Dragon Fire (The Battle for the Falklands Book 2)

by Bleichert, Peter von

  The Merlin was guided by Dragon’s Op Room to her next hunting position. The helicopter dropped its nose and raced off, to dip its sonar again and add a vertex angle to the triangulation of the contact.

  ◊◊◊◊

  The sound of the dropped valve wheel bounced its way down to the confines of Raton’s domain. The repeating clang reverberated through the battery deck and when the echoes subsided, Raton looked to the submarine’s cold inner steel hull. Despite its thickness and strength, the hull was an ideal transmitter of sound.

  This was the reason internal machinery was isolated from the boat’s skin wherever possible, Raton pondered as he fingered a rubber cylinder that supported his own sled’s track. He felt the track’s metal and recognized the vibration from San Luis II’s diesels.

  They, too, were dampened, mounted on big rubber rafts that kept their reverberations from transmitting to San Luis II’s casing. These efforts, however, could be undone by a hatch closed too hard, a fallen tool, or in this case, a dropped wheel valve. All of these could provide potentially lethal results. That piece of iron shit, Raton postulated. It was forged in some old Murmansk furnace. The noise it made was surely heard by the clams and fish and those maldito británicos. Raton caught his breath and held the air in his lungs as he heard a trickle of water.

  The sound was different from that created by the flow of water around San Luis II’s hull, and different from the bubbles of trapped air that occasionally escaped the casing’s free-flood areas. The sound, Raton realized, had come from inside.

  The water that had escaped the Control Room pipe valve had then found its way down the periscope well. Tugged by gravity, it sought the most direct path possible to the lowest point in the boat, the bilge. However, between the Control Room and bilge was the battery deck where, craning his neck, Raton saw the first signs of the water.

  Held fast by surface tension, the water clung to the steel roof and squirmed and squiggled along in a streamer that split and merged again. Raton watched and kept pace. He scooted his sled along the compartment rails, his belly just over the tangle of leads and wire that grew from the battery cells. The water ran into a small protuberance where, no longer able to defy gravity, it stretched into a long drop over an electrical shunt and disconnect switch. Raton hurried to put his gloved hand on the switch. He watched the drop elongate.

  The liquid orb reflected the lights and machinery of the confined space. Raton saw himself there, too, a stretched face with wide eyes and a sweat-covered brow. He cursed the water. Then he thought of the cool summer thunderstorms that visited his farm in Salta, where the rains would break the humidity and drench the croplands. Before they called him ‘Raton,’ he was Gaston Bersa, a simple farmer, a man who stood among the rows of citrus trees and let the downpour wash away the day’s dirt and sweat.

  Raton had fallen in love with the sea at first. It had helped him escape the workaday life, and offered him a perfumed, salty-sweet smell and a vast openness he had never before experienced. But soon he came to consider the whole other world, beneath the undulating plane of the sea’s surface.

  Submarine school imparted a healthy fear of, and respect for, that domain. High-pressure water had sprayed Raton and his classmates, filling the training compartment fast. He then learned that the ocean was the enemy, something to be resisted and fought. When mechanical aptitude and a slight frame had gotten him assigned to the battery deck, he quickly learned that, should saltwater contact the electrolyte within the imperfectly sealed battery cells, a plume of lethal chlorine gas would flood the compartment, and potentially the entire submarine. Raton snapped the disconnect switch over, and isolated a block of batteries.

  The water seemed to fall all at once, a brief rain that splattered across the square tops of the battery cells. I love my job, Raton thought ironically. He began to hum; his usual remedy for doubt or fear. Then his tight little world was shattered by another sonar ping. This one was lower in frequency and clearly more powerful, for it shook the very skin of San Luis II.

  ◊◊◊◊

  “Active sonar…and propeller noises,” San Luis II’s sonar technician announced. “Twin screws,” he added. “It is Delta 1, sir. The destroyer. She has turned in our direction, and is closing fast.” ‘Destroyer.’ The word bore so much weight to submariners. Throughout history, such ships were both respected and cursed by those that lurked and sneaked about beneath the sea. Captain Matias looked to Ledesma, who rolled his eyes, a gesture that communicated much.

  “Sir, airborne contact,” the sonar technician said. With the thermocline breaking up, San Luis II’s sonar could now discern the high rpm turbine and thumping rotors of the hovering Merlin. “Designate: ‘Hotel 1.’”

