The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  “Sanchez! This is Capitán Montes! Do as he says! That is an order!”

  The situation put Sanchez in a tough position. A sudden, unanticipated hostage crisis. A direct order from his superior, even though a superior he hated.

  “That’s quite a laundry list you have demanded! I need an hour to get all these materials together.”

  “That’s a negative, Colonel,” the Brit said. “You have thirty minutes or we begin executions. And make sure the snowmobiles are running and ready to go as soon as you deliver the supplies.”

  Sanchez looked at Gimenez. “Major, you’re in charge of getting these materials together. Grab some men and get moving.”

  Gimenez shot Sanchez a salute. “Si, mi colonel.”

  Bridge

  HMS Queen Elizabeth

  South Atlantic Ocean

  approaching Falkland Islands

  course 90 degrees

  12:04 p.m. local time

  The term for the depth of water a ship needs to float without running aground is referred to as the “draft.”

  For the 920-foot-long HMS Queen Elizabeth, her draft rivaled that of the American supercarriers of the Nimitz class—36 feet. This meant that once she entered waters that were shallower than 36 feet, she would be aground, unable to move.

  In nearly every case in every navy around the world, a ship’s captain would be relieved of his duties for running his ship aground and, in some cases, even court-martialed.

  But in this case, Captain Edwin Jones-Landry, Royal Navy, had determined that running the Queen Elizabeth aground, given the extensive damage done by enemy torpedoes, would be the only way to prevent her from sinking.

  Though the attack had occurred less than one hundred miles from the Falklands, and although at top speeds the QE could have reached the waters outside Port Stanley in a few hours, Jones-Landry and his crew had soon discovered that the faster they tried steaming through the water, the faster seawater rushed into the lower compartments of the ship. Full speed or even half speed would have sunk the ship before they had a prayer of reaching shallower waters.

  Over the last twenty-four hours, Jones-Landry had discovered, through trial and error, that by slowing the speed and diverting more power to the carrier’s bilge pumps, they could slow down the leaking.

  Now, with the coast of the Falkland Islands in sight, the flight deck had sunk perilously low to the water. Could they run the ship aground before the ocean swallowed her?

  Jones-Landry feared that his ship’s fate may follow that of the great World War II British aircraft carrier HMS Ark Royal, once the greatest carrier in the British Navy, which also had been torpedoed in the Atlantic by a submarine, a German U-boat.

  The Ark Royal had survived close to twenty-four hours after the attack, taking on massive amounts of water through the holes in her hull. Her bilge pumps still working, she tried to limp to safety in the harbor at the British base at Gibraltar.

  As every carrier captain in the British and American navies knew from their studies of case histories, Ark Royal had initially stabilized after the attack, but began to list at a steep angle, finally forcing the captain to abandon ship. She sank thirty-five miles from Gibraltar, her wreckage not discovered for sixty years.

  Jones-Landry could not help but wonder. Was history repeating itself? Had he and his crew been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  Like the Ark Royal, his ship, the Queen Elizabeth, had initially stabilized but was now sinking lower in the water.

  Four oceangoing tugs and two helicopters had arrived from the British enclave of Port Stanley, the capital of the Falklands, to accompany the Queen Elizabeth to the shoreline.

  But all the tugboats and hovering helicopters in the world could not keep the angry seawater from flooding the bowels of his ship.

  Jones-Landry brought his binoculars to his eyes and studied the distant shoreline of the low-lying Falkland Islands. What a bloody shame it would be to come this close and still lose the greatest warship Britain had ever built.

  Would he be the captain who saved the Queen Elizabeth and her crew? Or the last man standing as she sank to the bottom of the sea?

  “XO. Give me an updated sounding on depth and distance.”

  “Stand by, sir,” Commander Donald Parrot said. “Sir, water depth is at one hundred feet. Distance to shore just under one mile. Range to draft-depth waters, one-half mile, sir.”

  “Half a bloody mile, and we can barely move. We’re about to go under.” Jones-Landry looked down at the bow. Swells started breaking over the flight deck. The situation was beyond critical.

  “Engineering. Bridge. I need more out of those bilge pumps.”

  “Bridge. Engineering. I’m giving her all she’s got, Cap’n!”

  “Well, give me more, Commander. Have your men get out the buckets and start bailing if you must!”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Belgrano II base camp

  Antarctica

  12:10 p.m. local time

  Rivers had moved Sosa and Montes back inside and placed them at opposite sides of the prison dome. Four British petro-engineers were aiming rifles, two on Sosa and two on Montes.

  Sosa was leaning up against the wall looking down at the gun barrels of two FARA-83s. But it wasn’t the gun barrels bothering Sosa so much as the menacing glances that Montes shot across the room at him.

  Was he suspicious?

  Perhaps.

  Rivers had worked Montes over pretty hard with a pistol whipping and then the pistol smash to the groin, but done nothing to Sosa.

  Not that Montes hadn’t deserved it. Sosa knew it was payback.

  But now Sosa almost wished that he’d gotten a punch in the stomach from Rivers . . . something . . . to make the treatment look a little more even-handed.

