Dragon Fire (The Battle for the Falklands Book 2)

by Bleichert, Peter von

  Though smacked in the face by a thick cloud of fumes that emanated from San Luis II’s running diesels, Raton reveled in standing outside. He adjusted his personal floatation device for comfort, scanned his quadrant of the sea with binoculars, and sighed with exhaustion. They had all fought through the long dark night. Now it was dawn. The sky loomed as big as ever, and the rising sun painted it with a vast palette of color. Among the crew on the conning station was a two man air defense team.

  Both men wore protective goggles, though one, the ‘spotter’s,’ was in fact the thermal imaging type. The team’s ‘shooter’ removed a 9K338 Igla-S from the sail’s waterproof locker. The Igla—Russian for ‘Needle’—was an infrared-homing man-portable surface-to-air missile. The shooter hurried to assemble the weapon and test and engage the weapon’s battery. Raton felt a tug on his pant leg. His brief time in the cold wind was over. He took one more deep breath and then climbed down from his perch.

  The shooter ascended in his stead, and was handed the Igla’s tube-shaped launcher, which he rested upon a shoulder. Then the spotter joined the shooter on the sail’s perch. The shooter threw a switch on the tube’s fore grip, and the weapon came alive with an ominous growl, all while the spotter did a quick sweep of the surrounding airspace. His thermal imaging goggles found a source of heat.

  The white glowing blob he saw was in fact the Merlin, its hot turbines and exhaust streams standing out, in the infrared viewer, against the black coldness of the atmosphere. The spotter pointed with a small hand-held flag and, taking his cue, the shooter swung the missile tube in the specified direction. The Igla shrilled when its own sensor found the heat source. The shooter centered the launcher sight’s illuminated red dot on the inbound British aircraft.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Rodi saw that one of the men perched atop the submarine had a pole rested on his shoulder.

  “MANPAD; MANPAD,” Rodi exclaimed. Immediately, the aircraft rolled right and yawed hard. Thumps announced the ejection of flares from the helicopter’s fuselage. Straining to brace himself, John looked out the window. A corkscrew of white smoke reached for the Merlin.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Despite the length of the tunnel that led up to the sail’s conning station, light, sea-spray and the Igla’s propellant smoke still made their way down into San Luis II’s Control Center. Though one submariner was green from the rise, fall, and roll of the surfaced submarine, the rest seemed content to be breathing the cold morning air. Captain Matias unfolded the periscope’s handholds and leaned into its viewfinder. He spun the periscope until he found the British destroyer again, and then settled his view.

  Dragon filled his viewfinder. Captain Matias clicked over to 10 times magnification. The British destroyer’s hull reared as she climbed a mountain of water. When Dragon settled again, Matias saw the menacing wyrm painted on the sharp point of her bow. Despite thick black smoke that belched from the jagged wreckage of the destroyer’s superstructure, the ship was moving. Not as crippled as I believed…

  The submarine leaned and then rolled back level. Matias stumbled, and steadying himself, re-centered Dragon in the periscope’s reticule. The captain pushed the switch that locked the target’s position into San Luis II’s fire control computer. Without taking his eye from the viewfinder, the captain ordered: “Report tube load-out.”

  “Señor, tube one loaded with a VA-111; tube two: Type 53 heavy torpedo; tube three: Klub ASM, tube four is empty; and, tube five: inoperative though still loaded with a ’53,” Ledesma recited.

  “Very well,” Matias said with a hoarse voice. He turned to his executive officer and shouted: “Surface shot: tubes one, two, and three. Do it now. Finish her.”

  “Fire control, target is Delta 1. Range: 1,000 meters. Bearing: two-zero-zero,” Ledesma called out. He looked at the battery charge read-out. Though the indicators climbed, so did Ledesma’s anxiety. The surface is no place for a submarine. He pushed the thought and doubts aside. Dials were turned and buttons pushed as the attack unfolded. Matias continued to study his adversary through the periscope.

  He saw Dragon surge forward. “What is she doing?” the captain asked to nobody in particular. Dragon sent up a fan of white foam before her charge. Matias’ confidence was reinvigorated by the shake of weapons being spat from San Luis II’s hull.

