Dragon Fire (The Battle for the Falklands Book 2) (10 page)

“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 these 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’).

T
he 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.

“Level
the boat at 20 meters.
 
And then fire
those missiles,” Matias ordered.

Ledesma
nodded, turned to the depth gauge, and chanted: “Forty, 30…bow planes to zero
degrees, stern planes to five.
 
Twenty-five, 20.
 
Level the
boat.
 
Fire tubes one through four,
target: Delta 1.”
 
Hissing sounds
signaled that four
Klub
anti-ship missile canisters had
ejected from the hull.
 
“Missiles away.”

“
¿
Baterías
?
”
the captain asked.

“Two
percent and falling fast,” the electrician’s mate reported.

“Prepare
to raise the snorkel and engage the diesels.
 
Get us onto new heading: zero-nine-zero, three knots, or best possible
speed.
 
And reload tubes one through seven
with whatever’s left in the cupboard.”

“
Sí
señor
,” said
Ledesma.

The
submarine pitched and yawed in the turbulence of the surface zone.
 
The water at this depth was disturbed and
influenced by the atmosphere, and despite her weight,
San Luis II
felt the power of Earth’s atmosphere.

“Ever
been sailing?” the Captain asked with a crooked grin.

Everyone
in
San Luis II
’s Control Room looked
at him.
 
Some had blank stares; some
looked worried, others were perplexed by the question.

“
Capitán
,” one man
spoke up, “I have.”

Matias
smiled wide.
 
“Where?” he asked.

“Off
Puerto
Madryn
,
señor
.
 
A beautiful boat.
 
She was 12 meters.
 
A Catalina.”

“
Si
,
si
, Puerto
Madryn
,”
Matias sighed and closed his eyes.
 
He
could see the mainsail, inflated jib, the gentle rise and fall of the hull, and
the smell and taste of cool, salted air.
 
“Oh, to be sailing right now.”

The
submariner recognized the need on his captain’s face, stood at his station and continued:
“…She was named
Mama
Qucha
.
 
She was good and strong.
 
She had given us the right of passage, and
protected our way.
 
Just like our boat,
señor
.
 
Just like
Numero
Dos
.”

Captain
Matias again opened his eyes.
 
The
man who had spoken was just a shadow in the Control Center’s red lighting.

“
Gracias
,” Matias thanked him.
 
“The sea is indeed wondrous.
 
Like all those that sail upon her.”

◊◊◊◊

Dragon
’s
bow-mounted sonar detected another submerged object.
 
The multifunction console in the Operations
Room alerted the Assistant Under-Water Warfare Officer and began to track and
classify the contact.

“Torpedo,
close aboard,” the sailor yelled out.
 
He
scanned the data on his display, frantically adding: “Weapon is active and
terminal.”

“Brace,
brace, brace for impact,” the Principal Warfare Officer shouted out when…

◊◊◊◊

An
explosion shook the submarine’s steel casing.
 
The quaking travelled up Captain Matias’ splayed sea legs and rocked his
very bones.
 
A cheer went up in the
Control Center.

“
Numero
Dos
es
Numero
Uno
,” Matias bellowed.
 
San
Luis II
seemed to rise in response, sucked up by a wave at the surface that
had reached down to the submarine’s depth and pulled her bulk along for the
ride.

“Report,”
Captain Matias ordered.
 
The
pressing of buttons and whispered conversations went silent.

“
Señor
…” the
sonarman inhaled deep and hard.
 
“Explosion.
 
Sound is at
one-zero-two: The likely position of Delta 1.”
 
The sonarman paused and checked his readouts.
 
“Our torpedo,” he added with surety.
 
San
Luis II
’s Type 53 had activated on the outskirts of
Dragon
’s wake and turned in, snaked its way up the frothing line,
and blew up when it thought it smelled something metal.

The
metal that the torpedo had detected belonged to
Dragon
’s hull, specifically right at the portside 5-Deck where the
ship’s gas turbines were located.
 
When the
weapon’s simple computer brain had thought it was just close enough, the weapon
had blown.
 
The expanding gases formed a
bubble jet that stabbed at
Dragon
,
piercing and tearing into her.

“The
missiles?” Captain Matias queried.

Ledesma
looked at his watch, and said:

“Almost
there…”

◊◊◊◊

Dragon
’s
bridge shuddered with the explosion.
 
Fryatt grabbed the arm of his commanding officer’s chair to steady his
stance as
Dragon
leaned to
starboard.
 
