He powered up the motors, listening to the mechanical whine as the props bit in, and set the computer to level them out at fifty feet, deep enough that an observer on the surface wouldn’t see the matte-black hull cruising by. The Oregon’s master computer had already calculated the course and downloaded it to the minisub, so there was nothing for Juan to do but enjoy the ride.

Five minutes later Eddie announced they had successfully launched the Discovery and they were en route to the second oil rig.

Capable of only ten knots, the ride toward the coast seemed to take forever, though Juan knew what was frustrating him was that every minute that elapsed meant more oil was being pumped into the sea. If he thought it would make a difference he would have gotten out and pushed.

“Oregon, this is the Disco,” Eddie called over the acoustical link. “We’ve arrived at the rig and are hovering just below the surface. The oil slick must be three miles across by now.”

“Disco, this is the Nomad,” Juan said. “Computer puts us under our platform in three minutes.” He knew by how dark the ocean had become that his minisub was traveling under an identical oil slick and had been for some time.

The Nomad’s GPS system guided the sub between two of the oil rig’s tall support legs and brought the craft to a halt mere feet from a third column, one they’d identified from the UAV overflight as having a ladder that went up to the top of the platform.

“Houston, the Nomad has landed.”

“Roger that, Nomad,” Hali replied. “Give us one minute so Tiny can double-check that you don’t have company down there and you’re free to surface and pop the hatches.”

Juan connected his headset back to his personal radio, levered himself out of the padded seat, and stepped carefully to the hatch, his MP-5 slung over his shoulder. Mafana and his men undid their lap belts.

“Juan,” Linda called down the length of the vessel. “Hali says we’re clear. There isn’t anyone down here, but Tiny estimates there are at least thirty terrorists milling around the platform.”

“Not for long,” he muttered, then ordered Linda to gently blow the ballast tanks.

Like a creature from a horror movie, the Nomad’s broad back slowly emerged through the reeking mat of crude pooled under the oil platform. It oozed off the hull as more of the sub broached the surface, but was sticky enough to cling to anything protruding off the craft. Clots of oil stuck to the hatch coaming and rudder.