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

He had seen the hole in
Sheffield
’s freeboard, and determined it
to be about four by 15 feet.
 
Its jagged
edges glowed white hot and hissed steam every time the cold sea sloshed against
it.
 
In that moment, Fryatt concluded the
Exocet
had not
detonated.
 
He
retreated and exhaled his held breath before gasping for cooler air.

“Damn,” he said, and considered that, if
the ship’s company was able to control and extinguish the fires,
Sheffield
might just be saved.
 
He turned, reached a hand out, and hesitantly
tested the temperature of a hatch’s latch.
 
It was warm and tolerable.
 
He
clasped his hand about it and opened the portal.
 
Inside, he found only heat and thick, choking
smoke.
 
He pushed on into the blackened
passageway.
 
It was just several meters
before his lungs demanded air.
 
He tried
to take a breath.
 
The bite on his airway
was harshly acrid and hot.
 
His throat
closed and he grabbed at it, trying again to breathe.
 
His body denied his effort, and instead it folded
over and slid down a wall.
 
A fellow
sailor wearing a respirator grabbed and pulled Fryatt back outside and into the
open air.
 
Fryatt immediately coughed and
sucked in great breaths of air.

When his greedy breathing slowed again,
and he was able to look up and concentrate, Fryatt saw a great grey wall beside
Sheffield
.
 
It was the frigate
Yarmouth
.
 
She had come alongside.
 
Her hoses provided boundary cooling, and her
sailors and small boats provided rescue.
 
Though Fryatt repeatedly coughed and continued struggling to breathe, he
managed to return a salute thrown from a sailor on
Yarmouth
’s deck.

Five hours later,
Sheffield
was abandoned to the fire.
 
Her surviving crew had been transferred, and
the proud warship’s smoking, steaming hulk was left to roll and pitch on the
cold, frothy sea.
 
Two hours after that,
flame roared from every one of
Sheffield
’s
openings, and her steel bent and turned black with char.
 
Sheffield
fought her last battle there, upon the South Atlantic, and resisted the rot of
flame for some six days.
 
Then, with all
the dignity she could muster,
Sheffield
succumbed, rolled onto her side, and went down.
 
An hour later, she rested on the bottom being inspected by fish.
 
Nineteen of her dead remained with her.

From
Hermes
flight deck, yet another of
Sheffield
’s
dead was tipped over the deck.
 
He had perished,
and was committed to the sea, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto
eternal life.
 
Twenty-six more of
Sheffield
’s wounded suffered in the
carrier’s sick ward with burns, shock, and smoke inhalation.
 
Sub-Lieutenant Lawrence Fryatt was among
them.

Several
decades later…

1: NAVIS

“
Four hoarse blasts of a ship's whistle still
raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping
.”
—
John Steinbeck

T
he
Norwegian Sea, a vast, black flatness, shivered in the cold, clear night.
 
Pricks of bright light filled the sky and
reflected in the calm water.
 
These stars
made it hard to tell where the heavens ended and the sea began.
 
They seemed to be alive and spoke to one
another with staccato flickers.
 
A lone
warship made way upon the sea, disturbing the black diamond-sprinkled tapestry,
cleaving and pushing aside the reflected stars in a wave that undulated across
the ocean’s surface.

This warship was His Majesty’s Ship
Dragon
, the Royal Navy’s latest guided-missile
destroyer.
 
Of the
Daring
-class, otherwise known as the Type 45,
Dragon
was some 500 feet-long and crowned by a towering pyramidal mast
topped by a radar dome.
 
Like her
namesake,
Dragon
had deadly sharp claws
and teeth.

A floating fortress,
Dragon
’s archers were missiles; her catapults: guns; and a Merlin
lived in a cave at her stern.
 
Dragon
wore an invisibility cloak of
sorts, with faceted sides that scattered enemy radar waves from her deceptive
grey form.
 
Every bit the agile slippery
wyrm, or dragon, this proud ship could examine air, sea, and space in crystal
screens, and when cornered or when in the mood, she could breathe very hot fire.
 
Like most castles of old, just one man ruled
this floating realm.

Dragon
’s
bridge served as Captain Lawrence Fryatt’s throne room.
 
Surrounded by loyal and obedient lieges, Fryatt
exercised well-earned authority from a barely cushioned cold metal chair.
 
Though his voice was often soft, sometimes even
whispered, it thundered nonetheless.
 
His
voice brought immediate compliance, driving actions that were frequently a
matter of life or death.

Like most in the Royal Navy, Fryatt was a
simple man; he believed in country, duty, monarch, and navy.
 
