The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  “Not enough altitude, sir!”

  “Air ops commander! Notify rescue choppers. They’re going down!”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Jones-Landry looked out at the inbound chopper. Even without binoculars, he could clearly see that the Merlin was in trouble. The gray chopper tipped from right to left, then appeared to stall and, in a millisecond, plunged into the ocean.

  “All engines stop!” Jones-Landry said.

  “All engines stop! Aye, sir!”

  As the Queen Elizabeth reversed her engines to avoid overrunning the downed chopper, two Merlin helicopters flew in and hovered over the downed chopper. As the Merlins flew into position, the downed chopper rolled over on its side in the water and appeared ready to sink.

  Four British frogmen in black thermal diving suits leaped from the hovering helicopters into the sea.

  Captain Jones-Landry brought his binoculars to his eyes. Swimmers in the water were cutting strokes toward the sinking helicopter. So far, there were no signs of life around the chopper except the frogmen.

  “Captain! Captain! We’ve got four inbound torpedoes, sir! Time to impact thirty seconds!”

  “What the bloody . . . Which direction?”

  “Straight off the bow, sir! Time to impact twenty-two seconds!”

  “Reengage engines! All ahead full! Right full rudder!”

  “All ahead full. Right full rudder!”

  “XO, warn the crew! Brace for impact!”

  “Aye, Captain. This is the executive officer! Four torpedoes inbound! Brace for impact! Brace for impact!”

  “Time to impact eight seconds, Captain!”

  As Queen Elizabeth began her evasive maneuver turn to the right, the first torpedo struck, rocking the ship with a powerful explosion, knocking Jones-Landry off his feet. A powerful second blast followed the first. And then a third, setting off collision alarms all over the ship.

  MV Thor Liberty

  British Registry cargo ship

  South Atlantic Ocean

  60 miles southwest of the Falkland Islands

  course 180 degrees

  2:16 p.m. local time

  Captain!” the radio officer said. “We’ve received a radio message from the Queen Elizabeth, sir! They’ve been hit by torpedoes! Multiple strikes! They’re reporting three strikes to the underside. The situation is critical!”

  “What?” Captain Hudson raised his binoculars and looked at the British flagship, a mile out front. Queen Elizabeth remained afloat, but billowing black smoke rose from her port side.

  “All ahead full! Prepare to pick up survivors.”

  “All ahead full! Aye, sir!”

  “Captain! Torpedoes in the water! Headed our way, sir. Time to impact fifteen seconds!”

  “Right full rudder!”

  “Right full rudder! Aye, sir!”

  “Hang on, gentlemen!” Captain Hudson shouted.

  Like a giant ski boat making a sharp turn in the water to pick up a downed skier, Thor Liberty banked hard to the right, bringing the deck of the bridge to nearly a forty-five-degree angle in a desperate evasive maneuver to avoid the approaching torpedo. Some men lost their balance in the turn. Bob grabbed a support bar and remained on his feet.

  “Time to impact, eight seconds!”

  The explosion rocked the ship with a vengeance, knocking computer screens off their positions and onto the deck and knocking Bob off his feet.

  “We’ve been hit!”

  Thor Liberty leveled out of her turn.

  Bob jumped to his feet and grabbed the 1-MC. “This is the captain! I want damage reports! Now!”

  As other men pulled themselves up to their feet, a blaring came over the ship’s loudspeaker in the bridge.

  “Bridge. Engineering.”

  “What do you have, Mister Pittenger?” Bob asked.

  “Sir, we have massive amounts of seawater pouring in. In my estimation, the situation is unrepairable. If we’re able to sustain buoyancy for another thirty minutes, we will be lucky.”

  Bob took a deep breath. He had to make a quick decision—a correct decision. “Very well, Mister Pittenger. Stand by for further orders.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Bob looked at his executive officer and saw, for the first time in a long time, fear in another man’s eyes. He held the microphone to his face and clicked to the 1-MC. “Now hear this. This is the captain speaking. We have been struck by an enemy torpedo. We have assessed the situation to be irreparable. Prepare to abandon ship.”

