navigational tasks. Like most Japanese he'd been raised to think of war as something to be avoided as assiduously as plague. The overnight development of a conflict with America, well, it had felt good for a day or so to teach the arrogant
All he had to do was look down in the afternoon sunlight to see those destroyers—doing what? They were guarding their country's coast against the possibility of attack. Was that normal?
'Conn, Sonar.'
'Conn, aye.' Clagget had the conn for the afternoon watch. He wanted the crew to see him at work, and more than that, wanted to keep the feel for conning his boat.
'Possible multiple contacts to the south,' the sonar chief reported.
'Bearing one-seven-one. Look like surface ships at high speed, sir, getting pounding and a very high blade rate.'
That was about right, the CO thought, heading for the sonar room again. He was about to order a track to be plotted, but when he turned to do so, he saw two quartermasters already setting it up, and the ray-path analyzer printing its first cut on the range. His crew was fully drilled in now, and things just happened automatically, but better. They were thinking as well as acting.
'Best guess, they're a ways off, but look at all this,' the chief said. It was clearly a real contact. Data was appearing on four different frequency lines.
Then the chief held up his phones. 'Sounds like a whole bunch of screws turning—a lot of racing and cavitation, has to be multiple ships, traveling in column.'
'And our other friend?' Claggett asked.
'The sub? He's gone quiet again, probably just tooling along on batteries at five or less.' That contact was a good twenty miles off, just beyond the usual detection range.
'Sir, initial range cut on the new contacts is a hundred-plus-thousand yards, CZ contact,' another tech reported.
'Bearing is constant. Not a wiggle. They heading straight for us or close to it. They pounding hard. What are surface conditions like, sir?'
'Waves eight to ten feet, Chief.' A hundred thousand yards plus. More than fifty nautical miles, Claggett thought. Those ships were driving hard.
In a more dramatic setting, in front of cameras, the atmosphere might have been different, but although the setting was dramatic in a distant sense, right now it was merely cold and miserable. Though these men were the most elite of troops, it was far easier to rouse yourself for combat against a person than against unremitting environmental discomfort. The Rangers, in their mainly white camouflage overclothing, moved about as little as possible, and the lack of physical activity merely made them more vulnerable to the cold and to boredom, the soldier's deadliest enemy.
'Be nice to get back to Fort Stewart, sir,' First Sergeant Vega observed.
'Spread on that sunblock and catch some rays on the beach.'
'And miss all this beautiful snow and sleet, Oso?' At least the sky was clear now.
'Roge-o, Captain. But I got my fill o' this shit when I was a kid in Chicago.' He paused, looking and listening around again. The noise-discipline of the other Rangers was excellent, and you had to look very closely indeed to see where the lookouts were standing.
'Ready for the walk out tonight?'
'Just so's our friend is waiting on the far side of that hill.'
'I'm sure he will he,' Checa lied.
'Yes, sir. I am, too.'
The killers in their midst were sleeping in their bags, in holes lined with pine branches and covered with more branches for additional warmth. In addition to guarding the pilots, the Rangers had to keep them healthy, like watching over infants, an odd mission for elite troops, but troops of that sort generally drew the oddest.
'So they say.' Checa looked at his watch. 'We shake them loose in another two hours.'
Vega nodded, hoping that his legs weren't too stiff for the trek south.
The patrol pattern had been set in the mission briefing. The four boomers had thirty-mile sectors, and each sector was divided into three ten-mile segments. Each boat could patrol in the center slot, leaving the north and south slots empty for everything but weapons. The patrol patterns were left to the judgment of individual skippers, but they worked out the same way.
She was making so little noise that a whale might have come close to a collision, if it were the right time for whales in this part of the Pacific, which it wasn't. Behind her, at the end of a lengthy cable, was her towed-array sonar, and the two-hour north-south cycle allowed it to trail straight out in a line, with about ten minutes or so required for the turns at the end of the cycles to get it straight again for maximum performance.
'Now hear this,' the Captain said over the 1-MC announcing system. Every speaker had been turned down, so that the announcement came as a whisper that the men strained to hear. 'We have a probable submerged contact in our kill zone. I am going to conduct the attack just as we briefed it. Battle stations,' he concluded in the voice of a man ordering breakfast at HoJo's.