The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  “Aye, Capitán.”

  “If we get a lucky shot, we take that fish out. But if the stern torpedoes miss, we launch countermeasures to throw it off. The only way we can survive this is an emergency dive and turn and release flares prior to torpedo impact.”

  “Understand, Capitán.”

  “Incoming torpedo now five hundred yards! We’re still picking up the ping from the torp’s nose, Capitán.”

  “Launch stern torpedoes!”

  “Launching stern torpedoes! Aye, sir!”

  “Mister Ramirez! Dive the boat! Turn! Turn!”

  “Diving the boat! Turning! Aye, Capitán!”

  Santa Cruz’s nose dipped and twisted.

  Gomez grabbed the periscope casing to maintain his balance as the sub dived. A second later, the violent explosion rocked the sub, knocking Gomez off his feet.

  The blast set off the collision alarm, but this time the power stayed on in the control room.

  “Capitán! We intercepted the British torpedo!”

  “Praise God!” Gomez got up off the deck. “Everybody okay? XO, get me an updated damage report.”

  The executive officer picked up the microphone. “This is the XO, all stations. Report damage.”

  “Control Room. Radar. All systems functional. No damage reported.”

  “Control Room. Weapons. All functional. No damages, sir.”

  “Control Room. Radio. All systems functional. No damages.”

  “Control Room. Fire Control. No damages, sir.”

  “Control Room. Engineering. We’ve got a problem, sir.”

  Gomez looked at his XO, who looked back before proceeding. “What problem, Engineering?”

  “Sir, we’ve got a leak in the interior hull, starboard aft. That explosion cracked the hull.”

  “Give me that.” Gomez took the microphone from the XO. “Chief, this is the capitán! How bad is it?”

  “Not good, sir. We are trying to get pumps on it, and I think we can neutralize it somewhat, but it’s gushing in pretty fast. If we can keep the pumps running without any power interruptions, and if we do not get hit again, Capitán, we might contain it. Otherwise, I do not know.”

  “Push it hard, Chief. Get that pump going.”

  “Yes, Capitán.”

  “XO, go down there and have a look. Bring me back a report.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Gomez took four deep breaths. The XO stepped out of the control room. Another close hit could be debilitating.

  “Capitán. Now maintaining course zero-seven-five degrees. Speed is eight knots.”

  Gomez started making the sign of the cross. But he stopped mid-stream to avoid sending any message of panic to the crew. “Very well. Steady as she goes.”

  “Steady as she goes. Aye, sir.”

  “Sonar. We hear anything else out there?”

  “Not yet, Capitán.”

  “Good. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  Gomez sat down in the captain’s chair.

  Only the near-silent hum of the ship’s battery-powered electric engines could be heard. Gomez checked his watch. If they survived another thirty minutes at this depth without another British attack, they could reengage the fight.

  He wished in that moment that he could make a trip to a confessional. His sin? It happened at his son’s birthday. He had allowed his eyes to linger too long on the waitress on more than one occasion as she had walked back and forth from the table. Pure unadulterated lust overcame him that day. He hoped his wife had not noticed. “Control Room. Engineering.” Gomez recognized the XO’s voice on the intercom.

  “Engineering. Control Room. Go ahead, XO.”

  “Capitán. Could you please pick up the telephone?”

  “Stand by.” Gomez picked up the inter-ship telephone, taking the XO off the loudspeaker. “What is it, XO?”

  “Sir, the situation down here is worse than the chief said.”

  “Explain.”

  “We’ve got cold seawater pouring in, sir. They’ve got these pumps running, and the pumps are barely keeping up with the infusion. In my judgment, we’re going to need to surface as soon as possible and return to port for repairs.”

  “How soon do you think we need to surface?”

  “I think we are okay for another ten to twelve hours, as long as our pumps keep working, and as long as the leak isn’t further breached. We need four or five more sailors down here, Capitán.”

