When he saw the New Orleans go up, Dan Black knew they were all going to die. He watched that long, wingless plane—that thing that looked like a flying hammerhead shark—as it flashed over the flight deck of the Enterprise. His thigh muscles bunched and he distinctly felt his ass pucker as he waited for the firestorm to spit out of its belly. He’d seen that happen twice now to other ships. But the Enterprise was spared. Christ only knew why. And the rocket—if Curtis was right—passed over them with such speed you could practically see the wall of compressed air that attended its passage. It knocked men off their feet down on the flight deck, swept a few of them over the side, and even seemed to flatten the waves beneath it.

In Lieutenant Commander Black’s opinion, something traveling that fast—if it was built solid, it’d punch right through a battleship.

And sure enough, he’d have sworn the New Orleans actually rocked on her axis when the thing struck her. All ten thousand tons of her. Just before that globe of silent white light ballooned outward from the impact point and swallowed up the whole ship.

That was when he knew they were all going to die.

USS HILLARY CLINTON, 2307 HOURS, 2 JUNE 1942

Kolhammer ran his eyes over the screens in front of him and the firestorm lighting the darkness outside. They were in battle. He had no idea with whom and over what. But men and women were dying by the thousands if the flatscreen reports and the evidence of the night outside were to be believed. The deck of the Clinton was aflame, reminding him of the oil fires he’d witnessed in all of the Gulf Wars.

“Any word on Captain Chandler?” Kolhammer asked Commander Judge, knowing the answer before the ship’s executive officer spoke.

Judge checked both his flexipad and a workstation, with his mouth fixed in a grim line. He confirmed what the admiral had feared.

“He’s gone, sir, along with everybody on the flight deck and another six hundred here and there. It’s your ship, Admiral.”

None of the men or women on the bridge turned from their stations, but Kolhammer felt the weight of their expectations fall on him. Their lives were now in his hands.

“Lieutenant Brooks.” He addressed the CIC boss, who was looking much less bilious, thanks to the Promatil flush. “Give it to me quick and dirty. Force status and enemy disposition. Mike, give me ship status when the lieutenant’s finished.”

Judge began to gather damage reports from the carrier’s various departments while Kolhammer watched Brooks’s hands flying over her touch screen. The young woman’s face was impassive, although Kolhammer guessed her mind and heart would be racing.