The PT boat skipper thought it very cold-blooded, and not at all the sort of thing he'd expect from a woman, although looking at Willet's intel boss, Lieutenant Lohrey, he'd bet his bottom dollar that she'd killed many more times than he had. When the revised orders came through, she'd been largely unconcerned, quickly redesigning the attack plan to knock out the destroyers first. Then they could nail the transports and pluck a few prisoners out of the wreckage without having to worry about any interference.
"Are they all like that, Moose?" he'd whispered to Leading Seaman Molloy at one point.
The survivor of the Astoria, a huge slow-witted fellow, had nodded sagely. "Aye, Skipper. I wrote my old man about them-you know he's on the Chicago PD-and he said they sounded a lot like gangsters' molls. Just as soon cut a man's throat as look at him."
But the thought hadn't put Kennedy off at all. Now, as they approached the point where they would wait for the Japanese, in the lee of a small, uninhabited island, the skipper of PT 101 found himself drawn to this female officer again. He couldn't help but admire the hourglass curves of the visiting lieutenant as she bent over a slate, jotting notes on the much smaller flexipad that she held in one hand. There was a two-foot swell running, but she had no trouble keeping her balance, and she moved around the cramped confines of the wheelhouse as though she'd spent her life there.
He wondered if she had a boyfriend or-even more exciting-a girlfriend somewhere. Possibly away up in the twenty-first century, when-
"We have contact," she announced. "Six thousand meters out and tracking south-southeast. Mr. Kennedy, you might want to have your men come to general quarters."
"I might at that," he agreed. "Chief, let's have at them, shall we?"
Chief Petty Officer Dave Rollins nodded once. "Aye, sir." Then he slipped through the blackout curtain, adjusting his borrowed night-vision goggles as he left.
Kennedy nudged the engines up so that the gurgle of the supercharged V-12s increased to a moderate growl. He could feel the power surge coming up through the deck as he grabbed his helmet and checked the straps of his Mae West. The Australian submariner donned her own helmet, the one that looked like SS headgear, and then fitted a pair of outsized reflective goggles over her eyes. She tugged at the straps on her body armor and fit the flexipad into a clear plastic pocket on her forearm. In doing so, it seemed to Kennedy, she transformed herself, losing even more of her individuality. Becoming less of a living, breathing thing than the creaky, roach-infested boat on which they sailed.
She looked like a killer, and nothing less.
It was an effect emphasized by the toneless voice in which she communicated with her comrade on the other PT boat. They exchanged information in a language that Kennedy recognized as English, but which was so heavy with jargon as to be impenetrable.
Lohrey turned her bug-eyed goggles on him and said, "Havoc confirms that Big Eye has designated five kills. Mr. Kennedy, on screen you'll see five thin beams. They're being directed onto the Japanese ships from the surveillance drone we've got keeping station above them. They're invisible to the enemy. They'll flash in sequence to mark the priority targets. So the first blinking line, there, is designating the lead destroyer. When she's taken out, the beam marking her sister ship will begin to strobe."
They'd been through this before, but Kennedy didn't mind being led through the mission again. Truth was, he felt more than a little unsure of himself. They were mashing together some very different fighting techniques, but he put away his misgivings and simply concentrated on not fucking things up.
"All ahead, full," he ordered, and the growl of the boat's engines became a roar as they leapt toward the enemy.
In the Combat Center of the Havoc, Captain Jane Willet watched the attack on-screen. Kennedy's boat was the first contemporary vessel she'd set foot on, and it had left a strong impression. Standing in the slightly antiseptic chilled air of her own submarine, she couldn't help but remember the raw sense of displacement she'd experienced as they climbed aboard the 101, to be greeted by its famous skipper.
He was the first celebrity she'd ever met. The runner-up in the fourth and final Australian Idol competition didn't really count, even if a much younger Jane Willet had once upon a time waited for three hours outside the Sydney Hilton to get his autograph.
"So, Captain, were you swept away by the famous Kennedy charm?" asked her executive officer, Commander Conrad Grey, as they waited for the attack to unfold.
"Did I let him shag me, you mean, Mr. Grey?" she smirked.
"Oh, Captain, please, what will the junior ranks think?"
Willet snorted in amusement. "Well, he was a very handsome man, Commander. The image files don't do him justice. But, no. Future president or not, he didn't get a leg over. Didn't even try. He seemed-I don't know-very well mannered and quite normal."
On the twenty-three-inch Siemens flatscreen, the two torpedo boats appeared in the opalescent green of low-light amplification, their wakes spreading and overlapping as they raced toward their prey. Part of her mind was out there with them. She recalled the faint stench of the boat's Copperoid bottom paint, the smell of atabrine tablets on the crew's breath, the abrasive feel of the saltwater soap in the officers' head, and the taste of the powdered eggs and Spam covered in chutney that they'd eaten for lunch.
The strongest memory she took away, however, was of the crew's grim black humor. They were a ratty-looking bunch, all half-naked except for the cut-off shorts and greasy baseball caps. They were unwashed and unshaved and had the resigned look in their eyes of men who didn't really think they'd make it back home. But they adored their captain, who would obviously do anything for them. And the only nod he'd made in the direction of the bizarre fate that might await him was the hand-painted sign on the outside of the boat's flying bridge.
It read, THE GRASSY KNOLL.
SOUTHWEST PACIFIC AREA HEADQUARTERS, BRISBANE
The small office in which Lieutenant Commander Nguyen now worked was crowded with men, all of them 'temps. There must have been fifteen or more squeezed in there, none of them sporting as much as a drop of deodorant. She was glad for the small circle of inviolate personal space around her that was guaranteed by the presence at her elbow of General Douglas MacArthur.
Nguyen had seen him around the building enough not to be completely freaked out. She'd even been part of a briefing team that had reported directly to him on one occasion. Nonetheless, it was quite an experience having such a legendary figure sit down next to her, so that she could talk him through the PT boat attack.
Interest in the convoy had metastasized since the incident captured by the drone earlier that day. More surveillance time had been allotted to the troopships, and additional analysts had been drafted in.
"It's like they want to be seen," Nguyen mused. "They have to be decoys."
MacArthur removed the unlit pipe from his mouth-she had told him the smoke would degrade the computer's circuitry. It was simpler than explaining the dangers of secondary smoke.
"How so, Commander?" he asked.
"Their blackout is seriously half-arsed, if you'll excuse my French, sir. Ditto their emcon-emissions control, you know, radio silence and so on. They know from experience that if we can see them, we can kill them, but it's like they're not even trying to hide."