Fernandez appeared unwilling to support that agenda, his coy smile revealing his complacent approval of the San Juan’s torpedo attack against the Ambush, despite its failure. Bothered by his executive officer’s lack of bloodlust and ambition, Gutierrez responded with a grunt.
“It was a well-placed shot, sir,” Fernandez said. “If not for their speed, it would have hit.”
“That means nothing,” Gutierrez said. “Any British submarine we face will have the speed and endurance of a nuclear power plant.”
“We’ve at least shown that we can track an underwater target and launch a credible shot at one. That’s a strong signal to the British that we’re prepared to fight for our territorial rights. We’ve created a deterrent.”
“Really? We needed the aid of limpets placed by a mercenary. Were we able to hear anything else from the Ambush?”
“High-speed coolant pumps, blade rate, cavitation, and broadband flow noise.”
“No, you imbecile. I mean before it accelerated to evade torpedoes. Were our systems and our sonar operators capable of hearing anything from that ship before it started sprinting for its life?”
“No, sir.”
“Then my only chance against the Ambush is to sink it while it’s hindered by limpets.”
“The latest message traffic says there are two Orion anti-submarine aircraft en route to sink the Ambush. With the British air defenses on the island nullified, our aircraft will have free reign. With our latest targeting data and the sounds of the limpets to guide them, they will have no trouble finding the Ambush and sinking it.”
“They won’t find it if I destroy it before they get there. They are still an hour away. I need to get closer and attack again, before the Ambush can find a way to rid itself of those limpets.”
“That’s impossible, sir. They must be at least thirty nautical miles away by now. And we’re working against a grave speed disadvantage. They can sustain twice our speed.”
Gutierrez looked to his aging monitor. Lines of monochrome sound thinned as the Ambush carried its wailing chorus of limpets to the edge of the detection range of the San Juan’s hydrophones.
“If the captain of the Ambush has true courage,” he said, “he will stop running.”
“Do you really expect him to turn and fight? The limpets place him at an acoustic disadvantage, even against a ship as old our as ours. I would consider that suicide.”
“Well, then. Let’s have a test. What would you do in his place? What should he do?”
“He should sprint to the nearest friendly port. He’s eleven hundred nautical miles from the South Sandwich Islands. That’s less than two days for a ship as fast as the Ambush.”
“Why?”
Fernandez showed a spark of intelligence that Gutierrez expected. He knew his executive officer to be thoughtful, though lacking aggressiveness.
“By continuing to sprint, he’ll evade all our naval vessels, including us. If he can reach port, he’ll have shore-based air protection, even if they’re just shoulder-mounted point defenses. Plus, the geography of hills and an enclosed harbor would add additional protection against attacks by Orions.”
“The Orions will reach him before he can reach the South Sandwich Islands.”
“True, sir, but the aircraft still face the burden of deploying sonobuoy fields and resolving the Ambush’s location accurately enough to drop a torpedo.”
“They have enough time to do so.”
“The British may have scrambled fighter aircraft from Ascension Island.”
Gutierrez tapped buttons on his monitor to call up global distances. The Ascension Islands that had helped the British in the campaign thirty-two years earlier lay thirty-four hundred nautical miles to the north, midway between the land masses of South America and Africa.
“I grant you that the British may be capable of mounting such a protection mission, but at top speed, their jet fighters could cover the distance in roughly six hours. They would need refueling support, which isn’t stationed yet. So that’s at least eight hours from being able to protect the Ambush from our Orions.”
“You asked me what I would do, sir. You didn’t ask me about the odds of success.”
“If the captain of the Ambush is a true warrior, he will discount his acoustic disadvantage against us. He can still hear us, and he still has a speed advantage. If I were him, I would turn and fight my way back to Port Stanley.”
“Even with the Dragon working against him?”
“I would rather go down fighting us, the Specter, the Santa Cruz, and the Dragon than wait for aircraft to sink me.”
“I see, sir.”
“But first, I would attempt to remove the limpets.”
“And that’s where you plan to attack, sir?”
“Yes. Set a course to chase down the Ambush.”
“The course is already set, sir,” Fernandez said. “But we have five minutes left on our battery before we risk inverting cells.”
Gutierrez had let his fierceness for the Ambush blind him to his battery status.
“Damn! Prepare to surface the ship. We will pursue on the surface while snorkeling.”
“That will limit our speed to thirteen knots.”
“I know that, you halfwit. Make it happen.”
Ten minutes later, the deck rolled below Gutierrez’s feet, and he steadied himself against the periscope. The San Juan bobbed on the surface and charged its diesel engines while pushing its way through swells toward the Ambush.
A radio message informed him that the P-3 Orion aircraft that had taken off from Argentina’s coast would reach the estimated position of the Ambush in less than an hour. Since the wailing of the limpets had faded from his sensors, he could only speculate about the British submarine’s location and behavior.
Turn and face me, he thought.
Gutierrez grew frustrated as time’s lethargic dripping brought the Orion aircraft closer to the Ambush but moved the target farther from him. Absent acoustic data of the British submarine’s whereabouts, he assumed it opened distance from him at a flank-speed sprint.
As he entertained thoughts of conceding the British submarine to his nation’s aviators, an alarm startled him.
“Torpedo seeker!” Fernandez said.
Scenarios about the source and intended target of the torpedo vied for plausibility in Gutierrez’s mind. The idea that took root angered him.
Someone — a naval vessel, a satellite, any sensor — had fed the location of his surfaced San Juan to the Ambush. That meant that the Ambush had slowed and come shallow, possibly surfaced, allowing it to download radio traffic.
“Secure snorkeling! Submerge the ship! Take us to forty meters!”
As the deck angled downward, he lowered the periscope and silenced the torpedo seeker alarm. A monochrome display showed the weapon’s active search frequency and confirmed his belief that the torpedo was British.
“Left ten-degrees rudder, steady course zero five zero.”
The San Juan rolled and dived into the turn.
“All ahead flank!”
He watched Fernandez labor against the ship’s incline to reach him. His executive officer’s eyes were open wide.