Ropes dropped down to secure Willet’s launch as another pair of her shipmates came over the side of the 101: a second woman, smaller and a few years younger than Willet, and an old salt who wouldn’t have looked out of place on Kennedy’s boat. The captain introduced the woman as her “intel boss,” Lieutenant Lohrey, and the guy as her own chief, Chief Petty Officer Roy Flemming. He was grinning hugely, and paying almost no attention to Kennedy or Ross. He only had eyes for the boat.
“If you’ll excuse me, this doesn’t look like a standard early-series Elco, Lieutenant. You got a lot of mods here.”
Kennedy smiled again. “You mean the armaments? Yeah, well, the welds on some of them are still warm.”
Willet’s boat chief walked over to the nearest cannon, the forward-mounted 37 mm can opener, and stroked it with a loving air that Kennedy recognized only too well. His own chief had been inordinately proud of the refit, which the squadron had done on their own initiative back in Pearl, using a bare minimum of information cribbed from a copy of
“You didn’t really see this sort of configuration until late forty-three, forty-four,” said Chief Flemming. “You know, pound for pound, the old PT boats were just about the heaviest hitters of the war.”
“You’ll have to excuse, Roy,” said Willet. “He’s an enthusiast.”
Kennedy had climbed down from the flying bridge to the deck, where the last two Australian sailors had come aboard. Their coveralls were much thicker than the other three and seemed heavily padded. They wore some sort of protection at their knees and elbows, which reminded him of athletic cups, of all things. Each carried a pair of mysterious black tubes slung across his back. Their headgear resembled German helmets, and their eyes were hidden behind goggles that reflected his image like a mirror. They never stopped moving their heads, scanning the tree line and the mangroves like hunting dogs. They didn’t smile much either.
Willet saw him checking them out. “Sorry, we don’t mean to be rude, Lieutenant. But you’re way behind enemy lines here. And good manners are always the first casualty of war.”
Kennedy shrugged it off. He was acutely aware of being caught half-naked, but neither of the women seemed at all interested. Perhaps the rumors were true after all. “Well, Captain,” he said, “visitors are always welcome. But I assume you’re here on business.”
“We are.” She nodded. “How would you like to do me a big favor?”
“Anything for a lady.”
Willet gave him a lopsided grin. “That’s what I hear.”
Kennedy wasn’t sure which was louder, the laughter from his shipmates or the rush of blood in his ears as he flushed with embarrassment.
The four officers repaired to the now very cramped flying bridge, while Chief Petty Officer Flemming disappeared on a tour of the boat with Collins. Willet’s security detail took up positions fore and aft and politely refused to talk to anyone. Sneaking a look at them occasionally, Kennedy wondered why they didn’t faint from heat exhaustion. They were entirely cocooned within their strange battle dress.
Willet caught him looking once as he wiped at the sweat from his own neck.
“The suits are thermopliable, Lieutenant. They’re much more comfortable than you or I at the moment.”
Kennedy nodded absently, then turned back to the amazing devices that Lohrey had produced from a backpack. The data slates, as she called them, were about the size of a large book, and not much thicker than a packet of cigarettes. One of them displayed about a dozen graphs and readouts that made no sense at all to Kennedy and Ross. Willet explained that this was a live link back to her sub, feeding her updated intelligence. The pictures in the other data slate made a lot more sense, but were hard to believe.
“This is a real-time feed from a Big Eye drone we’ve got shadowing this Japanese convoy,” Lohrey explained. “It’s sitting way above the ceiling of any air cover, but as you can see, there’s none to speak of anyway.”
The two torpedo boat officers had been briefed on the capabilities of the Multinational Force, and when he’d joined the ship’s complement, Leading Seaman Molloy had kept everyone entranced for days with stories about the
The slate taking the feed from the surveillance craft—Lohrey called it a drone—was full of movies, obviously shot from somewhere above the Japs. One large frame, showing all five ships, dominated the screen. Surrounding it, five smaller “windows” carried live images of each individual ship. Lohrey played with another device, a flexipad, and the images danced around, the focus zooming in until it was like they were floating just above the deck of one of the ships. Kennedy could see hundreds of uniformed men there. It looked to be seriously overcrowded, perhaps a sign that the Japs were having transport problems. On one of the destroyers he thought he recognized the signs of an antiair drill in progress.
“These are good kills, gentlemen,” said Willet. “But not good enough to justify burning up a couple of my combat maces. We can lead you guys right onto them, though. You can hit them tonight. There wouldn’t be much moonlight anyway, but our weather radar says the cloud cover is going to be thickening up, too. You up for it?”
“Hell, yeah!” said George Ross.
Kennedy was just as eager, but he didn’t leap in as quickly. “Captain Willet. These, uh, slates are amazing, but we don’t know how to use them. Are you planning on leaving anybody with us?”
“I’ll be staying,” said Lohrey. “And I’ve brought some night-vision gear in the launch. We’ve got holomaps of this whole coast, and we’ve already planted beacons to take a solid position fix, so the lack of GPS won’t be an issue.”
The Americans stared at her with blank incomprehension.
“Trust me,” she said. “It’ll be cool.”
SOUTHWEST PACIFIC AREA COMMAND,
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
Hundreds of kilometers away, Lieutenant Commander Rachel Nguyen sat in a small, fourth-floor office of a colonial-era sandstone building, the headquarters of General Douglas MacArthur’s Southwest Pacific Area Command. There was no air-conditioning, and her workstation pumped out enough heat to make the room extremely uncomfortable, even with the windows thrown open and a couple of old wooden fans spinning at top speed. Indeed, she suspected that their tiny motors probably dumped more heat into the room than the fans took out. Mold had discolored the walls and ceiling, and the smell of uncollected garbage drifted up from the alley below.
She was oblivious to it all, though, her attention focused only on the three Bang & Olufsen flatscreens arrayed across the huge desk at which she sat. Two officers from MacArthur’s Intelligence Division sat in with her, an American major and an army captain from New Zealand. They were both ’temps, and although they outranked her, they deferred to her technical expertise, which meant that neither of them was comfortable using a wireless mouse. Or any kind of mouse, for that matter.
The screens ran video coverage and data dumps received from 21C assets positioned all over the local theater—vision recorded by a marine recon squad probing the Japanese garrison at Mackay, transcripts of signal intercepts sucked up by the AWACS birds, drone coverage of the frontline battles north of the city, even media packages from embedded journalists like Julia Duffy. Rachel hadn’t spoken to the reporter since they’d briefly worked together on the
Instead, all three officers were concentrating on a data burst from the
