“When will we be secure?”
“When I say so. Your dress uniform in that bag?”
Jeffrey nodded.
“Change now. In here. You need to look the part when you arrive…. You were supposed to get an entry visa by radio.”
“Got a printout with me, and my military ID card.” The ID replaced a passport for U.S. servicemen and women on active duty.
“Fine,” Stewart said. “Everything has to be by the book. Can’t have you enter Brazil illegally.”
Jeffrey unsealed the bag and began to take out his rolled-up full-dress uniform.
“You brought your Medal?”
“The ribbon for it.”
“Good.”
Jeffrey stripped off his soggy wet suit. He’d brought a bath towel in his bag, and he dried himself. He pulled on his clothing and shoes; the navy-blue uniform jacket came last. He combed his hair and wished he had a mirror.
“Much better,” Colonel Stewart said. He threw Jeffrey a left-handed salute.
The stink from an exhaust leak somewhere in the M-113 got so bad that the frogman chief safed his weapon, then opened one of the vehicle’s top hatches and climbed up and manned the machine gun there. Now fresh air and sunlight came in through the roof. The frogman swiveled the heavy machine gun around.
“This protection really necessary?” Jeffrey asked.
Colonel Stewart pointed at the gashes on his own face, and at his bruised and broken right arm. “These answer your question?… Cheer up. Take a nice look outside. Enjoy the tour.” Then his face grew stern. “Wait. Use my sunglasses.”
Jeffrey put them on. They were very dark, and wrapped around to cover the sides of his face. He slid to the bulletproof viewing port vacated by the frogman who’d climbed up through the open hatch, and peered out at Rio de Janeiro.
He noticed that traffic was light, though a gaudy yellow electric trolley they passed was crowded with local people. The city had beautiful architecture, a mix of very old and very new. The ground floors of buildings that Jeffrey could see were open and airy, and bright colors were used everywhere. He knew Rio was mostly a resort city, and business was down with the war. But even so, the area had a population of about twelve million. Shops and food-vending carts were numerous and often frequented now that it was getting toward lunchtime. Most Brazilian men and boys were dressed in short-sleeve shirts and slacks or jeans. The women wore summer dresses, or blouses and skirts, and some wore jeans. Jeffrey saw billboard advertisements, many with themes and celebrities from Formula One car racing, or soccer.
He noticed that the police were everywhere, and heavily armed. But the populace seemed largely unconcerned. Pedestrians glanced at the M-113 more out of curiosity than fear. Rio had a reputation for being a relaxed and friendly place. The vehicle passed lovely gardens, pillared mansions, bustling shopping malls.
Jeffrey noticed more Japanese tourists.
“The locals don’t seem especially worried.”
Stewart shrugged as best he could. “Most of them see what’s happening with Argentina as saber rattling.”
“And bombings in Brasilia? That’s just saber rattling too?”
“Brasilia’s five hundred miles away. Guerrillas and terrorists of all ilks have been nipping at the edges of this society for decades. Remember, the whole place used to be a brutal dictatorship, within the memory of anyone much over age twenty-five you see out there. Death squads and secret police once stalked these streets with impunity. The locals learned the hard way to take things in stride, horrible things that to you and me are barely conceivable…. Besides, for them to show each other anxiety now would be taken as weak or unpatriotic. Brazilians are very patriotic.”
“What about the Atlantic Narrows convoy battle?”
“To the degree they even know about it? That’s thousands of miles away, and the prevailing winds don’t get here from there.”
Jeffrey began to wonder how much even Colonel Stewart was aware of the real situation. “Why so many Japanese?”
“With the war, travel from the U.S. and Europe has dried up completely, right? The Pacific Rim is booming, selling everything from oil to microchips to textiles to parts for battle tanks to America and our allies. And to the Axis. So the Japanese have big money again plus the leisure time to travel. And the Pacific Ocean air routes are fairly safe.”
“But during a tactical atomic war?”
“I think that adds to the kick, the allure, for the Japanese. Remember, they’re the ones who had two A-bombs dropped on them in World War Two. There’s a perverse attraction for them to get close to where the action is now. A ringside seat, voyeurism, getting even vicariously, whatever.”
“Weird,” Jeffrey said.
“Yeah, weird. And double weird, since Japan announced they have their own nuclear weapons.”
Jeffrey looked out the viewport more. They passed public squares with monuments or modern art, then an opulent cathedral, and for a short while rumbled over cobblestones. Moving through traffic circles, they went by delightful fountains and nice statues. Jeffrey saw people riding motorbikes, standing on street corners waiting to cross, chatting at outdoor cafés. The racial diversity was impressive. “I’m still surprised how everybody’s just going about their daily lives…. I mean, I see fewer men of military age, sure, with the mobilization, and I heard a lot of cars and trucks were grabbed by the army.”
“And you didn’t see any warships sitting in port, did you?”
“No. Nothing big.”
“Welcome to South America. The people here don’t exactly think like you and me. So remember, in this meeting coming up? We’re on their turf. They make the rules here, not us.”
CHAPTER 30
The armored personnel carrier left downtown and got on a highway, picking up speed. The tall hills on both sides of the road were covered from top to bottom with shacks, clinging to the slopes, piled one above another, some sporting TV antennas or laundry drying on lines.
“They call them favelas,” Colonel Stewart said. “Vertical shantytowns. Low-end service workers for all the restaurants and condos and hotels.”
“I thought President da Gama was good for the economy.”
“You should have seen these places five years back. Then very few people had full-time jobs, or even living quarters with running water and electric power.”
Jeffrey stared up at the teeming hillsides. The shantytown districts seemed to go on and on, forever.
“The single best measure is infant mortality,” Stewart said. “It’s a tenth of what it was when da Gama took office.”
The M-113 drove north and then east. It turned into a security area, heading down a concrete ramp toward the base of a mountain. The vehicle halted, then moved forward again. It grew dark, and Jeffrey could see a low-ceiling overhead above the open top hatch now. Thick doors swung closed behind the M-113, and it grew even darker outside and in. Other thick doors in front swung open, and the vehicle advanced again. It stopped under harsh fluorescent lights hanging from springs. As the second set of doors swung closed, the frogmen lowered the troop compartment’s rear exit and the driver shut the engine off.
“This is where we get out,” Colonel Stewart said. “You can leave your wet-suit stuff here.”
Jeffrey helped the injured Stewart from the vehicle. He noticed the colonel favored one leg as he walked. The man also looked very pale now, probably drained by the effort of talking during the ride, and by discomfort from his wounds as the pain drugs wore off. But even so, Stewart’s bearing was dignified, soldierly.
A Brazilian Army officer came up to Stewart and Jeffrey and saluted. He said something in Portuguese and Stewart replied. The three of them went to another door inside the heavily guarded cavernous space. This door led to an elevator. They took the elevator down.