That held some truth, but only some. Other things went into the mix. “Jap carriers can walk away from subs. These little guys won’t be able to.”

Another shrug from the gun chief. “That’s why the Townsend’s in the Navy. If we can’t keep submersibles off of carriers, what the hell good are we?”

George gave up. He wasn’t about to change Dalby’s mind. That was as plain as the nose on the CPO’s face-which was saying something, because Dalby had a formidable honker. In the end, changing Dalby’s mind didn’t matter a dime’s worth anyhow. Dalby wasn’t the one who’d decide what to do with the escort carriers. He wasn’t the one who’d decide what to do with the Townsend, either, though he often acted as if he were the skipper.

He said, “It’ll be goddamn nice operating with real air cover for a change. Not even the brass’d be dumb enough to send us out naked anymore.”

“Here’s hoping.” Fritz Gustafson packed a world of skepticism into two words.

This time, George thought Dalby had the right of it. There were plenty of land-based airplanes on Oahu. Why send carriers all the way to the Sandwich Islands if not to use them with the rest of the Navy?

When the Townsend put to sea a few days later, she did so without either the Trenton or the Chapultepec. Even though she did, George didn’t flabble about it: she went out on an antisubmersible patrol to the east of Oahu. Japanese carrier-based aircraft were most unlikely to find her there.

After George remarked on that, Dalby looked at him-looked through him, really. “You’d sooner be torpedoed?”

“Got a better chance against a sub than we would against airplanes,” George said stubbornly. Then he wondered if that was true. His father hadn’t had any chance against a submarine. But he got sucker-punched after the war was over. We’d be on our toes.

Whenever George was on deck, he kept an eye peeled for periscopes. He also looked for the thin, pale exhaust from a submersible’s diesel engine. What with the Townsend’s hydrophone gear, all that was probably wasted effort. He didn’t care, not even a little bit. He did it anyhow. He noticed he was far from the only one who did.

He wasn’t on deck when general quarters sounded. He was rinsing off in the shower. He threw on his skivvies and ran for his gun with the rest of his clothes, including his shoes, under his arm.

Nobody laughed, or not very much. Nobody who’d been in the Navy longer than a few weeks hadn’t been caught the same way. He dressed at his post. His hair was still wet. It dripped in his face and down his back. He would have minded that much more in the North Atlantic in December than he did here.

“Now hear this!” The exec’s voice crackled out of the loudspeakers. “We’ve found us a submarine, and we are going to prosecute the son of a bitch.”

An excited buzz ran through the sailors. George looked enviously up toward the depth-charge launchers near the destroyer’s bow. Their crews were the ones who’d have the fun of dropping things on the Japs’ heads.

“Don’t go to sleep, now,” Fremont Dalby warned. “If those bastards surface, we’re the ones who’ll fill ’em full of holes.” He set a hand on one of the 40mm’s twin barrels. The quick-firing gun made an admirable can opener.

The Townsend swung to port. Down under the surface, a submersible was no doubt maneuvering, too. It could have been cat-and-mouse, but the mouse here had almost as good a chance as the cat. The Townsend’s advantage was speed, the sub’s stealth. Where was that boat?

They must have thought they knew, for depth charges flew from the launchers and splashed into the Pacific. George waited, bracing himself. When the ashcans burst, it was like a kick in the ass from an elephant. The Townsend’s bow lifted, then slammed back down.

More charges arced through the air. Some would be set for a depth a little less than the hydrophone operator thought accurate, some for a little more. With luck, the submersible wouldn’t get away. With luck…

“Oil! Oil!” somebody yelled. His voice cracked the second time he said it.

“Could be a trick,” Fritz Gustafson said. George nodded. A canny sub skipper would deliberately release oil and air bubbles to try to fool his tormentors into thinking they’d smashed him. Then he could slink away or strike back as he got the chance.

Not this time, though. “Coming up!” screamed somebody near the bow. “Motherfucker’s coming up!”

Like a breaching whale but far bigger, the Japanese submarine surfaced. She might not have been able to stay down anymore, but she still showed fight. Men tumbled out of her conning tower and ran for the deck guns. The odds against them were long-a destroyer vastly outgunned a submersible-but they had a chance. If they could hurt the Townsend badly enough, they might yet get away.

But the destroyer’s guns were already manned and ready. George wasn’t sure if his weapon was the very first to start blazing away, but it was among the first. Tracers walked across the water toward the sub less than a mile away. They were close enough to the target to let him see chunks of metal fly when shells slammed into the side of the boat and the conning tower. One of the shells hit a Japanese sailor amidships. He exploded into red mist. There were worse ways to go; he must have died before he knew it.

The Japs got off a few shots. One of them hit near the Townsend’s bow, just aft of the ashcan launchers. George heard shrieks through the din of gunfire. But the sub was in over its head. Its guns were out in the open and unprotected, and the American 40mms and machine guns picked off the crews in nothing flat. When the destroyer’s main armament started taking bites out of the sub’s hull, it quickly sank. It kept firing as long as it could. The crew had guts-no way around that.

A few men still bobbed in the water after the submersible went down. The Townsend steered toward them and threw lines and life rings into the water. The Japanese sailors stubbornly refused to take them. A couple of sailors deliberately sank when lines came near. Others shook defiant fists at the ship that had sunk their sub. They shouted what had to be insults in their own language.

“They’re crazy,” George said. “If that was me, I’d be up on this deck and down on my knees thanking God they’d rescued me instead of shooting me or leaving me for shark bait or just to drown.”

“Japs aren’t like that,” Dalby said. “Bunch of crazy monkeys, if you want to know what I think.”

“They figure being a POW is the worst thing in the world,” Fritz Gustafson said. “Far as they’re concerned, dying’s better.”

“Like I said-crazy,” Dalby said.

“Nasty, too.” Gustafson was, for him, in a talky mood. “Don’t let ’em catch you. If you’re a POW, they figure you’re in disgrace. Anything goes, near enough.”

“How do you know that?” George asked.

The loader shrugged. “You hear stuff, is all.”

One of the last Japanese sailors afloat spat seawater up at the Townsend. He made gestures that probably meant the same as giving her the finger. The ship took the perfect revenge: she sailed away. The sailors whooped and cheered. “I think you’re right, Chief,” George said. “They are crazy.”

“Told you so,” Fremont Dalby said smugly. “I just wish they weren’t so goddamn tough, that’s all.”

Jefferson Pinkard inspected his dress grays in the mirror. He looked pretty goddamn sharp, if he did say so himself. The three wreathed silver stars on either side of his collar gleamed and sparkled. The way he’d polished them, they couldn’t very well do anything else. His silver belt buckle shone, too. So did the black leather of his belt and boots.

When he got married the first time, back before the Great War, he’d done it in a rented tailcoat. He’d thought he was hot stuff, then. Maybe he’d even been right. His belly hadn’t bulged over his belt in those days, anyhow.