Final impact

“Better safe than sorry, ma’am,” her XO cautioned.

“Of course. It was just a girlish whim.” She smiled, then her features took on an altogether somber cast. “Weapons?” she said crisply. “Confirm target lock and torpedo status.”

“Aye, ma’am. Both confirmed. And we’ve reached firing depth.”

“Well, then, let’s not drag it out. Open tubes.”

Though she couldn’t actually hear or feel it, she knew instinctively when the giant submarine had bared its fangs.

“Tubes three and four open, ma’am.”

Willet did not hesitate. “Fire.”

“Firing three. Firing four, skipper. Clean shots. Tracking now.”

The Combat Center was normally a hushed environment, but when a warshot was loosed, a preternatural stillness came over the dozen men and women working there. In the bad old days a sub captain would have followed the torpedoes to their victim by watching through a periscope. Just two years ago Willet herself would have observed the killing stroke on the ship’s holobloc, where the action would play itself out as a ghostly, three-dimensional image. But now all she had was a crude computer-generated simulation as her last pair of Type 92 torpedoes accelerated toward the hijacked French vessel that was struggling through the waves.

“Countermeasures?” she asked quietly, although there was no need. The Havoc was fully stealthed.

“None deployed yet, ma’am. They haven’t made us.”

She nodded, but couldn’t help chewing her lip. She had just fired off the last of their offensive weapons. There were no more shots in the locker-the cruise missile bays and the torpedo room were empty. If they missed with this strike, and the pickup crew of the Dessaix were any good, she would have to dive deep and hide out down there for a very long time.

Two indicator bars, showing the distance to the target, crawled across the nearest screen. Five millimeters before they reached their goal, the chief defensive sysop cried out.

“They’re on to us! Threat boards red.”

Willet’s heart rate surged, but then her weapons officer spoke up.

“We got a double tap, skipper! Clean hits.” He added, “She’s gone.”

Willet’s crew were disciplined, and nobody cheered, but the commander of the HMAS Havoc spoke for them all. “Outstanding piece of work everyone,” she said quietly. “Congratulations.”

Lieutenant Commander Grey stayed bent over the schematic displays until he was entirely satisfied. Standing upright, he asked, “Shall we search for survivors, ma’am?”

It didn’t take long for her to consider the question. “No, I’m afraid not, Mr. Grey. The seas are still running at twelve meters up there. We can’t take the chance. Bring us around, and let’s get back to the lake. Prepare an encrypted burst for Pearl, San Diego, and Sydney, then send it when we get within range.

“And have Ms. Sparrow brew me a hot chocolate. I’m going back to bed.”

1

D-DAY. 3 MAY 1944.

0300 HOURS. IN TRANSIT.

The lead helicopter hammered across the English Channel at the edge of its performance envelope, close enough to the waves that Lieutenant Gil Amundson thought he could feel a fine mist of sea spray stirred up by their passage through the darkness.

The seven men in his chalk were quiet, each alone in his own cocoon of anticipation and fear. Amundson could hear Sergeant Nunez beside him, reciting rapid-fire Hail Marys, working through a set of rosary beads in what looked to the young cavalry officer like record time. Across the cabin Private Clarke was nervously tapping his heel on the steel plating of the floor, the tempo increasing until it sounded like one of those rock-and-roll drummers. Then he’d curse, punch himself on the leg, and go still for a moment before starting all over again.

On either side of him a couple of the boys were dozing fitfully. Or at least pretending to.

That’s how it went the whole way across. Each man playing out what might be his last hour as he saw fit. Some checked their equipment, before checking their buddy’s. Some leaned over to get a view of the invasion fleet as it headed for the coast. Corporal Gadsden craned his head skyward, the bulky lens of his Gen2 Starlite goggles tracking his gaze as he picked out Dakotas, gliders, Mustang night fighters, and, at one point, a squadron of Sabers miles overhead, all screaming toward France.

Amundson forced himself to go through the plan again. The rapid insertion, the assembly point for his platoon, the mental map of their objective.

He used what little space he had in the chopper to perform a set of isometric exercises, lest his butt fall asleep before they jumped into Hitler’s front garden. He stretched his arms and legs and craned his neck from side to side, a full extension in each direction, which gave him a clear view of the rest of the cav squadron as it thundered toward the enemy in 132 Hueys, with another forty Cobra gunships riding shotgun.