"And if your aunt had balls, she'd have been your uncle. The past is the past, good, bad, or indifferent. Monday-morning quarterbacking is a great way to drive yourself crazy with no concrete return out of it."
"No, Arkady. Sometimes the past hangs on, just like that boy is doing down in sick bay."
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
1430 HOURS: MARCH 29, 2006
Much to his disgust, Admiral Elliot MacIntyre found that his backlog of hackwork had been accumulating in direct proportion to the time he was spending on-line with the Antarctic crisis. In the end, it forced him, muttering and snarling, away from Operations and to his desk for a few hours to deal with the worst of it.
Accordingly, he was rather grateful when the toning of his desk intercom interrupted the chore.
"Admiral, do you have a second?" his Chief of Staff inquired.
"Not really, but don't let that stop you. What's up, Maggie?"
"An unusual situation. I've just received a call from main gate security. Wilson Garrett is down there requesting to see you, sir."
MacIntyre wasn't exceptionally surprised. To hell with the paperchasing for a while.
"Clear him through, Maggie. VIP treatment."
MacIntyre waited for his guest in the operations-room access corridor. When he finally appeared, striding along at Captain Calendar's side, the CINCLANT found himself flashing back to certain old days in the Pacific. Wilson Garrett had been his immediate superior then, the man who had taught him just how a real skipper went about running a taut ship.
Garrett's brush cut was whiter now, but his spine was still as straight, his eyes just as sharp, and his nylon windcheater was worn like a suit of blues. Somewhere, someone had royally screwed up when this tough and capable little man had failed to get his second star.
"Welcome aboard, sir," MacIntyre said, extending his hand.
"Sir?" Garrett responded with a short, strong handclasp. "You're doing better than I ever managed, Eddie Mac."
"I don't know about that. You were smart enough to get out while you could still fly your flag off of a ship and not a brick shithouse."
Garrett smiled and replied wryly, "Maybe so. The hacks up in D.C. will probably want to put the whole fleet up on blocks one of these days. They'll figure to save some money."
The retired officer grew serious again. "Look, I know you people are busy, so I'll get right down to it. I'm here to pull strings, demand privileges, and beg favors. I'd like to find out what's happening to my kid, Eddie Mac."
"I figured as much. Come on, let's go down to Fleet Ops."
A few minutes later, Wilson Garrett was standing at the rail of the command balcony looking down appreciatively at the Large Screen Display and at the ordered ranks of workstations down in the worry hole.
"I wouldn't knock this setup. I would have killed to have this kind of C3I available back when I was trying to run CruDesRon Four from the flag plot of the old Callahan."
"You get the output, all right," MacIntyre replied. "Frequently, more than you want. We're still developing an analysis-and-utilization doctrine that'll allow us to make the best possible use of the data flow. This system can put you right in the hip pocket of your task force commanders. You really have to buck the urge to micromanage. If you're not careful, you can find yourself playing them like they were characters in some kind of a video game. Now, what do you know?"
"About as much as your average civilian puke," Garrett replied. "The Argentines have invaded the South Pole and we don't like it. We're blockading the Argentines and they don't like it. The Brits are gearing up for 'The Falklands, Part II,' and we've got a carrier group burning a hole in the water trying to get south. There's also scuttlebutt that the shooting is either about to start or has already started, but that nobody is ready to admit it yet."
Garrett ran a worried hand through his short-trimmed hair. "Hell, I'm not even sure if Mandy's ship is involved. I just know that the Duke was in Rio, and that she caught a sortie order. The only other thing that I'm certain of is that I've got a CNN camera crew camping in my front yard, waiting for the casualty-notification team to show up."
Maclntyre decided that there was no reason to beat around the bush. "The shooting has started and your daughter is right in the middle of it, Wils. Truth be known, at the moment she's damn near all we've got down there."
"Hell!"
"That's the bad news," the CINCLANT continued. "The good news is that she and that hypertech tin can of hers have been fighting the whole damn Argentine military establishment to a standstill."
