Chapter 4

USS HILLARY CLINTON, 2249 HOURS, 2 JUNE 1942

“They’re firing at us?” snorted Kolhammer.

Before anyone could answer, the sound of distant sledgehammer blows rang through the bridge.

“Jesus! They are shooting at us!” said Kolhammer. He started to shake his head, but a jag of pain stopped him cold. An ugly stain was settling into his shirt where he’d vomited a few moments earlier, but he paid it no heed. Commander Judge was doubled over and dry retching. Half the flag bridge crew was covered in their own bile and one or two had lost control of their bowels—if his sense of smell hadn’t failed him.

So much else had—even daylight, it seemed. A deep void had enveloped the task force, and something had sailed out of it to attack them. Arrhythmic flickers of fire and lightning lit the darkened sea surface in stuttering monochrome.

His bridge was a disaster area. It hadn’t taken a hit, but sailors lay everywhere. Some were passed out with their eyes open, putting out REMs like victims of a psy-war experiment. Others stood by their stations, their stiff, unnatural stance and glassy stares giving away how much effort that took. One man convulsed repeatedly in front of a large Silicon Graphics display until Commander Judge, composing himself for a moment, grabbed him by the shoulders and lowered him to the floor.

The Zone Time readout seemed to have skipped forward ten minutes. Or they’d been unconscious for that amount of time. And how did night fall? If that’s what happened. Another far-off hammer blow belled through the structure of the giant carrier.

“Suffering Christ, is anyone still alive down in CIC?” Kolhammer shouted. Gray space bloomed in his vision, and he pressed both hands to his eyes. He had a terrible migraine, so that if he wanted to see someone clearly he had to tilt his head at an uncomfortable angle just to move them into the small part of his sight that wasn’t affected. He wanted to curl into a ball, but instead he slowly rubbed his eyes.

“If we can’t raise them on shipnet, would someone who can walk a reasonably straight line care to go find out what’s happening down there?” he asked more calmly. “And let’s get someone in here to police up this mess. Commander, do we have a location on Captain Chandler?”

“Making it happen,” Judge croaked. He’d managed to stop heaving his guts out. “Last we knew, the captain was still on the flight deck, Admiral, with the catapult crew at number three.”

Judge interrogated a touch screen, his hands still shaking. “Biosensors place him topside, but unconscious, sir. He’s still down there.”