Designated Targets

training shots ran with significantly lighter dummy warheads. This meant that in a real shoot-out, the torpedoes tended to “sink” a little, and could actually run right under the keel of their targets. The magnetic exploders that might have compensated for this didn’t work properly, because they were designed to function in far northern latitudes, and they went a little haywire south of the equator.

Even if, by some chance, the captain got lucky and actually hit his target, the contact detonator often failed because they’d been designed for an earlier, slower type of fish. The ’temps’ Mark 14 hit with enough speed that the firing pin often missed the exploder cap altogether. It was logical to assume that once this had been pointed out, it would have been attended to with all dispatch. But no, she’d just read an e-mail that morning from Kolhammer complaining that the civilian manufacturer, NTS Newport and the responsible navy office, ComSubSWPac, were still resisting a total refit.

“You’re right,” sighed Willet. “They could shoot their whole wad and still not hit anything.”

“What about these guys here?” She tapped the screen with a light pen, instantly drawing a box around two blue contacts floating within a sheltered cove on the mainland, less than a hundred klicks to her east and 250 south of the advancing Japanese reinforcements. Lieutenant Lohrey worked her station quickly; a window opened and began scrolling text.

“That’s a couple of PT boats, ma’am. Fifty-nine and One-oh-one. They’re tasked for harassment and interdiction of Japanese supply barges coming down through the Whitsundays. If they’re carrying the old Mark Thirteen’s, they’d have a better chance than the subs.”

Willet stood back from the screen and thought it over. She couldn’t risk a radio transmission, and the PT boats didn’t have the equipment to receive a compressed data burst. But she didn’t want to use up any more of her precious store of weapons taking out a troop ship. She had worthier targets.

“Okay,” she concluded. “Let’s make some new friends. Helm, I want a fast run across to those torpedo boats. I’ll talk to the skippers myself. Leave the drones up; we’ll grab the take from them on the way.”

She ordered the comms boss to send a compressed encrypted burst back to Spruance, explaining why they were moving off station.

Turning back to the flatscreen, she tapped her pursed lips with the light pen.

“The One-oh-one?” she said softly. “Do you think he’s still driving it, Amanda?”

The intel boss shrugged. “Could be, Skipper. Who can tell, nowadays?”

SOUTHWEST PACIFIC AREA, NORTH QUEENSLAND COAST

Riding at anchor, the pair of contemporary American torpedo boats were invisible from the main shipping channels, and nestled in under a thick, tropical mangrove canopy, they had reasonably good topside cover as well. His men thought it would have been nice if they’d had a beach to relax on, and maybe some sweet-lookin’ dolls to while away the long, hot afternoons, but you couldn’t have everything.

Unless you were on one of those superships, of course. They came with their own dolls, and chilled air, and movies like you wouldn’t believe. Word was they had comfier bunks than the swishiest hotels.

Lieutenant John F. Kennedy had stayed in a few swish joints before he’d signed up for the navy, but he hadn’t had the pleasure of a visit to the Clinton or the Kandahar, or even the British or Aussie ships, which were rumored to have heads where the toilet water swirled down the opposite way. At least that’s what Leading Seaman Molloy said, and he’d been on the Astoria at Midway, so he was the closest they had to an expert on all things related to the time travelers.

Kennedy mopped the sweat from his forehead and neck with an old gray cloth and tried to tune out the drone of the crew’s voices. It was only late spring in this part of the world, but the days were already oppressively hot under the canvas shade they’d rigged up. He was working through an attack plan with Lieutenant George “Barney” Ross, and although he could appreciate the crew’s endless conversation about the sexual practices of women in the twenty-first century U.S. Navy, it was becoming distracting.

“They’ve been slipping small barges through the passage, here and here, usually after midnight,” Ross said, roughly circling an area on the map that lay between the two officers on the flying bridge. “We’re going to have to move on from here tonight, anyhow. So why not try our luck where the reefs get nice and tight for them?”

