Dragon Fire (The Battle for the Falklands Book 2) (8 page)

“What is the moon like this evening?” the
captain inquired.

Ledesma consulted a table.

“Waning crescent.”

Good
,
Matias thought and nodded,
the light of
the moon will not be on their side
.
 
Matias closed his eyes and pictured the silvery surface.
 
He longed for a lungful of fresh, salt-laden
sea air.
 
He thought of submariners of old
who used to bring their boat to the surface, pop the hatch, and climb out onto
the conning tower to line up an attack as sea spray drenched their stink away,
and fresh breezes carried away their cares.

Yes
,
he thought,
damn the British,
and damn it all to hell
.
 
After all, anything was better than hiding
down here in the blackness.

“Okay, my darling,” Matias whispered as he
stroked the nearest piece of the submarine’s metal that his shaking hand could
find.
 
Then his voice boomed: “Ten degrees
rise on the bow.”

“Yes, my captain.”

“Load tubes one and six with
Klubs
, and put Squalls in two and five,” Matias had ordered
anti-ship cruise missiles and rocket-propelled torpedoes.

Ledesma grinned.

“Keep ‘53s’ in three and four,” Matias
added, wanting the wake-homing torpedoes available as well.

“Aye, sir.”
 
Ledesma was re-energized by the new order,
and it was soon repeated and transmitted to the bow compartment.

Technicians in the weapons room scurried
about as their supervisor shouted instructions.
 
In a well-practiced dance, six men unloaded wake-homing torpedoes from
four tubes, winched them back onto storage racks, and then loaded the
encapsulated missiles and cone-shaped rocket-propelled torpedoes.
 
Their supervisor smiled at his panting men,
thankful for the frequent skill-sharpening drills.
 
He cranked the growler.

“Sir,” Ledesma said as he put down the growler
in the Control Center.
 
“Bow compartment
reports all tubes loaded and ready in all respects.”

“Excellent,” Captain Matias looked at his
watch.
 
“Record time.”

The submarine seemed excited by the new
action.
 
With nose pointed toward the
waves,
San Luis II
rose fast, like a
swimmer who had gone too deep for too long and felt that insatiable urge to
suck air again.

“Mind your rise,” Matias said, and watched
as the bow angle was checked and adjusted.
 
The indicator bubble moved from 12 degrees to the proper 10 he had
ordered.
 
Creaks, bubbling, and the sound
of rushing water sounded, as though a tap had been opened.

“Delta 1 and Hotel 1 continue to close,”
the sonar technician’s raspy voice added to the sounds.

◊◊◊◊

Captain Fryatt grabbed one of the bridge
handholds that the genius engineers at BAE Systems had had the foresight to
install.
 
He was amazed that someone
seated at a cubicle far from the fury of the Atlantic could look beyond their
desk, beyond the
flatscreen
that displayed the ship’s
three-dimensional design, and transpose themselves into the reality of a
fighting ship at sea.
 
Fryatt peered out through
the spray-soaked bridge window.
 
The
colorful sunset made it difficult to see the marker smoke dropped by the
Merlin.
 
Then he spotted the ribbon that
rose from the water.

Fryatt ordered a slight course correction,
“Come three degrees to port.”
 
When he
was happy with the bow’s alignment, he said: “Steady as she goes.”
 
Captain Fryatt smiled.
 
He did not need radar or sonar, nor any of
the glowing, digital readouts his amazing ship offered.
 
‘
I must
go down to the seas again
,
to the vagrant gypsy life
.’
 
The quote was displaced by an electronic
beeping and his first officer’s report:

“Sonar reports Master 1 is at
zero-nine-five.
 
Depth: 330 meters and
rising.
 
Bearing: zero-one-eight.
 
She is making turns for eight knots.”

“Clear Kingfisher to prosecute.”

“Aye, sir,” Williams turned and
nodded.
 
The simple gesture would forward
authorization to the Merlin to attack the contact.

