“Look,” he told her. “What we do is murder. We lie in wait, mostly invisible, until some big fat tanker or freighter drives into my field of view. Then I fire a half-ton warhead into his guts from about a half mile away, and whoever doesn’t die in that explosion gets burned to death in the resulting fire, dragged down by the wreckage, or eaten by sharks. If there are escorts, and they’re any good at their job, we in turn catch hell for the next several hours. We go deep and get depth-bombed. It only takes one, close enough to the hull, to send us down to oblivion right behind the ship we just sank. If that happens, nobody knows what happened to us except the Japs. We disappear without a trace except maybe a diesel oil slick that dissipates the first time the wind comes up. As to promotions, there’s just one problem. In the army, if the colonel of the regiment gets killed, his regiment needs a new colonel. In submarines, unfortunately, the commander always goes down with the command.”
“So it’s not about promotions or advancement, then.”
“Correct,” he said. “It’s about command itself. See, in submarines, the captain is the boat. The officers, the chiefs, the enlisted, they’re a vital part of the equation, but the captain is the boat. For better or for worse, he makes all the decisions when the time comes to fight. Plus, we’re a results-oriented outfit. I got command because I was qualified, one of many, and because the guy I replaced wasn’t getting results.”
“He wasn’t any good at murder.”
“One way of putting it, I suppose. I am good at it. I sense that the other skippers don’t like me much, but the brass loves my statistics, all that Jap tonnage on the bottom. That’s what I meant about the bonus. I’m getting to do what I’ve been trained for during all those years of peacetime, and I’m good at it.”
“That sounds a bit cocky to me, kind sir.”
He shrugged. “I’m not bragging,” he said. “Just stating a fact. Dragonfish is getting the job done. The captain is the boat. I happen to be captain.”
“And after the war’s over? I mean, we all know this can’t go on, that the Japs can’t keep doing this.”
“I try not to think about that,” he said.
“That bad, hunh?”
He laughed. “Unimaginable,” he said. “And you? I see no wedding ring. If I may ask?”
“After my near-miss, I never felt the need,” she said with a perfectly straight face. He laughed out loud.
“No, I mean that,” she said. “I was the only female in my law school class. That’s all changed now, especially with most of the men being in the service, but back then all the guys wanted to know what the hell I was doing there. Getting a JD, just like you, sport. I had the great fortune to go to work for the government as an assistant DA before the Depression really bit down. No money in it, of course, but that’s one thing about a depression or a recession—lawyers, especially prosecutors, are in demand. Everyone wants someone to blame. I got the judgeship because of the war, again, because the men who were better qualified than I was had joined up in one form or another.”
“How do all those JAG guys treat you now that you’ve joined up?”
“Well, it was kind of back to law school for a while: What are you doing here? I gave them the same answer as before: Same thing you’re doing here. Of course it’s competitive in the JAG offices—lawyers are competitive by nature, even if what they’re doing is temporary. I finally remembered that I was in the navy now. I’ve succeeded up there because I’m good at what I do, and because my competition focuses on the blond hair and as much leg as I’m willing to display and forgets all about my years as a prosecutor and then my time on the bench. Essentially, when it comes to the courtroom, they never see me coming.”
“We’re alike, then,” Gar said. “The Japs never see me coming either, except when they do. That’s what keeps it interesting.”
“As to marriage, well, I’m pretty happy with being a one-woman band. If I’d had kids at home and a husband, I probably could never have done any of this. Like tonight, for instance.”
“Speaking of tonight, can I see you again, before—um.”
She grinned. “Before you have to go back to your secret submarine and then set sail on an even more secret mission, departing at a secret time?”
“Can’t tell you, remember? It’s a secret.”
“I’ll bet my hairdresser knows not only when you’re leaving but where you’re going.”
Gar shook his head. “Probably,” he said. At this point, Honolulu was definitely a company town. “But back to the question?”
