Free Dragon Fire (The Battle for the Falklands Book 2) by Peter von Bleichert

decrease our depth,”
Ledesma beseeched.   Just then, in seeming
support of his recommendation, begging for relief from the black crush, San Luis II let out a shudder and a prolonged
groan.
    “Very well,” Matias added with the calm of
someone with nothing to lose.   If I am forced to the surface , the captain
thought, I will put my boot right up
their ass .   Although Matias had
already made up his mind on a course of action, he asked Ledesma for advice
nonetheless: “Options?”
    “Well, sir, there are not many.   Just one really,” Ledesma raised his eyebrows
into a black arch.   Matias nodded.
    “ Maldito británicos ,” someone mumbled.   They had eavesdropped on the officer’s
conversation—not hard inside a steel pipe that amplified mere whispers and bounced
them in all directions.   Matias’s bowed
head lifted.   He strolled the compartment
and surveyed the men under his command.   He could have asked, ‘Who said this?   Who was undisciplined enough to offer such a statement?’   Though, in this case, he would not make an
example for the sake of discipline.   Why?   Fatigue mainly, and because
Captain Matias agreed with the comment.   Yes , damn the British .
    “ Señor ,”
Ledesma sought his captain’s attention once again.
    “¿ Si , Santiago ?”
    “Captain, we must attack.”
    Captain Matias studied his executive
officer, liking what he heard, and the look of determination in his
subordinate’s eyes.
    “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