  “Señor, tubes one, two, and three: weapons are away,” Ledesma reported. The lilt of his voice betrayed apprehension and spoke volumes, telling the captain to ‘Please dive immediately.’

  “Thank you, Santiago,” the captain said calmly as he peeled his eye from the periscope’s monocle. Then, leaning back in and cupping the viewfinder again in the arc of his brow, Matias peered out at the sloshing waves and his grey foe.

  ◊◊◊◊

  As Seamus put the helicopter on its side and into a tight turn, John was thrown against the aircraft’s rear cabin wall. He crawled to the cabin door and kneeled to peer out through the window.

  Leaving a smoky trail, and tracking the heat emitted from the helicopter’s engine cowlings, the missile snaked its way for the Merlin.

  “Christ,” John said as he got himself back in the seat and secured his harness. Then he felt his chest, and was reassured that his flotation vest was in fact on. He knew that, if they survived a missile hit, the helicopter would drop like a rock, and once in the water, sink like one as well. He thought back on his escape training.

  They had been put in a mock helicopter cabin suspended over a cold pool. It fell and flipped upside down and filled rapidly with the pool water. ‘Check your bubbles,’ they had told the trainees. ‘Bubbles always rise. Just follow them up and out.’ John’s harness had opened—apparently, purposefully—and he rolled from his seat and hit his head. The cloud of blood that gushed from the wound made it hard to see bubbles, let alone anything else. The other trainees were blinded by it too, as one man swam right into John’s face, adding to the throbbing pain. Panic threatened to overtake John’s rational brain.

  The air in his lungs rapidly ran out, and the organs begged to be refilled. He exhaled the last of the breath anyway, and watched the wobbling bubbles rise. Despite his greying vision, John decided the direction the bubbles travelled had to be the true up. He made for the cabin window opening in the upside-down mock cabin. The opening was already devoid of Plexiglas, a convenience that a real-world Merlin cabin would not have offered.

  An explosion tore the remembrance of John’s experience at 824 NAS away, and brought him back to Kingfisher 21 and its precarious place in the air over the South Atlantic Ocean.

  Shoved by the proximate explosion, the Merlin dipped violently. Although the Igla had been lured by a flare, the enemy missile had exploded close by, the force of which slammed into the helicopter’s side. John steadied himself and saw that the window had been pitted by fragments. Luckily, they had not had the energy to shatter the thick Plexiglas and penetrate the cabin. Shaken by the danger-close blast, Seamus had to assume that more missiles were on the way and turned and dipped his Merlin hard.

  ◊◊◊◊

  Raton watched the three trails of bubbles that raced from San Luis II’s bow. One trail, the one that belonged to the Squall, formed fast and straight, and left the other two behind it. The second trail stopped short, boiled to the surface, and spat a Klub anti-ship missile into the air. It jumped from the sea and, with a puff of black smoke and an unfolding of winglets, leveled and screamed off. The third trail—that which belonged to the heavy wake-homing torpedo—made a relatively slow and steady advance toward their adversary.

  ◊◊◊◊

  From Dragon’s bridge, Fryatt saw the Klub broach, ignite, and configure for flight. He said: “Not this time. You are just too close.” He knew naval weapons like the back of his hand, and recognized that Dragon was already inside the effective engagement envelope of this particular type of Russian anti-ship missile. Fryatt shifted his concentration to the line of bubbles generated by the underwater rocket reaching out for his v
essel. “Squall,” he annunciated with derision, and reduced the ship’s rudders’ angle. Dragon swung over obediently, and became oblique to the threat vector. Fryatt dismissed the Squall with a snort, and then neither saw nor worried about the torpedo that still made its devious way beneath the waves. Out of sight, out of mind, Fryatt chuckled at the thought. Though deadly, torpedoes were slower than underwater rockets and anti-ship missiles, and Fryatt decided he would deal with it only if he was forced to. He refocused attention on the black bobbing mass of the Argentine submarine.

  “Sir, starboard turbine now at redline,” cried the navigator.

