The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

“Ready, sir.”

  “Very well,” Montes said. “Let’s get on with it.”

  They stepped into the prisoners’ dome, Montes leading the way. Sosa noticed a faint yet distinct stench of sewage that he had not smelled yesterday.

  The British prisoners were huddled in the center of the room. The four armed guards stood in a semicircle along the periphery of the dome.

  Montes stepped forward and waved Sosa to step forward with him.

  “Leftenant Austin Rivers! Royal Navy! Front and center!”

  Rivers stepped forward and came to attention.

  “I regret to inform you, Rivers,” Montes said, “that your time has come.”

  “My time has come?” Rivers quipped. “Ya don’t say. Time for what? For some more of this bloody horrible excuse of a porridge meal you’ve been feeding us?”

  “The time has come . . . Rivers . . . for you to die.”

  “I think you have it bloody wrong, ole boy.”

  It happened faster than a flash of lightning. Rivers whipped out a pistol and fired before Sosa could blink.

  In an incredible whirl of precision, Rivers and one of the other Brits, who also brandished a smoking pistol, had shot the four Argentine soldiers between the eyes.

  Rivers had the gun barrel aimed straight at Montes’ nose before the Capitán could think about reacting.

  “Looks like your shipmates aren’t having a jolly good day, ole chap.” Rivers grinned and nodded at the bodies of the soldiers sprawled out on the concrete floor, faces covered in blood.

  “Where . . . where did you get that pistol? . . . That silencer?” Montes said in little more than a whisper.

  “Never underestimate His Majesty’s Special Forces,” Rivers said. “Captain Dunn, grab the rifles off the bodies. We’ll put them to good use. Then cover the door. If anyone comes in, take ’em out with the handgun.”

  “Yes, sir, Leftenant,” Dunn said.

  “You shall never get away with this,” Montes snapped.

  “Perhaps not,” Rivers said. “But I shall have a ton of fun at your expense. Hands up! And down on your knees! Both of you.” Rivers kept the gun pointed at Montes’ head. “Unless you want me to turn your brains into scrambled eggs.”

  Montes looked at Sosa. “Do as he says.”

  “Very good,” Rivers said.

  Sosa and Montes dropped to their knees, hands up.

  “Now listen carefully. Unholster your sidearms, put them on the floor, and slide them in this direction. And don’t try anything. Unless you want to get into a fast-draw competition with one of His Majesty’s SBS officers.”

  Sosa glanced over at Montes. He hoped Montes would not try something stupid, given the capitán’s strange obsession with his revolver. Then Sosa, wasting no time, put his Glock on the concrete floor and slid it toward Rivers.

  “Good!” Rivers said. “Now you!”

  Montes’ face contorted into an angry grimace. His lips trembling with anger, he unholstered the silver revolver, gently placed it on the floor, and then slid it across toward Rivers.

  Rivers reached down and picked up the revolver and studied it in the light. “An interesting revolver. My compliments to you, Capitán. But this gun does look somehow familiar. Captain Dunn, does this weapon look familiar to you?”

  “Aye, Leftenant,” the Scottish Marine said. “A fine weapon indeed. But you are right, sir, she does look familiar.”

  “Yes, Captain Dunn. One of those fine revolvers that serves a dual purpose. Sort of a dual-purpose weapon, say . . . One purpose might be shooting an unarmed man. A second purpose might be to pistol-whip an unarmed man. Hmm?”

  “I think you may be onto something, Leftenant,” Dunn said.

  “Why don’t we solicit the capitán’s input on the matter,” Rivers said. “After all, he is the proprietor of this weapon.”

  “A fine idea, sir,” Dunn said.

  “What say you, Capitán?” Rivers glared at Montes. “Would you agree that this fine weapon has the multifunctional capabilities of fulfilling multiple purposes?”

  Montes glared back at Rivers but did not respond.

  “Not going to answer, are you?” Rivers said. “Very well then, this is for our Father Bach, as you call him.” Rivers smashed the gun against the right side of Montes’ face, knocking him to the floor. Blood streamed from Montes’ nose and mouth and dripped onto the concrete.

