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right on its scope ideally. If the drones got to the raft too early, it would be a waste. And then she would have to leave because the drones would eventually spot her scope. Doing the rough math in her head, she crept to about six hundred yards until she finally gave the order.
    â€œDeploy the boat,” she said. She heard the clank of the hatch, the rumble of the torpedo tube ejecting its contents.
    â€œThe lifeboat is deployed,” said Banach, taking the report on his headphones as she watched through the scope.
    A few seconds later it popped to the surface, a bright orange bundle. Immediately it began to inflate and unfold, growing to full size in seconds. It appeared motionless, but Carlson could see that it was in fact moving with the gentle current toward the enemy’s periscope. It looked almost comical, a big orange tent bobbing happily upon the sea. Triangular panels on the outside had a metallic sheen—radar reflectors, designed to make it highly visible to rescuers. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.
    After all, it was designed to be seen.
    And soon enough the drones saw it.
    The first drone flew directly over it at high speed. Carlson panicked for a moment; it was too early. But the drone didn’t drop its bomb; instead it flew high into the sky. Alerting its brothers, she realized.
    A swarm of four came in, flying at high speed and in a direct line. By now, the bright orange boat was directly against the enemy scope.
    When the first bomb landed, the lifeboat simply evaporated, like an exploding balloon. Tiny pieces of orange fabric littered the ocean around them like confetti. The more substantial parts of the raft remained afloat, in a pool around the scope, and the drones poured their bombs upon them.
    Whether a drone targeted the scope, or it was just a lucky shot that missed the life raft’s detritus, Carlson didn’t know. But the bomb landed directly atop the scope, shattering it, sending smoke and sparks into the sky. Too late, the enemy captain lowered it, undoubtedly with new fires and flooding to combat.
    â€œShall we finish her off with a torpedo?” said Banach.
    â€œNo,” said Carlson, although it pained her. She wanted to preserve her remaining four torpedoes. “They are damaged beyond repair. She is out of the fight. Even if she doesn’t sink.”
    â€œVery good, Captain,” he said. The enemy ship was making a racket as she pulled away, damaged and clinging to life. Carlson could hear alarms onboard from her ship’s hydrophones—the enemy’s overworked pumps—and she imagined the screaming of burned men inside.
    *   *   *
    â€œEverything OK, Captain?” Banach had caught her in her reverie.
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œYou look angry.”
    She nodded. In fact, she was. She knew she’d done the right thing in not finishing her off, in conserving those last four torpedoes, not using another on a ship that was already crippled beyond repair. They were the same four torpedoes that she still possessed, and it was looking like they might very well need them for the fight ahead. But it galled her that the Alliance submarine had gotten away with her life. Galled her that somewhere a submarine captain was sitting in an officers’ club, telling the story of his close call, his escape, his survival.

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
    Pete walked away from the control room, still trying to gain his bearings—and to recall some memories of what had happened to the Polaris, and his role in it. He climbed down a ladder as he headed aft to avoid McCallister, locked in a steel cage one level above.
    Exiting the forward compartment through a watertight hatch, he stepped into the missile compartment: two parallel rows of missile tubes stretching into the distance like a forest of steel trees. There were few signs of the mutiny in here, save for a wisp of smoke that followed him from the forward compartment and the