Choosers of the Slain

36

"Anything yet?"

General Marcello Arco leaned over the shoulder of the systems operator and peered down into the round, meter-wide screen. Edging in from the other side was the radar specialist from Naval Technical Command. All three men were absorbed in watching the steady trudge of their teamed search planes across the scope.

They were aboard the Fuerza Aérea 737–400 command aircraft as it orbited five miles above the western approaches to Drake Passage. Below them, at wave-top altitude, Argentina's latest reconnaissance in force was under way.

"Nothing on the screen or on the data links, sir."

"We must have patience, General," Commander Fillipini, the Navy tech man, said in a conciliatory manner.

"Patience we have, time we don't, Commander. We need a fix on that ship."

"We will get one eventually, sir. As I said at the briefing, the best of stealth technology can't make something the size of a destroyer totally radar-invisible. At close range there must be some faint return, and our bistatic search procedures multiply our radar power many times over. We are practically scouring the surface of the sea. If she is down there, we will get her."

Arco grunted noncommittally. The theory seemed sound, but as to whether it would work operationally, God only knew.

Moving abruptly, Arco donned a headset and stabbed a finger at a key on the communications panel.

"Halcon Command to Halcon One. Do you copy?"

"Acknowledged, Halcon Command." An electronics-filtered voice echoed up in response from somewhere below the cloud deck.

"What is your situation, Commander?" "Situation nominal. Nothing to report, sir. Holding course at three hundred meters as per ops plan."

"What is your sea state and visibility?"

"Sea state three with winds gusting out of the west. We are operating beneath the primary overcast, but there are snow flurries and many patches of sea smoke. For the moment, I can just make out Halcon Two's strobes to the south. A poor day for sightseeing, sir."

Arco half-smiled at the pilot's faintly apologetic tone. "We will keep that in mind, Halcon one. Command out."

Poor devils. Autopilots would be no good in the turbulence they must be bucking down there. Twelve hours straight in the air, fighting the control yoke every second from wheels-up to touchdown, and no relief crew because they would be needed to fly the next sweep.

Aeronaval or Fuerza Aérea, Arco felt for the pilots. Perhaps that was why he was out here this afternoon. Stalking around the operations bay of this command-and-control plane wasn't much of a contribution, but at least it was better than sitting on his ass back at Rio Grande.

His musing was interrupted by a sudden excited call from the operator of the bistatic radar display. "Contact! We have a surface contact!"

Instantly Arco was back over the scope, almost bumping heads with Fillipini. "There!" the naval officer said, pointing to a small smudge in the southwestern quadrant of the screen. "About forty kilometers beyond Halcon Four. Very faint, bearing almost due north, speed about twenty knots."

Arco glanced aft to the Elint monitor. "Are you getting anything, Sergeant?"

"No radar or radio emissions detected on any bearing, sir."

The General returned his attention to the radar specialist.

"Any chance it could be some kind of small craft?"

Fillipini shook his head. "Not at that speed in this kind of sea state," he replied jubilantly. "We have got her!"

"Correction, we have found her. Now we try and get her. Commence targeting data downlink to all aircraft. Inform Rio Grande Base that we believe we have located the enemy. Give them our position and inform them we are going in to attack."

The General cut his own mike in again. "All Halcon aircraft, this is Halcon Command. Enemy in sight. Target confirmed as North American warship. Attack data coming up on your screens now. All aircraft arm torpedoes, assume closure bearings, and commence descent to drop altitude. Let's finish this!"

Down deep in the slop below the blue skies and billowing cloud tops, the four chunky, French-built patrol bombers configured for the kill, twin turboprops spooling up to full war power and bomb-bay doors swinging open. Crewmen stared into their sensor screens for the first hint of their prey, the excitement and tension growing within them sounding plainly in their voices as they spoke over the static-dusted radio band.

"Halcon Four to Halcon Command. Range closing to twenty kilometers. No visual fix on target. There is a large snow squall dead ahead. She is apparently hiding inside it. Threat boards are clear, no enemy response yet…. Wait a moment…. Onboard radar has a fix. We are coming up on drop point…."

Arco frowned over at Fillipini. "Why are they not reacting to us?"

"Possibly they do not realize we can detect them. Or perhaps our multiple scans have them confused momentarily. Whichever, it is all to our advantage."

Arco nodded and returned his attention to the dialog issuing from Halcon Four.

"Still no enemy reaction, Command. All torpedoes armed and set for independent proximity homing…. We are at initial drop point…."

There was a soft crunching sound in Arco's headset and then silence.

"Halcon Four? Halcon Four, do you copy?"

"Halcon Four has disappeared from the screen, General," the systems operator reported. "The datalink has gone down as well."

Arco and Fillipini exchanged stares. "What happened?" the Air Force man demanded.

"I don't know. They're just gone. Perhaps they hit the water. An accidental crash?"

Arco keyed his mike. "Halcon Three, did you see what happened to Halcon Four?"

"Negative, negative. Visibility is closing in down here. Heavy snow. Visual range less than one kilometer now."

"Halcon Three, check your threat boards."

"All radar detectors are clear. I have activated our countermeasures systems. Target is now on our onboard screens and we have a firing solution…. Arming torpedoes now… Approaching drop point…. Torpedoes away!… We have a good drop—"

The pilot of Halcon Three screamed, just once.

"General, Halcon Three has dis—"

"I see it! Fillipini, what the hell's going on?"

The tech expert had no answer. His features were shocked and sallow in the greenish scope glow. Arco suspected that he probably looked much the same. It was the enlisted systems operator who kept his brain working.

"The target is accelerating, sir." Swiftly he enabled a highlighting circle around the enigmatic blip and started clocking it. "Sixty knots… Now eighty… One hundred…"

Ghostlike, the contact faded completely from the screen.

Something cold and slimy rolled over in Arco's guts.

Suddenly he understood exactly what was happening. He smashed his hand down onto the transmitter key.

"Halcon One and Two, abort the attack! Abort the attack! Go full EMCON and reverse out of the area!"

Arco hit the kill switches for the radio and the main radar console. "Shut down!" he yelled to the other operators in the bay. "Shut down everything! Pilot, activate your antimissile defenses! Take full evasive action, now!"

Arco and Fillipini grabbed for handholds on the workstations and seat backs as the deck tilted up and to port. The pilot was pitching his aircraft up and out into a steep, climbing turn. He pulled power from the engines, and the airframe of the converted jetliner began to shudder softly as he popped his flaps and spoilers. He continued to roll through into a tight descending spiral, a series of soft bangs coming from back aft as the countermeasures dispensers kicked out chaff blocks and anti-IR flares. The group of men on the windowless operations deck could only hold on, wait for something to happen, and fear for what it might be.

Finally it came, a distant concussion that was felt more than heard. Five thousand feet above and a couple of miles away, a foxed missile had self-destructed after losing track of its intended prey.

The Boeing plunged into the heavy overcast and its decks leveled as it pulled out of the dive. The engines resumed their whispering roar as the pilot lined out to pull clear of the area. General Arco released his grip on the chair back and tiredly flexed his fingers.

"Commander, inform the pilot we are returning to base. As soon as we've opened the range a little more, contact Halcon One and Two and tell them to do the same."

"But, General, we know that the Norteno destroyer must be somewhere in this area. Should we not—"

"No, Commander. We have squandered quite enough good men's lives for one day."