  The Merlin—that vexatious helicopter that seemed to appear and disappear to aggravate the very captain who had kept them alive so far—now had a designation, a neat packet to contain the venom they felt for this contraption. Matias looked at the clock. 1930. It’s getting dark top-side. Then the Control Room lights flickered.

  “Report,” he ordered.

  Ledesma looked to the Control Room’s engineering panel and the battery read-outs, and then his gaze shifted to the electrician’s mate whose job it was to monitor the boat’s systems. Grasping for an answer, the electrician’s mate threw switches, pushed buttons, and read gauges.

  “Sir, voltage drop,” he reported. “I show a manual tripping of ‘primary disconnect one.’ Available power now down to 22 percent.”

  Ledesma went to the growler, lifted the receiver, and selected the battery deck. After he made inquiries, Ledesma hung up and turned to the captain.

  “Battery deck reports bank two isolated due to water. Corporal Bersa is trying to get another eight percent with cable bridging.”

  “Goddamn it.” Matias knew that, with battery reserves so low, he would soon need to run the diesels, and the diesels needed air.

  “Captain, we must decrease our depth,” Ledesma beseeched. Just then, in seeming support of his recommendation, begging for relief from the black crush, San Luis II let out a shudder and a prolonged groan.

  “Very well,” Matias added with the calm of someone with nothing to lose. If I am forced to the surface, the captain thought, I will put my boot right up their ass. Although Matias had already made up his mind on a course of action, he asked Ledesma for advice nonetheless: “Options?”

  “Well, sir, there are not many. Just one really,” Ledesma raised his eyebrows into a black arch. Matias nodded.

  “Maldito británicos,” someone mumbled. They had eavesdropped on the officer’s conversation—not hard inside a steel pipe that amplified mere whispers and bounced them in all directions. Matias’s bowed head lifted. He strolled the compartment and surveyed the men under his command. He could have asked, ‘Who said this? Who was undisciplined enough to offer such a statement?’ Though, in this case, he would not make an example for the sake of discipline. Why? Fatigue mainly, and because Captain Matias agreed with the comment. Yes, damn the British.

  “Señor,” Ledesma sought his captain’s attention once again.

  “¿Si, Santiago?”

  “Captain, we must attack.”

  Captain Matias studied his executive officer, liking what he heard, and the look of determination in his subordinate’s eyes.

  “What is the moon like this evening?” the captain inquired.

  Ledesma consulted a table.

  “Waning crescent.”

  Good, Matias thought and nodded, the light of the moon will not be on their side. Matias closed his eyes and pictured the silvery surface. He longed for a lungful of fresh, salt-laden sea air. He thought of submariners of old who used to bring their boat to the surface, pop the hatch, and climb out onto the conning tower to line up an attack as sea spray drenched their stink away, and fresh breezes carried away their cares.

  Yes, he thought, damn the British, and damn it all to hell. After all, anything was better than hiding down here in the blackness.


  “Okay, my darling,” Matias whispered as he stroked the nearest piece of the submarine’s metal that his shaking hand could find. Then his voice boomed: “Ten degrees rise on the bow.”

  “Yes, my captain.”

  “Load tubes one and six with Klubs, and put Squalls in two and five,” Matias had ordered anti-ship cruise missiles and rocket-propelled torpedoes.

  Ledesma grinned.

  “Keep ‘53s’ in three and four,” Matias added, wanting the wake-homing torpedoes available as well.

  “Aye, sir.” Ledesma was re-energized by the new order, and it was soon repeated and transmitted to the bow compartment.

  Technicians in the weapons room scurried about as their supervisor shouted instructions. In a well-practiced dance, six men unloaded wake-homing torpedoes from four tubes, winched them back onto storage racks, and then loaded the encapsulated missiles and cone-shaped rocket-propelled torpedoes. Their supervisor smiled at his panting men, thankful for the frequent skill-sharpening drills. He cranked the growler.

  “Sir,” Ledesma said as he put down the growler in the Control Center. “Bow compartment reports all tubes loaded and ready in all respects.”

  “Excellent,” Captain Matias looked at his watch. “Record time.”

