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“Captain on the bridge,” the boatswain said.

She half expected to see the same mysterious glowing orbs from the night before, but she breathed a sigh of relief at seeing only pitch black. Still half blind, Beth turned to the lieutenant who had summoned her. “What’s going on?”

The Officer of the Deck walked up to give his report as Beth again surveyed the dark ocean outside. “The Anti-Submarine Tactical Air Controller reported Raptor Two Four taking fire over Santa Cruz Island.”

Her head whipped up to look at him. “What?”

He ignored her incredulous expression and continued giving her the status update. “They observed a small plane being engaged with what appeared to be small arms.”

“On Santa Cruz Island?” she asked, still not quite believing what she was hearing. She might have expected something like that off the coast of South America or Southeast Asia, but not less than one hundred miles from Los Angeles. She glanced at the ship’s heading, then turned to look in the direction of the island.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, before continuing. “After the plane made an emergency landing, they recovered the pilot and were en route here when they came under fire themselves.”

“Well, get them back here,” she said.

“We tried—”

“Get them on the radio,” she said. “Now.”

“Aye aye, ma’am.”

The Officer of the Deck turned back to hail the MH-60R crew when Master Chief stepped closer for a private discussion. “Ma’am, I recommend we divert them to Point Mugu and pass this off to Cutter Blacktip.”

She looked into his dark brown eyes and considered his words before shaking her head. “Not until I know the helicopter crew is safe.”

Having said his piece, Ben nodded his head in silence.

“Ma’am, I have Raptor Two Four,” the OOD said, holding a radio handset that looked like a red 1950s telephone.

She took the handset from him and held the earpiece to the side of her head before pressing the push-to-talk. “Raptor Two Four, this is Mobile Bay, actual,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” the pilot said, his voice punctuated by the percussion of his rotor blades.

“Are you okay? Did you sustain any damage?”

“Negative. We’re okay. We took accurate small arms fire, but all systems are green.”

She exhaled slowly, thankful the crew seemed to have come away unscathed. “Understand you have a civilian on board?”

The pilot paused. “Sort of,” he said. “She’s a special agent with NCIS.”

“NCIS?”

“Yes, ma’am. She said she tracked a hostile force to the island and that they are attempting to hack into the Joint Strike Fighter.”

Beth stiffened. Images from the dive-bombing fighter the night before flashed into her mind, and she glanced down at the deck where she had huddled in fear as it raced overhead, narrowly missing her ship. If there was any truth to what the NCIS agent had told the crew of Raptor Two Four, then maybe the previous night’s events hadn’t been the reckless flat-hatting of an overconfident jet jockey after all. It could have been a hostile act designed to take out her ship.

“Ma’am, are you there?”

“Wait one,” she said, then thrust the handset back to the OOD. “Master Chief, a word?”

She stepped through the open hatch onto the bridge wing and waited for Ben to join her. He saw the worried look creased on her face and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“The helicopter crew reported picking up an NCIS agent who is trying to stop an enemy force from hacking into the Joint Strike Fighter,” she said, looking at the distant outline of Santa Cruz Island on the horizon.

“Hacking into…” His voice trailed off, and he looked up at the starscape above them.

Seeing the Master Chief looking into the sky inspired a sickening thought. “You don’t think…”

“The Joint Strike Fighter,” he said, then tilted his head down to her.

“The missile test!” she blurted, giving credence to her fears. She wheeled back onto the bridge and began shouting commands. “Lieutenant, call the crew to general quarters! Tell Raptor Two Four to remain on station and locate the hostile force, call Cutter Blacktip to mobilize a law enforcement response, then radio the Abe and warn them of a potential missile attack!”

The OOD looked stunned at her sudden and confusing change in demeanor. “Ma’am?”

“Now, Lieutenant!”

USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN-72)

Lance Corporal Adam Garett yawned and placed his tray on the empty table. He sat on the stool, looking at the mound of mashed potatoes and Salisbury steak soaked in gravy, suddenly missing the Gonzalez chow hall aboard Miramar. He picked up the steaming plastic mug and winced when he held it in front of his nose, inhaling the aroma of what they tried passing off as coffee.