They watched as the trio of missile destroyers drifted away aft on the screen.
"Do you want me to circle back, Skipper?" Arkady asked.
"Negative. Let's have a look at the convoy itself."
"Aye, aye. Going on in."
The cruise drone cut swiftly across the distance to the second Argentine formation. In less than a minute, the boxy outline of a Meko-class destroyer materialized on the screens. Simultaneously, the signal intelligence display on the RPV control console began to trill urgently.
"Heads up, Arkady," Christine warned. "Their radar is starting to get a return off you."
"Rog. Better bring up the gyrostabilizer on the camera platform. I'm going to have to dazzle 'em with my fancy footwork here in a second."
To Arkady, the enemy vessel was a yellow outline sketch on the blue and white cross-hatch sea, its air/sea search sweep a wide-angled pink floodlight radiating from its masthead. Suddenly the Argentines' fire-control radars lit off, tight, angry, scarlet beams that lashed out and tried to engulf the drone. Asterisk patterns in bright orange began to dance around the drone, denoting the shells that had started to burst around it.
On the thermal imager, Christine and Amanda saw pulsing white gouts of flame appear fore and aft on the destroyer as its 40mm turrets opened fire.
"Nothing wrong with this guy's reaction," Amanda commented grimly. "Get around him, Arkady."
He was too busy to verbalize an answer. He shaved a few more feet off his already perilously low altitude and threw the drone through a series of violent scissoring maneuvers to shake the flak. Then he cut hard right across the stern of the Meko. Another hard turn to port pulled it back onto the course line, and a few seconds later the RPV was streaking down the convoy's starboard flank.
One after another, its camera panned past the ships in the transport column. The big, modern-looking freighter with its aft-mounted superstructure and its decks stacked high with prefab housing modules. The bulkier, more massive vessel with the distinctive M rigs of a naval oiler. The smaller tank-landing ship, one-third of the displacement of the others and yet with its topside crowded with a miscellany of stores and equipment. Then they were past and the air around the drone again filled with the hot flare of air-bursting shells.
"I'm taking flak again," Arkady reported.
"We see it," Christine replied. "It's coming in from the nearside trailing escort. One of the little guys."
"I want a look at them too," Amanda ordered.
"Okay, we'll be coming up on the nearside ship in a second." The intel peered intently into the monitor. "Yeah, there he is. An A-69 corvette. French-built. A real golden oldie."
"Old or not," Arkady cut in, "this guy has an Argentine Annie Oakley in that bow turret. This gunfire is getting too close to be funny."
"Let's get the eyeball verification on those farside escorts," Amanda began. "Come right..."
The image on the repeater screen jarred wildly and broke up. Within the VR helmet, Arkady saw red damage-alert warnings flash past in front of his eyes too rapidly to be read. The drone slewed wildly and the graphics sea surface rushed up toward him. His world went abruptly black.
"Damn, damn, damn!" Amanda's fist struck the back of his chair with a soft thump.
He lifted off the VR helmet and shook his head, striving also to shake off the sensation that he had just died in a plane crash.
"Sorry, ladies. They busted me."
"Such is life, pal. At least your little bod wasn't out there to get perforated too," Christine replied, backing out of her corner of the station. "Ah well, at least we know pretty much what the setup is. Good enough for government work."
"It isn't good enough, Lieutenant!" Amanda snapped. "I am taking this ship into a combat situation, and I cannot afford to rely on toss-off guesswork!"
Christine's eyes widened and she recoiled slightly under the impact of the words.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," she replied quietly. "We have verified one Meko 360-class destroyer and one A-69-class corvette with the convoy close-escort group. Signal intelligence has also identified the emissions signature of a second 360-class vessel. As to the remaining light escort, sat-scan verifies that it's less than three hundred feet long, diesel-powered, and it displays the emission signature of the standard Argentine light surface forces systems package.