  The submarine seemed excited by the new action. With nose pointed toward the waves, San Luis II rose fast, like a swimmer who had gone too deep for too long and felt that insatiable urge to suck air again.

  “Mind your rise,” Matias said, and watched as the bow angle was checked and adjusted. The indicator bubble moved from 12 degrees to the proper 10 he had ordered. Creaks, bubbling, and the sound of rushing water sounded, as though a tap had been opened.

  “Delta 1 and Hotel 1 continue to close,” the sonar technician’s raspy voice added to the sounds.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Captain Fryatt grabbed one of the bridge handholds that the genius engineers at BAE Systems had had the foresight to install. He was amazed that someone seated at a cubicle far from the fury of the Atlantic could look beyond their desk, beyond the flatscreen that displayed the ship’s three-dimensional design, and transpose themselves into the reality of a fighting ship at sea. Fryatt peered out through the spray-soaked bridge window. The colorful sunset made it difficult to see the marker smoke dropped by the Merlin. Then he spotted the ribbon that rose from the water.

  Fryatt ordered a slight course correction, “Come three degrees to port.” When he was happy with the bow’s alignment, he said: “Steady as she goes.” Captain Fryatt smiled. He did not need radar or sonar, nor any of the glowing, digital readouts his amazing ship offered. ‘I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life.’ The quote was displaced by an electronic beeping and his first officer’s report:

  “Sonar reports Master 1 is at zero-nine-five. Depth: 330 meters and rising. Bearing: zero-one-eight. She is making turns for eight knots.”

  “Clear Kingfisher to prosecute.”

  “Aye, sir,” Williams turned and nodded. The simple gesture would forward authorization to the Merlin to attack the contact.

  “Bow array. Hammer,” Fryatt added. The sonar in Dragon’s bulbous bow powered-up to send sound waves into the deep.

  WHOMP.

  San Luis II’s metal hull shook as the sound waves hit her. Only the enemy destroyer could put such power behind its sensor.

  “Get us to missile launch depth quickly. They will be shitting all over us in a second,” Ledesma barked to the Control Center personnel.

  “Bow up 20,” the chief said as he rested his hand on the planesman’s shoulder. San Luis II pitched up. The floor of the submarine’s Control Center became a steep hill. Those standing braced themselves, while those seated secured seatbelts. The floor tilted toward starboard. “Watch your trim, damn it; watch your trim.” the chief barked. The helmsman and planesman used all their ability and skill to arrive at the missile firing depth smartly.

  Just forward of San Luis II’s sail, the maneuvering planes articulated to steady the speeding hull as water was pumped into a port-side tank. San Luis II’s roll leveled out.

  Captain Matias smiled, confident that San Luis II was in good hands. He said: “Make tubes three and four ready in all respects, including opening outer doors.”

  Ledesma repeated the orders, and seconds later, reported they had been carried out.

  “Very well. Firing point procedures, tubes three and four, surface target: Delta 1. Fire.”

  San Luis II shuddered as the two heavy wake-homing torpedoes shot from her hull.

  “Torpedoes away, tubes three and four,” Ledesma said with a smile. “My depth is 180 meters headed for 30.”

  “Close outer doors and reload tubes three and four with ‘53s. Slow ascent at 100 meters and open outer doors, tubes one, two, five, and six. At 30 meters, snap shot those tubes. Start with two and five, then one and six, all targeting Delta 1.”

  “Aye, sir,” Ledesma acknowledged with a clenched jaw, and precisely repeated the complex orders to subordinates. “Sir, bow compartment reports tubes three and four reloaded and ready in all respects.

  Matias nodded. Silence hung in the Control Room, and tension among the crew was as heavy as the recirculated air.

  “Splashes and high-pitch screw; torpedo in the water,” the sonar supervisor announced. “Range: 1,000 yards; bearing and course changing rapidly,” the young man’s voice cracked.

  “Hotel 1,” Ledesma mumbled. The Merlin had dropped one of its Stingray lightweight homing torpedoes, now descending in a helical pattern.

  “Torpedo is active and searching.” The Stingray’s active sonar had energized, and was looking for something to kill.

