"Helm, all engines ahead slow. Make turns for five knots."
"Aye, aye, ma'am. Engines ahead slow. Making turns for five knots."
"Left standard rudder."
"Aye, aye. Steering left standard rudder."
Amanda lifted her voice slightly, letting it fill the CIC. "We're going to try and evade. Aegis operator, put a tactical overlay up on the helm's navigational monitor."
The Cunningham paid off in a wide turn to port, her wake fading as her speed bled away, her slowed propellers producing drag instead of thrust. Inboard, Amanda listened as the helmsman called off the bearing of the turn.
"Coming left to one hundred and ten degrees .. .one hundred degrees ... ninety degrees ... eighty degrees--"
"Okay, helm," Amanda interrupted. "I want you to minimize our radar cross-section by holding us bow-on to those search planes. Aim us right at that nearest aircraft and turn with him as they sweep past. If you need more engine, just ring it up. You've got the ship."
"Aye, aye, Captain. Will do."
Reduce speed to reduce contrast and turn bow-on to the enemy to reduce aspect. There was nothing else to be done passively. Amanda caught the eye of the duty tactical officer. "If we have to go active, I want two LORAINs on the nearest ANG and two more on that command-and-control aircraft. Don't wait for a formal launch order. Salvo fire the second you get locks."
He nodded a silent reply. CIC discipline called for the maintenance of a low sound level, but it was going to extremes now. Voices were lowered to a whisper in the ancient, instinctive reaction to the presence of an enemy. Huddled in their blue-lit technocave, the men and women of the Cunningham waited out the passage of the wolf pack.
Amanda looked across to the stealth-systems bay. "How are we doing, McKelsie?" she inquired.
The countermeasures man didn't voice a reply, nor did he take his eyes from his telepanels. Instead he held out a hand, flat and palm down, and rocked it in an ominous so-so manner.
The point of closest approach would be fifteen miles.
Just for an instant, as the Duke's bow came around due north, one of the exterior cameras picked up the distant flicker of aircraft strobes wedged in between the sea and sky. Then they were gone, and on the tactical display the Cunningham passed out of the Argentines' scan zone.
"Enemy radars are no longer painting us, Captain," McKelsie reported.
"Confirm that. No variance in scan rate, course, or commo traffic. They are history and we are livin'!"
Christine's restrained scream broke the tension, and all hands in the CIC unclenched their muscles and grinned at the wonder of being alive.
"For Crissakes, Rendino. Grow up!" McKelsie growled, rubbing the back of his neck.
That was back to normal too.
"Okay, people," Amanda said. "We've foxed them for now, but they'll be back. Helm, very well done. Now bring her back around to three-forty degrees true and bring up all engines ahead standard. Make turns for twenty-five knots. I'm going to park us in the safest place I can think of at the moment-right in the middle of that patch of water they just swept.
"Mr. McKelsie, I'm keeping the con. You get to work with your people and start analyzing this new setup the Argentines have."
"Aye, aye."
"Chris, have intelligence section feed McKelsie's gang anything and everything you picked up on the systems they're using. O Group in one hour. I want a countertactic!"
Amanda rubbed her eyes and settled back into her command chair. Slipping a comb from her pocket, she began to order her tousled hair. "Oh, and by the way, everyone, good morning."
DRAKE PASSAGE
1451 HOURS: MARCH 28, 2006
"Anything yet?"
General Marcello Arco leaned over the shoulder of the systems operator and peered down into the round, meter-wide screen. Edging in from the other side was the radar specialist from Naval Technical Command. All three men were absorbed in watching the steady trudge of their teamed search planes across the scope.
They were aboard the Fuerza Aérea 737-400 command aircraft as it orbited five miles above the western approaches to Drake Passage. Below them, at wave-top altitude, Argentina's latest reconnaissance in force was under way.
"Nothing on the screen or on the data links, sir."
"We must have patience, General," Commander Fillipini, the Navy tech man, said in a conciliatory manner.
