"Yes, we did, Commander Evans. We've probably killed more than thirty of your men by direct fire belowdecks. I don't know how many have died elsewhere. Our defensive systems went offline, but Nix tells me some of them functioned independently anyway. Your casualties will be heavy, I'm afraid."

"You killed everybody on the bridge," he said, unwilling to mask his bitterness. "Shot the hell out of them. They were friends of mine."

Anderson let it pass. She ripped open a flap holding her vest in place and lay down her shotgun before stepping right up to the thin sliver of clear space through which they were forced to communicate.

"I'm sorry Commander. But you've killed an unknown number of my people, as well."

"Just fucking niggers and…," Seaman Molloy muttered, before a backhanded slap from Chief Mohr silenced him. Captain Anderson let that one slide, too.

"Who are you people?" Evans asked, his voice nearly cracking.

"I told you. We're Americans," Anderson replied. "Just like you."

"This is Spruance! Who the hell are you? What's the idea of breaking in on my transmission. By God, you'd better have a good explanation, or you'll hang for this."

The voice filled the flag bridge of the USS Hillary Clinton, of a man long dead when Phillip Kolhammer had finished the last brush stroke on his model dive-bomber. Kolhammer listened in dread and wonder. In a way, that voice was more awful than the firestorm raging down on the flight deck.

He took a long breath before speaking.

"This is Admiral Phillip Kolhammer, United States Navy. Acting commander of the USS Hillary Clinton and task force commander of UNPROFLEET, operating under the mandate of United Nations Security Council Resolution Three Three One Two. I request that you cease fire, Admiral Spruance. There's been a terrible mistake. You are engaged with friendly forces. I say again, cease fire. We are American and Allied ships."

A stream of invective poured out of the bridge speakers. Kolhammer waited until it abated and repeated himself as calmly as he could. The forward laser pods destroyed another five-inch shell as he spoke, emphasizing his lack of success in getting through to Spruance. He watched a medic pull someone from the sea of flames that covered almost a third of the flight deck behind the ops tower. A dark, oily smear marked the passage of the body.

"Admiral Spruance," he repeated, "you are firing on an American-led force. We have ceased offensive fire. I request you do the same."

In the cramped, fetid flag radio room of the Enterprise, Ray Spruance clamped his hand over the mike and spoke to the operator.

"Have you had any luck raising Pearl yet, sailor?"

"Sorry, sir. This Kolhammer guy is all over us. He's blocked out every frequency. We can't even talk ship-to-ship. All anyone is getting is this transmission."

"How is that possible?" Spruance asked angrily. "No, forget it. That's not important. The fact is, he's doing it.

"Who is he?" he continued, scanning the room. "Does anyone here know of an Admiral Kolhammer? And that ship, what the hell is he talking about? Hillary Clinton my ass!"

The four staff officers who had crammed into the shack with Spruance exchanged blank looks and shook their heads.

"Admiral," said Lieutenant Commander Black. "These sons-a-bitches have destroyed the Yorktown and the Hornet. They've sunk our cruisers and most of the destroyer screen. Even making the worst kind of mistake, no American force would do that. It's gotta be a load of horseshit."

Spruance went quiet for a few seconds, a pause that seemed interminable. Finally, he brought the mike back to his lips.

"This is Spruance. There is no ship or admiral by the names you have given us, anywhere in the U.S. Navy. Identify yourself truthfully and cease firing on us. I've only got to walk a few paces and stick my head out a hatch to know you're lying about that. I can see your goddamn fire all over the sky."

Kolhammer's voice crackled out of the speakers. "That fire is not directed at you. I know it sounds ludicrous… but it's directed at the shells you've been firing on us."

Curtis allowed himself a satisfied, if fleeting glance at Beanland, whose furious glare wiped any trace of satisfaction from the ensign's face. Spruance and Black exchanged a look that revealed their doubts about this Kolhammer's sanity, but before either could speak, he continued. As the words spilled out, Spruance's expression turned from shock to dark, impacted rage.

"Admiral," said Kolhammer, "we know you're heading for Midway to intercept a Japanese fleet under the control of Admiral Yamamoto. We also know that you are ignoring as a diversion a Japanese thrust toward the Aleutians by the Second Carrier Striking Force under Rear Admiral Kakuta. We know that your Pacific Fleet Combat Intelligence Unit, under Commanders Rochefort and Safford, have broken the Japanese naval code JN-two-five, and so you have advance warning of the plan to seize Midway, including the entire Japanese order of battle. I know you won't be happy that I'm announcing all of this over the air, but I can assure you it is irrelevant now.

"I am instructing all the ships under my command to switch on their running lights, and any abovedeck illumination, in thirty seconds."

Kolhammer signaled to Judge, who set the order in motion throughout the Multinational Force.

"I know you'll have trouble trusting me," he continued, "but I can only ask for that trust. We will not fire on you again. We will reveal our positions. I would request permission to come aboard the Enterprise to explain what has happened. I can guarantee both your safety and that of Midway."

As Kolhammer spoke, trying for the sort of reassuring tone he recalled from interminable post-trauma briefings he'd been forced to undergo as an active fighter pilot, Mike Judge passed him a handwritten note. The exec had taken the initiative and asked the acting commander of the Siranui to lower his ensign and park himself behind the Kandahar, out of the line of sight for the Enterprise. Kolhammer gave him a silent thumbs-up as he continued.

"I understand you've taken heavy casualties, but so have we. It was a terrible mistake. We will do everything we can to make good your losses, and we will stand down any threat to American or Allied interests in this theater, but I implore you to cease fire immediately, so we can sort out this mess."

Lights came on all across Kolhammer's fleet. Blazing like carnival rides, their sleek, radical lines occasioned almost as much surprise among the men of Task Forces Sixteen and Seventeen as had their initial arrival. A sailor thrust his head into the radio shack.

"Admiral Spruance, sir? I think you'd better come and see this."

Spruance handed the heavy microphone back to the radio operator without bothering to sign off. He and his staff threaded through to flag plot and out onto a walkway. The sea around them was alight with dying ships, their own, but also with visions of craft from another world. Somebody handed Spruance a large pair of binoculars, which he raised to his eyes with a slight tremor of the hands. The carrier's plunging progress made it difficult to get a steady look, but the first ship that came into view stole his breath. The triple-hulled warship was flying her largest ensign from a telescoping staff atop the bridge. The flag was British. No other structure ruined the smooth surface of her deck.

Spruance dropped the glasses, fixed another alien vessel in his sight, and raised the binoculars again. It boasted an equally exotic appearance, but this was a monohulled ship. The Stars and Stripes fluttered from a telescopic mast at the top of the raked-back fin that spoiled her otherwise empty decks.