"Possibly it could be one of their Meko 140-class corvettes or a Sparviero fast-attack craft, but, as the Argentines usually operate their naval vessels in two- or three-ship squadrons of like types, my best estimate is that it is a second A-69."
As she spoke, she watched the burst of anger drain out of Amanda to be replaced by a look of deep weariness. Christine had always thought that her friend had looked young for her age. Just for the moment, though, the reverse was true.
"We could get another drone up there in another twenty minutes, Captain," Arkady said from the control station. He had listened quietly throughout the exchange, not turning in his chair.
"No. We might need those last three Braves later, and I want to get back under EMCON. We'll go on Christine's assessment. Secure the drone systems, Arkady. Chris, have your people run a detailed analysis on the signal intelligence we've recorded off this mission. See if there might be anything out of the individual ship-emission patterns we can make use of."
"Aye, aye."
Amanda departed the bay. Lieutenant Rendino waited until her captain was well clear before she leaned back against a side console. She produced a soft, thoughtful whistle.
"She's cool, sis," Arkady said, starting to power down the workstation.
"I know. She's getting flayed worse than all the rest of us put together. It's just that I've been running with the Lady for some time now, and I've never seen the load hit her this hard before. It's kind of spooky. Sort of like God getting a migraine."
"She's cool," Arkady repeated evenly, gazing into the empty screens of his station. "She's just calling the ball for the first time and learning about all the shit they don't put in the books."
BUENOS AIRES
2000 HOURS: MARCH 29, 2006
The little case clock in President Sparza's private office chimed softly as Harrison Van Lynden was ushered through the door. The Argentine leader rose from behind his desk and nodded a greeting.
"Good evening, Mr. Secretary. Please be seated. May I offer you a cup of coffee? "
"Yes, I'd like that, Mr. President. Thank you."
They were alone in the room. Sparza himself poured and served the steaming beverage from a silver serving set that had been placed on a side table. It was good coffee, a Colombian blend brewed strong, "fighting coffee" intended for a long, sleepless night. Van Lynden knew that a pot full of a similar grade waited for him back at the United States Embassy.
"Now, Mr. Secretary," Sparza said, resuming his seat, "how may I help you?"
"Well, the problem at hand is fairly obvious. Your ships are at sea and so are ours. In the near future, possibly tonight, they are going to meet and there is going to be a battle."
"I know. I am waiting here for the reports to come in."
"We still have time to stop this, Mr. President. That's why I came this evening in this rather semiofficial mode. I'd like to ask if there is any way at all we can cut this thing off before we take any more casualties and before the relationship between our nations is further scarred."
Sparza stared down at his desktop for a long moment. "I do not know what I can say, Mr. Secretary, except that I believe the actions we have taken are necessary and right for the future of Argentina. My people have a destiny on the Antarctic continent, and I will not deny it to them. We will not back away from this."
"Then we have to stop you. One of the things I have learned over the past few days is that there is a destiny in Antarctica, but it's one for the entire human race, not for any single nation. The United States will not be backing down either."
"Then, Mr. Secretary, there will be a battle."
"App
arently so."
Both men were quiet for a moment, both sensing that with that final declaration, their role in these developing events had passed. They had become onlookers now, no more involved in the outcome than the rest of the world.
"It's a peculiar thing," Van Lynden said finally. "There's an old truism about two wrongs never making a right. Well, I fear that our two 'rights' are about to make a cataclysmic wrong."
"Possibly. The problem with the profession of statesmanship is that other men pay for your errors and failings with their blood." Sparza leaned forward intently. "Please believe me. When we initiated planning for Conquistador South, we did not intend for there to be a loss of life. We did not desire a conflict with the United States."
"I regret, Mr. President, that you have one." Van Lynden gave the softest and briefest of laughs. "That shoots down another old truism. The one about two democracies never going to war against one another."
Sparza shrugged. "That is an unrealistic expectation. Conflict between men and nations stem from deeply held beliefs and desires. This will remain a constant for as long as men and nations have differing beliefs and desires. The mere structure of the governments involved is an irrelevancy."
