attention to the fact, the silencers proved invaluable.

  Sosa screwed the silencers onto the barrels of all three guns.

  Stuffing two pistols in his back belt, he stuck the third inside his jacket. He checked the mirror to make sure the weapons were not visible.

  Good. The thick parka hid the outlines of the guns.

  He checked the clock on the wall, his heart pounding like a jackhammer.

  It was time.

  Magnolia Flats

  Kensington District

  West London

  11:00 p.m. local time

  Shelley sat on the edge of the prim sofa in the living room and sipped the French merlot that she had started the night before. With Aussie finally asleep in the next room and the lights off, she hoped the merlot would calm her nerves.

  But still, after having finished the first full glass, the alcohol had not assuaged her nerves.

  Why? Why did her conscience feel so tortured?

  Her time with Aussie had ignited a strange sense of irrepressible guilt whenever she gazed at the boy. An invisible knife stabbed her each and every time he called her Auntie Shelley. The pain worsened when, in his own sweet way, he repeated the words that Meg had taught him, “I love you, Aunt Shelley.”

  The merlot started soothing the nerves in her chest and arms.

  She got up, stepped over to the sound system, and flipped on BBC radio. The sounds of the Ulster Orchestra playing Handel filled the room. Aah—nothing like red wine and classical music, in this case Judas Maccabeus, to bring instant relaxation.

  She lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes. For a while, her mind drifted somewhere into the recesses between happier days and nagging regret.

  The announcer’s voice woke her from her slumber. “This is the BBC. We have breaking news from the South Atlantic. A British naval task force, led by the aircraft carrier HMS Queen Elizabeth, has been attacked by enemy submarines from the Republic of the Argentine. Information released moments ago from Number 10 indicates that two British ships have been torpedoed, including the HMS Queen Elizabeth and the merchant fleet ship M/S Thor Liberty. Two other British ships, the Royal Navy ship HMS Ocean and the Royal Fleet Auxiliary ship Black Rover, were unscathed in the attack.

  “Number 10 is reporting that while HMS Queen Elizabeth sustained serious damage in the attack, hope remains that she can be saved. Queen Elizabeth is sailing for safety in the waters near the Falkland Islands, the British territory claimed by Argentina since the mid-1900s.

  “However, Number 10 also reports that the merchant vessel M/S Thor Liberty, a British Merchant Marine freighter that was supporting the naval task force, was sunk in the torpedo attack. There are no details about any survivors of the Thor Liberty. The ship was commanded by Captain Bob Hudson, an experienced mariner and veteran Merchant Marine captain who joined the British Merchant Marine years ago after a sports injury prevented him from joining the Royal Navy.”

  “What?” Shelley sat up.

  “It is not known whether Captain Hudson or any of his crew survived.”

  “God! Please, no!”

  “The BBC has been told that Prime Minister Mulvaney has briefed King Charles about the situation. Britain has launched a protest with the United Nations, and various sources report that more Royal Navy warships are being dispatched to the area.

  “Once again. Breaking news from the South Atlantic . . .”

  “Dear God, no! Please!” Shelley buried her face in her hands and began to weep.

  Belgrano II base camp

  Antarctica

  8:02 p.m. local time

  Fernando Sosa stepped out of the geodesic dome into the open center area of the camp, the space referred to by the Argentine soldiers as the “snowy courtyard.” The sun, which still hung low this time of year, hid behind a cloud cover rolling in from the Weddell Sea.

  Sosa eyed the landscape. Two guards stood outside the Command Dome, located three domes to the right of the Intelligence Dome. Montes would be inside. Hopefully he would remain in the Command Dome.

  Other armed guards bearing Russian-made AK-47 assault rifles milled about in the snow-covered courtyard. Three stood huddled together off to the right, chatting and smoking cigarettes. Two more stood talking at the center of the courtyard, fifty yards away, also smoking, under the flagpole bearing the colors of the Argentine Republic.

  Two more guards, one hundred yards across the courtyard, stood guarding the entrance of the geodesic dome housing the prisoners, with two more standing nearby.

  With purposeful strides, Sosa marched across the snowy courtyard, past the smoking soldiers under the flagpole, exchanging limp salutes with them, and trudged on without making eye contact.

  When he approached the entry of the prisoners’ dome, the guards snapped to attention with sharp salutes.

  Fernando returned the salute. “Open the door. I am going in for a word with the prisoners.”

