“No,” Britton replied. “They’ve been maintaining radio silence throughout. Not even making contact with their own base. Banks heard the base CO order him back hours ago.”
Naturally, thought Glinn. It fit the profile.
He allowed his gaze to linger on Britton: at the scattering of freckles on her nose, the poise in her bearing. She doubted his judgment now; but later she would see that he had been right. He thought about the courage she had shown, the unerring good sense, the coolness under pressure; the dignity, even while the bridge had been out of her command. This was a woman, he felt, he could finally trust. Perhaps this was the woman he had been looking for. It bore further consideration. He began thinking of the correct strategy to win her, potential avenues of failure, the likeliest path to success …
He glanced back at the radar screen. The dot was now just minutes from the line. He felt the faintest twinge of nervousness disturb his serenity. But all factors had been taken into account. The man would turn.
He looked deliberately away from the screen and strolled back to the window. It was an awesome sight. The waves were topping the maindeck, sweeping past in green sheets, streaming through the scuppers back into the sea. The Rolvaag, despite its movement, still felt quite stable—it was a following sea, which greatly aided stability. And the mass in the center tank acted as ballast.
He glanced at his watch. Any moment now, Britton would report that the Ramirez had turned back.
There was an audible sound, a collective murmur, from the group around the radar.
“The Ramirez is changing course,” said Britton, glancing up.
Glinn nodded, suppressing a smile.
“Turning northerly to a zero six zero heading.”
Glinn waited.
“He just crossed the line,” Britton added in a low voice. “Still heading zero six zero.”
Glinn hesitated. “Vallenar’s navigation is slightly off. His rudder is damaged. He’s clearly in the process of turning around.”
The minutes ticked off. Glinn left the windows and once again approached the screen. The green dot continued heading east-northeast. It wasn’t exactly chasing them now, but it wasn’t turning around either. Strange. He felt another twinge.
“He will come around momentarily,” murmured Glinn.
The silence lengthened as the Ramirez continued on its bearing.
“Maintaining speed,” said Howell.
“Turn,” muttered Lloyd.
The ship did not turn. Instead, it made another slight course correction to zero five zero.
“What’s the hell’s he doing?” Lloyd suddenly exploded.
Britton straightened up and looked squarely at Glinn. She said nothing, but words were unnecessary: Glinn could read her expression with crystal clarity.
Doubt passed through him like a spasm, to be quickly replaced by reassurance. He knew now what the problem was. “Of course. He’s not only having trouble with his rudder, but his primitive navigation systems have been affected by our jamming. The man doesn’t know where he is.” He turned to his operative at the console. “Turn off the ECM. Let our friend find his bearings.”
The operative typed a series of commands.
“He’s twenty-five miles distant,” said Howell. “We’re just within range of his Exocets.”
“I’m aware of that,” murmured Glinn.
There was a moment in which the entire bridge fell silent. Then Howell spoke again. “We’re being illuminated with targeting radar. He’s getting our range and bearing.”
For the first time since his final op as a Ranger, Glinn felt a certain kind of uneasiness in his gut. “Give him a few more minutes. Let him figure out we’re both in international waters.”
Again the minutes ticked by.
“For God’s sake, bring the ECM back on line!” Britton said sharply.
“Another minute. Please.”
“Exocet launched,” said Howell.
“CIWS full auto,” said Britton. “Prepare to launch chaff.”
The minutes passed in frozen dread.
Then there was a sudden rattling of Gatling guns as the CIWS went into action, followed by a harrowing airburst off the starboard side of the ship. A tiny piece of shrapnel ticked off a bridge window, leaving a star.
“Still being painted with radar,” said Howell.
“Mr. Glinn!” Britton cried. “Order your man to reemploy ECM!”
“Reemploy electronic countermeasures,” Glinn said weakly, leaning on the console for support. He stared at the implacable green point on the screen, his mind racing to find the answers, to see the pattern. Vallenar had stayed true to form by launching a missile at them. This was a gesture Glinn had anticipated. Now, having rattled his saber in impotent rage, the man would turn back. Glinn waited, willing the ship to turn.
But the pulsing green dot continued on its course: not their own course, exactly, but a course that took it ever deeper into international waters.
“Eli?” It was Lloyd. His voice was strangely calm. With an effort, Glinn detached himself from a hundred avenues of speculation and met Lloyd’s flinty stare.
“He’s not going to turn,” Lloyd said. “He’s coming after us. For the kill.”
Rolvaag,
10:20 A.M.
SALLY BRITTON steeled herself, tuning out extraneous details one at a time, focusing her mind for what was to come. One look at Glinn’s pale, shattered face had disarmed her anger and told her all she needed to know about the failure of his prediction. She felt a twinge of sympathy for the man, despite the unforgivable misjudgment which had now put all their lives in extreme danger. She herself had made a misjudgment, on a bridge similar to this one, not all that long ago.
She turned her attention to the rear of the bridge, where a large nautical chart of the Cape Horn region was displayed. As she looked at it, going automatically through the familiar steps, she felt the worst of the tension ease. A few options presented themselves. All might not be lost.