He also believed that the Type 45s, with their
Sea Viper primary anti-air missile system, stood alone as the world’s premiere
anti-air warfare surface vessels.
 
The Americans could keep their Aegis
cruisers
, Fryatt thought;
the Chinese
could parade their Type 054A frigates all they wanted; and
,
the Russians could stuff their Project 21956 destroyers
.
 
Fryatt was proud of
Dragon
, proud of those he commanded, and he possessed an unwavering
commitment to defense of the realm.
 
Captain Fryatt adjusted his collar and shifted in his chair.

It’s
too hot
, Fryatt thought.
 
Ever since fighting the blaze board
Sheffield
,
ever since seeing the burned men, Fryatt had hated excessive heat.
 
Even though the ship’s environmental system
was doing its job of keeping the bridge and its company snug, the warm, dry
breeze made Fryatt fidgety.
 
He stood,
drawing a concerned look from the officer-of-the-watch, a man who tried to
anticipate his captain’s every need.
 
Fryatt made his way to an exterior hatch.
 
He swung open the heavy portal, and uttered a
single word to whomever could hear: “Tea.”
 
He stepped out to the bridge wing.

Fryatt clanged the hatch shut.
 
Although the steel door could ward off
biological agents, chemicals, and radiation, he used it to keep his company at
bay—to steal a moment in a place that otherwise did not allow much
privacy.
 
While he accepted the strong
steaming mug of lemon-tinged Earl Grey that arrived within moments, Fryatt
would tolerate no other disturbances.
 
He
went to the rail and leaned upon it.
 
It
propped up his tired body.
 
The rail also
transmitted the ship’s harmonic to Fryatt’s bones.

Dragon
’s
bow gently rose and fell as she plowed through the sea, kicking up a spray that
turned frosty and sparkled in the starlight.
 
Fryatt drew a sharp, frigid breath that stung his lungs.
 
He exhaled it as a cloud, watched it get
caught in the breeze, and recalled his grandfather.

Fryatt’s grandfather had sailed the
Murmansk Run
during the Second World War, the run that brought
supplies to a choked Soviet Union.
 
The
man had sailed an old steam merchant over these very waters, had skirted
U-boats and the feared convoy raider
Tirpitz
,
as well as icebergs that calved from the jagged shores of Greenland and became
caught up in the Eastern Icelandic current.
 
Fryatt sipped his tea and pondered the throbbing stars blanketing the
dark night.

Fryatt had grown up in the west-end of
London, a place where the night sky had for centuries been polluted with
artificial light, light that subdued the glowing ribbon of the Milky Way,
dulling its wonder.
 
Tonight, however,
far from the influence of man’s cityscapes, Earth and sky were beheld as they
were meant to be: a vision that begged questions and forced fundamental things
to be asked, private thoughts like: ‘Who am I?’ and ‘Why am I here?’
 
Despite such existential considerations,
Fryatt knew why he, his comrades, and His Majesty’s warship were here, at the
top of the world.

Russia had reawakened; the bear roused by
a leader longing for empire.
 
This leader
had turned back time and progress, back to when east and west stood eye-to-eye
and toe-to-toe.
 
Flush with oily cash,
the Russian had claimed most of the Arctic, and, in support of these
aspirations, the Russian Federation had built new attack subs and missile
boats.
 
These machines and their men
stretched their legs and made the Greenland-Iceland-UK Gap come alive
again.
 
Furthermore, resurrected
strategic bombers—Backfires and Bears—once again flew out of the Kola Peninsula
to buzz the Finns, Swedes and Norwegians, and play chicken with the United
Kingdom’s northern air defense identification zone.

While the Royal Air Force gave its own
unique brand of hell to such unwelcome visitors,
Dragon
and her sisters also reminded the Russian bombers that, like
during the Cold War, they were not wanted in this part of the
neighborhood.
 
Intelligence, as well as over-the-horizon
radar stations in Scotland, told the Royal Navy what was headed their way.
 
This was how Fryatt knew he could expect
airborne company tonight, in fact within the hour.
 
In the meantime, however, he was content to
cherish the star-lit Arctic night.

Fryatt raised his dominant hand
to
the sky.
 
It was the left one.
 
He waved the square of his palm about, half-expecting
the protuberances of his fingers to displace the stars, to push them along into
streaks of lights, to wash them around like glitter that floated in black ink.
 
Despite the grin on his face and this moment
of suspended reality, Fryatt failed to influence the canvas of night, and in
the end, remained as inconsequential as he had expected to be.
 
However, when a sailor burst through the
bridge hatch and announced that the ship’s Action Information Center had an
airborne radar contact, Fryatt knew that, at the very least, he could affect
terrestrial events.
 