  “Go ahead,” Gomez said, “select five additional men to work the pumps, then return to the control room.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Apartment of Maria Vasquez

  337 Avenue de Tomás Ramos

  Valparaiso, Chile

  11:30 a.m. local time

  Maria scurried about the sunlit apartment, her eyes dancing back and forth between her closet and her digital clock.

  Her heart pounded as if she had finished a hundred-meter dash.

  She held the yellow sundress up to the skylights in her ceiling. A perfect cut that fell just above the knee. But too early in the season for yellow?

  She wore beige yesterday, and he seemed to like that, judging by the glint she thought she noticed in his eyes. She wasn’t sure if he liked the jeans.

  In two more weeks, the yellow dress would be fine, would it not?

  What would a macho American submarine commander be most attracted to?

  Still holding the yellow dress against the light, she glanced at the clock again. If she didn’t get a move on, she would be late.

  Fashionably late, even by a few minutes, was always best for a lady.

  It was not too early for the yellow, she decided, then changed her mind. She wore light yesterday. Show him some contrast. Men liked contrast. She held up the short black cocktail dress.

  Surely he would like this. Too bad he wouldn’t get to see it. Not yet, anyway.

  Wrong occasion. Maybe some other time.

  Next she held up a little red silky top. “This is perfect with that little black skirt and black heels.” She allowed a smile to cross her face. She slipped her right arm through the blouse, and then her left, and then began to button the front. She stepped into the little skirt and pulled it up and buttoned it. The hemline fell two inches above the knee.

  A snug fit, but not too tight.

  Perfect.

  Absolutely perfect.

  Or was it? Why did she feel like an idiot schoolgirl?

  “Think, Maria.”

  She reached into the drawer and retrieved the Clive Christian No. 1 perfume that she had ordered from Neiman-Marcus in New York. There. A faint scent under her neck should do.

  She looked in the mirror at her hair. Yesterday it had bounced lightly on her shoulders, which hopefully he liked.

  She reached into her jewelry box and picked up the beaded pearl ponytail holder that she had bought at Flabella Department Store in Santiago. Quickly she pulled her hair back, secured it with the ponytail holder, and took another look.

  Perfect. A classic ponytail, not overdone, calling attention to her face, the blouse, the little skirt, and her legs. The black heels rounded out her appearance.

  “Gosh, I’ve got to go.” And she headed out the door.

  Control room

  Argentinean submarine ARA Santa Cruz

  South Atlantic Ocean

  depth 700 feet

  11:39 a.m. local time

  Gomez checked the chronometer on the bulkhead. Ten minutes had passed since that last explosion. Perhaps the danger had passed.

  Gomez needed to surface the sub. Then, if they could blow out enough water, his men might be able to weld a patch over the leak that would hold long enough to limp into port.

  But surfacing the sub anytime soon meant certain suicide.

  Gomez reasoned that the sonobuoys had been dropped by British helicopters, most likely from the British aircraft carrier or possibly from the amphibious assault ship HMS Ocean. The choppers were most likely still patrolling the area. If Gom
ez surfaced, he would likely be spotted on the open water and sunk immediately.

  With the British task force steaming due south, Gomez opted for another course change, this time due north to rapidly increase the distance between the sub and the task force.

  “What do you think, Capitán?” the XO asked.

  Gomez did some quick calculations in his head. “If they are steaming south at eighteen knots, and we are steaming north at eight knots, that means after one hour, we will have achieved a separation of twenty-six knots from them, a distance of thirty miles.

  “If we surface at that point, we are still within the range of their aircraft. If our pumps hold up and we can make it another two to three hours, opening up a sixty- to ninety-mile separation, even though we would remain in range of their aircraft, I think we are safer. I doubt they will be looking that far north from their ships. Why should they? We pose no effective or immediate danger to them at that point.”

  “More coffee, sir?” A petty officer offered to refill Gomez’s mug.

  “Thank you, Petty Officer.” Gomez looked at the XO. “Your thoughts, Commander?”

  “I agree, sir. Plus, if we can make it another sixty to one hundred miles to the north, we are within radio range of other Argentinean naval and air forces and will be able to request assistance.”

