Their eyes locked and they knew they were dealing with the same issue.

“Secure the site,” said Jones in a flat voice. “I’ll be there ASAP.”

Francois signed off and gave Jones a challenging look.

“I’m going, too. I worked Srebrenica and Denpasar for the UN. I’m crime scene qualified.”

Jones held up his open palms.

“I’m not standing in your way, Doc.”

The admiral’s stateroom was so much larger than her cabin back on the Trident that Halabi felt lost in it. She’d tried to convince Kolhammer she could just as easily act as task force commander from her own ship, but he’d insisted she work from the Clinton during his absence. He wanted the locals to give her the respect she was due, and nothing demanded respect like 130,000 tonnes of fusion-powered supercarrier. Even if it was a little scratched and dented.

She’d enjoyed the luxurious surrounds for about thirty seconds, until she realized how close she was to the flight deck and how poorly insulated were Kolhammer’s quarters; not that she was going to get a lot of sleep while he was away. The giant flatscreen on his desk was completely blocked out with files flagged for her immediate attention. Until she muted the speakers, a tone announced the arrival of a new “highest priority” e-mail every few seconds, and her schedule apparently contained more meetings than the day had minutes. Her paternal grandmother had a saying that seemed appropriate.

“Let’s not try and eat the elephant in one whole bite,” Halabi muttered to herself.

She was about to open a report detailing distribution of the fleet’s remaining war stocks when a window opened on the screen, displaying the rather drawn features of Captain Margie Francois.

Halabi was on site, grimly shaking hands with the combat surgeon twenty-five minutes later.

The scene looked chaotic from the air, with helicopters, Humvees, Honolulu PD cars, old-fashioned jeeps, and at least a hundred or more individuals all buzzing around the victims. When she touched down and exited the chopper, Halabi got an even stronger sense of barely controlled mayhem. A small group of Colonel Jones’s marines was butting heads with the local police and MPs, trying to keep them from stomping all over the crime scene. Jones himself stood as still and silent as a black granite obelisk while a heavyset white man in a bad suit turned beet red, screaming and gesticulating at him.

“What the hell is going on?” the acting task force commander asked.

“Nothing good,” said Francois. She took Halabi by the arm and walked her away a little. “One of our platoons was out on a run this morning when they found the bodies, and they called us before the locals. Well, of course, Honolulu PD’s tear-assing around with an atomic wedgie over that and . . .”