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

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,