“Well, first off,” Natoli argued, “you don’t know for sure that we’re stuck here. We could all be back home selling our stories by this time tomorrow. None of us knows anything yet. Meanwhile, you have your job. We have ours.”

Black watched the exchange with growing curiosity. These women didn’t defer to the officer at all. Their demeanor was challenging, bordering on ill mannered. He dismissed the idea that it was a function of Thieu’s race. It was possible, he realized, that they just didn’t like each other. If so, it might be useful to get to know them. They might have a different angle on what was happening. He wasn’t sure he trusted Kolhammer’s people yet.

Behind the women, a whole wall was taken up with what Black thought of as movie screens, displaying scenes from all over both fleets. He could even see his own ship, the Enterprise, with two helicopters just setting down on her deck.

The view seemed to be coming from on high, directly above the flight deck, and the commander assumed another helicopter was taking the photos. When he asked, though, Thieu explained that the feed was actually coming from a small, saucer-shaped “drone-cam” keeping station about three thousand five hundred meters—that meant twelve thousand feet, apparently—above the deck of the carrier. That almost made sense. Other panels on the big wall screen showed vision of a few surviving destroyers from his own group alongside sleek, flowing ships from the future, with a constant transfer of men between both.

Men and women, he corrected himself.

Nodding slowly to the Italian doll, he said, “I can’t speak for Ensign Curtis, but I don’t mind chatting with you while things get cleared up outside, miss. I can’t do any interviews, though. You can’t put me in your story, right?”

Lieutenant Thieu closed his eyes and muttered something beneath his breath. But the two reporters smiled radiantly.

“Fabbo,” said Duffy.

“What about you, Ensign Curtis?” Natoli asked. “You up for a little deep background?”

Curtis blushed down to roots of his hair.

Captain Jurgen Müller arrived directly from a SAR mission and was still wearing his flight suit. Commander Enrico Prodi made his way up from the Clinton’s hangar deck. And Major Pavel Ivanov of the Russian army had crossed from the Kandahar, where he had been taking part in the SEALs’ tutorial on the G4 assault rifle when Pope’s wormhole had swallowed them all.

The men picked at a tray of sandwiches in Kolhammer’s private quarters while the admiral handed out mugs of coffee.

“Where is Colonel Gogol?” asked Ivanov.

“I’m afraid he didn’t make it,” said Mike Judge.

The Spetsnaz officer took in the answer, processed it, and grunted.

“Too bad.”

Ivanov didn’t look like he needed much commiserating. Judge restricted himself to replying, “Yeah, too bad.”