"Patience we have, time we don't, Commander. We need a fix on that ship."
"We will get one eventually, sir. As I said at the briefing, the best of stealth technology can't make something the size of a destroyer totally radar-invisible. At close range there must be some faint return, and our bistatic search procedures multiply our radar power many times over. We are practically scouring the surface of the sea. If she is down there, we will get her."
Arco grunted noncommittally. The theory seemed sound, but as to whether it would work operationally, God only knew.
Moving abruptly, Arco donned a headset and stabbed a finger at a key on the communications panel.
"Halcon Command to Halcon One. Do you copy?"
"Acknowledged, Halcon Command." An electronics-filtered voice echoed up in response from somewhere below the cloud deck.
"What is your situation, Commander?" "Situation nominal. Nothing to report, sir. Holding course at three hundred meters as per ops plan."
"What is your sea state and visibility?"
"Sea state three with winds gusting out of the west. We are operating beneath the primary overcast, but there are snow flurries and many patches of sea smoke. For the moment, I can just make out Halcon Two's strobes to the south. A poor day for sightseeing, sir."
Arco half-smiled at the pilot's faintly apologetic tone. "We will keep that in mind, Halcon one. Command out."
Poor devils. Autopilots would be no good in the turbulence they must be bucking down there. Twelve hours straight in the air, fighting the control yoke every second from wheels-up to touchdown, and no relief crew because they would be needed to fly the next sweep.
Aeronaval or Fuerza Aérea, Arco felt for the pilots. Perhaps that was why he was out here this afternoon. Stalking around the operations bay of this command-and-control plane wasn't much of a contribution, but at least it was better than sitting on his ass back at Rio Grande.
His musing was interrupted by a sudden excited call from the operator of the bistatic radar display. "Contact! We have a surface contact!"
Instantly Arco was back over the scope, almost bumping heads with Fillipini. "There!" the naval officer said, pointing to a small smudge in the southwestern quadrant of the screen. "About forty kilometers beyond Halcon Four. Very faint, bearing almost due north, speed about twenty knots."
Arco glanced aft to the Elint monitor. "Are you getting anything, Sergeant?"
"No radar or radio emissions detected on any bearing, sir."
The General returned his attention to the radar specialist.
"Any chance it could be some kind of small craft?"
Fillipini shook his head. "Not at that speed in this kind of sea state," he replied jubilantly. "We have got her!"
"Correction, we have found her. Now we try and get her. Commence targeting data downlink to all aircraft. Inform Rio Grande Base that we believe we have located the enemy. Give them our position and inform them we are going in to attack."
The General cut his own mike in again. "All Halcon aircraft, this is Halcon Command. Enemy in sight. Target confirmed as North American warship. Attack data coming up on your screens now. All aircraft arm torpedoes, assume closure bearings, and commence descent to drop altitude. Let's finish this!"
Down deep in the slop below the blue skies and billowing cloud tops, the four chunky, French-built patrol bombers configured for the kill, twin turboprops spooling up to full war power and bomb-bay doors swinging open. Crewmen stared into their sensor screens for the first hint of their prey, the excitement and tension growing within them sounding plainly in their voices as they spoke over the static-du
sted radio band.
"Halcon Four to Halcon Command. Range closing to twenty kilometers. No visual fix on target. There is a large snow squall dead ahead. She is apparently hiding inside it. Threat boards are clear, no enemy response yet.... Wait a moment.... Onboard radar has a fix. We are coming up on drop point...."
Arco frowned over at Fillipini. "Why are they not reacting to us?"
"Possibly they do not realize we can detect them. Or perhaps our multiple scans have them confused momentarily. Whichever, it is all to our advantage."
Arco nodded and returned his attention to the dialog issuing from Halcon Four.
"Still no enemy reaction, Command. All torpedoes armed and set for independent proximity homing.... We are at initial drop point...."
There was a soft crunching sound in Arco's headset and then silence.
"Halcon Four? Halcon Four, do you copy?"
"Halcon Four has disappeared from the screen, General," the systems operator reported. "The datalink has gone down as well."
