by Don Brown
“Is it possible that she is having broadcast problems?”
“Possible but unlikely, sir,” Blanco said. “The sub has a primary transmitter and two backups. It’s highly unlikely that all three transmitters are out.”
“I had a bad feeling about this the last time we talked,” Suarez said. “We’re down to one sub? Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. ARA Salta is the only sub we have left. She just entered Drake Passage.”
Suarez leaned back in his chair. “What about the Venezuelan ships we were promised?”
“We expect six Venezuelan surface ships and one sub to enter the passage within four hours.”
“Within four hours? Are you telling me no Venezuelan ships are there yet?”
“Not yet, sir. But four Russian frigates entered the passage from the Pacific side. The Russians have offered antisubmarine warfare assistance against the sub that has caused all the damage to our fleet, sir.”
Suarez slammed his desk. “That’s nice of the Russians, but I’m not going to lose my last submarine. Not until Venezuela contributes more. Foreign Minister Domingo. Send a communiqué to Caracas. Remind them that they got us into this and promised military assistance. Tell them that we expect them to contribute to the replacement of the two subs we’ve lost. They’re OPEC members. They can afford it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Admiral, where are our ships currently located?”
“If you could give me a second, sir, I can pull a regional map up on the laptop to demonstrate general locations of our naval forces.”
“Very well.”
Blanco opened his laptop and hit several keys.
“As you can see here, Mister President, most of our surface combatants and subs have been moved into Drake Passage to deter the attempt by Britain and Chile to support the joint oil-drilling expedition that started all this.
“We also have naval forces here, in the Weddell Sea, off the Antarctic Peninsula, to support our base camp at Belgrano II and to further check the British attempts to recapture their base at Camp Churchill, which is now controlled by our Venezuelan allies. We’ve moved the ARA Hercules into the Weddell Sea to pick up some British prisoners who escaped from Belgrano II and to pick up the former commander of the Belgrano II base camp, who, as you know, has been accused by his second in command of war crimes.”
Suarez nodded and studied the map. “Admiral Blanco, I want you to pull the ARA Salta out of Drake Passage. You can leave the other ships in the area for the time being, but keep me posted on an hourly basis until further notice.”
“Yes, Mister President.”
Argentinean AS332 Super Puma
“Eurocopter”
Weddell Sea
altitude 1,000 feet
6:20 p.m. local time
From his position in the webbed jump seat inside the Argentinean helicopter, Leftenant Austin Rivers turned and looked over his shoulder and out the nearest window.
Even with handcuffs clasping his hands behind his back and even when crammed into an enemy helicopter, the sight of the sea from above some of the coldest waters in the world brought a jolt to his veins.
Moments later, a ship came into view.
From the air, the ship had the familiar shape of a British destroyer. The Argentinean naval vessel known as ARA Hercules, built in Britain by the Vickers Shipbuilding Company, had the same hull design of a British Type 42 guided-missile destroyer. Britain sold the ship to Argentina during a rare period of thawed relations between the countries.
How ironic that the Argentineans would transport British prisoners on a ship they had purchased from Britain, a ship identical in hull design to the ship that represented one of the most devastating losses in the modern history of the Royal Navy—the Royal Navy destroyer Sheffield, set ablaze and sunk by Argentinean Exocet missiles in the Falklands War with Britain fought over a generation ago.
Rivers looked out as the chopper came to a hover high over the helo landing pad of the ship’s fantail.
“Okay, listen up, gentlemen.” This was Lieutenant Nuňez. “The pilot is about to land the chopper on the ship. When he does, we will lead you out by twos, under guard, into the ship’s superstructure. You will be taken down to the ship’s brig, where we will secure you until we can process paperwork to ensure that you are accounted for under the Geneva Accords.
“After that, you will be uncuffed, and I will arrange a rotation schedule so that you can come up on deck in shifts, two or three at a time, under armed guard. I’ve given my word to the leftenant that you will be treated humanely, and I intend to keep my word.”
“You are being too soft on these animals!” Montes snarled. “I intend to include this in my report as well!”
“If you can be patient with us a bit longer, we will work to make your voyage to Buenos Aires as comfortable as possible.”
The helicopter began descending toward the ship.
Montes snarled. “Never have I seen such softness from an officer in an atmosphere of combat.”
Rivers watched Nuňez, who made no eye contact with Montes, nor did he respond, nor did his facial expression change.
“I shall see to it that you are prosecuted for rendering aid to the enemy.”
A bump. Then another bump. Rivers looked around.
The Super Puma had touched down on the ship. The cargo bay opened and with it entered a bluster of cold salty sea air. “Mi capitán.” Nuňez looked at Montes. “The commanding officer of this ship is Capitán Silva. Perhaps you wish to leave the helicopter first and head up to the bridge and begin the process of reporting my actions up through the chain of command. As a naval commander yourself, I am sure you will be able to find your way to the bridge.”
Nuňez then looked at Rivers. “Leftenant, please lead the way.”
Rivers stepped out onto the steel helo pad into whipping winds and dull sunlight.
A sailor, armed with a pistol in holster, took Rivers by the arm. “This way, Leftenant.”
