White Night, page 5
On the squadron frequency Anderson ordered, “Gypsies, take combat spread. Five, you are lead for Four. Take your element left.”
“Five,” was the confirming response.
The icons on the screen began to separate and Solomon Sifra led the second element, with Stein as his wingman, on a divergent path.
“Which ones do you want, Colonel?” Eames asked.
“Take the second element,” he said.
Tapping the keyboard, Eames changed the course of the green triangle abruptly. It turned off its interception path with the ship and toward an interception with Sifra’s element.
At fifty miles of separation, she pressed another key and the “S” symbol changed to “H”, signifying the High Lark radar in attack mode.
“Gypsy Flight,” she said, “the bogie’s gone to attack radar. Confirm MiG-23.”
“Take him out, Five,” Anderson ordered.
“Five.”
The AIM-9L Sidewinder air-to-air missiles had a six-mile effective range and they could attack a hostile craft from all angles.
On the squadron frequency, Cady heard Sifra tell his wingman, “Star, take a greater spacing and arm two. Back me up, now.”
“Why don’t you back me up?,” Stein replied. “I can get this bastard in the first pass. Better, you head on back to the ship.”
Cady jotted a note in his book.
The gap between the icons on the screen continued to close, seventeen miles apart.
“Jericho, Gypsy Two.”
“Go, Two,” Eames said.
“We’ve got him vectored away from Beehive, now. Do we give him a warning shot?”
Cady wrote another note. Anderson’s new conservatism was showing.
“Negative, Two. Engage.”
At seven miles of distance, Sifra called Anderson.
“Two, Five. If this guy had Aphids or Apexes, he’d have released on me by now.”
“Engage, Five.”
“Five, roger.”
A few seconds later, an agitated Sifra reported, “Two, there is nothing there. I cannot get an infrared lock.”
“What?”
“It is a ghost.”
“Gypsy Flight,” Eames said, “Jericho. The simulation is ended. RTB.”
Anderson’s voice was a bit tense as he replied, “Gypsy Two, roger. Gypsies, return to base. Form on me.”
Cady almost patted Eames on the back and then decided that might not be one of his better tactical decisions.
He said, “Thanks, Terri. This is going to give us a few conversational topics.”
“I can certainly see that,” she said.
*
BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA 1215 HOURS LOCAL
The outdoor tables of the May Day Cafe were protected by large yellow umbrellas, but Juan Silvera had moved his white metal chair out of the shade and into the sun. The heat felt good on his face.
He sat in his chair with his face turned up to the sun and his hands resting on his knees, an image of total relaxation. His eyes were closed, but he was aware of the movements around him, the luncheon crowd beginning to build, waiters slipping between the tables, his guest not yet arrived.
Silvera was wearing a light tropical worsted suit in pale beige, a white shirt and a figured tie his wife had purchased for him that he thought a little garish, but which she insisted was perfect. Silvera had always been conservative in his appearance, his profession and his politics.
Until two years before, he had been an army colonel and he frequently missed the protective coloration, status and authority of a uniform. His current position as president of the Front for South American Determination did not yet afford him the prestige he had enjoyed as one of hundreds of colonels. There were too many small political groups on the South American continent, some with prominent acronyms and many with obscure images. The FSAD was not an organization that enjoyed household recognition.
Yet.
One of the reasons Silvera had obtained his presidency could be found in his physical appearance. His profile was lean and aristocratic, his bright smile and lively, liquid brown eyes the ingredients of cinema stardom. With smooth, olive skin, dark brown hair that had shaped itself into a widow’s peak and slightly pouty lips, he was decidedly photogenic. Though there were a few women who got dizzy when meeting him for the first time, Silvera was mostly faithful to his wife, Lucia. The ruling council of the FSAD, a group of three, including himself, had determined that public relations and a clean, sincere, attractive appearance would be important for the group’s spokesman when the television cameras and newspaper photographs became daily aspects of their lives.
