Gunny Harrison threw back the hatch. The scene inside the LAV startled Jones. A fierce argument was under way. Almost nobody had their helmets on, as per regulations, and Colonel Maloney was out of his, standing in front of that Times reporter, jabbing his index finger at her. She appeared to be laughing, when she wasn’t blowing bubblegum in his face.

“What the fuck is going here!” Jones shouted, loudly enough to be heard over the earsplitting drone of the turbofans and the commotion inside the cabin. The LAV was uncomfortably close to the huge Avco Lycoming gas turbine plants and the main propulsion fans. Jones took a deep breath, sucking in trace odors of diesel, gun oil, human sweat, and bile from the pile of sick that dripped out of the cabin and onto his boots. He let rip with a blast that would have done his old drill instructor proud.

“Colonel Maloney. Sit your ass down, put your goddamn helmet on, and shut the fuck up. You are just here to watch. Nothing else. We transit the beachhead in a few minutes, and people are gonna start dying. Unless you want to give me any more grief, in which case we’ll start the dying right here and now, because God help me if you endanger any part of this mission at any point I will shoot you in the fucking head and throw you overboard myself!”

Maloney stood with his mouth hanging open, like he’d been caught with his pants down. But Jones meant every word of it and the colonel must have known, because he flashed a quick, sour glare at the civilian woman before returning to his position.

A split-screen display dominated the Clinton’s CIC. Real-time footage beamed back from Manila sat next to a CGI map of the same area with dozens of targets and mission objectives highlighted by flashing tags, alphanumeric codes, unit designations, and small icons. Admiral Spruance had no real idea of what it all meant, but at least he could see the burning hulks of Japanese ships in the harbor, and the dazzling emerald brilliance of more fires spotted throughout the city.

“It’s fuckin’ amazing, don’t you think?” muttered Admiral Halsey, sitting next to him in the old antisatellite work bay.

“What, the movies themselves, or what they’re showing?” asked Spruance.

“The whole fucking thing. I mean, look at the way they hit those Jap positions in Manila. It’s like needlepoint or something, when you think of what the Nazis did to London with the Blitz.”

“But the Krauts meant to tear up the city,” said Spruance.

“True enough.”

Halsey leaned over from the comfort of his chair. The medication they’d given him had effectively cleared up his shingles, and his mood had improved as rapidly as his butt. But Spruance knew him well, and the look in his eyes gave him away.