"I suspect you are right, Mr. President."
Van Lynden set his cup and saucer on the edge of the desk and rose from his chair. "If you will excuse me, I'll be returning to my embassy. I think we've both got a long night ahead of us."
"We do. I shall be here if you need to communicate with me, Mr. Secretary."
"I'll be standing by as well, although I doubt there'll be much for either of us to do until it's time to start picking up the pieces."
DRAKE PASSAGE
2021 HOURS: MARCH 29, 2006
"Ken, what's your assessment of their tactics?"
It wasn't a full Operations group, just a call-up of the key tactical officers into the wardroom to assess battle options. Ken Hiro and Dix Beltrain had drawn chairs up to the big table; Christine Rendino sat curled up on the couch with her feet tucked under her. Amanda paced slowly, trying to burn off the sickening residue of the day's adrenaline load.
"They have their escorts divided into a close and a distant covering force," her exec replied. "That's a classic package for convoy escort, but it seems a little bit fancy to me for this setup."
"I agree with Mr. Hiro," Beltrain added. "If I were running the Argys' show, I'd pull all my escorts in tight around the transports. Then I'd charge right down the middle with all radars blasting. I'd trust in my concentrated point defenses and ECM to break up any attack a single raider could launch."
"That makes sense," Amanda said, crossing her arms. "You might lose a couple of escorts that way, but you'd have a very good chance of being able to eat the strike and still get your convoy through. So, are the Argentines just being stupid, or do they have something else on their agenda?"
"They do," Christine said flatly. "Like your head served up on a silver platter. Those distant escorts aren't just escorts. That's a hunter-killer pack out there, targeted right on us. You can bet on it. Those guys know they've got to get in close to get at the Duke, so they're using the convoy for bait."
"I can see that," Amanda said, nodding to herself. "The Argentines are the ones playing stealth games now. We're operating under EMCON, so their hunter-killer group does too. That way, neither of us can get a fix on the other. However, to make a run on the convoy, they know that we'll have to light off our fire-control radars. They'll wait for that moment, then they'll plaster us with Exocets set in homing antiradiation mode."
"Either that, or they'll drop back and catch us in a cross fire between the distant and the close escort groups," Christine finished.
"Just a second!" Ken Hiro made a sharp negative motion with his hand. "That compromises the principles of mass and mission intent. These guys are pros. We can't assume that they'll put the convoy at risk just to go headhunting."
"Sure we can," the Intel responded. "All the evidence points to it. Look, Mr. Hiro, we're dealing with a traditional Latino culture here. Macho to the max. For the past few days the Duke has been kicking over their toys and pissing in their sandbox. What's worse, it's been a woman who's been sticking it to them. They've probably got officers out there who would cheerfully flush their whole damn merchant marine down the toilet in exchange for one clear shot at us!"
"It still doesn't make sense."
"No, sir, it doesn't, but we're talking glands here, not brains."
"Let's leave their motivations in abeyance for the moment," Amanda cut in, "and concentrate on what we're going to do about it. Any suggestions?"
Her people didn't have a fast answer. Finally Hiro said, "I'd say our best angle of approach would be from astern. That sector is covered by their two smallest escorts and their weakest sensors. We could come in up their wake, kill their two trailers, then engage the transport line. They'll probably be focusing most of their attention ahead and not behind them. With a little luck, we should be able to work in fairly close before we get spotted."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but that's a crappy tactical setup," Dix Beltrain said emphatically. "For one, coming in from astern like that will reduce our rate of approach by forty percent. They'll have a whole lot longer to spot us. For two, attacking that ship column from astern will make for a real bad targeting template. Minimum radar cross-sections, target overlaps at varying ranges, mutual counter-measures support... I'll be trying to designate into one gigantic blob of chaff and jamming. Before I could guarantee you kills on all three of those transports, the lead escorts and the distant covering force would have more than enough time to swing wide and get a line of fire on us."
"Well, what would you suggest, Lieutenant?" Hiro countered.
