Jake took the clue from Henri. The fate of the Santa Cruz existed beyond his control now, and no amount of questioning or monitoring of it would change the outcome.
He had played God one more time, and his conscience would bear the burden, whatever its weight in dead bodies.
“No,” he said. “What’s done is done, and no matter the fate of the Santa Cruz, it is no longer a factor. Let’s drive out of here and begin a search pattern for the San Juan.”
CHAPTER 17
Olivia wiped her mouth after launching another throat-full of vomit into the toilet.
Hoping her spasms had ended, she brushed her long auburn hair aside but threw up again. She gasped and collapsed against the bathroom’s metal wall, balancing her weight on her heels.
“Damn it!” she said.
Her world spun, and she mocked herself for mixing vodka and Ecstasy.
The only way to know you’re in control, she thought, is to push the limits.
She reached for the washbasin and pulled herself to her feet. As she closed the bathroom door behind her, her stiletto heel buckled under her first hazy steps, but her ankle withstood the torsion. She recovered and slowed her gait over the aircraft’s thin carpet. Bending, she stiff-armed the couch, rolled her frame into its softness, and reclined.
The throbbing of her sprained tendon seemed out-of-body, and the world spun as her assistant appeared over her.
“We’ve got nine hours before landing, ma’am,” he said. “Perhaps you should get some sleep.”
She had counted on the down time before ingesting her favorite chemical indulgences. With a pillow and wool blanket, she curled herself into the couch and passed out.
The nudge at her shoulder rousted her to consciousness before she felt ready to return to the living.
“Wake up, ma’am,” her assistant said. “Flash message from headquarters.”
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Still early. Not yet four o’clock.”
He placed her phone in her hand, and she lifted it to her face. Her interest in the update stifled her nausea, and she read the news that she feared.
“Shit,” she said.
She scrolled through her contact list to Renard’s number but then reconsidered calling him. He could do nothing to help her, nor could anyone in her network.
“What is it ma’am?” her assistant asked.
“Argentine troop movement has begun toward the Falklands,” she said. “Troop ships, freighters pressed into service to carry troops, and even fishing ships.”
“Fishing ships?”
“Decoys,” she said. “In case the Ambush, or any submarine for that matter, tries to sink the landing force.”
“Will that really work?”
“According to what Renard has taught me over the years, yes. Most ships give off so much noise that it’s hard to tell one from another without looking at it. And if you get close enough to look at it, you’re letting all the other ships get by.”
“How many ships? How many troops?”
“Over fifty ships and five thousand troops. Some of the troops will be air dropped, too. They’ll probably take the western island, which is practically unguarded.”
“How long ago did the landing force leave?”
“About the same time we took off, I’m sure right after Gomez realized that the Ambush survived. They’ll be there in about twenty-five hours. What’s left of the Argentine Navy is escorting it. That’s only six frigate and corvette-sized ships, but it’s enough to shoot guns and torpedoes at any British vessel that they’d find.”
“Does the report say where the Ambush is and how long it would need to arrive in time to stop the landing force?”
“It can’t stop the landing force,” she said. “The best it can do is cut it in half. Argentine forces will land.”
“How can that be so?”
She realized that by befriending Jake and Renard years ago, she had learned and taken for granted submarine basics that few people understood.
“A frontline submarine can carry only about forty weapons. If they’re all torpedoes, that’s at best forty ships sunk, but what usually happens when a submarine tries to take out a large amount of ships is that the first explosion sends all the ships into crossing patterns, and then each torpedo hits whatever target it finds first.”
“So torpedoes hit the wrong targets and are wasted.”
“Right,” she said. “Then there’s reload time of at least five minutes per weapon, since you can have only six to eight tubes, depending on the type submarine.”
“I didn’t know how complex it was. I thought a submarine just had its way with surface vessels.”
“It’s a matter of too many targets to hit all at once. Plus, the submarine needs to avoid being attacked. It needs to reposition itself to avoid a lucky shot from anything shooting back at it, and God forbid that there are helicopters looking for it. A couple of the Argentine warships have them and will have a credible chance of fighting back.”
“Okay, ma’am. I’ll keep this all in mind.”
“Get me some water,” she said.
He brought her a bottle and she gulped. Her mouth felt dry and tasted rancid.
“The latest report is that the Ambush needs another two hours to remove the last limpet,” she said.
“To me, that sounds like the Ambush will be available to attack the incoming troops.”
“It can if the British want it that way. If I do the math in my head, the Ambush needs another five hours to get back to where it was first attacked, and then another hour to get to the west side of the Falklands. The incoming landing force will be twenty hours out by then, or roughly three-hundred miles.”
“How’d you figure that out?”
“You always assume commercial traffic moves at fifteen knots,” she said. “At least that’s how Slate and Renard do it. I imagine that the freighters and fishers could go faster, but not much. So if the incoming force is moving at fifteen knots and the Ambush is at thirty plus knots, let’s round up and say fifty knots of closure.”
“Five hours for the Ambush to reach the western side of the islands,” he said. “And then another six before it can start attacking. We will at least have time for your audience with Ramirez to take place before then.”
“That’s the first thing I’ll talk to him about,” she said. “But no matter what the Ambush does, I need to let headquarters know that Argentina will place boots on the ground in the Falklands, just in case they didn’t already figure it out themselves.”
She leaned back on the couch and chugged the water.
“Send a message to headquarters summarizing what we just talked about.”
“Yes, ma’am. Is there anything else we can do about this?”
“At the moment, nothing,” she said. “I’m going to get some more sleep and be ready to deal with Senator Ramirez when we land.”
As she drifted to sleep, a thought nagged her. She wondered why Gomez would delay sending troops long enough to allow the Ambush to be a factor. Perhaps he assumed the Ambush would be destroyed by now, she reckoned as she lost consciousness.
The impact of landing jostled her from her sleep. She felt dehydrated and queasy, but thanks to a regimented jogging and martial arts program, she felt equal to the day’s task.
While the jet taxied, she gave herself a rapid sponge bath of her selected body parts and then changed into a low-cut blouse with a skirt cut high enough to show her thighs. A glance in the mirror confirmed her professional seductiveness.