  “Please, Leftenant,” Bach said. “That isn’t necessary. Not on account of me. I know he hit me yesterday, but the Bible says turn the other cheek.”

  “Oh, I’ll turn his other cheek,” Rivers said, “and I’ll break the bones on that side of the dog’s face too.”

  “Please. No, Leftenant,” Bach pleaded.

  But Rivers ignored the little man’s plea. He reached down, grabbed Montes by the collar, pulled him to his feet, and with a powerful blow, smashed the gun against the other side of his face.

  Montes collapsed to the floor again, his nose and his mouth spewing more blood.

  “There, Mister Bach. As you suggested. I turned his other cheek. On your feet, dog!” Rivers commanded. “I said, on your feet!”

  Montes reacted slowly, appearing to be dazed.

  “You.” Rivers looked at Sosa. “Help your comrade to his feet.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sosa said. He reached down and lifted Montes under the armpits. Montes staggered but managed to get back on his feet.

  “Bach,” Rivers said, “since you are the one who asked me to turn the capitán’s other cheek, how about checking the WC for some paper. You can wipe the blood off his face before I draw some more from elsewhere.”

  “Yes, of course, Leftenant.”

  When the man Montes had sarcastically called Father Bach opened the bathroom door to get tissue paper, the scent of sewage magnified. Bach walked back out, a wad of paper in one hand, and closed the door. He went to stand by Rivers.

  “Clean his face, Bach,” Rivers said.

  “Of course, Leftenant.” Bach stepped over to Montes and began dabbing blood off his face.

  In a hushed, almost whispered tone, as if he wanted no one else to hear, Bach spoke to Montes. “I forgive you for what you did to me. And God will forgive you too, if only you will accept him.”

  Montes did not respond. He just looked away.

  “All finished, Leftenant.”

  “Thank you, Bach, that looks better,” Rivers said. “Step aside.”

  Bach tossed the tissue paper into a wastebasket at the side of the room.

  “You know, el Capitán,” Rivers said, “as Bach started cleaning that bloody mess off your bloody face, I thought of a third functional purpose for that revolver of yours. Yes, how could I forget? This fabulous weapon can be used to magically make an unarmed innocent man dance to the delight of the holder of the weapon. Sort of like you when you made the chap you called Sir Williams dance . . . before you shot him in cold blood. You do remember Sir Williams, don’t you, Capitán?”

  Again, Montes remained silent, sullen.

  “What’s wrong, Capitán? Kittycat got your tongue?”

  Still no response.

  “Don’t want to chat? No problem, ole chap. Tell ya what. Rather than give us a speech, how about a little tap dance? Hmm? Kinda like you made Williams dance?”

  Montes stood stone-faced.

  “Don’t feel like a tap dance? That’s all right. Too bad. How about a ballet dance then? I’ve heard all the men in Argentina are into ballet.”

  “Please, Leftenant,” Bach pleaded.

  Montes stared at Rivers. Rivers returned the stare.

  “Well, all right then. You know, I think your versatile weapon can make a man dance without even wasting a bullet.” Holding the gun by the barrel, Rivers smashed it into Montes’ groin.

  “Aaaaaahhhhhhhhh!” Montes bent over, his knees hitting the floor again.

  “How delightful. So fleet afoot.” Rivers chuckled. “Too bad Williams couldn’t witness that. Captain Dunn. Don’t you thi
nk Williams would have enjoyed the capitán’s exquisite little tap dance?”

  “Oh, immensely, sir,” Dunn said.

  “Now that you have been given a fine British welcome, Mister Monte, it is my duty to inform you that you are in the custody of His Majesty’s government. You are going to do what I tell you, or it will be my pleasure to scramble your worthless brain like a pot of breakfast stew. Now . . . call your second in command, and you are going to do everything I tell you.”

  Rivers pulled Montes up by the collar and stuck the capitán’s own revolver against the back of his head. “Listen carefully, Montes. You and I are going to walk to the door, and we’re going to open the door, and you are going to order your men to lay down their weapons. Then you are going to call for your second in command and order him to do everything I say. Is that clear?” Rivers jammed the barrel of the revolver hard against Montes’ skull.

