Rising Sun

CHAPTER 19

AMANDA LOOKED STERNLY AT HER FRIEND. “WELL, MAKE UP YOUR mind. Are you in love with him or not?”

Sandy grimaced and wiped away a tear. Her eyes were red from crying. “I don’t know. We only went out a couple of times and now he’s badly wounded.”

Grace inhaled deeply on her cigarette and smiled as she exhaled a perfect smoke ring. “Let’s face it, Sandy dearest, you are afraid that you’re going to wind up with a war hero who’s a cripple and so badly mangled that you won’t want to be seen with him, much less wind up screwing him, even with the lights off.”

Amanda smiled. “You do have a marvelously tactful way with words, Gracie.”

“The hell with tact,” Grace said. “I think it’s time to be blunt. When young Mister Farris went north, Sandy moped and then did what she does best at a time of crisis, she ate. Sandy, did anyone ever tell you you’re getting fat again?”

“I am not getting fat,” Sandy said loud enough for the handful of the others in the restaurant to hear. They stifled grins and turned away.

“All right,” Sandy said and wiped away another tear. “You’re right, I am gaining. I’ll stop eating, so don’t call me a baby.”

“Good,” said Amanda. “Now what are you going to do about Steve Farris? If he’s coming down here, you are going to have to meet with him and deal with whatever problems he has. That is, if you want to have a future with him. Even though you two aren’t married and maybe never will be, that for better or worse thing still counts. Maybe it’s even more important before you get married, or even begin to take each other seriously. And, by the way, if he’s on his way down here, he can’t be all that badly wounded, can he?”

Sandy had gotten a brief note from Steve, written with obvious difficulty and just delivered. In it he said he was having trouble with his left arm and eye, but was otherwise okay and looked forward to seeing Sandy. All of this said that he wasn’t an amputee and strongly implied that he wasn’t confined to a wheelchair. But was she really looking forward to seeing him? He would be coming down by train in a few days and said he was delighted that a wounded army officer was being sent to recuperate in what was essentially a navy town.

Amanda pressed her. “Sandy, you are a nurse, remember? You’ve seen some sights that nobody should ever have to see. You’ve worked on patients so badly mangled it’s a miracle that they’re still alive. You’ve seen men missing limbs and eyes and faces, and you’ve seen relatives who’ve sucked it up and decided that they would take care of their son, their brother, their husband as best they could. You’ve heard grown men cry for their mothers and dying boys say they didn’t want to die a virgin. Steve got a medal for what he did, but those people are heroes too.”

Grace laughed. “And don’t think it was such a big thrill making love to Mack’s old and withered body.”

“It wasn’t?” Sandy said angrily. “I would have thought otherwise from all the noise you two made.”

“Well, actually it was. Not as good as Captain Billy Merchant, mind you, but quite nice.”

Sandy took a deep breath. “You’re right, of course. I’ll be a big girl and deal with it as it happens. And I’ll skip dessert, thank you.”

Amanda smiled and turned away. Sandy’s situation had brought out her own unspoken fears. What would she do if Tim was badly wounded, crippled, blinded? He’d seen so much action it was a wonder he was still alive. Sometimes she thought it would be easier dealing with someone’s death. Then, when she thought that way, she realized her thoughts were stupid.

The two Australian cruisers were a mass of flames. So too were the pair of transports the fools had been escorting. Masao Ikeda turned his plane for another strafing run on the almost helpless targets. An antiaircraft crew on one of the cruisers was still firing at them. He dropped his Zero’s nose and his guns obliterated the response.

Aichi E13A seaplanes had spotted the ships earlier in the day. The cruisers were tentatively identified as the heavy cruiser Canberra, ten thousand tons and four turrets each with two eight-inch guns, and the light cruiser Hobart, seventy-one hundred tons and eight six-inch guns, and they were now burning and sinking. Australia’s navy had been small and now, he thought happily, it was even smaller. Rumor had it that Australia’s food situation was becoming as desperate as Hawaii’s, so maybe this setback would cause Australia to think twice about continuing to fight the Japanese Empire.

A number of lifeboats and rafts were in the water and some of the other Zero pilots, mainly the newer ones, thought it was great sport to strafe the helpless little boats. He watched in disgust as bullets ripped through the flimsy craft, sending men into water that was rapidly turning blood red around their floating bodies. He heard the pilots exulting on their radios and contemplated telling them to shut up. He didn’t, though. Let them have their way for a little while. Besides, even though he now had a dozen kills to his credit, they might not obey him. Their blood lust was up.

