“How much time does the Specter have?” she asked.
“Excellent question,” he said. “Five days. After that, the prime minister will lose confidence.”
“That sounds reasonable,” she said. “The Specter is already doing exactly what you planned for it to do.”
“I told you our agendas were in alignment.”
“Pardon my pessimism, but what if the Specter fails?”
“Then British swimmers from the Malvinas will retake the Dragon, and the prime minister will have enough submarines in the area by then to both protect the Dragon and to conduct a thorough search of the surrounding waters to find and sink the San Juan.”
“That’s a fate we need to avoid, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” he said. “But it’s the best alternative should your commander of the Specter fail. But you’re quite an accomplished woman, and I expect that you surround yourself with only capable people. Let’s plan on his success.”
Noting an admiration in his stare that hinted at a possible future relationship, she allowed herself to fantasize beyond the crisis about a future where she held great power in the CIA and influenced the heart of Argentina’s young, charismatic leader.
“Why don’t you enjoy your meal?” he asked. “We haven’t yet discussed the progress on the emergency election. I’m sure that you would like me to assure you of the process that will instate me as the nation’s legitimate leader.”
“Yes, I’m quite interested.”
She tried to savor the taste of the pinkish meat, but her mind raced to the distant sea far to the south.
“Wait,” she said. “If the Ambush isn’t racing to engage the landing force, why did the Specter catch it sprinting toward it?”
He smiled a knowing and captivating smile that secured his place in her heart as a man worth knowing intimately.
“Because the Ambush wasn’t sprinting to chase down the landing force. It was sprinting to entice the Specter into revealing its location.”
“I don’t understand. I thought it sprinted away from the Specter after their encounter.”
“It did, Officer McDonald. But that was a ruse. It turned back and is now using its superior crew training, propulsion abilities, and advanced sensors to trail your Specter and guarantee compliance with our plan.”
Olivia felt herself slipping into a hole of disbelief about the magnitude of her informational disadvantage.
“I believe that’s unnecessary,” she said. “The Specter’s owner has assured me of his intent to neutralize the San Juan.”
“The prime minister has made it clear that he’s unwilling to take that on faith. He was also clear about the Ambush’s orders, now that the tide has turned and it has the upper hand on the Specter. I recommend that you make the Specter’s commander fully aware of his new situation.”
“I’ll convey whatever message you need conveyed.”
“I will get you the exact statement from the prime minister after lunch, but the summary for your commanding officer of the Specter is that he has angered enough people in the Royal Navy that he would be wise not to test the judgment of the Ambush’s commanding officer. The British don’t carry limpet weapons, and of all the assets available to resolve this conflict, the Specter is the most expendable.”
CHAPTER 20
Commander Gutierrez lied to his executive officer.
“This is within my mission’s parameters. There are certain informational privileges that a commanding officer enjoys.”
“I understand, sir,” Fernandez said. “But is it necessary? Defensive mining is one thing. Offensive mining is an entirely different thing. This is killing the very civilians we desire to bring under our rule.”
“What of it? Too few people will die to matter, and this is a tactical necessity to divert the attention of those who hunt us.”
“Can’t you at least verify with our admiralty that this is the correct action?
Gutierrez raised his voice.
“I need nobody’s authority but my own!”
Faces in the control room of the San Juan turned to Gutierrez and then shifted back to their charts, plots, and monitors. He leaned over the conning platform’s metal railing, looked down over Fernandez, and lowered his voice.
“I’m not risking an active radio transmission. We are in dangerous waters with a need to remain undetected, and you know damned well that any radio transmission, however directional the beam, is always at risk of being detected and revealing our position.”
“I do know, sir. Of course, I do.”
“Even if I could communicate with our admiralty, I suspect spies loyal to Ramirez in our communications networks. I could be informing an enemy and inviting bogus orders.”
“Then we are in an environment of autonomy, just like sailors of old.”
“Yes,” Gutierrez said. “Like ancient sailors of old. I had my orders when we set sail, and now I must carry them out without further guidance. It is doubly challenging since Martinez allowed his incompetence to get himself and a quarter of his crew killed. He deprived our cause the asset of his submarine.”
“You trust that report, then? You believe that the Specter really attacked the Santa Cruz and that it’s not propaganda to force us into foolishness?”
“I trust the report because I would have done the same if I commanded the Specter. I also trust that you’re not insinuating that my decision to mine Port Stanley is foolishness.”
Fernandez cleared his throat.
“No, sir. Of course, not. I meant my comment only in the general sense. I will set a course for Port Stanley, immediately.”
“Use a transit speed of six knots.”
“That will take us a day to get there, sir.”
“The British task force is still forming. I can be patient. Set the course and take us there. I will take my rest now.”
Having been awake for a day and a half, Gutierrez headed to his stateroom and slithered onto his rack. Fatigue drew his mind toward sleep, but he wanted to reset his body’s clock to allow his heightened alertness when his ship would lay mines.
His wall clock indicated the local time as the mid-afternoon, and decided to force himself to stay awake. He picked up a sound-powered phone to order a cup of coffee. Two minutes later, a sailor arrived balancing in his palm a serving tray that Gutierrez told him to leave on his desk.
After the sailor departed, he rolled to his feet, stepped to his desk, and pushed aside the tray. He unfurled a nautical chart and flattened it with paperweights at its corners. Sipping coffee, he reached for a pencil and then drew crossed lines at the San Juan’s location to the east of Port Stanley.
He eyeballed distances in hundred-mile tranches and kept tabs of time in his mind. A day separated him from the port, and then he needed two more days to reach his loiter point to the north where he would await the British task force.
The Ambush and Specter could be anywhere in his future vicinity, he reckoned, as could any other submarine that the Royal Navy sent ahead of its task force. Predicting the moves of his potential adversaries would be impossible, and he hoped that the diversion of mines at Port Stanley would buy him hiding time.