[b]The Caribbean Sea[/b]
[i]July, 1955[/i]

	The haze-grey bow of a warship pushed gently through the field of flotsam and debris that cluttered its path. Ahead of the Mexican frigate [i]Matador[/i] was the scene of a battle that claimed both parties. It became increasingly apparent as the investigation continued that the bloated bodies of the dead wore American and Argentinian uniforms. Something tragic must have happened that led the two countries into such a devastating fight. Lookouts had been posted with rifles to the gunwales of the frigate, a precaution called for by the captain with a distrust of the US Navy. Lifeboats floated empty throughout the rubble and bodies, the lookouts peering into them with binoculars for any sign of life.

	One of the watchmen called out in alarm as he noticed a lifeboat rocking amidst the debris ahead. A petty officer ran towards him with his binoculars and saw two men limply attempting a fight inside the boat. They bore the uniforms of their own countries, but were obviously older and weak in the sun. Someone signaled to the bridge, and the ship stopped. A crew had been detailed to pick up survivors, led by a lieutenant. Their wooden boat had been lowered down into the water, a crew of three gently rowing towards the lifeboat. It, too, cut through the bodies and debris and the officer aboard could clearly see the maimed and mutilated sailors around them. Many of them looked as if they had been bitten by sharks and left to bleed out and die. The thought sent a chill down the lieutenant’s spine.

	The rowboat had reached the survivors, who were too preoccupied spitting insults at each other in their own languages to notice until a petty officer had yanked them both by the collar and into the rowboat.

	“Calm down, relax,” the lieutenant told the Hispanic one in Spanish, wrapping a towel around his shoulders and placing his hands on the man’s arms. He bore shiny rank insignia and still maintained an air of authority. It was obvious he was someone important. His petty officer tried the same thing to the white survivor, who himself wore a silver eagle on his collar. The American obviously didn’t understand everything, but “[i]tranquilo[/i]” translated well enough into English.

	The crew pushed their boat off of the debris of the battle and floated gently back to be picked up by the [i]Matador[/i]’s lifeboat retrieval crane. Onboard was the security team composed of Marines in distinct olive uniforms, standing out from the denim pants and dungarees of the sailors around them. Distinct from the Army, the Marines wore starched and formed eight-point covers and black brassards bearing a bold, white “[i]MARINA[/i]” branding. Two pairs of troops separated the American and the Argentinian and began their searches for weapons and contraband. While the Marine officer calmly asked the Argentinian if he had maintained his sidearm or any other weapon, the other team invasively searched every pocket of the American’s uniform. After a few minutes of shoving and roughhousing, they were satisfied. And besides, if either of them had any weapons then there wouldn’t be two survivors to begin with.

	A figure emerged from the bulkhead in front of them. He didn’t wear the dungarees of the working junior personnel, but instead his black double-breasted coat with the shoulder boards of a Captain. It was the skipper of the [i]Matador[/i], Captain Rafael Miguel Pulido. A veteran sailor with a humorless face and a posture as if a metal rod had been fused to his spine, Captain Pulido ordered the Marines to bring the prisoners to him. Silently, he inspected each one: their sunburnt faces, soaked and faded uniforms, air of defeat, and simple physical exhaustion. With the wave of his hand, Captain Pulido ordered the Marines to take them to the spare bunks and give them a fresh set of clothes. He further ordered them fed from the galley. They were to appear in his office in two hours.

	For Captain Pulido, the next two hours were spent figuring out answers as to what had happened there. Flotsam and debris bore the name of two ships: the USS [i]Isherwood[/i] and the ARA [i]Ironia.[/i] He had corroborated it with information gleaned by his signal personnel as they hailed nearby lighthouses and signal stations in the Caribbean. The two ships had indeed come across each other during Argentine activity in the western islands of the sea. What the Argentines were doing up there, Captain Pulido had no idea. It was too far from their anchorages and indicated a willingness to exercise their force projection and support fleet capabilities. It appeared to work well for them, until they picked a fight with the Americans and lost.

