Hypercapnia, from the Greek hyper, for ‘above,’ and kapnos, meaning ‘smoke.’ The condition is one of abnormally elevated carbon dioxide—a gaseous product of the body's metabolism normally expelled via the blood and through the lungs. Raton giggled, and said: “It’s true. It’s true.” A floating head appeared before him. If Raton could have recognized its features, he would know the face belonged to a boy who had died during San Luis II’s shakedown cruise. The face smiled and said: “Yes, it is true.” Then its smile faded and the face became grim and drained of color. Its dark eyes became sad. Raton’s smile faded, too. Then he yelled in horror.
Raton shimmied along to a locker door. He fumbled at its latch and got the locker open. Inside was a diving lung; a bag and mouthpiece the Rusos had designed to filter bad air. Raton bit down on the foul tasting bit, slipped the piece on his nose to pinch his nostrils shut, and sucked a lungful of rubber-tasting air. A few filtered breaths later, his head began to clear. He moved along to the growler.
Raton lifted the oversized telephone’s connection wire, found the plug at its end, aimed for the receptacle labeled ‘Control Center,’ plugged it in, and cranked the growler’s ringer.
“¿Si?” came over the receiver. Raton sobered himself, as though he were dismissing the effects of a night of drinking Fernet and Coca-Colas.
“Señor,” Raton said, unsure of with whom he spoke. “Dióxido de carbono…”
Ledesma slammed the Control Room growler down. He felt his own balance momentarily waver as he moved to check the environment control panel. The panel’s gauges confirmed Raton’s report.
“Captain, scrubber efficiency reduced. Carbon dioxide levels are on the rise,” Ledesma stated to the captain, who displayed a blank and distant look. Ledesma looked around and saw everyone was breathing harder. He turned back to the captain, gasped, and insisted: “Sir…”
Matias shook his head and blinked hard and fast.
“Yes, Santiago…”
“Captain, we have to get to periscope depth. We have to vent the boat.”
Everyone within earshot turned away from their Control Center station panels and looked at Ledesma. They all knew that the surface was too dangerous with a destroyer and a helicopter around. Coming shallow to extend the snorkel would be tantamount to suicide. Captain Matias clenched his fist and struck it against steel. To have a nuclear boat, he wished silently. To run silent and run deep; to be free of the surface and air. In that moment, Captain Matias understood why his son had died, why Buenos Aires had pushed the boundaries of its industrial and scientific capabilities to acquire such a capability. As certain as he was about his tactics and boat, the inherent limitation of the diesel-electric submarine were fatal if a tin can like this British guided-missile destroyer persisted in its pursuit. Captain Matias collected himself, cleared his throat, and spoke out:
“Es un día de lealtad.”
“¡Sí, mi capitán!” came back from the men in yelled unison. For it was a day of loyalty, and they would follow their captain, fight their boat, and honor their country, no matter the cost.
“Very well…” Captain Matias strolled the Control Center. He looked at each submariner at their station, patted the shoulder of some, and then ordered: “Diving lungs for all. Those off duty to their bunks.
“Aye, sir,” came back, and the men reached into station lockers to pull out and don their masks. Though Matias stretched his over his head, he left it dangling from his neck.
“Launch noisemaker. Planes up 20 degrees. Make your depth 100 meters. Ready tubes one through six for firing,” Matias continued.
With a devious child-like grin, Ledesma repeated his captain’s orders. With a subtle swish, a noisemaker was released to the water. Most would have paid the sound little mind, though some aboard discerned and recognized the small cylinder’s din. Regardless, they all hoped the enemy torpedo would be lured away. San Luis II rose in the water column and accelerated, leaving the noisemaker between her last position and the British helicopter-launched weapon.
Matias’ eyes rolled in his head. He was on the verge of passing out, he realized. He pawed at his mask, placed it over his nose and mouth, and sucked a few breaths through its round filter element. Lowering the mask again, he exhaled and asked: “Sonar, position on Delta 1?”
“Señor, I have Delta 1 at three-three-one; bearing: one-three-two. Speed…” the sonarman paused to confirm his count of blade and shaft turns, “is 11 knots.”
