"And you feel this dream justifies a military takeover?"
Sparza made an impatient gesture. "Mr. Secretary, as I have stated, we will be the first to admit that our actions have been drastic. However, it was necessary to halt this impetuous rush by the Treaty states into a well-meant but ill-considered pitfall. I assure you, we desire a rapid solution to this situation and a rapid return to the status quo."
"But?" Van Lynden inquired, looking over the frames of his glasses.
"But we ask for one thing, and one thing only. A true international hearing on the future of Antarctica. Not just among the rather insular Treaty states, but before the world community as a whole. We wish to take this question to the United Nations and put it before the General Assembly for open debate and a vote. That is all. You have my word personally, and the word of the Argentine government."
"That's all?"
"That is all, Mr. Secretary."
Van Lynden gave himself a five count to consider before speaking again. "I can see no overt problem with U.N. involvement. Any final decision, however, will require consultation with my government."
"Of course."
"Now that you've made your 'demonstration,' what about the withdrawal of the Argentine military, and the return of the occupied facilities to British control?"
Sparza smiled benignly. "There is every reason to hope that the British may soon be allowed to resume their scientific operations. We desire not to keep a single combat soldier on Antarctic soil a moment longer then necessary. However, my government feels these matters are best dealt with through United Nations channels. Do not worry, Mr. Secretary. We have no intentions of taking any hostile actions against any United States installation in Antarctica."
"I'm pleased to hear that, President Sparza," Van Lynden replied slowly. "Because I am authorized to inform you that a United States Fleet Marine Force Recon Company is being airlifted in to Palmer Station on the Antarctic Peninsula. They are fully equipped and trained for polar warfare and they have been ordered to resist any armned incursion made against that facility."
Put that in your pipe and smoke it, smart boy.
The Argentine snapped taut, but just for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was as carefully modulated as ever.
"This action was unnecessary, but understandable. We acknowledge the right of all nations to safeguard their national interests, just as we are doing."
Van Lynden didn't reply beyond levelly meeting Sparza's gaze.
The tautness returned to Sparza's demeanor as he broke the silence. "In a related matter, it has been reported to us that a United States naval vessel is currently off the Argentine coast, apparently en route to the Drake Passage area. I trust that since we are in agreement as to the desirability of a negotiated settlement, your nation is not contemplating some additional, unnecessary escalation."
"President Sparza, ships of the United States Navy routinely deploy to all corners of the world for a wide variety of reasons. As long as those operations are conducted within the confines of international waters, they are solely the concern of the United States and the Commander in Chief of our Armed Forces. However, I'll mention your concerns to my government."
The sword tips had crossed; the opening gambit was over. Sparza glanced down at his wristwatch. "Thank you, Mr. Secretary. That will be greatly appreciated. And now, gentlemen, you must excuse me. Other matters of state require ray attention."
On the limousine ride back to the U.S. Embassy, Steve Rosario made the first tentative comment.
"The Argentines appear willing to negotiate. That's hopeful."
"It's easy to be magnanimous when you think you're winning, Steve. Through the major part of that meeting, Sparza was acting like a man with four kings and an ace-high kicker."
"You think so?"
"I know so. He had a pat answer ready for any question we could ask. Hell, I was tempted to look over my shoulder for the TelePrompTer. He's got a game plan going here, and so far, we're wired right into it."
"You don't think they're playing straight with us, then."
Van Lynden shook his head. "No, this whole line about international civil disobedience' is bullshit of the rankest kind. It's a justification for a blatant land grab that they hope will play well to the global media. Argentina is a member of the United Nations. They could have brought the Antarctic question up before the General Assembly at any time they desired. Dr. Towers indicated that that's where it would have ended up anyway.
"There is something else going on here, Steve. Another entire level to this situation that we don't comprehend yet."
"Where do we start?"
"I'm not sure. I did notice one thing. Sparza expressed concern about that ship we have off his coast, yet he didn't even mention the fact that half of both the Atlantic Fleet and the Royal Navy are roaring down on him."
The Secretary of State was quietly thoughtful for a moment, then he continued. "If we can figure out why one ship now is more critical than twenty next week ... Well, we might just have something."