  “Steady on,” was all Fryatt said as his enemy loomed ever larger in the bridge’s windows. “Steady…”

  The navigator took a deep breath to fortify his own confidence, and then took it upon himself to announce to those below decks: “Collision warning. Brace, brace, brace.”

  ◊◊◊◊

  Madre de dios, Raton thought. He had never considered he would see such things: His submarine was at the surface and firing on a British destroyer that already trailed black smoke from fatal wounds. Our captain has done well. Raton patted the steel of San Luis II’s sail. And you have also done well, too, my dear. The air defense crew went about reloading their Igla launcher. Raton looked to Dragon again. The British destroyer was in motion, and had turned straight at San Luis II.

  “Carajo,” Raton muttered. He lowered the binoculars, and picked up the growler. He pushed the button to sound a bell in the Control Room, and then wiggled the wire plug to make sure it was properly seated in the conning station’s terminal. Fucking Russian piece of shit, he complained, and spoke aloud: “Come on, come on.” Raton looked up to see Dragon ride up a wave and then slam back down again. “Come on.” Growing anxious, he looked up again. The ship was clearly on a collision course. Judging by the bow wave shoved up before her, she had increased speed, too. “Answer, damn it, answer.”

  A voice finally came through. It belonged to the first officer.

  “¿Sí, cuál es su informe?” Ledesma asked for Raton’s report.

  Raton yelled in response: “Señor, the ship…she has turned to. She is charging.”

  The other men on the sail heard Raton’s statement, too. First, they looked at Raton, then, turned with swiveling heads to the only shape on the lonely plain of ocean: Dragon. They had all been distracted by the engagement with the helicopter—now just a black shape buzzing low on the horizon—and had failed to recognize the threat that drawing ever closer. The air defense team shooter swore, slid the reload missile and launcher back into the sail locker, and anticipating a dive, clamped the locker door shut.

  Within San Luis II’s Control Center, Ledesma informed the captain of the lookout’s warning. Matias took a quick peek through the periscope, and conceded that Dragon’s course and speed were alarmingly uncharacteristic of a fatally crippled vessel. There was a brief debate regarding British capabilities and intentions, and then Matias reluctantly barked the order: “Emergency dive.” Ledesma sounded the alarm and ordered the sail team to get below.

  Raton hesitated for a moment. All had seemed well. Victory had been at hand, and the very reason for his service and suffering had been vindicated. And now, he was told to scurry back down a hole. I am to be a rat that runs for cover. Raton scowled, unplugged the growler, and told the men of the watch to get below. As the point of Dragon’s bow stabbed closer, and the tower of her superstructure made shadows where none had existed before, Raton’s crewmates scurried to the sail’s hatch and circled it like confused birds. The opening was so small, and the pressure hull’s access tube was so tight, that precious moments were spent squeezing inside and shimmying down. The ladder inside the confines of the access tube was coated with water and salt. It was slippery like the slope of the sail’s hull.

  Raton huffed. “¡Señores! ¡Rápidamente!” Raton urged his crewmates to hurry. If the moment had not been urgent, Raton would have laughed as he watched the men try to shove themselves inside San Luis II’s hull. We are all just ‘rats.’

  The last of the sail team—a robust and rotund type—tried to squeeze into the hole, but got stuck as the ring of fat about his midsection caught on the portal’s circle of steel. Raton directed him to blow out his breath and squeeze in, and the submariner managed to shimmy inside, disappearing like a deep-water tube worm entering his enclosure. Out of breath from pushing on the man’s shoulders, Raton saw that San Luis II’s cylindrical hull had angled down, and the forward deck was awash with creamy bright-green water. Raton looked to Dragon.

  A sharp knife at the submarine’s throat, the British destroyer was nearly upon San Luis II. Raton wondered, Could such determination be defeated? Was such loyalty paralleled?

  “Close the hatch,” was the answer to such questions. The order had travelled up the access tunnel and been amplified by its confines. It was Ledesma’s voice, a man Raton had admired. However, now, the voice brought abandonment and condemnation.

  Several meters down, within the underworld of San Luis II’s hull, the primary hatch clanged shut. Its locking mechanism articulated and finalized the situation. Raton felt the submarine tip forward. He was alone. He was outside. San Luis II began to dive.

