The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  One of the fringe benefits of being a sub commander was that the captain, along with whoever he invited up on the conning tower before a dive, would be the last crew members to see the open skies above the earth.

  With his crew at work below him in the black steel hull of the submarine, Pete spent the last few minutes topside with his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Norman Rodman, and Commander Oscar Romero, the Chilean captain who would assume command of the sub when they returned—if they returned.

  Pete had faced death before. He never took this moment before a dive for granted. This could be his final view of land, standing in the conning tower.

  From his front pocket he extracted three items—a long Macanudo cigar, a Bic lighter, and a cigar cutter.

  “You gentlemen care for a cigar?”

  They both shook their heads and appeared to return to their own silent thoughts.

  Smoking, even smoking a fine Dominican stogie like a Macanudo, had become politically incorrect over the years.

  But Pete could not care less. Political correctness could burn in the depths of hell as far as he was concerned.

  He turned around, longing for one final glance of the snowcapped Andes of his father’s fatherland.

  Was this his last view ever of Chile?

  The first drag on the Macanudo sent him into a philosophical mood.

  The way his grandmother explained it, we were called to our destiny if we were part of God’s “elect.”

  Pete was a sub commander. He was no theologian. He didn’t know what all that meant. But deep down, he believed his grandmother.

  Another drag of the cigar.

  Why him?

  Why now?

  The practice of nations loaning officers to the militaries of allied nations dated back to the beginning of the republic. France loaned Lafayette to the American colonies in the Revolutionary War. The father of the US Navy, the Scottish-born John Paul Jones, later accepted a position as an admiral in the Russian Navy in their Black Sea naval wars against the Turks.

  In the opening days of World War II, United States Army Air Corps pilots joined their British Royal Air Force comrades in the dark days of 1940, when for three months Nazi bombers tried to bomb Britain into oblivion in what would become known as the Battle of Britain.

  Now, sailing into the Pacific as an American officer on loan to Chile, Pete joined the ranks of an elite group of warriors entrusted by America to carry out a military mission not only as a warrior but as an ambassador of America.

  So when Admiral Chuck “Bulldog” Elyea told him in Hawaii of this assignment to Chile, Pete had expected to be detailed to a training mission. He had not expected to go to war.

  The unexpected surprise of war he could handle.

  But the unexpected surprise named Maria Vasquez? She was another matter.

  He had seen many women since his divorce . . . women he could handle. But something very different about Maria made her stand out. Something he could not put his finger on.

  Would this election that his grandmother spoke of help him with what he had lost in the past? Maybe let someone into his life?

  Or was his destiny to die at sea?

  Enough ruminating.

  He flicked the cigar overboard and checked his watch.

  Time to go to work.

  “XO, take her down,” Pete ordered.

  “Take her down. Aye, sir,” Commander Rodman picked up the microphone on the bridge. “Control. Bridge.” A brief pause. “Sounding.”

  “Bridge. Control. Sounding one . . . two . . . zero fathoms.”

  “Lookouts, clear the bridge!” the XO ordered.

  “Clear the bridge. Aye, sir.” Three orange-jacketed lookouts scrambled down the aluminum ladder to the control room.

  “Officer of the deck, prepare to dive!”

  Pete descended the ladder and hopped from the last step to the control room floor. “Captain is down.”

  “Captain is down!” the officer of the deck parroted.

  The Chilean officer, Commander Romero, followed Pete to his post.

  The clanking and rumbling of shoes on the steel-grate floors echoed throughout the sub as men jogged down metal ladders to get to their stations. Some slid down the handrails to their positions. Red lights flashed on and off. A cacophony of sirens filled the air.

  “XO down,” Rodman said as his feet hit the deck of the control room.

  “XO is down!” the officer of the deck repeated.

  “Submerge the ship!” Pete ordered.

  “Diving Officer, submerge the ship!” the XO repeated. “Make your depth one-five-zero feet.”

  “Make my depth one-five-zero feet! Aye, sir!” the diving officer repeated. “Chief of the watch. On the 1-MC!” The diving officer’s order boomed over every loudspeaker on the sub.

  “Dive!”

  “Dive!”

  “Dive!”

  “Make your depth one-five-zero feet,” the diving officer said to the planesman, the young petty officer who sat at the control of the submarine. “Five degrees down bubble.”

  The planesman pushed the “steering wheel” down.

  Miro’s nose angled down and slipped under the surface. Geysers of water shot up as rushing seawater flooded the ballast tanks in the forward section of the sub.

  Time was of the essence. Pete had to get Miro on station and in a position to perform the mission if President Surber ordered it.

  “Approaching one-five-zero feet,” the diving officer said.

  “Very well,” Pete said. “Set course for one-eight-zero degrees. All ahead two-thirds.”

  “One-eight-zero degrees,” the OOD parroted, and Miro turned on a course due south. “All ahead two-thirds.”

  “Maneuvering. Conn. All ahead two-thirds.”

  “All ahead two-thirds.”

  Miro’s engines revved. She sliced through the depths, a silent hunter-killer on a life-or-death mission.