Dunn stepped out next, followed by Bach and the rest, each accompanied by armed sailors. They stepped into the steel superstructure and were led into the tight-quartered helicopter hangar bay, where they walked past a gray Sea King chopper moored in the hangar.
They then stepped into a large black steel freight elevator in front of the nose of the Sea King, all ten of them plus four security guards.
The elevator dropped down one deck, where they were led down a long passageway.
The ship’s brig consisted of three steel-barred jail cells, each with a single open toilet in the back.
Rivers and Dunn were directed into the first cell, the door locking closed with a loud clang.
The rest were locked in two groups in the other two cells.
“Well, Leftenant,” Dunn said, “handcuffed and locked inside a small prison cell on a ship. Apparently they don’t want us to go anywhere.”
“Or they don’t want us to take over their bloody ship.”
“Hope they come to remove these cuffs and get us out of these thermals. Well, look on the bright side, sir. At least it’s warm in here.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t get too bloody hot in here.”
CS Miro
Weddell Sea
depth 100 feet
6:40 p.m. local time
Captain! I have contact. Single screw. Bearing zero-one-zero degrees. Speed twelve knots. Acoustical computers indicate probability of Type 42 Sheffield-class destroyer.”
“Sheffield class?” Pete said. “I thought the Brits retired all those. We’re talking Cold War vintage. And as I recall, Argentina is using Almirante Brown–class destroyers now.”
“Seems right, Skipper,” the XO said.
“Periscope depth. Up scope.”
“Periscope depth. Up scope. Aye, Captain.”
“XO, while we’re approaching periscope depth, run a database search on any Sheffield-class ships that may still be active.”
“Aye, Captain.”
<
br /> Bridge
ARA Hercules
Weddell Sea
6:42 p.m. local time
Lieutenant Alberto Nuňez, in regular winter uniform after having removed his Antarctic thermal gear, had been summoned to the ship’s bridge by his commanding officer. He stood at parade rest as the two senior naval officers argued.
“Capitán, I know that you are commanding officer of this ship, but as a fellow senior officer in the Navy of the Argentine, having been a ship commander myself, I insist that you arrest this officer.” Montes pointed his finger at Nuňez.
“On what grounds, Capitán? He has executed his orders to fly into Antarctica, to capture British prisoners who had escaped from your camp, and to bring them . . . and you . . . back to this ship. That he has done,” the ship’s commanding officer, Capitán Roberto Silva, said.
“To the contrary, Capitán,” Montes said, “he has rendered aid to the enemy. He has embarrassed and humiliated a senior officer of the Argentine military in the presence of enemy captives, thus not only embarrassing our nation but undermining good order and discipline in the process.”
“And how else has he rendered aid? By not shooting one of the prisoners in the head for no apparent reason?”
“I resent that comment, Capitán! I can assure that any action I have taken in my role as base commander was for good reason and is legally justifiable under the laws of war.” Montes snorted to show his disgust.
“Your second in command, Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez, disagrees with that. Based on his report, I would say that you, Capitán, are fortunate that I have not arrested you and thrown you in the brig pending our arrival in Buenos Aires.”
“Sanchez is a soft, power-hungry traitor to his country! A backstabbing liar seeking revenge because I replaced him as base commander because of his own ineffectiveness and inability to lead!” Montes’ face reddened. Veins bulged on his neck. “Now, with respect, Capitán, if you are not going to arrest this man”—he pointed at Nuňez—“then I insist upon my right to file a report!”
Ship’s brig
ARA Hercules
Weddell Sea
6:44 p.m. local time
Where is our newfound chum, Mister Nuňez?” Dunn asked. “He promised he would remove these handcuffs as soon as he finished some paperwork. Seems like a jolly long time to complete paperwork.”
“It is getting uncomfortable,” Rivers said. “And with these cuffs behind the back, awfully hard to take a leak. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling the urge rather vigorously.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if we can trust this guy,” Dunn said.
“I hope you’re wrong, Dunn,” Rivers said. “But I’m afraid you’re right.”
CS Miro
Weddell Sea
depth 40 feet
6:45 p.m. local time
We’re at periscope depth, Captain. Scope’s up, sir.”
“Very well,” Pete said. He grabbed the handlebars alongside the periscope column and put his eyes against the eyepiece.
Against fading pale blue skies and choppy grayish seas, the long formidable image of a naval destroyer appeared in the viewfinder, cutting through the water from left to right.
From his studies of naval ship design in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, Pete recognized the ship as a Type 42 destroyer hull, Sheffield class.
But the light blue flag, flying from the back, revealed that she was anything but British.
“Range to target?”
“Range to target, five hundred yards, Captain.”
“XO, how’s that data check? I want a rundown on any Sheffield-class destroyers Argentina has in its fleet.”
“Skipper, data check’s in. The last Sheffield-class destroyer operated by the Royal Navy was HMS Edinburgh, which the Brits decommissioned in 2013. The Argentinian Navy bought several of these destroyers a number of years ago. They have decommissioned all but one, the ARA Hercules, which they converted into a multipurpose transport ship capable of carrying two helicopters.