“Weapons: firing point procedures, Delta 1. Snapshot, tubes one through four. Reload with ASMs.”
Men scurried to make the captain’s orders happen. They locked the enemy’s position into fire control, programmed the heavy wake-homing torpedoes with those numbers, and prepared four Klub anti-ship missiles for loading. San Luis II angled up, making these tasks an urgent uphill coordinated dance. The submarine shuddered, and with a continuous whoosh, four torpedoes were loosed to the water.
“Santiago, bring us in as close as you can. Slam Klubs and ‘53s down that mal parido’s throat,” Matias cursed. “Then, surface the boat.”
Ledesma hesitated. His usual reiteration of orders—a seeming echo of the captain’s voice—was not immediately forthcoming. Then, he finally repeated what had been said. When he did, the captain added:
“Prepare conning tower team for SAM deployment.”
Ledesma stood erect and acknowledged right away: “Aye, sir.”
Despite the lack of need to salute aboard ship, Ledesma snapped one anyway. The gesture was interrupted by a high-frequency pinging.
“Dipping sonar at zero-nine-eight.”
WHOMP, came the low frequency slap of Dragon’s bow sonar.
“Active sonar,” San Luis II’s sonarman reported the obvious. Then he scrutinized the other sounds in the water and reported: “Enemy torpedo approaching the noisemaker.” The sonarman fell silent and listened hard, closing his eyes to do so. A moment later he added: “Torpedo has reached noisemaker.” The sonarman rocked back and forth, as though the motion would improve his hearing and concentration. He amended his report by saying: “Torpedo has passed noisemaker. No detonation. Torpedo continues to search at two-four-two; depth: 285 meters.”
“Make your course--” the captain started.
“Splashes,” the sonarman interrupted. His report did not continue with ‘active sonar’ or ‘screws,’ which meant:
“Depth charges,” Ledesma guessed out loud.
Two Mark 11 depth charges had dropped from the hovering helicopter, splashed in, and began to fall through the water. As they did, the thump of Kingfisher 21’s rotors were muffled by the water as the weapons sank. The cylindrical British weapons descended toward their detonation depth: 180 meters, the last depth at which Master 1—San Luis II—had been localized on active sonar.
When a depth charge detonates, the high explosive undergoes a rapid chemical reaction. A very high-pressure gas bubble expands rapidly, and creates a primary shockwave that is lethal to man and machine, especially if the weapon explodes in close proximity. Then, as the weight of the surrounding water forces the bubble to contract again, pressure within the bubble builds and causes it to re-expand, propagating another shockwave. This cycle continues until the gas bubble can vent to the atmosphere. It was these cyclical secondary shockwaves that Captain Matias and his crew feared, as they could bend a submarine’s hull back and forth until a catastrophic hull breech occurred.
“Make your course one-eight zero,” Matias ordered. His plan was to turn the boat in a wide circle and move her to the surface; all in hopes of avoiding this new peril.
“Enemy torpedo circling at two-nine-zero meters,” the sonarman added. The Stingray was in an automated circular search pattern. Matias used this information to deprioritize the threat the enemy weapon presented. Knowing the Merlin’s weapon load out, the captain rationalized: If we can bleed this helicopter dry, have it expend all its weapons and send it home sulking, then the destroyer will be vulnerable. After the
se thoughts, Captain Matias spoke again:
“Planes to five degrees. Slow your rise. Come to new depth: eight-zero meters.”
“Aye, sir, planes to five degrees. Coming to new depth: eight-zero. Repeat: 80 meters. Forward compartment reports tubes one through four loaded with ASMs. Tubes five and six loaded with Type 53 heavy torpedoes.”
“Very well, Santiago. Very well.”
San Luis II leaned as she turned a great circle and spiraled upward to the surface. Her crew waited as the depth charges fell through the water in their direction. Despite the submarine’s steel skin, the crew’s eyes all looked up as if they could see through metal and water and see the descending depth charges. Perhaps they gazed to the Heavens and to God, begging for salvation and maintenance of life… If luck was with them, the enemy weapons would be far off their mark. Some prayed. But even though God hears all prayers, sometimes the answer is ‘no.’