  “Would you like for one of us to accompany you, sir?” the sergeant on the right asked.

  “That won’t be necessary, Sergeant. I need a mano-a-mano with a couple of these Brits, and then things will go a lot more smoothly around here. If I’m not out within thirty minutes, then you can come in and do whatever you need to do. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kensington Gardens

  Princess Diana Memorial Playground

  London

  10:00 a.m. local tim
e

  In the green surroundings of Kensington Gardens, at the Princess Diana Memorial Playground, Shelley sat on a bench under unusually sunny skies. Donning a pair of shades, she watched Aussie running and squealing with delight.

  She had followed the BBC all night and into the early hours of the morning, and still no news of the fate of the man she had once loved but had kicked to the curb over something over which he had no control. So far, the broadcast words had not changed. “No word on the captain of the Thor Liberty or of its crew, who are feared to have perished in the cold waters of the South Atlantic.”

  The words rang in her head all night. No new information on Bob’s ship in the morning. The Thor Liberty was an irrelevant afterthought in the focus of the news. People were interested in the Queen Elizabeth. Not so much the Thor Liberty.

  But Bob was no afterthought to her. Not even after all these years. If only she had not rebuffed him and they’d gotten married. Perhaps he would have become an accountant or something and he would still be alive.

  Then again, nothing would have kept him from the sea. He would still have joined the Merchant Marine.

  Or perhaps not. She would never know.

  But one thing she now knew after the events of the last eleven hours—her flame for him, though it had flickered over the years, had never died.

  Now the waters of the South Atlantic had doused the last of any hopes of that flame reigniting.

  Lucky she wore large dark shades to hide the tears cresting over her cheeks. If only she had someone to talk to. Someone who would listen. She reached into her purse and retrieved a hankie and dabbed her cheeks.

  “What a lovely boy.” The sweet, kind-sounding voice came from over her right shoulder.

  Shelley looked up.

  The elderly woman wore a black nun’s habit. Her hauntingly blue eyes seemed to glow. “Is the boy yours?” The woman’s voice projected overpowering love.

  “Do I know you, Sister?” Shelley asked.

  No response. Only a radiant, peaceful smile with an inexplicable magnetism.

  Tears, once again, started flowing down Shelley’s cheeks.

  “I apologize.” Shelley dabbed her eyes again. “No, Sister, the boy isn’t mine. I am watching him for my best friend while she is out of the country.”

  “Our Lord does have a strange sense of humor. Does he not?”

  “I’m sorry, Sister. I don’t understand.”

  “It’s all right, my daughter.” The nun touched Shelley’s shoulder. “This is all you need to understand. No matter what storms we are facing, God will lead us through and provide comfort.”

  Who was this woman? Where was she from? “I feel as if the storms in my life are greater than they have ever been.”

  “I can sense this, daughter. We all face deep, dark nights of the soul. The past is the past. But God calls us in the present and into the future, and his Son died and rose from the grave to give us hope for the future. Wherever he calls you, whatever voice he uses, make sure you respond and make sure you go. In him there is hope for the future.”

  “Aunt Shelley! My shoe!” Aussie was sitting on the ground and pointing at his feet.

  “It appears that he has lost a shoe.” The nun chuckled. “You better attend to him.”

  “Of course, Sister. I’ll be back.”

  Shelley got up and walked toward Little Aussie. “What’s the matter?”

  “My shoe!” the boy protested, pointing at his foot.

  “Aah. I see. Your shoe came untied. Auntie Shelley will take care of it.”

  She went down on one knee, kissed the boy on the head, and then slid his left foot back into his shoe and tied it for him. “There! Go play with your friends.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Shelley!” Aussie gave her a bear hug and ran back over to his playmates.

  Shelley dusted the dirt off the knees of her jeans and stood. “Sister?” Shelley walked back over to the bench where the mysterious nun had appeared. Off to the left, a group of women were chatting. “Pardon me, ladies. Did any of you see a nun? She was just here, dressed in black. Did you see where she went?”

  The women shook their heads, then returned to their conversation.

  Shelley’s cell phone rang. She rushed back over to the park bench to fish it out.

  Meggie calling . . .

  “Meggie!” Shelley exclaimed. “Is it really you?”

  “Shelley. I need to ask you something. And if you cannot do this, I will understand.”

  “Sure. You know you can ask anything of me.”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated.

  “Go ahead and ask, Meg.” Shelley looked over toward Aussie. So far so good with the shoe.

