“Qué pérdida,” Gaston said.
“What’s that then, Argie?” a sailor asked derisively.
Gaston thought for a moment and made the attempt: “A waste.”
The sailor considered this for a moment. Then he grunted agreement.
“Contact,” the sailor with the binoculars yelled out. “Ships at…” he checked a handheld compass attached to his life vest, “north northwest.” The life boat rocked as several men stood at once. John rose slowly and looked where everyone was pointing. He squinted and on the horizon saw two grey outlines. One was clearly larger than the other.
EPILOGUE: WARIAN
“Only the dead have seen the end of the war.”
The Atlantic’s mood had turned. She had calmed herself, and her surface reflected this new internal peace. The starry night reflected in the watery blackness, and confused the demarcation between realms. Manships disturbed this newfound state.
His Majesty’s Ship Dauntless—a Type-45 destroyer and sister of Dragon—as well as the Royal Navy frigate Montrose, cut their way through the temporary oceanic stillness. They stirred up a creamy white from the deep dark, and reflected the heavens, which danced and whirled in their wakes. With Dragon’s survivors aboard, they steamed south by west, and made way toward a rendezvous with an American nuclear attack submarine on a very special mission. Dauntless was directed to take up position off the Falklands, and to provide an anti-air warfare umbrella over Stanley and much of East Falkland.
The Edificio Libertador—‘Liberator Building’—imposed its 20-story shadow upon Buenos Aires’ Avenida Paseo Colón. The French Renaissance-style edifice comprised three staggered sections with two wings anchored by a taller central one. Argentina’s Ministry of Defense called it home, and connected itself by a tunnel to the president’s executive mansion, the Casa Rosada. From Edificio Libertador’s black mansard roof, the flag of the republic snapped in a stiff breeze, and antennae and satellite dishes poked and pointed at the sky. On the building’s lawn, before its columned portico, artillery pieces sat in limbo, and an immobile tank and a statue of a charging soldier. They all stood vanguard among the palms and other swaying garden trees. Deep beneath the structure, below layers of steel-reinforced slabs designed and built to stop the latest piercing bombs, was the War Room.
A man with the weight of the world upon him, Minister of Defense Juan Cruz Gomez scurried from console to console. Each console had screens displaying the disposition of Argentina’s forces on the Patagonian coast and the Las Islas Malvinas theater of operations. Computer-generated icons represented aircraft at bases and in the sky, ships and submarines upon and beneath the water, and various symbols represented ground forces — companies, brigades, battalions, and divisions. Gomez studied each screen and projected movements in his head, envisioning the checkmate of his enemy. His thoughts were disturbed by an uneasy feeling, and he turned to meet the piercing gaze of Dr. Waldemar Amsel.
In his wheelchair, Amsel was perched on a concrete balcony that jutted over the War Room. He was, of course, smoking; his usual state when his daughter Valeria, the president, was otherwise occupied.
“Where is Hornero?” Amsel yelled out, referring to an operative’s codename, coughing from the respiratory exertion.
Minister of Defense Gomez craned his neck to look up at Amsel’s perch.
“Herr Doctor…” Gomez acknowledged. He leaned over and checked another computer screen. “We are waiting for Major Vargas to check in.” Gomez knew that the assassin’s last communique had not been confidence-inspiring, but he had failed to mention this in any report to his superior. Vargas’ pursuit of the British Crown Prince had become disappointing, so far unsuccessful, and had far exceeded operational schedules. Furthermore, Vargas had failed to report in on time. Not a good sign, Gomez thought. It would be another day before he received confirmation that Vargas had failed and been killed, and that the British Crown Prince had escaped. Gomez returned his thoughts to the campaign and the battle that raged on Las Islas Malvinas.
John Mcelaney strolled Buenos Aires’ Cementerio de la Recoleta. He passed graves and tombs: those of Eva Perón; past presidents of Argentina; Nobel Prize winners; the founder of the Argentine Navy; and, a granddaughter of Napoleon. John kept the bell tower of the Church of Our Lady of Pilar off to his left as he followed the stone path, breathed in the fresh sea air, and listened to the birds and the breeze rustling the leaves of shade trees. He passed a marker commemorating 1982’s Guerra del Atlántico Sur. Turn right at the marker, he remembered the directions he had been given. The path split and he went right. Emerging from behind a cluster of fragrant, colorful roses, John arrived at the memorial.
There, before the black marble monolith, before the bronze plaque with the outline of the submarine ARA San Luis II and the names of her dead officers and crew, he found Gaston Bersa. He was crouched and had his eyes closed in prayer, but when he heard John’s footfalls, he stood and turned. A smile replaced his dour expression.
“Juan.”
“Hello, Gaston.”
“Bienvenido a Argentina. Welcome, my friend, welcome.” John smiled back and the two men shook hands. Then, they both turned back to the memorial. Only the birds and breeze broke the silence.