The maneuver swirled Pacino’s inner ears. The rain continued to blast at them, the thickness of it in the landing lights making the tossing deck of the Reagan hard to see.

Shearson continued to row the throttles, the engines throttling up and down, the wings dipping and twisting as the plane rolled to fight the storm. As the deck got closer, the plane lurched violently. “Port engine flameout!” Shearson called. “We’re on one engine. I’m going around!”

“No, god damnit!” Pacino yelled. “Take this bitch in now!”

Shearson didn’t answer, just kept on the glide slope, the plane swaying as he tried to keep it on the descent with just one engine. Almost there. Pacino could see the lights dancing in the shimmering rain, until he noticed the numbers on the island were wrong, all wrong. He glanced down at the instrument panel and saw the artificial horizon and nearly choked. He shouted into the intercom, “Brad, we’re upside down! You’re coming in upside down!” Shearson pulled the plane through a two-g maneuver, as much as he could do with a single engine. Pacino’s head spun. It took almost fifteen minutes for Shearson to set up and approach again, this time the artificial horizon showing them right side up.

“Admiral, we’re showing zero fuel. I’ve only got one engine. If we lose it on the glide slope we’re going down. Okay. Here we go.” The deck of the carrier floated toward them, ghostly in the rain, the lights dancing around them as they approached in the storm. Shearson goosed the starboard engine, it screamed for a moment, then died. Pacino didn’t need to be told. They were out of fuel on the final approach to the deck, the plane now one big glider. At least, he thought, they wouldn’t catch fire. Shearson had come in high, with the thought of the low fuel situation in mind. Pacino saw the deck of the carrier flying toward them. The right wing dived for the deck, caught on the surface and disintegrated. The remainder of the jet rolled, the deck coming toward the cockpit. By the time the canopy smashed into the steel of the deck,

Pacino had already lost consciousness.

USS RONALD REAGAN

“Admiral Donner, sir, the news isn’t good.”

“Go ahead.”

MacK Donner, vice admiral, USN, was the commander of the carrier action group and the Japan operational theater. His official title was Pacific Force Commander, but in the acronyms and abbreviations that the Navy lived by, he had become merely the Pacforcecom. He was of medium height, balding, with remarkably smooth skin for a fifty-five-year-old. His round baby face always wore a pleasant, open expression.

He was a capable mariner, an empathetic leader, a decent tactician and a better than average politician.

Most importantly, Mac Donner knew his weaknesses, both in relation to dealing with his people and to deploying his equipment. With a decent team surrounding him, Mac Donner was a winner. With an average team, the odds were not so good. But Donner listened and his sailors and officers loved him, which was more than most leaders could say. As the ship’s captain spoke, Donner watched his eyes. The ship’s commanding officer, Capt. Robert Petrill, was low key and professional, with an underlying toughness.

Donner was in his stateroom, a cavernous room with three portholes on the 0–4 level, a large head with a shower and a conference table. The room was almost spartan in its neatness, not a single paper or disk on any horizontal surface. The lights were on low, as it was just after midnight local time. The ship was taking twentydegree rolls and twenty-five degree pitches, the waves outside mountainous. Donner wore khakis, his three stars gleaming on the collars, the only neat thing about the uniform after a long day.

“The pilot is dead. His name was Brad Shearson.

Know him?”

“No. What about Admiral Pacino?”

“Out cold in sick bay. Doc thinks he’ll pull out of it.

A concussion and some scrapes and lacerations.”

“I want to be notified as soon as he comes to.”

“Aye, sir.”

Four decks below, Pacino opened his eyes and grabbed the sleeve of a corpsman.

“Get me Donner. Now.” dynacorp international, electric boat division groton, connecticut

“Even the boss used a limo to get to EB from the airport,” McDonne said. “This chopper is going to raise eyebrows. Congress will accuse the Navy of joyriding.”

“Ask me if I give a goddamn.” The admiral had given orders, Murphy had commandeered the supersonic SS12 and several jet helicopters, and he had used them to follow those orders.

The chopper made the approach to the Electric Boat helipad, the pad lit with bright lights. The sun wasn’t due to come up for another forty-five minutes. Murphy intended to see what the place was like during the slowest part of the day, immediately before the dayshift started.