In earlier times, Masao had thought that way as well, but not now. He had seen far too many men die to think kindly on the idea of slaughter as a sport. Killing the helpless was not the way of the warrior. Nor was it right for the gunners on the cruiser to have kept firing, forcing Masao to kill again. There was no shame in retreating to fight again another day. The Australian gunners had been fools and it would be justice if they were dead.

The newer Japanese pilots were not the same quality as the men they were replacing, the men who had fought and died for Nippon, the men he mourned as lost companions. The men replacing them were children in comparison, a point he’d frequently made to his good friend Toki.

The Canberra rolled on its side and then on its back. Australian sailors tried to cling to the slippery hull but it bounced obscenely in the water and they were thrown off. God help anyone trapped inside, Masao thought and permitted himself a shudder since no one could see him show weakness in the cockpit of his plane. When I die, he thought, let it be fast.

An hour later, his plane and all the rest of the pilots were safe on the Kaga. Two Zeros had been shot down by enemy fire and both pilots lost. They had been new pilots and now they would be replaced by two more who were even less well prepared.

Masao took a long drink of water and walked as close to the edge of the flight deck as his fear of heights would let him. The mighty ocean swells were hypnotically beautiful and deceptively peaceful. One could look and never see war.

“Don’t jump,” a familiar voice whispered from behind him.

“Go to hell, Toki,” he cheerfully said to his friend. Masao was glad to see him. There hadn’t been much opportunity to visit in the last several days.

“We may already be there, or haven’t you noticed? The men and the ship are wearing down. We need a long and slow refit in a harbor that actually has facilities and where the people don’t want to kill you like they do on Hawaii. And admit it, wouldn’t you like to walk on the ground just one more time before you die?”

“Yes, but I don’t plan on dying just yet.”

“Who does, but we are in a war,” Toki said.

“Which is why we cannot surrender to our desire for luxuries,” Masao answered. “We must harden ourselves and be stronger than the Americans. Our time will come. Then we will have geishas or even American or Australian maidens to service us,” Masao added facetiously.

“And they’ll be as enthusiastic as the whores, or slaves, in Hawaii. By the way, that little piece of happiness and sunshine near Hilo has been abandoned. Apparently, Hawaiian guerillas overran the place and freed all the slaves. Now you can’t even go there and just sit on the beach. We bombed and strafed the island, doubtless killing a number of the enemy, but that was an exercise in futility.”

“Enough,” Masao said sharply. “Please tell me you have some good news for a change.”

“Well, it is news, but I won’t be the judge as to whether it’s good or not. Apparently, we have somehow located the American carrier, the Saratoga.”

Masao beamed. “Excellent. Now we can strike at her and kill her. And then perhaps we can go home and get laid by a proper Japanese woman.”

“What happened to your American or Australian women? Regardless, it might not happen. Just because we found the damned carrier doesn’t mean she’s in a position where she can be attacked. Apparently she is off the Mexican coast, in a body of water called the Bay of California. It is near enough to San Diego for surface planes to protect her. Neither Admiral Kurita nor Admiral Nagumo thinks she would be worth the price. Yamamoto of course disagrees. He reminds his admirals that Japan was willing to lose two carriers at Pearl Harbor in order to destroy the American fleet, and should be willing to lose a carrier or two in order to wipe out the final vestiges of American power in the Pacific.”

Masao grinned. “Just so long as one of the carriers sunk isn’t the Kaga. I’m very tired of having to change ships because the previous one was sunk. Seriously, what do you think will be the decision?”

“Apparently our revered Admiral Yamamoto is torn. Attacking the Saratoga while she is being repaired is one option. Another is to wait until her repairs are complete and hit her with a host of submarines. The exit from her sanctuary is relatively narrow and could easily be covered by our submarines. A number of them are already on their way to blockade the gulf.”

Masao pondered for a moment. “A good plan, but not good enough. The Americans will surely be looking for our submarines, whether they suspect that we know where the carrier is or not. No, the only way to be certain is to use our planes. I suppose we could use our subs to trail the Saratoga once she does emerge and take her on the high seas when she’s away from any help from land-based planes, or even their subs. But the American carrier is much faster than our subs, and that means we would run the always present risk of her escaping. If that were to happen, the chase would begin all over again.”

