He wondered how Spruance did it. How he kept running like a windup toy, seemingly capable of absorbing every piece of minutiae and fitting it into his grand battle scheme. They’d been discussing the relative merits of the Zero and the Wildcat, massaging the comparisons, the Zero’s greater range and maneuverability, the Wildcat’s higher ceiling, the Zero’s lack of armor, the Wildcat’s steel plating and self-sealing fuel tanks. The admiral turned to him now, a rare, soft smile playing across his thin, severe features.

“Still worried that they might sucker punch us again at Pearl, Commander?”

This time it was Black who was quiet for a few seconds. At a special briefing in Spruance’s cabin, earlier that day, he had asked the admiral what would happen if the Japs bypassed Midway and made straight for Hawaii, which lay open and defenseless. Spruance had stared at him for a full half minute before offering his reply—that he hoped they would not.

Black had been startled by that reply—and more than a little disturbed. Unless Spruance knew something his subordinates did not, he was relying heavily on faith—which Black considered a poor basis for strategic planning.

Now the admiral seemed on the verge of saying something more when an earsplitting crack knocked them both to the deck and left them gasping for breath. Black felt as though he’d been nailed by a jab to the guts.

The gusting wind that had been tugging at their clothes died down. It was curious, though—it didn’t just drop off. It stopped dead. It almost seemed to Black as if it was “different air.” That didn’t make sense, he knew, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. It smelled and tasted different, too; vaguely familiar in a way, earthier, heavier. Like air in the Tropics, which always seemed laden with the weight of rot and genesis.

The night had been very dark, with low cloud cover, no starlight, and banks of dense fog. Even so, Black had the distinct impression of being wrapped, however briefly, in a denser, closer form of darkness. A rush of unsettling, half-formed, almost preconscious abstractions clawed at him. He had the sensation of being trapped in a tight, closed space, what he imagined it would feel like to be stuck in a downed plane as it sank in thousands of fathoms of black water.

Then they both became aware of a rising clamor of shouts and cries, coming from above. Lookouts in the superstructure, up on Vulture’s Row, were screaming and gesturing wildly down to the sea on the starboard side.

“I think somebody’s gone overboard,” coughed Black, still struggling for breath.

“Come on,” Spruance said, with some difficulty.

They hurried forward, around the base of the island and the antiaircraft mounts, only to be confronted by a sight that stopped them cold.

“Holy shit,” said Black.