  Gomez took a sip of coffee. “Good points, XO. Not only that, but we will be in radio range of the Argentinean mainland.”

  Beep-beep-beep-beep . . .

  “Capitán! Torpedo in the water! Range, one thousand yards and closing!”

  “God help us,” Gomez said. “XO, sound general quarters!”

  “Sounding general quarters! Aye, Capitán!”

  “Helmsman! All ahead full!”

  “All ahead full!”

  “WEPS! Prep two more stern torpedoes. Now! Prepare to fire on my order.”

  “Aye, Capitán! Prepping torps!”

  “XO. Open the 1-MC.”

  “The 1-MC is open, sir.” He handed the microphone to Gomez.

  “Now hear this. This is the commanding officer. We have another torpedo in the water headed our way. We are going to attempt to intercept this torpedo, like we did the last one, by firing two stern torpedoes at it. We are going to try to intercept it farther away from the sub to avoid an explosion. If we miss, prepare for impact. That is all.”

  “Incoming torpedo now at eight hundred fifty yards! Still closing!”

  “Very well! All ahead full!”

  “All ahead full! Aye, sir!”

  Once again, Gomez felt the submarine lunge forward under full power.

  “Incoming torpedo at seven hundred fifty yards! We’re picking up the ping from the torp’s nose.”

  “Weapons Officer, prepare to fire two stern torpedoes on my command. Let’s see if we can shake it off our path.”

  “Aye, sir. Preparing to fire two stern torps at your command.”

  “Stay ready, Mister Ramirez.”

  “Aye, Capitán!”

  “Weapons Officer! Fire stern torps!”

  “Firing stern torps. Aye, sir.”

  The sub seemed to jump once . . . then twice as compressed air helped shoot the two stern torpedoes away from the Santa Cruz.

  “Incoming torpedo now at seven hundred yards!

  “Incoming torpedo at six hundred fifty yards!

  “First torpedo missed intercept, Capitán!”

  “Dear Jesus, no.”

  “Incoming torpedo now at six hundred yards!”

  “Incoming torpedo at five hundred fifty yards!”

  “Come on, baby! Intercept!” Gomez blurted.

  “Incoming torpedo now at five hundred yards!”

  “Second torpedo missed intercept, sir!”

  “XO. Warn the crew! Brace for impact.”

  “Aye, Capitán!” The executive officer took the 1-MC. “This is the executive officer! Interceptor torps have missed. Brace for impact! Brace for impact!”

  “Incoming torpedo at four hundred fifty yards!”

  “Are you ready, Mister Ramirez?”

  “Ready, Capitán!”

  “Incoming torpedo at four hundred yards!”

  “We will launch countermeasures at inside two hundred yards, then break in another emergency dive at one hundred yards. That’s a tight time frame. I need you to be on your game. Are you ready?”

  “Ready, sir.”

  Torpedo countermeasures involve launching a drum-like device filled with compressed air. The compressed air is released in the water in the form of tiny bubbles. This serves two functions: To passive sonar, it sounds like propeller cavitation from a fast-running submarine. To active sonar in the torpedo’s nose, the spinning metallic barrel looks like a big fat target. After launching a countermeasure, standard evasive tactics call for the escaping submarine to make radical changes in course, speed, and depth.

  “Incoming torpedo now at four hundred yards!

  “Incoming torpedo at three hundred fifty yards!

  “Torpedo two hundred fifty yards and closing!”

  “Be ready!”

  “Torpedo two hundred yards!”

  “Release countermeasures!”

  “Release countermeasures! Aye, sir!”

  A slight bump, as spinning drums with compressed air spun into the water.

  “One hundred fifty yards and closing!”

  “Dive! Dive!”

  Santa Cruz dropped quickly through the water, like a roller coaster dropping from the first peak of the track.

  The ferocious explosion shook the sub like a powerful, angry jackhammer. The collision alarm blared all over the submarine. Lights in the control room blinked. Then went black. Then back on again. Then darkness again.