Kennedy slapped idly at a mosquito that was buzzing around his ear. “Our turn to lead off, Barney?”

His friend smiled. “Sure you won’t get run over in the dark?”

“Eyes like a cat, my friend. Like a cat!”

“The morals, too,” Ross replied, grinning. “Okay, you take us out. We’ll—”

Kennedy could never be sure, but he thought the crew reacted even before the alarm sounded. They’d been training so hard that their ability to anticipate one another was almost spooky. Before he consciously understood what was happening, men were charging to their battle stations. The ship’s twin 50s were manned and ready, all the canons were tracking, including the 40 mm Bofors mounted aft, and a 37 mm antitank gun way up on the bow, flanked by a set of 30 cal machine guns and a deck-mounted mortar. The boat’s supercharged V-12 engine, a Packard 4M-2500, was snarling furiously even before Kennedy got his helmet on, which was about the same time the boat’s chief came stomping up, yelling at everybody to calm down and stow their peckers away.

“Over there, Mr. Kennedy,” said Chief Rollins, pointing to a low, black shape that was heading toward them like a speedboat. It was flying an outsized Australian ensign.

Kennedy grabbed a pair of binoculars. Through the glasses, his first impression firmed up. It was about the size of a speedboat and powered by an outboard, but a very quiet one. He still couldn’t hear it, in fact. There were five figures seated inboard, two of them women, for sure, and all of them carrying rifles of some kind—although he’d be damned if he knew what type. They looked big enough to stop an elephant.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Chief, better tell the men to put their pants back on. Looks like we have polite company for a change.”

George Ross was nearly dancing from foot to foot beside him. “Are they—?”

“Yup,” said Kennedy, “they are.”

The sound of the outboard reached them only when the boat was about twenty-five feet away. Chief Rollins whistled in admiration as it bumped up against the side of the torpedo boat. “She’s a beauty,” he said.

“Thank you, Chief,” one of the women said as she effortlessly hauled herself up over the side. “I take it you mean the boat, right?”

Rollins hardly knew where to look, and Kennedy could see why. The woman was handsome, even striking, and her eyes sparked with a mischievous humor. She was dressed in some sort of dark blue coverall that did cover all, but still gave the men of both PT boats plenty to think about.

“Captain Jane Willet, commanding HMAS Havoc,” she declared, and snapped a salute directly at Kennedy without having to enquire which of them was the captain. Even without a shirt, and with his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, she seemed to recognize him—But of course she would, he thought. Kennedy felt the strangeness of the moment, meeting someone who seemed to know all about him—who probably knew more about him than he did himself, in some ways. He’d been able to avoid some of the personal ramifications of the Transition hiding away and fighting down here in the mangroves inside the Great Barrier Reef. After Midway, and the attacks on New Guinea and Australia, there’d been no time to indulge in undergrad fantasies of “what-if.” He’d been promoted; then his boat and his men had been thrown into the firestorm and ordered to make the best of it. Now, he felt like his mind was stretching and twisting in a completely unnatural fashion. He hadn’t felt it so strongly in months.

“I’m Lieutenant Kennedy,” he said, returning the woman’s salute. “And this is Lieutenant Ross, the skipper of the other boat.” Kennedy searched his memories of the chaos after the Transition. “The Havoc, eh?” he said. “I guess you’d be the ones launched those rockets at Yamamoto’s home base? Sank two carriers and a bunch of cruisers?”

“We are,” said Willet, squinting in the fierce tropical sun. Kennedy had noticed that most Australians seemed to walk around with a permanent squint.

Lieutenant Ross stepped forward eagerly, cutting his friend off. “It’s an honor, Captain Willet. And a privilege.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” replied the submariner. She appeared somewhat taken aback by his earnestness. Kennedy smiled to himself. He doubted there was a man anywhere in the navy who believed in this war as much as his friend.