  Or was this nothing more than his imagination? Those menacing looks might just be Montes’ anger at having gone from being the man in command to a powerless pawn in a hostage crisis.

  But Sosa felt a sick twisting over what he had done. If Montes ever figured out where those guns came from . . . or Sanchez . . . what would they do? They would say he had betrayed his country, that he had rendered assistance to the enemy and put his countrymen in danger.

  And there was truth to all that. Four Argentinian soldiers were dead because of him.

  But what choice did he have?

  Montes had murdered a British civilian and seriously wounded another.

  And then to order Sosa to do the same? Out of some sick sense of . . . of what? Some manhood test? Montes had gone way over the line and left Sosa with no good options.

  To have gone over Montes’ head would have been a huge risk. High command had sent Montes to command Belgrano II and would have sided with Montes. He was sure of that. He could have disobeyed the order. He considered that. But that too would have brought great personal risk, possibly a court-martial or the immediate risk of being shot on some trumped-up charge. He dared not jump the chain of command or disobey the order.

  What, then, were his options? None.

  And he could not carry out the order.

  Yes, war was war, but Sosa could not murder a prisoner in cold blood.

  Still, he knew an investigation would follow. Four Argentinean soldiers were dead because of what he had done. They would discover firearms missing from the small-arms locker in the intelligence dome. Yes, he had given the pistols to Rivers. He just wanted to give Rivers a fighting chance. He could not see him being murdered in cold blood.

  Rivers’ lightning speed with a pistol was something Sosa had never before witnessed. Now four of his countrymen were dead, but Montes remained alive.

  Suicide was the best solution.

  He could make a quick movement toward one of the trigger-happy civilians and they would shoot him. He would not be accused of betrayal. He would die in the line of duty, defending his country. That would remove any suspicions that he had rendered aid to the enemy.

  That’s what he would d
o.

  CHAPTER 27

  Control room

  Argentinean submarine ARA San Juan

  Drake Passage

  60 miles east of Cape Horn

  depth 300 feet

  12:20 p.m. local time

  Commander Carlos Almeyda had just read the message to his crew, but for his own satisfaction, he wanted to read it once more before moving on.

  FROM: President of the Argentine Republic

  TO: Commanding Officer and Crew, ARA San Juan

  PRECEDENCE: FLASH, TOP SECRET

  The People of Argentina are grateful, and the undersigned is personally grateful for your brave work in attacking enemy naval forces in the South Atlantic near the Malvinas Islands.

  You have brought pride to your country.

  Now you are being dispatched to the waters of the Drake Passage to oppose more enemy forces set upon colonializing our native region.

  The eyes of a grateful nation are upon you, and our hearts are with you.

  With enemy ships pouring into the region, surely your bravery and professionalism shall deter their will to fight.

  Godspeed for safety in battle and a safe return to the Republic.

  With eternal gratitude,

  Donato Suarez

  President of the Republic of Argentina

  Almeyda shook his head in disbelief. One month ago he served as executive officer for his friend and mentor, Commander Alberto Gomez. Now, suddenly, he was not only the senior sub commander in the Argentinean Navy but had scored more kills than any other Argentinean sub commander in the twenty-first century! Even the president had recognized him!

  All this had happened so quickly. But enough contemplation. Almeyda folded the message and stuck it in his pocket. Intelligence relayed to the sub indicated that British warships had entered Drake Passage from the Pacific and were operating near Cape Horn.

  “Navigator, report on our position,” Almeyda said.

  “Drake Passage, sir. Sixty miles east of Cape Horn. Depth 300 feet. Course two-five-zero degrees.”

  “Put her on the screen, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The navigational display popped up on the big screen.

  “The star on the right marks our current position, sir. The tip of the arrow to the left marks the last known area of three British frigates operating in the area. These frigates are believed to have entered the area from the Pacific.”

  “XO. On the 1-MC.”

  “Aye, Capitán.”

  “Now hear this. This is the capitán. Be advised that British warships have been reported in the area, surface combatants. We had some excellent hunting yesterday and have either sunk, or at least taken out of commission, the largest and most powerful warship in the British fleet. By neutralizing the Queen Elizabeth, we have leveled out the balance of power in the region. You have captured the attention of the nation and even our president.

  “But, gentlemen, this war isn’t over, and our job isn’t done. Be alert. Be ready. And be prepared to go hunting soon. This is the capitán. That is all.”

  Belgrano II base camp

  Antarctica

  12:25 p.m. local time

  Lieutenant Fernando Sosa looked at the time. If he was going to provoke the British guards, he needed to act now, before Rivers and the rest of the Brits tried to escape camp. Once they escaped, if they escaped, there would be no enemy soldiers to kill him. His legacy, rather than being one of heroically dying in combat, would be that of Argentina’s Benedict Arnold.

  Rivers had given Colonel Sanchez until 12:30, which meant Fernando had five minutes max to pull this off.

  “Are you married?”

  What an odd question from out of the blue—from one of the men guarding him with the assault rifle. From the one Montes had called Father Bach.

  “Yes, I’m married. Why?”