Toki laughed. “You should have been an admiral. Those are exactly the arguments that are raging. Yamamoto does not want to run the risk of having to chase her again.”

“Well, I am smarter than most people think, and better looking, too. But what do you think will happen?”

Toki took a deep breath. “I believe Yamamoto is looking for the slightest excuse to attack her while she is in Mexican waters.”

Dane came up with the basic phraseology for the second message and Krause modified it only slightly. The message said that not only was the client recovering in Mexico, but that the client would shortly be visited by his twin brother and suitable gifts should be provided for the siblings.

Krause was happy. He could see himself one step closer to being free to disappear in the vastness of the United States. He was more and more convinced that Germany would lose the war. He felt that the offensive against the Soviet city of Stalingrad which had begun in June would prove to be a catastrophe.

“According to your newspapers and radio,” Krause said, “Hitler will lose in Russia and he will lose in North Africa, even though your advances have been slow and poorly managed at best. The German Army in North Africa cannot be reinforced or kept well supplied. You will simply overwhelm Rommel or whoever is in command. In a way, it is like your situation in Alaska, although that seems to have taken a turn for the better.”

“I’ll relay your thoughts to Roosevelt and Marshall,” Dane said drily. “I’m sure they’ll be gratified to know of your approval.”

Krause ignored the gibe. “When will you arrest the men I’ve been communicating with in Mexico?”

“Not my call. I suppose, though, that it will happen when they and you are of no further use. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll all be killed resisting arrest. Why, are some of them your friends?”

Krause paused for a moment. He was visualizing their faces and remembering the times they’d had together.

“Friends? No. I will concede that they are, or were, comrades in arms. But after all is said and done, if they must become casualties, then so be it.” He laughed. “It’s not as if I have a choice in the matter. If anybody has to be a casualty, I would much prefer it be them and not me.”

Farris sat in an uncomfortable chair in the darkened hospital room and looked at the doctor shining a light into his bad eye. He put a hand over his right eye and used only his left. What he saw was blurry and bright, but at least it was sight. He reached over with his left hand and picked up a pencil on the third try.

“Damn it.”

“Keep working at it,” the doctor said and left. Farris thought the doctor had been useless, telling him nothing he didn’t already know. He could see out of his left eye, just not very well. Sometimes he thought he would be better off wearing a patch but the doctors said he should try to strengthen his eye and his vision by using it. Sometimes he got headaches, but they would be a small price to pay if he could regain much of his vision. An eye doctor suggested that he might wind up wearing glasses when his vision stabilized. Damn, that meant he would look like Clark Kent, without the ability to turn into Superman. Would Lois Lane, Sandy, want such a creature? Did he want Lois Lane? The doctors informed him that there would also be scarring and that half of his left eyebrow no longer existed. This was hardly a big deal when he considered some of the others recovering in this and other hospitals. At least he was alive. Stecher wasn’t.

Use of his left arm had returned somewhat. He would perform tasks that didn’t require skill, like picking up something large, but other tasks, like picking up a pencil or turning the pages of a book or newspaper were still difficult at best.

His trip to San Diego had been interrupted by more vital traffic, and he found himself convalescing in San Francisco. He’d been told that he would be treated for a while, maybe a few weeks, and then likely discharged if he wanted it. He’d served his country well, an overweight major had told him, and he’d gotten his wounds and medals. The major said that Farris was a hero. Steve almost told the major to go screw himself. He knew he wasn’t a hero. He also wasn’t certain he wanted to be discharged. He’d been scared to death during the final Japanese attack. Stecher had been the real hero and Steve was glad that Gavin had put the sergeant in for a medal. The poor bastard had wanted so much to kill Japanese in revenge for their killing his brother, it was a shame that he’d gotten himself killed just when it seemed like he was coming to grips with his personal tragedy.

A PFC with a clipboard came in. “You Lieutenant Farris?”

“I am.”

“Well, sir, I got orders from some Canadian doctor in Vancouver to put you on a bus to Kansas City.”

“Are you kidding?”

The PFC grinned. “Yes, sir. One of the docs who was looking you over put me up to it. His cousin is the guy in Vancouver who treated you. Actually, you’re scheduled to go by train to San Diego and it leaves in two hours. Can you be ready?”

