Punching through, it had slammed into the tightly parked cluster of helicopters within, bulldozing them into a crumpled jumble against the front of the hangar bay. The cruise missile's engine module had disintegrated, spraying flame and white-hot shrapnel throughout the compartment, while the half-ton warhead had torn loose from the airframe and crashed forward through three more bulkheads before finally exploding.
The blast shattered the midships superstructure of the big Animoso-class destroyer. Both funnels and the mainmast toppled over the side with a hollow metallic scream, the flashback down the stack ductwork demolishing the engine rooms and decimating the engineering watch. Dead in the water, she began to roll broadside on to the force of the waves, while back aft, the burning and bursting fuel cells of her own aircraft turned her stern into a self-consuming inferno.
Dead also was the last Argentine hope for reorganizing into any kind of effective fighting force. Admiral Luis Fouga would never have to face his failure. He had been crushed between the crumpled bulkheads of his flag plot. From this point on, control of this conflict would rest solely aboard the spectral killer that was systematically ripping the heart out of the Argentine dreams of Antarctic empire.
"Coming in on the oiler, Captain!"
"Turrets traverse right and engage the target! Dix, arm starboard torpedo bays. Range safeties to minimum. We don't have time to fool around with wire guidance, so set all fish for independent proximity homing. Salvo-fire all tubes as you get a solution!"
The night-bright optics swiveled to cover the new target along with the gun mounts. Both acquired it simultaneously as the big, slab-sided tanker loomed up out of the sea smoke. The autocannon began to hammer again and golden shell bursts danced along the tanker's deck line, followed by a fiery series of secondary explosions among the replenishment stations and fuel-transfer heads.
On the Alpha Screen, a cone of yellow illumination radiated out from the flank of the Cunningham's position hack, designating the effective firing arc of her starboard bank of fixed torpedo tubes. The cone enveloped the Argentine oiler.
"Opening outer tube doors. Solution is set."
Just above the Duke's waterline amidships, a series of pocket-panel hatches sliced open, revealing a row of blunt, polyethylene-capped warheads.
"Firing on bearing now. Torpedoes away!"
With the peculiar, sequential thump-kisss of an above-water launch, five Mark 50 Barracuda torpedoes shot out of their tubes and into the sea. Unlike World War II-vintage tin fish, these stumpy little weapons had only a secondary surface-attack capacity. Their comparatively small, shaped-charge warheads had been intended to crack the shell of a deep-diving nuclear submarine, not cave in the side of a merchant vessel. On the other hand, 110 pounds of high explosives detonating against one's hull plates could not be casually shrugged off either.
Four of the Barracudas found a home. Four thin plumes of spray kicked up along the flank of the Luis A. Huergo. With her decks aflame and black oil bleeding from her ruptured belly, she began to lose speed.
Amanda gave a curt nod. "Helm, come right to zero four five. Cut back across the bow of the third transport. Dix, stand by your portside tubes. Same setup. We'll go for a down-the-throat shot as we cross his course line. Gunners, action to port. Shift fire to new target."
There was an uneven stammer to the firing of the Oto Melaras now. Both turrets had expended their entire base load, and the shell humpers down in the magazines were having trouble shoving ammunition into the feeder belts fast enough to fully satisfy the voracious appetite of the guns. The mounts were still capable of dealing damage, though.
The forecastle of the tank-landing ship Piedrabuena shattered under the impact of multiple hits. Danny Lyndiman rocked his hand back minutely and the firestreams walked up the front facing of the deckhouse to focus on the bridge,
chewing the structure away. Then the torpedoes arrived. Three of them, a triple sledgehammer blow against her hull. Spray exploded out from beneath her forefoot and the entire bow structure distorted and collapsed like a wet cardboard box.
No surviving human eye witnessed the end of the Piedrabuena. The Cunningham had already swept past on her way to the open water northeast of the ruined convoy. The LST's propellers had continued to race after the torpedoes had hit and the mangled bow doors had acted like a gigantic scoop, channeling a thousand tons of ocean into the overloaded vehicle deck that ran almost the full length of the ship's hull.
As smoothly and swiftly as a crash-diving submarine, the Piedrabuena began to slide beneath the waves. The men who could have ordered the engines stopped were dead in the wreckage of the wheelhouse. The others followed swiftly as icy seawater exploded into their compartments. Carrying her entire crew with her, she began her final voyage, two miles down into the chill wet dark of Drake Passage.
"There goes the LST, ma'am," the TACCO reported.
"She's a goner."
"I can also confirm that one of the Animosos is out of it. Dead in the water and all electronics are down," Christine called in from Raven's Roost. "We got these dudes up a tree."
Amanda agreed. She ruled this battlefield now. Her tactical officer had solid locks on the two surviving close escorts. With one word from her, he could kill them both in seconds. She could then double back among the drifting hulks of the convoy. Using them for cover, she could defy or destroy the last surviving elements of the Argentine distant covering force. She could make it a clean sweep if she so desired, and go home with a broom tied to her masthead.
At this moment, she was the queen of the polar seas.
"Do you want to reengage, ma'am?" Dix inquired.
"Negative. Check fire, all systems. Maintain course and speed and pull clear of the area. We've done our job."
48
President Antonio Sparza sat alone in his work office, listening to the faint pulse-beat ticking of the case clock. He was here responding to something more than nervous tension. It had denied him sleep and had driven him to this place where he had reached the high-water mark of his life.
The desk phone warbled softly.
"Yes."
"Mr. President, this is Admiral Valleo at the Naval Ministry." The officer was speaking with a deliberate conciseness, like a man giving a well-thought-out testimony at a trial. "The convoy has been intercepted."
"Go on."
"The corvette Catamarca and the tank-landing ship Piedrabuena have been sunk. The fleet oiler Huergo, the Antarctic operations ship Alferez Mackinlay, and the destroyer Nueve de Julio have all been heavily damaged and are currently burning and dead in the water. At this time it has been considered advisable to remove the crews from these vessels. The destroyer Heroina has also been damaged, but it is believed that she can be saved."
"What about the North American warship?"
"The convoy escorts engaged the attacking vessel with gun and missile fire. The results are unknown at this time. We are not in current contact with the enemy."
"I see."
There was a silent pause that the officer on the other end of the circuit was almost hesitant to break.
"Mr. President, we are out of communication with Fleet Admiral Fouga. It is believed that he may have been killed aboard the Nueva de Julio. The senior surviving convoy captain is requesting instructions. What should we tell him, sir?"