“Level the boat at 20 meters. And then fire those missiles,” Matias ordered.
Ledesma nodded, turned to the depth gauge, and chanted: “Forty, 30…bow planes to zero degrees, stern planes to five. Twenty-five, 20. Level the boat. Fire tubes one through four, target: Delta 1.” Hissing sounds signaled that four Klub anti-ship missile canisters had ejected from the hull. “Missiles away.”
“¿Baterías?” the captain asked.
“Two percent and falling fast,” the electrician’s mate reported.
“Prepare to raise the snorkel and engage the diesels. Get us onto new heading: zero-nine-zero, three knots, or best possible speed. And reload tubes one through seven with whatever’s left in the cupboard.”
“Sí señor,” said Ledesma.
The submarine pitched and yawed in the turbulence of the surface zone. The water at this depth was disturbed and influenced by the atmosphere, and despite her weight, San Luis II felt the power of Earth’s atmosphere.
“Ever been sailing?” the Captain asked with a crooked grin.
Everyone in San Luis II’s Control Room looked at him. Some had blank stares; some looked worried, others were perplexed by the question.
“Capitán,” one man spoke up, “I have.”
Matias smiled wide. “Where?” he asked.
“Off Puerto Madryn, señor. A beautiful boat. She was 12 meters. A Catalina.”
“Si, si, Puerto Madryn,” Matias sighed and closed his eyes. He could see the mainsail, inflated jib, the gentle rise and fall of the hull, and the smell and taste of cool, salted air. “Oh, to be sailing right now.”
The submariner recognized the need on his captain’s face, stood at his station and continued: “…She was named Mama Qucha. She was good and strong. She had given us the right of passage, and protected our way. Just like our boat, señor. Just like Numero Dos.”
Captain Matias again opened his eyes. The man who had spoken was just a shadow in the Control Center’s red lighting.
“Gracias,” Matias thanked him. “The sea is indeed wondrous. Like all those that sail upon her.”
◊◊◊◊
Dragon’s bow-mounted sonar detected another submerged object. The multifunction console in the Operations Room alerted the Assistant Under-Water Warfare Officer and began to track and classify the contact.
“Torpedo, close aboard,” the sailor yelled out. He scanned the data on his display, frantically adding: “Weapon is active and terminal.”
“Brace, brace, brace for impact,” the Principal Warfare Officer shouted out when…
◊◊◊◊
An explosion shook the submarine’s steel casing. The quaking travelled up Captain Matias’ splayed sea legs and rocked his very bones. A cheer went up in the Control Center.
“Numero Dos es Numero Uno,” Matias bellowed. San Luis II seemed to rise in response, sucked up by a wave at the surface that had reached down to the submarine’s depth and pulled her bulk along for the ride.
“Report,” Captain Matias ordered. The pressing of buttons and whispered conversations went silent.
“Señor …” the sonarman inhaled deep and hard. “Explosion. Sound is at one-zero-two: The likely position of Delta 1.” The sonarman paused and checked his readouts. “Our torpedo,” he added with surety. San Luis II’s Type 53 had activated on the outskirts of Dragon’s wake and turned in, snaked its way up the frothing line, and blew up when it thought it smelled something metal.
The metal that the torpedo had detected belonged to Dragon’s hull, specifically right at the portside 5-Deck where the ship’s gas turbines were located. When the weapon’s simple computer brain had thought it was just close enough, the weapon had blown. The expanding gases formed a bubble jet that stabbed at Dragon, piercing and tearing into her.
“The missiles?” Captain Matias queried.
Ledesma looked at his watch, and said:
“Almost there…”
◊◊◊◊
Dragon’s bridge shuddered with the explosion. Fryatt grabbed the arm of his commanding officer’s chair to steady his stance as Dragon leaned to starboard. She snapped back to an even keel when the computer actuated the hull-mounted stabilizer. Red lights flashed on the officer-of-the-watch’s multipurpose console, as well as that which belonged to the navigation position. Someone swore.
“Sir,” the officer-of-the-watch spoke up, “RPMs are dropping.” His words were accentuated by the sudden lurch of Dragon’s hull. It was as if the ship had sailed into thick, soupy water that sapped its momentum. “Captain, Gas Turbine Room reports damage and flooding.”
