“Item three — the collected intelligence about American intentions. Mr. First will post the electronic chart display. We believe that the Americans will enter our close-in waters in pairs or threes. These are known as wolfpacks, although we may think of them as being more like frightened teenagers pairing up before going into a dark forest. This will prove most helpful to our tactics, because we will be more efficient at killing them. They will be clustered, so once we detect a pair we will shoot torpedoes at them both, putting down two with the work of sinking one. In addition we will know that all submerged contacts we see will be hostile, while the American commanders must keep in mind that another friendly submarine is nearby, which will make them hesitate when they launch their torpedoes. We believe they will split their force between north and south of our waters and work their way to Tokyo Bay in their attempt to sink our force. Then they could go up Tokyo Bay and cause some damage, making their position much stronger. We will concentrate on preventing that.
“I expect that their forces will arrive in two waves, one now, the second in three days as more of the Pacific ships arrive in zone. Our tactics will be to try to sink the initial task force, reload torpedoes, then rescour the zone for Americans. My intuition on this matter is, I believe, sound since I have spent more time in the vicinity of the gaijin than anyone here.
“That is all, men. If any one of you has questions, submit them to Mr. First and he will bring them to me.”
Tanaka left the room, his officers coming to rigid attention as he left. Mazdai hated that he was cold with the younger officers, Tanaka thought, but their generation was, he felt, soft, compromising. Perhaps he could get through to them by example. Perhaps his hatred of the Americans would be contagious.
Regardless, he was determined that the mission succeed.
Comdr. Robert Pastor had rigged the ship for ultraquiet three hours before crossing into the Japan Oparea. The rig was designed to maximize ship quieting so that the sonar system could more easily hear into the sea without the interference of noise made by the Birmingham herself.
Pastor walked through the ship from the shaft seals as far aft as a man could go to the goat locker forward, checking the rig, and found the wrong reactor circulation pumps running — the engineering officer of the watch had one, two, three and four on, when the pump combination three, four, five and six was much quieter. Forward, in one of the crew-berthing spaces, he had found a boombox going, the volume down but music pouring out of it anyway. One of the navigation technicians was trying to fix a spare electronic cabinet in the nav space aft of control, which Pastor immediately stopped, the crew prohibited from doing maintenance during the rig for ultraquiet.
Pastor, on sneaker-clad feet, was of medium height, slightly paunchy but with Midwestern good looks, a healthy hairline, a thick mustache, blue eyes clear and penetrating. His expression rarely changed from a glare or a smirk, the glare normal, the smirk a sign of approval.
