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The first rounds plinked into the helicopter’s skin as Punky felt the world tilt underneath her. She tumbled backward and fell hard on the deck as the aircrewman pulled himself hand-over-hand to the .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the door on the right side. She looked up and saw him jerk back on the charging handle, preparing to return fire.

“Talk to me, Rose,” the pilot shouted, banking the helicopter back to the right while dropping low to the earth. “Is that our guy?”

“That’s our guy!” he shouted.

It’s not, Punky thought, then rose to her feet and inched closer to the door.

“Cleared hot!” the pilot shouted.

The aircrewman didn’t hesitate, and the deafening blast of the heavy-caliber machine gun stunned her as she stared at the flaming tongue lapping at the man shooting up at them. The rounds impacted the earth and sent debris skyward as Rose delivered short, controlled bursts and inched his fire closer to the threat.

“Nose right!” Rose shouted.

The pilot responded by yawing right and shifting their position closer to the shooter as the heavy machine gun continued spitting fire down on the enemy gunner. She ignored the returning fire, barely noticing the dull hammering against the helicopter as she focused on Rose’s rounds slicing through the air. She still couldn’t see the target, but after what seemed like an impossibly long time, the tracers cut through a solid mass, and she again recognized the man’s shadowed figure.

Why does he look so strange?

“Hit!” he shouted, ceasing fire and plunging them into relative silence. “Got him!”

That wasn’t TANDY.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” the pilot said. “There are probably more.”

There are, Punky thought. And I’m going to find her.

USS Mobile Bay (CG-53)

Beth sat in her chair in the middle of the Combat Information Center and watched her sailors collect information from every source they had available to them. Aside from the AN/SPY-1 radar system, they had other onboard and off-board sensors they could use to build a complete picture of vessels and aircraft operating near them.

“Surface picture is electronically and visually clear, ma’am,” Lieutenant Martin Schaeffer said.

Beth lifted the ceramic mug embossed with the ship’s logo on one side and the command-at-sea badge on the other. She took a sip of the steaming coffee the TAO had brewed in anticipation of her arrival, thankful for the French-roasted organic Peru Cajamarca. It was a favorite among the officers in her wardroom, owing to the roast’s unique name that linked it to the ship’s heritage.

Damn the torpedoes, she thought, and took another sip of the Trident Coffee.

“Air picture too,” he added. “Aside from Raptor Two Four.”

“Very well.”

Master Chief Ivy walked to the back of the room and sat down in the chair next to her. “Ma’am, you don’t have to stay here for the duration of the test. I can come get you if anything comes up that needs your attention.”

She turned and appraised him, thankful for the gesture. “I know you have things well under control,” she said. “But I’d prefer to be here.”

“Aye, ma’am,” he said, then lifted the Styrofoam cup to his lips and sipped from the same blend.

Beth watched the steam rising from her cup and thought about the old saying that the Navy didn’t float on water alone. She was sure the original quote had referred to the traditional ration of rum or grog for sailors at sea, but she couldn’t help but think how much she had grown to rely on coffee to get her through her watch.

She hadn’t even tasted coffee until reporting to the Naval Academy, and she even made it through her Plebe year without becoming hooked on it. But during her Youngster summer, a small flotilla of Yard Patrol craft sailed from the Annapolis seawall and through the Chesapeake Bay, making its way up the coast for port calls in New York City and Boston. The midshipmen on board manned the watch twenty-four hours a day, and she could still remember being roused from a deep sleep for her midnight shift and craving something to sustain her until sunrise.

Enter, coffee.

Beth had hated the taste. She hated the thick sludge the enlisted sailors on board the YP craft brewed for the midshipmen, and she hated how it scalded her tongue every time she tried taking a sip. But she needed the caffeine, so she learned to fill the Styrofoam cup half full and then top it off with water from the scuttlebutt. From that moment on, coffee became a religion to her, and she slowly learned how to enjoy finer roasts without having to water them down.

“Ma’am, it looks like the Bonhomme Richard—”

“Former Bonhomme Richard,” she corrected.

Martin bobbed his head in acknowledgment of the gaffe. “Sorry, the former Bonhomme Richard is exactly where it’s supposed to be. The sea picture around the target vessel is still clear and should remain that way for the duration of the test.”