by Don Brown
Suarez folded his arms. “I realize that we’ve gotten the best of the British. But they also have a lot more ships and submarines to lose than we do. We’re down to two submarines, and only one of those is a Santa Cruz–class sub, and all four of our Almirante Brown–class destroyers are lost. Where were these ships when they were sunk?”
“Just south of Cape Horn, sir. We had sent them to intercept and deter British and Chilean ships coming into Drake Passage from the Pacific.”
“They were bunched close together? Close enough for one sub to attack? Wasn’t that the Americans’ mistake at Pearl Harbor? Bunching ships together? Making it easy for the Japanese to target them? And in our case, would it not have been better for these destroyers to have been separated? Miles apart?”
Admiral Blanco looked at Foreign Minister Domingo, then looked back at the president. “Mister President, I regret to say that I do not have a good answer to that question, and I agree that under these circumstances, the ships should not have been bunched so closely together.”
“Admiral,” Suarez said, “we cannot make any more tactical mistakes like this. I am the one who must notify the families. I am the one who must face the press as bodies are recovered. I am holding you responsible for any more mistakes. Foreign Minister?”
“Yes, Mister President?”
“The Venezuelans got us into this. Where is their Navy? They presented this as a joint military operation, and yet we seem to be bearing the brunt of the naval operations.”
“Mister President, their ships are on the way. Their foreign minister asked me to assure you, sir, that they are committing naval forces and to remind you that their commandos are on the ground, in control of Camp Churchill, sitting on the oil fields that we will split when this is over.”
Suarez shook his head. “Sounds like a lot of big talk to me. I want you to tell their foreign minister that if they don’t get more involved in the naval war, and fast, I shall advocate a quick diplomatic solution.”
“Yes, sir.”
Suarez turned his attention back to Blanco. “You would agree, would you not, Admiral, that we cannot sustain any additional losses of this proportion.”
“Mister President, I agree.”
“What about this submarine that sank our ships?”
“Sir, in the seconds before they were struck by torpedoes, passive sonar on board both ARA La Argentina and ARA Heroína picked up the sound of a Los Angeles–class submarine. Both ships broadcast that report in the seconds before they sank.”
“A Los Angeles–class submarine? You think the Americans did this?”
“We know the Americans’ sympathies lie with Britain. But as you know, the Americans recently sold a Los Angeles–class submarine to Chile, renamed the CS Miro. We suspect Chile is behind this, and CS Miro launched this attack.”
Suarez sat back down. “All right, Admiral. I want you to find this CS Miro, and I want you to sink it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mister President.”
CS Miro
Drake Passage
80 miles southeast of Cape Horn
depth 400 feet
4:05 p.m. local time
Navigator, display our current position on the screen.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Pete waited, and then the active navigational display popped onto the screen.
“Captain, the arrow shows course trajectory since our attack on the enemy ships. The tip of the arrow is our current position. We’re still bearing course one-three-five degrees per your order, sir—due southeast—cutting a course headed to South Shetland Islands and the tip of the Antarctic Peninsula. We are approaching 60 degrees west longitude, 58 degrees south latitude.
“Here’s another shot, drawn back, to give you a better picture of our position, sir.
“As you can see, our current course will take us north of the tip of the Antarctic Peninsula and into the Weddell Sea. The British base camp, Camp Churchill, and the Argentinean base camp, Belgrano II, are located inland, near the Weddell Sea.
“Here is a third shot, a different perspective. You can see the Weddell Sea, Camp Churchill, and the Argentine base, Belgrano II. Right now, our trajectory will take us past the tip of the peninsula into the Weddell Sea, where we expect to find enemy naval traffic in support of the joint Venezuelan-Argentine ground forces.”
“Very well,” Pete said. “I’ve seen enough. You can remove the navigational screens.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Steady as she goes.”
“Steady as she goes. Aye, sir.”
Pete stood up and stepped over to the duty station manned by the chief of the boat.
“Made a pot ten minutes ago, Captain. Fresh, strong, and black.”
“You never cease to amaze, COB.”
“Doing my job, Skipper,” the chief of the boat said, “which is to take care of my captain and make him look good.”
“That—you’re the best at, Chief.” Pete poured a stream of steaming coffee into a white mug that had the official US Navy emblem for the USS City of Corpus Christi on the front, and on the back, the silver oak leaf of a full commander in the US Navy and the title “Commanding Officer.”
Pete sipped the battery-acid coffee that only a COB could brew. Just what the doctor ordered to restart his batteries after coming down from the adrenaline rush of a four-ship kill. He returned to the captain’s chair.
The four-hour sonar silence since the big ship sinking, as the sub had passed southeast through waters of the Drake Passage, felt strange. Pete thought his submarine’s passive sonar would have picked up some traffic as they crossed under active shipping lanes.
So far, nothing.
The public did not comprehend the enormity of the oceans, and even a narrow body of water like Drake Passage, with hundreds of miles of open water, could at times make finding another ship like looking for a needle in a haystack. During the Cold War, Russian submarines would camp outside Hampton Rhodes and San Diego and wait for a ship to leave port. Then they’d tail them all over the world. And if the sub lost track of the ship, the sub might never find it again.