She took his hand discreetly. “The answer is that it’s never going to be as good as it was earlier this evening, not unless we happen to fall desperately in love and are willing to just die if we can’t be together day and night forever and ever.”
“That a no?” he asked with as straight a face as he could muster.
She smiled again and finished her drink. “You know I’m right about these things.”
Gar noticed she was slurring her words just a bit and decided to quit trying. “We are two of kind, after all,” he said. “I agree with you. I’d still love to prove you wrong about certain parts of your theory, but this has been a delightful interlude. It’s like we’re adhering to one of Murphy’s laws—the one that says you fool with a thing long enough, you inevitably break it.”
“There you go,” she said. “Now, if you ever need a lawyer while I’m out here, I’m your shyster.”
* * *
They said their good nights and parted company, she to her room, presumably, and Gar to his, the one that was guarded by marines. He lay in bed thinking about the evening’s delightful interlude, as he’d termed their encounter.
There were times when he questioned his decision to forgo the wife-and-family scene. Tonight wasn’t one of them. Sharon DeVeers was definitely a sport model. Gar’s first ship after graduation had been a battleship, USS New York. The Depression had landed with both feet and he was sending money home to his parents like most other junior officers, except of course the married ones. Demand for just about everything faltered badly, and when the mills closed up, so did the mines. Being on sea duty he really didn’t need much in the way of money, so he felt pretty good about being able to support the folks—and grateful that he hadn’t tied the knot as a fair number of his academy classmates had. Then the ship was reassigned to the Pacific Fleet and the so-called China station, where being a bachelor was the best of all possible worlds.
Sharon had it right, he thought. A one-night stand was part and parcel of their respective attitudes. He really liked her, of course, but there was no future in that sort of thing during wartime, and she knew it, too. Besides, he told himself, if you want to fancy yourself a lone wolf, don’t hang around the pack.
He grinned in the dark. He had almost convinced himself. Bad sign, Gar Hammond, he thought. You’re starting to believe your own bullshit.
FIVE
By the end of the week Dragonfish was out of the dry dock and back alongside a finger pier. Gar asked the exec to assemble all the officers in the wardroom. When Russ came down to Gar’s cabin to let him know they were ready for him, Gar told him to step in and pull the curtain.
“We’re going back out early,” he told him. “Special mission.”
Russ groaned. “Aviator rescue station?” The subs were increasingly being used to take up stations around the carrier battle fleet’s next strike target. It was vital duty but lousy hunting.
“Nope,” Gar said. “Empire, but with a catch.”
He saw the exec’s hopes rise. Empire patrol areas, those close to the Home Islands of Japan, meant much better hunting prospects. Then he focused on that last word.
“Catch?”
“They want us to penetrate Bungo Suido.”
The exec stared at him. “You’re kidding,” he said finally.
Gar just looked at him.
“You’re not kidding.” The exec sighed. “Five submarines not enough? They want to make it an ev
en number?”
Gar had no answer for that. The exec was clearly stunned. The submarine force couldn’t prove that they’d lost five subs in and around Bungo Suido since early 1942, but they were pretty sure. The straits of the Japanese main islands had been proscribed since Wahoo failed to return from a patrol. The legendary Mush Morton had managed to penetrate one minefield into the Sea of Japan, and he’d done some real damage, reported that he was coming out, and that was it. Wahoo simply disappeared. The best guess was that she had hit a mine in La Pérouse Strait on the way out, but a guess was all they had when a sub didn’t come back. All SubPac could do was put a black flag on the status board in the general area of Japan. For the most part, they had no real idea of what had happened to any of them. They simply failed to come home.
“Do we know why?” the exec asked.
“Not officially,” Gar said. “We’ll receive sealed orders just before we sail.”
“And unofficially?”
“It involves a carrier. That’s all I think I should say at this juncture, and that’s between you and me.”
