by Don Brown
But when his scores in acoustical physics were among the highest registered at UBA, he received a call from an Argentinean Navy recruiter.
And now, here he sat at the sonar station as the sonar officer on the most important mission for the Argentine Navy in a generation.
In the subdued lighting of the San Juan’s control room, with myriad yellow, green, and red lights flashing all around him, Fernandez adjusted his headset and closed his eyes.
One of the basic principles in acoustic physics is that the speed of sound in water travels five times faster than the speed of sound in air.
The sound of gushing water rushed across his headset. Again, more gurgling interrupted by the singing of humpback whales. No, not a humpback. Different whales produce different sounds. That was more of a long drawn-out note. The sound of the large deep-water blue whale.
How ironic that a single whale, in the right water conditions, could be heard from hundreds of miles away, but the sounds of something powerful and man-made, like the sounds of an aircraft carrier, depended on being in the right place at the right time.
Being an effective sonar man required not only a keen understanding of acoustical physics—combined with a God-given gift of extraordinary hearing—but also extraordinary patience.
The British were out there.
Somewhere.
He knew it.
He would combine all the resources at his disposal—including great patience—to find them.
Fernandez closed his eyes and enjoyed the harmonic sounds of the sea.
Bridge
HMS Queen Elizabeth
South Atlantic Ocean
50 miles east of the Falkland Islands
course 180 degrees
8:55 a.m. local time
From the bridge of the brand-new British supercarrier Queen Elizabeth, Captain Edwin Jones-Landry looked down over the gray flight deck and out toward the bow.
Four American-built F-35A Lightning attack jets, ultra-sophisticated stealth fighter bombers built by Lockheed-Martin and carrying twenty-four million lines of software data in each plane, were chained down on the forward flight deck, ready to be armed and moved to the ship’s catapult on a moment’s notice.
Three times the size of HMS Illustrious, the British carrier that led the successful assault against the Falklands in 1982 and previously the largest carrier in the Royal Navy, the great new flagship of the British fleet, with forty aircraft and a crew of over seven hundred, plowed steadily through the gray rolling waters of the South Atlantic, leading a small flotilla nearing the earth’s southern subpolar region.
The carrier’s fighter wing would get one of her biggest tests early on—to support Royal Marines dispatched from HMS Ocean in an effort to retake British territory at Camp Churchill. And after that, to protect and support construction of the joint British-Chilean refinery on Antarctica.
Jones-Landry had received one of the supreme appointments in the Royal Navy with his selection for command of the Queen Elizabeth, the pride of Britain and the flagship of the entire fleet.
Even King Charles had attended the change-of-command ceremony.
Now Britain would reap the dividends of her investment.
“Navigator. Current position.”
“Fifty-three degrees, one-four-four south latitude, fifty-seven degrees, two-three-eight west longitude. Course one-eight-zero degrees. Approximately fifty miles from the Falkland Islands, sir.”
“Display our position on the screen and report, Leftenant.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Computer screens on the bridge lit up with an electronic map showing the course and current location of the British task force.
FALKLANDS ANTARCTIC PENINSULA STAGING AREA FOR NAVAL ASSAULT
“The arrow on the left points to the position of the Falklands, Captain. We are at the tip of the white arrow, which marks the current position of the Royal Navy task force. As you can see, sir, we’re currently passing to the east of the islands. Fifty miles to our west is the capital of the Falkland Islands, Port Stanley.
“We are on a course of one-eight-zero degrees, due south, headed toward the naval staging area, marked by the star on the map. We will launch our assault to recapture Camp Churchill from this staging area.
“Current speed is twenty knots, slow enough so that the other ships in the flotilla can keep up.”
“Very well. Thank you, Leftenant,” Jones-Landry said. “Helmsman. Steady as she goes.”
“Steady as she goes. Aye, Captain.”