EIGHTY-SEVEN MILES EAST OF PORTO ALEGRE
1257 HOURS: MARCH 21,2006
The topic of the day during lunch had been sports. Dix Beltrain was pushing his usual premise that football now reigned supreme as the true national pastime of the United States. Vince Arkady provided a new rallying point for the wardroom's baseball traditionalists, while Christine Rendino maintained her one-woman radicalist party in favor of ice hockey.
Amanda, who loathed all team sports with equal intensity, kept her peace and listened with amused interest. Arkady was fitting in well with her crew, and that pleased her.
Eventually, she dropped her napkin across her plate and said, "If I might bring this edition of 'Saturday Afternoon in the Locker Room' to its conclusion, we've got a little business to attend to. Chris, how do we stand on fixing the Argentine submarine force?"
"We have solid fixes on four out of the five," the intel replied, spearing a last forkful of strawberry pie. "Currently, one of the Kockums 471s and one of the old TR 1700s are tied up at the main Argy sub base at Mar del Plata. A second TR was caught running on the surface in the Golfo San Jorge by our last reconsat pass about half an hour ago. Finally, a couple of Brit helos have been working a contact down around the Burwood Banks natural-gas fields all morning. Mount Pleasant Control gives me an eighty percent probability that that's our third TR."
"That leaves the other 471."
"Yeah, the last we have on her is when she submerged off Rio de la Plata four days ago. Tactically, she could be anywhere by now."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Amanda replied. She glanced across at her new air group leader. "Arkady, I'd like to use the helos to sanitize an antisubmarine corridor for us right down the Argentine coast. How about it?"
He shrugged. "I can give you a conditional okay. Given the rate of knots we're turning and the fact that those new Swedish boats are quieter than a shark wearing sneakers, it'll require both helos up and operating in tandem most of the time to really scrub things down. That and clearance to drop sonobuoys on spec. Is that how you want it?"
It was, but as one great military mind had phrased it, "The balloon of theory is anchored by the lead weight of logistics." How many hours could she afford to pile onto her aircrews and equipment, and how many days would it be before a supply ship loomed over the horizon?
"Negative. Alternate your flights and stick with your MAD gear and dunking sonar. Drop sonobuoys only to verify potential contacts. Stay in fairly close, right along our course line. I just don't want to run over this guy without knowing about it."
"Aye, aye, Skipper. Do you want us to load torpedoes?"
That question triggered a sudden, intent silence around the table. After a moment, she shook her head.
"No, it hasn't come to that yet. We've just got some people around here who have started playing sneaky. I don't intend to leave them any openings."
Arkady gave her a quick nod. "Right. C'mon, Nan
cy, we've got an operations sked to put together."
The two aviators shoved their chairs back and rose to leave. Already Arkady and his junior officer were moving as a well-coordinated team with no apparent sign of resentment or friction.
The majority of the other officers also trailed out over the next few minutes, returning to their respective duties. Soon, only Amanda and Christine remained at the table, lingering over a last cup of coffee.
Christine watched the last of the others leave, then produced a theatrical sigh. "I always suspected you had pull in high places, but now I know you must have a hot line to the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."
"What are you talking about, Chris?"
"Our new rotor rider, the one who was conveniently available to transfer aboard back in Rio. My, he is sweet to look upon."
"Chris!" Amanda set her cup down with a clatter. "It's a good thing I know you to be basically irrational. Anyone else making a suggestion like that would get this ship dropped on them!"
The intel produced a mean little-girl snicker. "I knew that would be good for a small explosion. Don't get fussed, boss ma'am. I know you're so straight they could use you as a test standard for pool cues."
"A commanding officer can't even afford jokes about things like that, Lieutenant."
"I know, I know." Rendino leaned forward and cupped her chin in her palm. "But come on, God's honest, you and our Mr. Arkady were busy building a thing back there on that beach."
Amanda couldn't control her half-smile. "Well, we weren't exactly throwing rocks at each other. However, that is no longer relevant. I didn't know he was Navy, and I most certainly didn't know that he'd be placed under my command. From here on, he's just another of my officers."