  “Clear,” Montes said.

  “All right. Gentlemen, don your all-weather gear. We’re getting ready to take a trip. Bach, go open the door and stand back, out of the line of fire.”

  “Yes, Leftenant.”

  The door swung open, Bach stepped back, and Rivers, literally breathing down the capitán’s neck with his revolver against his temple, pushed Montes to the entrance. “Tell ’em, Montes! Now!”

  “Lay down your weapons! Hold your fire! Bring Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez here! Now!”

  Belgrano II base camp

  Antarctica

  11:58 a.m. local time

  Lieutenant Colonel Ramon Sanchez, former base commander of Belgrano II but demoted to executive officer, sat at his desk in his quarters. His new job involved record-keeping—maintaining troop musters and mission logs and requisitions orders and so forth—all part of the job description of every second in command in every efficient military unit in the world.

  Stay in the background—make the commander look good.

  Sanchez resented the demotion and resented the humiliating duty, having to remain on the base he had once commanded to work under Montes, a loose-cannon cowboy.

  His superiors had informed him that he would be transferred out of Belgrano as soon as a new post opened for him. But until then . . . Frustrated by the delay, he was, at that moment, processing an expedited request for change of orders. He hoped his buddy at Army headquarters in Buenos Aires could work some magic and get him out fast.

  Sanchez logged onto the secure line to Buenos Aires and hit the Send button.

  There. Finished.

  He glanced up at the clock.

  Two minutes before the execution. At least Montes had not ordered him to attend. The British prisoner, Rivers, had done nothing to warrant being shot at the stake. Sanchez knew Montes would doctor official records, trumping up justifiable charges to cover his actions, and there were enough British-haters at Army headquarters to look the other way.

  Montes would kill Rivers, intimidating the rest of the British, especially the civilians, into saying anything he wanted. Montes would extract sensitive information and be hailed the hero.

  Personally, those tactics made Sanchez ill. Perhaps that was why he had been replaced, he thought.

  The high command knew what they were getting when they sent Montes to replace him. Montes, known as a ruthless interrogator, would use CIA-like tactics and worse to get the information they wanted. High command wanted all the classified information about the oil reserves the British had found. And no better source existed for that intelligence than the British petro-engineers being held in the prison dome across camp.

  War was war, but there had to be a better way than trumping up an excuse to shoot a man execution style.

  Three sharp raps on the door.

  “Enter!”

  “Mi colonel. We have a hostage situation unfolding at the prison dome!”

  “What? Who?”

  “The capitán and Lieutenant Sosa. The British have taken them hostage. The capitán has ordered our troops to stand down and is calling for you now.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “I do not know, sir, but the capitán is calling for you.”

  “I will be right there.”

  Belgrano II base camp

  Antarctica

  11:59 a.m. local time

  Captain Dunn. Can you come over here and give me a hand with Capitán Yellowbelly? I need to have a word with the men.”

  “Aye, Leftenant.” Dunn walked over to Montes and stuck his revolver to the back of Montes’ head as he stood in the open doorway.

  Rivers turned back toward the center of the dome, keeping his gun trained on Sosa. “You people listen up and listen fast. When all this began . . . when they attacked us . . . there were twelve of us. We’re down to ten. I need you all to stand up like men and be prepared to kill if necessary. It’s either us or them. Are you with me?”

  “Yes, Leftenant.”

  “Edwards, you were Royal Army. Remember how to fire an M-16?”

  “Can I fire an M-16? Leftenant, I was Highlanders, 4th Battalion, Royal Scots Regiment. With respect, I can load, unload, and fire an M-16 in my sleep.”

  “Excellent. I’m depending on you. These rifles we took off these dead soldiers are FARA 83s. Not as good as the M-16, but good enough. Their operation is virtually identical. Thirty-round clip. Action lever on the right. We have four of them. Soon we should have more. Grab one of them, work the action, and get it ready to fire. Then show your mates here how to do the same. You are engineers. You should catch on fast.”

  “Aye, Leftenant,” Edwards said.

  “Leftenant,” Dunn said, “the second in command is out in the courtyard.”