The VUU rang. Williams answered and got a report, passing the information to the captain: “Sir, we have lost port gas turbine. Port alternator and switchboard down, as well.”
Dragon began to turn toward the left.
“Reduce revolutions, starboard shaft,” Fryatt ordered. “Damage control teams to 5-Deck.”
In the Op Room, blips appeared on the Air Warfare Officer’s console. They were menacingly close.
“Bridge, Primary. Missile, missile, missile,” came over the bridge’s speaker. Williams went to the combat systems console and selected the radar display. Four missile tracks sped across the screen like bony white fingers, reaching for the chevron symbol representing Dragon.
“Missiles terminal,” Williams shouted. Fryatt remembered the last time he had heard that, and thought of Sheffield and his lost shipmates. He felt an anger he had not felt in a long time. He swore, and then screamed:
“Turn into them. Get both ‘Qs’ in-line.”
The navigating officer turned the ship to minimize the profile presented to the missiles, and to put the threat in the firing arcs of both the starboard- and port-side Phalanx close-in weapons systems.
“Seagnat,” Williams confirmed decoys were also up. “Active and distraction.” The system had automatically lofted a jammer round as well as chaff to either side of the ship.
The port close-in weapons system came alive. Its turret swiveled and the barrel rose. A crackling roar and a tongue of flame spat a whipped rope of tungsten rounds at the approaching sea-skimmers.
An explosion close-aboard…
Then another…
Dragon shook.
Fryatt raised his binoculars and watched one Klub turn off center and toward where the Mark 251 active decoy hung on its parachute.
Ripping and vibration announced the second Phalanx lashing out at the inbound Klubs, swatting another of the anti-ship missiles in a massive fireball.
The bright flash filled the bridge. Fryatt winced. Everything looked like an overexposed photograph. Then came- the pitter-patter of shrapnel impacting the ship’s masts and superstructure. His eyes cleared, and from the red and orange and black wall of fire and smoke, a white shape emerged.
“Brace,” Williams shouted.
The Klub slammed into Dragon’s 02-Deck just forward of the ship’s funnel and right above the starboard small-caliber gun’s platform. It pierced the structure’s thin skin and detonated within.
The blast ripped into the forward up-take—the stack where exhaust gasses from the ship’s power plants vented. They exploded. The shockwave slammed into the armor of 1-Deck, reflected, and the superstructure burst like a balloon. Hot gases and overpressure travelled forward through a passageway, ripped through the navigation officer’s cabin and the combined chartroom, and like an unwelcome guest, entered through the bridge hatch, twisting it from its frame and hinges.
◊◊◊◊
“Blimey,” John exclaimed as he saw fire and thick black smoke feather off from the still moving ship. The Merlin orbited at a distance and—out of weapons, low on fuel and unable to land—was relegated to reluctant voyeurism.
◊◊◊◊
Fryatt heard only a high-pitched squeal. He tried to breathe, but his body refused to let him inhale the hot toxic gasses that had filled the bridge. Fryatt coughed and spat out the soot and blood that had filled his mouth. He heard groans
and, barely conscious, saw a bloody pile where Williams had last been standing. Fryatt tried to stand, but he folded again when he put weight on his broken leg. His head spun and a black shape filled his vision. For a moment, Fryatt wondered if he was dead.
“Captain. Oh My God,” the navigator said as he placed a smoke hood and respirator over the captain’s head. He gave Fryatt a gentle shake. “Sir.”
“Help me up, Angus.”
With a yelp of pain, Fryatt was lifted and dropped into his chair. Angus grabbed a fire extinguisher and sprayed it at several small electrical and material fires. He opened the bridge’s outer door, which sucked most of the smoke from the space.
“Firefighting?” Fryatt asked with a cough.
Angus went to a console and checked that the ship’s firefighting systems had been activated. They were on, which meant that aqueous foam was being sprayed into burning compartments.
Captain Fryatt lifted himself. The pain in his leg made his head swim. However, he was determined to make it to Williams. He moved along the console until he got to the senior officer’s chair and the bloody, burnt mess before it.
