The Oliver Hazard Perry-class guided-missile frigate USS Boone (FFG-28) floats silently on an ominous lead gray sea beneath a threatening, afternoon sky. Surrounding the warship, scattered along the surface over a two-mile radius are all that remains of the semisubmersible oil rig, Scylla. A dozen motorized rubber rafts maneuver carefully through the debris field as emotionally drained sailors pull the bloated remains of the dead from the water.

Ensign Zak Wishnov seals another body bag as Sublieutenant Bill Blackmon weaves the motorboat slowly through the flotsam.

“Zak, there’s another one, starboard bow.”

“God, I hate this.” Wishnov leans out over the bow and hooks the corpse with a reach-pole. “Oh, geez, this one’s missing an arm.”

“Shark?”

“No, it’s been severed cleanly. You know, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen one shark since we’ve been out here.”

“Neither have I.”

“Makes no sense. There’s blood everywhere, and these are shark-infested waters.” Zak rolls the mangled corpse into the boat, shoving it quickly into a body bag. “It’s that thing down there, isn’t it, Lieutenant? The source of that green glow. That’s why the sharks are staying away.”

The lieutenant nods. “The sharks know something we don’t. The sooner the skipper takes us out of here, the better.”

Captain Edmund O. Loos III stands motionless on his bridge, his hazel eyes staring out at the foreboding horizon, his lower jaw clenched in anger. The thirteenth officer to command the Boone and her crew of 42 officers and 550 enlisted men is seething inside, has been ever since he received the orders from his CO to divert his warship away from his Persian Gulf-bound battle group and report to the Gulf of Mexico.

A goddam salvage operation in the middle of what could turn out to be the biggest conflict we’ve had in twenty years. We’ll be the laughingstock of the whole fucking Navy.

Commander Curtis Broad, the ship’s Executive Officer and second-in-command, approaches. “Excuse me, skipper. One of the LAMPS has located a submersible, floating 1.7 kilometers due west. Two survivors on board. One claims to know what destroyed the Scylla.”

“Have him brought to the briefing room. What’s the VP’s ETA?”

“Thirty-five minutes.”

A bolt of lightning flashes silently in the distance, followed seconds later by the growl of thunder.

“Recall all boats, Commander. I’ll be in the briefing room. Inform me when the vice president arrives.”

“Aye, sir.”

The Kaman SH-2G Seasprite antisubmarine helicopter, also known as the Light Airborne Multi-Purpose System, or LAMPS, bounces twice before coming to rest on the missile cruiser’s helopad.

Mick Gabriel grabs one end of Dominique’s stretcher, a crewman the other. As the chopper’s bay door slides open, they are joined by the ship’s physician and his medical team.