Nobody spoke when Müller had finished. Kolhammer himself felt ill. Miyazaki, he noted, was nodding quietly. The restrained violence of the German’s delivery had done more to shake his incredulity in the face of the impossible than had the battle on arrival, or the visit to Spruance. He was about to reply when Judge’s flexipad beeped. The Clinton’s XO checked the message he’d just received.

“Admiral,” he said, with surprise in his voice. “Something’s happened.”

Kolhammer was annoyed at himself. He should have been concentrating on the main screen in the CIC, but he couldn’t shake his dissatisfaction at the way his meeting with Miyazaki and the others had gone. He didn’t really feel as if they had resolved anything.

More to the point, he was pissed at himself for not clearly understanding his own motivations. Was he really afraid the Siranui’s crew might mutiny? That was preposterous. He had worked with that ship on a number of occasions. Okada was, if not a friend, then at least a trusted colleague. But of course, Okada was dead. And any fears he had that the surviving men might—what, steal the technology, and give it to Yamamoto? Well, it was ridiculous and insulting to the survivors. After all, he didn’t expect the Germans to run back to the führer.

“Admiral Kolhammer? Sir?”

Lieutenant Brooks had caught him when his mind was wandering.

“I’m sorry Lieutenant. Fatigue. Give it to me again.”

Kirsty Brooks gave no hint that she’d been put off by his reverie. She repeated her last statement a little louder, as though he merely hadn’t heard over the buzz in the room.

“You can see for yourself, Admiral. Nagumo’s battle group has definitely turned tail. And although Yamamoto and the other fleet elements are at the edge of our sensor range, they all appear to have altered course, as well. They’re bugging out.”

The Clinton’s CIC was a hive of activity, with all of the departments fully staffed and working hard to compensate for the vast inflows of national source intelligence that they had left behind in the twenty-first century. Antiair, antisubmarine, anti-surface-warfare centers all hummed ceaselessly. Only the antiorbital center seemed to be running at a moderately relaxed pace.

“And this trace contact,” said Kolhammer. “How long ago was that?”

“Twelve minutes ago, sir,” Brooks replied. “Could have been an echo effect, but it didn’t read that way. Little Bill picked up the silhouette. He figured an eighty-four percent probability that it was the Garrett.”

“In the Antarctic?” Kolhammer said, doubtfully.

“Near enough, Admiral.”

The CIC was bitingly cold. Kolhammer shivered.

“ETA for Spruance?” he asked.

Brooks checked on her main screen.

“Should be touching down now, sir.”

USS GARRETT, SOUTHERN OCEAN, 0434 HOURS, 3 JUNE 1942