“They’ve got the pumps running full bore in the Astoria, Captain. We’ve sent over what help we can, but unless we get her to a dry dock in the next eight to twelve hours, we’re both going down.”

“There’s not a dry dock in the world could fit them in,” Anderson pointed out.

“That’s true,” conceded Chief Conroy.

“And we’d tear both ships apart making any kind of speed to get there.”

“Reckon so.”

They had gathered in a small group on C deck of the Leyte Gulf, where the portside corridor was entirely blocked by a section of the Astoria. The deck tilted forward perceptibly beneath their feet, as the stealth cruiser’s bow was dragged down by the growing weight of the other ship. The structural integrity of the Astoria was failing. A large fissure had opened up just aft of the nexus with Anderson’s ship and the sea was flooding in, gradually overwhelming the pumps and the efforts of a three-hundred-man bucket brigade.

There were other problems.

“The children aren’t playing well together,” said Conroy.

“I’ve got Mohr and my other chiefs working on it,” Evans said, “but . . .”

He trailed off.

Anderson gathered that Evans was an educated, well-traveled man, but even he was obviously having trouble coming to terms with Anderson’s ship and crew. The Leyte Gulf’s captain stood with her arms folded in the flickering, failing light of the corridor.

“Commander, I’m aware that we’ve all had a lot of trauma to deal with this afternoon, or morning, or whatever. You can’t throw people from different worlds together under such extreme pressure and expect them to work smoothly. Not when they’ve just been trying to kill each other. But we’re going to have to work together, because our fates are fused.”

She punched the armor plating of the Astoria for emphasis.

“I can’t have Eddie Mohr running around, punching every guy who looks sideways at one of your ladies,” said Evans. Frustration was beginning to get the better of him.

“Commander, they’re not ladies,” Conroy said, before Anderson could reply. “They’re officers and sailors of the U.S. Navy. They can take almost anything you’ll throw at them. But they don’t have to take sexual harassment.”

“But nobody’s been having sex with them!” protested Evans, who couldn’t believe they were even discussing the matter.

“Jesus, you really don’t get it, do you?”

“No, apparently I don’t . . .”

“Look, this isn’t the time or place,” Anderson said. “Either we save these ships together, or they go down together. Chief, get hold of Borghino and Reilly . . .”

“I’m sorry, he’s dead, ma’am.”

Anderson had known that, but the memory had slipped away in the turmoil. She cursed herself for the slip.