Silvera had been selected, also, because in crisis situations, he was unflappable. He did not get excited about many things, much less ordinary little barriers that cropped up in the daily life of a business or an individual. Many of his acquaintances remembered well the time when his son, now twenty years old, struck his head on a railing and fell from a fishing boat into the Gulf of San Matias. With others of his fishing party panicking and with Lucia screaming to high heaven, Juan Silvera had calmly removed his shoes and his windbreaker, dove over the side and pulled the seven-year-old to safety.
When he sensed the approach of his luncheon companion, Silvera sat up and scooted his chair back into the shade of the umbrella. He took a sip from the tall glass of lemonade that dripped beads of frosty perspiration on to the table.
“Good afternoon, Colonel,” Emilio Suarez said as he settled into a chair on the opposite side of the table.
Silvera did not really need the military title any longer, but Suarez, who had been an air force major, was enamored of rank. In the FSAD, Suarez had been declared a colonel and it was that action, more than any other, that had convinced him to permanently associate himself with the organization. Silvera was careful to nurture it.
“Good day, Colonel.”
“I apologize for being late, but the traffic... ” Suarez waved a hand at the stream of automobiles scurrying down the side street that fronted the cafe. A blue cloud of exhaust was suspended in the windless street above the cars.
“I understand. It is quite all right. I was enjoying the sun.”
Their waiter appeared and Suarez, after a sidelong glance at Silvera’s glass, ordered tea. He also ordered the daily special and Silvera opted for a salad. At sixty-one years of age, he found himself watching his diet carefully in order to maintain an appearance of being in his early fifties. It was necessary for the cameras.
He knew Suarez quite well. The man still utilized his full name of Emilio Esteban Suarez de Suruca and was part of a well-known and well-established, aristocratic family that owned vast ranches in northern Argentina. With no head for business and with no desire to delve in the arts, Suarez had chosen a military life, a selection that had disappointed parents and grandparents, though not his siblings.. He prepared himself by obtaining his flying license and jet certification before entering the air force, thereby assuring his selection as a pilot. The man liked to view himself as an exciting, danger-daring buccaneer. And though he was exceptionally capable as a pilot, he was less so as an administrator. His promotions and his career, had come to a standstill at major and at squadron commander. It was the FSAD that gave him hope for a grander future.
He was in charge of air operations for FSAD and while Silvera kept a close eye on him, appeared to be handling his duties with extreme efficiency. He was determined to succeed, perhaps as much for the sake of his familial status as for his personal ambition.
Suarez was not imposing as a person. He was shorter than the average Argentinean and his head seemed over-sized for his torso. He wore the droopy Zapata-styled mustache as if it were a badge of honor, but it was plastered on a round, moon-shaped face with great, bovine eyes that peered over a bulbous nose. His slight body, however, was muscular. The man had stamina and that quality was certain to be necessary in the next weeks.
As soon as Suarez’s tea had been served and Silvera’s lemonade freshened, Silvera said, “We are at D-day, plus twenty-three hours. I trust that you will report compliance with the schedule.”
Suarez grinned, which was not necessarily reassuring. He said, however, “Absolutely on schedule, Colonel. There have been no breakdowns and no delays, though we expected them. All units are moving exactly as planned.”
Silvera smiled, which drew the attention of a shapely blonde turista two tables away. “That is wonderful news!”
Suarez looked at his watch. “And in the next two hours, the heavy craft will begin Phase One. I will check on them at three o’clock and call you with another report.”
“I shall look forward to it.”
“We have set history in motion, Presidente.”
Silvera already knew that.
*
UNS U THANT 1311 HOURS LOCAL
Jean d’Argamon, commander of the 21st Submarine Detachment, often felt the need to keep his skills current and frequently he would supplant one or the other of his sub commanders for the eight to twelve-hour surveillance deployments. This afternoon, he gave Lieutenant Oscar Moritz a break.
