“No,” said Kolhammer. “It’s a complication, a real one. But that ship’s not going anywhere. It’ll be taken care of in a few hours. They’ll salvage some useful gear off her, but whether they have the capacity to exploit it quickly enough is another matter.”

“Well, you better fucking hope they don’t,” said King.

Kolhammer ignored the challenge.

Something was puzzling him, though. He couldn’t understand why it had taken so long for the news of Anderson’s death to reach him. King and Eisenhower probably didn’t think of a day’s delay as being significant, but coming from a world of instantaneous communication, he did. He accepted the fact that without satellite cover, his own encrypted links were tenuous at best. But surely Pearl could have sent a cable?

“What’s on your mind, Admiral?” asked Eisenhower.

“I just wonder, Admiral King, why I didn’t get the news about the murders of my people from you?”

King seemed nonplussed by the question. “Well, I only just heard it myself.”

As far as Kolhammer could tell, he didn’t seem to be lying. “You heard nothing from Pearl at all, before now?”

King pressed his lips together, and his eyes crinkled slightly. “Admiral, I’d remind you that you were the one who insisted that no information be sent via radio or cable. Not when it has anything to do with you or your arrival. We’ve been communicating about your task force by written memo, delivered by safe hand courier. It’s been a hell of an inconvenience, if you want to know. Your goddamn notification is probably making its way here the same way everything else concerning you people does. Very . . . fucking . . . slowly.”

His point made, King stalked out of the room without further comment.

A long message from Nimitz, detailing the murders and the follow-up, did arrive at the hotel the next day. It had taken nearly two days to travel from Hawaii.

All things considered, Flight Lieutenant Caro Llewelen was happy to be in the cockpit of her F-22 with a full weapons load, no SAMs to speak of, and an agreeable dumbass cracker like “Stiffy” McClintock as her wingman.

The Raptors screamed along the coastline at Mach 2. For the moment their heading was slaved to an AWAC flight, but a touch of the stick would bring the craft back under pilot command. For now, both fliers were content to hitch a ride, while a navigational program downloaded from the Clinton’s Combat Intelligence did the thinking for them.

A voice in Llewelen’s ear, almost as though it was inside her head, said, “We have you ten minutes out. No threats. You have the stick.”

“Acknowledged,” she replied. “Stiffy. You’re upstairs.”