  CHAPTER 26

  La Casa Rosada (the Pink House)

  presidential palace

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  3:15 p.m. local time

  The black armored Audi A8, the official state car used to transport the president of the Argentine Republic, drove up Rivadavia Avenue, then turned right onto a heavily guarded driveway and stopped in front of the magnificent neoclassical Pink Mansion, 1830s vintage, the official residence of the president of the republic.

  President Donato Suarez had been summoned for an emergency meeting with his top military advisers over the exploding situation in the Antarctic region. Even after three years as president, he could not help but admire the stately majesty of the Argentinean “Pink House,” which in his opinion still stood as the most regal executive mansion in the world.

  A bodyguard opened the back door of the Audi, and Suarez stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. He looked up with pride at the national flag flying atop the mansion, the light blue horizontal stripes sandwiching the white horizontal stripe blending brilliantly with the azure of the sky and the white puffy clouds dancing over the palace.

  Surely God would continue to bless Argentina, for her national flag and the color of her skies were one and the same.

  “This way, Mister President,” an aide said as a small band of armed presidential security guards whisked him in through the front doors of the Pink House into the checkered-marble-floored Hall of Honor. They walked between the regal interior colonnades and past extravagant oil paintings. The soles of their leather shoes clicked against the marble, echoing like a clackety stampede as they rushed deep into the interior of the building to the presidential office, a large ornate room replete with marble fireplaces and a long conference table surrounded by ten white wingback chairs.

  The men who had been sitting in the chairs, the most senior-ranking officers in the Argentinean military, stood as Suarez entered the room.

  “Be seated!” the president snapped. “Admiral Blanco. What is our status?”

  “Mister President, I regret to inform you, sir, that we have lost the Santa Cruz.”

  Suarez glanced at the faces of his commanders. “How is this possible?”

  The admiral said, “Sir, we suspect a helicopter attack launched from Britain’s new supercarrier, the Queen Elizabeth.”

  Suarez began to seethe. “I issued orders for our fleet to fire if fired upon. Was this carried out?”

  “Si, Mister President. The sister submarine of the Santa Cruz, the ARA San Juan, launched an attack against the Queen Elizabeth. Sir, we believe we have achieved a strike on the British carrier. But we don’t know the extent of the damage.”

  “A strike on the Queen Elizabeth?” Suarez stroked his chin and smiled. His father had served in the Malvinas War and had surrendered to the British. “What are your recommendations, Admiral?”

  “Mister President, we expect the British to increase their naval forces in retaliation for our strike on their new prized flagship. The Americans and Chileans may even provide support. We recommend increasing our naval presence in Drake Passage and in the waters surrounding it.”

  “How much of an increase are you recommending, Admiral?”

  “All four of our destroyers. Nine corvettes. Two fast-attack craft. Six patrol boats. Two amphibious transport ships. The submarine ARA Salta has already been dispatched to the area to replace the ARA Santa Cruz.”

  “Admiral, you are talking about s
ending most of our fleet to Drake Passage.”

  “Most of our combatant ships, yes, sir. This leaves most of our Atlantic coastline vulnerable, but we feel that the Air Force patrolling the coast can provide more than adequate short-term protection. We hope that with a formidable naval presence, the British will second-guess things and reconsider. Especially with their flagship potentially crippled.”

  “Where is the Venezuelan firepower? They’re supposed to be in this with us.”

  “The Venezuelans are increasing their naval presence. But not just the Venezuelans. The Russians too, sir, are sending ships into the area.”

  Suarez thought for a second. Sending that kind of firepower could escalate an already explosive powder keg. On the other hand, Britain defeated Argentina in the Malvinas War because Argentina was outgunned.

  “Very well, Admiral. Order the fleet to sail south. Secure Drake Passage and defend the interests of Argentina.”

  “Yes, Mister President.”

  10 Downing Street

  London

  6:30 p.m. local time

  Come in, gentlemen.” British Prime Minister David Mulvaney looked up from the report on his desk as the British chief of defence, Sir Edmond McCutchenson, and the Royal Navy’s highest-ranking officer, the first sea lord, Admiral Sir Mark Ellington, walked in. By the worried looks on both of their faces, Mulvaney knew that something disastrous must have happened.

