“The thought crossed my mind.”
“You are my insurance policy against the unexpected. I wish you would stay. You have my word on—”
Renard’s speech gave way to a silence Gray found eerie.
“Your word?” Gray asked.
“I’m receiving an important text,” Renard said. “Will you excuse me?”
“I’d prefer to stay on the line.”
“Very well. Give me a moment.”
With Renard taking his time to read his message, Gray lowered his gear to the deck. He grabbed a pair of night vision glasses and stepped onto the bridge wing.
Scanning the night, he saw a large aircraft approaching at a medium altitude — an altitude conducive to jumping. Assuming it to contain paratroopers, he lowered the glasses, returned inside the ship, and snapped at his phone.
“I don’t have all day!” he said.
He put his phone against his ear as Renard responded in a peacemaking tone.
“My friend, if you have decided that your safety warrants that you flee now, then so be it. I cannot stop you, nor should I. Do you have an escape plan?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. You will forfeit your bonus, but our score is otherwise settled. I will not come for you, and I will do my part to assure that others involved in this mission keep their distance from you. I wish you luck.”
“Why do you need to make such an assurance?” Gray asked.
His question found no answer but silence, and he accepted that he operated alone.
Peering through his night vision glasses, he turned his head toward the shoreline and confirmed his expectations. His fishing vessel, the one a premium payment had secured from a Chilean-descended islander sympathetic with Argentina’s plight, awaited at anchor less than four miles away.
Though moonlight shaped the craft into a somber silhouette, a red navigation aid illuminated the shoal areas behind it, giving Gray a target for his swim.
He sealed the phone inside his watertight bag and carried his equipment below. The twisting passageways of the destroyer seemed surreal in their emptiness, and for a moment, he heard the ship’s metal frame whisper accusations of betrayal.
Shaking his head clear of his conscience, he pushed a door open and stepped onto a weather deck. With his mask over his face, he bit down on his breather, testing it. Tasting metallic oxygen, he climbed down ladder rungs until he slipped into the water.
A flip toward his belly aimed him toward shore, and he kicked himself forward. Adrenaline compelled him until he became accustomed to the water and slowed himself to the pace he had practiced in a pool.
As he stopped to tread water and find his bearings, the Dragon seemed a football field away, and the red light beaconing him shoreward had receded below his short horizon. Keeping the destroyer in his hindquarters for reference, he ducked his head below the surface and swam.
His next check showed the destroyer slipping below his horizon, but he still held no visual on the navigation aid. He pushed himself straight down into the water and then kicked himself upward. With his added height above the water, he saw the red illumination he sought.
Before he dove again, traces of missile engines sliced the night sky, and the thunderclap of explosions echoed over the water. Trickles of plumes climbing from the ground signaled the weakening of the defenses.
Then an extended chain of thunderclaps rang atop the waves, telling Gray that the final air attack was taking place. He recognized the sounds as Argentine Skyhawks scattering bomblets across the runways at Mount Pleasant, denying their use by any British aircraft that might attempt to land and replenish the island’s air defenses.
Adjusting his course toward the light, he ducked his head below the surface and swam. When he stopped again, his beacon appeared visible at first glance. Risking a moment of curiosity, he swung his body around to bid farewell to the Dragon.
As if spurred by his interest, the destroyer came to life. A single Astor missile, bathed in the light of its exhaust, cut a high arc into the night and then angled toward the horizon. The weapon escaped Gray’s view and disappeared into silent oblivion.
The odd event told Gray several things. It told him that the assault was over, since the destroyer’s defenses had been unleashed. It also told him that a British Typhoon fighter aircraft had survived the attack, chased the withdrawing Argentines to eek whatever revenge it could, and then risked a return home to avoid having to eject in the open ocean.
The attempt had exposed the supposed Typhoon to the reengaged Dragon and its lethal air defenses, which someone with technical training had reenergized. Since he had expected a first paratrooper wave void of technical people capable of turning the system on, he sensed his expendability and a commensurate betrayal.
This observation, combined with Renard’s agreeable tone after receipt of a text message, redoubled his effort to escape. Death as a traitor awaited him ashore, and death as an expended resource awaited him on the Dragon. The survival instincts that had motivated him to secure a fishing boat as a backup escape route were proving true.
He kicked harder, straining his groin, legs, and lungs, stopping for brief course-correcting observations. Focused, he covered distance with motivation, reached the boat, and climbed in. The scuba tank became a lead brick on his back until he could drop it to the deck.
Balancing himself against a chair, he felt hot acid coursing through his rubbery legs. Hobbling, he climbed to the pilot house, and he fumbled through his watertight bag for an ignition key. The diesel engine started, and he energized the winch to hoist the boat’s anchor.
Trusting that he could slip into the fishing areas unnoticed, he nudged the throttle. Beyond anything, he hoped for stealth, and he exercised patience slipping into the waters east of the Falkland’s archipelago.
When the artificial lights of civilization became distant, he risked speed and rounded the southeastern tip of the island chain. As he later pointed his vessel west, he dared to assume he had escaped.
He expected the two-day journey to Punta Arenas, Chile, to prove taxing and dangerous with treacherous seas. But he believed in his maritime skills.
As the image of a stronger boy with wanton bloodlust tripping into his hidden defenses on an orphanage playground danced in his head, he wondered if his treason amounted to anything. Had he chosen the correct side? Could his choice have ripple effects to make a difference?
Such ponderings bounced in his head, finding no foothold for judgment. He decided instead to succumb to his instincts, drive the ship toward safety, and continue his life as a survivor.
CHAPTER 12
Olivia McDonald awoke to the sound of a chirping phone and a dry taste in her mouth. The empty bottle of Châteauneuf-de-Pape Grenache on her nightstand betrayed her tailspin toward lavish hedonism.
The lump under the covers beside her stirred, and she squeezed her eyes shut to recall the name of her boyfriend of the month. Her inner psychologist warned her to stop bedding men, but rationalizing voices silenced her conscience. Why stop when gorgeous men with Adonis bodies flocked to her for her beauty, power, and success?
She lifted her phone to her itching eyes and realized she had missed a call from Pierre Renard. Startled, she slid out from under the satin sheet and tiptoed into her apartment’s kitchen.
Hours ago, Renard had called her to announce the attack on the Falklands. In her inebriated state, she had managed to liberate herself from her lover and send an urgent message, the majority of which she’d drafted ahead of time, up her chain of command.