Farris laughed and almost jumped out of his chair. “Damn right I can.”

Even the normally dour Admiral Nagumo was stunned by their good fortune. Not one, but two American carriers would soon be in the Gulf of California.

“I cannot believe that fortune is finally on our side,” Nagumo said.

Even Yamamoto grinned. “What happened to your normal state of pessimism?”

“Perhaps it is overwhelmed by the possibility that we may actually be able to bring this war to a conclusion favorable to Japan before the full might of the United States is brought to bear against us. That possibility would make even a corpse giddy. But tell me, what convinces you that this is not a trick designed to draw us into an ambush?”

Yamamoto stood and looked out at the large map of the Pacific that dominated his conference room on the battleship Yamato. He too had been wondering the same thing. Was it too good to be true? There was a saying he’d heard in America—if it seems too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true.

After a long moment, Yamamoto answered. “For one thing, the source is Germany, our ally. For another, I believe we can verify the existence of the carriers.”

Nagumo nodded sagely. “But what if our attempts at verification are discovered? That will induce the Americans to depart the area, won’t it?”

“Indeed, and that is why we must be extremely circumspect. Germany has volunteered to provide the eyes that will confirm the existence of the two carriers and I have accepted their offer.”

Nagumo was clearly unhappy. “I would prefer that Japanese eyes do the confirming. I do not trust our Nazi allies. They detest us almost as much as they hate Jews.”

“Agreed, but we might not have a choice. If we use a floatplane from a sub, we run the risk of it being discovered and the Americans will know we are on to them and will flee. Nor can we get any surface ships close to the Gulf of California without being discovered by American planes and radar.”

Nagumo nodded. “You are right. We do not have a choice. But I do not like the idea of putting our destiny in the hands of the Germans.”

“Nor do I,” Yamamoto said, “but we are not in a position to choose our friends.”

Yamamoto walked over to the map of California that was taped to the wall. It amused him that it clearly said it came from a National Geographic. Still, it was an excellent map. He fervently hoped that the Americans had trouble getting decent maps of Japan.

“Once the presence of the carriers is verified, we will attack them with overwhelming force and sink both them. We will lose planes and possibly even ships, but it will be more than worth it. We will distract them from protecting the carriers by using our battleships and heavy cruisers to bombard Los Angeles and San Diego. The bombardment will come first, which will cause the Americans to divert planes to protect their cities and the civilian population.”

“Will you notify Tokyo of your intentions?” Nagumo asked.

Yamamoto bristled. “No. I command the fleet and I do not need permission from anyone to do battle with the Americans.”

Nagumo nodded solemnly. “Keeping the attack a secret with only the fleet aware of what we hope to achieve will keep our plans even more secure. While the Americans cannot read our codes, there might be a blabbing mouth in Tokyo and news might somehow reach our enemies. As much as I would prefer that we receive blessings from Tokyo, I agree that this is something that we alone must do.”

Yamamoto smiled. He didn’t need anyone’s permission or blessing, but it still would have been good to receive. Now if only the existence of the American carriers could be verified. Their destruction would result in Japanese control of the Pacific for at least several more years. The longer the growing might of the United States Navy was kept at bay, the more likely the Japanese Empire would emerge from this war with an honorable peace that would provide Japan with both economic and military security.

There was another problem that could arise should they be victorious. There would inevitably be calls from the hierarchy in Tokyo to make additional punishing attacks on the United States. Perhaps there would be pressure on him to invade Australia and Oahu, stretching his slender resources. These would have to be dampened and tempered with reality. What some called “victory disease” could prove fatal.

Still, Yamamoto thought, he would use the fleet to make selective attacks on the United States after the victory in the Gulf of California.

Juan Escobar was a proud man who was both mystified and angry at what had happened to his once proud and orderly world. An aristocrat who considered himself more Spanish then Mexican, he deplored the fact that crude, illiterate peasants of Indian descent had done so much to change his world. Not only did he no longer receive the respect that was his due as a descendant of the conquistadores, but he saw thinly veiled contempt in the eyes of many from the lower classes. Even worse, these communist-inspired cretins had almost destroyed his beloved Holy Mother Church’s influence in Mexico with their liberal and egalitarian ideas.