	“So what happened there?” asked the Mexican skipper, calmly leaning back into his chair. He glanced at the two Marines standing guard by the bulkhead, revolvers snugly inside holsters on their pistol belts. Each one eyed either of the internees, carefully watching for any sort of argument or hostility.

	“The Americans started it,” huffed the Argentinian as if he was blaming a sibling for starting a fight with him over cleaning their childhood room. He had given his name as Jorge Lantana, but Captain Pulido knew next to nothing about him other than that. He appeared almost humiliated to be wearing a Mexican Navy physical training uniform instead of his standard dress uniform. Pulido knew the struggle of a proud serviceman all too well, better to stand tall than face capture.

	“You decided to start charging my position,” retorted the American. Pulido, a Tijuana native, understood enough English from the Californians who wound up in town to translate both for himself and Lantana. He repeated the American’s comments back to the Argentinian.
	
	“You overreacted, I was simply repositioning as a result of your crude gesture,” Lantana growled. He turned to Pulido: “All I received was a radio transmission to ‘fuck off.’ I thought we were officers and gentlemen, but the Americans are obviously savages.”

	Pulido relayed the Argentine’s words in a slightly more cleaned up manner. The American captain seemed just as hot blooded as the Argentinian; the captain kept the Marines in the room in case they started throwing punches at each other again.

	“And so you decided to shoot each other?” deadpanned Pulido after the American, Captain Stanton, offered no reply except for a disgusted face. Perhaps a tinge of regret crossed his face, but only for a moment. He would offer no weakness to exploit. They sat defensively in their seats, no further response with their caged and stoic expressions. After all, if a few hours in a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean couldn’t force a bonding moment of understanding then nothing Pulido could do would get them to calm down. It was of no matter: “That’s fine, I understand what happened here. Two proud men who couldn’t back down from proving whose dick was the biggest!”

	Lantana glared at Pulido, and so did Stanton as soon as Pulido translated his ire. The Mexican officer continued, frustrated now that he had to deal with the equivalent of man-children onboard. Man-children, incidentally, that had just made decisions that led to the death of dozens of American and Argentinian sailors.

	“I am going to drop you both off in Cuba when we reach there in a few days. We will take you to your embassies as a gesture of kindness and repatriate you. After that, I do not wish to see either of you again. I had to divert my patrol because of you and we will be late relieving other forces in the Caribbean.”

	Pulido nodded to the Marines, who each took their captive and stood them up out of the chair. One after the other, they were forced out of the bulkhead in the captain’s office. The Marine officer, once this was complete, excused himself and departed. The door closed with a metallic thud so customary to Pulido’s ears now and the rotating handle squeaked as it rolled shut. The captain sighed, looking over to a map of the Caribbean on his wall. On it were a series of blue push pins designating the planned patrol route. They were supposed to head out from their base in Veracruz and pass through between Cuba and Jamaica. Then, a loop around down to Aruba and back to Panama would have them patrol the coast all the way back up to Mexico. Each pin point represented their planned location each day.

	Beside it, a series of red push pins represented their actual position every morning. It followed the planned path fairly well until the days prior, where they had diverted to investigate the distress call. Now, they had to divert even further and physically dock their vessel in Cuba. They would probably have to go around the island and up towards Havana to establish contact with the embassies. Pulido shook his head: the Mexican Navy was notoriously rigid and strict compared to the other branches, such as the rough-and-tumble Army who acted more like [i]vaqueros[/i] and the haute personalities of the Air Force. He would have to explain a lot to his fleet’s commander.

	Whatever the case, Captain Pulido pulled the phone to the bridge towards him. Immediately, the voice of a young lieutenant answered him and asked for his directions. “Tell the navigator to plot a course for Havana, effective immediately. We will head there and drop off the shipwreck’s survivors… no use in keeping them around and I want to avoid making this international incident worse.”

	The officer acknowledged and hung the phone up, leaving Pulido to himself. He contented himself with studying the charts and timetables for this operation, trying to brainstorm his contingency plan before his next staff meeting. Within the hour, he felt the mass of the [i]Matador[/i] shift and begin a turn to the north. They were on their way to Cuba.