Bridge
M/S Thor Liberty
British Registry cargo ship
South Atlantic Ocean
50 miles east of the Falkland Islands
course 180 degrees
9:00 a.m. local time
Captain Bob Hudson, like so many mariners living most of their lives on the sea, enjoyed tinkering with shortwave radios. While the Internet had become increasingly common at sea, it sometimes proved unreliable and slow.
But the far-reaching grasp of shortwave radio was never slow.
Years before his promotion to captain, Hudson purchased a little Grundig G3 shortwave receiver that he carried on cruises. During downtimes, Bob enjoyed going out on deck and tuning around the bands to see what he could hear.
Once, when crossing the Pacific, just north of the equator, the little shortwave radio picked up radio station KH6BB, operated by the USS Missouri Amateur Radio Club on board the USS Missouri, permanently anchored in Pearl Harbor. Bob, at that time the navigator on board the Thorco Asia, upon his arrival in Hong Kong had mailed the station a reception report, hoping they got a kick out of being heard in a location hundreds of miles south of Hawaii.
He later got a postcard signed by six volunteers running the radio room on the Missouri, thanking him for the greeting. That postcard got him hooked on shortwave.
The little Grundig shortwave turned out to be a better radio than expected. It featured a synchronous detection for AM use, which reduced fading, making it easier to tune in single sideband. Not only could the radio receive AM broadcast, but it also received FM stereo and Aircraft Band and could pick up most of the standard shortwave bands available at the touch of a button.
Sometimes at night, when on the seas half a world away from home, he would go out on deck and search for the comforting sounds of the BBC. On nights when the atmospheric and temperature conditions aligned ever so properly, and when the Grundig caught the reassuring voices from back home, Bob thought of her—of what might have been.
This morning Captain Hudson brought the radio on the bridge with him, and with Thor Liberty sailing behind the HMS Queen Elizabeth and between the HMS Ocean and the RFA Black Rover, he decided to give it a whirl. He powered the thing up, then hit the AM scanner.
The green light raced across the diode from left to right, searching. A few seconds later the light locked onto a signal.
Bob reached down and turned up the volume. He heard a male voice, distinctively British in accent.
“Good morning, Port Stanley. Broadcasting live from John Street in downtown Stanley, this is F-I-R-S, the Falkland Islands Radio Service. Looks like another chilly and overcast morning in the Falklands. Temperature at Port Stanley Airport is currently holding firm at fifty-two degrees. Ocean watchers reporting calm seas at Surf Bay, Rookery Bay, and Gypsy Cove. Meteorologists do expect this marine cloud cover to burn back when the sun climbs a tad higher in the sky around midmorning.”
“Captain! Captain!”
The ship’s radar/sonar officer rushed onto the bridge with a look of ghastly panic etched on his face.
“What is it, Mister Johnson?” Bob turned down the volume on the shortwave.
“Captain, a few moments ago we picked up on passive sonar what sounded like a submarine!”
Nothing else like the word submarine could strike fear in the heart of the captain of a surface vessel. Bob’s mind raced. “HMS Astute is in the area. Are you sure that’s not what you picked u
p?”
“We can’t say for sure. We had a fix on it for a few seconds. But it sounded like a diesel-electric boat. The Astute is nuclear.”
Bob released a worried exhale. “Are you sure, Mister Johnson?”
“Mister Adams heard it too, Captain. Whatever it was, it disappeared. But we both thought it sounded like a diesel-electric boat.”
Bob wiped his forehead. “Very well. Communications Officer, open a secure channel to HMS Queen Elizabeth. Get Captain Jones-Landry on the line.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Bridge
HMS Queen Elizabeth
South Atlantic Ocean
50 miles east of the Falkland Islands
course 180 degrees
9:05 a.m. local time
Are you certain it was diesel-electric?” Captain Edwin Jones-Landry, in command of HMS Queen Elizabeth, put the question to his sonar officer.
Jones-Landry wanted to know because the British and American navies operated only nuclear-powered submarines.
A diesel-electric submarine would be operated by a nation other than the US or the UK.