"We've got a bad hand here. Let's shuffle the deck again and go for a redeal."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean, let's change some of the tactical parameters here, sir," Beltrain replied heatedly. He looked over to Christine Rendino. "Chris, do we have any more reconsat passes tonight?"
"Hmm, sure. One at about 2400 hours and another at 0430."
"Okay, now our Stealth Cruise Missiles outrange the Argentines' Exocets by a whole lot. I suggest we stand well off the Argy formation and shotgun it with all twelve of the SCMs we've got aboard." Beltrain shrugged. "Heck, we're bound to hit something. Even if we don't get the transports, we might be able to thin out their escort force and blow a hole in their formation. Then we can use the next sat pass to reassess the situation and plot a follow-up strike."
"We can't assume that we'll get the luxury of a second strike, Lieutenant!" Hiro responded. "Without specific target designation, we can't be certain we'll do enough damage to disrupt their formation. We also can't be certain we'll have enough time to develop another favorable tactical situation. We may only get one shot at this, so we've got to be sure."
"He's got a point, Dix," Christine added from the couch. "Come daylight, the Argy Air Force will be covering that convoy like a coat of paint. By the time we get the dark again, they'll have made rendezvous with their icebreakers and they'll be in the pack, beyond our reach. We gonna do it, we gotta do it now. And we better do it right first crack out of the box."
"I know that, Chris, but I still stand by firing on bearing at long range. By my assessment, it has as much chance of working as Mr. Hire's coming-in-the-back-door plan and it doesn't put the ship as much at risk."
Dix looked up at his captain, waiting for her to make the call. All three of her officers were. Amanda stepped off a pace or two, deliberately positioning herself so she would not have to meet their eyes. She didn't have a decision for them.
Belatedly, Amanda realized that she was in no kind of condition for effective mission planning. By rights, she should have been the one putting her own concepts and ideas forward for analysis here. Instead, she found that her tactical awareness was gone. She couldn't hold the full mental image of the developing situation she was confronted with
. Her thoughts wouldn't track properly, angling off and chasing around in circles. She could recognize the symptoms; somewhere along the line she had passed a critical level of personal exhaustion.
Come on, Mandy! For half of your life you've worked and built and prepared for this day, and when it comes at last, you crap out because you're short a few hours' sleep.
She rubbed her dry and aching eyes, then glanced at her wristwatch. She'd learned her lesson on the night of the submarine engagement. She didn't have much time left, but she would use a little of what was available to try to get herself back into some kind of shape for decision making.
"Thank you for your input," she said noncommittally, turning back toward her officers. "I'll take it under consideration. It's now 2035 hours. At 2200, there will be a full O group and we'll make a strike commit. Ken, make sure all hands have a chance to take a break and get something to eat. Beyond that, try and get some rest yourselves. It's going to be a long night."
It wasn't what her people were hoping to hear from her, but at the moment it was all she had.
Amanda left the wardroom, heading aft for the companionway ladder that led up to officers' country. She hesitated at its foot, momentarily too tired to climb. Leaning against the side of the passage, she rested her head against the cool steel.
Through that contact, she could feel the living vibration of her ship: the tension and release of the hull working with the sea, the white-hot whisper of the turbines as they fed power into the drive system, the heartbeat-steady thudding of the propellers as they cut dark water. She could recognize each and every movement of that symphony. It was a soothing and steadying thing, something to draw strength from. Amanda did so for a few moments before straightening again and going on her way.
In quarters, she began to work through an old ritual. She ignored water-use restrictions and granted herself a ten-minute shower and shampoo. Toweling off lightly, she pulled on a fresh pair of cotton briefs and a uniform shirt, then turned her attention to her music collection. Selecting a mild instrumental version of South Pacific, she dropped it into her CD player and set the volume to low. Dousing the cabin lights, she stretched out on the top of her bunk. The clock alarm was set to grant her an hour's worth of rest, enough maybe to clear her mind and let her think again.
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