“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.”
CHAPTER 20
AMANDA DIDN’T KNOW WHETHER TO BE ANGRY OR AMUSED. Perhaps a little of both was in order. She had made an offhand comment to Tim about doing more to help the war effort and here she was, in a skimpy two-piece bathing suit, sitting on a beach blanket with the ocean in the background as Captain Merchant took a picture of her and Gunther Krause, who was also in swim trunks and enjoying himself hugely.
Thankfully, Tim had the good grace to look uncomfortable. Both he and Merchant were also in trunks and if any of the handful of people in the area were watching they all looked innocent and innocuous. Just a group of friends enjoying a pleasant day, they would conclude. They were where she and Tim had frolicked not so long ago, only now the beach was almost deserted.
Merchant took another moment to focus the camera. He’d taken several pictures already. “Amanda, smile a little more warmly and try to give the impression that you actually like Krause.”
Krause laughed. “I actually am very likeable once you get to know me.”
“Shut up and snuggle,” Merchant said and Tim glared.
Amanda put her head on Krause’s shoulder and he put his arm around her waist. Tim seethed. If his hand got too close to her breast he was going to break it. He had noticed that the Nazi was peering down the front of Amanda’s too-loose top. Damn it.
One of Krause’s contacts in Mexico had informed them that the Japs wanted to know just who the source inside the U.S. Navy was. Specifically, who had provided the information on the carriers’ location? When Tim had mentioned the problem to Amanda over lunch, she had suggested it be a fictitious person in Nimitz’s staff, a civilian and a woman, and someone who’d been having an affair with Krause. The idea made sense and it had been a short leap to getting Amanda to volunteer. Yes, she wanted to help her country defeat the Japs, but did she have to do it with a Nazi’s hand around her body and with Tim breathing fire out of each nostril?
She took a deep breath and smiled at the camera. She realized that her objections were idiotic. What she was doing was nothing in comparison with what soldiers, sailors, and Marines were doing in actual combat. How could being pawed and leered at by a Nazi prisoner compare with being shot? She had made Merchant agree to the caveat that her real name would not be used and he had agreed. A letter would go down to Mexico from Krause telling his friend that he was engaged to the lovely Patricia Barkley, photos attached, and that he was a lucky man. The note would casually mention that Patricia Barkley worked for some admiral. It was hoped that this would more than satisfy any doubters and be of no interest to anyone reading it.