And while a diesel-electric boat could not stay submerged as long as a nuclear boat, nor could it move as silently or as swiftly through the water, a diesel-electric submarine, positioned in the wrong place at the wrong time, could pack a deadly punch—even against a supercarrier.
“We heard it for five seconds, Captain. We’re running the digital recording against the sound database in our acoustic computers to try to verify what we heard.”
“Very well,” Jones-Landry said. “Alert me the second the acoustical analysis is available.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Bridge! Radio Room!”
“Radio. Bridge. Go ahead.”
“Captain. We’ve gotten a call from Captain Hudson on the Thor Liberty. Sir, the freighter also picked up a brief signal on passive sonar that they think might be a diesel-electric submarine. They tracked the sound for five seconds, and then it disappeared.”
“Very well.” Jones-Landry had in his gut the sudden feeling that the dynamics of the operation had just changed. “Radio. Contact Captain Hudson. Tell him we heard it too. Tell him we’re running the digital recording through our acoustical computers to try to verify the source.”
“Aye, Captain,” the radio officer said.
“Radio. Contact the captains of HMS Ocean, HMS Astute, and RFA Black Rover. Inquire about whether they heard anything on their passive sonar.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Standing at the bridge, still overlooking the flight deck of Britain’s most treasured naval asset, Jones-Landry pulled his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the gray waters out in front of the ship, looking, desperately, for the sign of a periscope.
Of course, visually spotting a periscope, even if one were out there, would be like finding a needle in a haystack. But even still . . .
“What do you make of the situation, Captain?”
The captain looked at his trusted executive officer, Commander Donald Parrott. “I don’t know, XO. But I do not have a good feeling.”
“Do you think one of the Argentinean submarines could have penetrated our screen?”
“Possibly,” Jones-Landry said. “Either they have penetrated our screen or we’ve sailed right over the top of them.”
“Or perhaps we heard an electronic anomaly.”
“Let’s hope so, XO. Somehow I am not so optimistic.”
“Bridge. Radio.”
“Radio. Go ahead.”
“Sir, the captains of the Ocean, Black Rover, and Astute report no sonar contact. They’ve heard nothing, sir!”
“Thank you, Leftenant.” A temporary sigh of relief.
“Well, sir,” Commander Parrott said, “there’s room for some optimism.”
“Perhaps,” Captain Jones-Landry said. “Perhaps we heard an electronic anomaly between us and Thor Liberty.”
“That sounds like a plausible theory, sir.”
“Perhaps. But not so plausible that my stomach has stopped feeling like a frying pan full of scrambled eggs.”
“I understand, Captain. Perhaps the sonar officers can shed some extra light on the matter.”
“Let us hope,” Jones-Landry said. “Petty Officer!”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Would you please fetch a spot of tea for the XO and me?”
“Right away, sir,” the eager young sailor said.
Jones-Landry pondered the situation. What if there were Argentinean submarines in the area? Or another nationality? The Russians operated a slew of older diesel-electric boats. Russian subs had a history of tagging along behind NATO battle groups.
But no Russian sub had ever fired on a NATO ship.
But if the sub were Argentinean . . .
“XO. I have this sneaky feeling that we will be at battle stations sooner than we had hoped for.”
“Bridge. Sonar.”
“Sonar. Bridge. Go ahead,” Jones-Landry said.
“Sir, acoustics computers have completed their analysis of the sound recorded from passive sonar.”
“Let’s hear it, Leftenant.”
“Captain, computers confirm a 97.5 percent possibility that what we heard is a diesel-electric submarine.”
Jones-Landry looked over at Commander Parrott. “We’ve got a sub, XO.” He turned to the sonar officer. “Very well, Leftenant. What does the computer show on range and classification?”
“Captain, because of the short duration of the recording, and also because of the relatively poor quality, the mathematical certainty drops from that point.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Yes, sir. Based on the quality of the recording, we estimate range to target to be anywhere between four to twenty-five miles. There is a 50 percent probability that the submarine is Argentinean in origin, possibly Santa Cruz–class. There is a 45 percent probability that the submarine is Russian in origin, possibly Kilo-class.”