The inactivity from the sonar, however, had given Pete time to think, and for better or worse, his thoughts had returned to her.
Why?
Why did she have this spell on him, even here, 1,500 miles away and 400 feet under some of the coldest and most dangerous waters in the world, in the midst of an exploding naval war?
What was it about her?
Whatever it was, he could not let his men know. For to be distracted by a woman in an atmosphere of combat, where correct or incorrect decision making made the difference between life and death, was a sign of weakness. Delilah brought down Samson, and David succumbed to Bathsheba, his grandmother had told him.
And Pete Miranda would not be weakened by some Delilah. Not even a red-hot Latin Chilean Delilah with nuclear-hot legs, a magnetic smile, and the ability to make him melt like wax under a candle flame. No woman, no matter how hot, no matter how attractive, no matter how seductive, would distract him from his mission or distract him from his work.
All this “get in touch with your feelings” garbage was for wusses masquerading as men who liked to go on stupid “get in touch with your feelings” talk shows that nonthinking, nonworking women spent their days lapping up.
He’d seen reruns of these “talk about your feelings” feminine side-shows like The View and Oprah and Dr. Phil.
No thanks. The World War II generation didn’t talk like that, and that “talk about your feelings” stuff wasn’t his cup of tea.
Never would be.
Besides. He’d tried marriage once. He’d gotten two beautiful children, but besides that, nothing but heartache.
Never again.
Besides, he-men kept their affection for women in the proper place.
Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.
The collision alarm sounded.
Pete looked up. “What the—?”
“Captain! Inbound torpedo! One-eight-zero degrees. Range two hundred yards! Time to impact . . . thirty seconds!”
“Left full rudder! Launch countermeasures! Warn the crew! Brace for impact!”
“This is the XO! Brace for impact! Brace for impact!”
The explosion jolted the submarine like a Mack truck slamming into a brick wall, knocking Pete to the deck with a hard thud, sloshing hot coffee all over the deck. Others fell to the deck as lights flickered and warning bells sounded.
Pete tried standing up, but as the sub rolled hard to her left, he lost his balance and fell again. He reached up and grabbed the captain’s chair and pulled himself back to his feet.
The control room went dark.
“Helmsman! Right full rudder!” Pete said. “Somebody get a flashlight! Let’s see if we can get this baby stabilized.”
“Working on it, Captain,” a voice said from the dark.
The sub continued slowly rolling to the left. When the lights flicked back on, Pete hung on to the captain’s chair to maintain balance. Lieutenant Curt Foster, having been knocked to his knees, struggled to regain his position at the helmsman’s station.
A second later Foster pulled himself back into place, announced, “Right full rudder. Aye, Captain,” and began to turn the submarine’s steering wheel all the way back to the right. The Miro responded, making a slow turn back to the right. As she turned, she leveled out.
“Thank God.” Pete picked up the 1-MC. “Control Room to all departments. This is the captain. I want damage reports. Now.”
“Control. Engineering. Sir, all systems operational.”
“Control. Sonar. We’re banged up, but all is operational.”
“Control. Weapons. All operational.”
“Control. Radio Room. All systems operational.”
“Control. Sick Bay. No reported injuries. At least not yet.”
“It appears that the torpedo struck the countermeasures, sir,” the sonar officer said. “We escaped with a near miss, and thank God we did.”
“Very well,” Pete said. “XO, sound general quarters.”
“Aye, aye, Captain. General quarters! General quarters! General quarters! All hands to battle stations. All hands to battle stations.”
“Control. Weapons,” Pete said. “I want all tubes loaded and ready to fire. When we find this sucker, we’re going to unload on him.”
“Roger that, Skipper.”
“Captain, all hands are at general quarters, sir,” the XO reported. “All hands are at battle stations.”
“Sir,” the sonar officer said. “I’ve played back the acoustical tape of the inbound torp we picked up. We were only able to track it for thirty seconds or so. But for ten seconds or so before that, if you go back and listen to the tape, you can hear a faint diesel-electric motor. ARA Santa Cruz–class. You hear him for ten seconds on the tape, and then he’s gone. Then, just the sound of the torp.”
Pete stood and crossed his arms. “So we didn’t get a read on him because he appeared just for a second and then vanished like a ghost.” He sucked in his breath and thought. “How did this happen?”
No response.
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA San Juan
Drake Passage
80 miles southeast of Cape Horn
depth 275 feet
4:12 p.m. local time
That was quite an explosion, Capitán,” the executive officer said. “Not even the thermal layer could fully brunt its intensity. No one could have survived that blast. I compliment you on such an impressive maneuver, sir. Brilliant, in fact. Let me be the first to congratulate you for defeating the American captain! You are now undisputedly the world’s greatest sub commander!”
Commander Carlos Almeyda nodded his head at the excited monologue oozing from the mouth of his exuberant executive officer.
“You continue to assume that the captain was American, XO.”
