by Don Brown
“There is no rejoicing at the death of a warrior. Only by the grace of God are we still alive, and only by his grace did we have weapons of war that were superior to the weapons of the enemy.
“Join me in a moment of silence and remembrance.”
More sounds of grinding, whining metal over passive sonar—the death sounds of a sub falling to its watery grave.
“That is all. This is the captain.”
CHAPTER 32
Antarctica
between Belgrano II base camp
and Halley Research Station
near the coast of Weddell Sea
5:00 p.m. local time
The sonorous roar of the snowmobile pack, each with a slightly different pitch, almost blended together over time as a mechanical musical chorus. In a strange way, the cacophonous chorus produced a near-tranquilizing effect that, if not for the cold wind whipping off the Weddell Sea, could nearly lull a man to sleep.
Two hundred miles of snow, ice, and howling wind separated the Belgrano II camp, where Austin Rivers and his ragtag group of British engineers had made their escape four hours ago, and the British Halley Research Station, where they hoped to be greeted with open arms by fellow countrymen.
Halfway between the two camps, a hundred miles either way from civilization, if one could call an isolated base camp at the frozen bottom of the world part of the civilized world, Austin Rivers’ focus was on survival.
They had stopped to refuel minutes ago and to take a break and eat. As Rivers took a final bite out of a piece of awful beef jerky packed in an MRE, the weather started breaking.
The long trek across the snow triggered thoughts of men of the past. Antarctica had stories of men who survived expeditions across hundreds of miles of snow and ice in the world’s harshest climate, and stories of many more men who died battling the elements.
For the great British explorer and Royal Naval Officer Robert Scott, who set out for the South Pole in 1911, fate and the Antarctic weather had not been kind. Scott started his trek in the Antarctic spring and summer months, with twenty-four hours of sunlight for the entire trip.
Early in the trip Scott’s ponies died, forcing the members of the expedition to pull their own sleds. The team reached the South Pole on January 18, 1912, only to find Roald Amundsen’s flag. Exhausted and low on food, Scott’s team began the long trip home.
That trip back from the South Pole turned deadly. As winter approached, Scott confronted terrible blizzards—like the blizzard Rivers and his crew had battled. Starvation and frostbite took their toll. Scott wrote in his journal, “Amputation is the least I can hope for.” Scott and his companions were found eight months later, frozen to death.
Yet even in death, the legend of Robert Scott, a Royal Navy officer, had inspired Rivers to volunteer for duty here when opportunity knocked.
Ironically, though harsh blizzard weather killed Scott, Rivers hoped that blizzard conditions would continue. With working GPS devices and snowmobiles and excellent thermal clothing, Rivers and his men could proceed through the weather, maintaining their course for Halley Station.
For Rivers and his men, a weather change for the better posed a dangerous opening in a curtain through which enemy helicopters could fly. Perhaps he should order Bach to pray for continued blizzard conditions.
Ten minutes later, the snow stopped.
Rivers recalculated the situation. He could stay put. Perhaps have his men dig holes in the snow and try to hide from aircraft. That would pose a calculated risk. What if the weather stayed clear for three or four days? That would give Argentina more time to get more aircraft in the sky. And what would they do with their snowmobiles? And their sleds? And their gas tanks? And everything else? Bury them?
In four hours they could reach Halley Station. Best not to wait. Best to keep moving and hope to reach Halley before anyone discovered them.
“Cut your headlights and move out!” he commanded.
The men cranked their snowmobiles, and when all eight were running, Rivers gripped the throttle on his and led the pack back out across a vast desert of ice, now under a sky turned gray with clouds high enough for fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft to operate beneath them.
Rivers held tight to the handlebars, steering the course laid out by the GPS. Just a few more hours. If they could avoid detection, just a few more hours.
The next thirty minutes proved uneventful. The weather continued to clear.
Rivers didn’t notice anything wrong until out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dunn waving his hand and pointing to the horizon off to the left. Rivers raised his hands to halt the snowmobiles for a better look.
Three helicopters were flying side by side, about five hundred feet above the ground, each with black smoke trailing in the distance.
The choppers were flying straight in toward their position.
El Libro y la Taza
Santiago, Chile
5:01 p.m. local time
Shelley took Meg’s hand and glanced over at Little Aussie playing at the next table with his iPod, earphones covering his ears. She lowered her voice.
“And when did you last have this dream?”
“Last night,” Meg said. “It’s the same dream. The honor guard bringing his body in a flag-draped casket at Northolt RAF base. I hoped the dream would stop when you and Aussie got here”—Meg bit her lip, trying to stop it from trembling—“but last night it seemed more real than ever. Something bad is about to happen. I can feel it.” The tears welled up again.
“Come here.” Shelley took Meg into her arms. “I don’t understand what these dreams mean. But someone told me a couple of days ago that in him, there is hope for the future.”
Meg pulled back with a curious look. “In him? Who is him?”
“I think she was referring to God,” Shelley said.
“I could use some hope right now, Shelley. From God or from somebody.”
