"Thanks, Eddie Mac. Now there's just one other thing I'd like to know."
"Sure."
"How in the hell could you send my daughter into that shooting gallery without adequate support!" Garrett exploded.
MacIntyre had been expecting that question; it was one that had every right to be asked. The CINCLANT was just glad that he was comfortable with the answer he had to give.
"For the same reason you would have, Wils," he replied evenly. "Because we have three oceans' worth of responsibility for one ocean's worth of fleet. Because the Duke was all we had to work with. And because that's the job, Wils."
There was a long moment of strained silence, then Garrett tiredly shook his head. "Yeah, yeah, please excuse the fatherly outburst. If Mandy had been here she would have kicked my butt for that."
"Don't sweat it. You should have seen me the first time my oldest daughter stayed out after midnight. I was a basket case."
A phone shrilled in the background and Captain Callendar took the call. "Thirteen Charley is coming in over the Antarctic Peninsula, sir. Data download commencing through Milstar linkage."
"Thank you, Maggie. Check out the main screen, Wils. This is impressive as hell."
On the huge map display on the far wall of the room, a series of two-meter-wide outlines began to appear. Partially overlapping one another, they began to march northward, up the image of the polar continent, each square representing an area of the Earth's surface being scanned by the orbital reconnaissance platform.
The data from the reconsat's extensive sensor suite — visual and thermographic high-definition imaging, synthetic-aperture surface-scan radar, wide-spectrum EM signal receivers, and a number of other more esoteric systems — all flowed into Fleet Command Headquarters through half a dozen satellite communications channels. Some was intended for long-term storage and analysis by the intelligence sections, some for realtime usage through the workstations in the operations center.
"From what you've said, Mandy's been tangling mostly with their air and submarine elements," Garrett commented. "What about the rest of the Argentine navy?"
"They haven't come out. Oh, they've been using some of their second-line stuff to make faces at the British around the Falklands, but we haven't seen a serious challenge by their surface forces yet. They seem to be massing their best ships and a transport group at their southernmost fleet base at Ushuaia. We've been told that they may attempt a convoy run to their Antarctic garrisons."
"She'd have to go after them if they tried it, wouldn't she?" Garrett pressed.
"Hopefully the situation won't come up. The Roosevelt group is a little over two days out and we're setting up to forward-deploy some Orions and B-ls into the Falklands. If she can hold out just a little bit longer, the cavalry will come riding in over the hill."
On the big screen, a small set of crosshairs blinked into existence just off the ice-pack line near the South Shetlands. Flanking it were the glowing figures 'DDG 79.'"
"Okay, there she is. She's just tapped Thirteen Charley herself. She's alive and well, Wils."
Garrett nodded. "Yeah, so she is. Thanks, Eddie Mac. I appreciate this."
"Forget it."
"I'm not planning to." Garrett straightened and squared his shoulders. "Well, there's no sense in me cluttering up your quarterdeck more than necessary—"
"Admiral," Captain Callendar cut in, the phone still lifted to her ear, "the duty officer reports a situational change at Ushuaia."
"Have them put it on the main screen."
The computerized map image on the primary display was replaced by a ghost-toned overview of the southernmost Argentine fleet base. The coastline and the land area surrounding the narrow bay were a dim grayish-green, the sea almost black. The heated buildings of the base itself and the surrounding town were a series of uneven geometric patterns in white. Clear of the harbor mouth, near the bottom of the screen, was another pattern of pale glowing dots.
"Can we get this in visual spectrum video?" MacIntyre demanded.
"No, sir. The area is socked tight under very heavy overcast. Infrared imaging only."
"Very well. Have them zoom in on that ship formation."
Eight thousand miles away and 140 miles up, a fantastically sophisticated mirror and lens system responded to the CINCLANT's command. The dot pattern grew until it filled the screen, resolving into three blunt-ended ovals running bow to stern. Four additional hull silhouettes with the finer lines of warship design held formation on this trio at the two, four, eight, and ten o'clock positions.
"Thermographic analysis indicates three diesel-powered transport types being covered by two large gas turbine and two small diesel escorts," Maggie Callendar reported. "Speed eighteen knots, bearing one seven nine degrees.
The two turbine escorts are probably Meko 360s. No positive ID yet on the smaller ones."
"That matches part of the available Argentine force pool." MacIntyre frowned. "Check Ushuaia anchorage. What about the Animosos — their First Destroyer Squadron?"
The image scanned north and settled on the offshore moorage of the naval base. Three slender hull forms were still present there. However, even as they watched, the midships section of each vessel began to glow more brightly.
"Analysis reports that the ships of the First Argentine Destroyer Squadron are lighting off turbines. Apparently they're powering up to get under way."
"And it's a sure-money bet as to where they're headed. Maggie, dispatch a situation update to the Pentagon War Room and to the Royal Navy liaison group. Then get a sighting report off to the Cunningham. Inform them that the Argentine fleet has sortied and request an acknowledgment! They're probably picking this up on their own download, but we've got to be certain they know what's coming at them!"
MacIntyre thought he heard Wilson Garrett say something, but when he turned back to the retired officer, he realized that the man was speaking to someone else a long distance away.
"There's seven of 'em, Angel," he was whispering, his hands tightly gripping the balcony rail. "For God's sake, be careful."
41
Ken Hiro gestured awkwardly with the communications hard copy. "Uh, Captain, we've just received a Flash advisory from CINCLANT…."
"I know, Ken. We see them."
Amanda leaned, stiff-spined, over the chart table in the Intelligence bay of the CIC, her impassive features underlit by the coldly glowing surface. Christine Rendino stood by quietly, her usual ebullience extinguished. In the darkness, neither officer could see how tightly their captain's fists were clenched, how deeply she had driven her nails into the palms of her hands.
Finally, Amanda took a deliberate deep breath. "Chris, notify all division heads that there will be an operations group in fifteen minutes.
"Ken, acknowledge CINCLANT's advisory. Inform them that we are proceeding to intercept the enemy with intent to engage. Also, please request that they contact the HMS Polar Circle for us. Inform them that we will not be making rendezvous."
Amanda pushed away from the table and started slowly for the hatchway. "If you need me, I'll be down in sick bay."
42
The Cunningham's RPV control station was located at the far end of the cramped Elint bay, and Amanda Garrett and Christine Rendino were forced to squeeze in around the operator's chair to see the display screens. During those odd moments when his attention wandered, Arkady found the close, warm presence of the two women rather disconcerting, Amanda's clear-water-and-wildflowers scent mingling with Christine's muskier cologne.