“Jamie, just take care of those kids. Be there for them. Be better than me,” said Mike. The channel went quiet.

After a second of silence, Cortez cleared his throat. “Sir, we have to act,” he said, eyeing his captain with concern. “If it’s needed, I can take over, sir.”

Simmons blinked away tears and spoke.

“Battery release… do it. Fire the rail gun.”

Water from the spray over the bow soaked his uniform jacket as the flagship cut through the water at almost thirty knots, the rest of task force arrayed behind it.

Wang knew he should be waiting calmly in his ready room, but his blood was up. It was not just the stims; it was the moment. On deck was where a sailor should be, especially for a fight that was ending like this. It was also the kind of image his sailors needed to see. Their fleet had felt the sting, but now they would gain their revenge and taste victory, all the more sweet up close.

Beside him, one of the main 130 mm gun turrets began to swivel, its turn aligning the barrel with the enemy’s largest ship. The ship was not yet visible in the distance, but small plumes of smoke indicated it lay directly ahead.

Wang took the groan of the gun turret moving as his signal to go back to the bridge. He turned quickly, not wanting to wait anymore, and the next thing he knew, he was splayed out on the slick deck, flat on his back. Of all the times to slip and fall.

His aide helped him up with the care he would show a withered old woman who’d fallen while feeding pigeons in the park.

Wang nodded his thanks and took the stairs up to the bridge, aggressively, fast, two at a time, to show them he was not such an old man as they thought. His left knee cried out with every step as his aide rushed to keep pace behind him.

On the bridge, the tactical map was projected into the center of the room; the sailors went silent when the admiral entered. He wondered if they had seen him fall. No matter — the moment would be forgotten amid the glory.

The hologram showed the American task force, blue icons indicating each one’s suspected class, name, and status. What was more important, though, was the parallel series of dotted red lines that steadily drew ever closer to the blue. The lines represented the targeting envelopes of the various weapons in the force; the Zheng He’s main battery of 130 mm guns were the closest red line to the American fleet. All that was needed was for the red line to cross the blue icon of their primary target.

He stood before the screen, not engaged in his usual contemplative pacing but instead trying to take the weight off his aching knee. He willed the line closer so that this would all be over sooner.

There!

“In range, sir, on your orders, we are ready to engage,” said his aide. He held up the tablet screen, ready for Wang to press the icon to clear all ships to fire.

Wang extended his trigger finger and then paused, holding it in the air six inches from the screen. It sounded like a freight train was racing right past the bridge. The very steel of the superstructure seemed to vibrate, tickling the soles of his boots. A giant splash erupted on the port side of the Admiral Zheng He, the water spray rising higher than the ship itself. A few seconds later, another erupted to the starboard side, sending water hundreds of feet in the air in a sharp fantail of white and blue.

He felt rivulets of sweat track their way down his back, and then chastised himself, whispering, “ ‘Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.’ ”

He jabbed his finger down, but it never touched the screen. The rail-gun round entered the Admiral Zheng He’s superstructure approximately thirty feet beneath where Admiral Wang stood. The strike transferred its kinetic energy with such force that the metal superstructure was literally peeled apart as the round plowed through. The ensuing explosion amidships sent a ball of flame hundreds of feet into the air as the ship’s hull cracked in two.

“Fire again,” said Captain Simmons. He stood with the weight fully on the balls of his feet, willing the ship to make every shot count. The steady explosions of the rail gun releasing rounds continued. One round every six seconds, with a metronome’s precision.

With all auxiliary power dedicated to the weapons systems, the ship continued to drift, but ATHENA had that under control, adjusting the fire solution.

In the distance, small bright flashes and then black plumes began to appear, the only visual indicators of the steady rail-gun shots working their way through the enemy task force.

Cortez approached Simmons and kept his voice low. “Sir, water level’s rising below decks. We need to get those pumps back on before we lose her,” he said.

Simmons stared at him briefly and then responded. “Continue firing. We don’t know if the gun will work once we stop. We just need to trust the ship.”

He could hear his father speaking through him.

The fifteen senators stared at the piece of parchment folded into a square and covered with what looked like nineteenth-century English script.

“You see, ladies and gentlemen, this is the actual letter of marque. The one your president signed. There is a copy in one of my vaults and a third, as you might know, has been donated to your Smithsonian Institution for its historic significance.” Sir Aeric Cavendish then playfully tapped the paper to make it spin weightlessly in front of the view screen. “It is a binding legal document. What you are asking of me is not based on, my legal team informs me, any law, terrestrial or otherwise.”

“Nobody is questioning your contribution to the war effort,” said Senator Bob Courtenay, the California Republican who chaired the committee. He tried not to show his frustration. Witnesses at congressional hearings were supposed to be intimidated, not showboating on a video screen from two hundred and fifty miles overhead. And they were supposed to be in clothing appropriate to the occasion, not in a baby-blue jumpsuit with the name Zorro embroidered on it. “But the past notwithstanding, you have to understand the present seriousness of our position.”

“What I understand is that I delivered on all terms of a business agreement, and now my partners seek to change that agreement,” said Sir Aeric. “Highly disappointing, but to be expected of politicians.”

Senator Courtenay leaned forward, twirling a ballpoint pen in his hand. It was his signal for the media cameras to focus tightly on him because he was about to drop the hammer on a witness.

“Let me be explicitly clear about what the legislation this committee is considering means: You will agree to give the space station you now occupy back to its rightful owners,” said Senator Courtenay, raising his voice. “Or, Mr. Cavendish, your properties inside the United States will be seized, and a warrant for your arrest will be issued.”

“Senator, it seems you are having trouble with a great many things, from the nuances of business to the basic matter of getting my title correct.” Sir Aeric Cavendish floated up and then steadied himself in front of the camera.

“So let me simplify this for you. You can make all the empty threats that you desire. I rather like it up here and I don’t expect to come down there in the foreseeable future.”