That was a very foolish thing to say, Lieutenant-Commander Walter Martin Claggett, Ricks thought with a blank look.

"Next, the reactor drills," Ricks said.

"Another one? So soon?" For Christ's sake, the last one was friggin' perfect. Almost perfect, Claggett corrected himself. The kids might have saved ten or fifteen seconds somewhere. The Executive Officer didn't know where that might have been, though.

"Proficiency means every day, X."

"Indeed it does, sir, but they are proficient. I mean, the ORSE we ran right before Captain Rosselli left missed setting the squadron record by a whisker, and the last drill we ran beat that!"

"No matter how good drill results are, always demand better. That way you always get better. Next ORSE, I want the squadron record, X."

He wants the Navy record, the world record, maybe even a certificate from God, Claggett thought. More than that, he wants it on his record.

The growler phone on the bulkhead rattled. Ricks lifted it.

"Commanding Officer yes, on the way." He hung up. "Sonar contact."

Claggett was out the door in two seconds, the captain right behind him.

"What is it?" Claggett asked first. As executive officer, he was also the approach officer for tactical engagements.

"Took me a couple minutes to recognize it," the leading sonarman reported. "Real flukey contact. I think it's a 688, bearing about one-nine-five. Direct-path contact, sir."

"Playback." Ricks ordered. The sonarman took over another screen - his had grease-pencil marks on it and he didn't want to remove those yet - and ran the display back a few minutes.

"See here, Cap'n? Real flukey right about here it started firming up. That's when I called in."

The Captain stabbed his finger on the screen. "You should have had it there, petty officer. That's two minutes wasted. Pay closer attention next time."

"Aye aye, Cap'n." What else could a twenty-three-year-old sonarman second-class say? Ricks left the sonar room. Claggett followed, patting the sonar operator on the shoulder as he went.

God damn it, Captain!

"Course two-seven-zero, speed five, depth five hundred even. We're under the layer," the Officer of the Deck reported. "Holding contact Sierra-Eleven at bearing one-nine-five, broad on the port beam. Fire-control tracking party is manned. We have fish in tubes one, three, and four. Tube two is empty for service. Doors closed, tubes dry."

"Tell me about Sierra-Eleven," Ricks ordered.

"Direct-path contact. He's below the layer, range unknown."

"Environmental conditions?"

"Flat calm on the roof, a moderate layer at about one hundred feet. We have good isothermal water around us. Sonar conditions are excellent."

"First read on Sierra-Eleven is over ten thousand yards." It was Ensign Shaw on the tracking party.

"Conn, Sonar, we evaluate contact Sierra-Eleven is a definite 688-class, US fast-attack. I can guestimate speed at about fourteen-fifteen knots, sir."

"Whoa!" Claggett observed to Ricks. "We picked up a Los Angeles at 10-K plus! That's gonna piss somebody off "

"Sonar, Conn, I want data, not guesses," Ricks said.

"Cap'n, he did well to pick that contact out of the background," Claggett said very quietly. Summer in the Gulf of Alaska meant fishing boats and baleen whales, both in large numbers, making noises and cluttering up sonar displays. "That's one hell of a good sonarman in there."