Another thundering crash in the direction of the Aegis ship followed.

Seeing the smoke pouring from the ships was as painful as seeing his own jet spiral into the ocean after his ejection. Roscoe felt his eyes well up and held his head in his hands. His entire Boneyard Flight was gone. Nobody remained under his command. And now the ships they had given their lives to protect were on the verge of going under. He was alone.

Except he wasn’t. He took off his helmet and ran a finger over the red-and-black lightning bolts that lined the crest.

Then he braced himself, leaned over the side of the raft, and scooped up a helmet full of water. Then again. And again.

The paddling was slow going, but he told himself he wasn’t going to stop until he reached the Zumwalt. The Navy clearly still needed his help.

The unconscious sailor outweighed Vern by at least a hundred pounds, but that did not stop her from trying to drag him by his ankles away from the flames at the end of the passageway. She could manage only five feet before she had to stop and catch her breath in the dark. Gagging on sharp smoke, she strained to put more distance between them and the fire. She hoped she was going toward safety, but anything was better than where she was coming from.

As she struggled on, coughing, she watched two fire-bots worm their way past her and advance into the swirl of flames and toxic smoke ravaging the room. They detonated their fire retardant and began tagging the bodies they found with strobes, giving the room a disorienting celestial look.

“Here, Dr. Li,” said Brooks, coming up from behind her. “We’re gonna do this together.”

She nodded and continued to strain against the weight of the limp body.

“On three, here we go,” said Brooks, lifting the man under his arms. “You keep on the feet there.”

In the light of the strobes, she could see the unconscious man was wearing coveralls, seared black in places so that the fabric had melted against the pale skin on his legs. She could not yet see his face.

“Shit, is this the chief?” said Brooks.

Vern blinked a tear as she knelt forward and caught the smell of leather and bay rum mixing with burned plastic and singed hair.

Simmons tried to focus on the face staring at him from the wall screen.

The man spoke before Simmons could remember his name.

“Jesus, Jamie, I’m looking at the Z. Half the ship is on fire!” the man said.

“Still afloat,” said Simmons slowly, still not sure who he was talking to. “Give me your situation.”

“We took one amidships. Fires are contained, but we’re down to fifteen knots, maximum. More important, we shot our wad in that last volley,” the man said. “Our missile magazines are spent. I’ve got the CIWS, which have only a few more fires left. After that, spitballs is all we’ve got to shoot down missiles.”

The fog lifted. Anderson. The USS Port Royal.

“Well done, in any case. Tell your crew they saved a lot of ships today,” said Simmons.

The Zumwalt’s fire-control officer shouted: “Sirs, we have an incoming target. It looks to be a surveillance drone. We’re jamming its radar, but it’ll be in visual range in four minutes. I’m tasking the Shrikes to shoot it down.”

Simmons opened his mouth to speak, then pursed his lips in thought.

“Belay that order. Let it see us,” said Simmons.

“Say again, sir?” said Anderson, worry showing in the crow’s-feet around his eyes.

“They already know where we are. I want them to see us this way,” said Simmons.

The door to his stateroom shuddered, but fortunately not from another explosion, just his aide’s knock.

Admiral Wang’s aide entered, carrying a tablet computer.

“Sir, I am sorry to disturb you during your contemplation, but we have new reconnaissance information. One of the Soar Eagles launched from Guam at your order has finally entered the area. It is beaming back information line of sight to us.”

The Soar Dragon was a derivative of the U.S. Global Hawk unmanned aerial spy plane. The original American drone was a large spy plane, its wingspan greater than a 737 jetliner’s, built to replace the manned U-2. Chinese designers had added a few flourishes, sweeping the wings back to attach to the tail. Looking like a plane crossed with a kite, their version had a better lift-to-drag ratio and less complex flight controls. But the tradeoff was that the engine had to be mounted above the tail, as in a commuter jet, giving the Soar Eagle a slow cruising speed.

As he scanned the images of warships smoking and sinking, Wang thought the wait was almost worth it. The only ships unscathed were the slow, toothless American transport vessels now waiting to be scooped up.

“Show me this one,” said Wang, tapping the image of the largest warship in the task force. It was immediately recognizable as their novel Zumwalt class. So the Americans had indeed brought back their strange experiment, just as the intelligence reports had claimed. It confirmed all his assumptions that this was the last victory the Directorate would need, just as he had argued to the Presidium. Using a ship like that was simultaneously an act of innovation and of desperation. Indeed, the same was true of the Americans’ entire operation today.

The image zoomed in on the massive ship, tied up next to one of their stricken small helicopter carriers. The warship was indeed sleek and lethal-looking, but it was now dead in the water, smoking from what looked to be at least three missile strikes. Smoldering steel debris littered its deck, blocking its main gun turret.

He walked toward the bridge using the exterior gangway. Taking the longer route gave him the chance to breathe in the fresh air, to savor the salinity and the moment itself. He fished in his pants pocket for a stim tab and unwrapped it, then tossed the foil bubble into the wind. He had resisted taking one at the beginning of the battle, the need to exude calm being paramount. Now was the time for energetic aggression.

“ ‘Prize the quick victory, not the protracted engagement,’ ” he quoted to the aide. “Signal to the task force for all ships to advance at flank speed. It is time to close in for the kill and end this war.”

Mike peered into the dark hallway, inhaling deeply from the firefighting breathing unit. Until they could vent the unit, the air was too toxic for anyone to spend time here, but the louvered covers on the vent openings had melted shut and it was going to take some doing, or at least a few minutes with a crowbar, to get those back open.

“Bridge, this is damage-control team. Bridge, this is damage-control team,” said Mike. His voice echoed inside the firefighting mask.

“Glad you’re okay, Chief,” said a familiar voice. “What do you have for me?”

“Good to hear you too, son… sir. The news isn’t good. Multiple casualties, more than I can keep track of. Starboard-side superstructure is melting; the composite just can’t handle the hits and the heat. It’s still a mess at the laser turret, and debris is blocking the rail gun’s movement. That’s not the real problem for the gun, though. Those shots took down the whole auxiliary power network. We’ve got break points across the ship,” said Mike. “The VLS, well, we’re not going to get our deposit back. Most of the cell hatches look like they got peeled back with a rusty can opener. But there’s something worse away from the impact points. We’ve got reports of leaks below decks, and the superstructure and hull seam look iffy on the starboard, right below the helo deck.”