by Don Brown
Dunn held the megaphone to Montes’ mouth. Rivers whispered in his ear, “I’ve always heard these .357 revolvers are more accurate if you cock the hammer rather than just pull the trigger.”
Click. “All the better to blow your brains out with if you don’t comply by the count of three. One the dome over there on the right is the communications . . two . . .”
“This is the capitán,” Montes said. “To all personnel at Belgrano II base camp. Go immediately to your quarters. Close the doors and remain there for thirty minutes. Evacuate the communications dome. Move immediately. Colonel Sanchez. Acknowledge my order.”
Silence.
Only the motorized rumbling of the snowmobiles.
A voice from through the snow. “We acknowledge your order, Capitán. Our men are returning to their quarters.”
“Excellent,” Rivers said. “Edwards.”
“Yes, Leftenant.”
“Move quickly. Get a couple of men and cuff Mister Sosa. Tie Sosa and the capitán onto separate sleds. They’re going with us. And get the rest of the men on the snowmobiles.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Captain Dunn. I have an assignment for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think the dome over there on the right is the communications center. Sophisticated communications and surveillance equipment. Disable everything in there. Fill the communications equipment full of lead. Use the pistols with the silencers. No point in agitating these Argentineans with the sound of grenades. And clean out any arms locker. We’ll take the weapons with us. Leave nothing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take a man with you. We’ll be ready to move out as soon as you get back. Make it fast.”
“Yes, sir. Evans. Come with me.” Dunn and Evans rushed over to the communications dome.
“All right, men, let’s mount up,” Rivers said. He took one of the snowmobiles in the center of the line as the others climbed onto their seats.
Dunn and Evans emerged from the communications dome, each carrying a canvas bag with rifles sticking out the end.
“No one will be broadcasting out of that place for a while, sir.” Dunn secured the guns to the sled behind his snowmobile and then mounted his seat.
“Excellent, Captain Dunn. All right, men! Hit your headlights. Let’s ride!”
Rivers gripped the throttle and turned it. The snowmobile moved out, slowly at first, and one by one they followed him. Across the snowy courtyard, their headlamps shining through the falling snow, they quickly cut a line between the second and third domes, picked up speed, and left the camp behind. They rumbled out across a great plain of snow and ice into a blizzard of white, through thick-falling flakes under a dark gray sky.
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA San Juan
Drake Passage
20 miles south of Cape Horn
depth 40 feet (periscope depth)
12:35 p.m. local time
It was true that a nuclear missile could kill a man.
By contrast, a small derringer, hidden in an assailant’s pocket or purse, like the one used to assassinate Abraham Lincoln, was just as deadly.
Whether a victim was vaporized in a nuclear blast or shot with a .22-caliber bullet to the brain, he was no more or no less dead in one case than in the other. For the advantage that the derringer possessed, and had possessed for hundreds of years, was that it could be hidden in the secret crevices of a jacket or a purse or the pocket of a pair of trousers.
And while the more powerful British nuclear subs boasted more firepower, including nuclear-tipped torpedoes, than did the smaller and less potent diesel-electric Argentinean boats, if the British and American boats represented the power of the warhead, the Argentinean boats represented the lethal power of the derringer.
Just as John Wilkes Booth had murdered President Abraham Lincoln by concealing his derringer in the pocket of his cloak, the huge advantage possessed by the Argentinean submarines was their ability to remain concealed.
Carlos Almeyda had studied the assassination of Lincoln and applied it to his tactics as a sub commander. His goal: sneak up on his target, silently, as had John Wilkes Booth, and surprise his victim with a sudden and deadly shot to the head with a derringer.
“Range to target,” Almeyda said.
“Range to target, one thousand yards.”
“Scope’s up, Skipper.”
“Very well.” Almeyda brought his eyes to the viewfinder and felt his mouth begin to salivate. “Mister Valera, you’ve got the best ears in the whole Navy! I’ve got three, count ’em, three British Type 45 Daring-class guided-missile destroyers in the bull’s-eye! On my mark, I want three torps fired to the broadside! Stand by to fire torp one.”
