"That you, Evans?" the woman asked, her voice at normal volume now. She seemed to be speaking directly to him. But how did she know where he was in all this blackness?

"Yeah," he croaked. "It's me."

"I'm going to break a glo-stick," she said. "You'll hear a sort of snap and a green tube will appear just in front of you. It'll glow bright enough for you to make us out a little easier."

Evans, Mohr, and Molloy heard a crunch, like someone stepping on glass. A faint green line began to glow on the far side of the gap. Within seconds it threw off enough light to illuminate the figures who had approached them. Evans was aware of Molloy, stiffening beside him and adjusting his grip on the old Springfield.

"Sailor," he said softly. "I want you to crawl over there, get behind that door, and see if you can get a hold of that lamp or whatever it is. We may need some more light in here."

Moose seemed about to question the logic of this order, but a cold glare from CPO Mohr cut him off and sent him away, muttering under his breath. Evans was too tired, too befuddled, and in way too much pain to bother with the mild insubordination. He let go a long shuddering breath as he regarded the fantastic creatures who stood just a few feet away now.

He figured the older man to be the chief petty officer. He looked the type. Stocky and assured. The woman, sure enough, was a Negro. A big one by the way she was crouched. She seemed to be wearing a life jacket of some sort and had a pair of goggles pushed up on her head. She and her chief were both toting shotguns, so perhaps it was one of them had done for Stolz. That was of marginal interest, however, next to the flood of questions raised by the third man.

Nix, was it?

Even in the strange green glow of the light stick the trooper seemed on the verge of disappearing into the visual clutter. It was almost as though he was drinking up the light, without throwing any of it back. Evans thought he was dressed in black, but he couldn't tell for sure. When Nix moved, he flowed like a ghost from one flickering shadow to the next. His eyes seemed huge and almost insectlike until Evans realized he, too, was wearing goggles. Unlike the Negro woman he hadn't removed his, and he seemed to be constantly scanning their surroundings. His weapon, some weird Buck Rogers-looking thing, seemed to float by his side, and Peter Evans had the unnerving sensation that it could swing up and target the small patch of skin between his eyes before he could even blink in surprise. He felt sure it was the same man he'd seen earlier, on the deck of the other ship.

"That's a fucking German storm trooper!" Mohr hissed in his ear. "Look at the helmet, Commander. And dressed in black like that. He's gotta be a Kraut."

"Seaman Nix hails from Fort Worth, Texas," said the black woman. "I'm not sure of his politics."

"Unreconstructed southern Democrat, ma'am," Nix said in a broad, recognizably Texan drawl.

"Well, we won't hold that against him. But I can assure you he is not an SS officer."

"Well, what the hell is he then?" snapped Evans, suddenly finding himself thoroughly exasperated by the conversational tone she maintained in the face of this relentless insanity.

Despite his outburst, the "captain"-what had she called herself?-replied calmly, "Nix is one of my boarding/counterboarding specialists, Commander Evans. I'll have him fall back if you'd prefer. Regardless, you and I need to talk. And fast. I don't know how long the structural integrity of our ships can hold out. But at the very least I'd suggest we stop trying to shoot each other and dial back our speed. We're tearing each other apart."

"What did you say your name was?" asked Evans.

"Anderson. Captain Daytona Anderson of the USS Leyte Gulf."

"And I'm supposed to believe that, am I? You must think I came down in that last shower, lady."

"Look, Commander. I don't expect you to believe anything I say. I don't know how much of what I've seen the last few minutes I can believe, but I'm playing the cards I've been dealt. You said your ship is the Astoria? Would you by any chance be sailing on Midway, to confront a Japanese invasion fleet?"

Evans almost laughed.

"You gotta be kidding me. Do you really think I'm going to tell you anything?"

"No," she sighed, "not if you're any good at your job. Okay. Let me try this. If you are heading for Midway, you're part of Task Group Seventeen-Two with the cruiser Portland, under the command of Rear Admiral William Smith, which in turn is part of Task Force Seventeen under Frank Fletcher on the Yorktown. Task Force Sixteen, built around the carriers Enterprise and Hornet, is steaming with you, and was supposed to be under Bull Halsey, but he's got a case of the hives and is stuck back in Pearl. So Ray Spruance, a cruiser driver like you, has taken over. You think the Japs would know that? The Japanese think Yorktown was sunk in the Coral Sea. They have no idea she was repaired in three days at Pearl. They wouldn't believe it possible.

"And do you think, even if they knew any of this, they'd be dumb enough to send me, a black woman, to claim to be a U.S. Navy captain, and to negotiate with you? You think they'd have the ability to screw around with your ship like this?"

Evans felt as though his stomach was going to do a full forward roll. He and Mohr stared at each other, exhausted, incredulous. His mind seemed to have locked up completely, refusing to process any more information.

"Commander Evans?" she prompted.

Moose Molloy interrupted before he could reply.

"Commander. This is pretty wacky, sir. I think you'd better see this."

At that a light, even stronger than the green rod in Anderson's hand, pushed back the gloom. Molloy was struggling around the door wedged into the desktop, and he was carrying another glowing object. It was the size of a small book, but it threw out a powerful light, reminding him of the moment in a movie theater when the dark screen suddenly lit up.

"What the hell is that?" asked Eddie Mohr.

"It's a flexipad," the Anderson woman answered from the far side of the gap.

A single shot rang out, somewhere in the distance. Before Evans could shout Mohr had cut him off, yelling at a full roar, "Knock it off, you blockheads! Cease fire! I'll personally clobber the first man who does that again."

"Thank you, Chief," said Captain Anderson.

Mohr said nothing in return, just glared. Moose finally popped out of the constricted space and tumbled to the deck. He carried the "flexipad" over to Evans like it was a live shell. His CO took the object, smearing sticky half-dried blood over the screen.

The rubberized casing felt odd, like nothing he'd ever touched before. The thing seemed light, but solid and kind of dense, too. He and Mohr stared at the screen, which showed something that looked like a weather map. But it was in motion, like a short movie, repeating again and again. As strange as it was, Evans could tell that it covered a thousand square miles of the Wetar Strait off Timor.

It was every bit as baffling as anything else they'd seen so far.

He couldn't shake the idea that he was staring through a small window hundreds of miles high, directly down onto the earth's surface. Overlaying the picture was a mass of thin red lines. The image shifted rapidly, like a movie spooling too quickly through a projector, allowing Evans to watch clouds moving through the strait.

Anderson's voice broke the spell.

"You need medical attention, Commander Evans. I can see that from here. We have a sixteen-bed hospital on the Leyte Gulf. It hasn't been compromised. The sort of injuries some of your men are carrying, it'd go a hell of a lot better for them to get treatment from us."

"You inflicted those injuries, Captain."

It was the first time Evans had addressed her properly.