  “Thank you, Prime Minister,” McCutchenson said.

  “With the less-than-jolly looks on your faces, I take it that you are not bearing the best of news.”

  “I regret to inform you that tragedy has struck, Prime Minister.”

  Mulvaney’s stomach knotted. “You aren’t going to tell me that something has happened to the Queen Elizabeth.”

  “Sir, two of the ships in our flotilla have been torpedoed.” The defence minister looked at the first sea lord.

  Admiral Ellington spoke up. “Sir, an enemy submarine torpedoed HMS Queen Elizabeth. We suspect the ARA San Juan as the attacking sub. Three torpedoes struck the Queen Elizabeth. In addition, another torpedo struck the merchant vessel M/S Thor Liberty.”

  The prime minister stood up behind his desk. “Dear God, have mercy on the souls of our sailors.”

  “Prime Minister,” Admiral Ellington said, “we have not yet lost the Queen Elizabeth. The situation is perilous, and she is taking on water, but the double hull built by our British ironworkers has bought us more time.”

  “What are our chances of saving her, Admiral?”

  “Sir, we’ve turned her to the northwest, toward the Falklands. Our best chance of salvaging the ship, frankly, is to beach her in shallow waters near the Falklands. That is the only way we can keep her from sinking. At that point, we could send naval engineers to try to salvage her. However, Prime Minister, this is a race against time. We could lose her before she reaches Port Stanley. Frankly, it will depend on how effectively the ship’s bilge pumps can slow the flooding from the gashes torn in the hull by the torpedoes. And it also depends on no more strikes from enemy torpedoes. Frankly, it’s a miracle that the Queen Elizabeth isn’t on the bottom of the Atlantic. To survive three torpedo strikes for this long is beyond remarkable.”

  Mulvaney nodded. “What about the merchant vessel. The Thor Liberty?”

  “Thor Liberty was a lighter single-hulled freighter. She was transporting drilling equipment and petroleum engineers to support drilling operations at Camp Churchill. Unfortunately, a single torpedo blast took her out instantly.”

  “Survivors?”

  “A handful have been picked up by RFA Black Rover and HMS Ocean. Many others are missing. The Chileans have offered to set up a refugee camp at their naval station at Cape Horn, on Drake Passage, which is the closest allied base.”

  “Where does this leave our military mission?” Mulvaney asked.

  “Sir, we can still proceed,” Sir Edmond said. “We still have plenty of firepower, including helicopters and Royal Marines on HMS Ocean and RFA Black Rover, to launch an assault and recapture Camp Churchill. But without the carrier’s air wing, our military superiority is no longer overwhelming.”

  Mulvaney folded his arms. “If we can’t save the carrier, can we save her air wing? Perhaps fly those planes to a base in southern Chile to reinforce our operations?”

  “Good questions, Prime Minister. Because of damage to the ship, and because of water she’s taking on, we cannot safely initiate air operations. I recommend sending heavy naval reinforcements into the area.”

  “Where’s that stray submarine?”

  “We have choppers in the air from HMS Ocean dropping sonobuoys looking for it. But my guess is that she has skedaddled out of the area.”

  “Attack and run like a coward,” Mulvaney said.

  “Precisely, sir.”

  Mulvaney crossed his arms and looked at the portrait of Churchill hanging on the wall. What would Sir Winston do? We shall fight them on the beaches. We shall fight them in the streets. We shall fight them in the hills. We shall never surrender.

  “Very well, Sir Edmond. Deploy as many ships as necessary to Drake Passage to protect all British interests in the region. Send the entire Royal Navy if you must. We shall do what we must do. This aggression against Britain shall not stand.”

  Situation Room

  the White House

  Washington, DC

  1:45 p.m. local time

  With his trusted chief of staff, Arnie Brubaker, at his side and two Secret Service agents, President Douglas Surber rushed through the double doors of the White House Situation Room, causing the secretary of state, the secretary of defense, the national security adviser, and the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff to all rise to their feet.

  “Sit down,” Surber ordered, still miffed from being pulled from a Rose Garden ceremony honoring the World Series champion San Diego Padres. “Do y’all know how long it’s taken my Padres to finally win a World Series? This better be good. What’s up?”