  El Libro y la Taza

  Santiago, Chile

  10:48 a.m. local time

  Near her small hotel near the British Embassy, Meg had found warmth and understanding and hospitality at a cozy hole-in-the-wall that felt like a home away from home.

  El Libro y la Taza, which in English means The Book and the Cup, was established by an English expatriate years ago, right around the corner from the British Embassy, to satisfy the near-perpetual needs of embassy employees for spots of tea, cheeses, and various scones and light fruits.

  Meg wondered why the owner-founder, Mister Johnson, in marketing to a niche British clientele in the midst of Santiago, had chosen the Spanish name instead of its English equivalent. A waiter told her the owner had hoped to lure native Chileans in as customers, and although the small tea pub never took off among the locals, he stubbornly kept the Spanish name. And so El Libro y la Taza had become a small British oasis in the midst of a great South American capital.

  The enchanting scent of fresh-baked scones evoked flashes of her favorite London afternoon tea spots.

  Meg closed her eyes and allowed her mind to wander to happier and simpler times, to reflect on peaceful respites in the midst of a sea of personal anxiety in a land across the ocean seven thousand miles from home. Soon she would have her son with her, and her best friend too.

  The thought of Aussie’s face brought a smile to her own.

  “Could I bring you anything, miss?” She opened her eyes at the sound of a British accent.

  “Another spot, please?”

  “Of course, madame,” the aging Englishman said.

  It was once true that “the sun never sets on British soil.” While that great Briticism was no longer true, one truth about the British remained. In all corners of the globe, the British took care of the British.

  The waiter stepped away, and Meg battled conflicted feelings. Her heart twisted in a raging turmoil that she could not control. The nightmare had scared her at around four in the morning and had rendered her sleepless for the rest of
the dark hours.

  The scene on a dreary British day, typically gray, chilly, and somber, had been all too clear. She, Aussie, and Shelley, at RAF Northolt Air Base outside London, stood on the wet tarmac, accompanied by a Navy priest.

  Christmas was less than a week away, and as the large green cargo jet landed and began to slowly taxi its way over toward where they were standing, a Royal Navy chorus began a slow, melodic rendition of Austin’s favorite Christmas carol, “Drive the Cold Winter Away”:

  All hail to the days that merit more praise Than all the rest of the year,

  And welcome the nights that double delights As well for the poor as the peer!

  Good fortune attend each merry man’s friend, That doth but the best that he may;

  Forgetting old wrongs, with carols and songs, To drive the cold winter away.

  As the Navy chorus finished the first stanza of the carol, the plane stopped only feet from where they stood. A large cargo door opened in the back of the plane, and a ramp extended down to the tarmac.

  The Royal Navy band, standing at attention beside the chorus, began a solemn rendition of “God Save the King” as an honor guard of six SBS members in navy blue uniforms slowly walked a casket down the ramp.

  They covered the casket with the Union Jack, and a corner of the flag kept flapping in the brisk December breeze.

  The honor guard set the casket on the pedestal in front of them, and Meg woke up, heart pounding, tears flowing.

  God was preparing her for the inevitable. She knew it.

  Austin was going to die.

  Aussie would be fatherless.

  Meg wanted to cry out and pray to God. Her mind flashed to the kind nun who spoke to her nearly five years ago on the day scheduled for the abortion. What became of her? Perhaps she was an angel from God. She had appeared and just disappeared. If only somehow she were here now.

  “Your tea, madame.” The waiter returned with a sliver tray with a pot of hot tea, scones, and fruits. “You look tired. So I took the liberty of bringing a few extra munchies, in case you were hungry.”

  “Thank you, George.”

  “My pleasure, madame. Is there anything else that I can do for you?”

  Meg hesitated. “Do you know of a priest who might be nearby?”

  “A priest?” The waiter looked quizzical. “Is everything all right?”

  “I don’t know. I need someone to pray for me and I thought, who better than a priest?”

  The waiter smiled. “I’ve been told that we don’t need a priest to pray for us. That we can pray on our own. All we must do is talk to God and he will listen. About anything. Wherever we are. And he will listen.”

  “Oh. Yes, I agree. But when it comes to prayer, I believe there’s strength in numbers.” She looked at him. “Do you believe in answered prayer, George? Have you ever witnessed it with your own eyes?”

  “Yes, a few times. Although not always.”

  “Really? Would you mind telling me?”

  “I had lost my job at the local newspaper and needed employment to be able to stay in the country. I prayed for a job. Then one day one of my mates told me about this place, that they were looking for someone. I came in and they hired me immediately.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But you also said that prayers were not always answered.”

  “Not all mine anyway.”

  “For instance?” She sipped her tea.

  “Well, last year the doctor diagnosed my mum with cancer back in London. As she got sicker, I prayed that God would heal her. But she died at home with my brother.”

  “I am so sorry, George.”

  “Thank you. A priest once told me that we have all been appointed a time to die, and if it’s our time, it’s our time.”

  Those words hit her like a wet blanket. “Not exactly what I wanted to hear, George. If God answers some prayers and not others, and if we all have a time to die anyway, then why even pray?”

  Tall, balding, and midforties looking, George studied her with a raised eyebrow. “Are you worried that someone close to you is going to die?”

