They went silent, their eyes moving in unison from the missile casing to the clock and back again like a parody of a tennis match.

Two minutes passed. They had a camera mounted behind the shielding. Not directly behind, because they had a large concrete block directly behind to absorb the laser attack once it broke through, but from its spot just to one side the small camera was still able to relay an image of the ceramic of the inner casing.

It was starting to glow, temperature sensors inside the casing showing the heat rising. The outer casing that was still intact was also starting to absorb the incredible heat of the superconducting layer, warping slightly and even starting to glow itself.

At three minutes, the metal of the outer casing was visibly orange and the large room they were in was starting to get noticeably hotter. Sweat was forming on the brows of the three men for two reasons as, at four minutes, the remaining outer metal casing started to slag, pieces liquefying and dropping to the floor to melt the concrete.

At five minutes, the airmen had shed their uniform jackets and all three of them were dripping with sweat. They had disabled any smoke detectors in the room weeks beforehand, and it was lucky that they had. The remains of the $200,000 titanium casing were now in a smoldering slagheap on the floor.

After what felt like days of endless heat, it happened in a snap. The superfine tethers of superconducting shielding started to fray ever so slightly as they reached and surpassed their maximum effective temperature. The slightest gap was all the laser needed, and in an instant the sliver of killing light broke through and hit the already superheated ceramic beneath and the whole structure shattered. As the laser at last reached the block behind the cone and started to burn it as well, Martin reached out and hit the kill switch and the beam died.

Five minutes forty-eight seconds. It was not what they had hoped for. It was within their range, but not as far into it as they had, in truth, hoped. But pipe dreams aside, it was functional and within parameters. It was time to clean up the mess. And it was time to go to full production.

* * *

Four hours later, a tired but satisfied Barrett Milton entered the apartment the navy had provided for him and slung his jacket on the floor. He noticed her smell first, recognizing it instantly, and his heart leapt.

“Pushpin?” he said, “How long have you been waiting?” he used his old nickname for her, for the way she had always been able to bring so much pressure to bear on such a small spot. He had always thought she should have been more annoyed by it than she had. That was before he had known what she truly did for a living.