“Bow array.
 
Hammer,” Fryatt added.
 
The sonar in
Dragon
’s bulbous bow powered-up to send sound waves into the deep.

WHOMP.

San
Luis II
’s metal hull shook as the sound waves hit her.
 
Only the enemy destroyer could put such power
behind its sensor.

“Get us to missile launch depth
quickly.
 
They will be shitting all over
us in a second,” Ledesma barked to the Control Center personnel.

“Bow up 20,” the chief said as he rested
his hand on the
planesman’s
shoulder.
 
San
Luis II
pitched up.
 
The floor of the
submarine’s Control Center became a steep hill.
 
Those standing braced themselves, while those seated secured
seatbelts.
 
The floor tilted toward
starboard.
 
“Watch your trim, damn it;
watch your trim.” the chief barked.
 
The
helmsman and
planesman
used all their ability and
skill to arrive at the missile firing depth smartly.

Just forward of
San Luis II
’s sail, the maneuvering planes articulated to steady
the speeding hull as water was pumped into a port-side tank.
 
San
Luis II
’s roll leveled out.

Captain Matias smiled, confident that
San Luis II
was in good hands.
 
He said: “Make tubes three and four ready in
all respects, including opening outer doors.”

Ledesma repeated the orders, and seconds
later, reported they had been carried out.

“Very well.
 
Firing point procedures, tubes three and
four, surface target: Delta 1.
 
Fire.”

San
Luis II
shuddered as the two heavy wake-homing torpedoes shot
from her hull.

“Torpedoes away, tubes three and four,”
Ledesma said with a smile.
 
“My depth is
180 meters headed for 30.”

“Close outer doors and reload tubes three
and four with ‘53s.
 
Slow ascent at 100
meters and open outer doors, tubes one, two, five, and six.
 
At 30 meters, snap shot those tubes.
 
Start with two and five, then one and six,
all targeting Delta 1.”

“Aye, sir,” Ledesma acknowledged with a
clenched jaw, and precisely repeated the complex orders to subordinates.
 
“Sir, bow compartment reports tubes three and
four reloaded and ready in all respects.

Matias nodded.
 
Silence hung in the Control Room, and tension
among the crew was as heavy as the recirculated air.

“Splashes and high-pitch screw; torpedo in
the water,” the sonar supervisor announced.
 
“Range: 1,000 yards; bearing and course changing rapidly,” the young
man’s voice cracked.

“Hotel 1,” Ledesma mumbled.
 
The Merlin had dropped one of its Stingray
lightweight homing torpedoes, now descending in a helical pattern.

“Torpedo is active and searching.”
 
The Stingray’s active sonar had energized, and
was looking for something to kill.

“Rig boat for depth charges.
 
Launch noisemaker,” Matias barked, his orders
now clipped as the stress of the encounter increased.
 
Each of
San
Luis II
’s compartments prepared for damage control.
 
The torpedo room fed a cylindrical noisemaker
into tube seven, a small vertical ejector that protruded from the compartment’s
ceiling.
 
The noisemaker contained
chemicals that reacted with salt water and thus effervesced, creating an
ensonified area that would appear on enemy sonar.

“
Señor
,
bow compartment reports ‘noisemaker is away,’” Ledesma informed the
captain.
 
Reading Matias’ mind, he added:
“My depth is 70 meters headed for 30.
 
Our torpedoes are bearing: zero-nine-seven.
 
Course: zero-one-five degrees.
 
Both are running straight and normal.”
 
He glanced at the depth gauge.
 
“We’re at 50 meters.”

“Slow the ascent, trim the boat, and open
outer doors, tubes one, two, five, and six,” Matias was squinting and
focused.
 
The captain grabbed ceiling
pipes and
wireways
to steady himself as he walked
toward the fire control panel.
 
As
San Luis II
came shallow, the men could
hear the rhythmic whooshing of
Dragon
’s
propellers through the hull.
 
