Now he had to put his mind into that of the Chinese sub captain. With a couple hundred miles to patrol, Juan had to guess where he would be. The obvious answer was the middle of the narrows between South America and Antarctica. That would give him maximum coverage. But any ship making a dash southward would make that assumption and avoid the middle like the plague. So do they stay close to the peninsula or run a westward end around. The sub couldn’t be in both places. A wrong guess would put them square in the Kilo-class’s sights.

Cabrillo remembered an old school-yard saying. Never play chicken with a stranger. Meaning, if you don’t know your opponent, you can’t control the outcome.

He sat in the command seat in the middle of the op center, his body swaying with the roll of his ship. All on-duty personnel were strapped into their chairs with lap and shoulder harnesses. He hadn’t shaved this morning—water wouldn’t stay in the sink—so when he ran a hand across his chin, his beard rasped. East or west, he thought. East or west?

“Radar contact,” Linda Ross called out.

“What have you got?”

“Aircraft flying south at twenty-five thousand feet. Speed three-eight-five. Range twenty miles.”

Juan looked at her sharply.

“He must have dropped out of the clouds.”

It had to be a big Hercules aircraft heading down with more supplies for the Argentines, Cabrillo thought. “Helm, show me the rear-deck camera.”

Eric Stone typed a command into his computer, and the image on the main view screen switched to a camera mounted just below the jack staff at the very stern of the ship. Even in such heavy seas, the Oregon’s wake was a white slash through dark gray water leading right up to the ship. They couldn’t announce themselves more if they had put on every light and broadcast across every frequency.

Juan’s decision about east or west was moot. He knew the plane would radio their presence to the Argentines, who would pass that information on to the Chinese submarine. The Kilo-class would be coming after them like the hounds of hell.

“Can we jam his radios?” he asked.

“As long as he’s in range,” replied Hali Kasim, their communications specialist. “As soon as he moves on, he’ll be free to report our position.”

“We can shoot him down,” suggested Mark Murphy from the weapons station next to helm control. “I can have SAM lock in in fifteen seconds and splash him ten seconds later.”