by Don Brown
Two more pistol shots.
“Madre! Oh, Madre!” The cries of grown men calling for their mothers in the moment before their deaths.
Alberto Gomez treaded cold seawater, struggling to keep his face and nose up in the vanishing pocket of air above him. He thought of Louisa and his boys, Juan and Pedro, who would now be fatherless. They were only thirteen and sixteen. He would never see them again. “God! God! Please take care of Louisa! Please take care of my boys!”
His heart racing, he pushed up desperately, virtually kissing the ceiling as he sucked in all the air he could and went down, under the water.
All the lights flickered, then went out.
Gomez lunged back up again. Another desperate inhale.
Maybe half an inch of air left.
He held his breath underwater and felt men’s arms and legs kicking and flailing in desperate panic. A thousand regrets flashed through his mind in an instant.
If only he had taken more time for family.
If only more time for God.
He slowly exhaled, and then the instinct to breathe overtook him. His body screamed for air.
He pushed up again. This time, cold salt water flooded into his throat and lungs.
He coughed under the water and flailed his arms.
Dear Jesus, help me!
Gomez felt his body going limp in the cold water.
Argentine Air Force C-130
South Atlantic Ocean
100 miles east of the Malvinas (Falkland) Islands
altitude 5,000 feet
course 180 degrees
12:57 p.m. local time
Major Juan Alvarez banked the four-engine C-130 aircraft to the left, swinging it around to a course of due south. He looked out through his aviator glasses to his left and saw nothing but grayish-blue water all the way out to the horizon.
In the cockpit seat to his right, his copilot, Lieutenant Miguel Castro, scanned the seas in the opposite direction.
The major ships of the British task force, spearheaded by the supercarrier Queen Elizabeth, had already passed to their south. But on the high seas, with RADAR from surface ships sometimes limited by the drop-off of the horizon, visual spotting from aircraft often provided the best intelligence about enemy ships at sea.
“Anything out there, Lieutenant?”
“Negative, sir. Only cold ocean and whitecaps.”
“Keep looking. I’m going to bank us back for another loop. If we don’t find anything, we’ll move the search pattern farther south.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alvarez turned the yoke to the right, and the plane banked again, this time turning back toward the Malvinas Islands, which the British still insisted on calling the Falklands. One day, and hopefully soon, the phrase “Falkland Islands” would be an obscure footnote in a history book, and the islands would be forever restored to their true Argentine name and heritage.
“Sir. Picking up an automated distress signal.”
Alvarez looked over. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Just a second, sir. Let me try to narrow the frequency band.” Castro fidgeted with the frequency. “Sir. It’s an automated distress signal from the Santa Cruz’s rescue buoy. Not good, sir. Santa Cruz reporting they’ve been attacked. Sounds like the sub has been lost, sir.”
“Dear Jesus, please no.”
“Automated message reporting they were attacked by torps and depth charges believed to be British in origin, sir.”
Alvarez thought for a second. “If that’s true, then we’re officially at war with the British.”
“Yes, sir,” the copilot said.
“Very well. Let’s pinpoint the location of that rescue buoy and get a FLASH message to Buenos Aires.”
“Yes, sir.”
Apartment of Maria Vasquez
337 Avenue de Tomás Ramos
Valparaiso, Chile
1:03 p.m. local time
I hope you can overlook the mess.” Maria giggled and took Pete’s hand and led him up the brick steps to the small porch at the entrance of the narrow townhouse. The light touch of her hand shot powerful bolts of electricity through his body.
She released his hand and fiddled in her purse, looking for her keys.
He could not avoid staring as the afternoon Pacific breeze swept her ponytail and ruffled her silky red blouse.
Would he be led to the slaughter? Falling in the manner of Sampson and King David? And even more recently, General Petraeus?
Be careful, Peter, a voice in his gut warned him.
“Mess? Right. I’ll bet the place is impeccable. Besides, my only concern is that slice of peach pie you promised me.”
“Mmm. My peach pie?” She extracted her keys from her purse and smiled radiantly. “That’s all you have on your mind, Commander?”
He stared into her sparkling eyes and radiant smile. “I didn’t say that was all I was thinking about.”
“That’s more like it.” She held up her key. “Would you like to do the honors?”
He took the key and his heart pounded. The key slid easily into the keyhole, and he turned it and opened the door.
She took him by the arm and escorted him into the foyer.
With light streaming through open skylights in a cathedral ceiling, the small flat presented a spacious, airy feeling. On the light-colored walls, painted white and yellow, there hung bright art—oil paintings and watercolors. Green plants sat in pots in some of the windows.
The stunning vibrant colors reflected her personality and her exciting looks.
But off on a distant wall in a room in the corner, visible through an open door, hung the portrait of Salvador Allende.
The portrait brought a tinge of sickness to his stomach, an internal tug-of-war pulling against the feeling of bubbly ecstasy generated by the touch of Maria Vasquez.
“I love your place,” he said. “So airy.”
“Would you like a tour?”
I should probably turn around right now. “Sure. Why not?”
“What would you like to see first?”
