Choosers of the Slain

48

President Antonio Sparza sat alone in his work office, listening to the faint pulse-beat ticking of the case clock. He was here responding to something more than nervous tension. It had denied him sleep and had driven him to this place where he had reached the high-water mark of his life.

The desk phone warbled softly.

"Yes."

"Mr. President, this is Admiral Valleo at the Naval Ministry." The officer was speaking with a deliberate conciseness, like a man giving a well-thought-out testimony at a trial. "The convoy has been intercepted."

"Go on."

"The corvette Catamarca and the tank-landing ship Piedrabuena have been sunk. The fleet oiler Huergo, the Antarctic operations ship Alferez Mackinlay, and the destroyer Nueve de Julio have all been heavily damaged and are currently burning and dead in the water. At this time it has been considered advisable to remove the crews from these vessels. The destroyer Heroina has also been damaged, but it is believed that she can be saved."

"What about the North American warship?"

"The convoy escorts engaged the attacking vessel with gun and missile fire. The results are unknown at this time. We are not in current contact with the enemy."

"I see."

There was a silent pause that the officer on the other end of the circuit was almost hesitant to break.

"Mr. President, we are out of communication with Fleet Admiral Fouga. It is believed that he may have been killed aboard the Nueva de Julio. The senior surviving convoy captain is requesting instructions. What should we tell him, sir?"

"Tell him to come home, Admiral. Tell him to save whatever he can and come home."

Sparza set the phone back into its cradle. Getting up from his desk, he went out into the richly carpeted corridor beyond his office. A short distance down that corridor, glass double doors opened onto the balcony that extended across the front of the Casa Rosada and faced the Plaza de Mayo.

The Plaza was the soul and the voice of the Argentine people. For a century, they had gathered here to cheer for their leaders or to scream for their downfall. The Plaza was empty now, streetlights illuminating it beneath the darkness of a fall night, the pavement shining blackly from a recent shower.

Sparza slipped a cigarette between his lips and kindled it with a quick flare of his lighter. Ignoring the chill, he leaned against the balustrade and stared out across the Plaza. When next the people would gather, it would be to judge him. He would be here waiting for them.