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There were accents on the VHF radio that reassured him when he heard them, the voices he identified with traditional seafaring nations: Sweden, Ireland, Australia, and, of course, England. For much of his career, he’d known that his American voice on the airwaves had sometimes discomfited other seafarers: his accent marked him, to many, as potentially aggressive, arrogant, and even dangerous. There was a sense that the Americans had more power than they deserved or could safely wield. Now at the pinnacle of his career, when hearing those frenetic Chinese voices day and night, he understood that feeling. He walked to the far corner of the bridge, fiddled with the controls, verified again that the Chinese radio circuit had gone quiet.

“About time they shut up,” said the third mate, trying vainly to defuse the tension.

They listened to the static for a few minutes together, when suddenly a few words broke through, a rapid burst of chatter that got their attention. The captain turned up the volume as they went quiet again. Then, from a single speaker came short words spoken at a regular, even pace.

Shi…jyo…bah…

Stepping away from the radio, Captain Wright looked ahead, seeing nothing but ocean as the words continued. The bridge was like a greenhouse, nothing but glass on all sides, and it was the kind of day that sailors lived for: clear, bright, and calm with smooth open water in all directions, nothing to hamper their journey forward. Even though he knew from his review of the radar screen that they were far out of visual range, he lifted his binoculars and stared in the direction of the Chinese fleet. The voice continued on the radio behind him, almost like a chant. Although he didn’t recognize any of the words, there was something familiar about it that unnerved him.

Chee…lyo…woo…ssuh…

“Something wrong, captain?” His men stared, perplexed. The captain knew, somehow, that the chant was nearing its conclusion.

Sahn…urr…yee…QIDONG!

With that final, emphatic word, he realized what he was listening to: a countdown.

“Right full rudder!” he ordered. The third mate jumped to comply. Wright knew from looking at the chart that a turn to starboard was the quickest way to open distance from the exercise area. The giant container ship began to respond slowly. A shrill alarm sounded on the radar console.

The captain stepped to the screen: a red arrow with an open circle around it had appeared between them and the Chinese fleet. Under it were the words unidentified contact.

“What is it?”

It disappeared briefly from the screen, and then reappeared, having closed half the distance to Ever Able in seconds.

“She can’t be moving that fast,” said the third mate, looking at the approaching blip in disbelief, fooled into thinking that the new radar contact was a ship, because the computer had, by default, assigned it that symbol.

Captain Wright ran out the door the starboard bridge wing, binoculars still in hand.

Spotting a small, fast-moving object on the ocean was extremely difficult, but Wright had good eyes and a lifetime of experience staring across the waves in search of peril. He saw the exhaust first, a triangle of intense yellow light behind the missile that was moving directly toward them. A finally honed instinct told them that they were on a collision course.

“All stop!” he yelled, a last desperate attempt to save the ship.

But Ever Able was doomed. The missile slammed into the hull amidships, just above the waterline.

Book One: Underway

Ensign Brendan Duggan stood at the opening to the massive diesel fuel oil tank, located near the center of the big submarine. The tank was empty, for the moment, except for a lone, unseen enlisted man whose rhythmic banging with a rubber mallet sounded like a mournful gong. When the petty officer was done, Duggan would climb in. It was his second day on the boat.

He had been invited to enter the empty tank by Lieutenant Danny Jabo, who stood there waiting with him, casually fingering one of the twelve large bolts that had been removed to give them access through a twenty-two inch hole. There was a folder of miscellaneous paperwork on the deck: the certification that the tank’s air was safe to breathe, a form for Jabo to sign upon completion of their inspection, and a copy of the danger tags that would (theoretically) keep shut all the valves that, if opened, would flood the tank with either seawater or diesel fuel. While they waited, Duggan read through it all earnestly, more eager to make a good impression on the lieutenant than he was to actually study the information.