"Yeah?" Something bright and hot flared in the older man's eyes. "Well, that's not surprising. Mandy never did have much back-down in her."
"So the Argentines are finding out," MacIntyre said dryly. "To date, she's closed down their sea lines of communication with the Antarctic and damn near put their naval aviation wing out of business. Eight confirmed surface-to-air kills so far. She's also knocked down their only military reconnaissance satellite and taken a chunk out of a sub they sent after her. She's more than holding her own, Wils."
"Has she taken any damage?"
"A little, during the Argentines' first strike on her. The Cunningham's still fully operational, though, and they've only taken one serious casualty. I understand they're currently trying to set up some kind of medevac for him through the British."
Garrett looked intently across at the Large Screen Display.
"What's her current position?"
"Good question. Half the time we can't spot her ourselves. This stealth business is more effective than even we expected. Generally, we get our best fixes when she interrogates a reconsat for an intelligence download."
MacIntyre glanced over to his Chief of Staff. "Maggie, when's our next bird due in over the Drake Passage area?"
"We should have a realtime link with Key Hole Thirteen Charley in just a couple of minutes, sir."
"Sounds good." The Admiral returned his attention to Garrett. "We'll be able to get a position on her for you then."
"Thanks, Eddie Mac. Now there's just one other thing I'd like to know."
"Sure."
"How in the hell could you send my daughter into that shooting gallery without adequate support!" Garrett exploded.
MacIntyre had been expecting that question; it was one that had every right to be asked. The CINCLANT was just glad that he was comfortable with the answer he had to give.
"For the same reason you would have, Wils," he replied evenly. "Because we have three oceans' worth of responsibility for one ocean's worth of fleet. Because the Duke was all we had to work with. And because that's the job, Wils."
There was a long moment of strained silence, then Garrett tiredly shook his head. "Yeah, yeah, please excuse the fatherly outburst. If Mandy had been here she would have kicked my butt for that."
"Don't sweat it. You should have seen me the first time my oldest daughter stayed out after midnight. I was a basket case."
A phone shrilled in the background and Captain Callendar took the call. "Thirteen Charley is coming in over the Antarctic Peninsula, sir. Data download commencing through Milstar linkage."
"Thank you, Maggie. Check out the main screen, Wils. This is impressive as hell."
On the huge map display on the far wall of the room, a series of two-meter-wide outlines began to appear. Partially overlapping one another, they began to march northward, up the image of the polar continent, each square representing an area of the Earth's surface being scanned by the orbital reconnaissance platform.
The data from the reconsat's extensive sensor suite--visual and thermographic high-definition imaging, synthetic-aperture surface-scan radar, wide-spectrum EM signal receivers, and a number of other more esoteric systems--all flowed into Fleet Command Headquarters through half a dozen satellite communications channels. Some was intended for long-term storage and analysis by the intelligence sections, some for realtime usage through the workstations in the operations center.
"From
what you've said, Mandy's been tangling mostly with their air and submarine elements," Garrett commented. "What about the rest of the Argentine navy?"
"They haven't come out. Oh, they've been using some of their second-line stuff to make faces at the British around the Falklands, but we haven't seen a serious challenge by their surface forces yet. They seem to be massing their best ships and a transport group at their southernmost fleet base at Ushuaia. We've been told that they may attempt a convoy run to their Antarctic garrisons."
"She'd have to go after them if they tried it, wouldn't she?" Garrett pressed.
"Hopefully the situation won't come up. The Roosevelt group is a little over two days out and we're setting up to forward-deploy some Orions and B-ls into the Falklands. If she can hold out just a little bit longer, the cavalry will come riding in over the hill."
On the big screen, a small set of crosshairs blinked into existence just off the ice-pack line near the South Shetlands. Flanking it were the glowing figures 'DDG 79.'"
"Okay, there she is. She's just tapped Thirteen Charley herself. She's alive and well, Wils."