  “You”—Rivers nodded at Sosa—“what is your name and rank?” He said it loud enough for Montes to hear. He owed it to Sosa to cover the fact that Sosa had, by saving his life, betrayed the Argentineans.

  “Sosa. Fernando. Lieutenant, Army of Argentina.”

  “Mister Sosa. You will be a human shield like your friend the capitán. Over here. Now.” Rivers put his gun to Sosa’s head. “We are going to walk slowly outside the door and stand right beside Captain Dunn and the capitán. You know the drill. Make a wrong move and you’re a dead man.”

  “I understand.”

  Belgrano II base camp

  Antarctica

  Noon local time

  With the snowfall now thickening, Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez walked toward the center of the snowy courtyard and approached the flagpole. A group of Argentinean soldiers quickly surrounded him. Some of the soldiers still had their rifles. Others had laid their rifles down.

  “They have the capitán and Lieutenant Sosa.” Sergeant Iglesias pointed to the prison dome.

  Sanchez looked over through the falling snow and saw four men by the entrance to the dome. The two hostages being held at gunpoint were Montes and Sosa. He could not believe what he saw.

  “I am Lieutenant Colonel Ramon Sanchez, the base executive officer. What do you want?”

  A few seconds passed. A strong wind whipped into the snow, swirling it around the men. Then, “I am Leftenant Austin Rivers. I am in command of British forces and the British citizens you have unlawfully captured. You have critically wounded one unarmed man and murdered another. We have demands. We expect your full cooperation. If you fail to cooperate, we shall execute your Capitán Montes and Lieutenant Sosa.”

  Sanchez had been joined by Major Gimenez, the base’s third in command. Sanchez and Gimenez exchanged glances. “And what are these demands?” Sanchez shouted.

  “Simple. Listen and listen carefully. I want ten snowmobiles, full of gas, and ten pull sleds—”

  “We do not have ten snowmobiles,” Sanchez said.

  “I better not find out you are lying!” Rivers replied.

  “I need to hear from the capitán before I agree to anything, Mister Rivers.”

  Another pause. The snowfall was much thicker. The wind picked up. Visibility, even halfway across the courtyard, proved problemat
ic.

  “Give him whatever he asks for. All eight snowmobiles,” Montes said. “Anything he requests. That is an order.”

  “Did you hear that, Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez?” The voice of the British leftenant.

  “I heard!” Sanchez shouted.

  “Very well. I want all eight snowmobiles with snow sleds chained to the back. Each snowmobile is to be full of gas. I want two gas cans, full of gas, tied down to each snow sled. I want two sets of handcuffs with keys. I want twenty yards of rope and two hunting knives. I want ten FARA-83 assault rifles, fully loaded with thirty rounds in each clip, and for each rifle, two additional clips with thirty rounds. That’s ninety rounds per rifle. I want two fully operational GPS devices with solar batteries and polar power pack.

  “You are also to provide one hundred MREs, ten thermoses full of water, one portable gas heater, and one all-weather tent to sleep six. Finally, I need one megaphone. Do you have any questions?”

  “This fellow does not ask for much, does he?” Major Gimenez said in a low voice.

  “He must think I am Papa Noel,” Sanchez said.

  “What will you do, sir?”

  Major Gimenez had asked an excellent question. Frankly, if the only hostage were Montes, Sanchez would be tempted to order his men to launch an assault on the dome, and if Montes was killed in the cross fire, too bad. But Montes was not the only hostage.

  Sosa was a fine young officer, one of the brightest and finest the Argentinean military had. He had a beautiful young wife at home. They were still newlyweds, as Sanchez recalled.

  “And if I do not comply?” Sanchez yelled across the courtyard.

  “That is your choice,” came the reply. “We have already killed four of your crack troops. If you choose not to cooperate, we will kill both of our hostages, including your capitán. The choice is yours. My patience is running thin.”

  “I think he means it,” Gimenez said.

  “No doubt, Major,” Sanchez replied.

  “It sounds like they are planning to escape, Colonel.”

  “An astute observation.”

  Sanchez yelled again, “I need to hear from the capitán!”

  “Hold on!” the Brit shouted.