Christine muttered something into her hand.
"I didn't catch that?"
"Nothing, ma'am. Just commenting about likely stories I'd heard recently."
Whatever Amanda's response would have been, it was cut off by the overhead speaker. "Captain, contact the CIC, please."
Her command headset was lying beside her plate, and it took only a moment to whip it on. "Captain here."
"We have two fast movers closing on us from the southwest. Contacts identified as Argentine."
"I'm on my way. Chris, stick close."
Amanda was out of her chair and halfway to the hatch before she finished the second sentence.
The Cunningham's Combat Information Center was one level down, below the main deck and almost directly underneath the wardroom. The big compartment was roughly octagonal in shape, with the four subsystems bays extending off from the angled corners. Communications, starboard side forward. Electronic-intelligence gathering, starboard aft. Stealth systems and electronic countermeasures, port aft. Sonar and antisubmarine warfare, port side forward.
Spaced around the remaining bulkheads were other workstations: engineering, damage control, fire control, and sensor support. Right forward was the "Alpha Screen," the primary display of the destroyer's Aegis II radar system. A softly glowing topaz telemonitor, eight feet wide by four high, it was etched with a computer graphic representation of the ship's surroundings.
One critical aspect of the "New Age" Navy was that more and more captains were abandoning the bridge, the traditional seat of command authority in a battle situation, in favor of the Combat Information Center. Here, through the media of their ship's sensors, they could better "see" what was actually going on out to a tactically useful range of several hundred miles.
The Cunningham had been designed with this in mind. Centered in the compartment was a "command cluster" of specialized workstations. The captain's chair with its bank of multimode flatscreen monitors was located directly alongside the tactical officer's master fire-control console. Just forward of these were the primary operator's station for the Aegis systems and the "battle helm," an abbreviated, one-man combination of the helm and lee helm stations on the bridge.
This latter stemmed from the realization that the speed and ferocity of naval combat was steadily increasing, in some ways resembling aspects of aerial dogfighting. The old system of captain-tells-talker-who-tells-another-talker who-tells-watch-officer-who-tells-helmsman was becoming catastrophically cumbersome. Direct hands-on control of the rudder and engines could save time that could save ships.
Because general quarters hadn't been sounded, none of the command-cluster stations had been manned except for the duty Aegis operator. The captain's chair was facing aft, awaiting her. Amanda dropped into it and gave the sideways flick of her foot that rotated it 180 degrees and locked it forward. One fast look at the big Alpha Screen told the story.
The image displayed wasn't produced by any one system; rather, it was a computer composite, generated by combining the data flow from the sensor systems with oceanographic and geographic map overlays from the Global Positioning Unit and the navigational data banks. At the moment, two bat-shaped air contact hacks, glowing yellow to signify potential hostility, were clearing the northern Argentine coastline. A course-projection plot extended out from them to intersect the Cunningham's line of advance a few miles off the bow.
Christine had split off to confer with her people in the Elint bay. Now she returned to stand at her captain's shoulder.
"What have we got, Lieutenant?"
"Definitely Argy. They've been chattering away with Pedro out there, getting a position fix on us."
"Pedro" was the nickname that had already sprung up in reference to the relay of Argentine Atlantique patrol planes that had been shadowing the Duke through the night. The current incarnation was orbiting now thirty miles off to port.
"What are they?" Amanda inquired.
"Given their performance characteristics and the size of their returns, they're strike fighters. If they're Fuerza Aérea they'll probably be Rafale E's. If they're Aeronaval, they'll be the Panavia Tornadoes."
A slow quarter hour passed as the targets closed the range. Twenty-five miles out, the Duke's Mast Mounted Sighting System was brought on-line. A derivative of the same McDonnell-Douglas targeting unit used aboard the U.S. Army's scout helicopter fleet, it consisted of a high-definition television camera with 12X magnification and a FLIR (Forward Looking Infrared) scanner unit, both mounted on a gyrostabilized platform atop the mast array.
