by Don Brown
Pete looked around the bridge.
“Skipper, depth is now six hundred feet,” the diving officer said.
“Very well,” Pete said. He looked at his men in the control room. “Gentlemen, are you ready to get back into the fight?”
“Ready, Skipper.”
“Let’s do this, sir.”
“Let’s give him a taste of his own medicine.”
Pete looked at Commander Pedro Romero, the only Chilean officer on board and the man designated to become the first Chilean commanding officer of CS Miro after they returned to base. If they returned. “Commander Romero, you and I both know that technically, I’m designated as commanding officer for this mission. But this boat now belongs to your government, and you’ll be taking the reins of command when we get back . . . if we get back.
“I want you to understand, sir, that we’re about to execute a dangerous maneuver. When we pop up above that thermal, there will be a firefight, and that guy is good. One of two submarines is going to the bottom. I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance that could be us, depending on where we pop up in relation to the Argentinean boat. So there’s a chance this could be the first and last mission by CS Miro. I want you to understand the danger we’re facing, and I’d appreciate your support.”
The Chilean hesitated. “Would it matter one way or the other if I told you that the idea is crazy? And that, having accomplished four sinkings already, we should remain down here below the thermal layer, play it conservative, and ensure that the boat is returned safely to my country?”
Pete looked the Chilean in the eye, trying to gauge whether he was serious. “No, Commander, it would not matter if you said all that . . . or any of that. Because a great sub commander would rather fight and die than run and hide and live.”
A smile broke across the Chilean’s face. “I think you are a great sub commander, Captain Miranda. And I too would rather fight and die than run and hide and live.” Romero extended his hand. “Besides, I know you have Chilean blood in you. I will always put my money on Chilean blood over Argentinean blood.” The two men hugged, patting each other on the back.
“Good. Let’s get to work,” Pete said. “XO. On the 1-MC. I want to address the crew.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Now hear this. This is the captain speaking. As you know, we took a sucker-punch in the gut from the Argentinean submarine San Juan. But, gentlemen, we’re getting ready to punch back. Their captain is good. Very good. He’s taken out four British ships and disabled their new supercarrier, the HMS Queen Elizabeth. He nearly took us out. This will be dangerous. But each and every one of us has volunteered for the submarine service of the United States Navy. And when we did, we volunteered for danger.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to ascend up to three-five-zero feet, breaking through the thermal lawyer above us. And when we break the thermal layer, we’re gonna do something that captain won’t be expecting. We’re gonna light him up with active sonar. We’ll know where he is, and he’ll know where we are, instantly. And the fight will be on.
“One sub will live. One sub will die. Be ready, gentlemen. This is the captain.”
Pete gave the microphone back to the XO and spoke to his officers in the control room. “All right, gentlemen. Remember the twin characteristics of a great hunter—patience and surprise. We’re going to be patient for a few minutes. Make him think he’s got us. And then it’s game on, baby. Be prepared for battle.”
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA San Juan
Drake Passage
82 miles southeast of Cape Horn
depth 275 feet
4:32 p.m. local time
Commander Carlos Almeyda checked the chronometer. Twenty minutes had passed since he had attacked the Los Angeles–class boat.
In the silence of his control room, with his men sitting at their stations wearing sensitive headphones, monitoring the sound of every bubble and every fish and every whale that might pass within five miles of his submarine, Almeyda watched the green passive sonar screen.
Nothing.
For the first time, he entertained the thought that his executive officer was correct.
Perhaps he had defeated the American.
It was possible. Was it not?
The American had not returned to fight.
Yet something nagged at him.
The Los Angeles–class boat possessed superior technology and more firepower than the San Juan or any other boat Argentina owned or would own in the foreseeable future. Its acquisition by Chile shifted the balance of naval power in South America in favor of Argentina’s most hated regional rival.
Perhaps his XO was right.
The improbable sometimes happens in warfare. David had defeated Goliath.
Still, Almeyda remained cautious. What would Capitán Gomez do? What would he say?
Alberto Gomez, his friend and mentor who died as commander of the Santa Cruz, was the dean of the Argentine submarine fleet. Yet in the last forty-eight hours, Almeyda had scored more kills than any other sub commander in the history of the Argentine Navy and accomplished far more than Commander Gomez ever had in his lifetime. Almeyda remained awed by the memory of his friend and pained by the freshness of his loss. He owed everything to the man who trained him and prepared him in every way for the victories he had achieved on this mission.
Through it all, he had discovered that he loved being a sub commander. This love of combat saturated his blood. He was born for this. But he would relinquish command of this mission to Gomez in a heart-beat if he could. That was how much he respected the man. He would dedicate the remainder of this mission, and indeed, the remainder of his career, to his beloved mentor.
“Sonar. Report,” Almeyda said.
“Still nothing, Capitán. All is quiet.”
“Stay alert, Sonar. We cannot let our guard down. Not yet. Not if there is any chance that the American captain is still alive. If he comes, he will try to slip up passively.”
“Si, Capitán.”