The exec tried to put a good face on it, but he was struggling. “I guess we’ll have a target smorgasbord in there, assuming we make it through.”
“This new sonar should make a big difference,” Gar said. “I’ve been to a briefing with the head scientist for that project. We have an updated version of it, and hopefully updated means better. It supposedly can tell you that there’s a mine within five, six hundred yards of you, and roughly where it is. It doesn’t tell you what to do next.”
“Back the hell out of there?”
“But in which direction?” Gar asked. “The Japs aren’t stupid, other than when they started this war. Originally they mined all the choke points to keep their battle fleet and their bases safe against battleships. The mines were all set shallow, and big. Now they’re aiming almost exclusively at submarines.”
“A good portion of their battle fleet being on the bottom.”
“Exactly. They’re finally realizing what the real threat is, so now the moored mines are planted at various depths, down to two hundred fifty feet in some cases. It used to be theoretically possible to go deep and drive under the minefield and hope like hell you didn’t catch a cable and pull one down onto the boat. Now it’s a true 3-D problem, hence the new sonar. In the meantime … is everybody in the wardroom?”
“Yes, sir. What will you tell them?”
“Simply that we’re going out early on a special mission.”
“Bungo Suido?”
“No. I’m keeping that close-hold, too.”
The exec nodded. Gar knew what he was thinking: If word got out that the Dragon was headed for Bungo Suido, there would definitely be some transfer requests surfacing. Submarining was a volunteer sport. If someone asked to get off a sub, it was understood in the force that he could go to other duty on surface ships with no questions asked.
“Is that fair, sir?” the exec asked.
“Fair, XO? As in, what’s ‘fair’ got to do with anything?”
“What I meant was—”
“I know what you meant,” Gar said. “All submariners are volunteers. We owe it to the men to tell them when we’re going on a particularly dangerous mission. This time I can’t do it. My excuse is going to be that I don’t know what the actual mission is yet, and won’t until I open the orders.”
“Transfer requests will be moot at that point, Captain.”
“Yup. Now that you sort of know, you want off?”
“Are we being frank, here, Captain? Because if we are, hell, yes. Bungo Suido? Any sane man would want off. But that’s different from my asking to get off. That I won’t do.”
“Good answer, Russ, and I’m expecting the same thing from the officers and crew. Nobody wants to mess with Bungo Suido. All we can hope is that the Japs will think the same way and won’t be looking too hard. They simply won’t expect it.”
“For many damned good reasons,” the exec said, echoing Gar’s own sentiments, as he pulled back the curtain. “The officers are assembled, sir,” he declared formally.
“Ducky,” Gar said.
* * *
It was their last night in port. Gar luxuriated in a final hot shower at the Pink Palace and then dressed and went downstairs for a drink and some supper. The all-officers meeting had been a bit strained. The wardroom recognized that they weren’t being told a whole lot other than that they were off on a special mission. Gar’s reluctance to answer any questions, plus the exec’s grim face, apparently spoke volumes. The officers knew better than to push it, Gar realized, but he felt that he’d been disloyal to them in one sense. He rationalized it by telling them, and himself, that the mission was the mission. Submarines were offensive weapons, and he firmly believed in the notion that they deliberately drove in harm’s way. The fact that some of his officers were married with wives and children worrying back in the States was something he had to coldly ignore. They very well might not come back from this one, but there was a war on, and the submarine force was at the tip of the spear.
He took a table out on the lanai as was his custom, ordered a double Scotch, and then sat back to enjoy the whisky and not think too much. He’d avoided the sixth-floor hospitality suite. He did not want to see or talk to any of his brethren this evening.
Where you bound this patrol?
Can’t say.
Oh, come on—we’re all in this together.
Can’t say. Hell, won’t say. Besides, it’s no big deal, although, if you knew, you’d say I was nuts. Truth to tell, you’d be right. I think the whole fucking thing is nuts. Bungo Suido, for God’s sake.
