“Contact still drifting,” the sonarman replied, one hand pressing the headphone so tightly, his fingers had gone white.

“Did he hear us?”

“He heard, all right. He just doesn’t know what he heard.”

“If you were him, what would you do?”

“Sir?”

“Answer me. If you were listening on his passive array and heard that alarm, what would you do?”

“Um,” the sailor hesitated.

“Simple question. Tell me. What would you do?”

“I would turn my ship to our bearing and tow the array once again, hoping to pick up another transient emission.”

The captain knew the correct answer, the one his young sonarman had given, but his instincts told him to abandon the bridge and follow his XO. The fire was the immediate emergency. The American cutter was secondary. And yet training dictated otherwise. He must remain on the bridge. It was a good leader’s ability to acknowledge the disconnect between instinct and training that kept crews alive. The most immediate threat to the sub wasn’t the fire at all. It remained the Coast Guard vessel.

He waited with the rest of his men, his eyes glued to the big clock over the planesman’s station. The cutter continued to drift and listen on her passive array.

At the six-minute mark, he let out a little of the breath he felt he’d been holding since the alarm sounded. At seven minutes, he exhaled the rest.

“I think he’s missed us, boys,” he whispered.

Just then, the XO returned.

“Sir, it was a small grease fire in the galley. Nothing’s been damaged.”

“Captain, the cutter’s engines just came back online. She’s gaining seaway.”

“Is she turning?”

The wait seemed endless, but the young sailor suddenly turned to look at his captain, a big grin splitting his face. “She’s headed due south and is already up to eight knots.”

“Well done, everyone,” the captain said in an almost normal tone of voice. He looked over at the stoic face of Admiral Pytor Kenin. He wasn’t sure what to expect, so he was pleasantly surprised that the man gave him a grudging nod of respect.

Kenin had been leaning against a bulkhead and suddenly pushed himself erect and called out, “Evolution complete.”

The red battle lights clicked off, and overhead lamps bathed the sub’s control room in stark white light. Technicians who’d been unseen moments before entered the space to check on equipment, while the sailors manning the various stations got up from their seats. Their bodies were as exhausted and tensed up as if this had been a real encounter and not a training exercise. And yet there was a feeling of self-satisfaction among them for a job well done.

“Congratulations, Captain Escobar,” Kenin said when he reached the man’s side, a hand extended for a shake. He spoke English, the only language the two men shared.