  Secretary of Defense Erwin Lopez said, “The situation’s blowing up in the South Atlantic, sir. We got a call from Prime Minister Mulvaney. It appears that an Argentinean submarine has torpedoed the HMS Queen Elizabeth.”

  “Say that again?”

  “The new British aircraft carrier, HMS Queen Elizabeth, has been hit by three torpedoes. It’s fifty-fifty whether they can save her. Another British ship, the Thor Liberty, a freighter, has been sunk.”

  Silence. Surber tried to get a perspective on the news. How surrealistic. From a fluffy public relations ceremony to the brink of war within a matter of seconds. A sad commentary on how dangerous the world had become. “What does Prime Minister Mulvaney need?”

  “Admiral Jones?” Secretary Lopez deferred to the chairman of the joint chiefs, Admiral Roscoe Jones.

  “Mister President, as you recall,” Jones said, “we’re already loaning our crew to Chile to operate the Los Angeles–class submarine that we sold them. Our crew will be taking that to sea under the Chilean flag in support of the British. But with the attack on the British carrier, the situation has escalated. We’ve intercepted communications that the Argentineans, Venezuelans, and the Russians are building up their naval presence within the next few hours around the tip of South America in the South Pacific, the South Atlantic, and the Drake Passage that runs between them.”

  “Did you say the Russians?”

  “Yes, Mister President,” Jones said. “We have information that the cruiser Varyag, along with the destroyers Admiral Panteleyev and Marshal Shaposhnikov, are entering Drake Passage from Russia’s Pacific fleet. And from the northern fleet, they’ve dispatched the battle cruiser Pyotr Velikiy. So we have the Russian and Chilean navies pouring in from the Pacific, and now the British, Venezuelan, and Argentine navies pouring in from the Atlantic.”

  “Hmph.” Surber slammed his fist on the table. “The Russians just had to get involved, didn’t they?”

  Secretary of State Robert Mauney took t
his one. “Russia, Venezuela, and Argentina want to split up that Antarctic oil, sir.”

  “So the Russians are tipping the power balance, and the Brits need us to cover their backs. Is that what I’m reading here?”

  Secretary Mauney nodded. “The prime minister will be calling you soon, sir. In the meantime, the Brits would appreciate any naval support as a show of force that you could send to the region.”

  The president sat back and looked around the table. “Where are the carriers?”

  Admiral Jones spoke up. “USS Ronald Reagan is in the area, off the Chilean coast, as a follow-up to your earlier command. In the Atlantic, USS Nimitz is operating off the coast of Brazil and is scheduled for a port stop in Rio this week.”

  “A port stop in Rio,” Surber mumbled. “I’m about to disappoint five thousand red-blooded American sailors.”

  No response to that comment.

  “Very well. Send the Nimitz and the Reagan and their battle groups to Drake Passage. Issue orders to support our British allies. Secretary Mauney, call an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council. Let’s see if we can get ahold of this thing before it blows up even more.”

  Belgrano II base camp

  Antarctica

  8:00 p.m. local time

  Fernando Sosa, wearing acoustical headphones, sat alone in front of the electronic interception equipment in the surveillance dome and toyed with alternating frequencies. But it wasn’t the static in the earphones that had his attention, but rather the static in his stomach.

  Sosa was an intelligence officer—not a firing squad captain.

  War required killing. He knew that. He understood the necessity of killing an enemy combatant on the battlefield or on the high seas. But killing an unarmed enemy prisoner? As he had been ordered to do?

  The Geneva Accords prevented the execution of prisoners of war, and even if war had not been declared, the Accords prevented the execution of enemy combatants.

  Ambiguities in the law of warfare allowed for gray areas in interpretation. Al Qaeda detainees at the Guantanamo Bay naval base in Cuba he knew had been subjected to questionable treatment, even torture. The Bush Administration claimed that detainees at GTMO were technically not “prisoners of war” and, therefore, various interrogation techniques prohibited under the Accords were permissible. But aggressive interpretations of acceptable POW treatment could be risky.