A depth charge detonated just several meters behind and below the submarine. The explosion’s high-pressure gas created a bright sphere in the black ocean, a small sun that momentarily illuminated the abyss, and then shrank and blackened. The circular shockwave it created slammed into San Luis II, shaking her violently. Inside the submarine, lights shattered, panels sparked, fuses blew, and men screamed.
“Left full rudder. Ahead full,” Matias shouted.
BLAM. Another explosion.
This explosion was closer and it was big. The primary shockwave was bone-shaking, but then it mixed with the secondary one. Both waves merged, conspired, and crashed into San Luis II.
The submarine quaked, rocking back and forth, and wailed like a tormented ghost. Metal tore and men screamed. Those standing seemed to jump in place, and those seated in chairs rose into the air before falling back upon their bottoms. Some men tumbled over as they crashed back down, and the entire boat seemed to flex as though constructed of a green spring twig.
The depth charge’s gas bubble shrank and grew again. It slammed against San Luis II’s stern. It grabbed her and twisted her. The explosion lifted San Luis II, shoving her hard, and pushed her nose down. Then occurred a third explosion. This one felt as though it was right up against the submarine’s keel.
Raton was lifted from his sled. His back slammed against the compartment roof. He swore, “¡Esto es un quilombo! There was a gush as a battery cell cracked open and spilled its contents in a wave that sloshed along the floor before draining to the bilge. The lights in Raton’s little dungeon flickered. He remembered a lullaby from childhood: ‘Qué linda manito’…
Little Gaston Bersa lay snuggled in his bed, beneath thick blankets and cool comforting sheets. He looked upon his father’s candle-lit, bearded face. Raton held his hand up. He looked upon the face. It swirled in the carbon dioxide-poisoned haze. Despite the respirator’s mouthpiece being jammed against his tongue, he began to hum the lyrics:
Qué linda manito que tengo yo
Linda y bonita que Dios me la dio.
He thrummed his fingers and thought:
What a beautiful hand I have that God gave me.
Beige blurs, Raton’s moving fingers trailed. He laughed. The laugh was hard and gasping, and reverberated up through the steel decks. Someone upstairs heard it, but dismissed it as another hallucination, like the floating face Raton kept seeing, and the sounds of the ocean trying to end his life. Then, when the face reappeared, Raton yelled out: “¡Dióxido de carbon!”
◊◊◊◊
Kingfisher hovered near where its last depth charge had splashed in. Off the helicopter’s nose, the black blanket of sea rose, boiled, and erupted, sending white water airborne. The upsurge folded over and fell back again as surface waves radiated in concentric circles. In the Merlin’s rear cabin, John watched the spectacle and knew that, far below, men were suffering. Though this was John’s first experience watching weapons being used in anger, he did not feel angry. Instead, he felt pity and respect for those brave enough to travel and fight beneath the waves, in an environment so alien they may as well have been on the Moon.
◊◊◊◊
“Trim the boat,” Matias whispered into the planesman’s ear as he helped him off the cold steel floor.
“Aye, sir, trim the boat,” the shaken planesman answered sheepishly. Leaning back in his seat, the planesman pushed a mushroom-shaped button, and then again when the indicator showed San Luis II was back on an even keel.
Patting the man on the shoulders, the captain turned and announced: “Get me a damage report. And switch to emergency lighting.”
Ledesma acknowledged and turned on the backup lights which illuminated the compartment in blue shadowy tones. He then made a general announcement: “All compartments, report damage.”
The growler rang. Ledesma, his legs shaking, steadied himself and reached for it. He nodded.
“Forward compartment reports tube five is leaking,” he told the captain. “Repairs are underway.”
“Starboard stern plane stuck at positive seven degrees,” the planesman added after unsuccessfully manipulating his controls.
“Fire control computer is down. I need fuses,” the weapons officer pleaded. “I need fucking fuses.” Someone ran off to get them.
“Okay. That pajero helicopter cannot shit on us anymore. Depth?”