New sonar or no new sonar, the four-striper’s words hung in his memory. Works some of the time, but not all the time. Wasn’t designed for submarines, you know? Wonderful: a sonar that would let you see there was a whole minefield right in front of you, help you steer into it, for the love of Mike, and then, what—quit?
The wave of fear ambushed him. He’d felt fear before, when the depth charges were clicking and booming out there in the black depths, but this was different. This was helplessness compounded by his decision not to tell his people what the brass wanted the Dragon to do. It was the kind of helplessness you’d feel when you were out in a river and you first heard the thunder of a waterfall around the next bend. What’s the matter, there, Captain Lone Wolf: This is how you’ve played it all along, yes? What’s the problem now?
He blew out a long breath and finished his Scotch. The waitress slid by, saw the empty glass, and raised an eyebrow. Gar nodded. Yes, ma’am, hit it again, harder, please. The double had begun to work its magic, even though a part of his brain remained entirely too sober. Getting boiled tonight was not going to change anything.
“Hey there, sailor,” a familiar voice said.
He cranked his head around and saw Sharon’s face.
“Thank you, God,” he said, and she grinned and sat down. Her face was a bit flushed, and she was carrying the remains of a Scotch of her own.
“You look a bit stressed,” she said.
“I’m think I’m going quietly insane,” he said. “We’ve got a special mission, and we’re probably not coming back.”
Her face clouded. “What?”
“Can’t tell you,” he said. “But I’m scared. For the first time in my entire naval career, I’m scared. I think I know how my crew has felt during some of the last few patrols.”
She just looked at him, as if trying to figure out if this was bachelor bullshit or something much more real. Studying his face, she decided it wasn’t bullshit.
“The ‘bonus’ going a bit sour, is it?”
“Jesus Christ, lady. Your memory is annoying.”
“Lawyer memory, Captain. It’s how we get ya.”
He shook his head. “They’re sending us to Bungo Suido,” he said. “Five of our boats are already dead in that part of the sea. Five skippers and their execs whom I knew personally, three hundred or so
crewmen. All with goddamned fish swimming in and out of their mouths. All—”
“Stop it, Gar Hammond,” she said. “Just stop it. And enough of that stuff, too.” She took his refill away from him and parked it on her side of the table.
He gave her a look that said, You are going to lecture me on drinking too much? She understood immediately.
“I’m a professional boozer, Gar,” she said quietly. “You’re just pretending. So, yeah, you’re officially eighty-six. You should be sober when you discover that you’re human, just like the rest of us.”
Gar closed his eyes. He didn’t need this. He was already embarrassed at revealing that finally, the big bad submarine captain was tasting real fear. She reached across the table and took his hand. “Why don’t we go upstairs?” she asked. “Now that you’re done drinking.”
He sighed. He didn’t want sex. He didn’t want any more booze, either—she was right about that. He wanted—hell, he didn’t know what he wanted.
“C’mon,” she said, pushing back her chair.
He looked around the dark lanai, as if not wanting anyone to see them, then recognized how ridiculous that was. He signed his bar chit and followed her through the dining room to the elevators.
Once in her room he sat on the edge of the bed. There were two chairs in the room, but they were covered in clothes and books, so there was nowhere else to sit. Sharon went into the bathroom. When she came back out she was wearing a full-length white slip and nothing else.
“Oh-oh,” Gar said.
She smiled at him and crossed the room, doing something with her hairdo that made it suddenly fall down.
“Up,” she said.
“Up, aye,” he said, trying to think of something really clever to say.
She took his clothes off and then pushed him back onto the bed with one finger. He did as he was ordered, and she joined him, sitting across his hips while she continued to run her fingers through her hair. Gar recognized who was in charge and simply lay back to enjoy the show, Bungo Suido and all its drowned ghosts suddenly forgotten. Sharon proceeded to bend down and apply her lips to his, and after that, to present all the other best parts for similar attention from him.
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