Jake glared at the icon on the screen that represented the assailant that had launched a lethal weapon at the Ambush.
“You son of a bitch,” he said.
The text below the icon labeled the assailant as the Argentine submarine San Juan.
CHAPTER 11
Within the combat operations room, Commander Nigel Gray tapped the final command into the Sampson fire control system, ordering the Dragon to engage any high-speed airborne target within ten miles
When he climbed back to the bridge, the lights of Port Stanley dotted the horizon, and his motionless destroyer drifted in the waves. Stepping onto the bridge wing enveloped him with cool humidity, and a rearward glance revealed a rescue helicopter plucking crewmen from the water.
Seeing no human silhouettes remaining on the fantail, he returned to the warmth of the enclosed bridge. He assumed himself alone, uncaring if a random sailor or two had failed to abandon ship and confident that his incoming colleagues would nullify any resistance that straggler crewmen could mount.
A glance at the Sampson system’s three-dimensional rendering showed what he hoped — aircraft arrived from the west. They flew at low altitude and in tight combat formation, representing the bulk of Argentine airborne firepower.
He knew that early warning radar systems from the Royal Air Force’s Mount Pleasant installation would also see the incoming threat, and he expected their response.
But first, his ship’s reaction startled him.
An alarm whined, and lights blinked on the Sampson’s display screen. Before he could comprehend the warning, the system unleashed its automated response.
Metallic clunks resonated through the hull as vertical launch tubes opened. Two bursts of bright brilliance blinded him, and the bridge windows shook. Trailing orange plumes, two Astor missiles climbed into the night, accelerated to multiples of the speed of sound, and angled downward toward the shore.
Breathless and blinking the brightness from his retinas, Gray scrambled across the deck to watch the weapons trace lines of fire through the darkness, erupt in conical conflagrations, and cut down a pair of Royal Air Force Typhoon fighter aircraft that attempted to take off from Mount Pleasant.
Unable to see the victims, he trotted back to the Sampson display and glanced at it. Pulsating icons representing the British jets receded into slaughtered nothingness. With only four fighters dedicated to protecting the Falkland Islands, he noted that his treason had halved his nation’s local air forces.
The annoying and incessant radio requests for status from port authorities halted, and Gray felt solitude in his semi-deafened silence.
He ambled to a radio control panel and shifted his frequency to a secure military channel. After tapping in a memorized encryption code, he heard a new voice speak his code name with a Spanish accent
“Guardian, this is Hail Storm. Over.”
Ten seconds passed, and the hail arrived again.
“Guardian, this is Hail Storm. Over.”
Gray lifted a handset and answered.
“Hail Storm, this is Guardian. Over.”
“Guardian, Hail Storm, we are approaching. Secure your system in five minutes. Acknowledge. Over.”
“Hail Storm, Guardian, I will secure the system in five minutes. Over.”
“Guardian, Hail Storm, acknowledged. Out.”
Respecting that the Argentine squadron refused to attack with the Sampson system energized, Gray hurried into the depths of the destroyer to shut it down.
Inside the combat operations center, he looked to an infrared scanner’s readout. The lack of white-hot jet engines confirmed his hope that the Royal Air Force grasped that an attempt to launch its final two Typhoon fighters equaled suicide.
As he shut it down, the Sampson system showed the Argentine squadron fifteen miles away. Moments later, plumes of infrared white revealed the courage of the remaining two Typhoon pilots. Free of the Sampson system’s menace, the jets traced plumes down a runway and then rose into the night.
As their aircraft escaped his infrared system’s field of view, Gray gave the British pilots a nod of respect and a silent wish for speedy and painless deaths.
Instead of returning to the bridge, he crept deeper into the belly of the warship and sought its diving locker. He stepped into it and pulled down a wetsuit, fins, and scuba gear.
Months of practice for this day allowed him to don the gear without thought. He folded his uniform on a bench, and the suit enveloped him in his undergarments like a glove. After pulling the hood over his head and drawing the zipper to his neck, he hoisted the tank’s traps over his shoulders.
He slid the facemask over his head, draped the flippers over his shoulders, and grabbed his clothes. A detour to his stateroom allowed him to stow his uniform and retrieve a watertight bag that contained keys and cash. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he headed for the bridge.
Barefooted, he felt the coolness of the deck plates as the windows came into view. The lights of the port had moved to the corner of the bridge’s panorama, highlighting the aimlessness of the Dragon’s drifting. He stepped onto the bridge wing, inhaled the cool moisture, and prepared for the show of fireworks.
The first orange streak speared the darkness and pounded the top of a hill with a conical burst. As the explosion’s rumble reached his ears, he recognized the elimination of the first targeted Rapier anti-air battery.
The sky and ground erupted in a fury of exchanges. Bands of color traced laser-like paths of destruction, and bursts of brilliance on land and in the low-altitude air suggested an initial even battle.
Then the airborne bursts ebbed as the Argentine bombs and missiles found their marks, halving the British air defenses. In what Gray assumed to be a second wave of Argentine aircraft, the tide shifted toward the attackers.
He dialed his phone, lifted it to his cheek, and awaited Renard’s voice.
“Hello, my friend,” Renard said. “All is well, I trust?”
“Yes,” Gray said. “Everything is going as well as could be hoped. The attack appears to be going well.”
“Indeed. I’ve heard reports that you managed to take down the first two Typhoons. Well done!”
“I see very little air-to-air exchanges. Do you know how close our colleagues are to controlling the sky?”
“I’ve heard that the Typhoon aircraft have performed admirably, splashing four or five Argentine assault craft. Fortunately, numbers are prevailing, and one Typhoon has been eliminated, leaving only one. Another two or three Argentine aircraft have succumbed to ground fire, but the ground defenses are being neutralized. The sky will soon be ours.”
“Then you’ll soon be dropping the paratroopers to secure my ship?”
“Of course. They will be dropped in the third wave and join you shortly. Once the shore batteries are silenced, the technician team will be dropped in a fourth wave.”
Gray swallowed.
“I’m about to take a decision that will be irreversible and crucial to our relationship.”
“I am concerned. What is troubling you?” Renard asked.
“I intend to forego my bonus and leave you before the Argentine forces land on my ship.”
The Frenchman’s tone became agitated.
“Perhaps you suffer from lack of trust in me?”
“It’s not a matter of wanting to trust you,” Gray said. “You’ve acted trustworthy. It’s a matter of not being allowed to trust you for my survival. Given your line of business, I cannot allow one-hundred percent trust, nor dare I assume that your Argentine colleagues would honor your intentions with me.”
“I see. You believe that since the infiltration team has been trained to handle the rudimentary operations of the ship without you that I consider you expendable.”