Arco and Fillipini exchanged stares. "What happened?" the Air Force man demanded.
"I don't know. They're just gone. Perhaps they hit the water. An accidental crash?"
Arco keyed his mike. "Halcon Three, did you see what happened to Halcon Four?"
"Negative, negative. Visibility is closing in down here. Heavy snow. Visual range less than one kilometer now."
"Halcon Three, check your threat boards."
"All radar detectors are clear. I have activated our countermeasures systems. Target is now on our onboard screens and we have a firing solution.... Arming torpedoes now. ... Approaching drop point.... Torpedoes away!... We have a good drop--"
The pilot of Halcon Three screamed, just once.
"General, Halcon Three has dis--"
"I see it! Fillipini, what the hell's going on?"
The tech expert had no answer. His features were shocked and sallow in the greenish scope glow. Arco suspected that he probably looked much the same. It was the enlisted systems operator who kept his brain working.
"The target is accelerating, sir." Swiftly he enabled a highlighting circle around the enigmatic blip and started clocking it. "Sixty knots ... Now eighty ... One hundred..."
Ghostlike, the contact faded completely from the screen.
Something cold and slimy rolled over in Arco's guts.
Suddenly he understood exactly what was happening. He smashed his hand down onto the transmitter key.
"Halcon One and Two, abort the attack! Abort the attack! Go full EMCON and reverse out of the area!"
Arco hit the kill switches for the radio and the main radar console. "Shut down!" he yelled to the other operators in the bay. "Shut down everything! Pilot, activate your antimissile defenses! Take full evasive action, now!"
Arco and Fillipini grabbed for handholds on the workstations and seat backs as the deck tilted up and to port. The pilot was pitching his aircraft up and out into a steep, climbing turn. He pulled power from the engines, and the airframe of the converted jetliner began to shudder softly as he popped his flaps and spoilers. He continued to roll through into a tight descending spiral, a series of soft bangs coming from back aft as the countermeasures dispensers kicked out chaff blocks and anti-IR flares. The group of men on the windowless operations deck could only hold on, wait for something to happen, and fear for what it might be.
Finally it came, a distant concussion that was felt more than heard. Five thousand feet above and a couple of miles away, a foxed missile had self-destructed after losing track of its intended prey.
The Boeing plunged into the heavy overcast and its decks leveled as it pulled out of the dive. The engines resumed their whispering roar as the pilot lined out to pull clear of the area. General Arco released his grip on the chair back and tiredly flexed his fingers.
"Commander, inform the pilot we are returning to base. As soon as we've opened the range a little more, contact Halcon One and Two and tell them to do the same."
"But, General, we know that the Norteno destroyer must be somewhere in this area. Should we not--"
"No, Commander. We have squandered quite enough good men's lives for one day."
DRAKE PASSAGE
1840 HOURS: MARCH 28, 2006
Amanda knelt down quietly beside the bunk in sick bay. Erikson's eyes were shut, and he didn't react at first, giving her a chance to fully take in his condition. He'd been a young man in good shape when he came aboard. That had changed. There was an ominous slackness to his body and a sallow tint creeping in under his fading tan. Even without a stethoscope she could hear the rales in his labored breathing.
"Hi, sailor," she said gently. "How's it going?"
He opened dulled eyes and tried for a smile. "I'm doing okay, Captain. Was that a missile launch I heard a while back?"
"It was. The Argys came hunting us again and we had to show them the error of their ways. Knocked two down and scared the daylights out of a third."
"Way to go."
It obviously hurt him to talk, and Amanda winced inwardly.
"I just dropped around for a second to keep you posted on what's been happening," she continued, carefully keeping her voice under control. "I also wanted to check with Chief Robinson about how soon we can expect you back on the duty roster. We need every good hand we can get."
He could only nod a reply. The pain, leaking past the analgesics he had been given, showed in his eyes. Amanda rested her hand lightly on his shoulder for a moment, then got to her feet and left the ward.