  “Yes. A sick premonition, actually. The father of my child. He may already be dead, for all I know.”

  “I am sorry. But the way I look at it, if the chances of answered prayer are at least fifty-fifty, then why not pray? Tell you what. I will personally pray for you and the father of your son. I cannot promise a result, but I can promise to pray. And I will.”

  “Thank you, George.”

  “Oh, and one other thing, if I may?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “A Christian friend once told me something, and I have found this to be true. He said, ‘George, no matter what storms we are facing, God will lead us through and provide comfort.’ ”

  Belgrano II base camp

  Antarctica

  11:50 a.m. local time

  The beep-beep on Lieutenant Fernando Sosa’s watch signaled the time—ten minutes until the scheduled execution of the British prisoner Austin Rivers.

  Fernando holstered his Glock and donned the thermal jacket.

  The front door of the dome flew open, ushering in a blast of freezing air and swirling ice particles. A wrenching feeling gripped his stomach.

  “Are you prepared to carry out your duties, Lieutenant Sosa?” Montes snarled, standing outside the dome.

  “Yes, mi capitán. I am prepared.”

  “Excellent,” Montes bellowed. “Step into the courtyard and prepare to receive your final instructions.”

  Sosa stepped out into a light snow. Although the sun remained hidden behind the clouds, he donned a pair of shades to dim the near-blinding effect of all the white.

  “Over there, under the flagpole, I have instructed some of our soldiers to erect the execution pole . . . right there.”

  Montes pointed to a black creosote-soaked post about eight feet high. The post stood as a cruel death pole . . . standing in the midst of the falling and blowing snow, an eerie and ominous contrast centrally visible against the placid white snowscape. The sight of it ignited memories of a homily that Father Joseph had delivered in Buenos Aires a few months earlier, when the priest described Christ being tied to a pole and lashed thirty-nine times before being brought back before Pilate to face news of his final fate.

  “Sosa? Did you hear me?”

  “My apologies, Capitán. My mind had wandered elsewhere.”

  “Get your mind in the game, Lieutenant. And NOW!”

  “My apologies, sir. It will not happen again.”

  “Back to protocol,” Montes continued. “We shall strap Rivers to the pole. We shall follow all the humanitarian protocols required of a legally acceptable execution. First, we will offer him a cigarette. And then we offer him an opportunity to say a few words. And then we blindfold him.

  “The other British prisoners, of course, will stand off to the side, guarded at gunpoint, but with a clear view to witness the event.

  “At that point, with Rivers tied to the post, I will ceremoniously hand you the execution instrument, which of course is my personal .357 revolver. As you know, it is an honor to carry out this mission with this glorious weapon.”

  Montes’ eyes morphed into a trance-like state while he described his revolver, as if it were some type of god-object.

  “Yes, sir. It will be a high honor to carry this out with your revolver, Capitán.”

  “Yes, well.” Montes’ eyes thawed from their trance, as if he had returned from an alternate universe. “I shall hand the revolver to you. You are to pause and to befittingly hold the revolver high up to the heavens for all to see—especially the prisoners.

  “Then after that, you are to take aim slowly, and you will fire into the skull of the prisoner. The bullet will explode his skull, killing him instantly. His body will slump. His hands will remain tied behind his back to the execution pole.

  “As he slumps, you are to fire two additional shots into the body. Space t
he second and third shots approximately two seconds apart to maximize drama and psychological leverage with the Brits. This will send the message to cooperate, or they will be shot in the same way. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, Capitán. I understand. First shot to the head. Two more shots to the body as he slumps down the execution pole.”

  Montes unleashed a delighted laugh. “You will make an excellent commander one day, Sosa.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Very well.” Montes turned and yelled out, “Ruiz, Alonso, Torres, Dominguez! Come! Come here.”

  Four crack soldiers, members of the execution detail, trudged over through the snow.

  “Gentlemen,” Montes said, “Lieutenant Sosa and I are going into the prison dome. You will come with us. We are going to order the prisoners out into the courtyard for the execution. The condemned will be tied to the post. You will stand the rest of the prisoners, the witnesses, over there in a straight line. Remember. Only one other appears to be military. So I do not anticipate any problems. But if anyone tries to interfere, you will shoot them on the spot. Is that clear?”

  “Si, Capitán.”

  “Si, Capitán.”

  “Very well. Let us proceed.” They walked over to the entrance of the prison dome. “Open it,” Montes said.

  The armed guard on the left opened the door and stepped back.

  “Ruiz, Alonso, Torres, Dominguez! The four of you go in first. Round the prisoners into the middle of the dome and call me when you have finished.”

  “Si, Capitán.” The four soldiers walked into the dome. A few minutes later, Ruiz called out, “The prisoners are ready, Capitán.”

  “Very well. Here is our plan. We will go in and I, as base commander, will inform Austin Rivers of his death sentence. Then we shall solemnly march them into the courtyard for the ceremonies. The cigarette ceremony, the blindfolding, and the last words will be taken care of. Lieutenant Sosa, all you then need to do is take the revolver and carry out the execution.”

  Sosa nodded.

  “Are you ready?”