Looks that way.

I will make sure to bring you dinner at six. Again, taking the weather into consideration, I think it best I serve something you don't need utensils to eat. Perhaps burritos? He said the last word with ill-disguised disgust.

Juan smiled. Whatever you think is best.

Very good, sir. With that, he slipped away as silently as a cat.

The hours dragged on. There was minimal conversation, just an occasional whispered word, a quick order, and then silence once again. The only real sounds were the swoosh of air through the ventilators and the noises made by the ship and sea as they fought against each other. The hull would creak. Waves would slam. And all the while water sluiced through the ship's drive tubes under enough force to speed her up to twenty-five knots.

Juan had put off going to the head for as long as he could possibly take it. The nearest facilities were just beyond the op center's back door, but he didn't want to leave for even the minute it would take.

He had just unsnapped his shoulder harness and was reaching for his lap belt when Linda cried. Contact! Sonar. Bearing two seventy-one degrees. Range, five thousand yards.

Cabrillo could hardly believe she could hear a submarine at that distance in these conditions, but Linda Ross knew her job.

Juan forgot all about his bladder. Do you have a depth and heading?

She had one hand pressed to her earphones and the other danced over her keyboard. Above her was the electronic green wash of the waterfall display. Still working on it, but I definitely have prop noises. Okay. Hold on. Got you. She's at one hundred and twenty feet. Still bearing two seventy-one.

No change in her bearing meant they were heading straight for the Oregon.

Helm, full emergency stop, then turn us with the thrusters until we're at ninety-one degrees, Cabrillo ordered. That would take them directly away from the sub and minimize the time her flank was exposed. The Chinese wouldn't know what to make of a contact that could pull off such a maneuver. He wondered if the Argentine aircraft had gotten a good enough look at them to know their target was a merchantman and not a naval vessel.

The magnetohydrodynamics wailed as Stone brought up full power and reversed the variable-pitch impellers in the drive tubes. As the speed bled off, the ocean swells attacked the Oregon as if angered that their power was being challenged. The ship heeled over nearly forty degrees when they were broadside to the waves, and water swept her decks from stem to stern.

Using the bow and stern thrusters, they turned as tightly as a bottle cap, and as soon as they were on the correct heading, Eric changed the impellers again and kept the engines firewalled.

Range? Cabrillo called out.

Four thousand yards.

The sub had gained almost a mile on them as they were turning. Juan did a quick calculation, and said, Mr. Stone, just so you're aware, the Kilo's coming at us at twenty-three knots.

In response, Eric dialed in emergency power.

The ride was brutal, like being on a bucking bronco. The ship shuddered so badly that Juan feared his fillings would loosen, while each climb up a wave was a vertiginous journey surpassed only by the gut-wrenching descent. Cabrillo had never called on his ship to give him more.

Range?

Four thousand one hundred.

A cheer went up. Despite it all, they were pulling away from the submarine. Juan patted his armrest affectionately.

Contact, Linda cried. Sonar. New transient in the water. Speed is seventy knots. They've fired! Contact. Sonar. Second torpedo in the water.

Let go countermeasures, Cabrillo ordered.

Mark Murphy worked his magic on the keyboard, and a noise generator was released from a pod under the keel, though it remained attached to the ship on a lengthening cable. The device emitted sounds like those the Oregon was making and was designed to lure the torpedo away from the ship.

The first torpedo's coming strong. The second has slowed. It's going into stand-by. The Chinese captain was keeping one of his fish in reserve in case the first missed. It was good naval practice. Range is two thousand yards.

In combat, time has an elasticity that defies physics. Minutes and seconds seem interchangeable. The tiniest increments can go on forever while the longest duration is gone in an instant. It took the torpedo a little over two minutes to halve the distance, but for the men and women in the op center it seemed hours had elapsed.

If they go for the decoy, it should happen in about sixty seconds, Linda announced.

Juan caught himself clenching his muscles and forcibly willed his body to relax. Okay, Mr. Stone, cut power and go quiet.

The engines spooled down evenly, and the ship began to slow. It would take at least a mile to come to a stop, but that wasn't the goal. They wanted the torpedo to concentrate solely on the decoy they were towing.

Thirty seconds.

Take the bait, baby, take the bait, Murph urged.

Juan leaned forward. On the big monitor, the sea behind the Oregon looked as dark and ominous as ever. And then a geyser, a towering column of water, erupted from the surface and rose nearly fifty feet, before gravity overcame the effects of the explosion and the geyser began collapsing back in on itself.

Scratch one decoy, Mark crowed.

Eric, Juan said calmly, turn us about with ten percent power on the thrusters. The acoustics are going to be scrambled for a while, but keep it quiet. Wepps, open the outer doors.

Mark Murphy opened the ship's two torpedo doors, as they came about and pointed their bow at the approaching submarine.

Linda, what's he doing?

He's slowed down so they can listen, but he's maintaining his depth. And that second torpedo's still out there someplace.

He'll want to hear us sinking, Juan said, rather than surfacing. Mark, oblige him.

Roger that. He typed in commands on his computer, and an electronic track began to play. The speakers were attached to the hull and they pumped out the sounds of a ship in its death throes.

It just occurred to me, Cabrillo said. We should have the speakers on a wire we can lower from the hull. It'd be more realistic. He looked over at Hanley. Max, you should have thought of that.

Why didn't you?

I just did.

A little late to help us now.

You know what they say

Better late than never.

No. They say, Wepps, fire both tubes.

Mark hadn't been fooled by the repartee, and he launched the torpedoes the instant the order came.

Jets of compressed air blew the two-ton weapons from the tubes as their electric motors came online. In just a few seconds, they were homing in on their target at sixty-plus knots. Cabrillo used the keypad on his chair to switch the view screen to the forward camera. The torpedoes left twin wakes of white bubbling water that streaked away from the ship.

That second fish will be after us in about three seconds, he said. Open the forward redoubt for the Gatling gun, and crank it up.

A cleverly hidden door at the bow crashed open, and the multi-barrel snout of the Gatling emerged. The cluster of barrels was spun up until they were just a blur. Capable of firing four thousand 20mm tungsten rounds a minute, the weapon had the capability of tearing through enough water to reach the torpedo as it homed in on the ship. They had stopped a similar attack in the Persian Gulf when an Iranian submarine had taken a shot at them.

Contact. Sonar. Their fish has gone active. Oh, no!

What?

She's at three hundred feet.

Juan understood the implications immediately. Unlike their last fight with a Kilo-class, where the water had been shallow, here the Chinese captain had the sea room to order his torpedo deep and come up on them where a ship is most vulnerable along the keel. A modern vessel can survive a massive explosion along her flank witness the USS Cole but a blast under the hull will snap its spine and usually result in it breaking into two pieces and sinking within minutes.