“Very well,” Jones-Landry said. “Bridge. Radio.”
“Radio. Go ahead, Captain.”
“Notify London. FLASH message. Be advised sonar has detected an unidentified submarine in the area, believed to be hostile, most probably diesel-electric Argentinean or Russian origin. Acoustic computers show 50 percent probability that the sub is Argentinean Santa Cruz–class and 45 percent probability that she is Russian Kilo-class. Request instruction on rules of engagement.”
“Bridge. Radio. Aye, Captain. Transmitting FLASH message.”
“Very well.” He turned to Commander Parrott. “XO. Sound general quarters. Take the ship to battle stations. Notify the air wing commander. Let’s get four Merlins airborne and get sonobuoys in the water. Then I want two F-35 Lightnings in the air. Armed with antisubmarine torpedoes. Notify HMS Ocean and HMS Astute. HMS Queen Elizabeth is at general quarters. Let’s get moving.”
“Aye, Captain,” the XO said. “Mister Rogers. Sound general quarters. Open the 1-MC.”
“Sounding general quarters!” Bells sounded all over the great ship. Down on the flight deck, up in the bridge, all over the ship, seven hundred sailors scrambled to their stations.
“Aye, XO. The 1-MC is open.”
“Now hear this! This is the executive officer. General quarters! General quarters! All hands to battle stations! Sonar has confirmed the presence of an unidentified submarine, possibly hostile, in the area! ASW Squadron One. Prepare to scramble!”
The HMS Queen Elizabeth maintained her course as alarm bells sounded general quarters all over the ship. Captain Landry-Jones brought his binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the scene down on the flight deck.
“All hands, except for essential personnel, clear the flight deck. Stand by for flight operations!” the air wing commander’s voice boomed over the ship’s 1-MC.
Four gray Royal Navy Merlin Mk1 helicopters sat on the flight deck, and flight crews had already scrambled to them in a mad rush.
The Merlin in recent y
ears had become the Royal Navy’s workhorse helicopter. The birds carried sophisticated sonobuoys to drop in the water at various points to establish a defensive perimeter miles from the ship. The Merlins would fan out and drop dozens of electronic buoys in the water, which would broadcast sonar signals spanning a larger area of ocean, covering hundreds of square miles.
If the diesel-electric boat was still out there, hopefully the choppers could set a protective net and trap it. Hopefully they weren’t too late. A ship captain’s worst nightmare would come if a sub slipped in undetected, close enough for a point-blank shot.
For even against a supercarrier, the powerful giant of all warships, a well-placed torpedo could kill like a stone in David’s slingshot.
Down below, the first of the large Merlins, its prop a whirling blur, lifted off the deck. The chopper rose up, hovered ten feet over the deck, dipped its nose, and then flew out to the east, climbing to five hundred feet over the water, flying out toward the port horizon.
A minute later, all four Merlins were airborne, with each one flying out in a different direction—to the north, south, east, and west—to drop the buoys that would set up the safety perimeter.
“All hands! Stand by for Lightning launch!”
Jones-Landry walked over to view the stern of the ship where the first F-35 Lightning sat in takeoff position.
The F-35’s main Pratt & Whitney F135 jet engine roared. The single-seat attack jet shook, then rolled forward, and with increasingly rapid acceleration shot off the end of the carrier’s flight deck, then nosed up and shot into the sky, peeling off to the left of the carrier’s path.
Thirty seconds later, the second jet swooshed off the end of the flight deck and began its climb into the morning sky, peeling off in a direction opposite the first.
The jets carried additional security and firepower to attack the sub in the event of discovery.
Jones-Landry toyed with his chin. “We shall wait for instructions from London on the rules of engagement in this situation. But you can rest assured that I shall not leave this ship in a defenseless position.”