“Stand by to fire torp one. Aye, sir!”
“Navigator. Range to nearest target.”
“Range to target, nine hundred yards.”
“Very well. Fire torp one!”
“Firing torp one! Aye, sir!”
“Fire torp two!”
“Firing torp two! Aye, sir!”
“Fire torp three!”
“Firing torp three! Aye, sir!”
Bridge
HMS Daring
British guided-missile destroyer
Drake Passage
20 miles south of Cape Horn
12:36 p.m. local time
Captain! Inbound torpedoes! Five hundred yards and closing.”
“Evasive maneuvers!” Captain Murray Atkinson, Royal Navy, shouted. “Right full rudder! All ahead full.”
As HMS Daring cut hard to starboard, a fireball lit the sky, followed by a thunderous rumble across the water.
“Captain, the Dauntless has been hit, sir!” the executive officer said. Across the way, HMS Dauntless, the five-hundred-foot sister ship to the Daring, exploded in flames. The fireball on the Dauntless leaped above the ship’s stern.
“Captain! Torpedoes still inbound. Range two-seven-five yards and closing.”
“Left full rudder! Launch countermeasures!”
“Left full rudder! Launch countermeasures! Aye, sir.”
As the Daring started her hard cut back to the left, another fireball. Another explosion.
“Captain! They’ve hit the Diamond!”
A second British guided-missile destroyer exploded in flames.
“Sir, torpedo, one hundred yards and closing!”
“XO, warn the crew! Brace for impact!”
“All hands! This is the executive officer. Inbound torpedo! Brace for impact! Brace for impact!”
The explosion rocked the ship so hard that it knocked the captain off his feet. Atkinson pushed up and saw the ship’s entire foresection ablaze, flames leaping higher than the superstructure of the bridge, more than forty feet in the air. The bow was already sinking from water gushing in the huge hole cut by the explosion.
Atkinson had to save his crew. Any delay would cost more lives. He knew what he had to do.
“XO, alert the crew! Abandon ship!”
10 miles outside Belgrano II base camp
Antarctic Peninsula
Antarctica
1:05 p.m. local time
Plowing through a blinding white world of snow and ice, a sight that could pass for a peaceful postcard were it not for the roar of gas-powered engines that sounded like a half-breed cross between a Harley-Davidson and a lawn mower, Rivers pulled his hand off the left handlebar of the lead snowmobile and checked his watch, 1:05 p.m.
They had been running through snowy conditions for thirty minutes now, long enough, in his opinion, to have opened up a safe working distance ahead of the enemy. Their head start, enhanced by the blizzard conditions, seemed like an act of a God whom Rivers was still trying to decide if he believed in.
As long as the blizzard hid their position, Rivers leaned toward believing in God, a philosophical position of which Bach, no doubt, would approve.
But it wasn’t enough to escape and drive blindly in a blizzard in the col
dest place on earth to hide from an enemy. Even in the spring seasons in Antarctica, with twenty-four-hour daylight, and even with a survival tent, a portable heater, and numerous MRE military food packs obtained from the Argentineans, eventually they would run out of gas and supplies.
He needed to set a course for their final destination.
Rivers held up his right hand, motioning for the other snowmobiles to slow down. All eight snowmobiles, their headlights beaming through falling snow, all pulling sleds, came to a stop for the first time since leaving Belgrano II camp.
Rivers gave the throat-slash gesture, signaling his men to cut their engines.
The loud roar of the engines was replaced by the eerie howl of the ice-filled wind.
Rivers took a moment to absorb the near magic of the tranquility of the cold wonderland, a peaceful respite miles away from the mortal danger they had left.
Enough reflection.
“Bach.”
“Yes, Leftenant.”
“Check on our two guests. Make sure they’re still breathing. Adjust their blankets if you need to. I want Montes tried for war crimes for murdering Anderson. I don’t want him dying of frostbite.”
