“How many times do I have to tell you blockheads?” he growled. “First thing you do is you report the contact as soon as you detect it. Then you classify it. In the time it took you to fondle your joystick, that Russki could have shot your ass off. You better thank your lucky stars that Sierra was on tape. If he’d have been real, he’d have eaten our lunch, Levi.”

Zillich reached back and flicked off the training tape.

The chastened operator turned away, his head down. His fellow sonar men threw quiet gibes his way.

Tommy Zillich cleared his throat and looked at them through his eyebrows. “Hey, the rest of you rocks, pay attention. Next time, it may be your turn and—”

“What’s happening, Master Chief?” the deep voice behind his shoulder interrupted Zillich’s reprimand. Joe Glass was standing there in the sonar room doorway.

Zillich rose from his stool and scooted over toward the door. “Just a little on-the job training, Skipper. These quiet watches, you don’t throw in some OJT every once in a while, this motley bunch’ll start taking naps on company time.”

Glass leaned down to look at the PBB display. The waterfall didn’t show anything except the trace from the taped submarine contact. The only thing disturbing the display was the distinctive chevron pattern of a storm raging away up above. “Agreed. Been quiet, huh?”

“Yes, sir. Only contact was a distant fishing boat a couple of hours ago. That had to be one damn fool to be out trying to snag some fish in that weather up there.”

Glass nodded, imagining what it must be like riding out the icy turbulence of a winter storm in the Barents in nothing more than a fishing boat. That was one hell of a way to try to make a living.

He shook his head, then changed subjects. “Master Chief, I need you to attend a briefing in the wardroom in ten minutes. Get yourself a relief and hop on down there.”

Zillich replied, “Yes, sir,” but he was talking to empty space. Glass had already disappeared out the door.

By the time Zillich arrived in the wardroom, most of the seats were already claimed. The room was full. Glass sat in his customary chair at the head of the table, flanked by Edwards on his left and Hector Gonzales, the ASDV driver, on his right. A sheet covered the bulkhead behind the skipper. The other four crewmen on the ASDV occupied the next four seats. Most of the officers sat in the remaining chairs or on the brown Naugahyde couch that was built into the outboard bulkhead. Sam Wallich was seated on the couch as well. He was the only other chief in the room.

Zillich plopped down on the couch next to Wallich. “Evening, COB. Any idea what’s going on?”

“Nope, but I reckon we’re about to find out.”