Chief Corpsman Bonnie Robinson was waiting for her out in the dispensary. Silently Amanda tilted her head toward the passageway door. They needed to talk beyond Erikson's hearing.
"He's failing," Amanda said flatly after the soundproof door had closed behind them.
"Captain, he's dying," Robinson replied with equal finality. "The antibiotics have prevented infection so far, but that's about all. There's a fluid buildup in his lungs, and I'm going to have to put him back on oxygen pretty soon. I suspect that there's still some low-grade internal bleeding going on in there. What's worse, that piece of shrapnel isn't stable. The last set of X-rays indicates that it's shifted position. This man needs surgery now."
Amanda shook her head. "It'll be at least four more days before we can rendezvous with the task force."
"In four days he'll probably be dead."
"Just what am I supposed to do about it, Chief?" Amanda snapped, her growing sense of frustration boiling over. "The only port open to me is in the Falklands. Going there draws me way the hell and gone off my blockade station. The Brits can't come out to us because that pulls them off their station. I can't even radio for help without compromising the safety of this ship. What am I supposed to do? I'm open to any suggestions!"
"I really don't have any for you, ma'am," the young woman replied quietly. "I'm just reporting the situation as I see it."
Amanda was instantly ashamed and angered with herself. Brilliant, Amanda, go ahead and kill the messenger bearing the bad news. God, gold oak leaves or not, Dad would take you over his knee for this and you'd deserve it.
"So you are, Chief. Sorry I blew my stack. This thing with Erikson is getting to me a little."
"It's okay, ma'am. I've never handled anything like this before either. It's kind of scary."
"You're doing good work, Chief. Just keep him going a while longer. I'll figure something out."
Deep in thought, Amanda headed forward beyond the CIC and into officer's country, seeking out her intelligence officer's quarters. She knocked quietly on the door that bore not only Christine's official white-on-black Bakelite name-plate but a second, gold-lettered "Resident Genius" plate.
"Somebody's home. C'mon in."
Christine's cabin was a small shrine to human individuality within the ordered structure of the Cunningham. Science-fiction art posters and beefcake photography dominated whatever bulkhead space was not taken up by her personal stereo and state-of-the-art video game system.
Her desk terminal was mounded with papers, books, and magazines that threatened with every roll of the ship to cascade down onto the collection of paperback-stuffed cardboard boxes parked on the deck.
Christine was sitting cross-legged on her bunk, surrounded by such a concentration of disordered hard copy that it was difficult to say whether she had been working or trying to build a nest. "Hi, boss ma'am," she said cheerily. "Sit and stay a while. By the way, you look like hell."
Amanda smiled tiredly. "Thanks, Miss Rendino, I love you too." She removed half of a Milky Way bar from the seat of the cabin's only chair and dropped into it. "I need some input. What are the odds of our being spotted if we break EMCON to contact Second Fleet?"
The intel shrugged expressively. "Heck, you know the answer to that as well as I do. No matter how tight a beam we squirt or how short a burst we transmit, there's bound to be some sidelobe. If somebody happens to be in the right place at the right time and with the right equipment, they could get a bearing on us. We run that risk every time we query a weather or a recon sat. If you actually want to talk two-way with someone, the risk increases with every exchange.
"You could eliminate that risk," Christine continued, "by using laser-corn, but that means we have to come out from under weather cover to get a clear line-of-sight on a satellite.
"My bottom line is this. If we're careful, and given the resources the Argys have available, we might be able to pull it off safely...but I can't give you a carved-in-granite guarantee on that."
Amanda sighed and crossed her arms over her stomach. "That's how I figured it. Chris, that boy in sick bay is going to die if I don't get some help for him soon."
"Ah, so that's what's sticking it to you."
"Yes, and unfortunately the smart move is to just eat the loss and let him die. To do anything else is to risk the ship, the rest of the crew, and the mission."
"That isn't what you're going to do, of course. You're going to get on the blower and scream, yell, and put all of our necks on the line until you get that kid some help."
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