“Yes, Leftenant.”
“Dunn.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rivers got off the snowmobile and stepped out into the deep snow, his boots crunching into it as he walked toward Dunn’s snowmobile. “Pull the GPS devices out. Let me know when you have one up and running. It’s time to mark our bearings.”
“Yes, sir. They’re tied down on my pull sled.”
“Very well,” Rivers said. “Anyone who wants to get off and take a stretch, go ahead. Walk around. Take care of your business. It will be awhile before we stop again.”
“Bloody good idea.”
“Good idea, mate.”
“Got it, Leftenant,” Dunn said. “GPS is working like a charm.”
Rivers walked over and stood beside Dunn as the GPS displayed a map of the Antarctic Peninsula.
“We left in such a rush, Leftenant, that I never heard you say where we’re going.”
“Ya know,” Rivers said, “I could use a stogie right about now. I should’ve made those Argentineans load ten fine cigars in our stash. Bach!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ask Montes if he has a cigar in his pocket. Tell him if he does, I’ll let him sit up and we can split it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Halley Research Station. That’s where we’re headed, Dunn.”
“Montes says no cigars, Leftenant,” Bach said.
“Figures,” Rivers said.
“The Halley Research Station?”
“Exactly. Now that Camp Churchill has been occupied, that’s the closest British research station. Let’s have a look.”
“We can see Belgrano II clearly marked. And to the north and a bit east of that, the Halley Station, the closest permanent British facility. It’s an atmospheric and weather facility with seventy scientists stationed there.
“We’ll set a course paralleling the Weddell Sea. With any luck, we should arrive by tomorrow. Once inside, we should be safe for the time being unless the enemy decides to strike at Halley. Maybe we will have British military reinforcements by then.”
“Question,” Dunn said.
“Fire away.”
“This weather has been a godsend for us. What if it breaks?”
“Depends on when it breaks,” Rivers said. “If it breaks anytime soon, they’ll have aircraft from Ushuaia Air Base in Tierra del Fuego scouring the area. You and I know that could be a bloody mess.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In any event, we shall deal with that situation if it arises. Meantime, we set a course for Halley Station and move out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gentlemen, mount your machines and start your engines! Prepare to move out.”
CHAPTER 28
Number 10 Downing Street
London
4:33 p.m. local time
Prime Minister Mulvaney stood behind his desk and removed his glasses. “Let me see if I understand this correctly, Admiral. Are you telling me that in the last thirty minutes we have lost three of His Majesty’s warships in addition to the freighter we lost yesterday, and we’re about to lose the Queen Elizabeth, and all this destruction is the result of one single solitary diesel-electric Argentinean submarine that does not even have a nuclear reactor?”
“Prime Minister, I remind you that we still have not yet lost the Queen Elizabeth. If we can beach her, our naval engineers can repair her, although the situation remains bleak,” Admiral Sir Mark Ellington said.
“Perhaps I should submit my resignation to His Majesty,” Mulvaney said. He began to crave a spot of brandy.
“With respect, Prime Minister,” Sir John Gosling, the foreign secretary, said, “we were attacked first by enemy forces, not the other way around, sir. What the British people need is your leadership. Now more than ever. Not your resignation.”
Sir John was right. The prime minister needed to be atop his game at this crucial hour, not wallowing in self-pity.
“So today we’ve lost the Daring, the Dauntless, and the Diamond. Do we have any survivors?”
“Prime Minister,” Admiral Ellington said, “the sinkings took place twenty miles off the tip of South America off Cape Horn. Chile has dispatched a small armada of boats and helicopters from their naval station across the inlet from Cape Horn. They have already plucked some survivors from the water.
“Their facilities are rather small at their Cape Horn naval station, so they are erecting large hospital tents for MASH units to provide emergency treatment for our sailors being pulled from the water until they are ready to be transported.”
“Sir John, when we’ve completed the meeting, please place a call to President Mendoza of Chile so that I can thank him.”
