It was perhaps only the side-effect of the knowledge that he was embarking on a wartime mission — assuming the orders from the high command to attack the threatening surface group ever came in. Politicians always seemed to have a way of lying and cheating their way out of trouble, avoiding whenever possible the simple course of using the guns they had spent so many yen on. This navy would easily prevail if only it were given the chance, he was convinced.

Soon it would be nightfall. With a sense of urgency, Tanaka pulled his radio from his belt, making sure it was tuned to the tactical frequency.

“Portmaster, this is Unit Sunshine. What is the status?”

“Sunshine, Portmaster, hold your position. Your passenger is on the way.”

“Tel! him he has ten minutes. Then I’m leaving without him. Your tugs can take him to sea then.”

“He’ll be there in five, sir.”

Tanaka clicked twice on the transmit key. A tug horn sounded a mournful blast across the water of the harbor, the last light of the sun winking out on the ridgeline.

The operation to tie up the Curtain of Flames alongside the Winged Serpent had to be accomplished before the dark came — it would be too dangerous and there weren’t sufficient lights on the tugs to perform the operation in darkness. Finally the tugs pulled Curtain of Flames away from its pier and steadily towed it to the deep channel.

Both tugs were made up to the helpless Three-class’ port side so that it could approach Winged Serpent on its starboard side. As the light dimmed, the Three class came up alongside, the ratings from the tugboats standing on its deck ready to toss over the lines. It was such a waste of resources to have unmanned robotic ships, Tanaka thought, although it was useless and frustrating to go down that path of thought. Still, it irritated him that once at sea his crew would have to risk their lives, in moonless pitch blackness, to disconnect the lines linking the two ships.

Curtain of Flames was now within twenty meters, the tugs pushing her slowly closer.

Tanaka sighed, looked at his watch. If not for the Three class he had to haul to sea, he would be well on the way to the dive point by now. To the point where life became worth living.

NEW LONDON, CONNECTICUT

Bruce Phillips opened the door of the motel room’s suite, knowing that to call it a suite would be stretching the truth. The motel was called the Dolph-Inn, a play on the submariner’s dolphins displayed in a crumbling concrete statue in front of the motel office. The room was dark, the two small windows covered with heavy floral print curtains, the walls done up in trailer-park dark paneling, two double beds on one wall, a kitchenette with a Formica table in the other corner, a couch with a coffee table and television, the old-fashioned square-screen type. Phillips hadn’t used the kitchen or the television since he had checked in the week before.

He had spent sixteen hours a day at the manufacturing facility trying to push the working crews to get the Piranha’s Vortex missiles done sooner. Sometimes progress seemed lightning fast, but most of the time the work got done at a glacially slow pace. He could go nuts in the building yards, he thought. It was a good thing the detailers had never sent him to new construction — his ships had always been well used, not old but worn in, like a pair of favorite deck shoes. So familiar and comfortable that they were preferable to new ones.

It was now dark, in the late afternoon. Usually he got away from the ship from dinnertime until about eight in the evening, when he would go in to catch the tail end of the swing shift. He’d take that until two or three in the morning, then yield to Capt. Emmitt Stephens, who liked to come in at three a.m. to keep the graveyard shift motivated. Phillips would spend the next hours at the motel sleeping, then go back in at noon to meet with his new crew. While he was with the crews putting the missiles on the hull of the sub, his executive officer Roger Whatney was butting heads with the crew, then spending an hour or two briefing Phillips on what the men were like. Phillips was starting to get the picture, but it was coming slower than he wanted, names not yet connected to faces. Not a good situation, given the fact that he would need to take the vessel into hostile waters and soon.

He sat on the bed and took off his soiled coveralls, slowly peeling them off his aching body. He forced himself to stand, wondering if he should take a shower or just collapse in the bed. He opted for the shower, turned on the spray red hot, stepped into the steamy water, the tension leaving him slowly. He was in so long he was turning red, when he thought he heard pounding. It would be typical of the day to have some moron trying to get into the wrong room, he thought, turning off the water as he grabbed a towel and trailed water all the way to the door, the pounding loud and insistent now.

He wrapped himself in the towel, opened the door.