She felt Glinn’s presence behind her. She turned to see that the color was returning to his face, and the look of shock and paralysis was leaving his eyes. She realized, with surprise, that this man was still far from beaten.
“Captain,” he said, “may I confer with you a moment?”
She nodded.
He took up position beside her, removing a piece of paper from the vest pocket of his suit as he did so. “I have here all the specifications of the Almirante Ramirez. The data is accurate as of approximately three weeks ago.”
She looked at him. “Where did you get this?”
“From our home office.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“The Almirante Ramirez is an Almirante-class destroyer, built for the Chilean navy by Vickers-Armstrong in the U.K. Its keel was laid in 1957 and the ship was commissioned in 1960. It has a complement of 266, with 17 officers. It displaces—”
“I don’t need to know how many dinners they serve. Get to the threat systems.”
Glinn’s eyes flitted downward. “It was retrofitted in the seventies to hold four Aerospatiale 38 Exocet sea-skimming missiles. They have a range of twenty-five nautical miles. Fortunately for us, they use an earlier generation of active radar homing that can’t overcome our advanced ECM system. So the Exocets are useless to him, even in visual range.”
“What else has he got?”
“Four Vickers four-inch guns, two forward and two aft, that can deliver forty rounds a minute with a range of ten nautical miles. These are normally directed using two SGR 102 fire-control radars, but, if necessary, can also be targeted visually.”
“Dear God. Forty rounds a minute per gun?”
“There are also four Bofors 40-millimeters with a range of six point five nautical miles. They can throw three hundred shells a minute.”
Britton felt the blood leave her face. “Any one of those guns could take us out in a matter of minutes. We can’t let him get within range.”
“Visua
l targeting in this heavy sea will be difficult. But you are correct: we wouldn’t last long in a barrage. We’ve got to increase our speed.”
Britton didn’t answer at first. “You know we’re already pushing the limits of the turbines at sixteen knots.” She turned to the chief mate. “Mr. Howell, is there any way we can squeeze a little more speed out of her?”
“I might be able to wring out another knot.”
“Very well. Do it.”
He turned to the helmsman. “All ahead one ten.”
Deep inside the ship, she felt an answering rumble as the engines were brought up to 110 rpms. That would give them—she did a quick mental calculation—four and a half hours, maybe a little less, before they were within range of the Vickers.
She turned back to Glinn and the chart. “I’ve worked it out,” she said. “Our best option is to head northeast into Argentinian national waters as soon as possible. Argentina is a bitter enemy of Chile, and they’d hardly countenance a Chilean destroyer chasing us into their waters. They’d consider it an act of war.”
She glanced at Glinn, but his veiled look betrayed nothing.
“Alternatively, we could head for the British naval base on the Falkland Islands. We should also radio our government and report we’re under attack by a Chilean warship. We might be able to put some military pressure on that crazy son of a bitch.”
She waited for a response.
At last, Glinn spoke. “I understand now what Vallenar’s slight course changes were about.”
“What?”
“We’ve been cut off.”
Britton looked quickly back at the map. The Ramirez was now twenty miles northwest of them, on a true bearing of 300 degrees. Suddenly, she understood.
“Oh shit,” she breathed.
“If we change course now to Argentina or the Falklands, he’ll overtake us about here.” Glinn drew a small circle on the map with his finger.
“We’ll head west back to Chile, then,” Britton said quickly. “He wouldn’t get away with sinking us in the Puerto Williams harbor.”
“No doubt. Unfortunately, even if we turn back now, he’ll intercept us here.” His finger traced another circle on the map.
“Then we’ll head for the British scientific station on South Georgia Island.”
“Then he’ll intercept us here.”
She watched the map, a paralyzing chill creeping down her spine.
“You see, Sally—may I call you Sally?—when he made those course changes to the northeast, he had already anticipated our possible points of refuge. If we had realized this and acted immediately, we would have had a chance of getting to Argentina, at least. But now even that route is closed to us.”
Britton felt a pressure on her chest. “The U.S. Navy—”
“My man’s already checked that. There’s no effective military help within twenty-four hours.”
“But there’s a British naval base on the Falklands, armed to the teeth!”
“We considered that, too. Chile was a British ally in the Falklands War. For the U.S. to request military help from the U.K. against its former ally, using the very base they fought for—well, let us just say it is a request that would take more time than we have to expedite, even with Lloyd’s and my connections. Unfortunately, the extreme South Atlantic is no place to get into a military scrape. We’re on our own.”
She looked at Glinn. He returned her gaze with gray eyes that seemed to have deepened until they were almost the color of the surrounding ocean. There was a plan behind those eyes. She was afraid to ask what it was.
“We head south,” Glinn said simply. “To the Ice Limit.”
Britton could hardly believe it. “Go south into the Screaming Sixties, into the ice, in a storm like this? That’s not an option.”
“You’re right,” said Glinn quietly. “It’s not an option. It’s the only option.”
Almirante Ramirez,
11:00 A.M.