Yes, there currently was a shaky accord in place between the Mexican government and the Church that promised to end the fighting, but his beloved Church remained in a seriously reduced role, and Escobar did not like that. The Church represented God and, therefore, should be in charge. His late uncle had been a bishop and had been adamant about the Church’s proper role in the world. He believed that all governments should be subordinate to the Papacy. He knew that some laughed at him and called his beliefs archaic, but he knew that his way was the truth.

It had come as no surprise to the fifty-year-old Mexican Army colonel that he found himself drawn to the ideas of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party. Hitler knew what to do with the communists. Mexico needed its own Hitler. He held onto the now fading hope that it would someday be a man named Juan Escobar. Even though Hitler did little to support Catholicism, Escobar was confident that the Nazis would change when victory over utterly godless communism was theirs.

Escobar had even rejoiced when Germany declared war on the United States. Perhaps Mexico would join with Hitler and attempt to get back the lands stolen by the U.S. a century before.

Thus, he had been aghast when Mexico had declared war on Germany instead of on the United States. Still, he could do his part to ensure that Germany won. Too bad it meant having to help those repulsive little yellow men from Japan. Whenever he had doubts about what he was doing, he reminded himself that the friend of my friend is my friend as well.

Which was why he found himself bobbing up and down in a stinking little fishing boat off the city of Mazatlan and trying not to speak with the boat’s filthy, foul-mouthed, and sweaty captain any more than necessary. Fishing was a major industry in the area and the Gulf of California teemed with fish, including manta rays and numerous species of whales. Escobar cared nothing about the fish. All he wanted to do was get back to his home in Mexico City, have a drink, and have his mistress visit. He had flown to Mazatlan by private plane and had hoped to take the plane over the area where the American ships were said to be hiding, but his German source informed him that he might be shot down if he was spotted. The area was patrolled by both American and Mexican planes. The new American occupiers still permitted fishing. People had to eat. Thus, an innocuous fishing boat was the best alternative.

The waters in the Gulf of California—he still preferred to call it the Gulf of Cortes—were calm. The night was clear and the little boat chugged its way north and west to where the enemy waited, allegedly grouped against the western side of the gulf. Escobar’s instructions were succinct. He was to count and categorize American ships, especially and logically the larger ones, and under no circumstances was he to risk being discovered.

Ergo, he could not get too close, which was fine by Colonel Escobar. He considered himself to be as brave as the next man, but it had been decades since he’d seen combat, fighting against the American intruders in 1916.

The predawn light poured across the waters. On another day, he would have reveled in its beauty. A rare fin whale surfaced and splashed mightily. Despite his anxieties, it brought a smile.

In the distance, shapes began to emerge as the light grew better. He took out his binoculars—German of course—and focused on the distant objects. When he realized what he was seeing, he understood why the Japanese were so anxious. Clearly silhouetted were a host of American warships. His jaw dropped. Jesu’—two of them were aircraft carriers.

American patrol vessels were only a couple of miles away. He could not get closer, nor did he feel that he had to. He directed the slovenly Mexican monkey who owned the boat to return to Mazatlan and promised him a bonus if he hurried. The money belonged to Germany, so he was inclined to be generous.

The next night he was in his apartment enjoying an excellent French white wine. He had just completed and sent the message to his German associate, a man he’d help hide after the German embassy had been closed down. The German had been extremely grateful and promised that the Third Reich would take care of Juan Escobar when the war was over and the Axis nations triumphant. Escobar didn’t want money. He was already rich. He just wanted his world put back in order.

In an apartment a few blocks away, a thoroughly tired Roy Harris and two other FBI agents stopped listening. An observer on the street noted that all the lights in Escobar’s apartment were out. The colonel had doubtless called it a day. The Mexican’s phones had been tapped ever since the Germans, whose phones were also tapped, had contacted him. Harris had even managed to fly to Mazatlan in another small plane and had seen Escobar take the fishing boat out. He’d contacted the fleet and told them that the little boat’s trip was not to be interrupted. If necessary he could be chased away, but nothing more.

“Should we kill him now or later?” Agent Walt Courtney asked cheerfully.

Harris smiled. It seemed like such a great idea, but it wasn’t going to happen. For one thing, the Mexicans, always touchy, would be thoroughly angry if the U.S. preempted their right to take care of their own traitors. Only a handful of people in the Mexican government were even aware that the FBI was actively working in their country.

