The grind of rubber wheels on asphalt behind her snapped her out of the memory, and she leaped to the right, onto the sidewalk. The hybrid-electric Wolf armored personnel carrier glided quietly by as the Directorate marine manning the machine gun on the roof offered a timid wave.

Adrenaline pumping, she strode purposefully through the four columns of the hotel’s grand entrance and shivered despite the heat and humidity.

Before the war, she’d had to use the staff entrance. The gleaming white hotel had been built just three years after the American annexation in 1898 on land originally owned by the Hawaiian royal family, so having both the guests and the staff use the main entrance was part of some Directorate propaganda about how the Chinese forces were there for similar reasons, to ensure security, but they, unlike the Americans, would show respect for the “true” citizens of Hawaii. The Directorate was real big on who had been on what island first. But whether you were native, hapa (of mixed ethnicity), or from the mainland, you still had to go through the screening checkpoint out on the street.

Inside the hardwood-floored lobby, Chinese soldiers, sailors, and marines, along with a few civilians, lounged about, drinking, and chatting. Just as it was back in World War II, the old hotel had been converted into a hub for shore leave. She passed through the lobby and went out to the back porch. From her perch at the sports-equipment-rental desk, she couldn’t see the ocean, but she could hear it. That counted for a lot.

“That was amazing,” a man’s voice said, taking her out of her thoughts. He spoke English without one of the translator devices. “What a beautiful sport it must be for those who are truly skilled.”

He set a still-wet longboard against the wall. There was a brief pause as he stepped back to make sure it would not topple over.

“It’s a lot to expect for anyone to pick up in just an hour,” said Carrie. “I bet you did great.”

“I spent most of my time swimming next to the board, not riding it,” said the officer. He was clearly fit, washboard abs, but not bulked out by chems like so many of them. His hair was cropped short, but in a stylish manner. She guessed it had been done professionally rather than in the military assembly line.

“The sport of kings is not for everyone,” she said, offering a wink. “I know we’re not supposed to ask questions of the guests, but where’d you pick up English? Yours is excellent.”

“UCLA, where else?” he said, raising two fingers in the sign that went along with the UCLA alma mater song.

“Go Bruins,” she said, smiling slightly.

“Listen, I could really use a lesson,” the officer said. “Sorry, I should introduce myself. My name is Feng Wu. My friends in LA called me Frank.”

Carrie looked down at her tablet.

“I can set you up with one of the hotel instructors, no problem. They’re great. Several of them were pros before all this,” said Carrie.

Frank leaned closer, dripping seawater on the counter. He smiled, showing perfect white teeth.

“You’re a great teacher, I bet,” he said.

“Well, I’m not that good…” she countered.

“I can pay you, or give you an extra ration card if you want, or whatever else.”

Carrie pressed lightly on the scab on her arm.

“There’s no need for that. Helping out is part of our job, actually,” she said. “Any of us can offer the guests our services. I just thought you would want someone more experienced.”

“When should we meet?” he said.

“Monday night is when the outgoing tide’s supposed to be best,” Carrie said. She tilted her head slightly, giving him a glimpse of her neck.

“That’s a long time to wait! How about tomorrow night?” he said.

She smiled back, looking him in the eye.

It wasn’t just her beauty that made her gaze so striking; it was that she was the first local to look at him directly since he’d arrived in Hawaii. All the others tried to avoid eye contact, some mix of shame and fear. She didn’t have that; instead, she was just — what, normal? More like the American girls he remembered fondly from before all this.

“If you are going to be my student, you have to learn to trust me. We’ll meet next Monday. The moon will be full, and so amazing,” she said. “I know just the place, it’s quiet and there’s not a better break on this side of the island.”

“It is a date, then,” said Frank.

From the water right now, Jamie Simmons thought the Zumwalt looked less like floating death and more like one of those ramshackle floating tidal towns off what used to be Indonesia, people weaving sheets of metal, plastic, and wood into improbable geometries to create homes.

What Vice Admiral Evangeline Murray thought of the Z, Simmons could not tell. She’d hardly spoken to him during her waterside tour of the ship. But her eyes didn’t stop moving. She was coming to understand the ship, Simmons felt, in a way he’d never bothered to. At one point, she had the launch brought up alongside the hull, and she put her hands on the ship like a healer and closed her eyes. What she heard or saw, he did not know. What he did know was that she had a status within the Navy that was unmatched. She’d been the first woman to command an aircraft carrier strike group before the war. More important, she’d been fortunate enough to be serving as president of the Naval War College when the shooting started, meaning she’d escaped both the Stonefish missiles and the congressional inquiries that had decimated the senior ranks.

She signaled for the launch to return to the pier.

“Captain, before we go aboard, I want to say that it is an honor to meet you,” she said. “We don’t have a lot of heroes in this country right now to inspire us. Your leadership and experience is invaluable and I just want you to know that if this ship does not work out, I will personally ensure that your talent is not wasted.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” said Simmons.

“In fact, they tell me we could use someone like you right now in Washington, perhaps more than out here,” said Admiral Murray. “You survived when nobody else did; that has a huge value to the war effort.”

Simmons did not blink; he kept his eyes locked on hers. Was she evaluating him too, not just the ship? This was one of those moments with a black-or-white outcome: Lindsey or the sea. Safety or duty.

“You’re right, ma’am. I don’t belong here,” said Simmons.

She nodded and furrowed her brow.

Simmons pointed toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Admiral, this ship, or any ship we have, has to be out there at sea, where the fight is,” he said. “That’s where we belong.”

He said it instinctively, then paused to question whether he was voicing his father’s opinions or his own.

An elfin smile revealed the admiral’s yellowed teeth; unusual, because most people had had theirs whitened or replaced by her age. “That is for damn sure,” said Admiral Murray. “Now why don’t you introduce me to the crew.”

They didn’t pipe the admiral aboard, as she preferred not to disturb the work at hand.

“One thing that impresses me is all the camouflage here,” said Admiral Murray as they walked the deck.

“It might look like camouflage, but the reality is that all the scaffolding and tarps are really necessary. We ended up having to do a top-to-bottom overhaul here,” said Simmons.

As they approached a knot of crewmen — some in their teens, others decades older — clambering over a scaffold, the admiral said, “Tell me about the crew. How is the new mix going?”

“The mix of generations has its strengths and weaknesses. We have the remnants of the pre — Zero Day fleet. I was given my choice of the best of my old crew, which I understand I have you to thank for. Then there are the draftees, some of whom have never seen the real ocean, let alone been out on it,” said Simmons. “But what they do know are computers; they’ve been with viz in one form or another since birth. They see problems differently than regular sailors, even sailors who were in the Navy when the war started.”