“What are your thoughts, Capitán?” the XO asked. “Are you beginning to believe that we have defeated the American captain?”
“I would like to believe, XO, but I cannot afford to believe. Perhaps you should ask me this question in an hour.”
The XO smiled. “With respect, mi capitán, I suspect that even if I ask you this an hour from now, or in two, three, or even four hours, your answer will remain the same.”
“Or perhaps in twenty-four hours?” Almeyda smiled. “You learn quickly, XO.”
“Thank you, sir. But at some point, do we slip below the thermal layer again to look for him?”
“Eventually,” Almeyda said. “If he pops up, it will be quietly, using passive sonar to try to catch us asleep so he can get off a shot before we can react. Like we did to him. And if we go down, we will go quietly to hide our presence for as long as possible. The American nuclear boat can dive to a test depth of 1,600 feet, with a crush depth of 2,400 feet. We, on the other hand, can dive to only 700 feet, with a crush depth of 890 feet.
“The American can dive twice as deep as we can. If he is alive, he would want us to chase him down deeper, where he has an advantage. He can duck down below our maximum crush depth, where we cannot reach him, and then pop up and take shots at us.
“We prefer to fight at shallower depths, above the first thermal layer, thus neutralizing his crush depth advantage. Certainly I would chase him down there under the right circumstances, but I prefer to fight where we have the advantage.”
“Capitán, you sound as if you expect to fight this American captain again.”
Almeyda looked at his second in command. “XO, my mind tells me that every minute that passes increases the likelihood that we’ll never see him again. But my gut tells me that soon we shall be in a fight for our lives.”
CS Miro
Drake Passage
83 miles southeast of Cape Horn, Chile
depth 600 feet
4:40 p.m. local time
The pounding inside his chest told him. The electrical surge in his veins screamed out.
For a great warrior, like a great hunter, the clock, the time, the weather . . . all these things were of secondary importance. Hunting was about instinct. That’s why the greatest hunters drank the blood of their first kill. At the end of the day, it was about the gut.
Around the control room, men bore stern looks on their faces, manning their duty stations with marked determination and professionalism.
The XO looked at Pete and, without saying a word, gave him a confident thumbs-up.
“Diving Officer. Make your depth three hundred feet.”
“Make my depth three-zero-zero feet. Aye, Captain.”
Pete watched as the depth meter reflected the sub’s rise through the water.
580 feet . . .
500 feet . . .
Pete took the 1-MC.
“This is the captain speaking. We’re beginning our ascent and rising into attack position. Once we break through the thermal, in another 200 feet, we’re gonna light him up with active sonar. Expect the torps to start flying. Stand by and be ready. This is the captain.”
450 feet . . .
422 feet . . .
397 feet . . .
“Approaching the thermal layer, Captain.”
“Prepare to initiate active sonar on my command.”
362 feet . . .
340 feet . . .
328 feet . . .
310 feet . . .
300 feet . . .
“Captain, the sub has reached target depth of three hundred feet.”
“Very well! Sonar! Light ’em up!”
“Initiate active sonar! Aye, Captain!”
The first ping shot through the water in a powerful, deafening, high-energy burst.
Two seconds later, the second ping followed the first.
“Captain. Contact! Enemy sub’s three hundred yards to our rear!”
“Evasive maneuvers! Right full rudder! All ahead full!”
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA San Juan
Drake Passage
82 miles southeast of Cape Horn, Chile
depth 275 feet
4:32 p.m. local time
Capitán!” the sonar officer shouted as the third earsplitting ping from the enemy submarine knifed its way through the San Juan. “The American’s gone active sonar. Enemy submarine is three hundred yards dead ahead of us, sir.”
Almeyda stood in front of the captain’s chair, stunned that the American would be so brazenly bold. Then instinct kicked in. “Fire torps one and two! Now!”
“Fire torps one and two! Aye, Capitán!”
“Range to target?”
“Range to target . . . two hundred fifty yards, sir!”
CS Miro
Drake Passage
83 miles southeast of Cape Horn, Chile
depth 300 feet
4:33 p.m. local time
Captain! Two torps in the water! Two hundred yards and closing on our tail, sir!”
“Stand by to launch countermeasures! Stand by for emergency dive.”
“Stand by. Aye, sir!”
“Range now one-five-zero yards and closing, sir!”
“Hang a few more seconds,” Pete said.
“Range one hundred yards, sir!”
“Launch countermeasures!”
“Launch countermeasures! Aye!”
A puff sound . . . like the release of pressurized air pockets.
“Countermeasures launched! Range fifty yards!”
“Emergency dive!”
“Emergency dive! Aye, Captain!”
“Hang on, gentlemen!”
Like a roller-coaster car dropping from the highest peak of a towering track, Miro’s bulb nose dipped in response to the emergency dive maneuver, dropping her quickly through the water.
The explosion sent shock waves through the boat. But this explosion was not as close as the near miss that nearly took out the Miro forty minutes ago.