Garrett nodded. "Yeah, so she is. Thanks, Eddie Mac. I appreciate this."
"Forget it."
"I'm not planning to." Garrett straightened and squared his shoulders. "Well, there's no sense in me cluttering up your quarterdeck more than necessary--"
"Admiral," Captain Callendar cut in, the phone still lifted to her ear, "the duty officer reports a situational change at Ushuaia."
"Have them put it on the main screen."
The computerized map image on the primary display was replaced by a ghost-toned overview of the southernmost Argentine fleet base. The coastline and the land area surrounding the narrow bay were a dim grayish-green, the sea almost black. The heated buildings of the base itself and the surrounding town were a series of uneven geometric patterns in white. Clear of the harbor mouth, near the bottom of the screen, was another pattern of pale glowing dots.
"Can we get this in visual spectrum video?" MacIntyre demanded.
"No, sir. The area is socked tight under very heavy overcast. Infrared imaging only."
"Very well. Have them zoom in on that ship formation."
Eight thousand miles away and 140 miles up, a fantastically sophisticated mirror and lens system responded to the CINCLANT's command. The dot pattern grew until it filled the screen, resolving into three blunt-ended ovals running bow to stern. Four additional hull silhouettes with the finer lines of warship design held formation on this trio at the two, four, eight, and ten o'clock positions.
"Thermographic analysis indicates three diesel-powered transport types being covered by two large gas turbine and two small diesel escorts," Maggie Callendar reported. "Speed eighteen knots, bearing one seven nine degrees.
The two turbine escorts are probably Meko 360s. No positive ID yet on the smaller ones."
"That matches part of the available Argentine force pool." MacIntyre frowned. "Check Ushuaia anchorage. What about the Animosos--their First Destroyer Squadron?"
The image scanned north and settled on the offshore moorage of the naval base. Three slender hull forms were still present there. However, even as they watched, the midships section of each vessel began to glow more brightly.
"Analysis reports that the ships of the First Argentine Destroyer Squadron are lighting off turbines. Apparently they're powering up to get under way."
"And it's a sure-money bet as to where they're headed. Maggie, dispatch a situation update to the Pentagon War Room and to the Royal Navy liaison group. Then get a sighting report off to the Cunningham. Inform them that the Argentine fleet has sortied and request an acknowledgment! They're probably picking this up on their own download, but we've got to be certain they know what's coming at them!"
MacIntyre thought he heard Wilson Garrett say something, but when he turned back to the retired officer, he realized that the man was speaking to someone else a long distance away.
"There's seven of 'em, Angel," he was whispering, his hands tightly gripping the balcony rail. "For God's sake, be careful."
DRAKE PASSAGE
1451 HOURS: MARCH 29, 2006
Ken Hiro gestured awkwardly with the communications hard copy. "Uh, Captain, we've just received a Flash advisory from CINCLANT...."
"I know, Ken. We see them."
Amanda leaned, stiff-spined, over the chart table in the Intelligence bay of the CIC, her impassive features underlit by the coldly glowing surface. Christine Rendino stood by quietly, her usual ebullience extinguished. In the darkness, neither officer could see how tightly their captain's fists were clenched, how deeply she had driven her nails into the palms of her hands.
Finally, Amanda took a deliberate deep breath. "Chris, notify all division heads that there will be an operations group in fifteen minutes.
"Ken, acknowledge CINCLANT's advisory. Inform them that we are proceeding to intercept the enemy with intent to engage. Also, please request that they contact the HMS Polar Circle for us. Inform them that we will not be making rendezvous."
Amanda pushed away from the table and started slowly for the hatchway. "If you need me, I'll be down in sick bay."
DRAKE PASSAGE
1845 HOURS: MARCH 29, 2006
The Cunningham's RPV control station was located at the far end of the cramped Elint bay, and Amanda Garrett and Christine Rendino were forced to squeeze in around the operator's chair to see the display screens. During those odd moments when his attention wandered, Arkady found the close, warm presence of the two women rather disconcerting, Amanda's clear-water-and-wildflowers scent mingling with Christine's muskier cologne.
