Chapter 2

The silence held for one full second. Then two. Then a voice from the reviewing stand cracked through it like a whip.

"Commander Rourke, stand down!"

Rear Admiral Victor Ashby was already on the steps of the reviewing stand. He was 58 years old, wiry and upright, with grey threading through neatly parted silver hair. He wore the high-collared formal dress over a starched shirt, a single row of service ribbons on his chest, and the expression of a man who had just watched one of his commanders strike a visitor in front of the entire Pacific Fleet's joint formation.

He was angry.

He came down the steps fast, his polished shoes striking the wood with a rhythm that made the formation behind Captain Callahan stiffen even further. He was a man who had spent thirty-five years learning how to project command without raising his voice, and the fact that he was bellowing from the stand told everyone within earshot that something had gone very, very wrong.