She snapped back to an even
keel when the computer actuated the hull-mounted stabilizer.
 
Red lights flashed on the
officer-of-the-watch’s multipurpose console, as well as that which belonged to
the navigation position.
 
Someone swore.

“Sir,”
the officer-of-the-watch spoke up, “RPMs are dropping.”
 
His words were accentuated by the sudden
lurch of
Dragon
’s hull.
 
It was as if the ship had sailed into thick,
soupy water that sapped its momentum.
 
“Captain, Gas Turbine Room reports damage and flooding.”

The
VUU rang.
 
Williams answered and got a
report, passing the information to the captain: “Sir, we have lost port gas
turbine.
 
Port alternator and switchboard
down, as well.”

Dragon
began to turn toward the left.

“Reduce
revolutions, starboard shaft,” Fryatt ordered.
 
“Damage control teams to 5-Deck.”

In
the Op Room, blips appeared on the Air Warfare Officer’s console.
 
They were menacingly close.

“Bridge,
Primary.
 
Missile, missile, missile,”
came over the bridge’s speaker.
 
Williams
went to the combat systems console and selected the radar display.
 
Four missile tracks sped across the screen
like bony white fingers, reaching for the chevron symbol representing
Dragon
.

“Missiles
terminal,” Williams shouted.
 
Fryatt
remembered the last time he had heard that, and thought of
Sheffield
and his lost shipmates.
 
He felt an anger he had not felt in a long time.
 
He swore, and then screamed:

“Turn
into them.
 
Get both ‘Qs’ in-line.”

The
navigating officer turned the ship to minimize the profile presented to the
missiles, and to put the threat in the firing arcs of both the starboard- and
port-side Phalanx close-in weapons systems.

“
Seagnat
,” Williams confirmed decoys were also up.
 
“Active and distraction.”
 
The system had automatically lofted a jammer
round as well as chaff to either side of the ship.

The
port close-in weapons system came alive.
 
Its turret swiveled and the barrel rose.
 
A crackling roar and a tongue of flame spat a whipped rope of tungsten
rounds at the approaching sea-skimmers.

An
explosion close-aboard…

Then
another…

Dragon
shook.

Fryatt
raised his binoculars and watched one
Klub
turn off
center and toward where the Mark 251 active decoy hung on its parachute.

Ripping
and vibration announced the second Phalanx lashing out at the inbound
Klubs
, swatting another of the anti-ship missiles in a
massive fireball.

The
bright flash filled the bridge.
 
Fryatt
winced.
 
Everything looked like an
overexposed photograph.
 
Then came- the pitter-patter
of shrapnel impacting the ship’s masts and superstructure.
 
His eyes cleared, and from the red and orange
and black wall of fire and smoke, a white shape emerged.

“Brace,”
Williams shouted.

The
Klub
slammed into
Dragon
’s
02-Deck just forward of the ship’s funnel and right above the starboard
small-caliber gun’s platform.
 
It pierced
the structure’s thin skin and detonated within.

The
blast ripped into the forward up-take—the stack where exhaust gasses from the
ship’s
power plants vented.
 
They exploded.
 
The shockwave slammed into the armor of 1-Deck, reflected, and the
superstructure burst like a balloon.
 
Hot
gases and overpressure travelled forward through a passageway, ripped through
the navigation officer’s cabin and the combined chartroom, and like an
unwelcome guest, entered through the bridge hatch, twisting it from its frame
and hinges.

◊◊◊◊

“Blimey,”
John exclaimed as he saw fire and thick black smoke feather off from the still
moving ship.
 
The Merlin orbited at a
distance and—out of weapons, low on fuel and unable to land—was relegated to
reluctant voyeurism.

◊◊◊◊

Fryatt
heard only a high-pitched squeal.
 
He
tried to breathe, but his body refused to let him inhale the hot toxic gasses
that had filled the bridge.
 
Fryatt
coughed and spat out the soot and blood that had filled his mouth.
 
He heard groans and, barely conscious, saw a
bloody pile where Williams had last been standing.
 
Fryatt tried to stand, but he folded again
when he put weight on his broken leg.
 
His
head spun and a black shape filled his vision.
 
For a moment, Fryatt wondered if he was dead.

“Captain.
 
Oh My God,” the navigator said as he placed a
smoke hood and respirator over the captain’s head.
 
He gave Fryatt a gentle shake.
 
“Sir.”