  “Rig boat for depth charges. Launch noisemaker,” Matias barked, his orders now clipped as the stress of the encounter increased. Each of San Luis II’s compartments prepared for damage control. The torpedo room fed a cylindrical noisemaker into tube seven, a small vertical ejector that protruded from the compartment’s ceiling. The noisemaker contained chemicals that reacted with salt water and thus effervesced, creating an ensonified area that would appear on enemy sonar.

  “Señor, bow compartment reports ‘noisemaker is away,’” Ledesma informed the captain. Reading Matias’ mind, he added: “My depth is 70 meters headed for 30. Our torpedoes are bearing: zero-nine-seven. Course: zero-one-five degrees. Both are running straight and normal.” He glanced at the depth gauge. “We’re at 50 meters.”

  “Slow the ascent, trim the boat, and open outer doors, tubes one, two, five, and six,” Matias was squinting and focused. The captain grabbed ceiling pipes and wireways to steady himself as he walked toward the fire control panel. As San Luis II came shallow, the men could hear the rhythmic whooshing of Dragon’s propellers through the hull. Down in the battery deck, Raton likened the noise to that of cicadae on a hot summer’s night.

  Ledesma spun around to inform Matias, “Outer doors open. We’re at 30 meters,”

  Matias took a deep breath and gave the order: “Firing point procedures on Delta 1. Snapshot, tubes one, two, five, and six.”

  After a loud hiss of air, San Luis II shimmied for several seconds.

  “Weapons are away,” Ledesma announced.

  “Close outer doors, all tubes. Crash dive. Make your depth 300 meters. Reload tubes one, two, five, and six with ‘53s.”

  “Crash dive. Crash dive,” Ledesma yelled. A bell rang. San Luis II pitched down. Her propeller churned, knifing the submarine through the water and toward the deep.

  7: JOUST

  “No lance have I, in joust or fight, To splinter in my lady's sight; But, at her feet, how blest were I, For any need of hers to die.”—John Greenleaf Whittier

  The South Atlantic looked like molten gold as the last rays of the sunset illuminated its gently rolling surface. A bubble rose, disturbing the tranquility. And then the bubble popped; foam erupted in its place. From within the eruption, a grey cylinder was spat. It leapt to the air, peeled apart, and opened li
ke a flower. Inside hid a Klub anti-ship missile, an export version of the Russian Novator 3M-54, generally known by its NATO designation: SS-N-27 Sizzler.

  Released from its watertight container, the Klub’s booster ignited and pushed it into the sky. Small wings unfolded and control surfaces adjusted. The Klub nosed over, leveled, and began to race across the sea. Near where it had sprung, sprang another such bloom. It, too, left the petals of its water-tight canister afloat. They lingered for a moment and then, sucked under, disappeared. As the canister petals fell toward the bottom, they passed two ropes of bubbles where San Luis II’s super-cavitating torpedoes had sped.

  Torpedoes are named for ‘torpor’—a state of lassitude imparted by marine electric rays—and these Russian-made weapons were ready to deliver such a state prior to consuming their prey. The Squalls had been spit from the submarine’s hull. Their mid-body fins snapped open and with a pop, rocket motors ignited. Gases emerged from the conical cavitators at the weapons’ tips and bubbles formed around the casings, reducing drag and turning the Squalls into underwater rockets. The weapons then charged through the water as though it were air, quickly reaching 200 knots as they raced toward Dragon. Swaddled in their self-created gaseous atmosphere and practically tasting the coming kill, the Squalls anxiously screamed through the water.

  Some 150 meters below the Squalls, two Type 53-65KE heavy wake-homing torpedoes snaked their way through the darkness. They had been released first, pushed from the San Luis II’s tubes by high pressure air and spat into the ocean. The export version of the Type 53 heavy torpedo used HTP—a concentrated solution of hydrogen peroxide. Once a catalyst was introduced, HTP decomposed into a high-temperature mixture of oxygen and steam. The oxygen allowed the weapon’s kerosene turbine to breathe, with the steam vented outside the weapon’s casing. This made the ‘53 a high-speed threat, and added to the torpedoes wake of bubbles, created lots of noise. (It also made the weapon very dangerous should it start-up in the submarine’s tube.) Western navies had abandoned HTP as a propellant for this very reason. Despite these worries, however, San Luis II’s ‘53s worked as they should, and their contra-rotating propellers accelerated them to some 44 knots. All the while, the sensors in the torpedoes’ noses got to work.