Shelley held her arms out and embraced her friend again. Meg’s body trembled like someone with an uncontrollable case of shivers. Shelley now knew why she had come to Chile—to provide comfort to Meg in the event of Austin’s death.
Still, as she held her friend, hoping that love and comfort would flow from her body to Meg’s, she could not help but wonder: Who will bring me comfort when news comes of Bob’s death?
She had no answer, and the answer to that question did not matter.
Antarctica
between Belgrano II base camp
and Halley Research Station
near the coast of Weddell Sea
5:05 p.m. local time
The thunderous roar of helicopter gunships approaching rapidly from the gray skies to the left began to overpower the rumbling chorus of snowmobile engines speeding across the expansive field of ice.
The lead helicopter looked like a Sikorsky SH-3 Sea King, the type flown by the Royal Navy. Rivers looked over at Captain Dunn and exchanged a smile and a thumbs-up.
When the chopper swung out in front of the moving snowmobiles, Rivers’ hope for rescue vanished. Painted on the fuselage of one of the lead choppers he saw the light blue flag of the Argentine Republic.
They hovered in the sky over the snowmobiles like giant angry locusts.
“Halt or you will be fired upon!” The voice boomed in English over the sound of the engines. When Rivers did not stop, the crack-crack-crack-crack-crack of machine-gun fire from one of the other gunships sprayed bullets along a straight line in the snow ahead of the moving snowmobiles.
Snow and ice sprayed up in cloud bursts, an effective intimidation tactic, announcing with an iron fist that superior firepower had arrived from the skies. The small arms they had taken from Belgrano were no match for a single fifty-caliber machine gun in one of those gunships.
If only he had a handheld Stinger antiaircraft missile. But “if onlys,” at this point, would do them no good.
Rivers gave the halt signal with his hand, and all the snowmobiles stopped.
; “Cut your engines!” the voice boomed from above.
Rivers turned and gave his men the throat-slash signal, then shut off the engine on his snowmobile.
“Get off the snowmobiles with your hands up or you will be shot.”
Rivers nodded to his men and put his hands in the air.
“Move in a group over to the right.”
Rivers walked over to the right of the snowmobiles, followed by Dunn, followed by Bach and then the others. As the British formed a circle of surrender to the right of the now-silent snowmobiles, one of the three gunships, a Eurocopter AS332 Super Puma, began to descend for landing.
Rivers recognized the Super Puma, which he had flown in many times. Unlike the Sea King, which carried only two pilots and three passengers, the Super Puma carried up to twenty-four passengers and was used for troop movements.
“Maintain your positions until the helicopter lands! When it lands, you will obey the orders of the officers on the ground who will be taking you into custody of the Republic of the Argentine.”
The thwack-thwack-thwack of the landing chopper’s rotary blade grew louder as it touched down a hundred yards away. The gunship’s bay doors opened. Rifle-bearing soldiers, wearing thermal battle-clad fatigues with insulated face masks and helmets, jumped out of the chopper.
Four of them rushed over with guns pointed at the British, quickly surrounding them but saying nothing.
Four others jogged to the snowmobiles, two attending to Montes and two attending to Sosa.
“I am in command here!” Montes shouted the second the soldiers had freed him and gotten him on his feet. “These men are murderers and are enemies of the Argentine Republic!” He pointed his fingers at the group as he marched across the snow, accompanied by two soldiers.
The other two soldiers had gotten Sosa on his feet, and they too were walking back toward the group.
“That man is a murderer!” Montes pointed at Rivers. “Lieutenant, I order you to take him aside and shoot him now!”
“I am sorry, mi capitán, but our orders are to transport the prisoners to sea.”
“To sea? What do you mean to sea?” Montes fumed. “I am in command. I am Capitán José Montes, Comando de Aviación Naval Argentina. I am commander of the Belgrano II base camp. These are my prisoners! They are under my authority and my command and my jurisdiction! Now you will execute the one I have ordered executed, and you will fly the others back to my base, where they will stand trial on multiple charges before they too are executed!”
The Argentinean lieutenant hesitated, as if uncertain of how to handle Montes’ forceful demands. “I am sorry, mi capitán. Our orders are to transport all the prisoners to the transport ship ARA Hercules, and from there the prisoners will be transported to the Argentine mainland to be turned over to military authorities. Those are our orders. That is all I know.”
“Lieutenant, I demand that you fly me to my command at once. We are at war. And I can assure you that our nation needs me in command at my post at this crucial time!”
“I would be pleased to accommodate your request, sir—”
“My request!” Montes shouted. “Lieutenant, I am not requesting anything. I am ordering you, as an inferior-ranking officer, to transport me back to Belgrano II at once.”
“I am sorry, Capitán, but we must follow the orders of the officers over us in our direct chain of command. And with respect, sir, you are not in our chain of command.”
Montes’ face reddened. Veins bulged in his temples. “You can be assured, Lieutenant, that I will be filing a report on this situation upon my return to high command headquarters and will report you for insubordination.”
“I understand, Capitán. But I urge you to get aboard the helicopter. If you do not, sir, you will be left out here all alone. The pilot would be honored to have you sit in the cockpit for the flight out to the ship.”
