“How is this possible, sir?”
“I’ll explain when there’s time,” Gutierrez said. “How much battery is left?”
“Minimal at flank speed, sir. We had barely reached one-tenth of a charge before submerging. Five minutes. Perhaps six.”
“That’s enough,” Gutierrez said.
“For what?”
“To get out of the accursed thing’s way.”
Over the next five minutes, the lines of bearing to the incoming weapon veered to the right.
“It’s close,” Gutierrez said. “But it’s passing safely behind us. Slow to ahead one-third.”
“New battery life calculation, sir. Six minutes left at this speed, sir,” Fernandez said.
“Very well,” Gutierrez said. “Make your depth fifteen meters. Line up to snorkel.”
A monochrome monitor showed the torpedo drifting through the San Juan’s baffles and emerging on its port side. Then the lines disappeared.
“The incoming weapon has ceased transmitting,” Fernandez said. “Sonar was able to hear its high-speed screws after we slowed, but the screws have stopped. The weapon has shut down.”
Gutierrez stepped to the periscope, rotated its hydraulic ring, and watched it slither upward.
“Make your depth thirteen meters,” he said.
When the optics broached the surface, stars dotted the horizon.
“Raise the radio mast,” he said. “Send a message stating that we just evaded a hostile torpedo launched by the Ambush. Then get a download.”
As he awaited radio traffic, he had the snorkel mast raised, and the quad diesel engines groaned to life.
He heard Fernandez move beside him.
“Why don’t we fire back, sir?”
“It’s an impossible shot,” Gutierrez said. “The Ambush is too far away. The Ambush was only able to shoot at us because we were moving toward it at thirteen knots. But with it moving away from us at thirty knots, it would be a futile tail chase, especially since our weapons have less range than theirs.”
“I see, sir. It would be a waste of a torpedo better used on the British task force.”
“You are mastering the obvious. Give me news. What is the update on the search for the Ambush?”
Keeping his eye to the lens, he heard Fernandez flip papers on a clipboard.
“The first Orion has arrived on station and has started dropping sonobuoys. No contact yet.”
“It’s only a matter of time. This battle belongs to our aircraft now. I will no longer waste my time considering it. What other news?”
Fernandez flipped paper.
“Interesting note here, sir. The British prime minister has already denounced our attack and has asked the admiralty to establish a task force to retake the islands.”
“History repeated,” Gutierrez said. “This new task force exists only in words now, but it will be reality soon, and I expect every vessel in their fleet will rally toward the Malvinas. The one that interests me is the greatest prize — the Queen Elizabeth. Is there any mention of it?”
“The carrier, sir? It’s hardly seaworthy.”
“But seaworthy it is. There will be a debate within the British admiralty about pressing it into service early, but I expect their need for air power will force the issue.”
Fernandez rustled papers.
“Here, sir, at the end of the broadcast. It’s not news but an intelligence assessment forecasting that one squadron of British Lightning jet fighters has progressed enough in its training to be useful for carrier-based flight operations. The carrier doesn’t have its full weapon systems readied, but it’s expected to be the center of the task force to take back the Malvinas.”
“That gives me a prime target,” Gutierrez said.
“There will be plenty of them, if the British actually form this task force and approach the Malvinas.”
“Do we have a rallying point for us and the Santa Cruz yet?”
“Yes, sir. Two hundred nautical miles north of the Malvinas. The Santa Cruz will be twenty miles to the west of us.”
“The British will send submarines ahead of the bulk of the task force. There may already be another submarine in the area.”
“Our intelligence says otherwise.”
“Our intelligence on submarines is always suspect. We must move carefully — slowly, silently, and with diligent ears on our sonar systems. Review the search plan with the sonar team for Astute-class submarines and update it with the noises we heard from the Ambush.”
“I will see it done, sir. But what of the Specter? Should we also be listening for its discrete frequencies?”
“That’s a waste of effort that should be focused on British submarines. I don’t see any reason that the Specter would stay in the area. It served its purpose, and its team has been paid. They are mercenaries and have no interest in staying.”
“I’m just thinking of contingencies, sir.”
“If the Frenchman wakes up tomorrow and has any delusions that President Gomez still needs his services, I trust our president to deal with it. I’m sure he knows how to threaten lives, families, or whatever it is that politicians do to get their way when talks fail.”
“And if that fails, sir? If the Specter remains?”
Gutierrez waved his hand.
“I don’t care how advanced the Specter is. Its crew is a mix of mercenaries from countries that don’t give a damn about the outcome of this campaign. These are my home waters, Fernandez, and I assure you, I give a damn about winning. If their American commanding officer is foolish enough to stay, I will make him soon wish that he did not.”
CHAPTER 14
Seeking the nearest exit, Pierre Renard marched through the lobby of the Four Seasons resort. He was indulging his flight instincts, scheming while moving, planning where to run. But his focus failed, and his mind’s eye saw smoke rising from the twisted metal of bombarded Rapier anti-air batteries, aircraft erupting into flames, and submarines sprinting from torpedoes in directions unknown.
Unsure if he needed to flee, and uncertain if running would garner unwanted attention, he slowed and slipped into the evening. He followed a gaggle of young ladies he tagged as daughters of rich Americans into the bar, and rapid service produced a tumbler of Courvoisier’s finest imperial cognac.
The upscale leisure wear of patrons and their alcohol-fueled joviality caught his attention and shifted his awareness to the living city’s late evening. He let himself watch people to anchor himself in place and time. As festive conversations danced in his ears and smiles abounded around him, he discerned no evidence of the Falkland Island attack’s imprint on humanity’s rhythm.
He sniffed and sipped, and heat billowed in his mouth. The fluid warmed him but left him edgy. Failing to relax, he reached for his phone and called Olivia McDonald.
She would ground him, he hoped. But when she answered, she sounded hurried.
“Yeah, Pierre?”
“Are you airborne yet?” he asked.
“I’m getting a ride to the airfield. What’s on your mind?”
He needed to ask countless questions, but he feared looking weak.
“I… I’m not sure.”
“You’re on an encrypted line. Say whatever’s on your mind.”
“You go first. I’m less in the mood the talk than to listen.”
“Who are you, and what did you do with Pierre Renard?”
“Cute. Humor me.”
“Sure. Gerry Rickets got me in with Senator Ramirez,” she said. “I’m meeting him for lunch, and he’s clearing most of his day for me after that. I didn’t even have to bother Admiral Brody. Rickets took care of it. Apparently, Ramirez thinks Rickets is going to become the next American president.”