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of the torpedo being launched. They were two people shooting at each other in a dark room, firing at the muzzle flash.
    There was a rumble beneath her feet, a loud whoosh of air, and her ears popped as her submarine fired her torpedo.
    â€œTorpedo is in high speed!” said Banach.
    â€œVery well,” said Carlson. That left them just four torpedoes.
    She looked at sonar. The enemy torpedoes were behind them now, drawn to the noise of the countermeasures. But the Alliance weapons were steerable and could turn back, as long as there was a man alive on the Alliance boat.
    â€œFire another?” asked Banach.
    She was contemplating just that when they heard an explosion to starboard.
    â€œThey’re hit!” said Banach. Carlson watched the display.
    For a few moments, they listened for the telltale sounds of a submarine dying: tanks exploding, the gush of flooding, the desperate roar of an emergency blow system. But nothing came.
    â€œThey’re still alive,” she said. She heard something, though, hull popping as the enemy ascended. “But she’s going shallow. They must be hurt.”
    â€œTo fight the flooding,” said Banach. “Shall we finish her off?”
    Carlson nodded. “Not now,” she said. “We might not have to.”
    The wounded ship was noisy, undoubtedly busy trying to save herself. Carlson maneuvered them away from her, to disguise their position, but the Alliance boat seemed like the fight, at least temporarily, had gone out of her. “Take us to PD,” she said. “Let’s see if we can take a look.”
    Banach complied and drove the ship carefully upward. Carlson raised the scope right on the bearing of the Alliance submarine. She was making so much noise now, she was impossible to miss, the pumps working to get water off her, men hammering on pipes trying to staunch the flood. She took a quick sweep around, verified there were no drones on top of them. It was clear, for the moment. The drones were like that, they had learned, could come and go with the randomness of a rain squall. She trained the ship’s single eye back on the bearing where she knew the enemy ship was fighting for her life.
    â€œI see her,” she said. “I see the scope.” There it was, like a pencil sticking straight out of the water, a small V behind it as it moved slowly forward.
    â€œWhy aren’t they surfacing?” said Banach. “Do they think we don’t know where they are?”
    â€œThat can’t be it,” said Carlson. “They’re making too much noise. They really should surface if the flooding is as bad as it sounds. Of course, I’ll shoot them if they do.”
    Suddenly a drone caught her eye on the horizon, sweeping lazily across the water, searching.
    â€œI see,” she said.
    â€œCaptain?”
    â€œThey’re afraid of the drones, just like we are.”
    â€œDrones will attack their own?”
    â€œThey will attack anything, they are the dogs of war.”
    â€œSo what shall we do?”
    She had an idea. “Tell me, Banach, how many of those inflatable lifeboats do we have?”
    The question startled him, and he had to think. “Three.”
    â€œAnd what is the direction of the current?”
    Banach went to the chart, did some calculations, and told her. “Just three knots, running southwest.”
    â€œTell our sergeant to prepare to launch one of those life rafts from torpedo tube number three.”
    â€œCan I explain to him why?”
    â€œI’d rather not say,” said Carlson. “In case it doesn’t work.”
    *   *   *
    She positioned the boat carefully so the wounded enemy with its periscope was down-current. She thought about timing, watched the random drones that were still in the sky, not having spotted either scope. She wanted to be close enough that by the time the drones spotted the raft, it was directly on top of the enemy,