“Nigel…” he whispered to his friend, and then asked the navigator for the doctor: “Get the Quack up here.”
“Sir, Lieutenant Commander Williams is dead. The doctor cannot help him.” He had already checked the first officer, and then moved to each casualty and felt for pulses or respiration. At each mound of scorched flesh and clothing, he only shook his head in dismay. Then he came to the quartermaster, who groaned when prodded. Angus laid him out flat.
“Ventilation…” the quartermaster gurgled, his head still filled with duty. The navigator took the cue and went to the right console. It was still energized and working, so he pushed a button that isolated ventilation. He did not know that damage control teams had already manually done the same thing by spinning baffle and louvre controls, all while they fought fires and worked to rescue the injured. The navigator returned to the quartermaster and propped him against the bridge console array.
Fight the ship, Fryatt’s subconscious spoke through the confusion of the situation.
“Aye, fight the ship,” Fryatt mumbled.
“Sir?” the navigator and quartermaster asked in unison.
◊◊◊◊
The second explosion had been heard by those nestled inside San Luis II. A brief cheer had gone up.
“Raise periscope and snorkel. All start on diesels,” Captain Matias bellowed with renewed energy and confidence.
The periscope climbed from its hull well, poked from the submarine’s sail, and pierced the surface. Captain Matias unfolded the periscope’s handholds and leaned into its viewfinder. He shuffled around as he spun the periscope.
It was early morning, and the sky was painted purple and orange. The ball of the sun had just peeked onto this side of the world. They had been fighting all night. Another few steps and he spotted the profile of that which he sought.
“There she is,” the captain hissed with both contempt and begrudging respect. He settled his view, putting the crosshairs of the periscope’s reticle right on the target’s center of mass. “There she is.”
10: EL PARTIDO
“We didn't lose the game; we just ran out of time.”—Vince Lombardi
Dragon filled the periscope viewfinder, though it intermittently disappeared behind white-topped hills of water, reappearing again as a trough passed. Matias saw thick, billowing smoke that trailed behind the British destroyer. He clicked the periscope’s optics to 10 times magnification and studied Dragon’s form.
At this angle, Dragon showed as an abstract sculpture of angles and towers. When her hull rose over a wave, Matias saw the bright red anti-fouling paint of her bottom and the crisp, stark black of her waterline. The sharp point of her bow climbed until Matias discerned the bulbous sonar dome. The bow fell and dug in again, sending a fan of white foam before the British destroyer.
“His Majesty’s Ship,” the Captain hissed. It was the first time he had seen his enemy.
“¿Señor?” Ledesma had heard his captain say something, but no clarification was forthcoming.
Instead, Matias centered Dragon in the targeting reticle and, with his hand shaking, pushed a switch that locked the enemy’s bearing and distance into the fire control computer. San Luis II leaned and then rolled back level. Matias spread his legs apart to form a more stable triangle. He felt the deck vibrate as the boat’s diesels spun up. A breeze touched Matias’ face as a Control Room vent blew in fresh air. He took a deep breath that tasted of salt and seaweed, and then turned to his panting men. They, too, reveled in the surface air, filling lungs and cooling sticky faces. As the boat’s stale air was displaced, the crew’s breaths slowed and deepened. Captain Matias smiled.
“Weapons?” he asked.
“Señor, ‘53’s in tubes one and six. Tube five’s still jammed,” Ledesma reported after peaking at the weapons load-out panel.
“Very well. Surface the boat. Prepare for a surface shot. And get the conning tower team up with Iglas. I want that chupa pija helicopter,” Matias snarled. “It is time to finish this…on our terms.”
Raton had heard and felt the diesels start up. They shook the boat hard and reminded him of the tractor he used to ride in the fields at Salta. The tractor had stunk of diesel fumes and it was hard to steer, making his arms ache and soaking his shirt with sweat from the effort. Nonetheless, despite these complaints, he had loved that ‘viejo burro’—‘old donkey’—dearly. Raton let out a chortle that was as much nostalgic pain as amusement with the memory. He watched the battery charge gauge climb slowly and realized he had done it: He had given his boat, captain, and crewmates the life they needed to stay in the fight. Fresh air reached down into the battery deck. As it reached into his little world, it tickled his cheeks, dried his sweat, and filled his blood with needed oxygen. Raton’s weary head cleared.