“Later,” Harris said, “and we’ll let the Mexicans do it. By communicating with the Germans and running errands for them, he’s just proclaimed himself a traitor to Mexico. Maybe they won’t put him in front of a firing squad. Maybe our Mexican allies will make him work at hard labor in a Mexican prison for the rest of his life and be guarded by those peasants he hates so much.”

Agent Courtney appreciated the thought. “And just maybe he’ll get himself cornholed each night by his jailors or fellow inmates. I kind of like that idea.”

Harris decided he did too. Nobody likes a traitor, even though the actions of this jerk might just change the course of the war.

“Crowley, get your pink young ass in here and close the door!”

Lieutenant Ron Crowley, executive officer of the Shark, rolled his eyes and smiled. His lord and master was pissed. Again. It had not been the best of patrols. They’d sunk a pair of smallish five-thousand-ton merchant ships, but nothing else. They’d fired a pair of torpedoes at a Japanese light cruiser, but they’d either missed or been duds. Almost insultingly, the cruiser hadn’t seemed to notice.

It was night and the sub was running on the surface. Her hatches were open as she swapped fetid air for fresh, recharged her batteries, and let the crew take turns standing out in the open and enjoying the simple act of inhaling and exhaling. Of course, everyone on deck had to be watching carefully for any sign of Japanese planes or ships. Lieutenant Commander Torelli, the Shark’s skipper, was adamant about that. As he told everyone, especially new crewmen, there would be no repeat of the time when, en route to San Diego, she’d been spotted and depth charged. Now he wouldn’t even let the men throw their cigarettes into the water lest some keen eyes pick them up and realize that an American ship might be nearby. Dumping garbage was done very discreetly, using weighted bags.

Crowley picked his way through the passageway. The lights were off so not even the hint of a glow would make its way out, but there was no problem, the XO knew every step, nook, and cranny by heart as did all of the crew.

“Present and accounted for, Skipper,” he said as he entered Torelli’s cramped quarters.

“Tell me, young Lieutenant, which did you like the most up in Alaska—waiting and waiting or sinking that destroyer?”

“Is this a trick question? I loved sinking that Jap and so did you. It’s what we’re out here for, isn’t it?”

“Maybe not, Ron. We just got orders and they are more of the same. We are to hurry up and wait. We are to take up station and patrol an area off of San Diego and look for the Japanese fleet, which may be coming just over the horizon. But when we do spot the slanty-eyed yellow pricks, we are not to attack. In fact, we are not to do anything except stay out of the way and make sure we are not spotted. When we deem it safe, we are to report in and that’s it. It was strongly implied that if we were spotted we would be in more trouble than we could ever imagine even if we should manage to survive the encounter.”

Crowley sat on a small stool. With both men seated in the tiny cabin, their knees were almost touching. “I suppose they have their reasons, Skipper. It sounds like they want to do something sneaky to the Japs and I can’t see anything wrong with that.”

Torelli grinned. “I can’t either, but I don’t like letting them off scot-free if we do find them.”

Crowley looked at Torelli in surprise. “Are you implying that we might not obey orders? I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be court-martialed or spend the rest of my life supervising KP.”

“Don’t fret, Ron. I’m crazy, not stupid. We will obey both the letter and the spirit of the orders. But I want to be totally prepared if we do get the opportunity to hit Hirohito’s fleet. I want every torpedo inspected and inspected again. I want to eliminate the possibility of duds as much as we can.”

Crowley declined to remind his captain that they’d been working with the torpedoes since leaving the base at Mare Island. The problem with malfunctioning torpedoes had not gone away. The navy hierarchy out east in Washington’s BuOrd was adamant that there was nothing wrong with the torpedoes and that the sub skippers were the ones screwing up. The men on the subs felt just the opposite.

The navy’s highest brass had come down with a firm directive that the sub crews may not tamper with or try to improve the torpedoes. Torelli, like a number of others, had quietly and privately thought that the brass in Washington should go screw themselves. Admiral Lockwood, now firmly in charge of American subs operating in the Pacific was on the side of the crews and generally looked the other way when they tweaked the torpedoes. After all, they were the ones who had to deal with the after effects of dud torpedoes, which included highly enraged Japanese warships coming down the throats of their American tormenters.

“What’s happening now, Lieutenant?” asked one of the crew as Crowley emerged.

“Just the usual, we hurry up and wait. After all, this is the navy.”