The night sea was calm, almost deceptively so. A thin scatter of clouds drifted across the stars, and the horizon was a dark, featureless smear. Below the surface lay silence, but on the bridge of Growler, men kept their eyes sweeping and their nerves sharp. This was wolf pack country now, waters between Luzon and Formosa, where Japanese convoys crept through the straits and where three American submarines waited to pounce.

In the conning tower, red lamps threw their dull glow over the dials and the men hunched around them. Commander Thomas B. “Ben” Oakley Jr. stood steady, his voice measured, his presence calm. He had a knack for that, keeping himself even while every other heart on the boat ran a little faster.