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He looked at the pad and zoomed in on the 3-D image of the ship’s layout. There was a fire raging in the section right next to the ammunition magazine. If it ignited one of the shells or missiles stored there, the resulting explosion would slash the ship in two.
He heard a cry from his right and saw Farouk pinned against the bulkhead by his console, which had been torn from the floor. He was holding out his arm in a pathetic plea for help.
“Please, Commander!” he bawled. “I can’t move.”
Tate shook his head. “Serves you right for failing me. You’re on your own.”
He ran out of the room, Farouk’s miserable wail receding behind him.
Tate headed for the nearest stairs, but they were blocked. He doubled back and tried a different path. That corridor was a tangle of girders, leaking pipes, and dangling wires. He’d electrocute himself trying to climb through.
The third route he tried took him past the ship’s shooting range and armory. He was confronted by the sight of the Oregon’s hull, which had been peeled open so cleanly that the chasm was big enough for him to fit through. It seemed to be his only way out.
It was also highly dangerous. For all he knew, the Oregon’s crew was waiting to kill him if he tried to escape through their ship. He had to arm himself.
He sprinted back into the shooting range, opened its inner security door, and dashed into the armory. After he s
natched a G36 assault rifle from the wall, along with two spare magazines and a flashlight, he raced back the way he’d come.
When he reached the union of the Oregon and the Portland, Tate pointed the G36 into the darkened opening. He clicked on the flashlight and saw an empty corridor.
The way was clear. He climbed into the Oregon.
* * *
—
Juan unbuckled his belt and took stock of himself. Surprisingly, he was unscathed from the massive collision. Too bad he couldn’t say the same about his ship.
He was proud of the punishment the Oregon had been able to take, but the impact must have damaged the engines beyond repair. He tried to reverse out of the Portland’s death grip. No response. The Oregon wasn’t going anywhere.
Juan had to abandon ship. Water was pouring in through holes in the side and bow of the ship. Some of the emergency bulkheads had closed, but not enough of them. The clock was ticking for the Oregon, and it wouldn’t be long before it hit zero.
He tried contacting Eddie. He got no response. Communications were off-line. Soon the Oregon would be covered by a thousand feet of water, and he didn’t want to be inside her when that happened.
He went to the door and spun around to take one last look at the op center. It was his favorite spot on the ship, the place where he felt most comfortable, and he treasured the camaraderie he’d experienced with the rest of his officers during the most harrowing of missions. But now it was empty. The room—and the ship—had done their jobs.
It was time to go.
Juan turned and ran for his life.
70
Both Eddie and Linc frantically searched in vain for any movement on the Oregon’s deck, scanning the ship from stem to stern with the sniper scope and binoculars.
“If he’s still alive,” Linc said, “shouldn’t we have seen him by now?”
“He might be trying to save the ship,” Eddie replied.
“I don’t see how. Look at that big gash in the starboard side.”
Movement on the Portland caught Eddie’s attention. Several people were stumbling toward the only lifeboat that remained undamaged.
“What was that?” Linc asked.
“Where?” Eddie switched his view back to the Oregon. “Do you see him?”
“No, I meant on the Portland. I thought I saw a flash of light near the midsection.”