  “I was once married,” the man said. “My wife died of cancer at an early age. Cherish her and take care of her.”

  Bach’s words punched him hard in the stomach.

  Carolina.

  Of course!

  He was more worried about his own legacy than protecting his wife. They’d just gotten married. How could he be so selfish?

  But if he became Argentina’s Benedict Arnold, like everyone else, Carolina would reject him.

  Or would she?

  She once told him, “You might be only one person in the world, or you might be in another part of the world. But to me, you are the world.”

  Did she mean that?

  Would he still be the world to her if he disgraced Argentina?

  Had Montes’ planned execution of a prisoner taken place, that would have been the real disgrace to Argentina. But only he and God knew the truth.

  This wasn’t about him.

  This was about duty.

  Bach’s words reminded him: his duty was to take care of his wife. He had promised this to the priest and before God. Taking action now to provoke his own death would break that vow.

  “Mister Bach, would you please tell the leftenant I need to speak with him? It’s important.”

  “Aye. Why not, mate. I’ll see if I can get him.”

  He received another menacing glare from Montes. Now or never. There would be no turning back.

  Rivers walked over. “What do you need, mate? I don’t have much time.”

  “May I speak with you in private?”

  Montes’ eyes were firing darts.

  “Step over here.”

  They moved away from the others. Sosa spoke in a whisper. “Leftenant, the third dome to your right is the communications dome. Take it out before you leave or they will call in reinforcements as soon as you leave. Once they lose all communication, search helicopters will be dispatched to investigate. But if you take it out, you will have a running start. There is a small-arms locker in that dome. I’m asking you to take all the rest of the guns with you . . . if you catch my drift.”

  Rivers looked at him with a nod and a twinkle in his eye. “I catch your drift, mate.”

  From outside, the sound of gas-powered engines.

  “Leftenant, they’re back with the snowmobiles!”

  “So I hear,” Rivers said.

  “The colonel told the truth. There are only eight in the camp,” Sosa said.

  “Very well,” Rivers said. He turned to the capitán. “Montes. Get up! You’re useful when you play the role of a human shield.” Rivers jerked Montes up by the collar and stuck the .357 at his temple. With gun in one hand and Montes’ jacket collar in the other, Rivers shoved Montes toward the door.

  Control room

  Argentinean submarine ARA San Juan

  Drake Passage

  20 miles south of Cape Horn

  depth 250 feet

  12:25 p.m. local time

  Capitán! Enemy contact! Multiple screws, sir. Acoustics computer suggests 72 percent probability of British warships. Preliminarily identified as Daring-class guided-missile destroyers. I hear two . . . no, three screws, sir! Count that three targets in the water, Skipper!”

  “Range, Mister Valera?”

  “Range, two thousand yards, sir.”

  “Very well. Load torps one, two, three, and four.”

  “Load torps one, two, three, and four. Aye, Capitán.”

  “Take the boat to periscope depth. Sound general quarters.”

  “Take boat to periscope depth. Sounding general quarters. Aye, sir.”

  Belgrano II base camp

  Antarctica

  12:32 p.m. local time

  Holding Montes in front of him as a human shield and jamming the barrel of Montes’ revolver against the capitán’s temple, Rivers stepped outside of the prisoners’ dome into the snowfall.

  Eight snowmobiles, their engines all running, were lined up in front of the dome. Each had a pull sled hitched to the back. The weapons and materials were spread out over the sleds behind the snowmobiles.

  Because of heavy snows, visibility e
xtended only to the flagpole area in the center of the camp, blinding from view the Argentinean soldiers on the other side.

  Perhaps God had sent the weather as a blanket of invisibility at just the right time.

  “Captain Dunn!” Rivers shouted over the rumbling of the snowmobiles. “I need your help.”

  “Aye, Leftenant.”

  “Get that megaphone on the back of that sled and grab two pairs of handcuffs.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dunn ventured through the snow to the sled containing a white megaphone. He retrieved it, got two pairs of handcuffs, and brought the megaphone and the cuffs back to Rivers.

  “Very well, Capitán Montes. Hands behind your back.”

  Montes complied.

  “Captain Dunn, cuff him.”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  “Edwards!”

  “Yes, Leftenant.”

  “Go out to the sleds and bring back six assault rifles. I want a loaded rifle in every man’s hand.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Edwards quickly grabbed six rifles and passed them out, instantly transforming the petro-engineers into a small military platoon.

  Rivers turned his attention to Montes. “Listen carefully, el Capitán. You are going to take that megaphone right now, and you are going to order all of your men to go into their quarters and close the doors and remain for a minimum of thirty minutes. They are to sequester themselves immediately. No one is to go near the communications dome.”

  “What are you planning to do?” Montes asked.

  Rivers smashed the gun against Montes’ nose, knocking him down onto his rump and drawing more blood. “Let’s get this straight, Capitán.” Rivers peered down at Montes. “When I issue you a command, asking a question is not the most intelligent response.” Rivers reached down and pulled Montes out of the snow. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good. Then Captain Dunn will hold the megaphone to your mouth while I hold your gun to your head. Order your men to do as I said. Captain Dunn?”