AFTER DAWN, Vallenar noticed that the wind had begun its inevitable shift to the west. His plan had worked. Belatedly, the Americans had realized they were cut off. There was no place for them to go but down into the Sixties. Already, they had changed course to one eight zero—due south. And that’s where he would intercept them, where the endgame would play out: at the Ice Limit, in the black freezing waters of the Antarctic Ocean.
He spoke softly, precisely. “From now on, I’ll have the deck.”
The oficial de guardia, the officer of the deck, called out, “Aye, sir, the comandante has the deck!”
“Set heading one eight zero,” Vallenar said to the conning officer.
This order would place the violent sea directly on their beam, the most dangerous position for the destroyer. The bridge officers knew this. He waited for the conning officer to repeat the order and call rudder directions. But no orders came.
“Sir?” It was the officer of the deck who spoke.
Vallenar did not turn to look at the officer of the deck. He did not need to; he sensed what was about to happen. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the conning officer and the timonel, the helmsman, all rigidly at attention.
So this was it. Better it should happen now than later.
He raised his eyebrows at the officer of the deck. “Mr. Santander, are we having a problem with the chain of command on the bridge?” He spoke as mildly as possible.
“The officers of the Almirante Ramirez would like to know our mission, sir.”
Vallenar waited, still not looking at the man. Silence, he had long discovered, was more intimidating than words. A minute passed, and then he spoke.
“Is it customary for Chilean naval officers to question their commander?”
“No, sir.”
Vallenar took out a puro, rolled it between his fingers, bit off the end, and placed it carefully between his lips. He drew air through it.
“Then why are you questioning me?” He spoke gently.
“Sir … because of the unusual nature of the mission, sir.”
Vallenar removed the cigar and inspected it. “Unusual? How so?”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“It is our impression, sir, that we were ordered back to base last night. We are not aware of any orders to pursue this civilian ship.”
Vallenar took in the word civilian. It was a deliberate rebuke, a suggestion that Vallenar was engaged in a cowardly pursuit against an unarmed adversary. He drew more air through the unlit cigar.
“Tell me, Mr. Santander. On board ship, do you take orders from your comandante, or from a base commander on shore?”
“From the comandante, sir.”
“Am I your comandante?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then there is nothing more to discuss.” Vallenar removed a box of matches from his uniform pocket, opened the box, removed one wax match, drew it slowly across the striker until it flared, and lit his cigar.
“Sir, I beg your pardon, what you have said is insufficient. Men died repairing that screw. We respectfully request information on our mission.”
At last, Vallenar turned. He felt the growing rage within him—rage at the arrogant Americans, at the man Glinn who came to chitchat while his divers sabotaged the vessel, at Timmer’s death—all channeled now toward this subordinate, who dared to question his decisions. He puffed, drawing the smoke into his lungs, feeling the surge of nicotine in his blood. When he was steady again, he flicked the match toward the damp deck and lowered the cigar. This oficial de guardia was a green, foolish man, and the challenge was not unexpected. He looked around at the other officers on the bridge. All of them quickly lowered their eyes.
With one smooth movement, Vallenar withdrew his sidearm and pressed its barrel against the officer’s chest. As Santander opened his mouth to protest, he pulled the trigger. The 9-millimeter slug thrust the man back like the blow of a fist, slamming him hard into a bulkhead. The officer of the deck stared down in disbelief at his ruined chest and the small
horizontal fountain of blood that pumped its rhythmic stream. Air sucked in and out of the wound, once, then again. The man fell to his knees, then toppled forward onto his elbows, surprised eyes now turning glassy, mouth still open wide.
Vallenar returned the gun to its sling. The only sound on the bridge was Santander’s stertorous attempts to breathe and the quiet patter of blood as it rained from his chest onto the deck.
Vallenar glanced at the conning officer. “Mr. Aller. Effective immediately, you are the officer of the deck. And you, Mr. Lomas, are the conning officer. A new course has been ordered. Execute it.”
He turned away, drawing on his cigar, looking once again out over the storm-tossed ocean. The heel of his right hand still rested on the Luger. He waited to see if the incipient mutiny would continue. It would be a pity to lose Aller as well.
Aller looked at the new conning officer, and nodded weakly.
“Right standard rudder,” said the conning officer, “steady on course one eight zero.”
The helmsman answered. “Aye, sir, right standard rudder, coming to course one eight zero.”
Vallenar slipped his hand from his weapon. It was over. Cut off the head and the body will die.
The ship began to turn broadside to the sea, helped along by terrifying shoves from each passing wave. As the shuddering and reeling grew worse, the bridge personnel took hold of stanchions, flagbag rails, anything that would help them keep upright.
“Steady on one eight zero,” said the helmsman in a quavering voice.
“Very well,” the conning officer answered.
Vallenar leaned into the speaking tube. “Radar, estimate when we will be within targeting range of the American ship with the Vickers guns.”
After a moment, the response came: “Sir, at present course and speed, estimated range in three hours, thirty minutes.”
“Very good.” Vallenar leaned away from the tube and flicked a thumb toward the dying man at his feet. “Mr. Sanchez, take this away. And get a cleaning detail up here.”
He turned back to the violent sea.
Rolvaag,
11:30 A.M.
The Ice Limit Page 35