“Mi capitán. We just attacked a Los Angeles–class submarine. The Americans may have turned the boat over to Chile this week, but there is no way that the Chileans could have trained a commander to take her to sea and display such deft war-fighting skills in so short a period of time.”
The XO was right about one thing, Carlos decided. The skipper of the LA-class boat was surely American.
“You know, XO, as a student at the academy, I spent a semester studying abroad in America. I learned that the Americans have a saying. ‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.’ All we know is that the torpedo we fired exploded.
“That torpedo could have exploded as a result of a direct strike on the American sub. If that is the case, then yes, I would agree with you that we have probably defeated the American captain.
“On the other hand, the torpedo could have exploded as a result of a collision with countermeasures fired by the American captain. If that is the case, then it is too early to tell what damage we have inflicted. Perhaps we sank him. Perhaps not. Perhaps we only wounded him. Perhaps not. All that depends on how quickly he got his boat away from the point of explosion.”
“But, Capitán,” the XO protested, “you maneuvered us in for a point-blank shot from the rear. It would have been virtually impossible for the American captain to have evaded that attack.”
“My maneuvering was a combination of guts and blind luck,” Almeyda said. “Sometimes there is little difference between the two. Besides, there’s another American saying, ‘Some cats have nine lives.’”
“We could always go down there and see if anything is left, Capitán.”
“And suppose there is something down there? Suppose our torp missed? If the American captain is down there and he has survived, do you think he will not be watching and waiting, loaded and ready to fire if we descend again?”
“I see your point, Capitán.”
“This captain we face is good. Very good. If he is still alive, he understands that being a great sub commander, hunting ships, like hunting puma in Santiago del Estero or wild boar in the forest of La Pampa, depends on the dual elements of patience and surprise.
“We have already used the element of surprise. Now we rely on patience. This captain that we face is like a puma. Fast. Intelligent. Deadly. If he is wounded and not yet dead, he is most dangerous. For the time being, we watch, wait, and see.
“Steady as she goes.”
“Steady as she goes. Aye, Capitán.”
CS Miro
Drake Passage
80 miles southeast of Cape Horn
depth 400 feet
4:15 p.m. local time
So how did this guy get in and get off this shot without us ever detecting him? And where is he now?”
Still no answer.
“Son of a gun!” Pete said.
“What, Skipper?”
“Sonar, where’s the thermal layer above us?”
“Stand by, Skipper.” The sonar officer punched the search query into his computer. “Three hundred fifty feet, sir.”
“That’s what he did!”
“I don’t follow you, sir.”
“Sonar, where’s the next thermal below us?”
“Six-five-zero feet, sir.”
“Diving Officer. Make our depth six hundred feet.”
“Make my depth six-zero-zero. Aye, Captain.”
“Sonar. Take that acoustics match of the ten seconds of the diesel-electric. Track it back three hours. See if you come up with anything.”
“Aye, sir. Stand by.” The sonar officer punched more numbers into the computer. “Wow!” His eyes widened. “Sir, he’s been doing this every thirty minutes for the last four hours. Popping down below the layer for five to ten seconds and then popping back up. Just little bursts down below for short enough times so he’s lost in the wash to the naked ear, and then back up above the thermal layer again.”
Pete shook his head. “This guy is good. Really good. Somehow he got a bead on us, probably because he was nearby when we san
k those destroyers. He uses the thermal blanket as a shield against our passive sonar, then every thirty minutes, he pops down under the thermal layer for five to ten seconds, long enough to get updated bearings on our speed and direction but not long enough for us to hear him in the wash, since he’s trailing behind us.
“He closes the gap, and when he closes it enough for a point-blank shot, he pops down again and unloads a torp, hoping our sonar won’t pick it up in time for an evasive maneuver. It almost worked. Brilliant.”
“Do you think he’ll try it again, Captain?”
“My guess is that he’s still up there. But he won’t venture back down here for a while. Right now, he’s trying to figure out whether he sank us or not. If he sank us, he knows he’s in good shape. But if he didn’t sink us, he knows we’ll be watching for him. A diesel-electric can beat an LA-class if it gets off the first shot and if that shot lands. But it becomes more problematic for him if we get into a shootout at the OK Corral.
“Besides, he took advantage of the fact that we were cutting a course just fifty feet below the thermal ceiling. He didn’t have to pop down too far to get a bead on us. But now that we’re diving down to six hundred, 250 feet below the layer, it will be harder for him to pop down here without us nabbing him.” Pete thought some more. “The question isn’t whether he’s coming down here after us. The question is whether we’re going up there after him.”
“What are you thinking, Skipper?” the XO asked.
“I’m thinking about popping up above the thermal and giving this Argentinean cowboy a taste of his own medicine. Of course that’s risky, depending on where we break the thermal. If we break in behind him, we’ve got him in our gun sights, and we can put a torp up his rear. But if we break the plane in front of him, then he gets another point-blank shot at us, and we could be toast. But know this: we’re not here to let enemy submarines take potshots at us and get away with it.”