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There wasn’t much time left. No life jacket was within re
ach. Juan looked around, didn’t see any lifeboats nearby. Not that that surprised him. He had ordered them to stay in the safety of the fjord’s other arm in case it took longer than expected for the Portland to sink. He didn’t want to sacrifice the Oregon just to see Tate wipe out Juan’s crew anyway.
His best chance was to swim for the shore and wait for someone to pick him up. The closest flat land where he could pull himself out of the water looked to be three hundred yards away, behind the ship’s stern. Normally, Juan could swim that distance without breathing hard, thanks to regular laps in the Oregon’s ballast tank that doubled as a pool.
But in these bone-chilling waters, and with one arm useless, his strength would be sapped rapidly as his system stopped blood flow to his extremities to conserve heat and energy for the vital organs in his torso.
With the angle of the ship increasing steadily, it was now virtually impossible to pull himself all the way up to the fantail one-handed. Even assuming he was able to get there, he’d have to jump past the venturi tube openings. If he got sucked into one of them as the ship went down, he’d have no chance.
There was only one choice. Without a second thought, Juan leaped over the railing and steeled himself for the cold as he plunged into the water.
He was not prepared for how shockingly icy the water was, as it enveloped him. He nearly inhaled a lungful. He swam for the surface, his fingers losing feeling. His head broke into the air. The piercing cold felt even worse because of the breeze blowing across his wet face.
He started swimming, with good force for the first fifty yards, through the water churned up by the sinking ship. But he could feel his muscles losing strength like batteries losing their power.
Juan kept at it, refusing to give up, but when he looked up again, the shore seemed no closer than it had a minute before. His strength was nearly gone, and extreme fatigue was setting in. He could keep himself afloat for a little while longer, nothing more. He wasn’t going to make it.
Over his shoulder, he heard several loud bangs. He turned and saw the Oregon’s stern sliding toward the water’s surface, white froth bubbling around it. The superstructure was already submerged. Juan must have heard bulkheads popping as the pressure got too great to hold back.
He watched with a heavy heart as the ship’s elegant fantail, shaped like a champagne glass cut in half, approached the water, which rushed into the gaping maws of the venturi tubes that had reliably powered the Oregon through countless critical missions over the years.
Water swept up the flaked and rusted hull, washing away letter by letter the name OREGON that was written in iron filings magnetized to the stern. The last part of the ship to descend into the water was the jackstaff holding the American flag waving in the wind. The Stars and Stripes came to rest flat on the water, as if it didn’t want to go, and then it was pulled down into the abyss.
Only swirling water marked the ship’s passing. The seemingly indestructible Oregon was gone.
Juan, his energy flagging, turned slowly in a circle and saw no one. Not even Linc and Eddie could see him because of the thick fog cover. He was utterly alone.
He felt a remarkable sense of peace. His crew was safe. He’d done what he had to do. This isolated spot, with natural beauty all around him, would become his final resting place.
Juan stopped paddling. He closed his eyes, and his head slipped beneath the waves.
* * *
—
Tate pounded on the door to the armory, desperate to get inside and find a weapon to break himself out of this prison. His G36 rifle lay on the floor, its ammo magazines long since emptied. Bullet holes peppered both the doors.
He was nearly standing on the forward wall by now. He couldn’t tell how much of the ship was underwater, but nothing had seeped past the watertight portal yet.
Tate was hyperventilating. The Chechen prison had been torture, but this was worse. He didn’t want to die like this.
His throat was raw from screaming, yet he continued just the same.
“Juan! I know you can hear me! I’ll make you pay for this!”
He heard something like a knock from the outer door. He went over to it and had to reach up to press his palm against it. The metal felt cold to the touch. Freezing.
Then Tate felt the door push against his hand.
Hope surged through him. The Boy Scout Juan was showing mercy.
“I knew you’d come back!” Tate yelled with joy.
But it was short-lived. A tiny laser jet of water lanced through a seam in the door.
Then another. And another. One caught Tate in the arm, and the pressure was so high that it sliced his skin as neatly as a scalpel.
Then Tate realized with horror that no one was outside the door. The ship was diving to the bottom of the fjord. The intense water pressure was bowing the door inward.
