Vipr swung around as ordered and jumped ahead. Vivilav felt the periscope buck as the sub gained speed. He knew that anyone on the surface who might be watching could now easily see the scope as it kicked up a huge, roiling white feather of water. Nothing to do about that. They had to move or be run down.

The freighter steamed on, oblivious of the submarine hustling to get out of the way. Vivilav could see sailors standing on the bow, leaning on the railing and smoking as they cruised by. The freighter’s bow wave was a massive wall of water, filling his view. The knife-sharp icebreaker bow reached up to the stars.

It was going to be very close.

“Prepare the ship for collision!” Vivilav shouted.

He heard men around him, scurrying, making Vipr ready for catastrophe. He knew that the seven watertight doors separating the compartments were already slamming shut. Each compartment would be isolated to minimize flooding when the freighter plowed into them.

He kept the periscope locked on the freighter. It was drawing closer still, but Vipr was moving ahead. Maybe, just maybe they would make it. Maybe they would pass clear. Or it would hit them farther aft, back in the engine room. Then they would sink to the bottom, unable to move.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Vivilav watched, fascinated by the huge wall of steel bearing down on them. He could make out the individual welds joining the steel plates on the freighter’s side. He could see the sailors up on the freighter’s bow, pointing toward Vipr’s periscope and gesturing wildly. They must understand that there was a submarine below the high feathering wake they were seeing out there ahead of their ship.

Vivilav watched as the freighter’s bow passed just a few yards aft of Vipr’s screw. They had made it. Made it by a couple of meters.

The captain felt the chill sweat, clammy on his back. His hand shook and he couldn’t stop it.

“Captain! Shoal water in five hundred meters,” Anistov Dmolysti called out. “We have to turn now!”

Vivilav had forgotten about the shallow, rocky water they were aimed for. It was safe to turn now. The freighter was passing clear, steaming on out toward the Skagerrak.

“Left twenty degrees rudder. Steady course one-zero-five. Anistov, make turns for ten clicks, if you please.” Vivilav leaned back and rubbed his tired eyes. “Let us hope there is no more excitement for a while.”

Dmitri Ustinov stared across the desk at Marina Nosovitskaya. The rise and fall of her breasts, barely restrained by the taut fabric of her peach-colored sweater, held his attention like some hormonal magnet.

“Dmitri, would you please concentrate on the business at hand?” Nosovitskaya chided. “We have work to do.”

Ustinov chuckled. “I am concentrating. The objects of my concentration are quite breathtaking.”