“Come,” Fryatt said. The wood-paneled door slid open. It was Lieutenant-Commander Williams, carrying a print-out. He asked forgiveness for the disturbance, handed his Captain the paper, and retreated again to the passageway. Fryatt rubbed his eyes, unfolded the decrypted message, and began to read:
PROTECTIVELY MARKED INFORMATION
ENCRYPTION KEY: ATD3GW
FR: NAVY COMMAND HEADQUARTERS
TO: HMS DRAGON
REPUBLIC OF ARGENTINA (ROA) HAS INVADED/HOLDS SOUTH ATLANTIC OVERSEAS TERRITORY OF FALKLAND ISLANDS. STATE OF WAR EXISTS WITH ROA.
ORDERS:
RENDEVOUS WITH HMS IRON DUKE AT 8S 14W
PROCEED IN UNISON AT BEST SPEED TO 51S 54W AND RENDEVOUS WITH HMS AMBUSH
RULES OF ENGAGEMENT ULTRA — ENGAGE AND DESTROY ALL ENEMY CONTACTS. PROVIDE THEATRE — WIDE ANTI-AIR WARFARE UMBRELLA FOR FRIENDLY FORCES
END TRANSMISSION
Fryatt remembered having read that the Crown Prince had been headed to the Falklands for a tour. He thought of his old ship, Sheffield, and remembered the agonized groans of the badly burned man that had lain beside him in Hermes’ sick ward. He thought about the AM39 Exocet.
During the 1982 Falklands War, other than sinking Sheffield, Exocet had damaged the merchant ship Atlantic Conveyor, and set the destroyer Glamorgan ablaze. Fryatt knew that Argentina now had over 200 Exocets in inventory, including the latest MM40 Block 3 version. While he knew that Dragon was far better equipped to handle this menace than Sheffield had been, he also knew that these weapons would be their greatest nightmare. What had not crossed his mind, however, was the fact of Argentina’s new submarines.
2: ABISMO
“They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains the hottest blood of all…”
There were strange snaps, clicks, and haunting songs. The trio of sound was layered over a bass section of low-frequency groans. This orchestra of life belonged to the Atlantic Ocean, and, from the murk beneath the waves, another sound grew louder, rhythmic and unnatural. A shadow approached. It was blacker than the blackness.
Argentine submarine ARA San Luis II was a Project 877EKM Paltus diesel-electric attack submarine, better known by the NATO designation of Kilo. Paltus meant Halibut, and, like the large bottom-dwelling flatfish, San Luis II could blend in, conceal herself, and lay in wait to snap up unwary prey. Built in Nizhniy Novgorod, Russia, like most things made there, the submarine had been sold like a drug in a dark alley. Cold cash had sealed the deal. Yes, to some on Argentina’s Cabinet of Ministers, a submarine was just a steel hole in the water that did not feed people, plow fields, sow seeds, nor provide shelter to the poor. But to others, San Luis II represented a means to an end, and existed, therefore, as a beautiful thing.
San Luis II—called, simply, Numero Dos (Number Two) by her crew — featured a hemispheric bow that housed sonar and six big weapon tubes for mines, missiles, and torpedoes. She bore dive planes just forward of a large sail emblazoned with the big white pennant number ‘S-44.’ Antennae, two periscopes and a snorkel through which the diesels breathed, jutted from the sail’s top. The submarine’s fat and stubby, stretched teardrop-shaped, hull ended with a lower stabilizer fin/rudder and a single big six-bladed propeller. As to a blind man, sound was San Luis II’s eyes.
She towed behind her a microphone-covered wire and, mounted hull-side, was the Rubikon passive sonar array. These ‘eyes’ collected sounds from the water, and allowed San Luis II to see in the dark. Her speed increased, and then she reeled in her towed array. Within the pressure hull, beyond the reach of the great crush of ocean, is where San Luis II’s human operators existed. They dwelt in a tangled thicket of pipes and valves that lined a claustrophobes’ nightmare of artificial caves, grottoes, hatches, and tubular tunnels. The sonar station occupied a small space just off the main Control Room.
This is where sounds were filtered and analyzed by computers and their sophisticated software. The computers then presented the sounds to technicians. A glowing screen, one of many, displayed graphical bars that cascaded like a waterfall. Each bar represented bearing, frequency, and the range of sonar contacts. The sonar technician pointed to one such bar and asked what he was listening to: “¿Que es eso?”
“Whales screwing,” the senior sonar technician answered. The accent revealed a youth spent in the mountainous north-western Argentinian province of Catamarca.
“And that background noise?” the subordinate added.
“That, my friend, is from tectonic plates; the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. The crackle you hear, just like your breakfast cereal?”
“Yes.”
“That is lava flash-cooling in seawater.”
The tech nodded understanding, but his slackened jaw revealed lingering confusion coupled with fascination.
The senior sonar technician pressed his headphones tighter to his ears and stated: “We are never going to hear anything at this speed.” San Luis II’s diesel generators continued throbbing away, masking the subtle sounds that could represent another submarine.
San Luis II was on a north-easterly speed course, her depth now ten meters beneath the surface of the ocean, that undulating membrane between air and water. The sub’s diesels breathed through a snorkel that ripped the water like a shark’s fin, sucking vital oxygen that all Earth-bound creatures need, even those made of metal. The invasion of the Falklands—Operación Maza—was underway, and San Luis II would do her part. She arrived on station just 40 minutes behind schedule.
Captain Jaime Matias, San Luis II’s commander, sat at the small fold-down desk shoehorned into a corner of his quarters. Unlike the rest of the boat’s lime-green painted metal walls, this tiny room was wood-paneled and offered a private bed. San Luis II’s other crewmen had to share bunks, with one man waking to go on duty, and the other jumping in as he came off it. Captain Matias’ bed was not quite as long as he was tall, its mattress was cracker-thin, and it was tucked against the slope of the hull. Although it felt like crawling into a coffin, it was nevertheless cool and clean. Even better, it was all his.
Matias looked to the three small, framed portraits hanging on the cabin wall. They had been affixed there in the yard, forcing the commander to bear the unblinking gazes of President Alonso, Admiral Correa, and Minister of Defense Gomez. Matias sighed, stood, and hung a towel over the portraits. He sat again and pulled a cozy off a small pot that had been delivered by the cook and poured himself a mug of yerba maté—a bitter, earthy green tea. Then he picked up the small picture of his wife and son from his desk.
Matias sipped the tea and looked closely at his boy. He, too, wore the uniform of the Argentine Navy, and had he lived, he would be an officer by now. There was a knock at the door.
“Come.”
It was First Lieutenant Santiago Ledesma, San Luis II’s executive officer.
“Pardon the interruption, sir,” Ledesma said as he peeked in.
“Enter, Santiago,” the captain invited. “Sit.” Ledesma squeezed in, sat on the bed, and accepted a mug which Matias filled with tea.
“Thank you, sir.” Ledesma blew at the steaming brew and took a sip. “Sir, we are at 13 south 17 west, the edge of our patrol sector.”