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

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