“It is the details of the memorial service for Dr. West. The president will be there, as well as the senior White House staff, General Pickler, Admiral Hamilton, and myself, amongst others. In light of your recent work together, I am sure she would have wanted you there, too.”

“Thank you, Colonel. Thank you very much.” Neal said looking at the paper, genuinely touched. Then looking back up, he continued, “I can’t say whether she would have wanted me anywhere near there, but I’m certainly going to turn up anyway.” he said with a rueful smile spreading across his lips.

“Yes,” said the colonel, “something tells me it was just that attitude that made you so endearing to her.” They both smiled sadly at each other, past conflicts momentarily forgotten, then the colonel nodded.

“Well, I am sure you are busy. Good-bye, Mr. Danielson. I’ll see you in Washington, yes?”

Neal nodded, momentarily bewildered by it all. And with that, the colonel replaced his hat, gave a small salute, something he had never done to Neal before, and walked away.

Chapter 22: HMS Dauntless

The powerful, matte grey ship beat hard into the Channel swell as it invaded the deep harbor’s entrance, brushing it aside as though a pest to be silenced. Standing in formation on her decks, any member of the crew of the HMS Dauntless not actively involved in crewing the ship ‘lined the yards.’ Back in the day, this would have meant three hundred men or more climbing her rigging and lining up along the sail yards and booms pitching high above the deck, an impressive sight designed as a show of skill and strength whenever a powerful sailing craft left or entered port.

The passing of the age of sail had left crews more deck bound, but improvements in their standards of both dress and discipline meant that the Dauntless’ sailing from Portsmouth was no less stunning than in days of old.

Lieutenant 2nd Class Hunt was not part of the dress crew standing in formation along the decks but was, instead, more actively involved in the ship’s current progress. Deep in the core of the ship, the vast diesel engines needed to power the frigate roared around him. His hair and face were thick with grease and dirt, its black coarseness ground into every wrinkle on his forehead and cheeks.

Standing on the bridge, the captain of the Dauntless was one of a few senior officers of Indian descent in the Royal Navy, and had worked hard against well-ensconced preconceptions of what a naval officer should look like. His relatively diminutive frame had forced its way bodily up the ranks, powered by a keen intellect and fearsome ambition. He had managed to do so against a tide of lighthearted racial slurs and offhand remarks, and against far more insidious prejudices, hidden, perhaps, but far from dead.