“Captain, if you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do, you’re about to sink the last Sheffield-class ship on the high seas.”
“No fun shooting ducks in a barrel, XO, but hey. The mundane is part of the job.” Pete took another look at the Hercules. “Too bad for her she’s not flying the Union Jack. It’d save me a Mark-48. Fire torp one!”
“Fire torp one. Aye, Captain.”
Bridge
ARA Hercules
Weddell Sea
6:46 p.m. local time
All right! All right!” Capitán Roberto Silva threw his arms in the air, clearly fed up with the conversation. “We’ve wasted enough time on this. I refuse to arrest Lieutenant Nuňez, nor am I going to put any restrictions on him. From my perspective, he has done his duty.
“Capitán Montes, you may use the ship’s communications facilities to file a report with Buenos Aires, as you have requested. You have that right. But I am instructing Lieutenant Nuňez to prepare a statement outlining his version of the events in question, and that will be filed and transmitted to high command along with your report.”
“That’s outrageous!” Montes protested. “You would take the word of a green, inexperienced junior officer over that of a widely respected senior capitán, on the verge of making admiral?”
“I’m not taking anyone’s word. I’m making a decision. That is my decision.”
“Capitán! Torpedo in the water! Inbound from starboard! Range, three hundred yards and closing!”
“What the—Left full rudder! All ahead full!”
“Left full rudder! All ahead full!”
Montes ran over to the left side of the bridge, away from the direction of the incoming torpedo as the ship swung hard to the left. Nuňez ran in the opposite direction, to the right side of the bridge, looking for a glimpse of the incoming torpedo.
There! A missile streaking through the water toward the ship, leaving a long white trail in its wake.
“Inbound torpedo one hundred yards and closing!”
“All hands. This is the XO! Brace for impact! Brace for impact!”
The explosion threw Nuňez so high that his head struck the ceiling of the bridge before slamming him to the deck under a shower of glass.
Alarm bells, sirens, the ceiling of the bridge whirling—first slowly, then faster, then in a lightning-fast blur. These were his last sights and images before he blacked out.
CS Miro
Weddell Sea
depth 40 feet
6:48 p.m. local time
His eyes still pressed to the eyepiece of the periscope, Pete watched as towering black smoke and flames rose from the bow of the ARA Hercules.
“Put the image on the big screen.”
“Aye, Captain.”
A second later, every eye in the control room latched onto the image of the out-of-control fire burning at the forward section of the enemy vessel.
“You don’t realize the destructive power of one torpedo until you personally witness the effects of it,” the chief of the boat said.
“That’s a fact, COB,” Pete said, “and we’ve wreaked a ton of destruction with these torpedoes in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Should we pop ’em with another one for good measure, sir?” the XO asked.
“Not necessary, XO. That’s wasting good ammo. That ship’s at the bottom of the sea in less than thirty minutes.”
“Agreed, sir,” the COB said.
“Radio. Float the communication buoy. Notify Fourth Fleet. Successful attack upon ARA Hercules at 1850 hours local time. Attack appears devastating and fatal to enemy ship. Updates to follow. Respectfully submitted, PC Miranda, Commander US Navy, Commanding Officer.”
Ship’s brig
ARA Hercules
Weddell Sea
6:50 p.m. local time
Hey! Hey! Let us out of here!” Rivers shouted through the bars at the panicked Argentinean sailors running up and do
wn the passageway.
Some of the sailors grabbed life preservers. Others tossed life preservers along the passageway. Others, like a thundering herd trampling across the steel deck, took off running from in front of the brig.
The British engineers in the two cells adjacent to Rivers and Dunn, their hands cuffed behind their backs, kicked against their cell doors. “Let us out!”
But the passageway outside the ship’s brig was a traffic jam of panicked humanity. The rumbling boots of sailors stampeding to get out of the ship as fearful voices yelled in Spanish neutralized the sound of the British desperately kicking against the steel bars.
None of the Argentineans even looked at the British prisoners locked behind in the cells.
An announcement in Spanish over the 1-MC.
“¡Atención! Hemos sido alcanzados por un torpedo. La situación es irreparable. Abandonen el barco inmediatamente. Repito. Abandonen el barco. El barco se hunde y tenemos poco tiempo. Este es el capitán.”
“Did anybody understand that?” Rivers yelled.
“It’s an abandon ship order, Leftenant! The captain said the ship has been struck by a torpedo and is sinking fast.”
Rivers and Dunn exchanged glances. For the first time, a glimpse of fear appeared in the eyes of the Royal Marine.
“Look, Leftenant.” Dunn nodded down at the deck. “Water.”
Rivers turned and saw a sheet of water moving along the deck, which set off an accelerated panic among the Argentinean sailors rushing to get out.
For the first time, Rivers began to believe that death was imminent.
CS Miro
Weddell Sea
depth 40 feet
6:55 p.m. local time
The magnified image on the big screen, which cast a spell of stunned silence over every man in the sub’s control room, showed a warship still burning out of control, flames leaping fifty feet into the air, its bow sinking under the water, its stern rising up out of the water.