Grace gathered her composure by means of three gulping breaths. When she could talk without crying she looked into Margie's eyes. "When I grow up," she said, "I want to be a United States Marine, just like you."

Margie pursed her lips and nodded. She patted down Grace's hair, kissed her forehead, and turned away.

"Excuse me for just a second, sweetie," she said thickly.

She jumped up and hurried out into the corridor.

When the door to her cabin was closed, she sank to the floor and burst into tears.

The fierce heat reminded Kolhammer of the days they'd spent off Timor preparing for deployment. He was a universe away from that now. But home seemed as tangible as the salt in the air. Einstein had told him it really was that close; that his wife and home were closer to him than the shirt on his back. But Kolhammer peered through dark sunglasses at the huge straggling convoy of antique vessels, a scene that appeared nearly medieval to his eyes, and he knew that he would never see Marie again.

He kept one eye on the screen where an icon representing the Sutanto plowed toward them from the east. When they rendezvoused, the Indonesian would have to turn around and cover her tracks, but he couldn't blame them for not wanting to spend another minute out there on their own. They'd had a hell of time of it, judging by the video the Raptors had brought back. The little tub had been comprehensively shot to hell. He had to admit that he might have been wrong about them, though, because they'd fought through.

"Thinking of home, Admiral?" asked Spruance.

Kolhammer had forgotten he was there, so quiet had Spruance been the last half hour. Like most of them, with the worst behind them, he seemed content to gaze into the heat shimmer that was obscuring the horizon. Choppers thudded between the modern ships, redistributing casualties, supplies, and medical personnel as needed. Combat air patrol roared off the Clinton and the Kandahar at regular intervals. But the threat bubble was clear. Apart from those tin cans chasing the Sutanto, they'd had only two passing contacts with the Japanese: a submarine that had been killed before it knew it was in danger, and a faint return off a large body of iron far away to the north.

Yamamoto was wisely keeping his distance.

Kolhammer didn't reply to Spruance immediately. He was exhausted and half hypnotized by the loping passage of the old cruise liners and troopships that carried most of the liberated POWs.

"Home?" he mused aloud. "I suppose so."

"We'll be there soon," said Spruance.

Kolhammer rubbed at the bristles sprouting on his cheeks. He wondered when he'd have to go back to shaving with a razor instead of just using wipe-away gel.

"You'll be home soon, Admiral," he said. "And all of these poor bastards-"

He indicated the transports with a wave of the hand.

"-but we won't be going home for a long time. If ever."

The blank sheets of paper annoyed Halabi. She'd been staring at them for half an hour, willing the right words to come. But try as she might she just couldn't come up with the correct words for writing a condolence letter to the great-grandparents of a sailor killed in action, decades before he'd been born. There had been well over a thousand men and women on the Fearless. It was tempting to give up. But even though it was frustrating and the situation was more than a little bizarre, she knew the dead sailors' relatives needed to know what had happened. Nevertheless she was quietly grateful when a knock sounded at the cabin door.

"Enter," she said, instantly regretting it when the doleful countenance of Rear Admiral Sir Leslie Murray appeared. She composed her features as equably as she could.

"I am sorry, Sir Leslie, are you still having trouble getting through to London? I've asked my communications officer to prioritize your messages."

Murray looked ill. The bags of loose flesh below his eyes seemed even deeper than normal, and he carried his shoulders with a pronounced stoop. Halabi assumed it was from having to drag his corpulent frame around a working ship for a change. When he twisted from side to side in a bizarre, unknowing parody of a workout video instructor, she kept a smile from her lips only by force of will.

"Please sit down, sir," she said, paying him the compliment of his rank. They both knew where the real power lay on board the Trident.

"No, no. I shall only be a short time bothering you," he said. "Are you busy, then?"

His fat fingers played with the polished buttons of a dress tunic.

"I have some letters to write. To next of kin, if I can find them," answered Halabi.

"Ah, right, good show then. Not too many I hope."

"I happen to regard one as too many, Sir Leslie."

"Quite right, quite right."

He remained standing, obviously uncomfortable. Halabi had grown used to his inability to look her in the eye. But he was even more distressed by her company than usual. Determined to wait him out, Halabi slowly tapped her pen on the blank writing paper, but it quickly became unbearable. The man seemed totally conflicted. Just as she was about to mouth some inanity, to fill up the dead space between them, he suddenly blurted out an apology.

"Look, I'm terribly sorry," he said, almost gobbling as he spoke so quickly. "But I feel I've been somewhat unfair, and well, I just wished to compliment your crew on the work they did in Singapore. It was a top-rate performance, in the finest traditions of the Royal Navy."

Halabi couldn't help it. Her jaw dropped open and she took a little while to snap it closed.

"Well, thank you, Sir Leslie, I shall see to it that your, uhm, kind words are distributed via shipnet."

She could feel another excruciating silence ballooning as soon as she was finished. Murray was still finding it hard to look her in the eye. His gaze flicked around the small room, and she remembered that it was the first time he'd ever been in her cabin. She wondered if he was uncomfortable being in the small space with a woman.

"Is there something else, Sir Leslie? You look like a man trying to cough up a fish bone."

He colored deeply. His loose lips flapped once as a retort rose and died, unspoken.

"I… I've just received word from one of the transports, the Princess Beatrix. My son-in-law is aboard. He was with the colonial office in Singapore. He's in a quite terrible state…"

The rear admiral took in a ragged breath, his shoulders hitching once, involuntarily. Murray seemed to find something fascinating on the highly polished toes of his shoes. Halabi waited for him to continue, but nothing more came. She was suddenly very uncomfortable sitting down while he stood over her, an unstable tower of grief, only just buttressed against total collapse by years of practice at squeezing his emotions into a tight little ball that might somehow be dry swallowed with gritted teeth and a small grimace.

She pushed herself up and fetched a bottle of springwater and a drinking glass from a small refrigerator by her bunk.

"And your daughter?" she asked, as she cracked open the lid on the Evian bottle.

Murray staggered forward and collapsed in the chair she'd just vacated. For a horrible moment she feared it might slide out from beneath him on its wheels, but his large frame butted up hard against the edge of the desk as he dropped his head into his hands. Spasms wracked his whole body as a low moaning sound, more animal than human, emanated from somewhere deep within his chest.

Halabi knew enough of inconsolable loss to dispense with platitudes. She simply laid a hand on the back of his hot neck and measured the violence of the emotional quake ripping through his body against the sparse memories of her own private losses. Her fingers looked extraordinarily dark against the rear admiral's pale pink skin.