“I’ll get you an extra ration of grog if you can get us a few more knots. Also, alter course to one-zero-five for the next ten minutes, then back to eighty-five. The old zigzag worked for allied convoys, so lets hope it works for us.”

The Oregon’s two torpedo tubes were flooded, though their outer doors were still closed. Linda Ross was covering their sensor suite, and they were doing everything they could to confound the Chinese sub. There was nothing left to do but wait and hope they snuck through.

Juan didn’t know how he did it, but the ship’s phlegmatic chief steward suddenly appeared at his shoulder with a big thermos of coffee and Styrofoam cups with plastic lids.

“What, Maurice, no Royal Doulton?” he teased, knowing he’d never get a rise out of the English septuagenarian.

“Considering the circumstances, I thought a less delicate alternative was more appropriate. If you wish, I can return to the pantry for a proper china service.”

“This is fine. Thank you. I know I could go for a cup.”

Maurice managed to pour cups all around and not get a single drop on his snowy-white apron. And how he maintained traction in spit-polished wingtips was a mystery for another day.

“I gather from your announcement, Captain, that the first watch will be on for the duration?” Maurice had retired from the Royal Navy and wouldn’t abide by calling Cabrillo anything but Captain. He was as much a stakeholder in the Corporation as any of them, but this was a ship, and its commander was called Captain and there would be no argument about it.

“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.”