Down in the
battery deck, Raton likened the noise to that of cicadae on a hot summer’s
night.

Ledesma spun around to inform Matias, “Outer
doors open.
 
We’re at 30 meters,”

Matias took a deep breath and gave the
order: “Firing point procedures on Delta 1.
 
Snapshot, tubes one, two, five, and six.”

After a loud hiss of air, San
Luis II
shimmied for several seconds.

“Weapons are away,” Ledesma announced.

“Close outer doors, all tubes.
 
Crash dive.
 
Make your depth 300 meters.
 
Reload tubes one, two, five, and six with ‘53s.”

“Crash dive.
 
Crash dive,” Ledesma yelled.
 
A bell rang.
 
San Luis II
pitched down.
 
Her propeller churned, knifing the submarine
through the water and toward the deep.

7: JOUST

“
No lance have I
,
in joust or fight
,
To
splinter in my lady's sight; But
,
at her feet
,
how blest were I
,
For any need of hers to
die
.”—John Greenleaf Whittier

T
he South Atlantic
looked like molten gold as the last rays of the sunset illuminated its gently rolling
surface.
 
A bubble rose, disturbing the
tranquility.
 
And then the bubble popped;
foam erupted in its place.
 
From within the
eruption, a grey cylinder was spat.
 
It leapt
to the air, peeled apart, and opened like a flower.
 
Inside hid a
Klub
anti-ship missile, an export version of the Russian
Novator
3M-54, generally known by its NATO designation: SS-N-27 Sizzler.

Released
from its watertight container, the
Klub’s
booster
ignited and pushed it into the sky.
 
Small wings unfolded and control surfaces adjusted.
 
The
Klub
nosed
over, leveled, and began to race across the sea.
 
Near where it had sprung, sprang another such
bloom.
 
It, too, left the petals of its
water-tight canister afloat.
 
They
lingered for a moment and then, sucked under, disappeared.
 
As the canister petals fell toward the
bottom, they passed two ropes of bubbles where
San Luis
II
’s super-cavitating
torpedoes had sped.

Torpedoes
are named for ‘torpor’—a state of lassitude imparted by marine electric
rays—and these Russian-made weapons were ready to deliver such a state prior to
consuming their prey.
 
The Squalls had
been spit from the submarine’s hull.
 
Their
mid-body fins snapped open and with a pop, rocket motors ignited.
 
Gases emerged from the conical cavitators at
the weapons’ tips and bubbles formed around the casings, reducing drag and
turning the Squalls into underwater rockets.
 
The weapons then charged through the water as though it were air,
quickly reaching 200 knots as they raced toward
Dragon
.
 
Swaddled in their
self-created gaseous atmosphere and practically tasting the coming kill, the
Squalls anxiously screamed through the water.

Some
150 meters below the Squalls, two Type 53-65KE heavy wake-homing torpedoes
snaked their way through the darkness.
 
They had been released first, pushed from the
San Luis II
’s tubes by high pressure air and spat into the
ocean.
 
The export version of the Type 53
heavy torpedo used HTP—a concentrated solution of hydrogen peroxide.
 
Once a catalyst was introduced, HTP decomposed
into a high-temperature mixture of oxygen and steam.
 
The oxygen allowed the weapon’s kerosene
turbine to breathe, with the steam vented outside the weapon’s casing.
 
This made the ‘53 a high-speed threat, and added
to the torpedoes wake of bubbles, created lots of noise.
 
(It also made the weapon very dangerous
should it start-up in the submarine’s tube.) Western navies had abandoned HTP
as a propellant for this very reason.
 
Despite these worries, however,
San
Luis II
’s ‘53s worked as they should, and their contra-rotating propellers
accelerated them to some 44 knots.
 
All
the while, the sensors in the torpedoes’ noses got to work.

Designed
to snake back and forth within the
vee
presented by
the wake of an enemy ship, the ‘53s would approach a target, and when proximate,
explode.
 
