He walked into the passageway, decided to go aft, knowing if he stepped into the control room he would get involved in the data and would be late for the wardroom celebration. He climbed the aft stairway steps to the upper level passageway and went forward past the opening to the crew’s mess. He greeted the men and the chiefs, accepted a cup of bug juice, a rancid Keel-Aid imitation, and toasted the new year. He noted the faces around him had forced smiles. Who could blame them? In the wardroom it was the same, the men distracted by the mission and disoriented at being immobile in the shipyard one moment and on an attack mission the next. Pacino knew the only thing that would get them through would be his and Vaughn’s leadership.

He would have to push the officers, cajole them, encourage them, all in the name of being their captain, a man who would order the men to go to an encounter that might well mean their end.

Vaughn seemed to be relishing the trip, the feel of being at sea again. The XO wore a blue poopysuit with a leather belt and a saucer-sized Texas belt buckle. His alligator-skin cowboy boots had crepe soles, Pacino saw, wondering where the hell he had gotten them.

“Skipper, you won’t believe what the engineer found in the lower level of the aft compartment,” Vaughn said. “The mechanics have been distilling this for a few months.”

Vaughn pulled a Mason jar of clear fluid from under the wardroom table.

“What the hell?”

“Moonshine, sir. The M-Div grunts have been making it in a still in engine room lower level. What do you say. Skipper?

Let’s toast the new year.”

Pacino glared at the XO. “Bring in the M-Div chief.”

“He’s waiting in the mess.” Vaughn opened the door and shouted, “Chief Tucker!”

Tucker appeared, red-faced. He was a Paul Bunyan sort, looking like he should be wearing a checkered lumberjack shirt and gripping an ax, his beard thick and full, his neck tree-trunk thick, poopysuit arms bulging with his biceps.

“Tucker, are you aware of U.S. Navy regulations concerning alcohol aboard ship?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good. XO, get out the coffee cups and pour us a round.

Chief Tucker, you go first—if this stuff makes you blind we’ll know not to drink it.”

Vaughn poured Tucker a cup of the corn squeezings. He slurped it, coughing, and smiled.

Pacino took his cup, handed the half-empty jar back to Tucker. “Take this to the mess, Chief, and make sure the men who made this get some. Then chew out their asses for making it.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Pacino raised his cup, seeing the second hand approach twelve, only ten seconds left till midnight, “To the new year.

May it bring Seawolf good luck and good hunting.”

Pacino stayed for a few more minutes after he finished his cup, then went back to his stateroom. He tried to sleep but tossed and turned. Finally he called the officer of the deck and asked for a tech manual and several electrical schematic drawings. When the firecontrol technician of the watch came in with the manual and drawings Pacino thanked and dismissed him, then stared at the circuits and began sketching on a notepad.

When the sketch was done he put it in the tech manual and returned to his bed, thinking that he still hoped his toast would come true, that Seawolf would indeed have good luck.

But if she didn’t, he had a backup plan, he hoped.

Chapter 26

Wednesday, 1 January

EASTERN ATLANTIC, WEST EUROPEAN BASIN

80 NAUTICAL MILES SOUTHWEST OF CABO DE SAO VICENTE, PORTUGAL

USS PHOENIX