With a side-stick controller in his right hand and a throttle in his left, Arkady was "flying" one of the Duke's Boeing Brave 2000 reconnaissance drones, a small, stealthy, Remotely Piloted Vehicle that resembled a stumpy cruise missile. On his head he wore a bulbous virtual-reality helmet with its display visor flipped down over his face.
A whole different world existed inside that helmet. It was as if he were sitting in a cockpit aboard the drone itself, a three-dimensional, computer-graphics simulacrum of its surrounding environment being projected on the inner curve of the visor. He could look "down" and see the surface of the ocean represented by a glowing white-on-blue grid pattern marching beneath the "nose" of the RPV. He could look "up" and see the cloud cover represented by a wider-hatched gray grid overhead. He could sweep the "horizon" with a turn of his head, and a blip of thumb pressure on a control-stick button would materialize a systems-status display or a navigational readout in front of his eyes.
Pilot and drone were connected via a tight-beam UHF relay through an orbiting Milstar communications satellite. The data link was a violation of stealth protocols; however, Amanda had wanted to see her enemies as something more than a symbol on a screen.
"Navicom readouts indicate you're coming in on the primary search zone," Christine murmured. "Keep your eyes open."
"I got 'em already. I'm acquiring multiple air-search radars bearing zero off the nose."
Within the VR program, radar waves could be made as readily visible to the human eye as the beam of a flashlight. Arkady could "see" the convoy's search systems on his horizon, sweeping and pulsing in pale red like a cluster of lighthouse beacons.
"Okay, that's them. Stay alert for the distant covering force. Satellite scan indicates they're running out ahead of the main body of the convoy."
"Roger, I'm taking her down to the deck."
Arkady rolled the controller forward, and two hundred miles to the north the RPV dipped its nose in response and sank toward the surface of the sea.
To Amanda and Christine, there was something rather eerie in the alert, watchful movements of Arkady's head as he peered about with his distant telepresence eyes. After a few moments, his attention fixed on something.
"Okay, I've got the covering force. Three of 'em, running in column."
Christine reached forward and tapped a ser
ies of keys, activating the drone's camera turret. A flatscreen came on, displaying a televised view of blurred gray wave tops. Using a trackball controller, she slewed the camera around to the bearing Arkady had indicated. In the visual range, nothing could be seen but a curtain of sea smoke. The touch of another key, however, switched the system over to thermographic imaging.
The horizon snapped clear, presenting a vista like a photographic negative: three ghostly pale ships sailing against a dark sea and sky.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to the Argentine First Destroyer Squadron," Christine murmured, "genus Animosos italianos. About five thousand tons' displacement each, a single five-inch gun forward, three OTO Melara seventy-six-millimeter Super Rapid point defense mounts, Aster surface-to-air missile system, two tubes for type B-515 dual-mode torpedoes, and an eight-cell Exocet launcher. The guy in the center there with the enlarged helicopter hangar aft and the slightly different bridge silhouette will be your task-force flagship."
Amanda leaned forward to study the screens, her shoulder brushing unthinkingly against Arkady's. He had noticed that she'd been unusually quiet, and now, through the touch of her, he could feel her tension.
"They're being a bit slow on the uptake, aren't they, Chris?" she commented.
"They don't know we're out there yet, boss ma'am. These guys aren't radiating at all. Total radio and radar silence. They've been running that way ever since they cleared the coast."
"Any change in their positioning?"
"Not really. They've been holding out here about ten miles off the port or starboard bow of the convoy. Probably they're station keeping on the convoy's radar emissions."
"Do they seem to be favoring either side?" Amanda pressed.
"No. According to the reconsat data, about once a watch they tack on a little extra speed and cross over the course line from one side to the other. It seems to be a set operational pattern."
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