  “I need you and Aussie here. If I pay for all of your expenses, would you consider coming to Chile and bringing Aussie with you? . . . The authorities here at the British Embassy have been wonderful and are prepared to smooth all travel obstacles on humanitarian grounds because Aussie is Austin’s son. I know it’s last second . . . and I know . . . Shelley? Are you there? It’s okay if you can’t do it.”

  “I’m sorry, I spaced out.”

  “Are you all right, Shelley?”

  “Just thinking about something someone just told me, that’s all.”

  “Do you want to call me back?”

  “No. Give me a second.”

  She looked out in every direction, trying to see the nun. How could she have come and gone so quickly?

  Wherever he calls you, whatever voice he uses, make sure you respond and make sure you go. In him there is hope for the future.

  “Shelley, are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. I’m glad you called. I can’t explain it. But something tells me I need to be with you there in Chile as much as you need me there. Yes. Of course I’ll come. I’ll start making the arrangements. Aussie and I will be on the first flight out of Heathrow. I’ll call you as soon as I know the flight number and the time.”

  “I love you, Shelley.”

  Peninsula los Molles

  overlooking the Pacific

  Valparaiso, Chile

  6:50 a.m. local time

  The Peninsula los Molles, the peninsula that had been compared in its shape to the American state of Wisconsin, jutted out into the Pacific to the north and west of the city of Valparaiso.

  The peninsula is the natural arm that buffers the inner harbor from winds and the sea in times of rough weather and storms. This jutting landmass makes Valparaiso a splendid natural harbor, keeping the waters around the city’s docks and piers calm even on days when the Pacific is not so calm. The peninsula also affords the best view of the bay and of ships entering and exiting the harbor. Despite the magnificent view, Maria rarely drove out here unless an out-of-town visitor came for an overnight stay and she needed a place to show off one of the prime views of the city.

  In her handful of visits here, she had never come before seven in the morning. Nor had she been here at any other time in the morning.

  But then again, she had never met a man like Peter Miranda—a stubborn, conservative, ruggedly handsome right-wing American who ridiculed her political beliefs but had a powerful ability to make her melt.

  Suddenly politics and debates and arguments seemed foolish, all shoveled by his powerful charm onto the ash heap of irrelevancy.

  He said he would be heading out to sea this morning, about sevenish.

  She wanted to be as close as she could be to catch a glimpse of him, maybe wave a longing good-bye, perhaps even blow him a kiss.

  This early in the morning, the air was still over the harbor, the water still glassy. Most boats remained secured in their slips. Off to the right, along the main shoreline of the port, the Valparaiso waterfront had not yet awakened.

  She checked her watch.

  No sign of the sub.

  Sadness flooded her.

  Was yesterday their final good-bye?

  How foolish she felt, high over a still-sleeping city, waiting for t
he possibility of a passing glimpse of a submarine captained by a man she barely knew but who had in an inexplicable and incomprehensible way invaded and stolen every crevice of her heart.

  She had to get hold of herself. She should leave. That would be best. Besides, she had work to do. Pete Miranda was a passing, crazy fancy. What had she been thinking?

  Maria reached into her purse for her keys. As she glanced up from her purse, a movement in the periphery of her vision sent her heart into a frenzy.

  There!

  The sleek black submarine slipped out from behind a moored passenger ship.

  The sub cut a slow course, moving from the inner recesses of the harbor out toward the open sea. Her wake sent long swells rolling across the glassy water in both directions.

  The sight of three men on the top of the submarine quickened her heart. Was that Pete looking out over the water? From this distance, she could not say for sure. But in her heart, she knew.

  So much for simply driving away, going about her business, forgetting him, chalking him up to a short-term crush.

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she began to do something that she had not done in years. As she watched the sub pick up speed, heading out to the open sea, she began to pray.

  “God, bring him back. If you are real, please bring him back.”

  CS Miro

  1 mile west of Valparaiso naval facility

  Valparaiso, Chile

  7:00 a.m. local time

  As the sun rose over the peaks of the snowcapped Andes mountain range to the east, the nuclear-powered Los Angeles–class attack submarine formerly known as the USS City of Corpus Christi and now the CS Miro powered to the west into the calm waters of the Pacific.

  In command of the Miro, at the top of the conning tower, Pete Miranda engaged in his good-luck ritual that he practiced before every dive. First, a lungful of fresh morning air, the last he would get before the sub surfaced again, if she did surface again.