He could influence
the behavior of his fellow humans.
 
He
took one last draw of the sharp air.
 
It
reminded him he was alive, and, it reminded him he wanted to stay that way.

“Captain on the bridge,” was announced as
Fryatt re-entered the warm enclosure.
 
Fryatt always loved the sound of those four words.
 
Just a lad from Hounslow, he still felt a
rush as highly-qualified uniformed people acknowledged his presence, straightened
their stance, and raised their chins.
 
His thoughts turned to that of his charge—his ship.

The vibration of
Dragon
’s bridge deck spoke to him.
 
It said that the ship was slicing through the water at some 25 knots.
 
Deep in the hull,
Dragon
’s twin gas turbines and diesel generators thumped away.
 
Fryatt felt them provide power to the
electric motors, which in turn sent 27,000 horsepower to the shafts.
 
Two propellers translated this power to the
water, cutting it, grabbing it, and pushing it away.
 
Going to his chair, Fryatt ran his hands over
the bridge control panel.
 
He dragged
each finger across the hard knobs and soft rubber-covered buttons.
 
A ship
is like a familiar lover
, he pondered.
 
As her tremble was felt, one adjusted touch to achieve harmonious
vibration, to take her in the right direction, to bring her where she wanted,
where she longed, to go.
 
Fryatt sat down
in his chair.
 
It, too, vibrated.
 
He smiled as
Dragon
hummed happily along.

Lieutenant-Commander Nigel Williams—
Dragon
’s second-in-command and one of
190 souls aboard—peered at a terminal.
 
Bathed in its green glow, Williams’ eyes squinted, his jaw set.
 
Then he turned to the captain.

“Sir, the ship is at ‘air warning yellow,’”
telling the captain that his men and women were ready for trouble.

“Lovely night,” the captain responded,
acknowledging the information while maintaining his façade of unflappability.

“It is.”

A bell rang.
 
Williams spun around again to check another
screen.

“Flash.
 
Op Room reports airborne contacts,” Williams announced.

“Right,” the captain said with a glance to
the clock.
 
“Our Russian friends are
right on time.
 
Bring the ship to ‘air
warning red.’
 
Maintain speed and
course.”

Williams acknowledged and brought the ship
to action stations.

Dragon
’s
dimly lit Op Room was cold.
 
Despite the
heaters, the icy Norwegian Sea reached through the hull and chilled the bones
of the sailors manning rows of computer terminals and radar screens.
 
One of these sailors energized the SAMPSON
3-D multifunction phased-array radar perched high atop
Dragon
’s forward mast.
 
It
fired beams through the atmosphere and found two low-altitude targets,
populating the Op Room’s screens with blips and numbers.

“Flag, AWO, probable targets.
 
Two tracks inbound at two-seven-five degrees.
 
Altitude: 3,000 feet.
 
Speed: Mach zero-point-nine.”
 
The numbers beside the radar blips
changed.
 
“Tracks have accelerated.
 
Now at Mach one-point-one.
 
They’ve gone supersonic.
 
Flight profile suggests Russian Backfire
bombers.”

The Tu-22M Backfire was a swing-wing,
long-range strategic and maritime strike bomber.
 
Its two giant
Kuznetsov
NK-25 turbofans pushed the big bomber to Mach 1.88.
 
When not on nuclear patrol, Backfires usually
left base with a load of long-range anti-ship missiles; likely the older,
though effective, AS-4 Kitchens; or worse for
Dragon
, newer SS-N-22 Sunburns.

“Radar warning,” a sailor yelled out.
 
The Backfires had energized their Down Beat
missile targeting radar and painted
Dragon
with energy.
 
Though
Dragon
’s sloped sides, faceted mast and radar-absorbent material
inhibited the Backfire’s ability to lock on, the closer the airplanes got, the
higher their chance of a successful missile launch.
 
The Russian bombers drove in hard and fast.

“Jam their signal,” Captain Fryatt
ordered.
 
Though he knew the Russians
were unlikely to fire, he would play the game by the rules anyway and try to
send them home with bruised egos.
 
From
the top of
Dragon
’s main mast, the
integrated intercept and jammer suite’s antenna began to transmit at the same
wavelength as the Backfires’ radar.
 
If
all went as advertised, an electronic fog had spread across the Backfire’s
cockpit screen, temporarily concealing
Dragon
’s
movements.
 
Fryatt ordered a hard turn to
port.
 
The ship’s company braced against
the lean of the deck.
 
“Shoot them down,”
Fryatt told Williams with a cheeky grin.