“It’s your place. I’ll follow you.”
“Hmm. Okay.” She took him by the hand. “Let’s see. Well, since you said you came here only for the pie . . .”
“That’s not what I said.”
She smiled. “Maybe I want to see if you like my cooking before I show you anything else.”
He smiled back at her. “So show me.”
“This way.”
The pie sat in the middle of the small wooden table in the kitchen, in the back of the flat.
“Sit here,” she said.
He complied.
“Do you like a big piece?”
“Looks great. Sure.”
She sliced a wedge and spooned it onto the plate in front of him.
He looked at her, smiled, and forked a small piece of the pie into his mouth and savored the flavor of fresh peach, crust, and brown sugar.
“Well?” An expectant look.
“Delicious.”
“You can eat more than that.” She spoke in a teasing tone. “Here.” She pulled her chair up next to his, took his fork, and speared a larger chunk with more crust and peach. “Open up.”
“If you insist.” The second piece seemed sweeter than the first. “Mmm. I love that.”
“Really?” She touched his forearm.
“Really.” Her leg brushed his.
“I hope you like this even better.”
She leaned into him, and when their lips met, he understood for the first time the meaning of nuclear fission.
His arm found her back and he pulled her in close to him. Suddenly they were standing, tightly embraced, unable to pull apart. With his back against the wall, they kissed again. Pete had never experienced anything like the warm magnetism of her lips.
“Want to see my bedroom?” The longing look in her eyes revealed her intentions.
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“Oh,
come on. Let me give you the rest of the tour.” Gently, she caressed the side of his face.
“I’d love to, but I should be leaving now.”
She gazed at him with eyes that were hypnotizing. Another long, passionate kiss. Five minutes passed? Ten?
She took him by the hand and began to lead him, slowly, out of the kitchen.
Part of him wanted to follow. The other part knew this was wrong.
The sound of a text message rang on his cell phone.
“Let me check this.”
Urgent Message . . . Call SUBPAC . . . Punch Secure Code 9034582*14.
“Give me a second.” Pete called the number and punched the secure code, ensuring that anyone trying to eavesdrop would get an earful of electronic scrambled eggs.
“SUBPAC. Captain Teague.”
“Sir, Commander Miranda here. I got an urgent message to call.”
“Ah, yes, Commander. Hold for Admiral Elyea.”
Pete looked at Maria, who sat in a wingback chair and crossed her legs and smiled up at him.
“Pete?” The familiar voice of Rear Admiral Chuck “Bulldog” Elyea. “You there?”
“I’m here, sir.”
“Pete, things are heating up in the South Atlantic. Our satellites picked up a distress signal. It appears the Brits have sunk the Argentinean sub Santa Cruz.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not, Pete. We’re listening in to radio traffic between Buenos Aires and an Argentinean C-130 searching the area. Apparently no survivors.”
Pete felt his stomach drop. The news of the loss of any submarine, even a foreign submarine, struck fear in the gut of any submariner.
“Sounds like this thing could heat up fast, sir.”
“Ya got that right, Commander.”
“What’s our role?”
“Whatever you’re doing, I need you to get back to that LA-class boat immediately. The Corpus Christi or the Minnow or whatever the Chileans are calling it now.”
“The Miro, sir.”
“Right. The Miro,” Bulldog said. “Listen, Pete. Remember the change-of-command ceremony with the ambassador that’s been scheduled for tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been invited to attend as the guest of Admiral Delapaz.”
“Well, scratch that. It ain’t happening.”
“Sir?”
“Pete, you’re taking that sub to sea tomorrow.”
“But, sir, I haven’t even started training the crew.”
“No time for that, and it won’t matter. The only Chilean you’ll be taking is the new captain. Captain Romero, I think his name is. The rest of the crew is American. Most of the crew members who brought the boat down are still in the country. You won’t have a full crew, but you’ll have some experienced guys, and you’ll have enough of a skeleton crew to get the job done. We’ve ordered them to report and be ready to get under way at 0600 hours tomorrow. You’ll be diving under the name of the CS Miro. The world could explode in the Antarctic region, Pete. This is the president’s way of helping the Chileans help the British. You can train the Chilean crew when you get back.”
Pete looked at Maria, who had a starry gaze in her eyes. “Aye, Admiral. I’m on my way.”
“I’m depending on you, Pete. The president’s depending on you. You’re the best we’ve got. You can be a knucklehead sometimes, but you’re the only sub commander in the fleet that I’ve got enough confidence in to put in charge of a crew, sight unseen, and carry out any mission we ask you to do.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do us proud.”
“Will do, sir.”
Pete disconnected the call and put his phone in his pocket.
“You have to leave?” Maria stepped close to him and caressed his shoulder.
“I’m sorry. Duty calls.”
“You have to go?”
“Yes.”
“Will you take the rest of the peach pie? So you won’t forget me?”
He drew her into his arms. “Hang on to that pie. But pie or no pie, there’s not a chance I’m going to forget you.”
She smiled. “I’m worried about you. Will you be okay?”
“I’m going to sea. I don’t know when I’ll be back. But when I come back, I’ll finish that pie.” He kissed her on the cheek and walked out the door.