Montes huffed and grumbled under his breath as he walked to the chopper. “I’ll have you court-martialed, Lieutenant!” Montes stepped into the helicopter.
“Are you okay?” The Argentinean lieutenant directed this question to Sosa, who was being escorted by two Argentine soldiers.
“Yes, I am fine,” Sosa said.
“What happened?”
“There was a prisoner insurrection at the camp. Somehow the prisoners confiscated guns and took me and the capitán hostage.”
“How did they manage to get guns?”
“That is uncertain. A security lapse, I suppose. I’m an intel officer. I have nothing to do with security.”
“Well, our orders are to transfer everyone to the Hercules, which is waiting offshore. The ship will set course for Buenos Aires, where, as I understand it, a court of inquiry will be held concerning the security breach at the camp, with a focus on the capitán’s leadership in the affair. Now if you would please get into the chopper, we must get moving.”
“Very well.” Sosa saluted his rescuer.
The lieutenant turned away from Sosa. “Which of you is Leftenant Austin Rivers?”
“I am Rivers.”
“And you are the leader of this group?”
Rivers studied the officer’s face. In it, he saw neither evil nor vengeance. Only an officer carrying out his duties. “I suppose that leadership, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. All these men but one are civilians. They are not in my chain of command nor anyone’s chain of command, to my knowledge. They report to their employer.”
“And their employer is one of the largest petroleum companies in the world, whose headquarters happens to be in London?”
“That I cannot comment on,” Rivers said.
“I must say that your reputation precedes you, Leftenant.”
Rivers did not respond.
“What happened, Leftenant? How did you get the weapons to orchestrate your great escape?”
Rivers hesitated. “I have already given you more information than the Geneva Accords require.”
“Fair enough,” the lieutenant said. He turned away, then turned back. “As you know, Leftenant, we are taking you and your men to an Argentinean naval vessel, the ARA Hercules. In my judgment, there is no need for more bloodshed. Can I trust that you and your men will do nothing stupid that will lead to that?”
“I suppose that depends,” Rivers said.
A raised eyebrow. “Oh really? And what does it depend on?”
“It depends on whether you and your men treat these men humanely. If you or your men start anything like summary executions, like your Capitán Montes is guilty of, then no, I cannot and will not promise cooperation.”
“Step over here with me.” The officer motioned for Rivers to join him off to the side. “Off the record, we have received reports from Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez, who has already reported the alleged incident of which you are speaking. Others have corroborated the report. These allegations will be investigated by a full court of inquiry in Buenos Aries. If the incident is true, I can assure you that this does not represent the conduct or standards of the Argentine Republic, and it will be dealt with. I can also assure you that under my watch, your men will be treated humanely and in accordance with the Geneva Accords. You have my word as an officer.”
Rivers looked into the man’s eyes. “As long as these civilians are treated humanely, then you have our cooperation, supported by my word as an officer.”
The lieutenant nodded. “Excellent. Then the first thing we must do, as a matter of routine, is to cuff you and your men for the flight to the ship. The handcuffs will be removed after our arrival on board the Hercules. You promised your cooperation. I would like to start with you.”
“Very well,” Rivers said. “I gave my word as an officer.” He held his hands out.
“We are required to cuff from the back, Leftenant.”
Rivers turned around. “Have at it, Lieutenant.”
Click.
Click.
“Thank you, Leftenant.”
“My pleasure.”
“By the way, Leftenant, my name is Nuňez. Alberto Nuňez. Navy of the Argentine Republic.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Nuňez.”
CHAPTER 33
La Casa Rosada (the Pink House)
presidential palace
Buenos Aires, Argentina
6:15 p.m. local time
As he quickstepped down the corridor toward his office, surrounded by aides and guards, President Suarez fumed about having been pulled from his early dinner with the ambassador from the Republic of Lithuania. They had been discussing Lithuania’s decision to close its embassy in Buenos Aires to pour more resources into Brazil and a prospective state visit by Suarez to Vilnius. Being snatched from the meeting would perpetuate the Lithuanians’ perception that Argentina did not accord them proper respect.
When Suarez walked into his office and saw Admiral Victor Blanco and Domingo Ramos, the Argentinean foreign minister, he forgot all about Lithuania and its ambassador.
“I have a feeling you have not called me out of my meeting with the Lithuanians to bring me good news.”
Admiral Blanco said, “Mister President, I am concerned that we may have lost the San Juan.”
Suarez sat down at his desk, half stunned. “What do you mean you are concerned that we may have lost the San Juan?”
“Mister President, San Juan was scheduled to float a communications buoy at 5:00 p.m. local time for a daily status report and to receive new orders. We received no communications at the designated time. If, for operational reasons, such as engagement in combat, the sub cannot broadcast at the appointed time, then the capitán is required to broadcast at thirty-minute intervals after that until communication is established. The next scheduled broadcast would have been at 5:30. And then again at 6:00 p.m. Sir, she has missed three mandatory broadcast periods. Our protocol calls for a declaration that the sub is missing after the third missed mandatory broadcast period.”