Tidal Rip

Jeffrey shifted his chair for a more comfortable view; he was stiff and achy from the pounding ride in the speedboat and the rough ride in the M-113.

“This is infrared,” the general said, “from one of our reconnaissance drones.”

At first Jeffrey saw nothing.

“The altitude is three thousand meters. The location is about fifty miles outside the Rio de la Plata estuary.” The la Plata estuary, Jeffrey knew, was a wide bay and tidal basin, a sharp indentation of the South American coast, between southern Uruguay and northern Argentina. Outside its mouth, on one side, stood Mar del Plata, an Argentine beach resort and Argentina’s primary naval base. At the inner end of the estuary, where major rivers met the sea, stood Buenos Aires, Argentina’s capital….

Jeffrey saw an aircraft enter the picture. It looked like an old transport plane, a DC-9 or something.

“The aircraft is Argentine.”

“When was this taken?” Jeffrey asked.

“Last night,” Mr. Jones said.

“With respect, how do we know this is genuine?”

“Good question, Captain,” Jones said. “President da Gama gave permission for an AWACS to make overflights of Brazil. For purely humanitarian reasons, of course. To supervise the evacuation of Americans into Peru… None of us want to see a planeful of women and children fly into a mountain in the Andes in the clouds.”

“The AWACS held radar contact on this?” Jeffrey pointed at the plane on the TV.

Jones nodded. “From takeoff to landing, at an airfield near Buenos Aires. Just watch.”

A door in the side of the Argentine plane popped open. Objects began to drop out, over the ocean from high altitude in the dark.

The recon-drone camera zoomed in.

The objects were people, and they were being thrown out.

Jeffrey watched in horror, his heart pounding. One by one twenty victims cartwheeled and flailed in the air as they fell from the transport plane. It seemed to take forever before each made a gigantic splash in the sea.

Jeffrey was grateful when the recording stopped.

“This has been going on almost every night for most of a month,” the Brazilian general said.

Jeffrey took a deep breath. He made eye contact with Stewart and then Jones. “Okay. Who were they killing?”

“Mostly journalists and teachers,” Jones said. “Clergy too, priests, nuns, rabbis, ministers, anyone who is speaking out for peace in Argentina, against fascism and the Axis.”

“So it’s another Dirty War.”

Everyone in the room nodded.

Jeffrey turned and stared at the now-blank TV screen. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” a new voice said.

Jeffrey glanced over his shoulder, startled. A stout, bearded, dark-skinned man had just entered the room. Jeffrey recognized President Getulio da Gama — older than last time they’d met, but then Jeffrey must seem older to da Gama too. The Brazilian president wore a gray pinstripe business suit.

Everybody jumped to attention again. Jeffrey joined them.

Da Gama came up to Jeffrey and shook his hand very hard. “It’s good to see you again, Captain. Thank you for coming.”

“Yes, sir,” was all Jeffrey could think to say.

“Sit, everyone, please.” Da Gama took the seat at the other end of the table, facing Jeffrey. Everyone else sat only after the president did.

“This is why you insisted on me coming here, isn’t it, Mr. President?” Jeffrey said. He gestured at the video player.

“I wanted you to judge for yourself who the true aggressors are.” Da Gama’s English was impeccable.

“I thought it was you who wished to be convinced of certain things.”

“That too, Captain. Your presence already has me largely convinced of your sincerity. But I had another selfish agenda. Do you see it?”

“Sir?” Jeffrey noticed Stewart and Jones were keeping quiet, as were the Brazilian brass. This exchange was strictly between Jeffrey and da Gama.

An exchange, or a face-off?

“What did you think of Rio, Captain?”

“A beautiful city, Mr. President.”

“A city is nothing but buildings and roads. I speak of the people, the citizens. They are the true heart of Rio.”

“Friendly, happy, thriving, from what I could tell.”

“That described most of my country, until a short while ago.”

“I understand, sir. I wish I didn’t have to be here.”

“I wanted, needed you to be here. To see some things for yourself, in flesh and blood. So they would not remain as mere abstractions, but could come alive in front of your eyes, to compel you to perform the work you must do with the utmost skill… Including what the fascists are already doing to those who oppose them in Argentina. The new wave of disappearances.”

Da Gama turned abruptly to Mr. Jones. “How much does Colonel Stewart know?”

“Nothing of the latest problem, Mr. President.”

“Very well,” da Gama said. “Then let me summarize. Captain Fuller, you tell me if you feel I’m mistaken.”

“Yes, sir.”

Da Gama turned to his commanders. “The Americans would have us believe that a German nuclear submarine is off our shores, heading for Argentina, for the specific purpose of starting atomic war on land between Brazil and Argentina. The Americans tell us this submarine carries a supply of atomic warheads for the pro-Axis faction plotting to take over in Buenos Aires. They also tell us the Germans have stolen one or several American atomic warheads, which they intend to detonate themselves to create an atrocity to make the war appear to be Brazil’s and America’s fault.”

The Brazilians remained impassive; Colonel Stewart looked shocked, aghast.

“Is that essentially correct, Captain Fuller?” da Gama said.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Have you made any recent detection of this supposed German submarine? Any indication, other than your own surmisings or fears, as to its whereabouts?”

“No, sir,” Jeffrey said reluctantly. “Only supportive circumstantial evidence, plus a lack of negative proof to the contrary.”

“What do you mean by the latter?”

“That the German submarine—”

“The Admiral von Scheer?”

“Yes, sir. That the von Scheer has not for days attacked the Allied convoy to Africa, although she is designed primarily for that purpose and has had every opportunity to make such an attack.”

“I have other problems with your theory,” da Gama said.

“Mr. President?” Jeffrey thought the best way to be convincing would be to listen first.

“Admiral?” Da Gama gestured.

The admiral worked the video player again. A map of Argentina appeared on the big screen.

“Where would the fascists detonate an American warhead so as to serve as adequate provocation?” da Gama asked.

Jeffrey studied the map.

“You needn’t answer,” da Gama said. “My staff have been studying the issue. This is where my understanding is stymied. If they set off the bomb, or bombs, in a wilderness area, the detonation lacks military value from our perspective, and thus begs the question of our practical motive or goal, if we truly were the culprits. Such a blast also has little effect on Argentina as a whole, except for possible fallout, which is quite invisible to the average