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[center][url=https://i.imgur.com/1PEQlS3.png][img]https://c4.wallpaperflare.com/wallpaper/958/966/512/argentina-country-argentina-flag-abstract-other-hd-art-wallpaper-thumb.jpg[/img][/url][/center]
[b][center]THE REPUBLIC OF ARGENTINA[/center][/b][/h1][/sup][/color]
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[b]GALAPAGOS ISLANDS[/b]

"Whooooooo!" The lookout gave a whooping cry as the bow of the [i]ARA Independencia[/i] hung for one long moment in space, nothing beneath it but air and sea spray, before it began to plunge downward into the trough between waves. "Get some!" 

The bow of the heavy cruiser slammed into the oncoming wave and the ocean boiled hungrily along the steel hull, engulfing the forward triple 11-inch gun mount before battering the bridge windows with a bone crushing force. For one awful moment it seemed as though the ship was going to turn into a submarine until natural buoyancy took hold and it shuddered its way free of the oceans grasping depths.  

Under normal circumstance an officer might have called for some sort of decorum on the bridge but the enthusiastic lookout was one of only a dozen men out of the ships complement of 900 that wasn't currently violently ill below decks. Being one of the only ones on your feet and able to do your job gave you a certain latitude when it came to enjoying a pacific typhoon.  

Beyond the salt stained windows of the [i]Independencia[/i], the rest of the patrol group could be seen battling the storm and no one onboard the flagship would dare complain about their own experience today as destroyers rolled and bucked in the waves; the even smaller minesweepers tossing about like corks on an ocean of champagne. Only the submarine, some hundred feet below them, was likely to be having what could be considered a normal day.

"Wind is slackening sir!" A sonar operator, his face so pale he looked like paper, shouted from his station. The man had thrown up everything he had ever eaten and yet gamely clung to his station; a true sailor. 

The officer of the watch, a ruddy faced Lieutenant of some seniority, nodded his receipt of the message. He alone among the crew had been untouched by the storm and even now he stood, feet braced shoulder width apart, and swayed with the violent motions of the ship, one hand occasionally reaching out to grasp a nearby console to prevent pitching head first into the bridge windows. 

Gradually the wind did shift, no longer screaming down from the north and battering the ships, it suddenly began to blow gently from the west. The seas began to calm from waves nearly sixty feet high to little more than three foot swells that patted the sides of the grey hulls as if in apology for the stress they had undergone. It was certainly a great relief to the crews of the six ships that now made their turn westward toward the Galapagos Islands. 

"Commodore on the bridge!" A sharp eyed helmsman made the call and those on watch stiffened to attention as the white uniform appeared. Commodore Teodoro E. López Calderón waved them back to work and turned to the Lieutenant who had seen them through the past twelve hours.

"Luis, get these men relieved and then all of you get something to eat, and grab some rack time. You're excused from landing party duties."

Those still on the bridge grinned and the quartermaster, his knees aching from nearly thirteen hours of fighting the ships roll, hurried below to roust out the watch that should have relieved them six hours ago. The Commodore stepped across to the starboard bridge wing while they waited and pushed open the door, allowing a draft of warm air to swirl into the space. He inhaled deeply, his own skin was as white as any of the crew, and some of his colour returned with the fresh air. 

He raised a set of binoculars and scanned the rest of the patrol group. The two destroyers were already back on station, along with the supply ship and one of the mine sweepers, the other however...

"The [i]Heroína[/i] has lost her deck gun." He said to no one in particular as he continued to scan the minesweeper, noting that almost of all of its port guardrails and life rafts had been torn loose, likely by the passage of the gun when it came loose. Most deck guns were held in place by their weight and any extreme movement of the hull, or violent rolling sensation, could shook them loose. He reached up and pulled the radio phone from above his head.

"[i]Heroína[/i] from Commodore. Report, over."

"[i]Heroína[/i] reporting the loss of a deck gun, four life rafts. Two turbines damaged. All personnel accounted for. Will need to reduce speed to prevent damage to our remaining turbines, over."

With only two turbines now functional, the decidedly slow minesweeper would quickly fall behind. Already the effort of trying to bulldoze the sea was opening a gap between the [i]Heroína[/i] and the rest of the fleet. 

"Commodore acknowledges. The [i]Espora[/i] will be tasked to escort you in. Out." He waited several seconds and then spoke into the radio phone again. "[i]Espora[/i] from Commodore. Reduce speed to escort the [i]Heroína[/i] into port, over."

"[i]Espora[/i] acknowledges, over."

"Commodore, out."

The lean greyhound shape of the destroyer began to alter shape at once as it came to port and looped back toward the limping minesweeper. There was little chance of any enemies out here but after the recent debacle between the [i]ARA Ironia[/i] and the [i]USS Isherwood[/i], one could not be to careful. How a shooting match had started when the two countries weren't at war was beyond him. 

The watch changed around him as he eyed the fast approaching Galapagos Islands. Isla de San Cristobal was the closest now, uninhabited save for a defensive fortification with early warning radar and a naval gun battery that could sweep the ocean across to Isla Santa Fe. The ships passed well south of the San Cristobal, the shoreline was treacherous here and a rocky shelf extended far out into the ocean. More than one wreck could be seen half submerged in the emerald blue waters. 

Isla Santa Fe came next in the chain of fortifications built to protect Puerto Ayora Naval Base. Men, released from the hellish conditions of the past thirteen hours, clustered at the railing to gaze at the huge tortoises that swam in the sea and the massive iguanas that sunned themselves on the rocks that bordered mine filled beaches. Gun batteries bristled at every point of the compass and the barrels of anti-aircraft guns jutted skyward. Several low lying platforms, barely a dozen feet above the water, showed torpedo launchers that could sink a ship up to twelve kilometres away. 

Puerto Ayora itself was nothing fancy. An old Colonial town of a thousand or so fishermen and naturalists, swollen to four times its size by the presence of the Navy. Two other ships, the remainder of Calderóns command, rode gently at anchor in the space that passed for a sheltered harbour. Both were light cruisers, one swarming with sailors as its hull was repainted, the other riding high in the water as it underwent a resupply. Beyond them, the grassy runway currently empty, was the aerodrome. On one side, protected by several metres of concrete and neatly covered with grass and small shrubs, were the military hangers that housed some thirty fighter aircraft, anti-submarine patrol planes, and a pair of long range reconnaissance craft. Opposite them gleamed two civilian aircraft, both of them large four engined planes, the only kind big enough to make the journey from Argentina to the Islands in one flight. 

"You may begin your preparations to anchor, Captain."  

As the Commodore, he commanded the squadron, the Captain was responsible for the operation of the  [i]Independencia[/i]. The man saluted and barked out orders. The huge engines began to slow and signal flags soared up the halliards to let all watching know that the ship intended to drop anchor. Similar signals appeared on the remainder of the fleet.

"Now, Captain." The Commodore gave the order and the flag at the top of the mast dipped once. Four anchors roared into the ocean with a splash and the squadron slowed to a rest, their sterns swinging toward the sea as the tide exerted its strength against them. A hundred yards away the conning tower of the submarine broke the surface as it cruised toward its own small jetty ashore. The squadron was home.