"Different.  I've never been in a fighter before, much less one with ambitions to mate with a hummingbird," Ryan smiled.  The bridge was overheated, and it felt good.

"Jolly good.  Let's go aft to my sea cabin."  White dismissed the sublieutenant, who handed Jack his bag before withdrawing.  The admiral led him aft through a short passageway and left into a small compartment.

It was surprisingly austere, considering that the English liked their comforts and that White was a peer.  There were two curtained portholes, a desk, and a couple of chairs.  The only human touch was a color photograph of his wife.  The entire port wall was covered with a chart of the North Atlantic.

"You look tired, Jack."  White waved him to the upholstered chair.

"I am tired.  I've been on the go since—hell, since 6:00 A.M. yesterday.  I don't know about time changes, I think my watch is still on European time."

"I have a message for you."  White pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it over.

"Greer to Ryan.  WILLOW confirmed," Ryan read.  "Basil sends regards.  Ends."  Somebody had confirmed WILLOW.  Who?  Maybe Sir Basil, maybe Ritter.  Ryan would not quote odds on that one.

Jack tucked it in his pocket.  "This is good news, sir."

"Why the uniform?"

"Not my idea, Admiral.  You know who I work for, right?  They figured I'd be less conspicuous this way."

"At least it fits."  The admiral lifted a phone and ordered refreshments sent to them.  "How's the family, Jack?"

"Fine, thank you, sir.  The day before I came over Cathy and Toni were playing over at Nigel Ford's place.  I missed it.  You know, if they get much better, we ought to have a record cut.  There aren't too many violin players better than your wife."

A steward arrived with a plateful of sandwiches.  Jack had never figured out the British taste for cucumbers on bread.

"So, what's the flap?"

" Admiral, the significance of the message you just gave me is that I can tell this to you and three other officers.  This is very hot stuff, sir.  You'll want to make your choices accordingly."

"Hot enough to turn my little fleet around."  White thought it over before lifting the phone and ordering three of his officers to the cabin.  He hung up.  "Captain Carstairs, Captain Hunter, and Commander Barclay—they are, respectively, Invincible's commanding officer, my fleet operations officer, and my fleet intelligence officer."

"No chief of staff?"

"Flew home, death in the family.  Something for your coffee?"  White extracted what looked like a brandy bottle from a desk drawer.

"Thank you, Admiral."  He was grateful for the brandy.  The coffee needed the help.  He watched the admiral pour a generous amount, perhaps with the ulterior motive of making him speak more freely.  White had been a British sailor longer than he'd been Ryan's friend.

The three officers arrived together, two carrying folding metal chairs.