At least there are two now.

A second flashing red light drew Charlie’s attention once more back to the instrument panel. But this one was accompanied by an annoyingly loud beeping sound.

“Fire control radar,” Roger said.

The Chinese fighters who had their radars locked onto the helicopter were preparing to fire. In his previous life flying Blackhawks and Little Birds, he would have used the terrain to mask their position and avoid missiles fired at him. But over the open water, there was nowhere to hide. All he could do was run as far and as fast as possible.

He glanced down at the engine instruments and saw that he was already producing the maximum amount of torque and couldn’t push the engines any further.

Come on, baby, you can do this.

“Fifty miles,” Roger said.

Charlie clenched his jaw tighter and focused on inching even closer to the water, hoping the Chinese fighters’ radars would struggle to hold a lock through the choppy surface clutter. His hands and feet remained relaxed on the controls, and they descended below ten feet, flying closer than he really wanted to in those circumstances.

“Hey, what’s that alarm?” Dave asked, sticking his head into the cockpit.

Roger ignored the SEAL, who stared wide-eyed through the forward windscreen at the pitch-black nothingness in front of them. “Forty miles,” he said.

The second red light began flashing, and the beeping sound changed to a klaxon siren.

“Fuck!” Charlie cursed. “Missile launch.”

36

USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76)

South China Sea

Doc Crowe stepped from the Sickbay and pulled the surgical mask down around her chin, leaning against the bulkhead to catch her breath. She had been going nonstop through the night. Ever since Goldy had called her to check on Andy, more and more people on the ship were coming down with the same symptoms.

What is going on?

The door opened over her shoulder, and Diona’s head emerged. “Ma’am, you have a phone call.”

Doc closed her eyes and willed herself to find the energy she needed to make it through the night. Then, she pushed off the bulkhead, lifted the mask to cover her mouth and nose once more, and spun back into the ship’s medical department. “Thanks, HM1.”

She walked across the ward and picked up the phone. “This is Doc Crowe.”

“Doc! It’s Goldy again.”

She sighed and felt her exhaustion boil over into frustration. “I told you to get Andy here for—”

“He hit his head, and I can’t wake him.”

Her exhaustion disappeared as if someone had flipped a switch. “Is he bleeding?”

“It’s bad.”

“Keep pressure on it. I’ll be right there.”

Doc slammed the phone down and motioned to Diona. “Get your kit and come with me.”

“What’s going on?”

Doc spun back for the door and raced for the ladder. She didn’t bother removing her mask and struggled to breathe through the polypropylene — a non-woven fabric designed to block dust and microbes. She didn’t know what was spreading across the ship, but if there was one thing the pandemic had taught her, it was that it was better to be safe than sorry. Within minutes after seeing their first patient in sick call and recognizing the symptoms were like Andy’s, she ordered the medical personnel under her charge to break out the masks.

“Ma’am!” Diona yelled.

But she ignored her. When she reached the ladder, she grabbed the handrail and launched herself upward, bellowing, “Make a hole!”

The sailors above moved aside and permitted her unfettered access to ascend to the “oh three” level while the corpsman raced to keep up with her bulky medical kit slung across her back. “Ma’am, what’s going on?”

Stepping off the ladder, Doc paused and waited for the first class petty officer to catch up before answering. “One of the pilots hit his head. He is bleeding and unconscious.”

“How bad?”

“I don’t know,” Doc said, turning for the passageway to make her way across the ship to the ladder that led to Sleepy Hollow. “He was the first one I saw with symptoms. Could be related, but we won’t know that until we can draw blood.”

Doc was on autopilot, moving through the ship’s darkened corridors while thinking through the potential outcomes of an unconscious patient with a head injury. Normally, she would have to consider the potential for a concussion based on symptoms like nausea, headaches, and unsteadiness. But Andy had exhibited each of those even before hitting his head.

She reached the ladder and descended into Sleepy Hollow, listening to Diona’s boots thumping softly behind her. But before she could knock on the door, it opened, and she saw Andy lying in a pool of blood.

“Shit.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Goldy said, stepping aside to permit her entrance.

Though she rarely had to deal with anything worse than minor illnesses on the ship, she fell back on her training with ease. Doc swept into the room while pulling on a pair of latex gloves and fell to her knees next to Andy, squeezing his shoulders while calling out to him. “Andy, can you hear me?”