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It was into this hell that Juan Cabrillo drove his ship and crew. Everything that could be tied down had been, and all activity except essential services was suspended. Although the ship had crossed southward only a week earlier, the weather then had been downright tranquil compared to what was hitting them now.
Any other ship would have turned back or faced being torn apart by the waves. But Juan had so overengineered his beloved Oregon that she was in no real danger. Her hull could take the stresses, and there wasn't a seam topside that the wind could exploit to start peeling back sheet metal. The davits holding her two lifeboats would not fail even in a category five hurricane. Though, right now, she only carried one of them. The other had been set adrift with a ping locator activated so they could recover it later.
But there was a real danger. Not from the ocean but from the prowling Chinese fast-attack submarine. She was somewhere between the tip of South America and the Antarctic Peninsula. This was a choke point much like the GIUK Gap that NATO used to box in Soviet submarines at the height of the Cold War. They had set up pickets of subs, like fishermen, between Greenland, Iceland, and the United Kingdom, and waited for their catch to come to them.
Juan had laid a course toward Antarctica by staying close to the South American coastline, as if the Oregon were making for the Drake Passage around Cape Horn, and then heading dead south into the Bellinghausen Sea, the area the Argentines and Chinese had said was now forbidden to shipping.
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 perso
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 a
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.
Negative. As tempting as it was, Juan wouldn't consider it. He had always been a firm believer in letting the other guy throw the first punch. He toggled his microphone to make a shipwide a
What does this mean, Juan? Tamara Wright asked. He had forgotten all about her, as she sat strapped in to one of the damage-control stations over his shoulder.
He spun around in his chair to look her in the eye. It means I should have gone with my gut and forced you off the ship when I had the chance.
Her chin lifted slightly and her eyes narrowed. You would have had to knock me unconscious and truss me up.
I know, and I should have done it.
And left me alone in that little lifeboat of yours in these conditions? No way and no how, she countered. Besides, there's a lot you don't know about me, and one thing is I never walk away from a fight.
This might not be a fight but a turkey shoot. That submarine has all the advantages going for it.
Then if my fate is to die with all of you, I am ready to accept that.
Sounds like Eastern fatalism to me.
I grew up in Taiwan, remember. She slipped her yin-and-yang pendant from under a blouse lent to her by the Magic Shop. I'm a Taoist. It's not fatalism I believe in, just fate.
You're as stubborn as Max. I can see why he has a thing for you. Over Juan's other shoulder, he heard Max Hanley groan aloud and the sound of his palm slapping his forehead. He swiveled to look at his second-in-command. Sorry, Max, was that a secret?
Max's blush started at the base of his throat and didn't stop until the crown of his head was as red as a cherry. Snickers filled the op center. Juan felt bad for teasing Hanley like this, but he needed something to relieve the tension.
Mr. Hanley, I had no idea. Tamara's smile was genuine. Come to think of it, my Mississippi cruise was cut short because of you. I think it only fair that, when this is all over with, you find some way to make it up to me.
Married and divorced three times, Max had always been comfortable around women, especially the ones he found attractive, but for the first time Cabrillo could remember his friend was tongue-tied.
Helm, Juan said to get their heads back in the game. What's our current speed?
Twenty-one knots. That's the best we can manage in these seas.
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 a