  Raton’s brain raced: Had they forgotten him? Was he being sacrificed? Raton looked up. Dragon was just a wall of grey steel. The ram of her prow crossed the patch of foam that San Luis II’s hull had just occupied, and Raton looked to the submarine’s outer hatch. It was still open, a portal to either salvation or damnation. Whatever the reason for his being left topside, Raton would do one last thing. It would not be for Argentina or his captain, but instead for his boat and fellow submariners. Raton slammed the outer hatch shut. The sound reverberated through his soul and imparted final verification. He had been left topside.

  The men he had struggled to give power to, to keep alive, had left him there. Grateful for the air and sea spray, he felt he belonged below where the air was dirty and stale and tasted of battery acid, farts, and sweat. He accepted his place and forced the hatch’s locking lever, confirming his position and fate with the metallic ring of steel.

  The hatch’s lever—half rust, half over-painted metal—broke the finger bones of his right hand as it snapped into position. Raton was unsure whether the scream that came from his mouth was one of pain or resignation to his fate. A spray of cold water refreshed and stung his cheeks, and the sensation both quieted and confirmed the reason for his shriek. It also confirmed that he was still alive. Raton looked up and saw the sharp, grey shape of Dragon looming ever larger.

  He saw the red wyrm that adorned Dragon’s bow. The mythical creature hissed and spat and threatened with razor-sharp claws. The shape rose and fell down almost upon him. There was a deafening crunch and a bone-jarring tremor as Raton was knocked hard to the conning station’s deck where he hit his head. The world went black.

  Raton tasted salt water and the coppery tinge of blood and realized he was underwater. Light and dark alternated as he tumbled. Bubbles hissed all about him. He tried to struggle toward the light, but the strobe effect continued the eddy created by San Luis II’s sinking mass tossed his body like rag doll. Despite his predicament, Raton thought of those trapped inside the submarine.

  The Control Center lights had flashed off and on, then off again, and stayed that way. Ledesma reached through the darkness for where the captain had been standing. He felt only cold, wet metal. Unsure of where the floor ended and the rounded walls began, Ledesma probed the dark. He heard groans and coughs and he heard shouted orders. Ledesma added his own cry to the cacophony: “¡Capitán!”

  “Santiago…” Matias responded weakly.

  Ledesma made for the voice and called out: “Someone…give me a flashlight.” His hand was smacked by a flashlight, as a surgeon receiving an instrument from an operating room nurse. He grasped the small rubber-covered cylinder and offered to the shadowy figure: “Gracias” He clicked on the flashlight. Its cone of light cut the
blackness like a knife, and its yellow eye travelled over the dripping control panels, pipes, wires, and valves of San Luis II’s Control Center, and over the fear-filled faces of her crewmen.

  As though attempting to pass through, one man held the curved wall of the inner pressure hull. Another submariner was at his station, hunched before the depth gauge, dutifully watching as its needle indicated increasing depth. He turned valves and clicked switches. Despite these efforts, however, the submarine continued to roll farther onto her side, and she pitched steeper and steeper as she slid backward toward the bottom.

  As Ledesma’s light moved over the submariner’s face, the man raised a hand—not as a salute, but a shield from the blinding beam—and with his face expressing resignation, shook his head in the negative. He tried to speak, but instead coughed and spat out the water that had flowed off an overhead pipe and drenched his face, filling his mouth. Then he tried again: “Sir, she won’t answer. She--”

  San Luis II interrupted her crewman by protesting the abuse she had endured with a bone-chilling metallic whine. The crewman’s eyes widened as he finished his thought. “Sir, Numero Dos…she is going down.” Ledesma exhaled, for he had already known this truth.

  “Emergency surface: Blow mains; blow auxiliaries; blow safeties. Planes all down; engines ahead full.” With these orders, which were dutifully repeated, but likely with no real hope, Ledesma shifted attention to finding his captain.

  The circle of light continued its scan, and it finally found Matias. His face was so bloodied that Ledesma would not have recognized the slumped man as his superior had the flashlight not caught sight of the uniform shoulder board’s four gold-braid stripes and looped top stripe.