It was as if she had been waiting for the question. The screen carrying her face split into four windows. She occupied the top right corner. The other three cycled through a selection of images, real-time video of World War II–vintage cruisers, destroyers, and aircraft carriers, churning up a maelstrom of foam at their sterns as they maneuvered frantically—and all too frequently in vain—while attempting to outrun a supercavitating torpedo or combat mace. Kolhammer’s nausea returned as he watched a destroyer die inside a small cyclone of ballistic munitions. The image rewound and the ship reintegrated itself as torrents of white fire were sucked back into the decks and superstructure. The vision froze, and the other two windows cycled through a series of still photographs of the same vessel.

The pictures, culled from files across Fleetnet, had been taken on a number of different occasions, more than eighty years earlier.

As Kolhammer sat quietly, Halabi repeated the performance with four other ships. Three destroyers and one cruiser. There was no doubt. They were sinking these very ships. But how? No, that question would have to wait.

“We have extensive intercepts,” said Halabi. “Ship-to-ship. Aircraft in-flight. Internal communications.”

“Okay,” said Kolhammer. “Make it quick.”

A sound channel opened and an avalanche of American voices spilled out. They sounded subtly different from the voices he was used to hearing around him, but regardless he listened as men begged for information, for ammunition. For God’s help. The raw fear, the crash of gunfire, and the animalistic sounds of human beings contending in blood were all intimately familiar to Phillip Kolhammer. The traffic was genuine. He could feel it in his gut. Then, for the first time since the world had gone insane, he had a single, quiet thought.

The Nagoya.

“Shit,” he spat quietly.

“Sir?” said Mike Judge.

“Later. Commander, get this out now, fleetwide. All offensive systems are to go offline immediately.”

“Offline. Acknowledged.”

“CIs to retain autonomy for point defense only. All units to maneuver for defensive fire support. Have the CIs work it out, and we’ll coordinate through Little Bill. We’ll need to put the Siranui at our center.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Captain Halabi, I’ll have to get back to you. Please stand by. Lieutenant Brooks, get me the comm boss.”

The freckled face of Lieutenant Stuart Glover filled the window where Karen Halabi had just been resident.

“Lieutenant, open up a line with one of the ships we’ve encountered. I need to talk to Admiral Ray Spruance on the USS Enterprise.”

Before the young man could protest, Kolhammer held up the palm of his hand.

“I know. I know. Lieutenant Brooks will brief you. But later. I need this done yesterday. Just make it happen.”

“Aye, sir,” he answered unsurely.