San Luis II
’s ‘53s hunted as designed, running straight and true
toward the hunk of steel they were programmed to hunt and kill: HMS
Dragon
.
 
They fell in behind the destroyer and began their meander up her wake.

In
the pitch black beneath the ruckus of missile and torpedo launches,
San Luis II
was pointed down in a crash
dive.
 
She had released a second noisemaker
and would soon pass 180 meters, the depth at which
San Luis II
had released her wake-homing torpedoes.

“Enemy
torpedo at three-zero-zero degrees.
 
Bearing:
one-zero-three degrees.
 
Weapon is
diving.
 
Rapid change in bearing and
depth indicative of a helical search pattern,”
San Luis II
’s sonar technician reported.
 
“Screw pitch suggests it’s a Stingray
acoustic
homing light-weight torpedo.”

“Hotel
1,” Ledesma added.
 
“The Merlin…”

“Bow
planes at 20 degrees,”
a voice came from the shadows of the Control
Center.

“Two
hundred fifty meters.
 
I am headed for
300 meters,” another added.

“Sir,
batteries now at nine percent.”

“
Mierda
,” Captain
Matias mumbled.
 
Three decks down, in the
confines of the battery deck, Raton scurried about on his sled.
 
Using the
hull’s
down angle, he slid along over the tops of the battery cells, braked over the
bank that had been soaked by salt water, and locked his sled in place.
 
The last of the water had drained into the
bilge and then into one of the boat’s starboard tanks.
 
He made his way to the shunt and, swallowing
hard, snapped the disconnect switch.

“Sir,
batteries back at 17 percent” shouted a voice from above.

“Bravo,
Raton,” Ledesma stated, with a pump of his fist.

BANG,
San Luis II
complained.

“Approaching
three hundred meters.”

“Planes
to five degrees.”

“Aye,
sir, my planes are at five degrees down,” the
planesman
reported.

THUNK.
 
CRACK.
 
Everyone except Ledesma and Matias squirmed as
San Luis II
’s high-tensile steel shell adjusted to the squeeze of
the ocean.

“A
deadly hug,” Matias quipped with a crooked smile.

“Three
hundred.”

“Planes
to zero.
 
All stop, both turbines,” The
captain ordered.
 
Ledesma echoed the
words.

“Answers
all stop, sir,” said the helmsman.

Captain
Matias looked around the confines of
San
Luis II
’s Control Center.
 
Our tomb
.
 
He studied the red-lit
tangle of wires, pipes, dials, and lights.
 
Matias cursed the narcissism of those who believed they had all the
answers.
 
He swore at the sociopathic
tendencies of his leaders—the leaders that had ordered him to engage in this
folly—and he cursed those who had sent his son to death.
 
As these thoughts played out in his mind, his
outward appearance remained one of steadfastness and professionalism.
 
San
Luis II
’s forward momentum stalled, and the boat hung in the pitch-black
stillness.
 
The sound of trickling water confirmed
that ballast was pumped into a stern trim tank.
 
Matias glanced at the bubble: The boat stayed level in both pitch and
yaw.

“Sonar?”
he asked.

“Sir,
Delta 1 is at zero-two-zero.
 
Bearing:
two-zero-zero and turning.
 
Range: 500 meters.
 
Delta 1 has reduced speed, making turns for
about seven knots.
 
Enemy torpedo is
approaching our noisemaker.”
 
A muffled
thump sounded somewhere over their heads.
 
“Enemy torpedo has detonated.”

“Yes,”
was hissed by several of the submariners.

At
and below the surface, the sub’s weapons approached the British guided-missile
destroyer.

◊◊◊◊

The
Klubs
darted in low and fast, skimming just above the
water.
 
Kingfisher 21’s pilot had spotted
their tail-fire on the rippled water.
 
Seamus
contacted
Dragon
, reporting his own position lest he, too, be engaged by
the destroyer.
 
The helicopter was
ordered to gain altitude and hold, so Seamus brought his aircraft up high and
banked off to a designated block of airspace.
 