◊◊◊◊
A squirt of water blown by the morning breeze into a fine mist reflected the sunrise’s colors. About it, the sea turned from dark to a light blue laced with white bubbles. Then, a black shape pierced the waves and poked at the air. It was a rectangular monolith. As it grew from the surface, a dark and massive shape came from below, washed by falling water. The long, unnatural island broke the chop upon it. Captain Fryatt imagined he was dreaming, but he soon realized what he was looking at:
“Submarine at the surface,” the navigator pointed and yelled.
Fryatt went to the shattered windscreen and looked at the whale-like shape. The ‘white whale’ to my ‘Captain Ahab,’ he thought, though the shape was in fact deep black. Like a void, a black hole, an alternate universe, it had intruded upon his world. Fryatt quickly scanned the Dragon’s consoles.
The 114-millimeter deck gun flashed ‘inoperative’ red and, according to the Platform Management System, most other systems were offline as well. However, thanks to damage control teams, propulsion—specifically the starboard alternator, diesel, gas turbine, and switchboard—showed green, as did steering and stabilizers, chilled water, lubricating oil, and several other subsystems.
“Navigator,” Fryatt bellowed as he went to rudder control, “Whatever you can muster, mister, all ahead full.”
“But, sir…”
“Make it so,” Fryatt harshly restated as he wobbled on his shattered leg.
“Aye, captain.” The navigator leaned on the starboard throttle. Despite her injuries, Dragon surged, raised her bow, and plowed ahead. Fryatt adjusted the stabilizers and rudders, and did his best to keep the surfaced submarine centered in the bow’s breakwater. The ship pulled left. Fryatt countered with full right rudder. Dragon ran straight and true again, slamming through the waves and breaking grey water over her forward quarter.
To the last, I grapple with thee… Captain Fryatt quoted to himself.
“Sir, starboard turbine temperature rising fast,” the navigator reported.
From Hell's heart, I stab at thee…
“Sir, I have to back off.”
Fryatt turned and scowled with a burning fire in his eyes.
Captain Fryatt expertly adjusted Dragon’s controls. Her bow, like a harpoon, flew toward the shadow that floated upon the dark green waters.
“For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee…” Fryatt muttered. He steered his ship at the smooth blackness of the surfaced Argentine submarine, and in the moment, felt as obsessed as Ahab. A squeak of a chuckle escaped Fryatt’s clenched teeth.
The navigator looked to his captain and wondered. He re-checked the redlined turbine temperature indicator.
“Sir…” he insisted. Fryatt did not respond.
◊◊◊◊
“What the hell are they doing?” John asked over the intercom as he watched Dragon turn and speed up.
“Damned if I know,” Seamus responded as he dipped the Merlin in the direction of the enemy. Despite being unarmed and practically flying on fumes, he succumbed to the same instincts as his captain. Bracing themselves against the movements of the aircraft, everyone on board Kingfisher 21 peered through the windows at the spear of Dragon as she now raced directly at the fat, floating cylinder of San Luis II.
John raised binoculars and scanned San Luis II. He watched as water sloshed, broke, foamed, and ran down the submarine’s steel casing. He saw free-flood holes suck in and spit out water. He discerned the outline of hatch openings, and as John panned forward, saw the submarine’s massive dive planes slap the surface and sink in a storm of bubbles before they rose again and shed a torrent of white water. John shifted his view back again and settled on the submarine’s sail. Among the stowed antennae and periscopes that jutted from it, there was another discernible shape; a decidedly human one.
◊◊◊◊
The Russian Kilo-class submarine had been designed to operate in the frozen wastes of the Arctic north, so the sail’s conning station was enclosed and wrapped in Plexiglas windows. Since the station flooded when the boat was submerged, it had become cold and wet and slimy. Men of San Luis II’s conning station’s detail were up there scanning every quadrant with binoculars. John also saw a small platform where two men could stand abreast and proud of the station enclosure. This is where Raton stood for the moment, a reward from the captain for his diligence and as an escape from the extreme confines of the battery deck.
Dragon Fire (The Battle for the Falklands Book 2) Page 9
