The destroyers were tagged as Hostiles 01 through 03. Flashing icons marked the spot where the Zeros had died. A time hack over the island of Singapore read 2321, indicating the amount of time the SAS had been on the ground.

Halabi could kill the destroyers now, but she said that she wanted to close with them, placing her own ships closer to their objective before alerting the Japanese to the fact that a major force had made a forced entry into their waters.

"Designate them, Mr. McTeale, and launch on my mark."

The Trident's commander turned briefly in Murray's direction. "You can watch the missile launch on the display, Admiral. Just there in front of you."

Rear Admiral Murray stared at the monitor, where a movie showing the activity on the upper decks was running in black and white. It seemed rather pointless to him-the Trident was mostly featureless. As he was about to turn away, however, a hexagonal cap flipped open. An Indian-looking chap at a bank of nearby controls spoke up with a flawless Surrey accent.

"Hard target lock confirmed. Firing in three, two, one…"

Murray watched the screen again. White smoke and flame jetted from the silo and a dark bolt shot out with surprising speed. He heard the rocket's takeoff as dull thunder that echoed through the hull.

The image switched instantly and he found himself viewing the Trident as if from another ship. The screen filled with a panoramic view that clearly showed a long, curving finger of smoke climbing away into the night sky.

The image switched again to another wide-angle shot. Six more gray spears erupted from the deck. He felt this launch through the soles of his feet, as a small earthquake. He had no real idea what was going on, and the men and women around him gave little indication. There seemed to be a slightly increased level of activity at the dense banks of computer stations, but…

Murray felt a tap on his arm. One of Halabi's young men, an ensign, directed his attention to the giant video wall that dominated the darkened battle room.

"That's a full-spectrum Nemesis battlespace display, sir," the man said quietly. "You've got radar, drone coverage, and over there, in the corner, a feed from the camera in the nose of the missiles."

To Murray, the monochrome image also seemed very unstable.

He cast his eyes around the Combat Center.

Every screen was attended by an operator. All of them seemed to be talking at once and somewhat to Murray's surprise, the captain stood in the center of this ferment, calmly providing instructions without a hint of panic. She seemed almost graceful.

"Weapons bring the hammerheads around to one-oh-four."

"One-oh-four, ma'am."

Murray stared into a large screen carrying a black-and-white movie radioed back from the camera in the nose of the lead missile.

"Weapons, I want simultaneous hits on those destroyers. Quickly now. We don't want any intel leakage, if possible."

A young black woman near Murray click-clacked at the plastic keys of her computing machine with a speed and confidence that astonished the admiral. Surely one false keystroke would doom the mission.

Halabi appeared in front of him.

"All done."

"But they're-"

"Watch the screen, Admiral."

Murray saw then that the center's main screen had split into a confusing grid of tiled windows. Some carried jumpy, black-and-white footage of the Japanese ships. In the space of a few seconds the outline of each target swelled to fill the screen. Then all the displays turned black.

"What's wrong?" asked Murray. "Where did the pictures go? Were all the rockets shot down?"

"No, Sir Leslie. Think, what would happen to the camera when the missile struck armor plating."

"Oh," he said. "I see."

Commander Osamu Takasuka surveyed the heaving ocean from his eyrie's nest. It was only mildly turbulent tonight, with the bows knifing through meter-and-a-half waves. Still, each plunge of the ship threw plumes of water high into the air.

Takasuka wondered what awaited them ahead. The fleet had been alive with rumor ever since the canceled mission to Midway. Some said the Russians had declared war. Others claimed with righteous certainty that the Americans were about to capitulate. One wild tale originating with an old salt on their sister ship, the destroyer Hokaze, spoke of a gigantic whirlpool that had sucked two American carriers down to the very bottom of the Coral Sea. By the time that rumor had reached Takasuka's ears, it had twisted itself into a perverse story that as you dropped down the funnel you could see old Viking raiders and the bones of Roman galleys on the gray floor of the seabed.

He never failed to be amazed at the bullshit sailors were able to dream up.

As he stood into the freshening breeze, waiting for a radio message relating what the Zeros had discovered up the strait, he thought perhaps a falling star had dropped from the heavens in front of them. He gazed at the sight, captivated by its simple beauty, until it became apparent that the bright comet trail wasn't moving from the heavens toward the waves, but across them, toward him.

More lights appeared, and he tried to get a fix on them through his binoculars, but the heaving motion of the ship and the shaking of his hands made it impossible. The fantastic speed of the lights struck him next, and the sense of intent that seemed to lurk behind their progress. At that point he raised the alarm.

Bells rang and Klaxons blared but it was too late.

Lieutenant Commander Takasuka's existence came to an end inside an expanding globe of hellfire.

Another four missiles shrieked over the scene on their way to Singapore.

The heel of a Japanese sentry's boot pressed into the earth fifteen centimeters from the tip of Captain Harry Windsor's royal nose. The prince's night vision goggles were switched to low-light amplification and small-unit narrowcasting. The other members of his section, including Sergeant St. Clair and two Australian SAS troops, captured the video feed in lime green on the small pop-up window in the corner of their own goggles.

Harry lay as still and quiet as the warm soil beneath him. He breathed as little as possible. Even so, the smell of Singapore was overpowering, a heady brew of open drains and dried fish, of swamp gas and Chinese spices.

In his own pop-up he could see that both St. Clair and Captain Pearce Mitchell, the ranking Aussie, had drawn a bead on the Japanese soldier. A microlight targeting dot, invisible to the sentry, had settled on the side of his head just above the ear, while another dot, emanating from Mitchell's silenced HK 9mm submachine gun, had glued itself to the center of his body mass.

Harry was trying to center himself in a mental exercise, releasing his ego and allowing the world to flood in through all his senses without interruption. Unfortunately the steady stream of piss gushing from the Jap into the bushes beside his head was proving to be a hellish distraction. His heart refused to stop hammering, and a smirk was threatening to break out all over his face. This would, no doubt give rise to a fit of fear-inspired, hysterical laughter if he should let it.

The fellow must have been bursting with tea, judging from the time it took him to empty his bladder. At last, however, the stream began to gutter and die and then, with a few shakes, which splashed a drop or two on Harry's goggles, he was done. The special ops teams listened to the rustle of his fly being fastened and the crunch of his boots through the undergrowth as he continued his patrol. They waited five minutes before moving or even resuming normal breathing patterns. When Harry judged it safe he subvocalized, "Fuck me, that was unpleasant."