In the meantime,
Dragon
’s air
defense radar had already detected the
Klubs
’
cylindrical bodies.
 
The AWO reacted.

“Radar
contact.
 
Probable targets,” the Op Room had
announced over the bridge’s Voice User Unit.
 
“Fast movers at two-zero-zero degrees.
 
Bearing: zero-two-zero.”
 
Lieutenant Commander Williams sounded an alarm
bell and, with a nod from Captain Fryatt, ordered the wheel hard over so
Dragon’
s bow pointed down the missiles’
flight-path, presenting minimum aspect.
 
Dragon
slowed as well, reducing the turn
of her shafts, and thus reduced her self-generated noise.

The
captain ordered up the Surface Ship Torpedo Defense System, “Deploy SSTDS.”
 
From
Dragon
’s
transom, a drum winch paid out a towed array.

Captain
Fryatt closed his eyes for a moment, and in the blackness felt the heat and
burning smoke from that terrible day aboard
Sheffield
.
 
He remembered the wind in the dark passageway
as the fire sucked air, gobbling the air as the fire grew in intensity, choking
men with fumes, smoke and oxygen starvation.
 
Fryatt opened his eyes again, but still saw the big round eyes of the
sailor in the respirator who had saved him from asphyxiation.
 
He blinked the images away and focused again
on the here and now.

Two
cell covers popped open among
Dragon
’s
forward vertical launching system.

“T-mark
for function,” Williams spoke to the Op Room by VUU.

“Electric
firing selected,” Op Room responded.

“Firing
granted,” Fryatt authorized and Williams repeated.

“Standby.”

A
deafening bang and a plume of efflux exited the chimney.
 
An Aster 15 leapt from its launcher
cell.
 
The dart-shaped missile rose on a
fountain of fire that bathed the bridge in an eerie orange glow.

“Good
away, one” Williams said as the bridge crew watched the missile climb out.

BANG.
 
WHOOSH.

A
second Aster departed.

“Good
away, two.”

Both
missiles climbed briefly, turned over, shaped their trajectory, discarded the
booster stage, and dove toward the water.

Nearly
simultaneous with the first shot,
Dragon
’s
Seagnat
Control System had scrutinized wind direction
and speed, threat direction, threat range, threat type and the ship’s direction
and change of heading.
 
It then selected launcher
two, and sent three Mark 214 seduction chaff canisters skyward.
 
Pushed away by a low-g rocket, the canisters
burst and dispersed clouds of metallized plastic strips.

In
Dragon
’s Op Room, a red light blinked
on the sonar station console.
 
The
SSTDS’s passive towed array had sniffed something and presented it to a midshipman’s
screen in the Op Room.

Dragon
’s
sonar technician leaned in and scrutinized his display.
 
The midshipman donned his earphones and heard
a hiss like steaks just turned on a hot grill.

“Bloody
hell,” he bounced in his seat, and, turned to the director, proclaiming:
“Torpedo, torpedo, torpedo.”
 
As those
around him shifted their focus from the radar’s plan position indicator to
sonar readouts, the sonar technician began the classification and
identification routine.

Within
seconds, he had weapon types to help the director and captain defend the ship:
“VA-111
Shkval
super-cavitators.
 
Two inbound, bearing zero-two-five
degrees.”
 
Two more frequency lines
appeared on the sonar display.
 
The
midshipman squirmed in his seat again
and
began
to analyze
bearing, frequency, and range of the threats.

The
Asters dove on the anti-ship missiles.
 
One Aster detonated above a
Klub
and sprayed it
with steel cubes.
 
The damaged Argentine
sea-skimmer wobbled and then tore itself apart by dynamic pressure.
 
The second Aster detonated proximate to the
second
Klub
anti-ship missile, but its warhead’s
shotgun effect missed the target.
 
This
second
Klub
accelerated and broke the sound barrier
with a crack as it carried on toward
Dragon
.