Suddenly a squad of armed marines double-timed toward the Seahawk, nearly bringing the truce to a premature end. Jones was forced to scramble forward, waving them down so that they wouldn't be decapitated by an unfortunate dip of the still-turning rotors. Seeing him charge, three men shouldered their arms and drew a bead.

"Crazy black bastard," spat the sergeant in charge of the detail as he continued forward.

Jones sank to one knee and motioned for them to drop, too, gesturing frantically at the rotors.

"Get down! Get down, you assholes!" he yelled over the diminishing whine.

Finally the sergeant got the message, and they halted their advance. Kolhammer emerged and joined Halabi. Both bent nearly double to emphasize Jones's warnings. They joined him, and together they hastened out of the danger zone. The helos powered down and their crews exited. Kolhammer had thought it might reduce some of the tension if they were to move away from the controls.

High above them, the group of men clustered outside the pilothouse watched the performance.

"Check out the tail on that chicken," urged a navigator from the torpedo squadron.

"Yeah, but get an eyeful of the jigaboo she's travelin' with, Mack. That guy's gotta be eight foot tall."

"Hell, I could beat him fair and square…"

"You couldn't beat an egg, you palooza…"

"I'm going down," said Ensign Curtis, more to himself than anyone else. He was ignored by everyone except Lieutenant Commander Black, who pushed off the rail and followed him back inside.

"What's your feeling about this, Wally?" he asked as they made their way down to the flight deck.

Curtis was so worked up by the rush and excitement that he forgot to be intimidated by the older, more senior man.

"It's something big, sir. Why, I'll bet you it's something we can't even imagine yet, like something out of Amazing Stories."

"You a betting man, Ensign?" teased Black.

"Uh, no, sir. Gambling is a sin, and against regulations, Lieutenant, I just meant…"

"It's all right, son, I wouldn't take your bet anyway. I have a feeling I'd do my dough cold."

Down on the flight deck, surrounded by the hard, unfriendly faces and cocked Springfield '03s of the security detail, Jones wondered how Kolhammer's gamble would play out. They had assumed Spruance would meet them as they disembarked, but only the buzzing ranks of spectators and the anonymous belligerence of their guards awaited them. As they confronted the marine squad, the sergeant in command barked out, "Identify yourselves."

All three had grown up in the military and were unfazed by the aggressive command. People had been barking at them professionally all of their adult lives. They replied in kind.

"Admiral Phillip Kolhammer, United States Navy."

"Colonel J. L. Jones, United States Marine Corps."

"Captain Karen Halabi, Royal Navy."

"We were expected, Sergeant," Jones added, with a tightly coiled menace in the delivery that the marine couldn't help but recognize. A twenty-year man, he had been bruted by professionals, too.

"Not like this you weren't, asshole," the noncom muttered under his breath.

When Jones stepped one pace forward and spoke, it sounded like the engine of an Abrams turning over. Slowly. "You don't know me yet, Sergeant. So I'll let your personal disrespect pass. But you know these, don't you, boy?" He fingered the silver eagles and Marine Corps insignia on his collar. "And by God, you'll respect the uniform of the United States Marine Corps, or I'll beat that respect into you, right here in front of your men."

Jones's eyes never left the sergeant's as he spoke. They stayed locked together for two heartbeats after he had finished. The man's jawline bunched and knotted as he struggled to contain himself, while Jones just gave him the stone face. He could see the guy's entire life in that twisting mask, all of his prejudices and petty resentments, warring against the disciplines of the corps. There were no black marines in 1942, and of all the services the corps would fight hardest against integration. But Jones's warrior spirit was so powerful, his command presence so finely honed, that it could not be resisted. In the end, the Sergeant deflated, crushed by a superior will.

"We'll see," he said, a deep flush of embarrassment discoloring his whole head. He looked as if he'd stepped in something foul.

Kolhammer observed the interchange in silence. He knew Jones well enough, he thought. The Eighty-second had been attached to the Clinton's battle group for two years. The colonel's reputation had preceded him, but Kolhammer was experienced enough to know that the few minutes of a man's life wherein he earned a Medal of Honor didn't necessarily tell you anything about his soul. Or even his character-the everyday manifestation of that deeper, immaterial essence. Awards for uncommon valor are, by definition, won under extreme circumstances, which might call forth behavior completely out of character for the individual concerned. The exchange with the belligerent noncom, however, confirmed what Kolhammer had always suspected.

Nobody fucks with J. Lonesome Jones.

Standing next to him, Captain Halabi couldn't help but be affected, as well, a wave of gooseflesh running up her arms. Curiously, the magic seemed to fade with distance. Over beside the Seahawk pilot Chris Harford, Flight Lieutenant Amanda Hayes affected a faux southern accent: "Mah word, Jasper, we seem to have stumbled into a teste fest."

Harford flashed a small but genuine smile for the first time that day. It froze on his face when he recognized the man approaching from the carrier's island structure. Admiral Raymond Ames Spruance.

Halabi thought he looked more like a banker than an admiral, perhaps a Rothschild or Rockefeller, with short, straight hair, graying over the ears, a rather Roman nose, and deep lines at the corner of his mouth emphasizing the funereal set of his jaw. He fairly stalked over to the commander of the Multinational Force, fixing their CO with a frigid glare.

"You Kolhammer?"

"I am."

That neither man had made to salute spoke eloquently of their uncertainty. Nobody was sure of what rules applied here, of whose turf they were treading on. Spruance turned to take in the stony visage of Colonel Jones and the bewildering Karen Halabi. Jones ripped out a parade-ground-perfect salute, to which Spruance merely sketched a return, somewhat grudgingly and after a noticeable pause.

"You people have killed thousands of my men tonight," he said. "You've probably lost us this war in the space of less than an hour."

"And you've killed plenty of mine," Kolhammer replied equably. "Tried to kill thousands more. We're both at war, Admiral. People die. Sometimes for the worst of reasons. I'm sorry for your losses and if you'll allow us, we'll do what we can for the survivors."

"And what about the Japs?" Spruance said in a cold, level voice. "What do you intend to do for them, since I notice you seem to be running with them?"

The Siranui. Kolhammer knew it had been spotted. It could hardly have been missed, emerging as it did so close to the Enterprise. He wondered whether Spruance had laid eyes on her himself. Probably.

"We have a Japanese Self-Defense Force ship operating as part of our task force, that's right. But they're of no threat to you here, or to Midway, or the United States of America."

"Tell it to the Portland," Spruance forced out through pursed lips. "I have a destroyer over where she went down and they haven't found a single survivor. Not one! And I watched that rocket fly up off the deck of your Japanese friend myself. So please, spare me. All I want to know is, what the hell is going on here. You say you're American, but you're obviously treating with our enemies."

"Well, if we could just sit down-"