Hanging tight to the captain’s chair to avoid falling again, Pete watched the depth gauge dropping.
425 feet . . .
450 feet . . .
“Revert to passive sonar. Level at five hundred.”
“Revert to passive. Level at five hundred.”
A second later, the boat had again leveled out, once again below the thermal layer, its active sonar turned off.
“Everybody okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You bet, Skipper.”
“Good. Because we’re going back up after him.”
Silence.
“Helmsman.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“I want you to turn us around, mark your point on GPS, and be prepared to bring us up through the thermal at a point four hundred yards behind our last break point. Unless he’s turned around, that should bring us in behind him this time. And even if he has turned around, I’ve got no problem facing him head-on. Advise me when we reach the ascension point.”
“Aye, Skipper. Executing turn in the water now, sir.”
“Weapons Officer.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“This cat has gotten three torps off against us so far, and we haven’t lit him up once except with active sonar. I want four torps ready to fire in rapid succession. We’re gonna light him up this time, come hell or high water. Ya got that, Lieutenant?”
“Got it, sir.”
They say that instinct makes a man think of family in the moments before his death, and when those thoughts begin pouring in a rush, a man can know that death is at the door.
As the boat turned, headed for a final showdown with a great warrior whose skills had proved formidable, Pete could not shake the thoughts about his teenage girls, Kelsey and Gracie. One month ago, he was headed back to Dallas to retire, to reengage in the family business, and his most important task, he knew, was to make up for lost time as a daddy to his two blond-haired, blue-eyed bundles of joy.
He should have learned. Any “easy assignment” in the Navy usually proved to be the hardest.
Now, at the bottom of the world, five hundred feet under the surface of the sea, he faced death in one of the coldest and darkest spots on the planet, unable to make up for that lost time as a daddy.
“Captain, we’ve reached the ascension point.”
“Very well. Set course one-three-five degrees.”
“Set course one-three-five degrees. Aye, Captain.”
Miro made a silent turn until she was back on the same course to the southeast as before the attack.
“Diving Officer, make your depth three hundred feet. Prepare to go active sonar on my command. Prepare to fire on my command.”
“Make my depth three hundred, aye, sir.”
Pete watched as the sub rose in the water.
460 feet . . .
412 feet . . .
392 feet . . .
“Approaching the thermal layer, Skipper.”
“Prepare to initiate active sonar.”
360 feet . . .
328 feet . . .
311 feet . . .
300 feet . . .
“Captain, we’ve reached target depth.”
“Sonar! Light ’em up!”
“Initiate active sonar! Aye, Captain!”
The first ping shot through the water, followed quickly by the second.
“Skipper, enemy sub’s two hundred yards out front of us!”
“Fire torp one! Fire torp two!”
“Firing torps one and two!”
“Fire torp three!”
“Firing torp three. Aye, Captain.”
“Range to target, fifty yards and closing!”
“Sir, he’s attempting evasive maneuvers!”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Sir, we have an explosion! Sir, we have a second explosion!”
A moment passed.
Another moment passed.
“The question is,” Pete said, “whether he’s dived under the thermal layer or whether he’s sunk under the thermal layer.”
“Sir, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t want him popping up on our tail and taking another potshot at us. We’re going down after him.” A pause. “WEPS. I want three more torps on the racks, ready to fire.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Diving Officer, make your depth five hundred feet. Passive sonar until destination depth. Then active sonar at destination depth. Be ready to fire. If he wants to play ball under the thermal, I’m game.”
“Make my depth five-zero-zero. Aye, sir.”
Pete watched as the sub again began descending through the water. His gut told him one thing, but he had to be sure.
300 feet . . .
332 feet . . .
“Approaching thermal, sir.”
380 feet . . .
420 feet . . .
480 feet . . .
“Sub is at destination depth, sir. Five hundred feet.”
“Very well. Light him up. Active sonar.”
“Active sonar. Aye, Skipper.”
Ping . . .
Ping . . .
Ping . . .
Ping . . .
“Captain. Active sonar reveals enemy sub—”
A pause . . . “Enemy sub has broken in half, sir.”
Cheers erupted on the bridge.
“No! Quiet!” Pete motioned for silence. “Switch to passive sonar. Put it on the loudspeaker.”
“Passive sonar. Aye, sir.”
At first the sloshing sound of bubbles. Then, amplified throughout the control room, the long, eerie, grinding sound of metal on metal as increased water pressure began to twist and crush steel and other metal components that were no longer pressurized.
“On the 1-MC, XO.”
“Aye, sir.”
Pete took the shipwide microphone. “Now hear this. This is the captain speaking. Both active and passive sonar have verified that the enemy sub has been destroyed.”
Cheering erupted throughout the sub.
“Silence!” Pete demanded.
The cheering stopped.
“There will be no cheering, no reveling, no applause for what we have done. For what we have done is our duty. We have defeated a worthy opponent and taken the life of a great warrior who, if he had an extra second or two on his side, would have killed us first. He battled gallantly, commanding a boat that is inferior to ours.