Now, under radar guidance, its lenses swiveled around to lock on to the incoming aircraft. Down in the CIC, the image it picked up was windowed into the upper right side-bar of the Alpha Screen.
The two women studied the sleek, delta-winged forms shimmering slightly with air distortion. "Rafales," Christine said finally.
As more detail became apparent, the intelligence officer called up a media copy of Jane's Battlefield Surveillance Systems on a secondary screen and referred to it.
"No ordnance apparent and the flight leader is carrying a photoreconnaissance pod on his centerline," she commented. "It looks like a Kodak run."
The Argentine jets turned in toward the Cunningham and boomed overhead, crossing fore to aft at 5,000 feet. Dropping down to 2,000, they swung wide and came in again on the destroyer's flank, their engines smoking slightly at the lower altitude. Then, their mission apparently completed, they climbed away to the southwest, heading for home.
The CIC duty watch relaxed marginally as the Rafales pulled out of engagement range.
"I guess they just wanted a few pictures," Christine said.
"This time," Amanda agreed quietly.
BUENOS AIRES
1925 HOURS: MARCH 21, 2006
**SECURITY***SECURITY***SECURITY***SECURITY***
*
**ALPHA LOG 5-AUTHENTICATOR***GREEN CHECK VERIFY
****************** MODE TERMINAL-TERMINAL
**SECSTATE-BRAZILCONSUL
*
**SECSTATE GO
*
QUERY: WHAT is SITUATION REPORT ON SABOTAGE
ATTEMPT OF USN CUNNINGHAM?
*
MILITARY ATTACHE HAS MET WITH BRAZILIAN ASSIST. SEC. NAV
.
POINT ONE: DENIES ANY ATTEMPT AT SABOTAGE. BRAZILNAV REPORT CLAIMS INCIDENT DUE TO ACCIDENTAL FUEL CONTAMINATION DURING DOCKSIDE
LOADING.
*
POINT TWO: PROTEST FILED OVER UNSCHEDULED DEPARTURE OF USN CUNNINGHAM. VIOLATION OF PORT PROCEDURES CITED. REQUEST INSTRUCTIONS.
*
DISREGARD PROTEST.
REQUEST UPDATE ON BRAZILGOV ATTITUDES RE.
ARGENTINE ACTIONS IN ANTARCTIC?
*
ONLY AVAILABLE OUTPUT AS PER MINISTRY OF INFO PRESS RELEASE CALLING FOR "REASONABLE ATTITUDES AND NEGOTIATIONS."
BRAZILPRES, BRAZILVICEPRES, BRAZIL MINISTER OF STATE UNAVAILABLE FOR CONSULTATION FOR PAST 24 HOURS.
CIA STATION CHIEF REPORTS AS FOLLOWS:
POINT ONE: SPECIAL ARGENTINE MINISTRY OF STATE LIAISON GROUP HAS BEEN ON SITE IN BRASILIA FOR PAST 72-96 HOURS.
POINT TWO: BRAZILPRES, BRAZIL MINISTER OF STATE HAVE BEEN IN CONSULTATION WITH
SAME.
POINT THREE: EXTENSIVE MOVEMENT OF DIPLOMATIC
COURIERS BETWEEN BRASILIA
AND MAJOR OVERSEAS EMBASSIES.
QUERY: WHAT is GOING ON, MR. SECRETARY?
*
*
*
WE STILL AREN'T SURE.
EIGHTY MILES EAST OF PENÍNSULA VALDÉS
1551 HOURS: MARCH 22, 2006
Vince Arkady double-timed up the 'tween-decks ladder to Air One, the Cunningham's flight-control center. A small triangular compartment located right aft in the trailing end of the superstructure, it was the only compartment on the ship other than the bridge with a direct exterior view, a vee of stealthed Plexiglas looking out over the helipad. In addition to the windscreen, it contained a pair of repeater terminals, a small communications console, and, at the moment, Chief Petty Officer Frank Muller, Retainer Zero Two's crew chief and the Air Division's senior NCO.
"What do we have, Frank?"
Muller passed his boss a headset as he replied. "Zero Two's just declared an in-flight emergency."
Choosers of the Slain Page 8
