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the enlarging projector. A sixty-year-old Submarine Force officer sat in the front row, smoking a pipe. The old man turned around, waved, and smiled. Captain Walters was an anomaly in the NIS—just about the only officer happy about sailing a desk. He was a year away from retirement and couldn’t stand the idea. He intended to die on the job.
    Frank smiled back and sat down next to him. Walters gripped Frank’s forearm and patted it affectionately.
    “How are you, son?”
    That always did it. Frank liked Walters, but when would he learn that a thirty-six-year-old Lieutenant Commander in the U.S. Navy was nobody’s “son”?
    “Fine, Pops.”
    Walters grinned. “What have you got to show me?”
    “Just some snapshots. How Cook and I spent our summer vacation.”
    The lights went down and the ensign set up the first photo on the big screen. It was an aerial shot over a portion of the sea, and they could make out two fuzzy black spots in the distance. The second picture was closer, and now they could distinguish the shape of the submarine from that of the freighter. The next one was directly over the freighter, and they could make out a load of automobiles gleaming in the open cargo hold.
    Finally, a clear view of the submarine. Definitely a fleet-type boat: conning tower, double periscopes, huge deck gun...
    “One of ours,” said Frank. “No mistake there.”
    Cook spoke quietly. “How many have we still got with the damned deck guns aboard?”
    “I don’t know.” Frank glanced at Walters, whose warm smile was gone. He was frowning, a bit perplexed.
    The next image was even closer, still high aerial but abeam of the sub. The boat was black, and the telex was apparently correct: no markings.
    Walters rose, put on a pair of glasses, and went right up to the screen to inspect the image at close range.
    “Fleet boat... early type. I’d say vintage World War Two.”
    “Vintage?” questioned Frank.
    “Well, she’s definitely not one of the updated models. Most of those still in operation have been converted. You know that—you’ve served on them.”
    “Sure, but there must be a few around unchanged.”
    “Of course.” Walters rubbed his chin. “They’ve been sold to every foreign country on the planet or turned into floating museums. Besides, this boat looks in pretty good shape.”
    Frank turned to the ensign. “You got anything closer? Anything on the conning tower?”
    The ensign fumbled through a short stack of photos, found one, and placed it in the enlarger.
    Walters was still pacing around in front of-the screen when the new image came on. It was a very close shot with the conning tower off to one side.
    “Center it,” said Frank, “and bring it up closer.”
    The ensign pulled the tower in to the center of the screen and then blew it up slowly.
    “A little higher,” said Walters, stepping up close. “Hold it”
    The image froze. Frank could barely make out markings on the side of the conning tower.
    “See those buttons? Those raised buttons, like rivets?” said Walters, getting excited. “They outlined the number in the old days. That’s the way they used to do it. Just paint in the number when you want to be identified—right between the buttons. Paint it out when you want to be incognito.”
    Frank tapped the enlarger. “Make it bigger.”
    The ensign resumed enlarging the shot, and they all studied the buttons, barely visible on the fuzzy blowup.  
    Finally Walters turned and announced in triumph, “Two eighty-four!” Walters tapped the screen happily. “Have to check it out. But I think it’s about a 1942 commission.”
    Cook nodded, but Frank slowly turned to granite. “Wait a minute,” he said quietly. “Are you telling me this really is one of our World War Two subs?”
    Walters’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes. Sure. Positively.”
    Now even Cook froze. Frank got up and stared at the fuzzy blowup and the raised buttons on the tower. No wonder ComSubPac had no