“Certainly, Prime Minister.”
“Now then. We’ve suffered a major blow to the fleet, but by no means is it the end. We shall continue to reinforce the area with naval firepower and overwhelm them with numbers. But the damage done by this one Argentinean submarine is troubling. Have we determined which sub it is?”
“Based on message traffic intercepted, we’re convinced it’s the ARA San Juan, the sister sub of the Santa Cruz, the sub we sank, sir.”
“I want that sub sunk. Admiral Ellington, I am holding you personally responsible. Sink the San Juan.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
Bridge
HMS Queen Elizabeth
South Atlantic Ocean
approaching the Falkland Islands
course 90 degrees
1:50 p.m. local time
So close, so close, and yet so far.”
The lyrics of the twentieth-century pop ballad danced in Captain Jones-Landry’s mind as he looked down on the flight deck. Along with her air wing, HMS Queen Elizabeth carried a complement of 1,600 officers and enlisted men, most of whom had evacuated up to the flight deck because of rapid flooding belowdecks. They stood there, all with life preservers on, awaiting the “abandon ship” order.
Five helicopters from Port Stanley circled the great carrier, and a number of small boats had come out to pick up crew members when the carrier went down.
“Depth sixty feet, Captain. Distance to shore, one-half mile. Distance to beachable depth, if these depth charts are correct, approximately one-quarter mile,” Commander Donald Parrott said.
“XO. Order the chaplain to the bridge.”
“Aye, Captain.” Commander Parrott picked up the 1-MC. “Reverend Honeycutt to the Bridge.”
An order to abandon ship was the hardest order for any captain to make. Not only was such an order an admission that his ship was lost, but the timing of the order was crucial.
If Jones-Landry waited too long to issue the order, he ran the risk that his crew, even if they were wearing life jackets or were in small lifeboats, could be sucked down with the ship.
“Leftenant Commander Honeycutt reporting as ordered, sir.”
Jones-Landry turned around and saw the ship’s senior Christian chaplain, the Rev. Daniel Honeycutt, ordained by the Church of England and wearing the rank of leftenant commander, Royal Navy, standing at attention.
“At ease, Reverend.”
“How may I be of service, sir?”
“Reverend, I once watched the old American war movie Patton. At the Battle of the Bulge, at Christmas of 1944, General Patton’s Third Army needed better weather for its tanks to advance.
“General Patton didn’t know how to pray, so he ordered his chaplain to write out a prayer to the Almighty for better weather. Well, I don’t know how to pray either, and we don’t have time to write out a prayer. So I’m ordering you, right here and right now, to beseech the Almighty that he would spare the ship from sinking. Do it on the 1-MC so all the crew can hear. But make it fast or we’ll all be swimming in the South Atlantic.”
“Aye, Captain.” Honeycutt took the 1-MC from the XO. “Now hear this. This is the ship’s chaplain. Please bow your heads as I pray. Almighty Father, Maker of all heaven and earth, in this perilous time of trouble, we beseech thy help. We are grateful for thy divine providence and apologize for our sins and for the fact that this prayer cannot, because of these circumstances, last longer than a moment. We beseech thee now. Reach down from heaven with thy miraculous and powerful hand and save this ship. In the name of Christ our Redeemer we pray. Amen.”
“Thank you, Reverend. Now get back down to the men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jones-Landry looked at Parrott. “That was a gallant effort by the chaplain, but too late, I’m afraid.”
“You tried, Captain. Nothing wrong with a little prayer, I suppose.”
“Perhaps. But now I must focus on the crew’s safety. Alert the crew. Stand by to abandon ship. We’ll give this another sixty seconds, but we’re sinking too fast. I can’t wait any longer.”
“Aye, Captain.” The XO spoke into the 1-MC. “This is the executive officer. Prepare to abandon ship. I repeat, prepare to abandon ship in approximately one minute. Stand by for further orders. This is the executive officer.”