“One hundred twenty meters, sir.”
“Señor, permission to check forward compartment?” Ledesma was already on the way when the captain offered, “Yes, Santiago. Go. Go. I need those weapons in five minutes.”
Ledesma entered San Luis II’s forward compartment. A torrent of seawater was gushing from tube five. Torpedomen struggled as their supervisor screamed the obvious: “Make hatch cover tight. Turn, boys. Turn.”
“Push harder,” one yelled.
“I’m pushing,” was the strain-filled response he got. More grunts as the men tried to turn the hand-wheel.
Ledesma scanned the compartment with the cone-shaped beam of a flashlight.
The soaked men groaned and spat water as they fought to tighten the tube’s breech valve wheel and rotate the locking ring that held the breech closed when the tube was flooded. The breech, a slug of steel that had Cyrillic letters embossed upon it, seemed such a small barrier between their small envelope of breathable air, and the vast ocean so full of cold, saline death. The chief torpedoman saw Ledesma and instinctively reported:
“Señor, tube is flooded. Muzzle door must be damaged. Locking ring is bent,” he shouted in clipped sentences.
Ledesma looked at the small red card on the tube’s breech door. It read: ‘LOADED.’ Worried, Ledesma joined the men in their struggle to reseat the breech’s wedges in the rotating locking ring. He grabbed a crowbar from a wall rack and drove it between the wedges and the locking ring’s groove. He slammed his weight against the bar to bend the ring and guide the misaligned wedge into the indentation. The crowbar came unstuck in failure. Ledesma let out a cry of pain as it hit him in the chest.
“It’s the tripping latch arm. It’s bent. I need a hammer,” Ledesma said. The word ‘hammer’ came out as a strange gurgle as water sprayed into his mouth. He coughed hard as someone handed him the tool.
CLANG. Ledesma used the hammer to hit the metal arm that aligned the breech door with the tube’s barrel. CLANG. The Brits will hear that for certain. But he landed yet another blow against the metal arm. CLANG. The flow of water lessened and then stopped, and the men fell to the flooded floor, exhausted and soaked. Breathing hard, the chief torpedoman patted Ledesma hard on the back.
“Gracias, señor.”
Ledesma coughed again, smiled, and set off for the Control Center.
San Luis II’s bow tipped up again as her rise toward the surface continued. Ledesma grabbed the tight passageway’s overhead pipes and wire bundles as the floor sloped up. He practically fell against the first bulkhead before he crouched down and swung through its open hatch and into the Control Center.
9: VIEW HOLLOA
“As God is my witness
, I would rather my body were robed in the same burning blaze as my gold-giver's body than go back home bearing arms.”—Anonymous (from ‘Beowulf’).
The electricians mate snapped in the last fuse and slid back out from under a circuit breaker panel. He looked across San Luis II’s Control Center to the weapons officer who stared at the dark fire control panel. Suddenly, the panel lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Finalmente,” the weapons officer said as he stood, and reported to the captain: “Sir, fire control computer is back on line.”
“Excelente.”
The weapons officer turned back to his panel, noticed a flashing red light, thumped it with his finger, and spoke again: “Sir, tube five shows as inoperative.”
Ledesma dried his hair with a grey towel that had once been white. He added: “Sir, the tube’s breech door was secured. But...”
Matias turned.
“But?” the captain asked.
“…There’s a ‘53 still in the tube. It was powered up when the flooding started. I think the umbilical plug shorted.”
“Carajo.” No captain wanted to hear that he had a weapon powered-up and stuck in a tube, let alone an HTP-propelled one.
“Fifty meters,” a voice penetrated the captain’s thoughts. Captain Matias focused.
“Snapshot, tube six, Delta 1,” the captain ordered.
“Sí señor. Snapshot: tube six; Delta 1,” Ledesma responded and turned to the weapons officer: “Do it.” The weapon’s officer pushed a button. With a whoosh, high-pressure air shoved the weapon from the hull. “Tube six, weapon away.” The officer started his stopwatch.
Dragon Fire (The Battle for the Falklands Book 2) Page 8