D’Argamon and his two crew members, Junior Lieutenant Ivan Suretsev and Petty Officer Erik Magnuson, did the pre-mission inspection together. Suretsev, never certain whether he belonged permanently to the Commonwealth of Independent States Navy or the Russian Navy, was an intense young officer with a great deal of experience in nuclear attack submarines. Magnuson, with a strong Swedish accent, had been a munitions expert prior to his assignment aboard the U Thant and he had had to be schooled in the electronic portion of his duties.
The three of them walked around the moon pool, listening to the heavy hydraulic system as it moved the hull doors into the open position. Only the Calais was in the pool and they surveyed the hull with the care of men who would trust their lives to its integrity.
On the far side, near a workbench cluttered with the tools, diagnostic instruments and replacement parts necessary to the maintenance of the subs, d’Argamon went carefully over the logs that attested to the state of the batteries, the calibration of the instruments and the testing of watertight seals. He handed the clipboard to Suretsev when he was done and accepted the ordnance and electronics log from Magnuson. He looked it over.
“Do you see any anomalies, Seaman?”
“None, sir. The depth transponder was changed out, as requested.”
“Good. How about you, Lieutenant?”
Suretsev placed his initials on the log form and handed it back. “All is in order, Commander.”
D’Argamon scratched his own initials next to the lieutenant’s and gave both logs to the petty officer in charge of maintenance.
“Let us sail, then.”
All three of them were dressed in the typical uniform of the naval complement – blue jumpsuits with the UN shoulder patch. Beneath the uniform, however, they wore thick woolen underwear. Each also wore two pairs of wool socks with his heavy rubber-soled boots. It could become extremely cold below the surface, even though the submarines were only certified for 2500 feet of depth.
At the edge of the moon pool, d’Argamon stepped onto the short gangway with its safety railing of a chain stretched between stanchions. He crossed quickly and bent to lift the hatch in the conning tower. With practiced agility, he descended the narrow ladder and stood upright on the interior deck. His crew members followed him and Magnuson pulled the hatch closed and dogged it tight.
The space was confining. Most of the hull was taken up with ballast tanks, the huge trays of batteries and the torpedo tubes. While there was a utility diesel engine for propulsion and electric generation, the mini-sub operated primarily on battery power. Typically, with average draw on the energy source, the sub could manage a twenty-hour voyage on electric power alone.
Overall, the submarine was thirty feet long and ten feet wide, not counting her diving planes. The compartment housing her crew was much more cramped than that –eight feet long by seven feet wide. The lower portion of the cockpit was in the hull and the upper three feet took up what, in a normal submarine, would be called the conning tower. It did not rise vertically from the hull deck, however; the bulge on top of the hull was treated aerodynamically and the shape enhanced the sub’s top speed of twenty-nine knots. Emplaced in the forward slope of the tower were three triple-thick, acrylic plastic portholes which gave them a true view of the sea. Their vision could be augmented, when necessary at depth, by inset floodlights which produced six million candlepower. Additionally, a video camera lens with a forty-degree axis of movement was located in the bow and its image could be displayed on the pilot’s and co-pilot’s multi-function screens as well as being broadcast to the mother ship.
There were two seats forward, overlooking a vast array of gauges, digital readouts and controls. In the aft section of the compartment was a seat facing abeam, ninety degrees to the controller’s seats. All three seats were heavily cushioned, attempting to provide the utmost comfort over the long hours of deployment. The aft seat faced a console that governed weapons control, sonar and life support systems and behind the console was a miniature head which was nearly impossible to get into unless one was feeling intense bladder pressure.
D’Argamon, as he was known to do, abruptly changed his mind about taking the left seat. He eased into the pads of the right seat and said, “Ivan, you will be mission commander.”
Suretsev grinned and took the left seat.
The commander knew that the Russian did not mind these little trials of his ability in the least. He wanted to prove himself and d’Argamon suspected that, when his three-year tour of duty was completed, he would volunteer for another. It would give him a sub command and delay his return to the Black Sea and an uncertain future.