CHAPTER 22
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA San Juan
South Atlantic Ocean
15 miles SSE of last known position of ARA Santa Cruz
depth 200 feet
1:25 p.m. local time
In the control room of the submarine ARA San Juan, Commander Carlos Almeyda checked his watch. Two hundred feet above and a quarter mile behind the San Juan, on the surface of the South Atlantic, the submarine’s communications buoy was being towed along at eight knots.
And if anyone saw the buoy, they would see a strange watermelon-shaped ball skimming across the surface of the water, almost like a big floating football. Some might even think they were witnessing something extraterrestrial.
But it wasn’t the untrained eye that had Commander Almeyda concerned. To the trained eye—a military helicopter or airplane equipped for antisubmarine warfare or the watch stander on board an enemy destroyer or cruiser—the moving gray watermelon-shaped buoy could amount to a bull’s-eye painted on the hull of his submarine.
Already the buoy had floated on the surface nearly an hour—well beyond Almeyda’s comfort zone—with no messages received. So Almeyda had run the risk of exposing his boat and his crew and had come up with nothing.
Why no messages? Why no anything?
Had the British fleet passed them by?
Had Capitán Gomez taken the Santa Cruz in pursuit of the British carrier? Leaving the San Juan alone in this sector of the sea?
The silence from above was deafening.
Silence or no, Almeyda could not risk leaving the communications buoy on the surface any longer.
“Lieutenant, prepare to retrieve communications buoy.”
“Prepare to retrieve communications buoy, aye, sir.”
“Capitán! We are beginning to receive a transmission from the surface!” the radio officer announced.
“Belay that order, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir.”
Almeyda felt his stomach knotting.
“Sir, message is completed.”
“Give it here and get that buoy down!”
“Aye, sir!”
The communications officer ripped the message from the printer and headed to the captain’s seat.
“Buoy’s down, sir,” the XO said.
Almeyda snatched the message from the hands of the radio officer.
FROM: Commander Argentine Naval Submarine Force
TO: Commanding Officer, ARA San Juan
PRECEDENCE: FLASH, TOP SECRET
SUBJECT: Attack on ARA Santa Cruz, Orders Update
1. Be advised of attack upon ARA Santa Cruz by British naval forces.
2. ARA Santa Cruz has been declared missing and is believed to have been sunk.
3. Argentine submarine ARA Salta is being dispatched to the area to reinforce ARA San Juan.
4. ARA San Juan is now lead submarine in task force. ARA San Juan is ordered to attack British naval task force and then to dive and retreat.
5. British naval task force last located at -54.755062 South Latitude; -57.304688 West Longitude; course 180 degrees.
6. Execute orders to attack and destroy ships of the British fleet, with priority target HMS Queen Elizabeth.
7. Execute orders immediately.
8. End of transmission.
“XO, look at this.” Almeyda handed the orders to his executive officer.
The XO read the message and made the sign of the cross. “They’ve sunk the Santa Cruz, and they’re headed for us.”
“Yes, they are, XO. And payback is hell,” Almeyda said. “Submerge to 400 feet. Prepare to launch torps. We’ll hit the
m with all we’ve got.”
“Prepare to launch torpedoes. Aye, Capitán.”
Royal Navy Merlin Mk1 helicopter
ASW Naval Squadron 814
South Atlantic Ocean
17 miles south of HMS Queen Elizabeth
altitude 1,000 feet
1:30 p.m. local time
Are you sure you saw something, Leftenant?” Commander Chris Stacks, at the controls of the Merlin Mk1 helicopter, looked over to the right, out at the sea.
“I’m sure I saw something. Right out there. At least I think I did.”
“You think you did?”
“Yes, sir. It looked like a gray flash or something, and then it disappeared.”
“Very well, let’s go have a look.” Eyeing the fuel gauge, Stacks banked the chopper to the right and flew to the area where Jordan thought he saw something.
“Right out there somewhere, sir.” Jordan pointed to a large expanse of sea.
Stacks brought the chopper into a stationary hover and looked through his binoculars, scanning the sea. Nothing but whitecaps cresting atop the swells separating the long troughs of gray water.
“What do you think you saw, Jordan?”
“Something in the water. Perhaps a small boat or raft. Perhaps a communications buoy from a submarine.”
The pilot scanned some more. Still nothing. “Could it have been a whale cresting the water? Or a porpoise?”
“Possibly, I suppose. But I don’t think so.”
“Well, we’re low on sonobuoys and dangerously low on fuel. We need to get back to the carrier ASAP. So you must be certain that you spotted something before we start dropping more sonobuoys.”
“I don’t think it was a fish or a mammal. It looked grayish. Maybe made of steel. The sun glanced off it with an orange or yellow reflection.”
“Orange or yellow reflection? Are you certain?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Sometimes the sun glancing off a whale or a porpoise can create a yellowish orange tint.”
“Yes, sir. But I don’t think it was a porpoise, sir.”
“How long did you have a visual on it?”
“A second,” Jordan said. “But I saw something.”