Dragon Fire (The Battle for the Falklands Book 2) (15 page)

John grabbed a floatation device from a
locker and made for the exterior hatch.
 
The ship rolled, and John took steps to get outside.
 
He then jumped from the bridge wing into the
cold embrace of the sea.

He surfaced and spat salty, sweet
seawater.
 
Dragon
was slipping
under.
 
The suction tugged at his
legs.
 
John swam away, escaping the
downward pull.
 
Geysers erupted from hull
openings as air was forced from
Dragon
’s interior.
 
It hissed and howled and rained upon John.

“My poor girl,” he whispered, when he looked
to the Merlin helicopter chained to the flight deck.
 
As much as he loved his ship, to see the
Merlin strapped to her sinking decks was even more painful.
 
An aircraft at the bottom of the sea
,
he contemplated morosely.
 
Just not
bloody natural
for a sweet bird to become a reef for fish and slimy
things
.
 
He could not watch.
 
He had to turn away.
 
When he did he saw a flash of orange.
 
A life boat.

Gaston leaned over the boat’s gunwale,
hesitated for a moment when he saw John’s burnt hair, missing eyebrows, and the
patch of singed flesh that had sluffed from his forehead, and then grabbed hold
of his life vest, using his good hand.
 
Another shivering sailor grabbed hold too, and they hauled John aboard.

“Thank you.
 
Thank you.”

“
De nada
,
mi amigo
,” Gaston grunted.
 
The effort was nothing for his new friend,
for the man that had helped pull him from the cold, slow death threatened by
vast
open ocean
.
 
John flopped onto the lifeboat’s bench.
 
As soon as he was up again in the rocking craft, John turned to view
Dragon
.

There was just a triangle of grey metal remaining,
and it slipped under quickly.
 
Dragon
disappeared fast, and was on her way to the bottom.
 
The proud ship left only a boil of light blue
water and bobbing flotsam behind.
 
All
the sailors in the life boat were silent.
 
Gaston thought of
San Luis II
and his crewmates.

“
Qué
pérdida
,” Gaston said.

“What’s that then, Argie?” a sailor asked
derisively.

Gaston thought for a moment and made the
attempt: “A waste.”

The sailor considered this for a moment.
 
Then he grunted agreement.

◊◊◊◊

“Contact,” the sailor with the binoculars
yelled out.
 
“Ships at…” he checked a
handheld compass attached to his life vest, “north northwest.”
 
The life boat rocked as several men stood at
once.
 
John rose slowly and looked where
everyone was pointing.
 
He squinted and
on the horizon saw two grey outlines.
 
One was clearly larger than the other.

EPILOGUE:
WARIAN

“
Only the dead have seen the end of the war
.”—George
Santayana

T
he Atlantic’s mood had turned.
 
She
had calmed herself, and her surface reflected this new internal peace.
 
The starry night reflected in the watery
blackness, and confused the demarcation between realms.
 
Manships
disturbed
this newfound state.

His Majesty’s Ship
Dauntless
—a
Type-45 destroyer and sister of
Dragon
—as well as the Royal Navy frigate
Montrose
, cut their way through the temporary oceanic stillness.
 
They stirred up a creamy white from the deep
dark, and reflected the heavens, which danced and whirled in their wakes.
 
With
Dragon
’s survivors aboard, they
steamed south by west, and made way toward a rendezvous with an American
nuclear attack submarine on a very special mission.
 
Dauntless
was directed to take up
position off the Falklands, and to provide an anti-air warfare umbrella over
Stanley and much of East Falkland.

◊◊◊◊

The
Edificio
Libertador
—‘Liberator
Building’—imposed its 20-story shadow upon Buenos Aires’
Avenida
Paseo Colón.
 
The French
Renaissance-style edifice comprised three staggered sections with two wings
anchored by a taller central one.
 
Argentina’s
Ministry of Defense called it home, and connected itself by a tunnel to the
president’s executive mansion, the
Casa
Rosada
.
 
From
Edificio
Libertador
’s
black mansard roof, the flag of the republic snapped in a stiff breeze, and antennae
and satellite dishes poked and pointed at the sky.
 
On the building’s lawn, before its columned
portico, artillery pieces sat in limbo, and an immobile tank and a statue of a
charging soldier.
 
They all stood vanguard
among the palms and other swaying garden trees.
 
Deep beneath the structure, below layers of steel-reinforced slabs
designed and built to stop the latest piercing bombs, was the War Room.

A
man with the weight of the world upon him, Minister of Defense Juan Cruz Gomez scurried
from console to console.
 
Each console
had screens displaying the disposition of Argentina’s forces on the Patagonian
coast and the
Las Islas Malvinas
theater
of
operations.
 
Computer-generated icons
represented aircraft at bases and in the sky, ships and submarines upon and
beneath the water, and various symbols represented ground forces—companies,
brigades, battalions, and divisions.
 
Gomez studied each screen and projected movements in his head,
envisioning the checkmate of his enemy.
 
His thoughts were disturbed by an uneasy feeling, and he turned to meet
the piercing gaze of Dr.
Waldemar
Amsel
.

In
his wheelchair,
Amsel
was perched on a concrete
balcony that jutted over the War Room.
 
He was, of course, smoking; his usual state when his daughter Valeria,
the president, was otherwise occupied.

“Where
is
Hornero
?”
Amsel
yelled out, referring to an operative’s codename, coughing from the respiratory
exertion.

Minister
of Defense Gomez craned his neck to look up at
Amsel’s
perch.

“Herr
Doctor…” Gomez acknowledged.
 
He leaned
over and checked another computer screen.
 
“We are waiting for Major Vargas to check in.”
 
Gomez knew that the assassin’s last
communique had not been confidence-inspiring, but he had failed to mention this
in any report to his superior.
 
Vargas’
pursuit of the British Crown Prince had become disappointing, so far
unsuccessful, and had far exceeded operational schedules.
 
Furthermore, Vargas had failed to report in
on time.
 
Not a good sign
, Gomez
thought.
 
It would be another day before
he received confirmation that Vargas had failed and been killed, and that the
British Crown Prince had escaped.
 
Gomez returned
his thoughts to the campaign and the battle that raged on
Las Islas Malvinas
.

Twenty
years later…

John Mcelaney
strolled
Buenos Aires’
Cementerio
de la Recoleta
.
 
He
passed graves and tombs: those of Eva
Perón
; past presidents
of Argentina; Nobel Prize winners; the founder of the Argentine Navy; and, a
granddaughter of Napoleon.
 
John kept the
bell tower of the Church of Our Lady of
Pilar
off to
his left as he followed the stone path, breathed in the fresh sea air, and
listened to the birds and the breeze rustling the leaves of shade trees.
 
He passed a marker commemorating 1982’s
Guerra
del
Atlántico Sur
.
 
Turn right at the marker
, he remembered the directions he had
been given.
 
The path split and he went
right.
 
Emerging from behind a cluster of
fragrant, colorful roses, John arrived at the memorial.

There,
before the black marble monolith, before the bronze plaque with the outline of
the submarine ARA
San Luis II
and the names of her dead officers and
crew, he found Gaston
Bersa
.
 
He was crouched and had his eyes closed in
prayer, but when he heard John’s footfalls, he stood and turned.
 
A smile replaced his dour expression.

“Juan.”

“Hello,
Gaston.”

“
Bienvenido
a
Argentina
.
 
Welcome, my friend, welcome.”
 
John smiled back and the two men shook
hands.
 
Then, they both turned back to
the memorial.
 
Only the birds and breeze
broke the silence.