They all donned headsets and powered up their instrument panels and d’Argamon, as copilot, called off the checklist he had displayed on his screen. It took nearly six minutes to run through the start-up procedures, setting circuit breakers and switches, examining readouts for the correct settings. D’Argamon paid particular attention to Magnuson’s report of oxygen tank levels and flow, as well as the positive operation of the lithium hydroxide blower, which scrubbed their atmosphere of poisonous carbon dioxide.
Finally, he said, “Checklist complete, Ivan.”
“Thank you, Commander.” Switching to his radio channel, Suretsev checked in with the air controller who, incongruously, also managed the launch and recovery of submarines. With this assignment, they were definitely exploring new territory and new methodologies. “Beehive, this is Dolphin. We are prepared for deployment.”
“Dolphin, the ship is currently making a speed of two-two knots. Proceed when ready.”
“Dolphin descending.”
Both launch and recovery, when the U Thant was under way, could be tricky. The water in the moon pool was essentially moving at the same momentum as the ship, though the water below it was not. As the submarine blew ballast and dove, the pilot had to add sufficient power to the big propeller to match the speed of the ship. Otherwise, diving into the slower waters would bash the submarine back into the ship’s hull.
D’Argamon placed his hands lightly on the joystick controls in front of him, prepared to instantly assume control if it were necessary.
It was not.
Suretsev
punched the button to blow ballast, grabbed his joysticks and as the bow submerged and the water level climbed up the portholes, began to ease in forward power. After a count of five, he shoved in full power and the sub dove out of the belly of the ship.
“Very well done, Ivan.”
“Thank you, sir. Magnuson, switch to VLF and deploy the antenna.”
“Aye, sir.”
The technician changed the communications mode from high frequency to very low frequency. Water did strange things to light and radio signals; it bent them in crazy directions and the standard AM, FM, HF, VHF and UHF bands were useless to them until they had the antennas on their reconnaissance pod deployed on the surface. For emergency contact with the ship, they had to rely on the VLF band transmitting through a thin, towed antenna, which was also ultra slow. Communications were accomplished by short telex messages, keyed in by way of Magnuson’s console keyboard.
“We will want six hundred feet of depth,” Suretsev said.
“Six hundred,” d’Argamon echoed and began to set up the adjustments on the ballast tanks so that when the pilot leveled the diving planes, the sub would maintain the correct buoyancy.
The electric motors made very little noise and the commander could hear Magnuson tapping away on his keyboard, sending the short, coded message that their launch had been successful and that Dover could return to the ship for recovery in twenty minutes.
The speed indicator showed that they were making twenty-seven knots, their top speed, moving faster than the U Thant in order to reach their station thirty miles ahead of her.
When the depth readout displayed the numerals “-604,” d’Argamon relaxed back in his seat and perused the portholes. A grouper flashed past to starboard and the Calais disrupted a school of orange-and-blue fish so quickly that he could not identify them. At this depth, the light of the sun still provided a half-hearted illumination in the clear and unpolluted waters of the Pacific. It was not until they reached depths of 1100 or 1200 feet that their world lost color and changed to inky blackness.
Twenty minutes later, Magnuson deployed the reconnaissance pod which was mounted on the aft end of the hull, between the two rudders. On the end of its fiber-optic, Kevlar shielded cable, the pod rose to the surface to be towed behind them. As Magnuson activated his systems, he announced them:
“I have HF radio, sir... now radar... now sonar.”
D’Argamon turned in his seat to look back at the twin screens on the console, one displaying radar data and the other the sonar readings. Both screens seemed serene.
He twisted a rotary switch on his instrument panel and brought up the radar information on his own multi-function screen. There were a couple of airplanes at the extreme range of the radar coverage and as he watched, one of Cady’s 2nd Squadron aircraft took off from the ship.