  “Grab a flashlight!” the command master chief yelled through the dark.

  “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

  A narrow bright flashlight beam shot across the control room.

  “We’ve lost power!” someone yelled.

  “Hit the auxiliary battery!” Gomez screamed.

  “I got it, sir!”

  A second later the control room lit up again, with lights half as bright as before. The sub had switched to emergency battery power, drawing juice from batteries with no external generators.

  “Somebody kill the collision alarm,” Gomez said.

  “I’ve got it, sir.”

  The executive officer pulled the switch, deactivating the collision alarm.

  A lonely, dark silence permeated the control room.

  Was this the end? No time to dwell on that thought. Gomez picked up the microphone, silently praying that someone would answer at the other end. “Engineering.”

  Static.

  “Engineering. Can you hear me?”

  “We hear you, Capitán!”

  “What’s the status with our engines?”

  “Power plant is down, sir. Engines inoperable. We are working to try and restore power. Unfortunately, we’ve got a ton more water gushing in down here, sir, making our working conditions difficult.”

  “All right, get on it,” Gomez said. “We’ve got to get main propulsion restored.”

  “We are trying, sir. But with so much water flowing in here . . .”

  Gomez exchanged glances with the XO. “Doesn’t sound good, XO. Go down and check it out and bring me a report.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Restaurant La Concepción

  Papudo 541

  Valparaiso, Chile

  11:53 a.m. local time

  Pete spun the silver Mercedes convertible around the corner onto Papudo Street and slowed down.

  The small street featured a cobblestone alleyway look that resembled old streets in Colonial Williamsburg. The feel and architecture were classic Neoretroism, reflecting the cozy juxtaposition of small unique buildings in close and intimate proximity, as roughly defined by the great American international developer Jeffory D. Blackard, a Texan.

  “Approaching Papudo 541, on right,”
the female voice announced on the GPS in English.

  Pete looked over and saw the quaint facade of La Concepción, a small white stucco two-story restaurant sandwiched between two other buildings. The restaurant had two windows at street level, trimmed in navy blue, with navy blue shutters bracketing the windows in sharp contrast to the white stucco. A natural wooden-colored archway curved over the front door.

  Pete wheeled the Mercedes into a space almost right in front of the door.

  Still in his service dress blue uniform, Pete donned his cover and stepped onto the sidewalk and headed for the restaurant. Inside, the host stood there smiling in a white dinner jacket and black trousers.

  Pete decided to try his Spanish. “Disculpe, señor. ¿Tiene usted una reservación a nombre de Miranda o de Vásquez?”

  “Ah. Commander Miranda,” the host replied in perfect English. “Yes, sir. We do have reservations for you. Miss Vasquez called. She is a loyal regular. We have been expecting you. Right this way, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  They walked through the restaurant and then into a small sunroom off to the left. “This is our sunroom dining patio. Miss Vasquez requested it. It is her favorite. No one else has reserved it. I think you will enjoy the privacy.”

  “Thank you.” Pete sat down. How many men had Maria Vasquez met in this intimate little restaurant?

  The square table, covered with a white tablecloth, featured flowers in the center. Maybe daisies? Maybe dandelions? All flowers looked the same except red roses, which were the only flowers he could swear under oath to recognize.

  Oh well. Whatever. At least she agreed to meet him. Besides, the view provided a wonderful panorama of the blue waters of the harbor.

  “Hello, Peter.”

  The velvety smooth voice with the Spanish accent turned his head from the view of the crystal blue bay. And oh, what an improvement the new view turned out to be!

  Her ravishing combination of black velvet and silky red rivaled a Brazilian supermodel strolling into the room. As an officer and a gentleman, Pete rose to his feet and noticed her hair pulled back into a classic ponytail, nicely accentuating her smile. And in the light her face seemed to be more beautiful than he remembered. His eyes were too distracted yesterday afternoon by the equally attractive sight of her legs. But now . . .